Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [75]
Saryon’s life at this juncture was truly miserable. Accustomed as he was to spending his days in study, wrapped in the comforting, silent solitude of the libraries or his warm, secure cell, he found the life of a Field Catalyst one of bone-aching weariness, sore and swollen feet, and mind-numbing monotony. Day in and day out he and Father Tolban were in the fields, granting Life to the magi, walking along after them through the rows of wheat or corn or beets or whatever it was that grew there. Saryon never knew. It all looked the same to him.
At night, he lay on his hard cot, every joint and muscle hurting. Though desperately tired, he could not sleep. The wild wind howled around the mean shack, whistling in through cracks and chinks that all the magic of the magi could never keep closed. Above the wild sounds of the wind, he could hear other noises—living noises—and these frightened him more than anything else. They were the noises of the beasts of the Outland, who, he was told, sometimes felt bold enough or hungry enough to approach the village in hopes of stealing food. These howls and growlings made Saryon realize that bad as this life was here, it was nothing compared to the life he had to look forward to—life in the Outland. His stomach clenched every time he thought of it, and he often began to shake uncontrollably. His only bitter comfort was the knowledge that he probably would not survive long enough to suffer.
Four months passed thus—Saryon’s allotted time to establish himself as a renegade catalyst. He didn’t know whether he had fooled anyone or not. Supposedly sullen, rebellious, and hotheaded, Saryon generally came across as sickly and wretched. The magi were so lost in the drudgery of their own lives, however, that they didn’t pay much attention to him.
As the day set for his departure in late summer drew near, Saryon had heard nothing from the Font, and he began to hope that perhaps Bishop Vanya might have forgotten him. Perhaps just sending me here is punishment enough, he thought. Surely one Dead young man doesn’t matter that much.
Saryon determined that he would simply stay where he was until he heard something. Father Tolban still obviously considered himself Saryon’s inferior, and would do whatever the priest told him.
But this was not to be.
Sitting alone in his cabin a few nights before he was supposed to leave, Saryon was startled and alarmed to see a Corridor suddenly open before him. He knew, even before the figure materialized, who had come to visit him, and his heart sank.
“Deacon Saryon,” the figure said as it stepped from the Corridor.
“Bishop Vanya,” Saryon said, bowing to the floor.
Saryon saw the Bishop glance around his poor surroundings, but, beyond a raised eyebrow, he didn’t take much notice, his attention being centered on his Priest. “Soon you begin your journey.”
“Yes, Holiness,” Saryon replied. He was still on the floor, not so much from humility as from the fact that he simply did not believe he had the strength to rise.
“I do not expect to hear from you for some time,” Vanya continued, standing near the Corridor’s opening—a black void of nothingness. “Your situation among these—um—Sorcerers will be delicate and it will be difficult for you make contact …”
Especially if I am dead, Saryon thought bitterly, though he did not say it.
“Still”—Vanya was going on—“there are ways we have of communicating with those far distant. I will not elaborate, but do not be startled to hear from me if I deem it necessary. In the meantime, try to send a message through Tolban when you think you will be able to turn this Joram over to us.”
Saryon stared up at the Bishop in amazement. The young man again! All Saryon’s pent-up misery and anger over the last months found its outlet. Slowly, his bones creaking, the priest struggled to his feet and faced Vanya defiantly.
“Holiness,” Saryon said respectfully but with an edge in his voice that was born out of fear and desperation, “you are sending me to