"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - The Darksword Trilogy 02 - Doom of the Darksword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

the web as he sent forth his summons to his minion.
He waited, spider fingers twitching.
The darkness was still, cold, unspeaking.
Vanya called again, the fingers curling in upon themselves.
I may or may not respond, the voice had told him. Yes, that would be like him, the arrogantтАФ
Vanya swore, his hands gripping the chair, sweat pouring down his head. He had to know! It was too
important! He wouldтАФ
Yes. . . .
 The hands relaxed. Vanya considered, turning the idea over in his mind. He had planned for every
contingency, even the unlikely ones. And this one he had planned for without even knowing it. Such are
the ways of genius.
Sitting back in the chair, Bishop Vanya's mind touched an-other strand on the web, sending an urgent
summons to one who would, he knew, be little prepared to receive it.
 1




The Summons
"Saryon. ..."
The catalyst floated be-tween unconsciousness and the waking nightmare of his life.
"Holiness, forgive me!" he muttered feverishly. "Take me back to our sanctuary! Free me of this
terrible burden. I cannot bear it!" Tossing on his crude bed, Saryon put his hands over his closed eyes as
though he could blot out the dreadful visions that sleep only intensified and made more frightening.
"Murder!" he cried. "I have done murder! Not once! Oh, no, Holiness! Twice. Two men have died
because of me!"
"Saryon!" The voice repeated the catalyst's name, and there was a hint of irritation in it.
The catalyst cringed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. "Let me confess to you, Holiness!"
he cried. "Punish me as you will. I deserve it, desire it! Then I will be free of their faces, their eyes . . .
haunting me!"
Saryon sat up on his bed, half-asleep. He had not slept in days; exhaustion and excitement had
temporarily overthrown his mind. He had no conscious thought of where he was or why this voiceтАФthat
he knew to be hundreds of miles awayтАФshould be speaking to him so clearly. "The first, a young man of
our Order," the catalyst continued brokenly. "The warlock used my Life-giving force to murder him. The
wretched catalyst never had a chance. And now the warlock, too, is dead! He lay before me helpless,
drained of his magic by my arts! JoramтАФ" The catalyst's voice sank to a hushed whisper. "Joram. . . ."
"Saryon!" The voice was stern, urgent and commanding, and it finally roused the catalyst from his
confused exhaustion.
"What?" Shivering in his wet robes, Saryon looked around. He was not in the sanctuary of the Font.
He was in a chill prison cell. Death surrounded him. Brick wallsтАФstone made by the hands of man, not
shaped by magic. The wood-beam ceiling above bore the gouges of tools. Cold metal bars forged by the
hand of the Dark Arts seemed a barrier against Life itself. "Joram?" Saryon called softly through teeth
clenched against the cold.
But a glance told him the young man was not in the prison cell, his bed had not been slept in.
"Of course not," Saryon said to himself, shuddering. Joram was in the wilderness, disposing of the
body. . . . But then, whose had been the voice he heard so clearly?
The catalyst's head sank into his shaking hands. "Take my life, Almin!" he prayed fervently. "If you
truly do exist, take my life and end this torment, this misery. For now I am going madтАФ"
"Saryon! You cannot avoid me, if such is your intent! You will listen to me! You have no choice!"
The catalyst raised his head, his eyes wide and staring, his body convulsing with a chill that was colder