Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [82]
“Father,” interrupted Jacobias, “I know that among your Order, to be sent here to the Fields is a punishment. Now, I don’t know what sin you committed, nor do I want to know.” He held up his hand, thinking Saryon might speak. “But, whatever it is, I’m certain ’tis not worth throwing your life away. Stay here with us, do your service.”
Saryon simply shook his head.
Staring at him a moment, Jacobias frowned. Shifting in his chair, he appeared uncomfortable. “I—It’s not in me to talk of such things as I’m goin’ to say now, Father. Your god and I have been on fairly good terms, neither one of us askin’ much from t’other. I never felt close to Him, nor He to me, and I figured that’s the way He wanted it. Least, that’s the way Father Tolban seemed to figure. But you’re different, Father. Some of the things you’ve said have started me to wonderin’. When you say we’re in the hands of the Almin, I can almost believe you mean me, too, not just yourself and t’Bishop.”
Completely taken aback, Saryon stared at the man. He had certainly not expected this and felt ashamed, because it suddenly occurred to him that when he said, “We’re in the hands of the Almin,” he himself didn’t really believe it. Otherwise, why would he be so frightened of venturing out into the wilderness? It’s just as well I’m going, he thought bitterly. I’m a hypocrite now, too, apparently.
Seeing Saryon silent, obviously lost in reflection, Jacobias mistakenly assumed the catalyst was reconsidering. “Stay here with us, Father,” the Field Magus urged gently. “It’s not a good life, but it’s not a bad ’un either. There’s lots worse, believe me.” Jacobias’s voice lowered. “Go out there”—he nodded toward the window—“and you’ll find it.”
Saryon bowed his head, his shoulders slumping, his face pale and tight with fear.
“I see,” said Jacobias after a pause. “So that’s the way of it, is it? These words I’m sayin’ are nothin’ new to you, are they, Father. Ye’ve been hearin’ them in yer own heart. Someone or something is making you go.”
“Yes,” said Saryon quietly. “Don’t ask me any more. I’m a terrible liar.”
Neither spoke as Jacobias’s wife sent the tea floating to the table, where it spilled itself into cups shaped of polished horn. Sitting down beside her husband, she took his hand in hers and held onto it tightly.
“Is it because of our son?” she asked in a frightened voice.
Raising his head, Saryon looked at both of them, his face pale and drawn in the moonlight. “No,” he said softly. Then, seeing her about to speak, he shook his head. “We do what we have to do.”
“But, Father,” argued Jacobias, “we do, or should do, what we are suited to do! Forgive me for speakin’ blunt, Father Saryon, but I’ve seen you in t’field. If ye’ve been outdoors at all, it must’ve been in some royal lady’s rose arbor! You can’t take ten steps without fallin’ over a rock! The first days you were here the sun burned you so bad we had to lay you in the creek to bring you ’round. You was fair roasted. And you jump at yer own shadow. Why I never in my life saw a man run so fast as you did when that locust flew up in your face.”
With a sigh, Saryon nodded, but he did not answer.
“Ye’re not a young man anymore, Father,” Jacobias’s wife said kindly, her heart softened by the catalyst’s look of fear and despair. Reaching out her hand, she placed it over Saryon’s hand that rested, trembling, on the table. “Surely there must be some other way. Why don’t you drink your tea and go back to your bed. We’ll talk to Father Tolban …”
“There is no other way, I assure you,” Saryon said softly, with a quiet dignity that was apparent even through the strained look of fear on his face. “I thank you for your kindness and … and your caring. It is something I