Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [155]
“He’ll warm up quick enough in the forge,” muttered Joram, irritated at the delay.
Paying no attention to Joram, Mosiah overrode Saryon’s confused protests and helped the catalyst put the young mans cloak on over his shabby robes.
“Are you finally ready?” Joram asked and, without waiting for a reply, cautiously opened the door and peered into the street. Not surprisingly, its only occupants were the rain, the sleet, and the wind. Grabbing a cloak Mosiah handed to him at the last moment—or he might have gone out into the bitter weather without any protection—Joram carelessly tossed it around his shoulders and stepped out into the storm whose fierceness seemed reflected on the young man’s face.
Moving more slowly, Saryon followed.
“May the Almin go with you,” came Mosiah’s soft whisper.
Saryon shook his head.
As though waiting for him to emerge, the wind pounced on the catalyst with a snarl. Chill talons of rain ripped through his cloak and robes with ease; teethlike sleet bit into his flesh. But the wind wasn’t intent on devouring him, it seemed. Dogging his heels, it panted behind him, driving him forward, its breath cold upon the back of his neck. Saryon had the vague impression that if he tried to veer from this dark path he walked, the wind would leap to intercept him and block him, nipping at his bare ankles, its slashing fangs a threat and a reminder.
Death, Death, Death …
“Confound it, Father, watch where you’re going!” Joram’s voice cracked impatiently, but his strong arm steadied Saryon, who, in his misery and bleak despair, had nearly walked into a gully filled with icy water.
“It’s not much further,” said Joram. Glancing at the young man through the driving rain, Saryon saw that Joram’s teeth were clenched, not against the chill of the storm but against the excitement that raged within him. And, as though conjured up by the young man’s voice, the cavern of the forge suddenly rose up out of the darkness, its red-glowing embers staring at the catalyst like the eyes of the creature that had been pursuing him.
Joram dragged aside the heavy, wooden door to let them in. Saryon started to step inside, the warmth and peace of the fire-lit darkness beckoning him. Then he hesitated. He could turn and run. Go back to his Church. Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire. Yes! It was so simple! He would obey. Hadn’t catalyst done that for centuries, obey without question?
But the wind only laughed at him, mocking him, and Saryon realized that the storm had been building all his life, rising from that first whisper to this shriek of triumph. Lifting the skirts of his robes, the wind tugged at him from the sides and pushed him from behind until, with a final, wild shriek, it shoved him over the small rock ledge and sent him staggering into the red-tinged blackness.
Behind him, Joram dragged the heavy door shut again, then hurried to his work. Standing in the forge, relaxing in the warmth, Saryon stared around in the fascination he could no longer deny. Strange tools gleamed in the reflected glow of the coals that burned brighter as Joram, operating the bellows, gave them life. The children born of this fiery union cluttered the floor—horseshoes, bits, broken nails, half-finished knives, iron pots. Absorbed in his work, Joram paid no attention to the catalyst. Sitting down, careful to keep out of the young man’s way, Saryon listened to the harsh breath of the bellows and realized suddenly that he could no longer hear the wind.
The storm raged still, its fury increasing, perhaps, in its triumph at its victory over the catalyst. The wind roared through the streets, tore limbs from trees, tiles from roofs. Rain knocked threateningly at every door, sleet tapped against the windows. Those inside the large brick dwelling upon the hill overlooking the Technologists’ settlement were able to ignore the storm, however. Absorbed in the intricacies of their games—and there was more than one game being played—they paid scant attention to the vagaries of nature without, being far more concerned with those within.
“Queen