“Help!” shouted a muffled voice. “Joram! Get this cad off me! I’m suffocating from the stench!”
Seeing Mosiah bending over the catalyst, Joram reached down and grabbed the henchman by his collar, heaving the man off the brick. The brick disappeared, transforming itself into Simkin. Holding a bit of orange silk over his nose, the young man stood staring down at the henchman in disgust.
“Egad, the lout! I’m quite nauseated. Where’s Mosiah and the jolly old catalyst? …” Looking around, Simkin’s eyes widened. “Oh, I say.” He gave a low whistle. “Here comes trouble.”
“Blachloch!” Joram muttered, seeing the black-robed figure approaching through the smoke and flame. “Simkin! Use your magic. Get us out of here—Simkin?”
The young man was gone. In Joram’s hand was a blood-spattered brick.
4
Prisoners
“Father …” Saryon started, roused from some dark dream that seemed loath to let him loose from its clutches.
“Father,” said the voice again. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”
“I can’t see!” Saryon moaned, clutching at the source of the voice with groping hands.
“It’s because of the gloom in this foul place, Father,” said the voice gently. “We feared light might disturb your rest. Here, now, can you see?” The soft glow of a single candle illuminated Andon’s kindly face, and brought inestimable relief to the catalyst.
Sinking back on the hard bed, Saryon put his hand to his head where he felt a heaviness. Something was obscuring his vision in his left eye. He tried to pull it off, but Andon’s hand intercepted his.
“Don’t disturb the bandages, Father,” he instructed, holding the candle above Saryon, examining him by its light. “The bleeding will start again. It will be best for you to lie quietly for a few days. Is there pain anywhere else?” he asked, a shadow of anxiety in his voice.
“My ribs,” answered the catalyst.
“But not the stomach, the back?” Andon pursued.
Wearily, Saryon shook his head.
“Thank the Almin,” murmured the old man. “And now I must ask you some questions. What is your name?”
“Saryon,” answered the catalyst. “But you know that
“You have had a severe head injury, Father. How much do you remember of what happened?”
The dreams. Had they been dreams at all? “I—I remember the village, the young Deacon …” Shuddering, Saryon covered his face. “He slaughtered him, using my help! What have I done?”
“I did not mean to distress you, Father,” Andon said gently. Setting the candle on the floor by his feet, he placed his hand on the catalyst’s shoulder. “You did what you had to do. None of us thought Blachloch would go this far. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Do you remember anything else, Father?”
Saryon searched his memory, but it was all flame and pain and darkness and terror. Seeing the catalyst’s agonized face, the old man patted his shoulder and sighed. “I am truly sorry, Father. Thank the Almin you are safe.”
“What happened to me?” Saryon asked.
“Blachloch had you beaten for disobeying him. His men were … overzealous. They would have killed you, if it had not been for him.” Andon turned, his gaze going to another part of the dark room.
Slowly, conscious now of a dull aching in his head, Saryon followed Andon’s glance. A young man sat on a chair beside a crude window, his head resting on his arms, his eyes staring out into the night sky. A half-moon shed its pale, cold light upon the face, emphasizing with sharply defined shadows the stern, sullen harshness, the heavy black brows, the full-lipped, unsmiling mouth. Black, curling hair shown purple in the moonlight, falling in a tangle around the young man’s broad shoulders.
“Joram!” Saryon breathed in astonishment.
“1 must admit, I was as amazed as you, Father,” Andon said, speaking softly, though it appeared as if the young man was completely oblivious to their presence.” Joram has never seemed to care for anyone before, not even his friends. He did not even taken a stand against Blachloch’s wickedness when I tried to talk to him about it. He said the world cared nothing for us, why should we care what happened to it.” Shrugging helplessly, Andon seemed perplexed. “But according to Simkin, when Joram saw you being beaten, he hurled himself into the fray, wounding one guard severely. Mosiah helped rescue you, too, I believe.”
“Mosiah …. Is he all right?” Saryon asked anxiously.
“Yes, he is fine. Nothing happened to him. A warning to mind his own business, that is all.”
“Where are we?” Saryon asked, examining his bleak surroundings as well as the dim light and the pain in his head permitted. He was in a small, filthy brick building, no bigger than a single room with one window and a thick, oaken door.
“You and Joram are being held prisoner. Blachloch put you both in here together, saying that there was something going on between the two of you and he intended to find out what.”
“This is the village prison ….” Saryon remembered vaguely having seen it on one of his walks.
“Yes. You are back in the settlement. They carried you here by boat up the river with the stolen supplies. May they choke on them,” the old man muttered.
Saryon glanced at him in some surprise.
“My followers and I have taken a vow,” Andon said softly. “We will not eat the food that they wrested from those unfortunate people. We would sooner starve.”
“It is my fault ….” Saryon murmured.
“No, Father.” The old man sighed and shook his head. “If it is anyone’s fault it is ours, we Sorcerers. We should have stopped him when he came to us five years ago. We let him intimidate us. Or maybe it wasn’t even that so much, although it is a comfort to look back and say we were frightened of him. But were we? I wonder.” Andon’s wrinkled hand lifted from Saryon’s shoulder, going to the pendant of the wheel that hung around his neck. Fingering it absently, he stared into the flickering light of the candle that sat upon the stone floor near his feet. “I think that, in truth, we welcomed him. It was satisfying, to strike back at the world that reviled us.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Even if it was only stealing a few bushels of grain by night.
“His talk of supplying weapons of our Dark Arts to Sharakan seemed a fine thing, once.” Andon’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears, the rims grew red. “The legends tell much about the ancient days, about the glories of our art. Not all was evil. Much that was good and beneficial was developed by those of the Ninth Mystery. If we could just have a chance to show people what wonders we could build, how we could save the use of magical energies, allowing those to be devoted to the creation of beautiful, marvelous things … Ah well, such was our dream,” he said wistfully. “And now it has been perverted by this evil man into a nightmare! He has led us to our doom. The destruction of that village will not be allowed to go unpunished. At least that is what I believe. Blachloch laughs at me when I tell him my fears. Or rather, he doesn’t laugh, the man never laughs. But he might as well. I can see the scorn in his eyes.”
“‘They dare not seek us out,’ he tells me.”
“He may be right,” Saryon muttered, thinking of Bishop Vanya’s words. The Sorcerers numbers are growing and, while we could deal with them easily enough, still, going in to take the young man by force would mean armed conflict. It would mean talk, upset, worry. We cannot have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in such delicate balance. “What are his plans?”
The catalyst shivered. The prison was chill. A small fire flickered in a firepit at the end of the room, giving little light and less warmth.
“He intends us to work through the winter, making weapons. In the meantime, he will pursue his negotiations with Sharakan.” Andon shrugged. “If we are attacked, Sharakan will come to our defense, he says.”
“But it all means war,” Saryon said thoughtfully, his gaze going once again to Joram, who was still staring fixedly out the
window into the moonlit night. Once again, he heard Vanya’s words. Thus you see how vital it is that we take this young man and, through him, expose these fiends for what they are—murderers and black-hearted Sorcerers who would pervert Dead objects by giving them Life. By doing this, we can show the people of Sharakan that their Emperor is in league with the powers of darkness, and we can then encompass his downfall.
But it wasn’t the Sorcerers. He looked back at Andon, an old man with a dream of bringing waterwheels to the world so that magic could be used to create rainbows instead of rain. He looked at Joram. He had come to think of this young man differently, too, now that he knew him.
He is not a spawn of demons as I had imagined him. Confused, bitter, unhappy, certainly, but so was I in my youth. He committed murder, that is true. But what provocation! His mother, lying dead before him. And am I any better? Closing his eyes, Saryon shook his head restlessly. Am I not responsible for the death of that young catalyst? If I take Joram back as I was instructed to do, will I bring about the downfall of these people? What must I do? Where can I find help?
“I will leave now, Father,” Andon said, picking up his candle and rising. “You are tired. I have been selfish in worrying you with my troubles when you have enough of your own. We will put our faith in the Almin and ask for His help and guidance ….”
“The Almin!” Saryon repeated bitterly, sitting up. “No, I’m all right. Just a little dizzy.” He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, waving off Andon’s offer of help and ignoring his worried cluckings. “You talk as if you knew the Almin personally!”
“But I do, Father,” Andon replied, glancing at the catalyst in some embarrassment. Setting the candle on a crude wooden table in the center of the prison, the old man knelt down and did what he could to stir up the fire, using his magic to add to the warmth. “I know that we are supposed to talk to Him only through you priests, and I hope what I say will not offend you. But it has been many, many years since a catalyst was among us to intercede with the Almin in our behalf. He and I have shared many problems. He is our refuge in these troubled times. His guidance led us to take the vow that we will not eat food gained by blood and flame.”
Saryon gazed at the old man in perplexity. “He speaks to you? He answers your prayers?”
“I realize I am not a catalyst,” Andon said humbly, fingering the pendant around his neck as he stood up, “but, yes, He communicates with me. Oh, not in words. I do not hear His voice. But a feeling of peace fills my soul when I know that I have made a decision, and I know then that I have received His guidance.”
A feeling of peace, Saryon thought despondently. I have experienced religious fervor, ecstacy, the Enchantment, but never peace. Did He ever talk to me? Did I ever listen?
The catalyst groaned. His head ached, his body hurt. Memories of flame danced in his vision, he could see clearly the look of fear on the young Deacon’s face right before Blachloch—
“The Almin give you rest.” There was the sound of a door closing softly. Saryon shook his head to clear it of the fuzziness and instantly regretted the action that only caused the aching to change to a swift, sharp pain. When he was able to look around, he saw that Andon was gone.
Standing on unsteady feet, Saryon tottered across the room and sagged into a chair at the table. He knew he should probably lie back down but he was frightened, afraid to close his eyes again, afraid of what he would see.
A pitcher of water made him realize he was terribly thirsty. Reaching out an unsteady hand, trying to combat the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, he was going to pour water into a cup that sat nearby when a voice startled him.
“They will starve to death this winter, the fools.”
Nearly dropping the pitcher, Saryon turned to Joram, who had not spoken a word the entire time Andon had been in the prison.
The young man did not move from his place beside the window. His back was to Saryon now, since the catalyst had risen from his bed on the other side of the room. But Saryon could picture the brown eyes staring into the moonlight, the sullen face.
“And, Catalyst,” Joram continued coldly, still not turning around, “I did not save your life. They could beat the whole lot of you, and I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them.”
“Then, what happened? Why—”
“More of Simkin’s lies,” Joram said, shrugging his shoulders. “The soft-hearted, soft-headed Mosiah rushed in to save your precious skin, and I went to get him out of it. It was none of our affair, after all, if you were stupid enough to defy Blachloch. Then Simkin—But, what does it matter?”
“What did Simkin have to do with it?” Saryon asked, trying to pour the water into the cup and slopping most of it over the table.
“What does Simkin ever have to do with anything?” Joram replied. “Nothing. Everything. He got Mosiah off, which was more than the idiot deserved.”
“What about you?”
Throwing his arm indolently over the back of the chair, Joram turned back to face the catalyst. “What does it matter about me? I’m Dead, Catalyst, or had you forgotten? In fact,” he continued, spreading his arms wide, “this is your big chance. Here we are … alone. No one to stop you. Open a Corridor. Send for the Duuk-tsarith.”
Sinking into a chair, feeling his strength give way, Saryon murmured, ‘“You could stop me.” He had, in fact, been considering that very idea and was appalled to find the young man had penetrated so far into his mind. “Even the Dead have magic enough to stop a catalyst. I know. I’ve seen what you can do ….”
For long moments, Joram stared at Saryon in silence as though considering something. Then, rising suddenly, he approached the table and leaned down over it, looking directly into the catalyst’s pale, drawn face. “Open a conduit to me,” he said.
Puzzled, Saryon drew back, reluctant to give this young man any additional strength. “I don’t think—”
“Go on!” Joram demanded harshly. Muscles in the young man’s arms twitched, the blood veins stood out beneath the brown skin as his hands gripped the edges of the table, the dark eyes flared in the candlelight.
Mesmerized by the suddenly feverish gaze of the young man, Saryon hesitantly opened a conduit to Joram … and felt nothing. The magic filled him, tingled in Saryon’s blood and his flesh. But it went nowhere. There was no pleasant rush of transference, no surge of energy between the two bodies …. Slowly the magic began to seep out of him as he stared at Joram in disbelief.
“But this is impossible,” he said, shivering uncontrollably in the chill prison cell. “I have seen you work magic …”
“Have you?” Joram asked. Letting go of the table, he stood up straight and folded his arms across his chest. “Or have you seen me do this?” With a sudden movement of his hand, he produced a rag with which he proceeded to mop up the spilled water. Clapping his hands, he made the rag disappear, an ordinary occurrence to Saryon—until he saw the young man pull the damp rag out of a cunningly concealed pocket in his shirt.
“My mother called it sleight-of-hand,” Joram said coolly, seeming to enjoy Saryon’s discomfiture. “Do you know of it?”
“I have seen it at court,” Saryon said, leaning his head on his hand. The dizziness had passed, but the aching in his temples made it difficult to think. “It is a … game ….” He gestured feebly. “Young … people play it.”
“I wondered where my mother learned it,” Joram said, shrugging. “Well, it is a game that has saved my life. Or perhaps I should say it is a game that is my life—all life being a game, according to Simkin.” He gazed down upon the catalyst with a sort of bitter triumph. “Now you know my secret, Catalyst. You know what no one else knows about me. You know the truth, something that even my mother couldn’t face. I am Dead. Truly Dead. No magic stirs within me at all, less than what is in a corpse, if we believe the legends of the ancient Necromancers, who were able to communicate with the souls of the dead.”
“Why have you told me?” Saryon asked through li
ps so stiff he was barely able to shape the words. A memory came to his aching mind, a memory of one other who had been Dead, truly Dead; one who had failed the Tests utterly as no one has failed them before or since ….
Joram leaned down again, close to him. The catalyst found himself cringing away from the touch of the young man as he would have cringed at the touch of dead flesh. No! Saryon told himself, staring at the young man in horror, his mind incapable of handling the rush of thoughts that burst over him in a crashing wave. Feeling himself drowning beneath them, the catalyst banished them, blocked them out. No. It was impossible. The child was dead. Vanya had said so.
The child was dead. The child is dead.
Seeing the catalyst’s confusion, Joram drew a little nearer.
“I tell you this, Catalyst, because it would have been only a matter of time before you found out anyway. The longer I stay here, the greater my peril. Oh”—he gestured impatiently—“there are walking Dead among us, yet they have some magic. I am different. Completely, unspeakably, horribly different! Have you any idea, Catalyst, what Blachloch and these people—yes, even the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery—would do to me if they found I was truly Dead?”
Saryon could not answer. He could not even comprehend what the young man was talking about. His mind had shut its doors, refusing admittance to these dark and terrifying thoughts.
“You must make a decision, Catalyst,” Joram was saying, his voice coming to Saryon as through a dark fog. “You must either take me to the Enforcers now or you will stay with me here and help me.”
“Help you?” Saryon blinked in astonishment, this statement jolting his aching brain back to reality. “Help you do what?”
“To stop Blachloch,” said Joram coolly, the half-smile shining in his dark eyes.
5
Tempted …
“I regret the incident, Father, as I am certain you do,” said Blachloch in his expressionless voice. “And now that the punishment has been administered and the lesson learned, we will speak no more of it.”
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