Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [172]
12
King of Swords
Blachloch placed his folded hands upon the desk in front of him. “And so, Father, feeling wretched over committing one immoral act, and terrified that you might be forced to commit another, you saw as your only alternative the commission of a deed so heinous, so black, it was banned by your own Order centuries ago?”
“I have admitted that I was not thinking clearly,” Saryon murmured, the warlock’s bald statement of the facts unnerving him. “I—I am a scholar …. This type of life frightens and … and confuses me.”
“But you are confused no longer,” Blachloch said wryly. “Appalled and horrified, but not confused. You will surrender the Darksword and Joram to me.”
“The sword must be destroyed,” Saryon interrupted. “Or I will not go through with this.”
“Of course,” Blachloch replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as though this were nothing more than a cracked ale mug they were discussing, not a sword that could conceivably give him power to rule the world. What a fool he must take me for, Saryon thought bitterly. Blachloch clasped his hands before him. “Now, as for the boy …”
“He must be turned over to Bishop Vanya,” Saryon said, his voice rasping.
“So, Simkin was right,” Blachloch remarked. “That is the real reason you were sent to this coven.”
“Yes.” Saryon swallowed.
“I wish you would have confided in me,” the warlock said, his two index fingers coming together to form a small sword, pointed at the catalyst. “Life would have been much simpler for you, Father. Your Bishop Vanya must be an imbecile,” he muttered, a tiny line appearing in his forehead, his eyes staring into a shadowy corner, “to think a scholar like you could deal with a murderer like this Joram….”
“You will see that he is taken to the Font?” Saryon pursued, flushing. “I cannot do so myself for … for obvious reasons. I presume your contacts in the Duuk-tsarith—”
“Yes. That can be arranged,” Blachloch cut in. “You say ‘for obvious reasons.’ I presume you mean that you dare not return to the fold. What of yourself in all this, Father?”
“I should surrender myself to Bishop Vanya,” Saryon answered, knowing what was expected of him. He lowered his head, his gaze on his shoes. “I have committed a grievous sin. I deserve my fate.”
“The Turning to Stone, Father. A terrible way to … live. I know. As I told you, I’ve seen it done. That would be your punishment for helping to create the Darksword, as of course you yourself know. Such a waste,” Blachloch said, running his finger over his blond mustache, “such a waste.”
Saryon shuddered. Yes, that would be his punishment. Could he face it? To live forever with the knowledge of what he had done? No, if it came to that, there were ways of ending things. Henbane, for example.
“Still, you might be forgiven, considered something of a hero …”
Saryon shook his head.
“Ah, this is your second infraction. I had forgotten. So your options are immortality of a most horrible sort or staying here with the coven and reconciling yourself to committing further immoral acts.” Blachloch’s fingers raised slightly, pointing at Saryon’s heart. “There is, of course, another alternative.”
Glancing up quickly, Saryon saw Blachloch’s meaning plainly expressed on the cold face and in the unblinking eyes. The catalyst swallowed again, a bitter taste filling his mouth. It was uncanny the way the man could see into his head, uncanny and frightening.
“The … the last is not an alternative,” Saryon said, shifting uncomfortably. “Suicide is an unpardonable sin.”
“Whereas assisting me to rape and plunder or assisting Joram to create a weapon that could destroy the world is not,” Blachloch said with a sneer. His hands unclasped, spreading out, palms down, upon the desk. “I admire the neat and tidy way you catalysts think. Still, it works