Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [85]
That nagging question and its attendant dark shadow accompanied Saryon into the wilderness, proving a valuable companion, for it kept the catalyst’s mind occupied and forced his other companion—fear—to straggle along behind. Keeping one eye on the star, a feat that proved increasingly difficult for the catalyst as he plunged deeper and deeper into the thick forests, Saryon pondered this question, trying to find excuses, trying to find explanations, only to be forced to admit to himself that there were no excuses and that he had no explanation.
Bishop Vanya had lied, that much was quite clear. What was more, it had been a conspiracy of lies.
Stopping for a moment to rest, Saryon sank down on a boulder to massage his aching and cramping leg muscles. The strange, ominous sounds of the forest growled and whispered about him, but Saryon was able to ignore them by going back, in his mind, to Bishop Vanya’s chambers in the Font the day he had been called there to hear Father Tolban’s story. Vanya’s words came to him clearly, mercifully drowning out a low snarl from some predatory animal stalking its prey through the night.
It seems that this Joram had a friend—Saryon could hear Vanya quite plainly—a young man called Mosiah. One of the Field Magi, hearing noises in the night, woke and looked out his window. He saw Mosiah and a young man he is positive was Joram engrossed in conversation. He could not hear all of what was said, but he swears he overheard the words “Coven” and “Wheel.” He said Mosiah drew back at this, but his friend must have been persuasive because, the next morning, Mosiah was gone.
Yes, Mosiah had gone. But not because of Joram. He had fled because of rumors that the Duuk-tsarith were interested in him.
A shrill scream behind Saryon, cut off suddenly by a furious growl, had the catalyst up off his boulder and running through the forest before he was quite aware of what had occurred. When he was once more master of himself, he drew several deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart. Forcing himself to slow down, he took his bearings on the star that he could barely make out through the branches above him and discovered to his dismay that the moon was setting.
The catalyst recalled Jacobias’s warning against wandering about in the dark at almost the same time he recalled, quite clearly, Father Tolban’s furtive glance toward Bishop Vanya as the Bishop was relating the tale about Joram and Mosiah. Saryon recalled Tolban’s guilty flush when he saw the catalyst looking at him. A conspiracy of lies.
But why? What were they hiding?
Suddenly Saryon had the answer. Hurrying forward with some vague idea of making his way to the river before the moon set, Saryon worked out the mystery much as he worked out his mathematical equations. Vanya knew Joram was in that coven. He had lied to conceal the true source of his knowledge. In fact, Saryon realized, Vanya knew lots of things about the coven—that they were in need of a catalyst, that they were dealing with the king of Sharakan. It was logical, therefore, that the Bishop had a spy planted within the coven. That much worked out. But, Saryon frowned, his equation lacked a final answer.
If Vanya had a spy in the coven, why did he need Saryon?
Distracted by these thoughts, the catalyst stumbled about in his mind nearly as badly as he was stumbling about in the gathering darkness. Coming to a halt, Saryon caught his breath, fixed his position by the star, and listened for the sound of the river. He did not hear it and, logic finally convincing him that he had not walked far enough to reach it, he decided to heed Jacobias’s words and rest for the remainder of the night.
Saryon began to look for a place to spend the hours until dawn. He had not crossed the river yet, and naively assumed he was relatively safe. Not that it would have mattered much otherwise. The catalyst was so