Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [65]
Saryon sank into a chair, relieved. He’d had visions of jumping around most of the afternoon.
After inquiring if anyone cared for refreshment—which they didn’t—and some further polite talk about the difficulties of spring planting and the prospects for this year’s harvest, all of which were answered weakly and somewhat confusedly by the obviously nervous Field Catalyst, Bishop Vanya finally came to the point.
“Father Tolban has quite an unusual story to relate, Deacon Saryon,” he said, still in his same pleasant voice, as if they were three friends indulging in idle talk. Saryon’s tension eased a bit, but his mystification increased. Why had he been called to Vanya’s private chambers—a place he had not set foot in for seventeen years—to listen to a Field Catalyst relate a story? He looked at Vanya sharply, only to find the Bishop looking at him with a cool, knowing expression in his eyes.
Quickly, Saryon turned his attention to the Field Catalyst, who was drawing a deep breath as if about to plunge into icy water, now prepared to pay close attention to the little dried-up man’s words. Though Bishop Vanya’s face was smooth and placid as always, Saryon had seen a muscle twitch in the man’s jaw, just as he had seen it twitch at the ceremony for the dead Prince.
Father Tolban began his tale, and Saryon discovered that he had no need to force himself to listen. He could not have torn himself away. It was the first time he heard the story of Joram.
The catalyst experienced several emotions during the telling, emotions ranging from shock to outrage and revulsion—the normal emotions one feels upon hearing such a grim, dark revelation. But Saryon knew, too, a stomach-clenching, bone-chilling fear, a fear that spread from his bowels through his body. Shivering, he huddled deeper into his soft robes.
What am I afraid of? he asked himself. Here I am, sitting in the Bishop’s elegant chambers, listening to the halting, stumbling words of this withered old catalyst. What could possibly be wrong? Only later would Saryon recall the look in Bishop Vanya’s eyes as he listened to the story. Only later would he come to understand why he shivered in terror. As it was, he decided at the time it was nothing more than the vicarious thrill of fear one enjoys listening to the stories of the nursery, stories of dead creatures who stalk the night ….
“And by the time the Duuk-tsarith arrived,” Father Tolban concluded miserably, “the young man had been gone several hours. They tracked him as far as the Outlands, until it became obvious that he had vanished in the wilderness. We could see where his trail disappeared across the borders of civilization. They also found centaur tracks. There was little they could do, and in fact, they simply assumed him lost to this world, since all know that few who venture into those lands return. That is how I reported it.”
Vanya frowned and the catalyst flushed, hanging his head. “I—I was premature, it seems, in my judgment, for now, a year later—”
“That will be sufficient, Father Tolban,” Bishop Vanya remarked, still speaking very pleasantly.
But the Field Catalyst wasn’t fooled. Clenching his hands, he stared down gloomily at the floor. Saryon knew what the wretched man must be thinking. After this disaster, he’d be a Field Catalyst for the rest of his natural existence. But that certainly wasn’t Saryon