Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [120]
Or thought he had. The Darksword that shattered his stone flesh shattered his peace as well.
Saryon’s hands hurt him and, looking down, he realized that he was hanging onto the edge of the pew for dear life. He tried to relax. The feeling of fear did not leave, however.
“It’s the battle tomorrow night,” he muttered to himself. “So much depends on the outcome. Our lives! The existence of our world! How dreadful it will be if we lose!”
“How dreadful it will be if you win.”
Who spoke? Saryon heard the words as clearly as he’d ever heard anything in his entire life, yet he could swear he was alone. Shuddering, he looked around. “Who’s there?” he called out tremulously.
There was no answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard anything. There was certainly no one in the room, probably no one awake in the house.
“I am exhausted,” Saryon said to himself, mopping chill drops of perspiration from his head with the sleeve of his robe. “My mind is playing tricks.”
He tried to stand, he instructed his body to rise, but the body remained seated, the Hand holding him down. Then, beckoning to him, it pointed.
Before his horrified eyes, Saryon saw clearly the aftermath of the fighting: All—all of the strange humans lying dead. The Pron-Alban using their magic to dig a huge grave. The bodies—those that could be found and had not been devoured by centaurs—tumbled into it, the earth shoveled over them. All traces of their existence as humans—as husbands, fathers, brothers, friends wiped out. After a hundred years, no one in their world remembered them.
But Thimhallan did. No tree, no flower, no grass grew on that mass grave. Weeds, noxious and poisonous, sprang up. It was a diseased blemish upon the land. And the sickness from it spread slowly and surely through the world until everything died.
“But what is the alternative?” Saryon cried aloud. “Death? That’s it, isn’t it? We have no choice! The Prophecy! The Prophecy is fulfilled! You have given us no choice!”
The Hand that gripped him suddenly opened wide, and Saryon became conscious of a Presence. Vast and powerful, it filled the chapel so that the walls must surely burst from the strain. Yet it was tiny and minute, existing within each small grain of dust that drifted down from the ceiling. It was fire and water, burning and cooling him. It was awful and he cowered from its sight. It was loving and he longed to rest his weary head in its palm, begging for forgiveness.
Forgiveness for what?
For being a card in a great cosmic game played for the amusement of one player?
For being tormented and persecuted, for being shoved over the edge of a cliff.
The voice spoke again, sternly “You do not understand. You cannot understand the mind of God.”
“No!” Saryon gasped. “I don’t understand! And I will not amuse You further. I renounce You! I deny You!”
Rising unsteadily to his feet, Saryon stumbled from the chapel. Once outside, he slammed the door shut and stood leaning against it, his breath coming in shuddering sobs. But as he stood there, holding the door shut with his body, he knew he could never keep the Presence locked up within that room. He could no more deny it than he could deny his own existence. It was everywhere. Around him …
Within him.
Saryon pressed his hand over his heart, digging his fingers into his flesh.
4
The Blink Of An Eye
Saryon struggled frantically to escape a deep chasm in which he was trapped. Sheer walls, rising on either side of him, blocked his view of the sky. A raging river that cut through the rock cliffs threatened to engulf him in its white, foaming water. Vines wrapped around his feet; tree limbs stretched out their clawlike fingers to drag him back. Lost and alone he wandered, seeking a way out. Suddenly, there it was! A cut in the sheer rock face,