Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [146]
“—since I am Dead,” finished Joram. “No, you are right.” He pushed the ore across the table toward the catalyst. “Yet you should be able to tell. Try it, Catalyst. What do you sense about this ore?”
Saryon lifted the stone in his hand. For long moments he looked at it, then, shutting his eyes, he sensed for the magic.
Watching closely, Joram saw the catalyst’s face grow peaceful, the man’s concentration turning inward. His expression became one of awe and bliss, he was absorbing the magic. But then, slowly, the catalyst’s expression changed to one of horror. Quickly he opened his eyes, and set the stone down upon the table, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from it.
“This is the darkstone!” Joram said softly.
“I do not see why it should excite you,” Saryon said. He licked his lips as though he had a bitter taste in his mouth. “The secret to forming the ancient alloy is apparently one you cannot unlock.”
“Not me,” said Joram softly. “You, Catalyst. You see”—he leaned near—“the formula for the alloy is given in the text, but I cannot read it. It is—”
“—mathematics.” Saryon’s lips twisted.
“Mathematics,” Joram repeated. “Something my mother never taught me, of course, since it is an art of the catalysts.” Shaking his head, the young man clenched his fist, forgetting himself in his earnestness. “The texts are filled with mathematical equations! You cannot know, Saryon, how frustrating this was to me! To be so close, to have found the ore they spoke of, and then to have my way blocked by what is so much gibberish dancing across the page. I did all I could. I thought maybe by experimenting I could come across the right answer by accident. But my time was short, and Blachloch began to suspect. He is having me watched.” Picking up the rock, Joram held it in his open palm, then slowly closed his fingers over it, as though he would crush it in his hand. “I don’t believe I would have ever gotten it right anyway,” he continued with growing bitterness. “There’s a lot about catalysts in there. Directions to them. I thought I could ignore that, but apparently not.”
“You called me ‘Saryon,’” the catalyst said to Joram quietly.
Looking up, Joram flushed. He hadn’t meant to do that, this wasn’t part of his plan. There was something about this man, something he hadn’t counted on finding, particularly not in a catalyst. Someone who understood.
Angrily, Joram’s face hardened; the black brows drew together threateningly. No, he must stick to the plan. This man was a tool, nothing more.
“If we’re going to be working together, I suppose I must call you by name,” he said sullenly. “I will not call you ‘Father’!” he added with a sneer.
“I haven’t agreed to work with you,” Saryon replied steadily. “Tell me, if you create this … this weapon, what will you do with it?”
“Stop Blachloch,” Joram answered with a shrug. “Believe me, Cata—Saryon—it is only a matter of time before he destroys me. He has so much as told me so already. As for you—Well, do you want to be part of another raiding party?”
“No,” Saryon said in a low voice. “Will you take over leadership of the coven then?”
“Me?” Joram shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “Are you mad? Why should I want such responsibility? No, I will give the leadership of the coven back to Andon. He and these people can live in peace once more. As for me, I want only one thing. To return to Merilon and claim what is mine. With this weapon,” he said grimly, “I can do it.”
“You forget one thing,” Saryon said. “I was sent to bring you back to … to stand trial.”
“You are right,” Joram said after a pause, “I had forgotten. Very well”—he shrugged—“open a Corridor. Call the Duuk-tsarith.”
“I cannot open a Corridor without the assistance of a magic-user,” Saryon replied. “If you had sufficient Life, I could use yours …”
“That was the plan?”
“Yes,” Saryon murmured inaudibly.
“A pity it didn’t work out, Catalyst,” Joram answered coolly. “Weak though you may be, I am weaker yet. Now, that is. Once I have the weapon, however … Well, you will do what you have