Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [16]
“Discovered what?” asked the Druid casually.
“Nothing you’d be interested in,” the catalyst said shortly. Staring down at the cushion, he suddenly noticed the hole he had made in it. Flushing, he began trying, without much success, to repair the damage he had done.
“I may not understand the mathematics,” the Theldara said, “but I’d be very interested to listen to you talk about it.”
“No. It’s not anything, really.” Saryon stood up, somewhat unsteadily. “I’m sorry about the cushion …”
“Easily repaired,” the Druid said, rising to his feet and smiling, though he was once more studying the young catalyst intently. “Perhaps you will come back and we can discuss this new discovery of yours?”
“Possibly. I … I don’t know. Like I said, it isn’t really important. What is important in my life is the mathematics. It’s more important to me than anything else! Don’t you see? The gaining of knowledge … any type of knowledge! Even that which is—” Saryon broke off abruptly. “May I go now?” he asked. “Are you finished with me?”
“I’m not ‘finished’ with you, because I never ‘started’ with you in the first place,” the Theldara reproved gently. “You were advised to come here because your Master was concerned for your health. So am I. You are obviously overworking yourself, Brother Saryon. That fine mind of yours depends upon its body. As I said before, if you neglect one, the other will suffer as well.”
“Yes,” Saryon murmured, ashamed of his outburst. “I am sorry. Healer. Perhaps you are right.”
“I will see you at meals … and out in the exercise yard?”
“Yes,” the catalyst answered, checking an exasperated sigh; and turning, he started for the door.
“And quit spending all your hours in the Library,” the Druid continued, following. “There are other—”
“The Library?” Saryon whirled about, his face deathly pale. “What did you mean, the Library?”
The Theldara blinked, startled. “Why, nothing, Brother Saryon. You mentioned studying. Naturally, I assumed you must spend much of your time in the Library …”
“Well, you assumed wrong! I haven’t been there in a month!” Saryon snapped vehemently. “A month, do you hear me?”
“Why, yes …”
“May the Almin be with you,” the catalyst muttered. “No need to show me out. I know the way.” Bowing awkwardly, he hurried through the door of the Druid’s quarters, his too-short robes flapped about his bony ankles as he walked rapidly through the infirmary and out the far door.
The Druid stared after the young man thoughtfully for long moments after he had gone, absently stroking the feathers of the raven, who had flown in the window and perched on his shoulder.
“What was that?” he asked the bird. “Did you say something?”
The bird croaked a response, cleaning its bill with its foot, as it, too, stared after the catalyst with its glittering black eyes.
“Yes,” answered the Theldara, “you are right, my friend. That soul flies on very dark wings indeed.”
4
The Chamber of the Ninth Mystery
The Master Librarian was not on duty when the incident occurred. It was late at night, long past the hour of Rest. The only person on duty was an elderly deacon known as the Undermaster.
Actually, the term Undermaster was a misnomer, since he wasn’t really master of anything, either Under or Over. He was, in reality, nothing more than a caretaker, his main responsibility in the Inner Library being to discourage the rats who, not caring for scholarly pursuits, had taken to digesting the books rather than the knowledge imprinted therein.
The Undermaster was one of the few in the Font permitted to stay up during the Resting Time. This mattered little to him since he had the habit of nodding off at no particular time whatsoever anyway. His yellow-skinned bald head was, in fact, just beginning to droop a bit closer to the pages of the tome he told himself he was perusing when he heard a rustling, shuffling noise at the far end of the Library.
The sound made him start and gave