Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [143]
The child was dead. The child is dead.
Seeing the catalyst’s confusion, Joram drew a little nearer.
“I tell you this, Catalyst, because it would have been only a matter of time before you found out anyway. The longer I stay here, the greater my peril. Oh”—he gestured impatiently—“there are walking Dead among us, yet they have some magic. I am different. Completely, unspeakably, horribly different! Have you any idea, Catalyst, what Blachloch and these people—yes, even the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery—would do to me if they found I was truly Dead?”
Saryon could not answer. He could not even comprehend what the young man was talking about. His mind had shut its doors, refusing admittance to these dark and terrifying thoughts.
“You must make a decision, Catalyst,” Joram was saying, his voice coming to Saryon as through a dark fog. “You must either take me to the Enforcers now or you will stay with me here and help me.”
“Help you?” Saryon blinked in astonishment, this statement jolting his aching brain back to reality. “Help you do what?”
“To stop Blachloch,” said Joram coolly, the half-smile shining in his dark eyes.
5
Tempted …
“I regret the incident, Father, as I am certain you do,” said Blachloch in his expressionless voice. “And now that the punishment has been administered and the lesson learned, we will speak no more of it.”
The warlock sat at the wooden table in the prison. Evening’s gray and dismal light—the same color as the damp walls—came through the small window, along with a chill wind that rattled the ill-fitting casement, blowing out the candle flame and rendering the meagre fire practically worthless. Standing beside the window, Joram cast a glance at the catalyst. Though bundled in his cloak and his robes. Saryon was gray himself with the cold. Joram smiled inwardly. Clad only in his rough woolen shirt and soft doeskin breeches, the young man leaned against the wall and stared out the cracked window, ignoring both the catalyst and the warlock.
“Does this mean I can return to Andon’s?” Saryon asked, his teeth chattering.
Blachloch smoothed the thin blonde mustache upon his upper lip. “No, I am afraid not.”
“I am to be kept a prisoner, then.”
“Prisoner?” Blachloch raised an eyebrow. “There are no magical spells laid upon this house. You are free to come and to go as you choose. You have visitors. Andon was here last night. The young man”—he gestured toward Joram—“continues to work in the forge daily. With the exception of the guard, who is here for your own protection, this in no way resembles a prison.”
“You can’t expect us to live in this wretched place during the winter!” Saryon snapped. The cold must be giving the catalyst courage, Joram thought. “We’ll freeze.”
Blachloch rose to his feet, his black robes falling in soft folds about his body. “By the time winter comes, I am certain you will have proven your loyalty to me, Father, and you can move to quarters more suitable for a man of your age. Not back with Andon.” Blachloch’s black hood stirred slightly as he moved to depart. “I have often wondered if it was the old man’s influence that caused you to defy me. I have, in fact, heard some rumor to the effect that he and his people refuse to eat the food I provided.” Joram had the impression the warlock was looking at him. “Starvation is a slow and uncomfortable way to die, as is freezing to death. I trust this rumor is untrue.”
His black robes brushing the dirt floor, Blachloch came to stand beside Saryon and laid his hand upon the catalyst’s shoulder.
“Grant me Life, Father,” he said.
Glancing back, Joram saw the catalyst shudder at the touch of the thin Angers that seemed the embodiment of the biting wind.