Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [21]
“What will you do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Vanya said softly, lifting the Emperor’s letter and staring at it with unseeing eyes. “I don’t know.”
But, an hour later, when the Priest who acted as the Bishop’s secretary entered the office to say that Deacon Saryon was here to see him as requested, Vanya had made up his mind.
Having only an imperfect recollection of Saryon, the Bishop had been endeavoring all morning to call the young man’s face to memory. This should not reflect unfavorably upon the Bishop’s power of observation, for it was very acute. It is rather to his credit, in fact, that he was finally able to extract the gaunt and serious face of the young mathematical genuis from the faces of the many hundred young men and women who came and went from the Font.
Having fixed the face firmly in his mind, Vanya continued his work for another half hour after the young man’s arrival had been announced. Let the poor fellow suffer a bit, Vanya told himself coolly, well knowing that the most exquisite form of torture is self-inflicted. Glancing at the timeglass upon his desk, he noted, from the position of the tiny, magical sun that was rotating above the sundial encased in its crystal prison, that the allotted time had elapsed. Lifting his hand, he caused a small silver chime to vibrate, sounding a tone. Then, rising leisurely to his feet, the Bishop placed the miter upon his head and smoothed out his robes. Moving to the center of the sumptuously appointed room, he stood waiting in awful majesty.
The door opened. The secretary appeared for an instant, but his form was swallowed in blackness as the robed and hooded, silent Duuk-tsarith flowed past him, surrounding the stumbling figure of the young man they held between them,—surrounding him like his own private night.
“You may leave us,” the Bishop said to the Enforcers, who bowed and vanished. The door shut noiselessly. The Bishop and his young transgressor were alone.
Keeping his expression carefully cold and stern, Vanya eyed the young man curiously. He noted to himself with satisfaction that his recollection of Saryon’s features had been precise, though it took a few moments’ study to ascertain this, so changed was the face that presented itself to his view. Gaunt it had been, from hours of study, but now it was cadaverous and touched with a corpselike pallor. The eyes burned feverishly, and had sunken into the high cheekbones. The tall spare frame trembled, the overlarge hands shook. Suffering and remorse and fear were visible in every line of the quivering body, in the red-rimmed eyes and the streaks that tracked down the face.
Vanya permitted himself an inner smile.
“Deacon Saryon,” he began in a deep, sonorous voice. But before he could say anything further, the wretched young man hurled himself across the room, and, falling to his knees before the startled Bishop, grasped the hem of his robe and pressed it to his lips. Then, wailing something incoherent, Saryon burst into tears.
Slightly discomfited, and seeing a large stain spreading over the hem of his costly silken robe, the Bishop frowned and snatched the fabric out of the young man’s grasp. Saryon did not move, but knelt there still, crouched over, his face in his hands, sobbing in misery.
“Pull yourself together, Deacon!” Vanya snapped, then added more kindly, “Come now, my boy. You have made a mistake. It isn’t the end of the world. You are young. Youth is a time of exploration.” Reaching down, he took hold of Saryon’s arm.” It is a time our feet carry us down untrodden paths,” he continued, almost dragging the young man up off the floor, “where, sometimes, we encounter darkness.” Steering his unsteady footsteps, the Bishop guided Saryon to a chair, talking soothingly the while. “We have only to look to the Almin for help in finding our way back. Here, that’s it. Now, sit down. You’ve had nothing to eat or drink all night or this morning, I presume? I thought not. Try this sherry. Really quite fine, from