Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [46]
“You, my sweet, were heavy in my womb when they dragged me to the Borderlands and forced me to stand in the sand, the white, burning sand. Forced me to stand there and watch them perform their heinous act!”
Snarling, Anja twisted to her feet. Coming to stand before Joram, she dug her nails into his shoulder. “Magi who have broken the law are sent Beyond!” she whispered fiercely. “That is their punishment for wrongdoing in this world. ‘The Living shall not be put to Death,’ thus the catechism says. A magus walks out into mist, into nothingness, and so perishes! Pah!” She spit into the fire. “What punishment is that compared to being turned to living stone? Wearing out the ageless days of your existence, gnawed at always by wind and water and the memories of what it was to be alive!”
Anja stared into the night with eyes that might have been stone, for all they saw. Joram stared at the moon.
“They stood him in the place they had marked upon the sand. He wore the robes of shame, and two Enforcers held him fast with their dark enchantment, so that he could not move. Most catalysts, I have heard, accept their fate quietly. Some even welcome it, having been convinced of the enormity of their sins. But not your father. We had done nothing wrong.” Her nails dug deeper into Joram’s flesh. “We had only loved!”
Breathing heavily, she could not speak for long minutes, forcing herself to witness that terrible moment once again, reveling—for an instant—in her pain and reveling in the knowledge that she was sharing this pain with the boy.
“To the last,” she continued in a low, husky voice, “your father shouted his defiance. They tried to ignore him, but I saw their faces. His words hit home. Furious, Bishop Vanya—may the ground upon which he walks writhe with scorpions—ordered the transmutation to begin.
“Twenty-five catalysts are needed to perform such a change. Vanya had brought them from all parts of Thimhallan, to witness the punishment for our great crime—the sin of loving!
“They formed a circle around your father and, into that circle, walked the catalyst’s own Duuk-tsarith, a warlock who works for them and who, in return, is granted as much Life as he needs to perform his foul duties. At his coming, the two lower-rank Enforcers bowed and left, leaving your father alone in the circle with the one known as the Executioner. The warlock made a sign. The catalysts clasped hold of hands. Each opened a conduit to the Executioner, giving him unbelievable power.
“He took his time. The punishment is slow and painful.
“Moving his hand, the Executioner pointed at your father’s feet. I could not see his limbs beneath his long robes, but I knew from the expression on your father’s face when he first felt the transmutation begin. His feet turned to stone. Slowly, the icy coldness moved up his legs, then his loins, his stomach, chest and arms. Still he yelled at them until his stomach froze. Even when his voice ceased, I could see his lips move. At the last moment, with his last effort, he clenched his fist just as it turned to stone. They could have altered it, of course. But they chose to let that sign of his last bitter defiance remain as a warning to others.”
Yes, thought Joram, reaching up and clasping his mother’s hands in his own, they left the look upon his face as well—a monument to hatred, bitterness, and anger.
Anja’s voice dropped. “I watched him draw his final breath. Then he could breathe no more—as normal man. But the breath of life is within him still. That is the most excruciating part of this punishment that these fiends have devised. Think of him when anything hurts you, my sweet one. Think of him when you are tempted to cry, and you will know your tears to be petty and shameful compared to his. Think