“Admiring my ensemble?” asked Simkin, smoothing his curls. “I call it Corpse Blue. ‘Dreadful name, Simkin,’ said the Countess Dupere. ‘I am aware of that,’ I replied with feeling, ‘but it was the first impression that came into my mind and things so rarely come into my mind at all that I thought I’d better latch hold of it, so to speak, and make it feel welcome.’”
Simkin sauntered over to stand beside Saryon as he talked. Gracefully lifting the orange silk scarf from the blanket, he handed it to the astounded catalyst with a flourish. “I know. The breeches. Never seen anything like them, I suppose? Latest fad at court. Quite the rage. I must say I’m fond of them. Chafe my legs, though …”
Another sneeze and a fit of coughing from the catalyst interrupted Simkin who, motioning a chair to come to his side, sat down upon it, crossing his legs so that he might better admire his hose.
“Feeling a bit rotten? Nasty cold you’ve caught. Must have been from when we tumbled into the river.”
“Where am I?” croaked Saryon. “What is this place?”
“I say, you’re positively froglike. And as for where you are, it’s where you wanted to be, of course. I was your guide, after all.” Simkin lowered his voice. “You’re among the Technologists. I’ve brought you to their Coven.”
“How did I get here? What happened? What river?”
“Don’t you remember?” Simkin sounded hurt. “After I risked my life, changing into a tree and then leaping over the precipice, holding you in my branches—er, arms—as tenderly as a mum holds her child.”
“That was real?” Saryon peered blearily at Simkin through watery eyes. “Not … a nightdream?”
“I am cut to the quick!” Simkin sniffed, looking deeply wounded. “After everything I’ve done for you and you don’t remember. Why, you’re like a father to me …”
Shivering, Saryon pulled the blankets up around his neck. Closing his eyes, he blotted out everything, Simkin, Corpse Blue coats, the abysmal room, the voices he’d heard or dreamed. The young man prattled on, but Saryon ignored him, too sick to care. He almost dozed, but a horrifying feeling of falling came over him and, with a catch in his breath, he started awake again. Then he became aware of a sound in the distance, a sound that had seemed a thumping, rhythmic undercurrent to his nightdevils.
“What’s that?” he asked, coughing.
“What’s what?”
“That … noise … That banging ….”
The iron forge …
The iron forge. Saryon’s soul shrank within him. Vanya had been right. The Sorcerers of the Coven had relearned the ancient, banished art—the art of darkness that had nearly caused the destruction of the world. What kind of people were these who had lost their souls to the Ninth Mystery? They must be fiends, devils, and he was alone among them now. Alone, except for Simkin. Who was Simkin? What was he? If Saryon hadn’t dreamed the tree and the faeries, then perhaps the voices he had heard had been real, too, and that meant Simkin had betrayed him. He’s been sent here after you, Joram. There had been no frippery in the voice that said those words. Is it my fault that it is a cruel and vicious world out there? A world into which, I daresay, our catalyst will not soon dare to venture by himself. There was no green lace, no orange silk, no sleek, shining smile. Corpse Blue. As cold and cutting as the iron.
Joram knows who I am and why I am here, Saryon realized, shuddering. He will kill me. He has done murder before. But perhaps they won’t let him. They need a catalyst, after all. At least, that’s what Vanya said. Yet how can I help these fiends, these foul Sorcerers? Will I not be helping them further their dread art? Didn’t Vanya foresee that?
Saryon sat up in bed, struggling to breathe, his thoughts coming sluggishly through the cold in his head. I won’t! he determined. The first time this Joram and I are alone together, I will open a Corridor and return with him. Though he may be Dead, he and I together possess Life enough between us to effect the magic. I will take him back and rid myself of him, let Vanya do to him what he will. Then I will leave their Font and their spies, their lies and their pious, empty teachings. Perhaps I will return to my father’s house. It is empty, the Church owns it. I will shut myself up with my books ….
Saryon lay back down, tossing feverishly. He had the vague impression that Simkin had left the room, flying through the air like some gaudy, tropical bird, but he was too ill and too distraught to pay any attention.
The catalyst sank into a troubled sleep. A vision of a Sorcerer rose up before him, emerging from the flame and smoke of the iron forge—a man whose face was twisted by every evil passion, whose eyes burned red from having stared into the fire day after day, whose skin was coated with the foul soot of his black art. As Saryon stared in petrified fear, the Sorcerer drew near him. In his hand, he held a glowing rod of iron …
“Easy, Father. Do not be alarmed.”
Sitting up without any conscious remembrance of doing so, Saryon found himself trying desperately to throw off his blankets and escape from his bed. The bright glare of flame blinded him in the darkened room. He couldn’t see … He didn’t want to see …
“Father!” A hand on his shoulder shook him. “Father, wake up. You’re having a fever dream.”
Shuddering, Saryon came to himself. Sanity returned. He’d been dreaming again. Or had he? Blinking his eyes, he stared into the flame. The voice that spoke wasn’t Simkin s. It was older, deeper. The Sorcerer ….
As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Saryon saw the glowing rod of iron diminish into nothing but a flaming torch, held in the hand of an old man, whose wrinkled face peered at him benignly. The touch of the hand upon his shoulder was gentle. With a shivering sigh, Saryon sank back down onto his pillow. This was not a Sorcerer. Nothing but a servant, perhaps. Glancing about, he saw that the room was dark. Was it night, he wondered vaguely, or had the blackness of this evil place finally blotted out the light?
“There, that’s better, Father. The lad said you were restless. Lie back and relax. My wife is coming with the Healer—”
“Healer?” Saryon stared at the old man, puzzled. “You have a Healer?”
“A Druid of the Mannanish class, nothing more, I’m afraid. She is quite skilled in herb lore, however, having much knowledge that has been lost in the outside world. Such skills are not needed among the Druids, I suppose, with you catalysts to assist them in their work.”
Padding over to the far end of the room, the old man used the flame of the torch to start a fire in the grate, then doused the torch in a bucket of water. “Perhaps we will not need to rely upon the gifts of nature now since you are among us, Father,” the old man continued. Taking up what appeared to be a slender stick of wood, he thrust one end of it into the blaze, caused it to burn, and carried it over to the table, talking all the while about the Healer and her skill.
Lying back, Saryon followed the old man’s movements about the firelit cabin with a strange sense of euphoria, his mind only half attending to the conversation. Even the sight of the old man using the end of the flaming stick to set fire to the top of several tall, thick sticks that stood on crude pedestals did not disturb the catalyst’s strange sense of uncaring relaxation. He was rather startled to notice that the fire did not die out or immediately consume the sticks. A small flame remained burning steadily at the top of each, filling the room with a soft, glowing light.
“The Mannanish is a good woman, very dedicated to her calling. Her healing arts have saved the lives of more than one person in our settlement. But how many more could have lived if her powers of magic had been enhanced? You have no Idea,” the old man said with a sigh, returning to his seat and smiling down at Saryon, “how long I have prayed to the Almin to send us a catalyst.”
“Pray to the Almin?” Saryon was confused for a moment, then the truth penetrated his slow-moving mind. “Ah, of course. “You’re not one of them.”
“One of whom, Father?” the old man asked, his smile broadening slightly.
“The
Sorcerers”—Saryon gestured outside, coughing—“these Technologists. Are you a slave?”
Reaching beneath the collar of his long gray robes, the old man brought forth a strange-looking pendant attached to a finely wrought golden chain that hung about his neck. Made of wood, the pendant was carved into the shape of a hollowed-out circle connected by nine spokes.
“Father,” said the old man simply, a look of pride coming into his wrinkled face, “I am Andon, their leader.”
“Steady, Father. That’s right. Lean on my arm. This is your first day out. We don’t want to overdo it.”
Walking slowly beside the old man, his hand on Andon’s arm, Saryon blinked in the bright sunshine as he gratefully drew in a breath of fresh air, fragrant with the smells of late summer.
“Your adventures must have been quite terrifying,” Andon continued as they proceeded slowly out of the cabin’s small yard and into the dirt road that ran through the settlement. Noting the stares of the villagers, the old man acknowledged them with a nod of his head. No one spoke to them, however, although many regarded the catalyst with unabashed curiosity. Their respect and veneration for the old man was obvious, however, and they did not disturb them.
So these are Dark Sorcerers, Saryon thought. Faces of twisted evil passions? Faces of young mothers, nursing small babies. Red, glowing eyes? Tired, weary, work-worn eyes. Chants to the powers of darkness? The laughter of children, playing in the street. The only difference that he saw between these people and those in the village of Walren, or even between these people and those in Merilon, was that these people used little or no magic. Forced to conserve Life since they had no catalysts to replenish it for them, the Sorcerers walked, trudging through the mud of the refuse-strewn street, wearing soft, leather boots.
Saryon’s gaze went to a group of men working busily, shaping a dwelling place. But these were not magi of the Pron-alban, lovingly drawing the stone up out of the earth, skillfully molding it with their magical spells. These men used their hands, stacking the rectangular blocks of unnatural stone one on top of the other. Even the stones themselves were made by the hands of men, so the old man said. Clay put into molds and baked in the sun. Pausing a moment, Saryon watched in grim fascination as the men placed the stone in neat and orderly rows, joining them together with some sort of adhesive substance that they spread between them. But this was not the only use of Technology. Everywhere he looked, in fact, he was confronted with the Dark Arts.
None were more in evidence than the symbol of the coven itself, the pendant the old man wore around his neck—the wheel. Small wheels caused laden carts to roll across the ground, a huge wheel stole Life from the river, using it—so Andon said—to run other wheels inside a brick building. These wheels caused great stones to rub together, grinding wheat into flour. Marks of the Sorcerers were even carved into the land itself.
Across the river, the catalyst could see the dark eyes of man-made caves glaring at him as if in reproach. Here, long ago, so Andon told him, the Technologists tore the stone containing iron out of the earth, using some sort of devilish substance that could literally blast rock to fragments. A skill now lost, Andon mentioned sadly. The Sorcerers now had to rely on iron ore left from that distant past.
And over and above every sound, the talking, the laughing, the crying, was the eternal, never-ending clanging that came from the forge, sounding through the village like a huge, dark bell.
Perversion of Life, screamed the catalyst in Saryon. They are destroying the magic! But the logical part within him answered, Survival. And perhaps it was that same logical part that Saryon caught toying with wonderful new mathematical concepts using this art. He had already noticed that the brick dwelling in which he lived was warmer and snugger than the dead, hollowed-out trees used by the Field Magi. Might not something be done …
Shocked to find himself thinking such things, Saryon forced his attention back to the old man.
“Yes, your adventures must have been quite terrifying. Captured by giants, fighting centaur, Simkin saving your life by transforming himself into a tree. I’d enjoy hearing your version someday, if it wouldn’t upset you to talk about it.” Andon smiled indulgently. “One hesitates believing Simkin.”
“Tell me something about Simkin,” Saryon said, glad to turn his mind to other matters. “Where did he come from? What do you know about him?”
“Know about Simkin? Nothing, really. Oh, there’s what he tells us, but that’s all nonsense, I suppose, like his tales about Duke So-and-So and the Countess of d’Something-or-Other.” Glancing at the catalyst, Andon added in a mild tone, “We don’t ask questions of those who come to make their home among us, Father. For example, one might wonder what a catalyst of the Font—as you so obviously are, if you forgive my saying so—was doing trying to cross the border into the Outland by himself.”
Flushing, Saryon stammered, “You see, I—”
The old man interrupted him. “No, I’m not asking. And you needn’t tell me. This has been our custom here—a custom that is as old as this settlement.” Sighing, Andon shook his head. His eyes were suddenly old and weary. “Perhaps it is not such a good custom,” he murmured, his gaze going to a large building that sat apart from the others on top of a small rise. Taller than the others, built out of the same rectangular, unnatural rock, the structure appeared newer than most in the settlement. “If we had asked questions, we might have avoided much sorrow and pain.”
“I don’t understand.” Saryon had noticed, during his recovery, a shadow lying over those who came to visit him—Andon, his wife, the Healer. They were nervous, talking in low voices sometimes, glancing about warily, as if fearful of being overheard. He had thought of asking, more than once, what the matter might be, recalling certain words of Simkin s. But he still felt a stranger among them and uncomfortable in his strange and dark surroundings.
“I told you I was the leader of my people here,” Andon said in such a low tone that Saryon had to bend down to hear him. The street they walked wasn’t crowded, but the old man seemed unwilling to risk the chance of even the few people hurrying along on their various errands overhearing his words. “That isn’t precisely true. I was once, years ago. But now another leads us.” He looked at Saryon out of the corner of his eye. “You will meet him soon. He’s been asking about you.”
“Blachloch,” said Saryon before he thought.
Stopping, the old man stared at him. “Yes, how did you—”
“Simkin told me … something of him.”
Andon nodded, his face darkening. “Simkin. Yes. Now there’s someone—Blachloch, I mean—who could tell you more about the young man, I believe. Simkin seems to spend a great deal of time with the warlock. Not that Blachloch would answer your questions, mind you. A true Duuk-tsarith, that one. I have often wondered what he did to cause them to cast him out of that dread Order.” The old man shivered.
“But”—Saryon looked around at the numerous dwellings and small shops that lined the streets of the village—“there are many of you here and only one of him. Why—”
“—didn’t we fight him?” The old man shook his head sadly. “Have you ever been apprehended by the Enforcers? Have you ever felt the touch of their hands upon you, draining you of Life like a spider drains it victim of blood? No need to reply, Father. If you have, you understand. And—as to us? Yes, we are many, but we are not one. That you may not understand now, but you will come to in time.” The old man changed the subject abruptly. “But if you’re still interested in Simkin, you might discuss him with the two young men who share his dwelling place.”
Seeing that Andon was obviously intent on leading the conversation away from the former Enforcer, Saryon let the matter drop and returned once more, and not reluctantly, to Simkin, saying that he would be interested to meet his friends.
“Joram and Mosiah are their names,” remarked Andon. “You might have heard of Mosiah from his father since you lived for a time in Walren—” Glancing at the catalyst,
he stopped suddenly in concern. “Why, how pale you are, Father. I was afraid this outing might be overdoing things a bit. Would you like to sit down? We’re near the park.”
“Yes, thank you,” Saryon said, though he wasn’t in the least tired. So Simkin had been telling the truth when he said he and Joram were friends. And those voices in his room he’d heard when he had been ill. Joram … Mosiah … Simkin ….
“They’re working now—Mosiah and Joram, that is. Simkin’s never turned a hand that anyone’s seen,” Andon said, helping Saryon to a seat on a bench in the cool shadow of a large spreading oak tree. “Are you feeling better, Father? I can send for the Healer …”
“No, thank you,” Saryon murmured. “You were right. I have heard of Mosiah. I’ve heard of Joram, too, of course,” he added in a low voice.
“An unusual young man,” said Andon. “I presume that since you are from Walren, you heard about the murder of the overseer?”
Saryon nodded, afraid to speak, afraid of saying too much.
The old man sighed. “We knew of it, too, of course. Word spread rapidly. Some among us viewed him as a hero. Some thought he would be a useful tool.” Andon glanced darkly at the large brick building on the hill. “That, in fact, was why he was brought here.”
“And you?” Saryon asked. He had come to have a profound respect for this gentle, wise man. “What do you think of Joram?”
“I fear him,” Andon admitted with a smile. “That may sound strange to you, Father, coming from a Sorcerer of the Dark Arts. Yes”—he patted Saryon’s hand—“I know much of what you have been thinking. I see the horror and revulsion on your face.”
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