Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [66]
“A most shocking incident, Deacon.”
“Yes, Holiness,” Saryon replied, still feeling the shiver creeping over his body.
Placing the tips of his pudgy fingers together, Vanya tapped them delicately. “There have been several instances, over the past few years, where we have been able to locate those children who were born Dead and yet who, through the misguided actions of their parents, were allowed to remain in the world. When they were discovered, their terrible sufferings were mercifully relieved.”
Saryon shifted uneasily in his seat. He had heard rumors of this, and though he knew what a tortured existence these poor souls must lead, he could not help wondering if such drastic measures were really necessary. Apparently his doubts were expressed upon his face, for Vanya frowned and, turning his gaze upon the innocent Field Catalyst, proceeded to expostulate.
“You know, of course, that we cannot have the Dead walking the land,” Vanya said sternly to Father Tolban.
“Y-yes, Holiness,” stammered the catalyst, shrinking before this undeserved and unexpected attack.
“Life, the magic, comes from all around us, from the ground we walk, the air we breathe, the living things that grow to serve us … yes, even the rocks and stones, crumbled remains of once great mountains, give us Life. It is this force we call upon and channel through our humble bodies that gives the magi the ability to mold and alter the raw elements into objects both useful and beautiful.”
Vanya glared at the Field Catalyst, to see if he was paying attention. The catalyst, not knowing what else to do and looking thoroughly miserable, gulped, and nodded.
The Bishop continued, “Imagine this Life force as a rich, full-bodied wine, whose color, flavor, bouquet”—he spread his hands—“is perfect in every respect. Would you dilute this wonderful wine with water?” Vanya asked suddenly.
“No, oh no, Holiness!” cried Father Tolban.
“Yet you would permit the Dead to walk among us and, what is worse, perhaps allow their seed to fall into fertile ground and grow? Would you see the vines of weeds choke out the life of the grape?”
The Field Catalyst might have been a dried grape himself as he shriveled under this barrage. His brown face shrank, his wizened features twisted while he desperately protested that he had no intention of nurturing weeds. Vanya allowed him to babble, his gaze shifting to Saryon, who bowed his head. The reprimand was his, of course. It would not be proper for a Bishop to scold a Font Catalyst in the presence of an underling, so Vanya had chosen this method to rebuke him. Confused memories of hiccuping babies and weeping parents flitted into Saryon’s mind, but he firmly repressed them. He understood. The Bishop was right, as always. Deacon Saryon would not be the one to dilute the wine.
But, he wondered, as he sat staring at his hands folded properly in his lap, where was all this leading?
With an abrupt gesture, Vanya squelched the Field Catalyst, cutting him off at the roots and leaving him on the ground to wither. The Bishop turned to Saryon.
“Deacon Saryon, you are no doubt wondering what this tale has to do with you. And now you will have your answer. I am sending you after this Joram.”
Saryon could do nothing but stare, aghast. Now it was his turn to stammer and stutter, to the vast relief of Father Tolban, who seemed extremely grateful to find the attention shifted away from him at last.
“But …. Holiness, I—You said he was dead.”
“N-no,” Father Tolban faltered, cringing. “I—That was my mistake …”
“He’s not dead, then?” Saryon said.
“No,