Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [149]
“Let down the ladder.”
A rope ladder tumbled down in response, Joram catching it as it fell.
“Catalyst …” He motioned.
“Yes.” Gathering his robes about him, Saryon came over to stand beneath the ladder, not without a final, hungry glance at the storehouse of treasure that surrounded him.
“Should we take the book with us?” Joram asked, starting back to pick it up.
“No,” Saryon said tiredly. “I have the formula memorized. You had best put it back in its place, however.”
Hastily Joram set the book on the shelves, then snuffed out the candle. Thick darkness buried the chamber, musty with the smell of the ancient texts lying in their hidden sepulcher.
Did the spirits of those who had written them live in this place as well, Saryon wondered as he fumbled clumsily with the rope ladder in the dim light from a candle Andon held above them. Perhaps my spirit will return here when I am dead, the catalyst thought, unable to refrain from a backward look as he clamored up the ladder with Joram’s impatient assistance. Certainly, here, I could remain happily for centuries.
“Here, Father, give me your hand.”
He was at the top. Clasping him by the wrist, Andon pulled him through the trapdoor, helping Saryon climb up into the old mineshaft that ran beneath Andon’s house. “Hold the light,” the old man told him, handing him the candle in its wrought-iron holder. Shadows leaped and danced about the rock walls as Saryon took the light.
Joram pulled himself up easily; Saryon looked at the strong, muscular arms with envy. Bending down, the young man made certain the trapdoor was closed tightly, then he and Andon between them fastened it with something the old man called a lock, inserting a piece of oddly shaped metal into it and turning it with a clicking sound. Returning the key to his pocket, Andon stepped back and, after a brief inspection, nodded to Joram.
Placing his hands upon a gigantic boulder, the young man slowly and with obvious effort rolled the rock into place over the trapdoor, effectively concealing it from sight.
Andon shook his head. “It generally takes two grown men to move that rock,” he said to Saryon, watching Joram and smiling in admiration. “At least so I remember from my youth. The rock had not been moved in years, not until the young man here insisted on seeing the ancient texts.” He sighed. “There was no need to move it, no need to go down there. None of us can read them, nor could they in my father’s day. I saw that rock moved only once, and then I suppose it was just to check to make certain the texts were surviving without damage.”
“They are well preserved,” Saryon murmured, “The room is dry. They should last for centuries if they are undisturbed.”
His face soft with sympathy, Andon laid his hand upon the catalyst’s arm. “I am sorry, Father. I can imagine how you must feel.” His brow creased in irritation. “I tried to tell Joram—”
“No, do not blame him,” Saryon said steadily. “It was my decision to come here. I am not sorry I did.”
“But you seem upset ….”
“So much knowledge … lost,” the catalyst replied, his gaze going to the boulder, his thoughts with what lay beneath it.
“Yes,” agreed Andon sadly.
“Not lost,” said Joram coming over to them, his eyes burning brighter than the flame of the candle. “Not lost …” he repeated, rubbing his hands.
“’Pon my honor, it’s devilishly cold in here. Or is that a contradiction in terms? You’ll forgive me, I trust,” Simkin said, slipping into a fur cape that he conjured up with a negligent wave of his hand, “but I have a tendency to weakness in the lungs. Sister died of pneumonia, you know. Well, not actually. She died of being rather badly squashed from falling off one of the platforms in Merilon, but she wouldn’t have fallen if she hadn’t been wandering about delirious from the fever that she ran on account of the pneumonia. Still—”
“Not now,” snapped Mosiah, sitting down at the table near the young man. “We can’t stay long. The guard didn’t want to let us in at all, but Simkin got Blachloch to agree to it. Why