Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [141]
But it wasn’t the Sorcerers. He looked back at Andon, an old man with a dream of bringing waterwheels to the world so that magic could be used to create rainbows instead of rain. He looked at Joram. He had come to think of this young man differently, too, now that he knew him.
He is not a spawn of demons as I had imagined him. Confused, bitter, unhappy, certainly, but so was I in my youth. He committed murder, that is true. But what provocation! His mother, lying dead before him. And am I any better? Closing his eyes, Saryon shook his head restlessly. Am I not responsible for the death of that young catalyst? If I take Joram back as I was instructed to do, will I bring about the downfall of these people? What must I do? Where can I find help?
“I will leave now, Father,” Andon said, picking up his candle and rising. “You are tired. I have been selfish in worrying you with my troubles when you have enough of your own. We will put our faith in the Almin and ask for His help and guidance ….”
“The Almin!” Saryon repeated bitterly, sitting up. “No, I’m all right. Just a little dizzy.” He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, waving off Andon’s offer of help and ignoring his worried cluckings. “You talk as if you knew the Almin personally!”
“But I do, Father,” Andon replied, glancing at the catalyst in some embarrassment. Setting the candle on a crude wooden table in the center of the prison, the old man knelt down and did what he could to stir up the fire, using his magic to add to the warmth. “I know that we are supposed to talk to Him only through you priests, and I hope what I say will not offend you. But it has been many, many years since a catalyst was among us to intercede with the Almin in our behalf. He and I have shared many problems. He is our refuge in these troubled times. His guidance led us to take the vow that we will not eat food gained by blood and flame.”
Saryon gazed at the old man in perplexity. “He speaks to you? He answers your prayers?”
“I realize I am not a catalyst,” Andon said humbly, fingering the pendant around his neck as he stood up, “but, yes, He communicates with me. Oh, not in words. I do not hear His voice. But a feeling of peace fills my soul when I know that I have made a decision, and I know then that I have received His guidance.”
A feeling of peace, Saryon thought despondently. I have experienced religious fervor, ecstacy, the Enchantment, but never peace. Did He ever talk to me? Did I ever listen?
The catalyst groaned. His head ached, his body hurt. Memories of flame danced in his vision, he could see clearly the look of fear on the young Deacon’s face right before Blachloch—
“The Almin give you rest.” There was the sound of a door closing softly. Saryon shook his head to clear it of the fuzziness and instantly regretted the action that only caused the aching to change to a swift, sharp pain. When he was able to look around, he saw that Andon was gone.
Standing on unsteady feet, Saryon tottered across the room and sagged into a chair at the table. He knew he should probably lie back down but he was frightened, afraid to close his eyes again, afraid of what he would see.
A pitcher of water made him realize he was terribly thirsty. Reaching out an unsteady hand, trying to combat the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, he was going to pour water into a cup that sat nearby when a voice startled him.
“They will starve to death this winter, the fools.”
Nearly dropping the pitcher, Saryon turned to Joram, who had not spoken a word the entire time Andon had been in the prison.
The young man did not move from his place beside the window. His back was to Saryon now, since the catalyst had risen from his bed on the other side of the room. But Saryon could picture the brown eyes staring into the moonlight, the sullen face.
“And, Catalyst,” Joram continued coldly, still not turning around, “I did not save your life. They could beat the whole lot of