Dulchase cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry.” Saryon smiled. “There goes Father Calculus again. I get too enthusiastic, I know. At any rate, I was planning to make my request to return here, then I received this summons from the Bishop ….” Saryon’s face grew shadowed.
“Cheer up. Don’t look so frightened,” Dulchase said casually. “He’s probably going to offer you condolences on the death of your mother. Then, like as not, he’ll invite you back himself. You’re not like me, after all. You’ve been a good boy, always eaten your vegetables, that sort of thing. Don’t worry about anyone at court. Even as boring as you undoubtedly were, my friend, you could never outbore the Emperor.” Dulchase glanced sharply at Saryon’s averted face. “You have been eating your vegetables, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” Saryon answered hastily, with an attempt to smile that was a dismal failure. “You’re right. It’s probably nothing more than that.” Glancing at Dulchase, he found the Deacon staring at him curiously. Once again, the terrible burden of guilt for his crime assailed him. Feeling completely unable to stay around the shrewd, penetrating Deacon any longer, Saryon made his rather confused goodbyes and hastened away, leaving Dulchase to stare after him with a wry grin.
“I wish I knew what rats are crawling around in your closet, old friend. I’m not the first to wonder why you were sent to Merilon seventeen years ago. Well, whatever it is, I wish you luck. Seventeen years might as well be seventeen minutes as far as His Holiness is concerned. Whatever you’ve done, he won’t have forgotten, nor forgiven either for that matter.” Heading back to his own duties, Dulchase shook his head with a sigh.
Leaving Dulchase, Saryon fled to the haven of the Library, where he could count on being left alone. But he did not study. Burying himself beneath a mound of parchment, well out of sight from any who might chance by, the Priest put his tonsured head in his hands, feeling as miserable as he had when he had been summoned to Vanya’s chambers seventeen years earlier.
He had seen Bishop Vanya on numerous occasions during the past years, since the Bishop always stayed at the Abbey when visiting Merilon. But Saryon had not spoken to him since that fateful time.
It was not that the Bishop avoided him or treated him coldly. Far from it. Saryon had received a very kind, very sympathetic letter on the occasion of his mother’s death, expressing the Bishop’s deepest sympathies and assuring him that she would rest in the same tomb as his father in one of the most honored places in the Font. The Bishop even approached him during the funeral ceremonies, but Saryon, under the guise of being deeply grieved, turned away.
He was not comfortable in the Bishop’s presence. Perhaps it was because he had never truly forgiven His Holiness for condemning the small Prince to death. Perhaps it was because, whenever he looked at Vanya, Saryon could see only his own guilt. He’d been twenty-five years old when he had committed his crime. Now Saryon was forty-two, and he felt he’d lived more in these last seventeen years than he had in all those first twenty-five! What he’d told Dulchase about his life at court was only partially true. He didn’t fit in. They did consider him a crashing bore. But that wasn’t the real reason he avoided it.
The beauty and the revelry of court life was, he’d discovered, nothing but an illusion. As an example, Saryon had watched the Empress succumb, day by day, to a wasting illness that the Healers found impossible to treat. She was dying, everyone knew it. No one discussed it. Certainly not the Emperor, who never failed to comment nightly on how improved his lovely wife looked and how beneficial the spring air brought about by the Sif-Hanar (it had been spring a year in Merilon) was for her recovered health. Everyone in the court nodded and agreed. The magical arts of her ladies in waiting put color into the Empress’s chalk-white cheeks and changed the hues of her eyes.
“She looks radiant, Your Majesty. Only grows more beautiful, Majesty. Never seen her in such delightful spirits, have you, Highness?”
They could not, however, add flesh to the sunken face or dim the feverish luster of her gaze, and the whispers around court were, “What will he do when she dies? The line runs through the female side. Her brother is visiting, heir to the throne. Have you been introduced? Allow me. Might be wise.”
And through it all, through all the beauty and illusion, the only reality seemed to be Bishop Vanya—moving, working, lifting a finger to beckon someone here, motioning with his hand to smooth something out there, guiding, controlling, always in supreme control himself.
Yet Saryon had seen him shaken once, seventeen years ago. And he wondered, not for the first time, what it was that Vanya was keeping hidden from them. Once again, he heard the Bishop’s words, I could give you the reason—Then the sigh that stopped the words, then the look of stern, cold resolution. No. You must do what I tell you without question.
A novitiate appeared before him, touching him gently on the shoulder. Saryon started. How long had the boy been standing there, unnoticed?
“Yes, Brother? What is it?”
“Forgive me for interrupting you, Father, but I have been sent to bring you to the Bishop’s quarters, whenever it is most convenient.”
“Yes. Right now will—uh—be fine.” Saryon rose to his feet with alacrity. Not even the Emperor, it was said, kept Bishop Vanya waiting.
“Father Saryon, enter, enter.” Vanya, rising to his feet, made a cordial motion with his hand. His voice was warm, though Saryon thought it seemed a bit strained, as if he were having a difficult time keeping the fires of his hospitality burning.
Starting to kneel to kiss the hem of his robes as was proper, Saryon was vividly and painfully reminded of the last occasion when he had performed this act, seventeen years earlier. Perhaps Bishop Vanya remembered as well.
“No, no, Saryon,” Vanya said pleasantly, taking the priest by the hand. “We can dispense with obsequities. Reserve those for the public for which they are intended. This is a private, quiet little meeting.”
Saryon looked at the Bishop sharply, hearing more said in the tone of the words than in the words themselves.
“I am—am honored, Holiness,” Saryon began in some confusion, “to be summoned into your presence—”
“There is one here, Deacon, I would like you to meet,” continued Bishop Vanya smoothly, ignoring Saryon’s words.
Turning, startled, Saryon saw that there was another person in the room.
“This is Father Tolban, a Field Catalyst from the settlement of Walren,” said Vanya. “Father Tolban, Deacon Saryon.”
“Father Tolban.” Saryon bowed as was customary. “May the Almin’s blessing be yours.”
It was no wonder Saryon had not noticed the man upon first entering. Brown and dried and withered, the Field Catalyst disappeared into the woodwork as thoroughly as if he had grown there.
“Deacon Saryon,” Tolban mumbled, bobbing nervously, his eyes darting from Saryon to Bishop Vanya and back to Saryon again, his hands twitching and tugging at the long sleeves of his untrimmed, mud-stained, and shabby green robes.
“Please, everyone be seated,” Vanya said kindly, indicating chairs with a wave of his hand. Saryon noticed that the Field Catalyst waited a moment—to make certain he had really been included in the invitation, he supposed. This made things rather awkward, since by courtesy Saryon could not really sit down without the Field Catalyst seating himself as well. Starting to sit, he noticed that Tolban was still standing, forcing him to catch himself and stand back up, just about the same time as Tolban had finally decided it was permissible for him to sit. Seeing Saryon standing, however, the Field Catalyst leaped to his feet again, his face flushing red in embarrassment. This time, Bishop Vanya intervened, repeating the invitation to be seated in a pleasant but firm tone.
Saryon sank into a chair, relieved. He’d had visions of jumping around most of the afternoon.
After inquiring if anyone cared for refreshment—which they didn’t—and some further polite talk about the difficulties of spring planting a
nd the prospects for this year’s harvest, all of which were answered weakly and somewhat confusedly by the obviously nervous Field Catalyst, Bishop Vanya finally came to the point.
“Father Tolban has quite an unusual story to relate, Deacon Saryon,” he said, still in his same pleasant voice, as if they were three friends indulging in idle talk. Saryon’s tension eased a bit, but his mystification increased. Why had he been called to Vanya’s private chambers—a place he had not set foot in for seventeen years—to listen to a Field Catalyst relate a story? He looked at Vanya sharply, only to find the Bishop looking at him with a cool, knowing expression in his eyes.
Quickly, Saryon turned his attention to the Field Catalyst, who was drawing a deep breath as if about to plunge into icy water, now prepared to pay close attention to the little dried-up man’s words. Though Bishop Vanya’s face was smooth and placid as always, Saryon had seen a muscle twitch in the man’s jaw, just as he had seen it twitch at the ceremony for the dead Prince.
Father Tolban began his tale, and Saryon discovered that he had no need to force himself to listen. He could not have torn himself away. It was the first time he heard the story of Joram.
The catalyst experienced several emotions during the telling, emotions ranging from shock to outrage and revulsion—the normal emotions one feels upon hearing such a grim, dark revelation. But Saryon knew, too, a stomach-clenching, bone-chilling fear, a fear that spread from his bowels through his body. Shivering, he huddled deeper into his soft robes.
What am I afraid of? he asked himself. Here I am, sitting in the Bishop’s elegant chambers, listening to the halting, stumbling words of this withered old catalyst. What could possibly be wrong? Only later would Saryon recall the look in Bishop Vanya’s eyes as he listened to the story. Only later would he come to understand why he shivered in terror. As it was, he decided at the time it was nothing more than the vicarious thrill of fear one enjoys listening to the stories of the nursery, stories of dead creatures who stalk the night ….
“And by the time the Duuk-tsarith arrived,” Father Tolban concluded miserably, “the young man had been gone several hours. They tracked him as far as the Outlands, until it became obvious that he had vanished in the wilderness. We could see where his trail disappeared across the borders of civilization. They also found centaur tracks. There was little they could do, and in fact, they simply assumed him lost to this world, since all know that few who venture into those lands return. That is how I reported it.”
Vanya frowned and the catalyst flushed, hanging his head. “I—I was premature, it seems, in my judgment, for now, a year later—”
“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.”
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