Saryon saw tears glimmering in the young man’s eyes; the catalyst felt tears of his own. There was no doubting Joram’s sincerity or the obvious pain it cost him to reveal his heart to another. “Yet a cynical voice inside Saryon whispered, “He is using him, using you, manipulating you all to work his will just as he has done and will ever do. And what is sad is that he doesn’t even know he is doing it. Perhaps he can’t help it. It was born with him. He is, after all, a Prince of Merilon.”
“Simkin,” said Joram, turning to the young man who had pulled the bit of orange silk from the air and was now blowing his nose loudly, “will the Grove be a safe place to hide?”
Simkin gave a wrenching sob, weeping into the silk.
“What’s the matter?” Joram asked with a touch of impatience, though a smile played around his lips.
“This reminds me of the time my dear brother, Little Nat — you’ve heard me mention Little Nat — or was it Nate? Anyway, Little Nat lay dying, having consumed a quantity of stolen strawberry pies. He denied it, of course, but he was caught red-handed, or -lipped, as the case may be. Though we rather suspected it wasn’t the pies killed him so much as the carriage that ran over him as he was floating home. His last words to me were, ‘Simkin, the crust was underdone.’ There’s a moral there, somewhere,” he said, applying the silk to his red-rimmed eyes. “But it eludes me.”
“Simkin —” Joram’s voice tightened.
“I’ve got it! Half-baked! This plan is half-baked. Still,” he said after reflection, “we should be able to continue hiding in the Grove. There won’t be a soul there tomorrow. Everyone will be watching the festivities at the palace. The Duuk-tsarith will be kept busy handling the crowd. Mosiah can remain when we leave for the Palace tomorrow night….”
“Won’t you be staying with me?” Mosiah asked in some anxiety.
“And miss the party?” Simkin appeared shocked. He waved his hand. “Our Dark and Uncouth Friend here isn’t noted for his charm or his court manners. I must be at his side to guide him through the maze of civilities, the treacherous tangle of hand-kissing and ass-licking —”
“I’ll be with him, you know,” the catalyst said acerbically.
“And no one is more pleased about that than I,” said Simkin solemnly. “Between ourselves, it will undoubtedly take both of us to carry this off,” he predicted airily. “Besides, in case any of you have forgotten, it was because of me you received the invitation.”
“You’ll be all right while we’re gone. And tomorrow night, after the party, we’ll meet you in the Grove,” Joram said to Mosiah. “We’ll bring you back here to help celebrate my Barony and my engagement,” he said firmly.
Tomorrow night, we’ll meet Mosiah in the Grove and escape from there, said Saryon to himself. Perhaps this will work out after all.
“I’ll wait for you,” Mosiah agreed, though there was a trace of reluctance in his voice.
Joram smiled, actually a full smile. The dark eyes brightened with a rare warmth. “You’ll see,” he promised. “Everything will be fine. I’ll —”
“Well, best be off.” Simkin interrupted, springing into the air so suddenly that his foot caught in the harpstrings, causing a most ungodly twanging. After a violent struggle, he managed to free it. “Come, come.” Bustling about Mosiah and Joram, he herded them along to the door like sheep. “Can’t use the Corridor with our Dead friend, here. The streets should be safe enough, though I imagine Mosiahs are on the decrease.”
“Wait! What will you tell Gwen — I mean, Lord Samuels,” Joram asked the catalyst.
“He’ll tell them that I’ve taken you to court to rehearse for our play tomorrow night,” said Simkin easily, tugging at Joram’s shirtsleeve. “I say, do come along, dear boy! Nights shadows are creeping through the streets and some of them are flesh and blood!”
“I’ll talk to Gwen,” Saryon said with a wan smile, understanding Joram’s true concern.
To Saryon’s astonishment, Joram came over to the bedside. Reaching down, he took the catalyst’s wasted hand in his.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said firmly. “We’ll celebrate.”
“As the Duchess d’Longeville said on the occasion of her wedding to her sixth husband,” Simkin remarked, drawing Joram out the door.
Saryon heard them walking softly down the hallway, then Simkin’s voice came drifting back through the silence in the house. “Was it her wedding? Or his funeral?”
The night deepened around Merilon — as deep as night was allowed to sink, that is. This was not very far, the darkness merely moistening the populace, never drowning it. Though Saryon was weak and exhausted, he drifted along on the top of sleep, restless and troubled, neither falling into peaceful oblivion nor quite bobbing to the surface.
The catalyst’s room was dark and quiet; the harp — refusing to play — sat in sullen silence in a corner. The tapestries were drawn to blot out any harmful effects of either sun or moon. The aromatic herbs had been removed; Saryon said they choked him. The only sound in the room was the catalyst’s rasping breathing.
Rising out of nights flood tide, silent as the night itself, two figures robed in black appeared in the catalyst’s room. They floated over to the man’s bed. Leaning down, a soft female voice called quietly, “Father Dunstable.”
No response from the slumbering figure.
“Father Dunstable,” said the voice again, this time more urgently.
The catalyst shifted uneasily at the sound, turning his head upon the pillow as though to blot it out, his hand starting to draw the bedclothes up around his neck.
Then, “Saryon!” called the black-robed woman.
“What?” The catalyst sat upright, staring about him in confusion. At first he could see nothing — the shapes hovering over his bed like dark angels were one with the night. When he did see them, his eyes opened wide, a strangled sound came from his throat.
“Act swiftly,” ordered the woman. “He may suffer another attack.”
Her companion was already casting his spell, however. Saryon’s body went limp, his head sank back onto the pillow, his eyes shut in an enthralled sleep.
The witch and the warlock regarded each other with satisfaction over the inert body.
“I told you the Church would handle the matter,” the witch said. She motioned to their victim. “He is to be taken immediately to the Font.”
The warlock, hands folded in front of him, nodded.
“Have you searched the house?” she continued.
“The young men are gone.”
“I expected they would be.” The witch gave an almost-imperceptible shrug. The hood of her black robe turned ever so slightly in the direction of the catalyst. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “It doesn’t matter all all.” She made a gesture with one slender hand. “Go.”
Her companion bowed. With a word of command, he caused the catalyst’s body to rise up into the air. Filaments finer than silk shot from the fingers of the warlock, winding themselves rapidly about Saryon until he was firmly encased in a cocoon of enchantment. The warlock spoke another word and a Corridor gaped open before him; the Thon-Li had been awaiting his signal. Another motion of the hand sent the bound catalyst floating through the night air and into the Corridor. The warlock followed. The Corridor shut swiftly and silently behind them.
The witch remained standing a moment longer in the quiet room, allowing herself a moment of well-earned congratulation. But there was still much to be done. Putting her hands together in a prayerlike attitude, the witch raised them to her forehead, then drew them down before her face, continuing downward. As her hands moved, she murmured arcane words. Her appearance changed. Within moments, the image of the Theldara who had been treating Saryon stood in the room.
The witch spoke aloud now, testing her voice’s pitch and modulation to make certain it was correct. “Lord Samuels, I regret to tell you that Father Dunstable was taken ill during the night. His young friend sent for me. I ha
ve removed the catalyst to the Houses of Healing….”
Postlude
Hands of night gripped him, winding their enchantments around him. He traveled Corridors of darkness that took him to more darkness. There he lay and waited for the horror that he knew was coming. A voice called his name and he knew the voice and did not want to listen to it. Frantically he grabbed for the charm around his neck, knowing it would protect him, but it wasn’t there! It was gone, and he knew then that the hands of night had taken it from him. Part of him fought against waking, but part of him longed to end this dark dream that seemed to have lasted his entire life. The voice was not angry with him, but gentle and filled with a quiet sorrow. It was his father’s voice, punishing his disobedient son.
“Saryon …”
“Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire,” Saryon muttered feverishly.
“To obey is to live. To live is to obey.” The voice was very sad. “Our most holy precept. And you have forgotten that, my son. Wake up now, Saryon. Let us help you through the to see his father — the gentle wizard barely remembered — the catalyst saw, instead, Bishop Vanya.
Saryon gasped, and struggled to sit up. He had some dim remembrance of being bound, and he thrashed against his bonds, only to find that they were nothing more than sweetly scented sheets. At a gesture from Bishop Vanya, a young Druid caught hold of the wild-eyed catalyst by the shoulders and pressed him gently back into the bed.
“Relax, Father Saryon,” the Druid said kindly. “You have suffered much. But you are home now, and all will be well … if you let us help you.”
“My — my name — It’s not Saryon,” said the shaken catalyst, glancing about him as the Druid arranged the cool pillows beneath his head.
He was not, as he had dreamed, being held prisoner in a dark and fearful dungeon surrounded by figures in black robes. He was lying in a sunlit room filled with blooming plants. He recognized this place … Home, the Druid said. Yes, thought Saryon, filled with a sense of peace and relief that brought tears to eyes. Yes, I am home! The Font….
“My son,” said Bishop Vanya, and the voice was tinged with such profound grief and disappointment that tears fell down Saryon’s face, his strange face, the face that belonged to another man, “do not blacken your soul further with this lie. Its corruption has spread from your heart to your body. It is poisoning you. Look here. I want you meet someone.”
Saryon turned his head as a figure stepped into his view.
“Saryon,” said Bishop Vanya, “I want you to meet Father Dunstable, the real Father Dunstable.”
Swallowing a bitter taste in his mouth, Saryon closed his eyes. It was all over. He was doomed. There was nothing he could do now, nothing but protect Joram. And he would do that, though it cost him his life. After all, what was that life worth anyway, he thought in despair. Nothing much … Even his god had abandoned him….
He heard murmured voices and he had the impression that Bishop Vanya was dismissing both the Druid and the catalyst. Saryon didn’t know and he didn’t care. The Bishop will send for the Duuk-tsarith now, he thought. They have ways, they say, of seeing into a man’s mind, of boring through the flesh and blood and bone, of penetrating the skull and dragging out the truth. The pain is excruciating, if you “fight it, so they say. Likely I won’t live through it. He felt lighthearted at the thought and suddenly impatient that nothing was happening. Get on with it, he ordered them silently, irritably.
“Deacon Saryon,” began Bishop Vanya, and the catalyst was surprised at hearing his old title. He was surprised, too, at the continued tone of sadness in the Bishop’s voice. “I want you to tell me where we can find the young man, Joram.”
Ah! Saryon had been waiting for this. Firmly, he shook his head. Now they’ll come, he thought.
Instead, however, there was only silence. He heard the rustle of Vanya’s rich, silken robes as he shifted his bulk in the chair. He heard the Bishop’s slow, labored breathing. It was the breathing of an elderly man, Saryon realized suddenly. He’d never thought of the Bishop as old. Yet he himself was in his mid-forties. Vanya had been middle-aged when Saryon was a youth. The Bishop must be, what, seventy, eighty? Still there was only silence, interrupted by the breathing….
Cautiously, Saryon opened his eyes. The Bishop was staring at him, regarding him with a thoughtful air, as though undecided on a course of action. Now that the catalyst looked at his superior closely, he could see other signs of aging on the face. Odd, he’d only seen him, what, a year ago? Less than a year. Had it been just that long since Vanya had come to him in that wretched hovel in Walren? It seemed like centuries…. And it seemed that those centuries had marked his Bishop as well.
Saryon sat up, leaning against the bed’s headrest, staring intently at Vanya. He had seen the Bishop shaken only once before in his life, and that had been at the Testing ceremony of the tiny Prince. Joram’s Testing, when they had discovered that he was Dead. And now that Saryon looked at his superior closely, he saw the same expression on the man’s face — one of worry, concern…. No, it was more than that. It was fear….
“What is it? Why do you look at me like that?” Saryon demanded. “You have lied to me! I know that now, I’ve known it for months. Tell me the truth! I have a right to know! In the name of the Almin,” the catalyst cried suddenly, sitting forward, stretching out a trembling hand, “I deserve the truth! This has come near costing me my sanity!”
“Calm yourself, Brother,” said Bishop Vanya sternly. “I lied to you, yes. But it was not of my choice. I lied because I am forbidden by the strongest and most binding vow to the Almin to reveal this dread secret to anyone. But I am gong to tell it to you, in order that you will understand the gravity of the situation and help us to remedy it.”
Puzzled, Saryon lay back on the pillows, his gaze never leaving Vanya’s face. He did not trust the man. How could he? Yet, search as he might, he saw no sign of dissembling, no sign of slyness. There was only an old man, overweight, his face pale and flabby, one pudgy hand crawling nervously along the arm of the wooden chair.
Bishop Vanya drew a deep, shivering breath. “Long ago, at the end of the terrible Iron Wars, the land of Thimhallan was in chaos. You know, Saryon. You have read the histories. I need not go into detail. It was then that we catalysts realized that we had the chance, finally, to gain control of the fragmented world and use our power to bind the shattered pieces together. Each city-state would continue to govern itself ostensibly, but they would do so under our watchful guidance. The Duuk-tsarith would be our eyes and ears, our hands and feet.
“In this, we were successful. There has been lasting peace for hundreds of years. Peace until now.” He heaved a sigh, shifting his great bulk uneasily in his chair. “Sharakan! Those fools! Renegade catalysts preaching freedom from the tryanny of their own Order! The King consorting with Sorcerers of the Dark Arts….”
Saryon felt his skin burn with shame. Now it was he who shifted in his bed, but he kept his gaze fixed upon his Bishop.
“Ordinarily” — Vanya waved a pudgy hand — “this would not have been anything we could not handle. There have been disturbances in the past, not quite this serious, but we dealt with them, using the Duuk-tsarith, the DKarn-Duuk, the Field of Contest. But this … This is different. There is another factor involved…. Another factor.”
Vanya fell silent again, the struggle in his mind clearly visible on his face, on his entire body in fact. He frowned; the hand curled over the arm of the chair; the knuckles turned white. “What I am about to tell you, Saryon, is not in the histories.”
Saryon tensed.
“In order that they might rule better, the catalysts of the time of the Iron Wars sought to look into the future. There is neither the need nor the time to describe to you how that is done. It is a skill we have lost. Perhaps” — Vanya sighed again — “it is just as well. At any rate, the Bishop of that era along with one of the sole surviving Diviners undertook to use this powerful magic that involves direct conta
ct with the Almin Himself. It worked, Saryon.” Vanya’s voice was hushed with awe. “The Bishop was allowed to look into the future. But it was not as he had foreseen, as anyone had foreseen. These were the words he spoke to the astounded members of the Order who were gathered around him.
“‘There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world —’”
The words were meaningless to Saryon. It was as if he were hearing a tale told by one of the House Magi before bedtime. He stared at the Bishop, who said nothing more. He was regarding Saryon intently, letting the impact of the words come from within the man rather than without, knowing that this way it would have the most profound effect.
It did. Understanding hit Saryon like the thrust of a sword, sliding into his body, cutting through to his very soul.
“Born to the Royal House … one who is dead … live … die again … destruction of the world….”
“Name of the Almin!” Saryon choked. The sword of his realization might have been made of steel, draining him of life. “What have I done? What have I done?” he cried in despair. A wild hope throbbed in his heart. He’s lying! He’s lied to me before….
But there was no lie on Vanya’s face. There was only fear — stark and real.
Saryon moaned. “What have I done?” he repeated in misery.
“Nothing that can’t be undone!” Vanya said urgently, leaning forward to grasp the catalyst’s hand. “Give us Joram! You must! Never mind how it happened, but the Prophecy is slowly being fulfilled! He was born Dead, he lived. Now he has darkstone — the weapon of the Dark Arts that came near destroying our world the last time!”
Saryon shook his head. “I don’t know,” he cried brokenly. “I can’t think….”
Bishop Vanya’s face flushed an ugly red, the pudgy hand clenched in frustration and anger. “You fool!” he began furiously, his voice breaking.
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