Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [140]
“Mosiah …. Is he all right?” Saryon asked anxiously.
“Yes, he is fine. Nothing happened to him. A warning to mind his own business, that is all.”
“Where are we?” Saryon asked, examining his bleak surroundings as well as the dim light and the pain in his head permitted. He was in a small, filthy brick building, no bigger than a single room with one window and a thick, oaken door.
“You and Joram are being held prisoner. Blachloch put you both in here together, saying that there was something going on between the two of you and he intended to find out what.”
“This is the village prison ….” Saryon remembered vaguely having seen it on one of his walks.
“Yes. You are back in the settlement. They carried you here by boat up the river with the stolen supplies. May they choke on them,” the old man muttered.
Saryon glanced at him in some surprise.
“My followers and I have taken a vow,” Andon said softly. “We will not eat the food that they wrested from those unfortunate people. We would sooner starve.”
“It is my fault ….” Saryon murmured.
“No, Father.” The old man sighed and shook his head. “If it is anyone’s fault it is ours, we Sorcerers. We should have stopped him when he came to us five years ago. We let him intimidate us. Or maybe it wasn’t even that so much, although it is a comfort to look back and say we were frightened of him. But were we? I wonder.” Andon’s wrinkled hand lifted from Saryon’s shoulder, going to the pendant of the wheel that hung around his neck. Fingering it absently, he stared into the flickering light of the candle that sat upon the stone floor near his feet. “I think that, in truth, we welcomed him. It was satisfying, to strike back at the world that reviled us.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Even if it was only stealing a few bushels of grain by night.
“His talk of supplying weapons of our Dark Arts to Sharakan seemed a fine thing, once.” Andon’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears, the rims grew red. “The legends tell much about the ancient days, about the glories of our art. Not all was evil. Much that was good and beneficial was developed by those of the Ninth Mystery. If we could just have a chance to show people what wonders we could build, how we could save the use of magical energies, allowing those to be devoted to the creation of beautiful, marvelous things … Ah well, such was our dream,” he said wistfully. “And now it has been perverted by this evil man into a nightmare! He has led us to our doom. The destruction of that village will not be allowed to go unpunished. At least that is what I believe. Blachloch laughs at me when I tell him my fears. Or rather, he doesn’t laugh, the man never laughs. But he might as well. I can see the scorn in his eyes.”
“‘They dare not seek us out,’ he tells me.”
“He may be right,” Saryon muttered, thinking of Bishop Vanya’s words. The Sorcerers numbers are growing and, while we could deal with them easily enough, still, going in to take the young man by force would mean armed conflict. It would mean talk, upset, worry. We cannot have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in such delicate balance. “What are his plans?”
The catalyst shivered. The prison was chill. A small fire flickered in a firepit at the end of the room, giving little light and less warmth.
“He intends us to work through the winter, making weapons. In the meantime, he will pursue his negotiations with Sharakan.” Andon shrugged. “If we are attacked, Sharakan will come to our defense, he says.”
“But it all means war,” Saryon said thoughtfully, his gaze going once again to Joram, who was still staring fixedly out the window into the moonlit night. Once again, he heard Vanya’s words. Thus you see how vital it is that we take this young man and, through him, expose these fiends for what they are—murderers and black-hearted Sorcerers who would pervert Dead objects by giving them Life. By doing this, we can