Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [42]
“Open the Corridors to us, Catalyst,” Anja demanded with the superior air she used when speaking to underlings, an air that contrasted oddly with her shabby, patched dress and her dirt-smeared face. “The boy and I must make a journey.”
“Now? But … but …” Father Tolban stammered, completely at a loss. This was unheard of! It could not be allowed. The woman had gone mad! And that brought another thought to the catalyst. He was alone and unprotected in the presence of a wizardess, an Albanara if one believed her story, whose Life force he could feel radiating from her like the heat of her anger.
She had probably saved up energy from the day’s work. She wouldn’t have much, but it might be enough to mutate him or wreck his small house. What should he do? Stall for time. Perhaps Old Marm would have brains enough to go fetch the overseer. Trying to remain calm, the catalyst’s gaze went from the mother to the child, who stood beside her silently, half-hidden by the folds of Anja’s rich, tattered dress.
Even in the midst of his fear and mental turmoil, Father Tolban stopped and stared. He had never seen the child up close, Anja always keeping them separated. And, though he had heard rumors of the child’s beauty, the catalyst was certainly not prepared for anything like this. Blue-black hair framed a pale face with large dark eyes. But what was remarkable, besides the child’s extraordinary beauty, was the fact that there was no fear in those wide, shimmering eyes. There was the shadow of pain—the catalyst could see the marks of Anja’s hand upon the child’s cheek. There were traces of tears. But there was no fear, only a look of calm triumph, as if this had all been carefully planned and arranged.
“Immediately, Catalyst,” Anja hissed, stamping her bare foot upon the floor. “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting by the likes of you!”
“P-payment,” stuttered Father Tolban. Tearing his gaze from the strange child, he turned to face the wild-eyed mother, feeling relief flood over him as he ducked into the safe refuge of the rules of his Order. “Th-there must be payment, you know,” he continued more severely, gaining confidence as the rules loaned him the strength of centuries. “A portion of your Life, Mistress Anja, and also a portion of the boy’s, if you travel with him …”
The catalyst had expected this to stop the woman—what Field Magus, after all, had enough magic left at the end of the day to grant the necessary portion demanded by the catalysts for the use of their Corridors?
And it did stop Anja, but only for a time, and then not in quite the manner Tolban had intended.
At the mention of the boy, she glanced down at the child in some perplexity, as if she had forgotten his existence. Then, scowling, she turned back to the catalyst, who was folding his arms across his chest and preparing to consider the matter closed.
“I will pay you parasites what you need to live!” she snapped. “But take nothing from the boy. I will pay you his portion from my Life as well. Come. I have sufficient! Take my hand!”
Anja stretched out her hand to the catalyst, whose confidence was oozing from him like sap from a wounded tree. Blankly, he stared at her and, for an instant, he did not see her dirty face or half-mad eyes, he did not see the ragged dress or the sun-browned skin of a Field Magus. He saw a tall and lovely woman, regally dressed, who had been born to command and to have her orders obeyed. Without really knowing what he was doing, the catalyst took hold of the woman’s hand and felt Life surge into him with such force it nearly knocked him down.
“Wh-where would you go?” he asked weakly.
“The Borderlands.”
“The Borderlands?” His mouth gaped in astonishment.
Anja’s brows came together in alarming fashion.
Father Tolban gulped. Then he frowned, trying to recover some of his dignity. “I