Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [73]
He had thought his own dwelling small and cramped until he found that entire families lived in shacks no larger. Food was plain and coarse and scarce after the harsh winter. Unlike the fortunate inhabitants of the cities where the weather is controlled, the Field Magi are subject to the whims of the varying seasons. In Merilon, surrounded by its magical dome, rain came only if the Empress decided that the sunlight had grown tiresome, snow fell only to glimmer beautifully in the moonlight on the crystal palaces. Here, on the border, there were terrible storms, the likes of which Saryon had never experienced.
“The nobles there”—Father Tolban glanced in the direction of distant Merilon—“fear these peasants. And with good reason.” The Field Catalyst shuddered. “I saw them, the day that accursed boy murdered the overseer. I thought they were going to murder me, as well!”
Saryon shivered, too, but it was from the cold. The winds had been blowing steadily off the mountains and, until they switched, spring was more like winter. Opening a conduit to Marm Hudspeth, Father Tolban gave the magus sufficient Life to envelop the two catalysts in a cozy globe of warmth that made Saryon feel as though he were sitting in a bubble of flame. But it didn’t help much. The cold seemingly defied magic. It had dwelt in this shack longer than mortals. Creeping from the floors and walls, it seeped up through Saryon’s feet and into his very bones. He wondered if he would ever again be warm and sometimes thought, rather bitterly, that Bishop Vanya could at least have told him he intended to torture him before his execution.
“But if the Emperor fears rebellion, why doesn’t he improve conditions?” Saryon asked irritably, endeavoring to wrap his feet up in the skirts of his white robes. “Give these people housing, enough to eat—”
“Enough to eat!” Tolban looked shocked. “Brother Saryon, these people are strong in magic to begin with. I’ve heard it said they’re stronger than the Altanara, the noble wizards. How could we control them if they became stronger still? Right now, they are forced to depend upon us to provide them with Life. They must use all their energy to survive. If they ever gained the means to store it up …” He shook his head, then, glancing around fearfully, he drew close to Saryon. “And there’s another reason,” he whispered. “Their children aren’t born Dead!”
A month passed, then two. Days and nights grew warmer, and Saryon learned the work of a Field Catalyst. Rising with the dawn, never feeling as though he’d had enough sleep, he mumbled wearily through the Ritual, joined Father Tolban for a frugal breakfast, then made his way into the fields where the magi were waiting. Here, the catalyst put into practice those mathematical exercises he’d been taught from childhood. He learned to measure out Life in exact and minute degrees, since it would never do to give a Field Magus too much. He trudged the rows with them—uncaring at first. It seemed nothing could penetrate the depths of his unhappiness. Even the sight of a small seedling, springing up from the earth, was like sunlight streaming through a break in storm clouds, cheering him for only a moment, then vanishing into darkness once more.
The catalyst had not forgotten, however, the real reason he was here. Mostly from boredom and to keep his mind off his own misery, Saryon spent the evenings talking with the people, and he had no difficulty in getting them to discuss Joram. They scarcely talked of anything else, in fact, the death of Anja and the murder of the overseer having been a high point in their lives. Over and over they related the story with relish during the brief hour they were permitted to socialize after their meager dinners.
“Joram was a fey one,” said the father of the runaway Mosiah. “I saw him grow from a babe to a man. I lived with him in this village sixteen years, and the words he spoke to me I could