Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [177]
“I’ll take the body into the woods,” Joram said.
Hearing a rustling sound, Saryon glanced back to see the young man tug the warlock’s hood over his face and cover the body with the man’s cloak. “When they find him, they’ll figure centaurs got him.”
A Duuk-tsarith? Saryon thought, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t care anymore, anyway. Looking wistfully outside, he half-expected to see the dawn burning its way along the horizon. But the moon had just set. It was only a little past the deepest flow of night’s tide. He wanted his bed. Though it was cold and hard, he wanted to lie down and cast his own cloak over his head and maybe … just maybe … the sleep that had eluded him for nights would steal upon him and, for a little while, he could forget.
“Listen to me, Catalyst!” Joram’s voice was harsh. “The only other person who knows about the Darksword besides you and me is dead—”
“So that was why you killed him.”
Joram ignored him. “It must stay that way. While I’m moving the body, you take the sword and go back to the prison.”
“Blachloch’s guards are all over town, searching for you ….” Saryon protested, remembering the hue and cry that had been raised when he reported Joram missing. “How will you—”
“How do you think I got in here? There’s a way out, in back of the forge,” Joram said impatiently. “The smithy’s used it for over a year with his secret stash of weapons.”
“Weapons?” Saryon asked, uncomprehending.
“Yes, Catalyst. Blachloch’s days were numbered. The Technologists were bound to rebel. We have only hastened what was going to come sooner or later. But never mind that now! Take the sword and go back to the prison. No one will bother you. After all, you were with Blachloch. If they do stop you, tell them the warlock followed my trail into the wilderness. He went in alone after me. That’s all you know.”
Yes.” Saryon murmured.
Joram stared at him, scowling. “Did you even hear a word I said?”
“I hear!” Saryon said sternly. “And I’ll do what you say. I don’t want word of this terrible weapon to get out any more than you do.” Rising to his feet, he looked directly into the young man’s face. “You must destroy it. If you don’t, I will.”
The two stood, confronting each other in the darkness that was lit now only by the dimly glowing coals. The fire glimmered in Joram’s eyes and on the lips that spread in a dark, red-tinged smile. “What if someone offered you the Magic, Catalyst?” he asked softly. “What if someone said to you, ‘Here, take this power. You no longer have to walk the ground like an animal. You can fly. You can call up the winds. You can banish the sun and bring down the stars, if you desire.’ What would you do? Wouldn’t you take it?”
Wouldn’t I? Saryon thought, a sudden memory of his father coming to him. He saw a little boy kicking off the hated shoes, drifting over the land in the arms of the wizard.
“This is my magic,” said Joram, his gaze going to the sword lying on the floor. “Tomorrow I start for Merilon. You, too, Catalyst, if you insist on coming. Once I am there, in Merilon, in the city that ended my parents’ lives and robbed me of my birthright, this sword will bring down the stars and put them in my grasp. No, I won’t destroy it.” He paused. “And neither will you.”
“Why not?” asked Saryon.
“Because you helped create it,” Joram said, the forge fire lighting his face. “Because you helped bring it into this world. Because you gave it Life.”
“I—” Saryon began, but he could not finish. He was too scared to search inside himself for the truth.
Joram nodded, satisfied. Turning, he walked over to the body, issuing instructions as he went. “Wrap the sword in those rags. If anyone stops you, tell them you are carrying a child. A dead child.” Glancing over at the pale, shaken catalyst, he smiled. “Your child, Saryon,” he said. “Yours and mine.”
Bending down, Joram picked up the body of the warlock in his strong arms. Heaving the corpse over his shoulder,