Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [138]
“I truly believed you were killed, my friend,” the man said, coming to stand beside Joram, staring down at him intently. “I can see the theater billing now: Back from the Dead by Popular Demand!”
Joram did not even look at the man, much less bother to reply. The man smiled.
“Come, come, old friend. You survived four bullet wounds, any one of which could have proved fatal. I would appreciate knowing how you performed that trick. Was it done with a bullet-proof vest? Or perhaps….”
He glanced at Saryon as he spoke, and the catalyst was aware of being intently studied, identified, and stored away for future use all by one quick look of the intelligent eyes.
“…perhaps it was you who brought our friend back to life, Father Saryon. Yes, I know you. Joram has told me a great deal about you and I imagine that he has, in turn, told you a great deal about me. I am Menju the Sorcerer—a rather dramatic appellation, I admit, but it looks well on a theater marquee. And if it was you who resurrected Joram, Father, I will buy you a tent and all the folding chairs your evangelistic heart desires!”
“If you mean did I heal Joram, I am a catalyst, not a druid.” Saryon saw the chasm of his dream yawn dark and deadly before him. He must walk carefully, cautiously. “If what you told Joram is true, you lived in this world long enough to know that catalysts have very limited powers of healing and that even druids cannot raise people from the—”
“Don’t let him badger you, Father,” Joram interrupted coldly. “He knows well enough you didn’t heal me.”
Menju made a graceful gesture of supplication. “Take pity on me. Satisfy my curiosity. I swear I was truly grieved to see you die. It was quite a shock.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Joram said dryly. “Help me stand,” he instructed the catalyst. Ignoring Saryon’s remonstrations, he struggled to his feet. Leaning back against a broken column, he regarded Menju wanly. “That wasn’t I who died out there. You saw me arrive through the Corridor.”
“Perhaps I did,” Menju remarked casually, his gaze fixed on Joram, “Uncanny resemblance. Who—”
“Simkin.” Joram’s breathing was too fast, too shallow. Saryon moved nearer.
Menju nodded “Ah, I begin to understand. The teapot. I underestimated you, my friend. Quite a clever ploy, sending this fellow up here, masquerading as yourself. Did you guess it was a trap? Or did he tell you? I thought him an untrustworthy bastard, just like that fat priest, Vanya, who sent his assassin to try to snatch the prize from me. But the Bishop will pay for his treachery.” The magician shrugged. “They all will pay.”
Joram staggered, nearly falling. Catching himself, he refused Saryon’s proffered assistance with an angry shake of his head.
“You need medical attention, Joram,” Menju said, appraising him coolly. “Fortunately, it is near at hand, thanks to the Corridors. A word from the Father will return us to my headquarters. Catalyst, open a Corridor.”
“I can’t—” Saryon began when he was interrupted by a glad cry.
“Come inside! Don’t be afraid!” Springing up from the broken altar where she had been sitting, Gwendolyn ran toward the portico, her bright eyes glittering with their eerie light even in the shadowy confines of the Temple.
“Gwen, no!” Joram caught hold of her. “You can’t go out there—”
Gwendolyn easily broke free of her husband’s weak grasp, but it was not to run outdoors. Stopping just inside the portico, she held out her hands. “Come in! Come in!” she repeated, a hostess welcoming long-awaited guests.
“Don’t be frightened,” she continued, her voice tinged now with sadness. “Are you in pain, still? It will pass in time. It is only a phantom pain, remembered by the part of you that clings to your life. Let it go. It will be easier. For you, the battle has ended.”
“Battle? What battle is she talking about?” Joram demanded, turning to the Sorcerer.