Forging the Darksword (21 page)

“That will be sufficient, Father Tolban,” Bishop Vanya remarked, still speaking very pleasantly.

But the Field Catalyst wasn’t fooled. Clenching his hands, he stared down gloomily at the floor. Saryon knew what the wretched man must be thinking. After this disaster, he’d be a Field Catalyst for the rest of his natural existence. But that certainly wasn’t Saryon’s problem, nor was it why he had been asked to listen to this dark tale of insanity and murder. He glanced again, puzzled, at Bishop Vanya, hoping to find some answer. But Vanya was not looking at Saryon, nor was he looking at the poor Field Catalyst. The Bishop was staring out into nothing, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, obviously grappling mentally with some unseen enemy. At last his struggles came to an end, or appeared to do so at any rate, for he turned to Saryon, his face once more smooth.

“A most shocking incident, Deacon.”

“Yes, Holiness,” Saryon replied, still feeling the shiver creeping over his body.

Placing the tips of his pudgy fingers together, Vanya tapped them delicately. “There have been several instances, over the past few years, where we have been able to locate those children who were born Dead and yet who, through the misguided actions of their parents, were allowed to remain in the world. When they were discovered, their terrible sufferings were mercifully relieved.”

Saryon shifted uneasily in his seat. He had heard rumors of this, and though he knew what a tortured existence these poor souls must lead, he could not help wondering if such drastic measures were really necessary. Apparently his doubts were expressed upon his face, for Vanya frowned and, turning his gaze upon the innocent Field Catalyst, proceeded to expostulate.

“You know, of course, that we cannot have the Dead walking the land,” Vanya said sternly to Father Tolban.

“Y-yes, Holiness,” stammered the catalyst, shrinking before this undeserved and unexpected attack.

“Life, the magic, comes from all around us, from the ground we walk, the air we breathe, the living things that grow to serve us … yes, even the rocks and stones, crumbled remains of once great mountains, give us Life. It is this force we call upon and channel through our humble bodies that gives the magi the ability to mold and alter the raw elements into objects both useful and beautiful.”

Vanya glared at the Field Catalyst, to see if he was paying attention. The catalyst, not knowing what else to do and looking thoroughly miserable, gulped, and nodded.

The Bishop continued, “Imagine this Life force as a rich, full-bodied wine, whose color, flavor, bouquet”—he spread his hands—“is perfect in every respect. Would you dilute this wonderful wine with water?” Vanya asked suddenly.

“No, oh no, Holiness!” cried Father Tolban.

“Yet you would permit the Dead to walk among us and, what is worse, perhaps allow their seed to fall into fertile ground and grow? Would you see the vines of weeds choke out the life of the grape?”

The Field Catalyst might have been a dried grape himself as he shriveled under this barrage. His brown face shrank, his wizened features twisted while he desperately protested that he had no intention of nurturing weeds. Vanya allowed him to babble, his gaze shifting to Saryon, who bowed his head. The reprimand was his, of course. It would not be proper for a Bishop to scold a Font Catalyst in the presence of an underling, so Vanya had chosen this method to rebuke him. Confused memories of hiccuping babies and weeping parents flitted into Saryon’s mind, but he firmly repressed
them. He understood. The Bishop was right, as always. Deacon Saryon would not be the one to dilute the wine.

But, he wondered, as he sat staring at his hands folded properly in his lap, where was all this leading?

With an abrupt gesture, Vanya squelched the Field Catalyst, cutting him off at the roots and leaving him on the ground to wither. The Bishop turned to Saryon.

“Deacon Saryon, you are no doubt wondering what this tale has to do with you. And now you will have your answer. I am sending you after this Joram.”

Saryon could do nothing but stare, aghast. Now it was his turn to stammer and stutter, to the vast relief of Father Tolban, who seemed extremely grateful to find the attention shifted away from him at last.

“But …. Holiness, I—You said he was dead.”

“N-no,” Father Tolban faltered, cringing. “I—That was my mistake …”

“He’s not dead, then?” Saryon said.

“No,” Vanya replied. “And you must find him and bring him back.”

Staring at Bishop Vanya, Saryon wondered what he could possibly say. That I’m not
Duuk-tsarith.
That I know nothing about apprehending dangerous criminals. That I’m middle-aged, that I’m a catalyst—a word synonymous with weak and defenseless. “Why me, Holiness?” he managed to ask feebly.

Bishop Vanya smiled, tolerant of his priest’s confusion. Rising to his feet, he sauntered over to the window, waving his hand behind him as he went. This gesture was to the two underlings, indicating that they were to keep their seats, both of them having started to leap up when he stood.

Saryon relapsed into the soft cushions of the chair, but at the same time, he tried to shift his position in such a way that he could see Vanya’s face as he talked. That proved impossible. Walking to the window, the Bishop stood with his back to Saryon, staring down at the courtyard below.

“You see, Deacon Saryon,” he began, his voice still pleasant and nonchalant, “this young man, this Joram, presents rather a unique problem for us. He did
not
meet his physical death in the Outlands as was reported.” At this juncture, Vanya half-turned, carefully examining a bit of the fabric of
the curtain and scowling at it irritably. The Field Catalyst went deathly white. Finally muttering, “A flaw,” Vanya continued imperturbably. “Father Tolban has since received word which leads us to believe that this young man, this Joram, has joined up with a group who call themselves the Coven of the Wheel.”

Saryon glanced at Father Toi ban, hoping for a clue, since Bishop Vanya had uttered these words in a tone of such dread that he could only suppose he was the only person in Thimhallan never to have heard of this group. But the Field Catalyst was no help, having shrunk back so far in his chair as to be practically invisible.

Receiving no response from his priest, Vanya glanced over his shoulder.

“You have not heard of them, Father Saryon?”

“No, Holiness,” Saryon confessed, “but I lead such a retired life … my studies …”

“No need to apologize.” Vanya cut him off. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned to face him. “I would have been surprised if you had, as a matter of fact. As a loving parent keeps the knowledge of dark and wicked things from his children until they are strong and wise enough to deal with them, so we keep knowledge of this dark cloud from our people, bearing the burden upon ourselves in order that they may live in sunshine. Oh, the people are not in danger,” he added, seeing that Saryon raised his eyebrows in alarm. “It is simply that we will not allow vague fears to disturb the beauty and tranquility of life in Merilon as it has been disturbed in other kingdoms. You see, Father Saryon, this coven is devoted to the study of the Dark Art—the study of the Ninth Mystery—Technology.”

Once again, Saryon felt that cold fear grip his bowels. A shivering sensation starting at his scalp ran over his entire body.

“It seems that this Joram had a friend, a young man called Mosiah. One of the Field Magi, hearing noises in the night, woke and looked out his window. He saw Mosiah and a young man he is positive was Joram engrossed in conversation. He could not hear all of what was said, but he swears he overheard the words ‘Coven’ and ‘Wheel.’ He said
Mosiah drew back at this, but his friend must have been persuasive because the next morning, Mosiah was gone.”

Saryon glanced over at Father Tolban just in time to see the Field Catalyst cast a furtive look at Vanya, who was studiously ignoring him. Tolban looked over at his fellow catalyst and caught Saryon looking at him. Flushing guiltily, Tolban returned to staring at his shoes.

“We have, of course, known of the existence of this coven for some time.” Bishop Vanya frowned. “It is composed of every outcast and misfit who thinks the world owes him something in return for his birth. Not only do the Dead walk among them, but so do thieves and robbers, debtors, vagrants, rebels … Now a murderer. They come from all over the Empire, from Sharakan in the north to Zith-el in the east. Their numbers are growing, and while the
DKarn-Duuk
could deal with them easily enough, going in to take the young man by force would mean armed conflict. It would mean talk, upset, and worry. We cannot have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in such delicate balance.” He cast a meaningful glance at Saryon.

“This—this is dreadful, Holiness,” Saryon stammered, still too confused to catch more than one word in ten. But Vanya was looking at him, expecting a reply, so he said the first thing that came into his head. “Surely—er—something must be done. We cannot live knowing that this threat exists …

“Something
is
being done, Deacon Saryon,” Bishop Vanya said in soothing tones. “Rest assured, the matter is under control, another reason that apprehending the boy must be handled delicately. But, at the same time, we dare not allow this murder of an overseer go unpunished. Talk is already spreading throughout the Field Magi, who are, as you know, a discontented, rebellious lot. To let this young man go free after his heinous crime would encourage the spread of anarchy among this class. Because of this, the young man must be apprehended alive and made to stand trial for his crime. Apprehended alive,” Vanya muttered, frowning. “That is most important.”

At last, Saryon thought he was beginning to understand. “I see, Holiness.” He had some trouble getting his words out past a bitter taste in his mouth. “You need someone to go in,
isolate this young man, open a Corridor, and lead the
Duuk-tsarith
to him without anyone else being the wiser. And you chose me because I was once involved with the Dark—”

“You were chosen for the excellent mathematical knowledge you possess, Deacon Saryon,” Bishop Vanya interrupted, sliding in under Saryon’s words smoothly. A glance at the Field Catalyst and a slight shaking of the head were enough to remind Saryon that he was not to speak of the old scandal. “These Technologists, so we are led to believe, are extremely fascinated with the subject of mathematics, believing it to be the key to their Dark Art. This will provide you with ideal cover and lead them to accept you into their group most readily.”

“But, Holiness, I am a catalyst, not a—a rebel, or a thief,” Saryon protested. “Why should they accept me at all?”

“There have been renegade catalysts before,” Vanya remarked wryly. “This Joram’s father was one, in fact. I remember the incident quite well—he was found guilty of conceiving through the repulsive act of physically joining with a female. He was sentenced to the Turning to Stone …”

Saryon shuddered involuntarily. All his old sins were crowding in on him, it seemed. The lurid dreams of his youth returned to him, adding to his tension. The fate of Joram’s father might well have been his own! For a moment, he was very nearly physically ill and leaned back against the cushions of his chair. When the blood quit pounding in his ears and his dizzy feeling abated, he could once more attend to Vanya’s words.

“Surely you remember the incident, Deacon Saryon? It was seventeen years ago … But, no, I forgot. You were … absorbed … in your own problems at that time. To continue, upon being told that her child had failed the Tests, the mother—I believe her name was Anja—disappeared, taking the babe with her. We tried to trace her, but it proved impossible. Now, at last, we know what happened to her and her child.”

“Holiness,” Saryon said, swallowing the bile in his mouth, “I am not a young man. I do not believe I am suited for such an important task. I am honored in the confidence
you repose in me, but the
Duuk-tsarith
are far better qualified—”

“You underestimate yourself. Deacon,” Bishop Vanya said pleasantly leaving the window and walking across the room. “You have been living too long among your books.” Coming to stand directly in front of Saryon, he looked down at the priest. “Perhaps I have other reasons for choosing you, reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss. You have been chosen. I cannot, of course, force you to do this. But, do you not feel that you owe the Church something, Saryon, for—shall we say—past kindnesses?”

The Field Catalyst could not see the Bishop’s face. Only Saryon could see it, and he would remember it to the day he died. The round, pudgy cheeks were placid and calm. Vanya was even smiling slightly, one eyebrow raised. But the eyes … the eyes were terrible—dark and cold and unyielding.

Suddenly, Saryon understood the genius of the man and, at last, he could give a name to his unreasoning fear. The punishment for the crime he had committed so many years before had been neither forgotten nor relaxed.

No, it had simply been deferred.

Seventeen years Vanya had waited patiently should an opportunity arise to use it …

To use him ….

“Well, Deacon Saryon,” the Bishop said, still in that same, pleasant voice, “what do you say?”

There was nothing to say. Nothing but the ancient words Saryon had learned so long ago. Repeating them now, as he repeated them every morning in the Ritual of Dawn, he could almost see the white, thin-boned hand of his mother, tracing them in the air.

“Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire.
To obey is to live. To live is to obey.”