Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [143]
“Our gun-toting friend is finished apparently,” the magician said. “Let’s get ready to move out.” He gestured toward the rear of the Temple. “Unless you want your wife to remain here, Joram, and become a permanent member of her own fan club, you had better get her away from those ghoulish bodyguards.”
“I will bring her,” offered Saryon.
The catalyst moved slowly, a prey to despair that clutched at his footsteps and caught at the skirts of his robes, threatening to drag him down.
Gwendolyn sat on the dusty floor behind the broken altar, her head resting against a large stone urn. She did not look up as Saryon approached, but stared straight ahead into nothing. The catalyst gazed at her pityingly. Her golden hair was bedraggled, her gown torn and dirty. She had no care for where she was or what was happening, no care for Joram, no care for herself.
“Hurry up, Father!” Menju ordered peremptorily, “or we will leave her behind. You will serve me as hostage just as well.”
Maybe that would be kinder, Saryon thought, reaching out his hand. Gwen glanced up at him. Docile as always, she appeared perfectly willing to come with him and started to rise up from her hiding place behind the altar. But invisible hands, catching hold of her, held her back.
In the one shaft of sunlight filtering through the dust, Saryon could almost see the unseen eyes staring at him suspiciously, the mouths silently shouting to him to leave the sacred ground he was violating. So vivid was this impression that he very nearly put his hands over his ears to blot out the sound he couldn’t hear, closing his eyes to the sight of the anger and distress he couldn’t see. This is madness! he thought, panicking.
“Father!” Menju said warningly.
Saryon took hold of Gwen’s hand firmly. “I am grateful for what you have done,” he called out to the empty air. “But she is among the living still. She does not belong to you. You must let her go.”
For an instant it seemed he failed. Gwen’s chill fingers closed over his, but when he tried to pull her toward him, he met a resistance so strong that he might well have tried to pull the Temple from the side of the mountain.
“Please!” he begged urgently, tugging Gwendolyn forward, the dead pulling her back. A wild impulse to laugh hysterically at this absurd situation overtook him. He choked on it, knowing that his laughter must end in him breaking down and sobbing like a frightened child. The shouts of the silent voices around him reverberated in his ears, though he couldn’t hear a word.
Then, suddenly, the unheard tumult ceased as though it had been silenced by a single word.
Gwen was free, so unexpectedly that she tumbled forward into the catalyst’s arms, nearly upsetting them both. He caught her, helped her to stand, brushing back the golden hair that veiled her face. She did not appear the least bit disturbed by anything that had occurred, but continued to look around her with detached interest, as if all this were happening to some other person.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked, twisting her head to talk to the shadows as Saryon hurried her forward.
The catalyst had the eerie impression that legions of ghosts were crowding around them, their unheard footfalls resounding loudly through the silence of the Temple.
Menju stood waiting impatiently for them near the head of the Temple stairs, his weapon trained on both Gwen and the catalyst. Standing beside him, leaning against a pillar, Joram watched silently. He appeared at first glance almost too weak to stand, let alone fight. Saryon alone saw the fire burning deep in the dark eyes, the unyielding purpose taking shape, being forged into a blade of iron.
“We all go together,” instructed Menju, motioning Saryon and Gwen out of the Temple with a gesture of his weapon. In his other hand, he held the speaking device. “Joram, I am keeping the catalyst and your wife between us. Try anything—anything at all—and one of them dies instantly.”
“What about the Executioner?