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 quiet little meeting." 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 and 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 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." 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. 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. 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 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." 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."

Once again, Saryon felt that cold fear grip his bowels. A shivering sensation starting at his scalp ran over his entire body.

"It seems that this Joram had a friend, a young man called Mosiah. One of the Field Magi, hearing noises in the night, woke and looked out his window. He saw Mosiah and a young man he is positive was Joram engrossed in conversation. He could not hear all of what was said, but he swears he overheard the words 'Coven' and 'Wheel.' He said Mosiah drew back at this, but his friend must have been persuasive because the next morning, Mosiah was gone."

Saryon glanced over at Father Tolban just in time to see the Field Catalyst cast a furtive look at Vanya, who was studiously ignoring him. Tolban looked over at his fellow catalyst and caught Saryon looking at him. Flushing guiltily, Tolban returned to staring at his shoes.

"We have, of course, known of the existence of this coven for some time." Bishop Vanya frowned. "It is composed of every outcast and misfit who thinks the world owes him something in return for his birth. Not only do the Dead walk among them, but so do thieves and robbers, debtors, vagrants, rebels ... Now a murderer. They come from all over the Empire, from Sharakan in the north to Zith-el in the east. Their numbers are growing, and while the DKarn-Duuk DKarn-Duuk could deal with them easily enough, going in to take the young man by force would mean armed conflict. It would mean talk, upset, and worry. We cannot have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in such delicate balance." He cast a meaningful glance at Saryon. could deal with them easily enough, going in to take the young man by force would mean armed conflict. It would mean talk, upset, and worry. We cannot have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in such delicate balance." He cast a meaningful glance at Saryon.

"This-this is dreadful, Holiness," Saryon stammered, still too confused to catch more than one word in ten. But Vanya was looking at him, expecting a reply, so he said the first thing that came into his head. "Surely-er-something must be done. We cannot live knowing that this threat exists ...

"Something is is being done, Deacon Saryon," Bishop Vanya said in soothing tones. "Rest assured, the matter is under control, another reason that apprehending the boy must be handled delicately. But, at the same time, we dare not allow this murder of an overseer go unpunished. Talk is already spreading throughout the Field Magi, who are, as you know, a discontented, rebellious lot. To let this young man go free after his heinous crime would encourage the spread of anarchy among this class. Because of this, the young man must be apprehended alive and made to stand trial for his crime. Apprehended alive," Vanya muttered, frowning. "That is most important." being done, Deacon Saryon," Bishop Vanya said in soothing tones. "Rest assured, the matter is under control, another reason that apprehending the boy must be handled delicately. But, at the same time, we dare not allow this murder of an overseer go unpunished. Talk is already spreading throughout the Field Magi, who are, as you know, a discontented, rebellious lot. To let this young man go free after his heinous crime would encourage the spread of anarchy among this class. Because of this, the young man must be apprehended alive and made to stand trial for his crime. Apprehended alive," Vanya muttered, frowning. "That is most important."

At last, Saryon thought he was beginning to understand. "I see, Holiness." He had some trouble getting his words out past a bitter taste in his mouth. "You need someone to go in, isolate this young man, open a Corridor, and lead the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith to him without anyone else being the wiser. And you chose me because I was once involved with the Dark-" to him without anyone else being the wiser. And you chose me because I was once involved with the Dark-"

"You were chosen for the excellent mathematical knowledge you possess, Deacon Saryon," Bishop Vanya interrupted, sliding in under Saryon's words smoothly. A glance at the Field Catalyst and a slight shaking of the head were enough to remind Saryon that he was not to speak of the old scandal. "These Technologists, so we are led to believe, are extremely fascinated with the subject of mathematics, believing it to be the key to their Dark Art. This will provide you with ideal cover and lead them to accept you into their group most readily."

"But, Holiness, I am a catalyst, not a-a rebel, or a thief," Saryon protested. "Why should they accept me at all?"

"There have been renegade catalysts before," Vanya remarked wryly. "This Joram's father was one, in fact. I remember the incident quite well-he was found guilty of conceiving through the repulsive act of physically joining with a female. He was sentenced to the Turning to Stone ..."

Saryon shuddered involuntarily. All his old sins were crowding in on him, it seemed. The lurid dreams of his youth returned to him, adding to his tension. The fate of Joram's father might well have been his own! For a moment, he was very nearly physically ill and leaned back against the cushions of his chair. When the blood quit pounding in his ears and his dizzy feeling abated, he could once more attend to Vanya's words.

"Surely you remember the incident, Deacon Saryon? It was seventeen years ago ... But, no, I forgot. You were ... absorbed ... in your own problems at that time. To continue, upon being told that her child had failed the Tests, the mother-I believe her name was Anja-disappeared, taking the babe with her. We tried to trace her, but it proved impossible. Now, at last, we know what happened to her and her child."

"Holiness," Saryon said, swallowing the bile in his mouth, "I am not a young man. I do not believe I am suited for such an important task. I am honored in the confidence you repose in me, but the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith are far better qualified-" are far better qualified-"

"You underestimate yourself. Deacon," Bishop Vanya said pleasantly leaving the window and walking across the room. "You have been living too long among your books." Coming to stand directly in front of Saryon, he looked down at the priest. "Perhaps I have other reasons for choosing you, reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss. You have been chosen. I cannot, of course, force you to do this. But, do you not feel that you owe the Church something, Saryon, for-shall we say-past kindnesses?"

The Field Catalyst could not see the Bishop's face. Only Saryon could see it, and he would remember it to the day he died. The round, pudgy cheeks were placid and calm. Vanya was even smiling slightly, one eyebrow raised. But the eyes ... the eyes were terrible-dark and cold and unyielding.

Suddenly, Saryon understood the genius of the man and, at last, he could give a name to his unreasoning fear. The punishment for the crime he had committed so many years before had been neither forgotten nor relaxed.

No, it had simply been deferred.

Seventeen years Vanya had waited patiently should an opportunity arise to use it ...

To use him ....

"Well, Deacon Saryon," the Bishop said, still in that same, pleasant voice, "what do you say?"

There was nothing to say. Nothing but the ancient words Saryon had learned so long ago. Repeating them now, as he repeated them every morning in the Ritual of Dawn, he could almost see the white, thin-boned hand of his mother, tracing them in the air.

"Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire. To obey is to live. To live is to obey." To obey is to live. To live is to obey."

The Outland The border of the civilized lands and that region of Thimhallan known as the Outland is marked to the north of Merilon by a great river. Called the Famirash, or Tears of the Catalysts, its source is to be found in the Font, the great mountain that dominates the landscape near Merilon, the mountain where the catalysts have established the center of their Order. Thus the river's name-a daily reminder of the toil and sorrows suffered by the catalysts in their work for mankind.

The water of the Famirash is sacred. Its source in the mountain-a merry, bubbling brook-is a holy place, tended and guarded by the Druids. Water taken from this pure portion of the river possesses healing properties used by the Healers throughout the world. As the river runs upon its way, however, tumbling and laughing down the mountain like the child it is, the Famirash is joined by other streams and brooks, its innocence and purity diluted. By the time it reaches the city of Merilon, the river has grown up, becoming a wide, deep body of water.

Having gained in maturity and stature, the Famirash River, upon arriving in Merilon, becomes civilized. In the years following the Iron Wars, the Pron-alban Pron-alban, wizards skilled in the arts of shaping stone and earth, took hold of the river, rechanneled it and tamed it, split it and divided it, twisted it and turned it, sent it flowing up hills and down ornamental waterfalls, and caught it in quaint, small pools. Through their magical arts and those of their descendants, the river is forced up into the marble platforms where it bubbles in fountains and shoots high into the air in rainbow geysers. Magically heated, the river creeps demurely into perfumed bathing rooms or presents itself boldly, ready for work in the kitchens. Finally, allowed to venture into Merilon's Sacred Grove, where stands the tomb of the great wizard who founded this land, the Famirash nurtures the beautiful tropical plants and finds time to indulge in the artistic creations of the Illusionists. So vastly changed is the Famirash River in Merilon that most people forget it is a river at all.

After suffering itself to endure these civilized trappings, it is little wonder that once the river escapes the city walls of Merilon it churns and rages within its banks in a tumult of white-water confusion. Once the Famirash works this out of its system, it calms down, and by the time it meanders past the cleared fields and small farm villages, it is like a placid old Field Catalyst, plodding slowly and muddily along its tree-lined way.

Onward it flows through the croplands, quiet and hardworking until it leaves civilized lands behind. Then, once out of the sight of man, the Famirash River gives a final, great twist-like the back of a dragon-and plunges with a wild roar of exultation into the Outlands.

Free at last, the river becomes a raging torrent of white, foaming water that leaps over rocks and rushes through narrow cavern walls. There is an anger in the water, an anger it acquires as it surges past the dark places where lurk angry things-beings created by magic then tossed aside; beings wrenched from beloved homes, brought to a strange land, then left to fend on their own; beings who live here because their own, dark natures will not allow them to live in the light.

Strange sights the river sees, as it hurtles along its course. Trolls wash the bones of their victims in its waters in the manner that the creatures have, cleaning the bones to use them for ornaments upon the body or to decorate their dank caves. Giant men and women, fully twenty feet tall with the strength of rock and the brains of children, sit upon its banks, staring into the water in dim fascination. Dragons sun themselves upon its rocks like huge lizards, keeping one eye open always for signs of intruders into their secret caves. Unicorns drink from its pools, savage centaurs fish its streams, bands of faeries dance upon its waters. But the strangest sight of all, perhaps, comes within the deepest, darkest part of the river's journeying, within the very heart of the Outland-the camp of the Technologists.

By the time it reaches this region, the Famirash River runs deep and wide, dark and sullen. For here the river receives a rude shock. It flows into the clutches of the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery, who chain the river and force it to work for them.

The Technologists, or the Coven of the Wheel, as they call themselves, have dwelt peacefully within the shelter of the Outland for many years. Numbering several hundred people, their community is an ancient one, having been founded by those who escaped the purges that took place following the Iron Wars.

"They give Life to that which is Dead!" was the accusation of the catalysts then. "Their Dark Art will destroy us in this world, as it came close to destroying us in the ancient world. Look what it has done already! How many have died because of it and how many more will die if we do not remove this plague from our land!"

Hundreds of the practitioners of the Ninth Mystery were sent Beyond in what became known as the Casting Out. Their books and papers were, according to the catalysts, completely destroyed, though the catalysts secretly kept examples of many of them ("To fight the enemy, one must know him as well as one knows oneself.") The Sorcerers' terrible weapons and engines of war slowly became things of dark legend; the stories of machines that raise water from the river and carriages that crawl across the ground on round feet dwindled to the stuff of faerie tales that children laugh to hear repeated.

Those few who managed to escape the persecution fled into the Out land, where they waged a constant, bitter struggle for survival. Drawn to their ranks were all those who, as Bishop Vanya said, had a grudge against the world. Men and women of the lower classes who had rebelled against their lot, men and women of all classes whose greed led them to crime, men and women whose twisted passions led them into a thousand sins. Here too, in later years, came the Dead-those children who had failed the Testing. All were accepted because all were needed to help in the desperate battle against the wild and savage land and its inhabitants.

Finally, after centuries, the Technologists managed to create a haven in the wilderness where they could live more or less at peace. All they wanted was to be left alone, having neither the ambition nor desire left to force their ways upon others. They wanted to live as they chose, tinkering and puttering and building their waterwheels and grindstones and gristmills. Though still a haven for outcasts, the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery had their own laws, which were strictly enforced. Thus they managed to rid themselves of tainted blood. Thus they managed to live isolated and apart from the rest of Thimhallan for long, long years, eventually all but forgotten by the rest of the world.

The world, having forgotten the Sorcerers, might have left them alone. But, as often happens to mankind in his search for knowledge, the Coven chanced upon a discovery that could have led to great good but was, instead, perverted to evil.

They learned, once more, the ancient, lost art of forging iron.

Who knows by what chance this brought the evil men to them? Perhaps it was the discovery of a crude knife upon the body of a centaur. Perhaps it was the spear in the hands of some poor, pathetic giant, who babbled the name of those who had made it for him before he succumbed to torture. It doesn't matter now. The bandits found the Coven-a simple, peaceful people, isolated from the world. To enslave them was an easy task, for the leader of the bandits was a powerful warlock, a former Duuk-tsarith. Duuk-tsarith.

For the last five years, the Technologists have been ruled by a group who has taken the iron, taken that which is Lifeless, and given it a most deadly life of its own.

I.

The Renegade In less time than it takes to tell it, Saryon started on his journey. By the time he was ready to leave the Font, he was no longer afraid, nor was he bitter or angry. He was resigned. He had accepted his fate. After all, he had escaped punishment for seventeen years .... He left the Font under the cover of night, sped upon his way by the Enforcers, the black-robed Duuk-tsarith. Duuk-tsarith.

Only one person noticed Saryon was gone-Deacon Dulchase. When his inquiries among Masters and brethren brought only shrugs and blank looks, Dulchase, secure in the favor of his Duke, finally confronted Bishop Vanya himself.

"By the way, Holiness," said Dulchase in conversational tones, planting himself in front of the Bishop as he walked about one of the terraced gardens, "I have missed Brother Saryon of late. He and I were to have discussed a mathematical hypothesis concerning the possibility of fetching the Empress the moon. The last time I saw him, he spoke of being summoned to your chambers. I wondered-"

"Father Saryon?" interrupted the Bishop coldly, glancing around at several other catalysts, members of his staff, who were standing near. "Father Saryon ..." the Bishop mused. "Yes, I recall now. I believe he and I discussed a mathematical theory of his, something about shaping stone. He seemed fatigued to me. Overworked. Don't you agree, Deacon!" Deacon!" An emphasis on the rank. "I recommended a ... holiday." An emphasis on the rank. "I recommended a ... holiday."

"I'm certain he took your recommendation to heart, Holiness," the perennial Deacon returned, frowning.

"I hope so, Brother," Bishop Vanya said, turning away.

With a sigh, Dulchase went back to his cell to perform the Ritual of Night, seeing, in his mind's eyes, his poor friend slogging among the beans and cucumbers.