Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [121]
At first it was easy and he soon left the chasm floor behind. Unfortunately, he drew no nearer the blue sky. Then he realized that the higher he climbed, the taller rose the cliff. The side of the wall became more difficult to negotiate. Black bats swooped out of caves, darting at him, causing him to lose his footing, threatening to send him sliding back down into the chasm. Still he struggled on and, at last, he reached the top. With a final effort, he pulled himself over the edge and stared into a huge, unblinking eye.
Pressing his face down on the rock, Saryon cowered away from the eye. But he knew he could not hide anywhere that it did not see him.
“Up, Catalyst!” called a voice.
Saryon lifted his head. Beside him stood a tree. Gathering his robes about him, Saryon scrambled up the trunk. Sheltered by the green leaves, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Eye could not see him here. Just as he said this, the leaves turned brown and, one by one, began to drop off. The Eye found him again. Then a branch broke beneath his feet. And another.
“Father!” A hand was shaking his shoulder. “Time to get up.”
Waking with a start, Saryon clutched at the hand as the world fell away beneath him. The hand’s grip was strong and firm and he clung to it thankfully. The hand let loose of him, however, and the catalyst fell back among his pillows, feeling as exhausted and bruised as if he had—in reality—spent the night climbing cliffs.
Joram walked over to the window and drew back the shutters. Cold, bleak light from a chill, white sun streamed into the room, causing Saryon to wince.
“What time is it?” he asked, blinking in the bright light.
“It lacks an hour until noon. You have slept away the morning, Catalyst, and there is much to be done this day.”
“Have I? I’m…. I’m sorry,” said Saryon, sitting up dazedly. He kept his face averted from the sun. Was that the Eye? Watching him?
What nonsense? It was only a dream.
Leaving his bed, Saryon bathed his face in cold water and dressed hurriedly, conscious of Joram’s mounting impatience. Pacing the room, a tense, eager look on his usually stern, impassive face, Joram was dressed for travel, Saryon noted uneasily. Over his white robes was thrown a gray cloak. Though Saryon could not see it, he knew that beneath this cloak Joram wore the Darksword, strapped to his back.
“You have decided to go to the Temple,” Saryon said in a low voice. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he started to draw on his shoes. Dizziness assailed him as he bent over, however, and he was forced to pause a moment until the weakness passed.
“There was never any decision to be made. It was a foregone conclusion.” Joram noticed Saryon resting, doing nothing. “Hurry, Catalyst!” He made an irritated gesture with his hand toward the window and the sunlight. “We must arrive there at noon today, not noon tomorrow! You said you would go with us. Did you mean that? Or are these dawdlings a priestly trick to try to keep me from going?”
“I will go with you,” Saryon said slowly, looking up from his shoes to Joram. “You should know that without asking, my son. What cause have I given you to doubt me?”
“You’re a Priest. Isn’t that cause enough!” Joram sneered and started for the door.
Rising to his feet, Saryon followed. “Joram, what is wrong?” he asked, gently touching him on the sleeve of his white robes. “You are not yourself.”
“I’m certain I don’t know who else I would be this morning, Catalyst!” Joram retorted, jerking his arm away from Saryon’s hand. Seeing the. Priests look of concern, Joram hesitated, the stern face relaxed. Running his fingers through his thick, black hair, he shook his head. “Forgive me, Father,” he said with a sigh. “I have not slept well. And I do not foresee any sleep this night or perhaps many nights to come. I want only to go to this place and find help for Gwendolyn! Are you ready?”
“Yes, and I understand how you feel, Joram,” Saryon began, “but—”
Joram impatiently broke off his words.