Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [72]
Though it was early night when they arrived, the Field Magi were in bed and asleep, according to Tolban, who was obviously nervous and ill at ease in Saryon’s presence. Muttering something to the effect that he assumed Saryon would wish to rest as well, the Field Catalyst led the priest to an empty dwelling near his own.
“The old overseer lived here,” Father Tolban said in gloomy tones, opening the door to a burned-out tree that had been converted to a dwelling like the others in the village. Slightly larger than the rest, it appeared on the verge of collapse.
Saryon glanced inside in bitter resignation. Nothing more, it seemed, could add to his misery. “The overseer who was murdered?” he asked quietly.
Tolban nodded. “I hope you don’t mind,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands. The spring air was chill. “But it—it’s all that’s vacant, at present.
What does it matter, thought Saryon wearily. “No, it’s all right.”
“I’ll see you at breakfast, then. Would you care to eat your meals with me?” Father Tolban asked hesitantly. “There’s a woman, too old to work in the fields, who earns her way by doing such chores.”
Saryon was about to reply that he wasn’t hungry and didn’t expect to be, when he suddenly took notice of Tolban’s anxious, pinched face. Something occurred to Saryon then and, remembering the pouch someone had thrust into his arms before he left the Font, he handed it to the Field Catalyst.
“Certainly, Brother,” Saryon replied. “I would be pleased to share your table. But you must let me pay my way.”
“Deacon … this—this is too much,” stammered Tolban, who had been eyeing the hefty sack hungrily ever since they’d arrived. The fragrant aroma of bacon and cheese filled the air.
Saryon smiled wryly. “We might as well eat it now. I don’t believe I will be needing it where I am going, do you, Brother?”
Flushing, Father Tolban muttered some incoherent reply and backed hurriedly out the door, leaving Saryon to stare around the dwelling. Once it might have been a relatively nice place to live, he thought bleakly. The wooden walls were polished, the branches that formed the roof gave some signs of having been skillfully mended and repaired. But its past owner had been dead a year, the dwelling allowed to fall into ruin. Apparently no one had entered it since the man’s murder; there were remnants of its former owner scattered about in the way of clothes and a few personal items. Picking these up, Saryon tossed them into the firepit, then glanced about.
A bed, formed out of a bough of the tree, stood on one side of the small room. A crudely shaped table and several chairs huddled near the firepit. Branches formed a few shelves in the walls that had once been the tree’s trunk, and that was all. Thinking of his comfortable cell in the Font, with its down mattress, warm fire, and thick stone walls, Saryon gave the bed where the murdered man had slept a shuddering glance. Then, wrapping himself in his robes, he lay down on the floor, and gave way to despair.
The next morning, after sharing Tolban’s meager breakfast, Saryon was introduced to the cacklings and crowings of Marm Hudspeth, who considered him a wonder sent from the Almin himself. Then the catalyst was taken outside to meet the rest of his people and to begin his duties.
According to the part he was told to play, Saryon had been sent to the fields for some minor infraction committed against the Order, and was supposed to appear discontented and rebellious. He was not, as has been said, a very good liar.
“I don’t know if I can play this part,” he confided to Father Tolban as they trudged through the mud toward where the Field Catalyst stood patiently in line, waiting for the morning’s Gift of Life.
“What—being angry at the Church? Angry at the fate that brought you here? Oh, you’ll play it all right,” muttered Father Tolban gloomily, the spring wind whipping his robes about his stick-thin, dried-up body. “For all the good it will do you.”
And