Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [6]
Hurling the Darksword to the sand, he pressed his hands against his eyes, fighting to stop the tears of rage and pain. He drew a deep, shuddering breath.
“They will pay,” he vowed thickly. “By the Almin, they will—”
A hand touched his arm. A voice, deep and low, spoke hesitantly, “My son? Joram?”
Lifting his head, the man stared.
Saryon stood amidst the ruins of the stone body.
Reaching out a trembling hand, Joram grasped the catalyst’s arm and felt warm, living flesh beneath his fingers.
“Father?” he cried brokenly, and was clasped fast in Saryon’s embrace.
2
And In His Hand …
The two men held each other close, then separated. Each regarded the other intently. Joram’s eyes went to The catalyst’s hands, but Saryon hastily folded them one over the other, keeping them hidden in the sleeves of his robes.
“What has happened to you, my son?” The catalyst studied the stern face that was familiar, yet vastly different. “Where have you been?” His puzzled gaze went to the deep lines carved near the firm mouth, the fine lines around the eyes. “I have lost track of time, it seems. I could have sworn that only one year has passed—only once has the winter chilled my blood, only once the sun beaten down upon my head. Yet I see the marks of many years upon your face!”
Joram’s lips parted to speak, but a wail interrupted him. Turning, he saw the woman slump down in the sand, frustrated and disconsolate.
“Who is this?” Saryon asked, following Joram as he walked toward the woman.
Joram glanced at his friend.
“Do you remember what you told me, Father?” he asked harshly “About the grooms gift. ‘All I could ever give her,’ you said, ‘was grief.’”
“Blessed Almin,” Saryon breathed in sorrow, recognizing now the golden hair of the woman who sat, weeping, on the shore.
Walking over to her, Joram leaned down and placed his hands upon her shoulders. Despite his grim expression, his touch was gentle and loving and the woman yielded to him as he lifted her to her feet. Raising her head, she looked directly at the catalyst, but there was no recognition in her wide, too-bright eyes.
“Gwendolyn!” Saryon murmured.
“Now my wife,” said Joram.
“They are here.” Gwen spoke sadly, seeming to pay no attention to Joram. “They are all around me, yet they will not speak to me.”
“Who is she talking about?” Saryon asked. The beach was empty, except for themselves and, in the far distance, another stone Watcher. “Who is all around us?”
“The dead,” Joram answered, holding the woman to his breast and soothing her as she leaned her golden head upon his strong chest.
“The dead?”
“My wife no longer communicates with the living,” Joram explained, his voice expressionless as though he had long ago accustomed himself to this pain. “She talks only with the dead. If I were not here to watch her and care for her,” he added softly, stroking the golden hair with his hand, “I think she would join them I am her one link with life. She follows me, she seems to know me, yet she will not speak directly to me or call me by name. She has not spoken to me—except once—in these past ten years.”
“Ten years!” Saryon’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed as he studied Joram intently. “Yes, I might have guessed. So wherever you have been, ten years have passed for you to one of ours.”
“I did not know that would happen,” Joram said, his thick, black brows drawing together. “Yet I might have, if I had considered it.” He added, after a moment’s thought, “Time slows here in the center, moving faster and faster as it expands outward.”
“I don’t understand,” Saryon said.
“No.” Joram shook his head. “And neither will many others….” His voice died. Absently, he smoothed Gwendolyn’s hair, his brown eyes staring far off into the land of Thimhallan. The sun had disappeared, leaving behind only a rapidly fading pale light in the sky. Shadows gathered on the beach, hiding those who stood there from the view of the Watchers, whose silent, frantic shouts were going