Read Online Forging the Darksword by Margaret Weis - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
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to his feet, the Bishop placed the miter upon his head and smoothed out his robes. Moving to the center of the sumptuously appointed room, he stood waiting in awful majesty.
The door opened. The secretary appeared for an instant, but his form was swallowed in blackness as the robed and hooded, silent
Duuk-tsarith
flowed past him, surrounding the stumbling figure of the young man they held between them,—surrounding him like his own private night.
“You may leave us,” the Bishop said to the Enforcers, who bowed and vanished. The door shut noiselessly. The Bishop and his young transgressor were alone.
Keeping his expression carefully cold and stern, Vanya eyed the young man curiously. He noted to himself with satisfaction that his recollection of Saryon’s features had been precise, though it took a few moments’ study to ascertain this, so changed was the face that presented itself to his view. Gaunt it had been, from hours of study, but now it was cadaverous and touched with a corpselike pallor. The eyes burned feverishly, and had sunken into the high cheekbones. The tall spare frame trembled, the overlarge hands shook. Suffering and remorse and fear were visible in every line of the quivering body, in the red-rimmed eyes and the streaks that tracked down the face.
Vanya permitted himself an inner smile.
“Deacon Saryon,” he began in a deep, sonorous voice. But before he could say anything further, the wretched young man hurled himself across the room, and, falling to his knees before the startled Bishop, grasped the hem of his robeand pressed it to his lips. Then, wailing something incoherent, Saryon burst into tears.
Slightly discomfited, and seeing a large stain spreading over the hem of his costly silken robe, the Bishop frowned and snatched the fabric out of the young man’s grasp. Saryon did not move, but knelt there still, crouched over, his face in his hands, sobbing in misery.
“Pull yourself together, Deacon!” Vanya snapped, then added more kindly, “Come now, my boy. You have made a mistake. It isn’t the end of the world. You are young. Youth is a time of exploration.” Reaching down, he took hold of Saryon’s arm.” It is a time our feet carry us down untrodden paths,” he continued, almost dragging the young man up off the floor, “where, sometimes, we encounter darkness.” Steering his unsteady footsteps, the Bishop guided Saryon to a chair, talking soothingly the while. “We have only to look to the Almin for help in finding our way back. Here, that’s it. Now, sit down. You’ve had nothing to eat or drink all night or this morning, I presume? I thought not. Try this sherry. Really quite fine, from the vineyards of Duke Algor.”
Bishop Vanya poured Saryon a glass of sherry which the young man, appalled at having his Bishop serve him, shrank away from accepting as though it were poison.
Noting the young man’s confusion with well-concealed pleasure, Vanya increased his kindness to him, placing the sherry in his reluctant hand. Then, removing the miter, the Bishop sat down in a soft, comfortable yet elegant chair opposite the young man. Pouring a glass of sherry for himself, he suspended it in the air near his mouth and smoothed out his robes, making himself comfortable.
Completely taken aback, Saryon could do nothing but stare at this great man, who now looked more like someone’s overweight uncle than one of the mightiest powers in the land.
“The Almin be praised,” said the Bishop, causing his glass to brush up against his lips, sipping a tiny bit of the excellent sherry.
“The Almin be praised,” mumbled Saryon reflexively, attempting to drink and nervously sloshing most of the sherry onto his robes.
“Now, Brother Saryon,” said Bishop Vanya, assuming the air of a father about to punish a beloved child, “let us drop formalities. I want to hear from your lips exactly what occurred.”
The young man blinked; the glass hovering before him wavered as his
The door opened. The secretary appeared for an instant, but his form was swallowed in blackness as the robed and hooded, silent
Duuk-tsarith
flowed past him, surrounding the stumbling figure of the young man they held between them,—surrounding him like his own private night.
“You may leave us,” the Bishop said to the Enforcers, who bowed and vanished. The door shut noiselessly. The Bishop and his young transgressor were alone.
Keeping his expression carefully cold and stern, Vanya eyed the young man curiously. He noted to himself with satisfaction that his recollection of Saryon’s features had been precise, though it took a few moments’ study to ascertain this, so changed was the face that presented itself to his view. Gaunt it had been, from hours of study, but now it was cadaverous and touched with a corpselike pallor. The eyes burned feverishly, and had sunken into the high cheekbones. The tall spare frame trembled, the overlarge hands shook. Suffering and remorse and fear were visible in every line of the quivering body, in the red-rimmed eyes and the streaks that tracked down the face.
Vanya permitted himself an inner smile.
“Deacon Saryon,” he began in a deep, sonorous voice. But before he could say anything further, the wretched young man hurled himself across the room, and, falling to his knees before the startled Bishop, grasped the hem of his robeand pressed it to his lips. Then, wailing something incoherent, Saryon burst into tears.
Slightly discomfited, and seeing a large stain spreading over the hem of his costly silken robe, the Bishop frowned and snatched the fabric out of the young man’s grasp. Saryon did not move, but knelt there still, crouched over, his face in his hands, sobbing in misery.
“Pull yourself together, Deacon!” Vanya snapped, then added more kindly, “Come now, my boy. You have made a mistake. It isn’t the end of the world. You are young. Youth is a time of exploration.” Reaching down, he took hold of Saryon’s arm.” It is a time our feet carry us down untrodden paths,” he continued, almost dragging the young man up off the floor, “where, sometimes, we encounter darkness.” Steering his unsteady footsteps, the Bishop guided Saryon to a chair, talking soothingly the while. “We have only to look to the Almin for help in finding our way back. Here, that’s it. Now, sit down. You’ve had nothing to eat or drink all night or this morning, I presume? I thought not. Try this sherry. Really quite fine, from the vineyards of Duke Algor.”
Bishop Vanya poured Saryon a glass of sherry which the young man, appalled at having his Bishop serve him, shrank away from accepting as though it were poison.
Noting the young man’s confusion with well-concealed pleasure, Vanya increased his kindness to him, placing the sherry in his reluctant hand. Then, removing the miter, the Bishop sat down in a soft, comfortable yet elegant chair opposite the young man. Pouring a glass of sherry for himself, he suspended it in the air near his mouth and smoothed out his robes, making himself comfortable.
Completely taken aback, Saryon could do nothing but stare at this great man, who now looked more like someone’s overweight uncle than one of the mightiest powers in the land.
“The Almin be praised,” said the Bishop, causing his glass to brush up against his lips, sipping a tiny bit of the excellent sherry.
“The Almin be praised,” mumbled Saryon reflexively, attempting to drink and nervously sloshing most of the sherry onto his robes.
“Now, Brother Saryon,” said Bishop Vanya, assuming the air of a father about to punish a beloved child, “let us drop formalities. I want to hear from your lips exactly what occurred.”
The young man blinked; the glass hovering before him wavered as his
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