She could not go on, but began to weep silently.

"You better be getting gone, Father," Jacobias said gruffly. "Moon's almost to the tops of the trees and ye've a ways to go. If you haven't made it to the river by the time she sets," he added sternly, "sit yourself down and wait till mornin'. Don't go bumblin' about in the dark. Ye're liable to tumble down a cliff."

"Yes," Saryon managed to say, drawing another deep breath and smoothing the folds of his robes around him with his shaking hands.

"Now, come here"-Jacobias led the catalyst to the door, which opened at his approach-"and look where I point and listen to my words careful, for they could mean life instead of death, Father."

"I understand," said Saryon, holding onto his courage as tightly as his hands gripped his sack.

"See that star yonder, the one at the tip of the stars they call the Gods Hand. You see it?"

"Yes."

"That's the North Star. It's not called God's Hand fer nothin', 'cause it'll point yer way, if ye let it. Keep that star in yer left eye, as the saying goes. Know what that means?"

The catalyst shook his head, and Jacobias checked a sigh. "It means-Never mind. Just do this. Always make certain yer walkin' straight toward the star and just a bit to the right of it like. Never let the star get to the right of you. Understand? If so, you'll end up in centaur land. If they get hold of you, you can just pray to the Almin for the swiftest death there is."

Saryon stared up into the night sky, looking at the star, and felt suddenly dismayed. He had never looked up into the night sky before, he realized. At least, not out here, not where the stars seemed so close and so many. Overwhelmed at the vastness and immenseness of the universe and of his own tiny, tiny part in it, it seemed to Saryon terribly ironic that another tiny, cold, faraway and uncaring part was going to lead him. He thought of the Font, where the stars were studied as they affected a person's life from his birth. He saw the charts spread out on the table, he recalled the calculations he had made regarding them, and it occurred to him that he had never once really looked at the stars as he was looking at them now. Now that his life truly depended on them.

"I understand," he murmured, though he didn't, not in the slightest.

Jacobias looked at him dubiously. "Maybe I should take him," he muttered to his wife.

Saryon glanced around quickly. "No," he said. "No, there would be trouble. I've stayed too long as it is. Someone might have seen us. Thank you very much. Both for your help and-and your kind words. Good-bye. Good-bye. May the Almin's blessing be with you both."

"Maybe it's not right of me to say this, Father," Jacobias said roughly, "me not bein' a catalyst an' all, but may the Almin's blessing be with you." you." Flushing, he looked down at the ground. "There. I don't reckon He'll take offense, do you?" Flushing, he looked down at the ground. "There. I don't reckon He'll take offense, do you?"

Saryon started to smile, but the quivering of his lips led him to believe he might very well weep instead, and that would be disastrous. Reaching out, he shook hands earnestly with Jacobias, who appeared to be in the throes of some dilemma, for he was still staring at Saryon as though trying to make up his mind to speak further. His wife, hovering near him, suddenly lifted Saryon's hand in hers and pressed it to her rough lips.

"This is for you," she said softly, "and for my boy, if you see him." Her eyes filling with tears, she turned and hurried back inside the mean dwelling.

Saryon's own vision was dim as he started to walk away, only to feel Jacobias's hand on his shoulder.

"Listen," said the Field Magus. "I-I think you should know. It may make things a bit easier for you. There-there are some people who've been ... making inquiries so to speak about you. They're in need of a catalyst, I fancy, so likely they'll be takin' an interest in you above the ordinary, if you get my meaning."

"Thank you," said Saryon, somewhat startled. Bishop Vanya had implied much the same thing. How had he known? "Where will I find these-"

"They'll find you," Jacobias said gruffly. "Just remember about the star, though, or the first thing that'll find you will be death."

"I'll remember. Thank you. Good-bye."

But Jacobias was still not easy in his mind apparently, for he held Saryon back one last instant.

"I don't approve of 'em," he muttered, frowning. "Not from anythin' I've seen, mind you, just from what I've heard. I hope the rumors mayn't be true. If they are, I pray my boy hasn't got hisself involved. I didn't approve him goin' out there, but we had no choice. Not when we heard the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith was being sent to talk with him ...." was being sent to talk with him ...."

"Duuk-tsarith?" repeated Saryon, puzzled. "But I thought he ran off with that young man who killed the overseer, that Joram ..." repeated Saryon, puzzled. "But I thought he ran off with that young man who killed the overseer, that Joram ..."

"Joram?" Jacobias shook his head. "Dunno who told you this. That strange young man hain't been seen here in over a year. Mosiah was hopin' to find him, that's for certain; somethin' I wasn't hopeful of myself. A walkin' Dead man ..." He shook his head again. "But that's not what I meant to go on about." Holding onto Saryon's arm, Jacobias looked at him earnestly. "I didn't want to say nothin' about this round his mother. But if the boy is is in bad company and is followin' ways of-ways of darkness, speak to him, will you, Father? Remind him that we love him and think of him?" in bad company and is followin' ways of-ways of darkness, speak to him, will you, Father? Remind him that we love him and think of him?"

"I will, Jacobias, I will," Saryon said gently, patting the man's work-worn hand.

"Thank you, Father." Jacobias cleared his throat, and wiping his hand over his eyes and nose, he waited a moment to compose himself before he went back into the shack. "Good-bye, Father," he said.

Turning, he stepped back inside and shut the door behind him. Looking into the window, for a moment unwilling to leave, Saryon saw the Field Magus and his wife standing in the moonlight that beamed in through their window. He saw Jacobias take his wife into his arms and hold her close. He heard her muffled sobs.

Sighing, Saryon clutched his sack and started walking across the fields, his eyes on the stars and, occasionally, on the vast darkness to which the stars were drawing him. His feet stumbled over the uneven ground that was nothing to him but patches of white moonlight and black shadow. Reaching the edge of the village, he looked out over the fields of wheat that stirred gently in the breeze like a moonlit lake. Turning, Saryon glanced back one last time at the village, at his last contact, perhaps, with humanity.

The tree dwellings sat stolidly on the ground, their interlaced branches casting eerie, intricate shadows in the moonlight. There were no lights within the shacks; the faint light gleaming from Jacobias's window went out as Saryon watched. Too tired to dream, the Field Magi slept.

For an instant, the catalyst thought he might run back. But even as he gazed at the peaceful village, Saryon realized he couldn't. He might have, an hour earlier, when the fear inside of him had been very real. But not now. Now he could turn and walk away from them, turn and walk away from everything in his past life. He would walk into the night, guided by that tiny, uncaring star above. Not because he had discovered any newfound courage. No. It was a reason as dark as the shadows of the moonlit trees that rustled about him. He could not go back, not until he had the answer. Bishop Vanya lied to him about Mosiah. Why?

That nagging question and its attendant dark shadow accompanied Saryon into the wilderness, proving a valuable companion, for it kept the catalyst's mind occupied and forced his other companion-fear-to straggle along behind. Keeping one eye on the star, a feat that proved increasingly difficult for the catalyst as he plunged deeper and deeper into the thick forests, Saryon pondered this question, trying to find excuses, trying to find explanations, only to be forced to admit to himself that there were no excuses and that he had no explanation.

Bishop Vanya had lied, that much was quite clear. What was more, it had been a conspiracy of lies.

Stopping for a moment to rest, Saryon sank down on a boulder to massage his aching and cramping leg muscles. The strange, ominous sounds of the forest growled and whispered about him, but Saryon was able to ignore them by going back, in his mind, to Bishop Vanya's chambers in the Font the day he had been called there to hear Father Tolban's story. Vanya's words came to him clearly, mercifully drowning out a low snarl from some predatory animal stalking its prey through the night.

It seems that this Joram had a friend-Saryon could hear Vanya quite plainly-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.

Yes, Mosiah had gone. But not because of Joram. He had fled because of rumors that the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith were interested in him. were interested in him.

A shrill scream behind Saryon, cut off suddenly by a furious growl, had the catalyst up off his boulder and running through the forest before he was quite aware of what had occurred. When he was once more master of himself, he drew several deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart. Forcing himself to slow down, he took his bearings on the star that he could barely make out through the branches above him and discovered to his dismay that the moon was setting.

The catalyst recalled Jacobias's warning against wandering about in the dark at almost the same time he recalled, quite clearly, Father Tolban's furtive glance toward Bishop Vanya as the Bishop was relating the tale about Joram and Mosiah. Saryon recalled Tolban's guilty flush when he saw the catalyst looking at him. A conspiracy of lies.

But why? What were they hiding?

Suddenly Saryon had the answer. Hurrying forward with some vague idea of making his way to the river before the moon set, Saryon worked out the mystery much as he worked out his mathematical equations. Vanya knew knew Joram was in that coven. He had lied to conceal the true source of his knowledge. In fact, Saryon realized, Vanya knew lots of things about the coven-that they were in need of a catalyst, that they were dealing with the king of Sharakan. It was logical, therefore, that the Bishop had a spy planted within the coven. That much worked out. But, Saryon frowned, his equation lacked a final answer. Joram was in that coven. He had lied to conceal the true source of his knowledge. In fact, Saryon realized, Vanya knew lots of things about the coven-that they were in need of a catalyst, that they were dealing with the king of Sharakan. It was logical, therefore, that the Bishop had a spy planted within the coven. That much worked out. But, Saryon frowned, his equation lacked a final answer.

If Vanya had a spy in the coven, why did he need Saryon?

Distracted by these thoughts, the catalyst stumbled about in his mind nearly as badly as he was stumbling about in the gathering darkness. Coming to a halt, Saryon caught his breath, fixed his position by the star, and listened for the sound of the river. He did not hear it and, logic finally convincing him that he had not walked far enough to reach it, he decided to heed Jacobias's words and rest for the remainder of the night.

Saryon began to look for a place to spend the hours until dawn. He had not crossed the river yet, and naively assumed he was relatively safe. Not that it would have mattered much otherwise. The catalyst was so exhausted by both the unaccustomed exercise and the nervous strain and tension that he knew he could not go another step. Reasoning that it might be better to stay near the trail (without bothering to wonder who or what had made the trail), Saryon gathered his robes about his bony ankles and hunched down at the base of a gigantic oak tree, making a very uncomfortable bed between two huge, exposed roots. Drawing his knees up to his chin, he settled himself in the undergrowth and prepared to wait out the rest of the night.

Saryon had no intention of falling asleep. He would not have believed it possible that he could could fall asleep, in fact. The moon had set and, though the stars shone brightly above him, the night was dark and frightening around him. Strange noises rustled and growled and snuffled. Wild eyes stared at him and, in desperation, he closed his own. fall asleep, in fact. The moon had set and, though the stars shone brightly above him, the night was dark and frightening around him. Strange noises rustled and growled and snuffled. Wild eyes stared at him and, in desperation, he closed his own.

"I am in the hands of the Almin," he whispered to himself feverishly. But the words brought no comfort. Instead, they sounded stupid, meaningless. What was he to the Almin but just one of many wretched people in this world? Just one tiny being, not even as worthy of attracting the Almin's notice as one of those bright, gleaming stars. For he, poor mortal that he was, shed no light. Even some illiterate peasant could ask for the Almin's blessing with more sincerity than His catalyst! Saryon clenched his fists in despair. His Church, once as mighty and strong to him as the mountain fastness itself, was shaking apart and crumbling around him.

His Bishop, the man nearest his god, had lied to him. His Bishop was using him, for some dark, unseen purpose.

Shaking his head, Saryon sought to recall his studies in theology, hoping to catch hold of the faith that was slipping away from him. But he might as well have tried to stop the outgoing tide by putting his hand in the water and catching hold of a wave. His faith was bound up in men, and men had failed him.

No, be honest, Saryon told himself, quaking as the dreadful sounds of the night leaped out at him, dragging all the fears of his subconscious with it, your faith was bound up in yourself. It is you you who have failed! who have failed!

The catalyst covered his head with his arms in bleak hopelessness. Huddling beneath the tree, he listened to the horrible noises that were getting nearer and waited to feel sharp teeth sink into his flesh or to hear the harsh laughter of the centaurs. Slowly, however, the noises began to fade away. Or perhaps he he was fading away. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered. was fading away. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

Lost and wandering in a darkness vaster and more terrifying than the Outland, Saryon resigned himself to his fate. Worn out and despairing, no longer caring whether he lived or died, he slept.

4.

Found Lifting his head and blinking in the bright morning sunlight, Saryon stared around at his surroundings. Completely disoriented, he had the confused thought that something had spirited away his cabin in the night, leaving him to sleep upon the ground.

Then he heard a growling sound and everything came back to him in a rush, including his fear and the knowledge that he was alone in the wilderness. Panicked, Saryon leaped to his feet. At least-that's what he intended to do. As it was, he barely managed to move into a sitting position. Pain knotted his back muscles, his joints were stiff, and he seemed to have lost all feeling in his legs. His robes were wet with the morning dew, he was chilled and aching and thoroughly miserable. Groaning, Saryon laid his head back down on his knees and considered how easy it would be to stay here and die.

"I say," said a voice in admiration, "I know warlocks who don't dare spend a night in the Outland without ringing themselves round with fiery demons and such like, and here you are, a catalyst, sleeping like a babe in its mother's arms."

Starting up and staring around wildly, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes, Saryon focused on the source of the voice-a young man sitting upon a tree stump, his eyes regarding Saryon with the same undisguised admiration as heard in his voice. Long brown hair curled upon his shoulders, matched by a soft brown beard and a sleek mustache. He was dressed to blend in with the wilderness in plain brown cloak and trousers and soft, leather boots.

"Who-who are you?" Saryon stammered, endeavoring, not very successfully, to stand up. Confused thoughts of the Field Magi having sent someone after him came into his half-asleep brain. "You're not from the settlement?"

"Let me give you a hand," the young man said, coming over and helping the catalyst rise stiffly to his feet. "Rather an elderly chap to be out wandering about in the woods, aren't you?"

Saryon jerked his arm out of the young man's solicitous grip. "I repeat, who are you?" he asked sternly.

"How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?" the young man inquired, looking at Saryon anxiously. "Fortyish?"

"I demand-"

"Early forties," said the young man, studying the catalyst. "Right?"

"It's none of your concern," Saryon said, shivering in his damp robes. "Either answer my question or be on your way and let me go on mine ..."

The young man's face grew solemn. "Ah there, that's just it. I'm afraid your age is is a bit of concern to me, you know, because your way a bit of concern to me, you know, because your way is is my way. I'm your guide." my way. I'm your guide."

Saryon stared, too startled to reply. Then he recalled Jacobias's words: There are some people who've been making inquiries about you. They're in need of a catalyst, so likely they'll be takin' an interest in you above the ordinary. There are some people who've been making inquiries about you. They're in need of a catalyst, so likely they'll be takin' an interest in you above the ordinary.

"My name's Simkin," said the young man, reaching out his hand in a friendly manner. Weak with relief, Saryon returned the handshake, grimacing as he moved and bitterly regretting his night spent under the tree.

"If you feel up to traveling," Simkin continued placidly, "we really should be moving along. Centaurs caught two of Blachloch's men here a month ago. Ripped them into small pieces not fifty feet from where we're standing. Ghastly sight, I assure you."

The catalyst blenched. "Centaurs?" he repeated nervously. "Here? But we're not across the river ...."

"Pon my honor," said Simkin, regarding Saryon with amazement, "you are are a babe in the woods, aren't you? Here I thought you were incredibly brave and it turns out you're just incredibly stupid. This is a centaur hunting trail you've been sleeping on! And now, we've really wasted enough time. They hunt by day, you know. Well, I guess you a babe in the woods, aren't you? Here I thought you were incredibly brave and it turns out you're just incredibly stupid. This is a centaur hunting trail you've been sleeping on! And now, we've really wasted enough time. They hunt by day, you know. Well, I guess you don't don't know, but you'll learn. Let's be off." He stood looking at Saryon expectantly. know, but you'll learn. Let's be off." He stood looking at Saryon expectantly.

"What are you staring at me for?" Saryon asked shakily, the phrase ripped them into small pieces ripped them into small pieces having made him go cold all over. "You're the guide!" having made him go cold all over. "You're the guide!"

"But you're the catalyst," Simkin said ingenuously. "Open a Corridor for us."

"A C-corridor?" Saryon put his hand to his head, rubbing it in perplexity. "I can't do that! We'd be discovered. I-I'm desperate"-falling back on his script-"I'm a renegade ..."

"Oh, come," Simkin said with a shade of coolness in his voice, "the farmers may believe that but I know better, and if you think I'm going to travel months months through this godforsaken forest when you could get us where we're going in moments, then you are sadly mistaken." through this godforsaken forest when you could get us where we're going in moments, then you are sadly mistaken."

"But the Enforcers ..."

"They know when to look away," Simkin said, eyeing Saryon shrewdly. "I'm certain Bishop Vanya's given them their orders."

Vanya! Saryon's suspicions, doubts, and questions-momentarily forgotten in his predicament-flooded back. How did this young man know about Vanya? Unless he was the spy ....

"I-I have no idea what you are talking about," Saryon stammered, with an attempt at a perplexed frown. "I'm a renegade. A court of the catalysts sent me to this wretched village for my punishment. I've never spoken to Bishop Vanya-"

"Oh, this is such a complete waste of time," Simkin interrupted, stroking his brown curls with his hand and staring moodily down the trail. "You've talked to Bishop Vanya. I've I've talked to Bishop Vanya-" talked to Bishop Vanya-"

"You've ... talked ... to Bishop Vanya?" Feeling his knees start to give way, Saryon grabbed hold of a tree branch to keep from falling.

"Look at you," Simkin said scornfully. "Weak as a cat. And this is the man you sent alone into the Outland!" he cried, appealing to some unseen being. "Of course I've talked to Vanya," Simkin said, turning back to Saryon. "His Tubbiness laid his plans out quite clearly before me. 'Simkin,' he said, 'I would be grateful, eternally grateful, if you would assist me in this little matter.' 'Bishop, old chap,' I replied, 'I'm yours to command.' He would have hugged me, but there are some things I draw the line at, and being hugged by fat bald men is one."

Saryon stared at the young man in amazed confusion, feeling dizzy and only half comprehending what he'd said. This is insane, was the first clear thought that came to him. This ... Simkin talking to Bishop Vanya? His Tubbiness! Yet Simkin knew ...

"You must be the spy!" Saryon blurted.

"I must, must I?" Simkin said, regarding him with a look both cool and mysterious.

"You've as much as admitted it!" Saryon cried, grasping hold of the young man's arm. Aching, frightened, and exhausted, the catalyst had reached his limit. "Why is Vanya sending me? I must know! You could bring him Joram, if that's all he wants! Why did he lie to me? Why the tricks?"

"Now look here, old boy, calm down," said Simkin soothingly. Suddenly serious, he laid his hand over Saryon's and drew him near, "If what you say is true and I am am working for Vanya, and, mind you, I'm not saying I am-" working for Vanya, and, mind you, I'm not saying I am-"

"No, of course not," Saryon muttered.

"-then you must know that my life would be worth less than that truly slovenly looking garb you're wearing if anyone back at"-he nodded in what Saryon presumed was the direction of the coven's settlement-"found out. Not that I care about myself," he added in a low voice, "but it's my sister."

"Sister?" Saryon asked weakly.

Simkin nodded. "They're holding her captive," he whispered.

"The Coven?" Saryon was growing more confused.

"The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith hissed Simkin. "If I fail ..." Shrugging, he grasped himself around the neck and twisted his hands. "Snap," he said gloomily. hissed Simkin. "If I fail ..." Shrugging, he grasped himself around the neck and twisted his hands. "Snap," he said gloomily.

"That's dreadful!" Saryon gasped.

"I could turn Joram over to them," Simkin continued with a sigh. "He trusts me, poor lad. I'm his best friend, in fact. I could tell them all they wanted to know about the negotiations with the Emperor of Sharakan. I could help expose these Technologists for the murderers and black-hearted Sorcerers that they are. But that's not what we're after, is it?"

Saryon deemed it safer not to reply, since he wasn't at all certain what he was after. He could only stare at Simkin dumbly. How did he know know all of this? Vanya all of this? Vanya must must have told him ... have told him ...

"It is a deep game we play, brother," said Simkin, clutching Saryon's arm. "Deep and dangerous. You are in it with me, the only one I can trust." He caught his breath in a choking sob. "I am thankful, thankful not to be alone anymore!"

Throwing his arms around the catalyst, Simkin laid his head on Saryon's shoulder and began to weep.

Taken aback by this unexpected development, Saryon could only stand helplessly in the middle of the forest, patting the young man awkwardly on the back.

"There, I'm all right," Simkin said bravely, straightening up and wiping his face. "Sorry for falling apart. It's this beastly strain. It will be better now that I have somebody to talk to. For the nonce, however, we really must must be running along!" be running along!"