Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [171]
Joram had stopped walking and was regarding Saryon silently, intently. “And you will let me go …”
“Yes, but not because I fear you or your sword.”
“Then why?” Joram asked, with a slight sneer.
“Exactly,” Saryon murmured. “Why? I’ve asked myself often enough. I could tell you … many reasons. That our lives are bound up together in some strange way, that I knew this the first time I saw you, that this goes back to a time in my life before you were even born. I could tell you this.” He shook his head. “I could tell you about a druid who counseled me. I could tell you about a baby I held …. It all seems tied together somehow, and it doesn’t make sense. I can see already you don’t believe it.”
“Whether I believe you or not doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I really don’t care what your reasons are, Catalyst, so long as you do what I ask of you.”
“I will, but on one condition.”
“Ah, now we come to it,” Joram said, scowling. “What is it? That I turn myself in? Or maybe remain buried in this godforsaken wilderness—”
“That you take me with you,” Saryon said in a low voice.
“What?” Joram stared at the catalyst in astonishment. Then, nodding to himself, he gave a short, ugly laugh. “Of course, I see. Every Dead man needs his own catalyst.” Shrugging, he almost smiled. “By all means, come with me to Merilon. We’ll have a jolly time together, as our friend Simkin would say. Now, are we ready to get on with this?”
Moving carefully and silently to avoid waking Mosiah, Joram turned his back upon the startled catalyst and walked across the small room. He knelt beside his bed, put his hands beneath the mattress, and, slowly and reverently, drew forth the Darksword.
Saryon watched him in puzzled silence. He had expected rage, refusal. He had expected to have to stand firm on his position, to resist arguments, even threats. This casual, uncaring acceptance was, somehow, worse. Maybe the young man didn’t understand ….
Joram was carefully wrapping the sword in rags. Coming up behind him, Saryon put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m not going to turn you in. I only want to help you. You see, you can’t go back either. Not to Merilon—”
“Look, Catalyst,” Joram said, standing up, angrily jerking himself free of the man’s touch, “I’ve already said—I don’t care what you do or where you go so long as you help me in this. Understood? Fine.” He looked down at the sword he held cradled in his hands. The moonlight reflecting white off the rags made the skeletal-looking metal object lying within seem that much darker by stark contrast. The image of the Dead baby, wrapped in the white cloth of the Royal House, came to Saryon’s mind. Shutting his eyes, he turned away.
Seeing the catalyst’s reaction, Joram’s lip curled. “If the sermon is ended, Father”—the word was uttered with such venom Saryon flinched—“we must go. I want to get this over with.”
Thrusting the sword into a leather belt he had fashioned and now wore about his waist—a crude imitation of those he had seen pictured in the texts—Joram threw a long, dark cloak (provided by Simkin) over his shoulders. He walked the length of the prison cell, looking down at himself critically. The sword was hidden. Nodding to himself, he turned to Saryon and gestured peremptorily.
“Go on. I’m ready.”
Am I? Saryon asked himself in agony. He wanted to say something, but he could not talk and, coughing, tried to clear his throat. It was useless. He could never swallow fear. Joram’s face darkened, scowling at this delay. Saryon could see the muscles stand out rigid and stiff in the young man’s firm jawline, a nerve twitched in one eye, and his hands, hanging straight at his sides, clench and unclench nervously. But in the eyes burned a light brighter than the moon’s, brighter—and colder.
No, there was nothing to say. Nothing at all.
Reaching out, his own hand trembling, Saryon gently and silently opened the door. Every nerve, every fiber, of his being warned him to turn around, to