Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [61]
“A long journey, you’ve had, Dark One,” said the old woman, reaching out her hand to smooth back his black hair. “A long journey that almost took you Beyond. The Healer did what she could, but without a catalyst to grant her Life, her arts are limited.”
Joram tried to sit up, but discovered that his arms and legs were bound.
“Untie me,” he cried hoarsely, trying to make himself heard above the banging, bellowing sounds that came from somewhere close, apparently outside the cabin.
“Nay, lad, you’re not bound,” said the old woman, smiling in gentle amusement. “No, now lie still. You had a leg broke in two places and an arm practically twisted off and ribs smashed in. The bindings you feel are holding you together, young man.” Her smile changed to one of pride. “An invention of my husband, when he was younger. It’s the best we could do for you, without a catalyst to aid our Healer. Those splints hold the bones in place while they knit themselves back together.”
Joram lay back, confused, and suspicious, but too weary to either argue or fight. The incessant banging appeared now to be coming from inside his head. Seeing him wince, the old woman patted him.
“The sounds of the forge. You’ll get used to it, in time. I don’t hear it at all now, except when it stops. Likely you’ll work there, lad,” she added, rising to her feet. “You’re a strong one, I’ll wager, and used to hard work. I can tell from your callused hands. We can use a young man of your build and girth. But don’t worry about that now. I’ll get you a bite of broth, if you think you can stomach it.”
Joram nodded. The bandages itched. It hurt to move. But then he felt an arm beneath his head and a touch of something on his lips. Opening his eyes, he saw the old woman holding a bowl and an odd-looking implement in her hand. With this implement, she carried the broth from the bowl to his mouth. The taste was salty and delicious, filling his body with warmth. Eagerly, he gulped it down.
“There, that’s enough,” said the old woman, settling him back. “Your stomach’s not used to it, yet. You must try to sleep again.”
How could he sleep with that infernal noise?
“What is a forge?” he asked wearily.
“You’ll see, all in good time, Dark One,” she said, bending over him with another kind smile. As she did, Joram noticed an object hanging from a silver chain around her neck that had slipped from the bodice of her dress and now dangled down before his eyes. It was a pendant of some sort, Joram recognized, remembering Anja telling him about the glittering jewels the people wore in Merilon. But this was not a glittering jewel. It was a crude, hollowed-out circle, carved in wood, with nine thin spokes running through it.
Seeing Joram’s gaze upon the object, the old woman touched it with her hand, fondling it as proudly as the Empress might have fondled her rich jewelry.
“Where am I?” Joram asked drowsily, feeling as if he were back on that terrible journey and the water was once more sweeping him away.
“You are with those who practice the Ninth Mystery, those who would bring down death and destruction upon Thimhallan, according to some.” The old woman’s voice was sad, like the low murmur of the river. It came to him from a distance, muffled by the banging and bellowing sounds. Floating upon the water, he heard the old woman’s voice once again, whispering as the wind.
“We are the Coven of the Wheel.”
13
Saryorn’s Punishment
Seventeen years had passed since Saryon had committed his heinous crime of reading forbidden books. Seventeen years had passed since he had been taken to Merilon. Seventeen years had passed since the death of the Prince. The people of Merilon and its small empire of surrounding city-states had just completed commemorating the holiday of that mournful occasion when Saryon was summoned once again to Bishop