Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [176]
“Come now, Catalyst,” Joram said sardonically. Stepping over the body, he picked up the rag that lay upon the floor and began to wipe the blood from the blade. “It’s ended. You don’t need to keep up the game.”
Had Saryon heard right? He seemed to hear nothing but that shriek. “Game?” he managed to ask. “What game? I don’t understand ….”
“Almin’s blood! Who do you take me for? Mosiah!” Joram laughed but it came out a snarl—bitter and ugly. “As if I’d tumble for that sanctimonious blabbing.” His voice rose to a high, whining mockery of Saryon’s. “‘I’ll open a Corridor. You get away …’ Ha!” Tossing the blood-stained rag upon the floor, Joram carefully laid the sword down beside it. “Did you think I’d fall for that? I knew your plan. Once you had that Corridor open—”
“No! You’re wrong!”
Saryon’s impassioned cry caught Joram by surprise. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked intently into the catalyst’s face. “Well, of all the—I believe you meant it,” he said slowly, staring at Saryon in wonder.
The catalyst could not answer. Sinking down upon the workbench, he closed his eyes and, shivering, hunched deeper into his robes. The dead warlock was having his revenge, it seemed. His scream had drained the life from Saryon as effectively as the catalyst had drained the magic from the magus. Sick, cold, filled with hatred and revulsion for himself as well as for the young man, if Saryon had believed in the Almin enough to ask him for one final favor, it would have been for the blessed oblivion of death.
He heard Joram’s footsteps moving across the sand floor and felt the presence of the young man behind him.
“You meant it,” Joram repeated.
“Yes,” Saryon said tiredly, “I meant it.”
“You saved my life,” Joram continued, speaking in low tones. “You risked your own to do it. I know. I saw ….”
Saryon felt a touch on his shoulder. Startled, he glanced around to see Joram’s hand resting there hesitantly, awkwardly. He could see the face in the waning moonlight, dark eyes shadowed by a tangle of thick, black hair. In the eyes, for the briefest second, there was longing, hunger. The catalyst knew the truth now, as he had known it all along.
Years ago, Saryon’s mind whispered to him, I held this child in my arms!
Reaching up, he started to grasp Joram’s hand with his own. But as soon as he did, the hand on his shoulder jerked away.
“Why?” Joram demanded. “What do you want of me?”
Saryon stared at the young man for a moment, then a slight, tired smile twisted his lips. “I don’t want anything of you, Joram.”
“Then, what was your reason. Catalyst? And don’t give me any of that holy honey you use to keep people like Mosiah sweet. I know you. There has to be a motive.”
“I’ve told you,” Saryon said softly, his gaze going to the weapon that lay on the floor like another corpse. “I helped bring this … weapon of darkness into the world. It is my responsibility, partly my responsibility,” he amended as Joram started to speak. Saryon’s gaze went from the sword to the warlock. “I have failed. It has drawn blood, it has severed a life—”
“I drew the blood! I severed the life!” Joram cried, coming to stand before the catalyst. “The Darksword was just a tool in my hands. Quit talking about the damn thing as if it were more alive than I am!”
Saryon did not reply. Staggering with fatigue, he walked haltingly across the sand-strewn floor of the forge and came to kneel beside Blachloch’s body. Gritting his teeth to quell a wave of sickness, keeping his gaze averted from the ghastly wound in the chest, he stretched out his hand and closed the eyes that were staring upward in horrified astonishment. He did his best to shut the gaping jaws, composing the face in some semblance of peace. Lifting the cold hands, he started to fold them across the breast, as was traditional, but found he could