Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [145]
“If you do not want to call me by my proper title, which is ‘Father,’ I wish you would call me by my name,” said Saryon gently. “Perhaps that would remind you that I am a person like yourself. It is always easier to hate than it is to love, still more easy to hate a class or race of people because they are faceless and nameless. If you are going to hate me, I prefer that you do it because you hate me, not what I represent.”
“Keep your sermons for Mosiah,” Joram answered. “What I think of you or you of me doesn’t matter in this, does it?”
Seeing Joram’s lip curl in disdain, Saryon sighed and looked back at the small stone he held in his hand. “Yes, I studied ores,” he said. “We study all the elements of which our world is composed. It is knowledge valuable in and of itself, plus it is knowledge that is useful and necessary to those of our Order who work with the Pron-alban, the Stone Shapers, or the Mon-alban, the Alchemists.” Saryon’s brow creased in puzzlement. “But I don’t recall seeing or reading about any mineral that looked like this, particularly one with the same properties as iron.”
“That’s because all references to it were purged after the wars,” Joram said, regarding the catalyst hungrily, his hands twitching as though he would tear knowledge from the man’s heart. “Why? Because the Sorcerers used it to form weapons, weapons of tremendous power, weapons that could—”
“—absorb magic,” Saryon murmured, staring at the stone. “I’m beginning to believe you. Inside the Chamber of the Ninth Mystery, there are books scattered about the floor and stacked in piles against the walls. Books of ancient and forbidden knowledge.”
Watching the catalyst intently, Joram saw that Saryon had forgotten the chill wind that wailed mournfully through the window, that the catalyst had forgotten his own fear and discomfort and unhappiness. Joram looked into his eyes and saw there the same hunger he knew was in his own—the hunger for knowledge. The words came almost reluctantly from Saryon’s lips: “How did they do it?”
I have him, thought Joram. Once, the man came close to selling his soul for knowledge. This time I will see to it that he completes the bargain.
“According to the texts,” Joram said, careful to speak calmly and suppress his rising excitement, “the ancients mixed darkstone with iron to form an alloy—”
“What?” Saryon interrupted.
“An alloy a mixture of two or more metals.”
“Was this done by alchemy?” Saryon asked, a note of fear in his voice. “By changing the base form of the metal through magic?”
“No.” Joram shook his head, noticing the catalysts increasing pallor with amusement. “No. It is done according to the rituals of the Dark Arts, Catalyst. The ores are ground, heated to their melting points, then physically joined together. They are then cast in molds, beaten and tempered, and formed into swords or daggers. Quite deadly”—Joram’s gaze went back to the stone he held in his hand—“as you can imagine. First the sword drains a wizard of his magic, then is able to penetrate his flesh.”
Beside him, Joram felt the catalyst’s body shudder. Saryon set the stone down hastily. “You have tried this?” he asked in a low, trembling voice.
“Yes,” Joram answered coldly. “It didn’t work. I formed the alloy and poured it into a mold. But the dagger I created shattered when I put it into water …”
Closing his eyes, Saryon sighed. It may have been with relief, certainly that’s what he told himself. But the young man watching closely wondered if there was not an underlying tinge of disappointment.
“Perhaps this rock is nothing more than some strange-looking stone,” Saryon said after a moment. “Perhaps it is not the ore you read about in the texts. Or perhaps the texts themselves lied. You would not be able to