Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [81]
“Why do you put up with that fool?” snarled the guard.
“The same might be asked of you,” Blachloch answered in his expressionless voice. “And I might make the same reply. Because he is a useful fool and because someday I will drown him.”
3
Lost
“What was that?” Jacobias, roused from a deep sleep, sat up in bed and looked around the dark hut, searching for the noise that had awakened him.
There it came again, a timid tapping sound.
“It’s someone at the door,” his wife whispered, sitting up beside him. Her hand clutched his arm. “Maybe it’s Mosiah!”
“Humpf,” the Field Magus grunted as he tossed aside the covers and drifted effortlessly across the floor on wings of magic. A soft word of command broke the seal on the door, and the magus peered out cautiously.
“Father Saryon!” he said in amazement.
“I—I’m sorry to awaken you,” stammered the catalyst. “May I disturb you further and—and invite myself in? It’s really quite urgent, imperative that I speak to you!” he added in a desperate tone, staring pleadingly at Mosiah’s father.
“Sure, sure, Father,” Jacobias said, backing up and opening the door. The catalyst stepped inside, his tall, spare figure in its green robes outlined for an instant in the light of a full moon that was rising in the sky. The moonlight shone for a moment on Jacobias’s face as he exchanged glances with his startled wife, who was sitting up in bed, clutching the blankets to her chest. Then he shut the door, extinguishing the moonlight and plunging the room into darkness. A word from the magus, however, caused a warm light to glow among the branches of the tree that formed the ceiling.
“Please, put that out!” Saryon said, shrinking away from it and glancing fearfully out the window.
Completely mystified, Jacobias did as he was asked, dousing the light, leaving them in darkness once more. A rustling sound from the bed indicated that his wife was getting up.
“Can I get you some … something, Father?” she asked hesitantly. “A … a cup of tea?” What did one say to a catalyst who comes into your home at midnight, especially one who looks as if he were being pursued by demons?
“No—no, thank you,” replied Saryon. “I …”he began, but cleared his throat and fell silent.
The three stood in the dark, listening to each other breathe for several moments. Then there was another rustle and a grunt from Jacobias in response to his wife jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Is there something we can do for you, then, Father?”
“Yes,” said Saryon. Drawing a deep breath, he launched into his lines. “That is, I hope so. I’m—uh—desperate, you see, and—uh—I was told—that is I heard—that you had—that you might be able to—” At this point he dried up, the words he’d so carefully prepared flying completely out of his head. Hoping they would come home again, the catalyst latched onto a word he remembered. “Desperate, you see, and—” But it was useless. Saryon gave up. “I need your help,” he said finally, simply. “I’m going into the Outland.”
If the Emperor had appeared in his hut and said be was going into the Outland, Jacobias would have probably not been much more astonished. The moonlight had crept in through the window now and was shining on the balding, middle-aged catalyst standing stoop-shouldered in the center of the cabin, clutching a sack of what Jacobias realized must be all his worldly possessions. A noise from his wife, sounding suspiciously like a smothered, nervous giggle, brought a rebuking cough from her husband, who said sharply, “I think we’ll take that tea, woman. You’d best sit down, Father.”
Saryon shook his head, glancing out the window. “I—I must be gone, while the moon is full …”
“Moon’ll be up for a while yet,” Jacobias said complacently, sinking into a chair as his wife prepared the tea over a small fire she caused to spring up in the grate. “Now, Father Saryon”—the magus eyed the catalyst as sternly as he might have eyed his teen-aged son—“what is this nonsense about goin’ into the Outland?”
“I must. I’m desperate,” repeated