Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [161]
I say death is in the world ….
Saryon hesitated. Other visions came to his mind—the Bishop carrying the tiny Prince to his death, all the children he himself sent to their deaths “for the sake of the world.”
Perhaps the world had existed only in each one of those children.
All around Saryon was stillness and silence. He could hear his own heart beating, like muffled hammer blows, and he knew that for him, the world existed now only in Mosiah, in Andon, in the children of that small farming village who had watched their homes burning. Drawing a deep breath, Saryon summoned the magic.
The catalyst felt it flow into his body, filling him with the Enchantment and, at the same time, demanding an outlet. Slowly he rose from the chair where he had been sitting and came forward to stand before Joram.
“Place the weapon on the floor before me,” Saryon tried to say, but the words were inaudible.
Obeying more by instinct than because he understood, Joram laid the weapon at the catalyst’s feet.
As he knelt for the Ritual of the Dawn, as he knelt for Evening Prayers, as he knelt before the Almin who was far away, attending services at the Font, Saryon knelt on the stone floor before the sword. Reaching out a trembling hand, he grasped hold of the hilt. His flesh shriveled as he touched it; he feared it might burn him, but the magical alloy had already grown cold and rigid. The bitter chill of the iron shot through his arm, striking a blow to his heart. But Saryon held the sword fast, exalted by a strength of spirit that overcame the weakness of the flesh.
With a soft sigh, Saryon repeated the prayer that accompanied the granting of Life and felt the magic flow from the world, through his body, into the dead hunk of man-begotten metal.
In his hand, the sword began to glow again, this time with the white radiance of the molten darkstone. Brighter and brighter it shone, appearing hot enough to melt through the very rock upon which the blade rested, but it was still cool to the touch; the catalyst still held the hilt in his hand.
He couldn’t let go! He couldn’t close the conduit he had opened to the weapon! Like a Living being, the sword sucked the magic from him, drained him dry, then used him to continue to absorb magic from all around it. Gasping for breath, feeling himself growing weaker and weaker, Saryon tried to wrench his hand free from the weapon, but he couldn’t move it.
“Joram!” he whispered, “help me!”
But Joram was staring at the sword, its cold, white glow was so bright it seemed the moon had escaped the storm clouds and come here to rule.
Fainting, Saryon sank onto the floor, his mind in a stupor as the magic surged into him, through him, and out of him with a force that was carrying his own Life force with it. Darkness closed around him even as the light grew brighter and brighter.
And then strong arms lifted him and strong hands were dragging him across the cold floor, propping him up against something he was too sick and dizzy to recognize. He could not see, a brilliant white light blinded him. Where was the a sword? The white light was far from him, halfway across the cavern it seemed, yet it also seemed to him that he still held the cold metal in his hand and would always hold it, forever and ever.
Outside, Saryon could hear the wind again, and feel its cool breath upon his cheek. He must be lying near the cavern entrance, he thought dimly, and then the sound of the wind was swallowed by a hissing noise. Opening his eyes in horror, he saw Joram plunge the cold, burning sword into the water trough. A cloud of white, foul-smelling steam rose up around him, like a ghost fleeing its lifeless