Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [139]
Seeing Mosiah bending over the catalyst, Joram reached down and grabbed the henchman by his collar, heaving the man off the brick. The brick disappeared, transforming itself into Simkin. Holding a bit of orange silk over his nose, the young man stood staring down at the henchman in disgust.
“Egad, the lout! I’m quite nauseated. Where’s Mosiah and the jolly old catalyst? …” Looking around, Simkin’s eyes widened. “Oh, I say.” He gave a low whistle. “Here comes trouble.”
“Blachloch!” Joram muttered, seeing the black-robed figure approaching through the smoke and flame. “Simkin! Use your magic. Get us out of here—Simkin?”
The young man was gone. In Joram’s hand was a blood-spattered brick.
4
Prisoners
“Father …” Saryon started, roused from some dark dream that seemed loath to let him loose from its clutches.
“Father,” said the voice again. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”
“I can’t see!” Saryon moaned, clutching at the source of the voice with groping hands.
“It’s because of the gloom in this foul place, Father,” said the voice gently. “We feared light might disturb your rest. Here, now, can you see?” The soft glow of a single candle illuminated Andon’s kindly face, and brought inestimable relief to the catalyst.
Sinking back on the hard bed, Saryon put his hand to his head where he felt a heaviness. Something was obscuring his vision in his left eye. He tried to pull it off, but Andon’s hand intercepted his.
“Don’t disturb the bandages, Father,” he instructed, holding the candle above Saryon, examining him by its light. “The bleeding will start again. It will be best for you to lie quietly for a few days. Is there pain anywhere else?” he asked, a shadow of anxiety in his voice.
“My ribs,” answered the catalyst.
“But not the stomach, the back?” Andon pursued.
Wearily, Saryon shook his head.
“Thank the Almin,” murmured the old man. “And now I must ask you some questions. What is your name?”
“Saryon,” answered the catalyst. “But you know that
“You have had a severe head injury, Father. How much do you remember of what happened?”
The dreams. Had they been dreams at all? “I—I remember the village, the young Deacon …” Shuddering, Saryon covered his face. “He slaughtered him, using my help! What have I done?”
“I did not mean to distress you, Father,” Andon said gently. Setting the candle on the floor by his feet, he placed his hand on the catalyst’s shoulder. “You did what you had to do. None of us thought Blachloch would go this far. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Do you remember anything else, Father?”
Saryon searched his memory, but it was all flame and pain and darkness and terror. Seeing the catalyst’s agonized face, the old man patted his shoulder and sighed. “I am truly sorry, Father. Thank the Almin you are safe.”
“What happened to me?” Saryon asked.
“Blachloch had you beaten for disobeying him. His men were … overzealous. They would have killed you, if it had not been for him.” Andon turned, his gaze going to another part of the dark room.
Slowly, conscious now of a dull aching in his head, Saryon followed Andon’s glance. A young man sat on a chair beside a crude window, his head resting on his arms, his eyes staring out into the night sky. A half-moon shed its pale, cold light upon the face, emphasizing with sharply defined shadows the stern, sullen harshness, the heavy black brows, the full-lipped, unsmiling mouth. Black, curling hair shown purple in the moonlight, falling in a tangle around the young man’s broad shoulders.
“Joram!” Saryon breathed in astonishment.
“1 must admit, I was as amazed as you, Father,” Andon said, speaking softly, though it appeared as if the young man was completely oblivious to their presence.” Joram has never seemed to care for anyone before, not even his friends. He did not even taken a stand against Blachloch’s wickedness when I tried to talk to him about it. He said the world cared nothing for us, why should we care what happened to it.” Shrugging helplessly, Andon seemed perplexed.