Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [116]
Ignoring Simkin, Joram turned to look at Father Saryon, hope burning in the dark eyes so brightly that the catalyst hated himself for being forced to quench the flame.
“You must put this thought out of your mind, my son,” he answered reluctantly “Yes, the Temple is there, but it is nothing more than pillars and walls of stone, lying in ruins. Even the altar is broken.”
“So?” Joram said, eagerly sitting forward.
“Let me finish!” Saryon said with unaccustomed sternness “It has degenerated into an evil, unhallowed place, Joram! The catalysts attempted to restore its sanctity, but they were driven away, according to report, and returned to tell fearsome tales. Or worse, some never returned at all! The Bishop finally declared that the Temple was cursed and prohibited all from going there!”
Joram brushed aside his words. “The Temple is on top of the Font, on top of the Well of Life—the source of magic in this world! Its power must have once been great.”
“Once!” Saryon repeated with emphasis. He laid his hand on Joram’s arm, feeling his excited tension. “My son,” he said earnestly, “I would give anything to be able to say that, yes, in this ancient and holy place, Gwendolyn could find the help she needs. But it cannot be! If there ever was a power there, it died with the Necromancers!”
“And now a Necromancer has returned!” Gently but firmly, Joram withdrew from the catalyst’s touch.
“One who is undisciplined, untrained!” Saryon argued in frustration. “One who is—forgive me, Joram—insane!”
“It is rumored to be a dreadful place,” said Lord Samuels slowly, his eyes reflecting the light of Joram’s hope. “But I must admit that this seems a good idea! We could take the Duuk-tsarith for protection.”
“No, no!” said Simkin, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t do at all, I’m afraid. Those creepy warlocks are spookier than the spooks. Joram and Gwen must go alone, or perhaps with the bald Father here, who might be useful in intervening with the Powers of Darkness, should any be lurking about. It will be quite all right, I assure you. It was with poor little Nate. Cured him completely.” Simkin heaved a heart-rending sigh. “At least we supposed it did. We never knew for certain. He was dancing for joy among the rocks when his foot slipped and he tumbled over the side of the mountain!”
Wiping his eyes with the orange silk, Simkin made a manly struggle to fight back the tears. “Don’t offer to comfort me,” he choked. “It’s all right. I can bear it. You must go at noon tomorrow when the sun is right above the mountain.”
“Joram, I am opposed to this!” Saryon pursued his argument. “The danger is—”
“Pish-tosh!” Simkin sniffed, lying back on the sofa cushions with a yawn. “Joram does have the Darksword to protect himself, after all.”
“Of course! The Darksword!” Joram glanced at the catalyst in triumph. “If there is any evil magic about this place, Father, the sword will protect us!”
“Absolutely. Go tomorrow, before the battle,” Simkin repeated, casually toying with the blanket.
“Why this insistence on tomorrow?” Garald asked suspiciously.
Simkin shrugged. “Makes sense. If Gwen should happen to get rid of the mice in her attic—no offense intended, dear boy—she might be able to establish contact with the long departed. The dead could be of help to us in the forthcoming altercation. Then, too, Joram, think what a comfort it would be to go into battle knowing that you will be greeted on your return by a loving spouse who does not, as a general rule, smash china cabinets.”
Joram bit his hp to silence his tongue during this last tirade, his face the face of one undergoing the torments of the damned. Nor did anyone else speak, and the room filled with quiet—an uneasy, restless quiet, a quiet loud with unspoken words.
Gazing intently at Simkin, brows furrowed, as though he longed to pierce the