Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [148]
Joram waited, watching, as patient as a cat.
“But I didn’t,” Saryon said. Opening his eyes, he moved his hand away from the pages of the text swiftly, as another might move his hand from a burning brand. “I have found them now that I am old, my conscience fixed, my morals formed. Perhaps those morals are not right,” he added, seeing Joram frown, “but, such as they are, they are fixed within me. To deny them or fight them might drive me mad.”
“So you are saying that you understand what this means”—Joram gestured toward the text—“and that you could do what must be done except that it goes against your conscience?”
Saryon nodded.
“And did it go against this conscience of yours to kill that young catalyst in the village—”
“Stop!” Saryon cried in a low voice.
“No, I won’t stop,” Joram returned bitterly. “You’re so good at preaching sermons, Catalyst. Preach one to Blachloch. Show him the evil of his ways as he ties old Andon by his hands to the whipping post. You watch while his men flail the flesh from that old man’s bones. You watch, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that it may be wrong but it isn’t going against your conscience—”
“Stop!” Saryon’s fist clenched. He glared angrily at the young man. “I don’t want to see that happen anymore than you—”
“Then, help me to stop it!” Joram hissed. “It’s up to you, Catalyst! You’re the only one who can!”
Saryon shut his eyes again, resting his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped.
Sitting back, Joram watched and waited. The catalyst raised a haggard face. “According to the text, I must give Life … to that which is Dead.”
Joram’s face darkened, the thick brows drew together. “What do you mean?” he asked tightly. “Not to me—”
“No.” Drawing a deep breath, Saryon turned to the text. Moistening a finger, he carefully turned one of the brittle parchment pages, his touch gentle and reverential. “You have failed for two reasons. You have not been mixing the alloy in the correct proportions. According to this formula, that is quite important. A deviation of a few drops can mean the difference between success and failure. Then, once it is taken from the mold, the metal must be heated to a extremely high temperature—”
“But it will lose its form,” Joram protested.
“Wait …” Saryon raised his hand. “This second heating is not done in the fires of the forge.” Licking his lips, he paused a moment, then continued, speaking slowly and reluctantly. “It is heated within the flame of magic ….”
Joram stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I must open a conduit, take the magic from the world, and infuse it into the metal.” Saryon looked at Joram steadily. “Can’t you understand, young man? I must give the Life of this world to something Dead, made by the hands of men. This goes against everything I have ever believed. It is truly the blackest of the Dark Arts.”
“So what will you do, Catalyst?” Joram asked, sitting back and regarding Saryon with triumph.
But Saryon had lived over forty years in the world. Sheltered years, as he had come to learn, but he had lived them nonetheless. He was not the fool Joram thought him, walking near the edge of the cliff, his eyes staring at the sun shining above him instead of at the reality of the world around him. No, Saryon saw the chasm. He saw that in a very few steps he would fall over the edge. He saw it because this was a familiar path he walked, one he had trod before, though it had been a long time ago.
A soft knocking upon an overhead door caused both men to start up in alarm.
“Well?” said Joram insistently.
Looking at him, seeing the eager intensity of the face, Saryon drew a breath, shut his eyes, and leaped off the cliff. ‘“Yes,” he answered inaudibly.
Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Joram hurried across the floor to the center of the small room and peered upward as the door in the ceiling above him opened a crack.
“It is Andon,” came the whisper.