"The Outland?" The overseer folded his arms across his chest. "Then you can turn around and ride back to that god-cursed territory. We want none of your kind around here. Go on, get out of here. Catalyst-"

But the young Deacon was quick-thinking, opening a conduit to the overseer before he asked.

By this time the sound of talking had roused other villagers living nearby. Some looked out of windows, several of the men came to their doors, and a few stepped into the roadway.

Sitting calmly on his steed, Blachloch might have been waiting for this audience, for he smiled again, as if in gratification.

"I said, Begone!" the overseer began, taking a step forward.

Blachloch removed his hand from Saryon's arm, breaking the conduit so swiftly that the catalyst gasped as some of the magical power surged back through him.

Pointing his hand at the overseer, Blachloch whispered one word. The overseer began to glow with an eerie aura that surrounded his body, giving off a faint greenish glow-the magus was of the Mystery of Earth. The aura grew brighter and stronger, and by its light, Saryon saw the overseer's face contort in astonishment, then fear, as he realized what was happening to him. The light was his own magic, his own Life. When the glow died, the man's body slumped to the ground.

Saryon's throat constricted, he could not breathe. All his life he had heard of the terrible power of Nullmagic, but he had never seen it used. The overseer was not dead, but he might as well have been. He lay on his doorstoop, more helpless than a newborn child. Until the spell was reversed or until such time as he might train his body to live without the magic, he would be able to do nothing but stare about him in impotent fury, his arms and legs twitching feebly.

Several of the magi were running toward their overseer, shouting in alarm. Kneeling beside the fallen man, the young Deacon raised his head to look at Blachloch. Saryon saw the catalyst's eyes widen in fear, his lips open in a plea, a protest, a prayer ...

Blachloch moved his hand again, spoke again. This time there was no light, no sound. The spell was swift and efficient. Compressed air slammed into the young catalyst like an ocean wave, surging over him, smashing his body up against the stone wall of the overseer's house.

The shouts of alarm became anger and outrage. Sickened and horrified, Saryon swayed in the saddle, the lights of the village swam about him, the shadows leaped and danced in his dazed vision. He saw Blachloch raise his hand, saw it burn with flame and heard the answering sounds of horses' hooves thudding behind him. The band was riding to the attack. He had the vague impression that some of the Field Magi appeared ready to fight Blachloch with their own magic, weakened though it might be after a day in the fields, when the warlock lifted his fiery hand and pointed.

A dwelling place burst into an inferno of flame. Sounds of screaming came from within, a woman and several children rushed outside, their clothes ablaze. The Field Magi stopped, hesitating, fear and confusion replacing the anger on their faces. A few came nearer, a few turned, stumbling, to help the victims of the fire. But there were two who kept coming toward Blachloch and Saryon, one already raising his hands, calling upon the forces of the earth to aid him. His eyes were on Saryon, who could not move.

He found himself hoping bitterly that the man would smite him down where he sat. But Blachloch, without undue haste, moved his hand slightly pointing to another shack. It, too, burst into flame.

"I can destroy this entire village in minutes," he said in his expressionless voice to the approaching magi. "Cast your spell. If you know anything of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith you know that I can protect both myself and my catalyst from it. And where will you get the energy to cast another? Your catalyst is dead. Mine lives." Extending his hand to Saryon, he said, "Catalyst, grant me Life." you know that I can protect both myself and my catalyst from it. And where will you get the energy to cast another? Your catalyst is dead. Mine lives." Extending his hand to Saryon, he said, "Catalyst, grant me Life."

Obedire est vivere.

Saryon still could not move. In a dreamlike horror, he looked from the magi to the body of the young Deacon lying in the doorway beside the helpless overseer.

Blachloch did not turn, he did not look at Saryon. He merely repeated.

"Catalyst, grant me Life."

Again, there was no threat made, not even in the tone. Yet Saryon knew he would be made to pay for his lapse in duty. Blachloch never gave an order twice.

Obedire est vivere.

And he had no doubt the price would be high.

"No," said Saryon softly and steadily, "I will not do it."

"Well, well," Joram murmured, "the old man has more guts than I'd imagined."

"What?" Mosiah, his face pale and strained, was staring at the burning homes of the Field Magi with wide eyes. Dazedly he turned to Joram. "What did you say?"

"Look." Joram pointed to where the warlock sat astride his horse not far from them, the two young men having ridden in the vanguard. "The catalyst. He's refused Blachloch's command for more Life."

"He'll kill him!" Mosiah whispered in horror.

"No, Blachloch's smarter than that. He won't kill his only catalyst. Still, I'll bet the man will soon wish he was dead."

Mosiah put his hand to his head. "This is dreadful, Joram," he said thickly. "I had no idea-I didn't know it would be like this ... I'm leaving!" He started to turn his horse.

"Get hold of yourself!" Joram snapped, grasping his friends arm and jerking him back sharply. "You can't run! The villagers might attack us ..."

"I hope they do!" Mosiah shouted furiously. "I hope they kill you all. Let go of me, Joram!"

"Where will you go? Think!" Joram held onto him with the firm grip of the iron forge.

"I can get into the woods!" Mosiah hissed, trying to twist free. "I'll hide there until you're gone. Then I'll come back here, do what I can for these people-"

"They'll turn you over to the Enforcers," snarled Joram through clenched teeth, maintaining his grip on his friend with difficulty. Their horses, alarmed by the fire and the smoke, the yelling and the young men's struggles, were milling round and round, churning up the ground with their hooves. "Listen to reason-Wait-" He glanced up. "Look, your catalyst ..."

Mosiah turned, his gaze following Joram's in time to see two of Blachloch's henchmen drag Saryon from his horse and hurl him to the ground. Staggering, Saryon tried to stand, but two other men, at a gesture from the warlock, leaped from their horses, grabbed hold of the catalyst, and held him, arms pinned behind his back. Seeing his commands being obeyed, Blachloch cast a last glance at the catalyst, saying something to him Joram could not hear. Then the warlock galloped off, yelling more commands to his men and gesturing toward a large building where the crops were stored. As he passed, other huts burst into flame, lighting the night like a dreadful sun fallen to earth.

All around Joram and Mosiah, the bandits rode to do their commander's bidding, some heading for the granary, others keeping watch on the Field Magi, some of whom were fleeing in terror, others were trying in vain to save their homes from the magical fires. But Joram's and Mosiah's attention was on the men holding Saryon.

By the light of the burning dwellings, Joram saw a hand clench, then he heard the sound of a fist thudding into flesh. The catalyst doubled over with a groan, but the guard who held him hauled him upright. The attacker's next blow smashed into Saryon's head. His face suddenly dark with blood, the catalyst's choked cry was cut off as the guard drove his fist once again into the priest's stomach.

"My god!" whispered Mosiah. Feeling his friend's body stiffen, Joram turned to him in alarm. Mosiah's face had gone ashen, sweat stood on his forehead, and he was staring at the catalyst with white-rimmed eyes. Looking back, Joram saw the catalyst slumped in his captor's grasp, moaning, flinching as more blows landed on the unresisting body with ruthless efficiency.

"No! Don't-Are you mad?" Joram shouted, hanging onto Mosiah. "They'll do worse to you if you interfere ..."

But he might have been talking to the air. Giving his friend a bitter, angry look, Mosiah kicked his horse violently in the ribs and dashed forward, nearly dragging Joram out of his saddle in his wild plunge.

"Damn!" Joram swore, searching around for help to try to catch Mosiah.

"I say," came a lilting voice in his ear, "grand conflagration this. I'm quite enjoying myself. What about toodling over to the granary and watching them load sacks-Almin's blood, what's the matter, dear boy?"

"Shut up and come on!" Joram shouted, gesturing. "Look!"

"More jollity," said Simkin with enthusiasm, riding after Joram. "I'd completely missed that. What are are they doing to our poor catalytic friend?" they doing to our poor catalytic friend?"

"He refused one of Blachloch's commands," Joram said grimly, urging his excited horse to a gallop. "And look, there's Mosiah! Going to get himself mixed up into this."

"I feel I should point out that from the looks of things, Mosiah is already already mixed up in this," panted Simkin, jouncing along behind as he tried to keep up. "Now, I enjoy beating up a catalyst as much as the next man, but Blachloch's boys seem to be having quite a good time and I don't think they'd appreciate us horning in on their sport-Almin's blood and brains! What mixed up in this," panted Simkin, jouncing along behind as he tried to keep up. "Now, I enjoy beating up a catalyst as much as the next man, but Blachloch's boys seem to be having quite a good time and I don't think they'd appreciate us horning in on their sport-Almin's blood and brains! What is is our friend doing?" our friend doing?"

Leaping off his horse, Mosiah had hurled himself bodily at the man who was beating Saryon, knocking the henchmen to the ground. As the two went down in a struggling heap, the other guard, who had been holding Saryon while his companion inflicted the blows, flung the catalyst to one side. Conjuring up a huge branch in his hand, the guard started to smash it down on the young man's head.

"Mosiah!" Joram called, sliding off his horse and dashing madly toward them. But he knew, with an aching in his heart that startled him, that he must be too late. The blow was falling that would split the young man's skull. Then Joram stopped, staring in astonishment as a brick appeared out of nowhere, materializing in the air right above the guards head.

"I say, take that!" shouted the brick. Dropping down, it rapped the guard smartly on the head, then tumbled into the grass. The guard took a staggering step, swayed drunkenly, and keeled over, landing on top of the brick.

Jumping forward, Joram grabbed hold of Mosiah, who had his hands around the guard's throat.

"Let him go!" Joram grunted, wrenching his friend from his victim. The man rolled over, gasping for air. Struggling to escape Joram's hold, Mosiah lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the guard in the head. The guard lay still.

"He's finished! Leave him alone!" Joram ordered Mosiah, shaking him. "Listen! We've got to get out of here!"

Glancing up at his friend, his eyes burning with bloodlust, Mosiah shook his head dazedly. "Saryon," he gasped, wiping blood from a cut lip.

"Oh, for the love of-" Joram began in disgust. "There he is, but I think he's past helping." He gestured to the catalyst's inert body, which was lying crumpled on the grass. "Get him on a horse then, if you insist. Damn it, where the devil's Simkin ..."

"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. 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?" "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 are attacked, Sharakan will come to our defense, he says." 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 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. 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 ...."