"-since I am Dead," finished Joram. "No, you are right." He pushed the ore across the table toward the catalyst. "Yet you should be able to tell. Try it, Catalyst. What do you sense about this ore?"

Saryon lifted the stone in his hand. For long moments he looked at it, then, shutting his eyes, he sensed for the magic.

Watching closely, Joram saw the catalyst's face grow peaceful, the man's concentration turning inward. His expression became one of awe and bliss, he was absorbing the magic. But then, slowly, the catalyst's expression changed to one of horror. Quickly he opened his eyes, and set the stone down upon the table, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from it.

"This is the darkstone!" Joram said softly.

"I do not see why it should excite you," Saryon said. He licked his lips as though he had a bitter taste in his mouth. "The secret to forming the ancient alloy is apparently one you cannot unlock."

"Not me," said Joram softly. "You, Catalyst. You see"-he leaned near-"the formula for the alloy is given in the text, but I cannot read it. It is-"

"-mathematics." Saryon's lips twisted.

"Mathematics," Joram repeated. "Something my mother never taught me, of course, since it is an art of the catalysts." Shaking his head, the young man clenched his fist, forgetting himself in his earnestness. "The texts are filled with mathematical equations! You cannot know, Saryon, how frustrating this was to me! To be so close, to have found the ore they spoke of, and then to have my way blocked by what is so much gibberish dancing across the page. I did all I could. I thought maybe by experimenting I could come across the right answer by accident. But my time was short, and Blachloch began to suspect. He is having me watched." Picking up the rock, Joram held it in his open palm, then slowly closed his fingers over it, as though he would crush it in his hand. "I don't believe I would have ever gotten it right anyway," he continued with growing bitterness. "There's a lot about catalysts in there. Directions to them. I thought I could ignore that, but apparently not."

"You called me 'Saryon,'" the catalyst said to Joram quietly.

Looking up, Joram flushed. He hadn't meant to do that, this wasn't part of his plan. There was something about this man, something he hadn't counted on finding, particularly not in a catalyst. Someone who understood.

Angrily, Joram's face hardened; the black brows drew together threateningly. No, he must stick to the plan. This man was a tool, nothing more.

"If we're going to be working together, I suppose I must call you by name," he said sullenly. "I will not not call you 'Father'!" he added with a sneer. call you 'Father'!" he added with a sneer.

"I haven't agreed to work with you," Saryon replied steadily. "Tell me, if you create this ... this weapon, what will you do with it?"

"Stop Blachloch," Joram answered with a shrug. "Believe me, Cata-Saryon-it is only a matter of time before he destroys me. He has so much as told me so already. As for you-Well, do you want to be part of another raiding party?"

"No," Saryon said in a low voice. "Will you take over leadership of the coven then?"

"Me?" Joram shook his head with a mirthless laugh. "Are you mad? Why should I want such responsibility? No, I will give the leadership of the coven back to Andon. He and these people can live in peace once more. As for me, I want only one thing. To return to Merilon and claim what is mine. With this weapon," he said grimly, "I can do it."

"You forget one thing," Saryon said. "I was sent to bring you back to ... to stand trial."

"You are right," Joram said after a pause, "I had forgotten. Very well"-he shrugged-"open a Corridor. Call the are right," Joram said after a pause, "I had forgotten. Very well"-he shrugged-"open a Corridor. Call the Duuk-tsarith. Duuk-tsarith."

"I cannot open a Corridor without the assistance of a magic-user," Saryon replied. "If you had sufficient Life, I could use yours ..."

"That was the plan?"

"Yes," Saryon murmured inaudibly.

"A pity it didn't work out, Catalyst," Joram answered coolly. "Weak though you may be, I am weaker yet. Now, that is. Once I have the weapon, however ... Well, you will do what you have to do when the time comes. Perhaps your Bishop might consider Blachloch an acceptable trade for me. As for now-Saryon-are you with me? Will you help free us both, and help free Andon and his people? You know they will keep their vow, and you know what Blachloch will do to them."

"Yes," Saryon said. Clasping his hands, he looked down at them, noticing the blueness in his fingernails. "I'm losing the feeling in my fingers," he murmured. Rising to his feet, he walked from the table to the feeble fire. "I wonder what the Almin is doing now," he said to himself, holding his hands to the warmth. "Getting ready to attend Evening Prayers in the Font? Preparing Himself to listen to Bishop Vanya praying for guidance that he probably doesn't need? No wonder the Almin stays there, safe and secure, within the walls of the Font.

"What an easy job."

6.

Fallen "It cannot be done," said Saryon, looking up from the text he was reading, his face pale and strained.

"What do you mean, it can't be done?" Joram demanded, ceasing his restless pacing and coming to stand next to the catalyst. "Don't you understand it? Can't you read the math? Is there something we lack? Something we're missing? If so-"

"I mean it cannot be done because I will not do it," Saryon said wearily, leaning his head upon his hand. He gestured at the text. "I understand it," he continued in a hollow voice. "I understand it all too well. And I will not do it!" He closed his eyes. "I will not do it."

Joram's face twisted in fury, his fist clenched, and for an instant it seemed as though he might strike the catalyst. With a visible effort, the young man controlled himself and, taking another turn about the small, underground chamber, forced himself to calm down.

As he heard Joram walk away, Saryon opened his eyes, his wistful gaze falling on the volumes and volumes of leather, hand-bound texts that stood neatly arranged on wooden bookshelves, so crudely fashioned that it appeared they might have been the work of children. An early example of woodworking without the use of magic, the catalyst guessed. He felt Joram's anger-it radiated from him like a wave of heat from the forge-and Saryon sat tense and expectant, waiting for the attack, either verbal or physical. But none came. Only a seething silence and the steady, measured pacing of the young man walking out his frustration. Saryon sighed. He would almost have preferred an outburst. This coolness in one so young, this control over a nature so obviously in turmoil, was frightening.

Where did it come from? Saryon wondered. Surely not from his parents, who-if reports were true-gave way to passions that encompassed their downfall. Perhaps this was some sort of attempt at reparation, Joram's father reaching out to him with his stone hands. Or then there was that other possibility, the one that had come to Saryon out of the darkness, out of the pain of his injury. The one he had shut out, the one he would never think of again ....

Saryon shook his head angrily. What nonsense. It was the influence of this room, it had to be.

Joram sat down in a chair beside him.

"Very well-Saryon," he said, his voice cool and even, "tell me what must be done and why you will not do it."

The catalyst sighed again. Raising his head, he looked back at the text that lay before him on the table. Smiling sadly, he ran his hand over the pages with a touch almost caressing. "Do you have any idea of the wonders within these pages?" he asked Joram softly.

Joram's eyes devoured the catalyst, watching every nuance of expression upon the man's tired, lined face. "With these wonders, we could rule the world," he replied.

"No, no, no!" Saryon said impatiently. "I meant wonders, wonders of learning. The mathematics ..." His eyes closed again in exquisite agony. "I am the best mathematician of this age," he murmured. "A genius they call me. Yet here, within these pages, I find such knowledge that makes me feel like a child crouched at my mother's knee. I don't begin to understand them. I could study for months, years ..." The look of pain faded from his face, replaced by one of longing. His hand stroked the pages of the text. "What joy," he whispered, "if I had found this this when I was young ...." His voice died. when I was young ...." His voice died.

Joram waited, watching, as patient as a cat.

"But I didn't," Saryon said. Opening his eyes, he moved his hand away from the pages of the text swiftly, as another might move his hand from a burning brand. "I have found them now that I am old, my conscience fixed, my morals formed. Perhaps those morals are not right," he added, seeing Joram frown, "but, such as they are, they are fixed within me. To deny them or fight them might drive me mad."

"So you are saying that you understand what this means"-Joram gestured toward the text-"and that you could do what must be done except that it goes against your conscience?"

Saryon nodded.

"And did it go against this conscience of yours to kill that young catalyst in the village-"

"Stop!" Saryon cried in a low voice.

"No, I won't stop," Joram returned bitterly. "You're so good at preaching sermons, Catalyst. Preach one to Blachloch. Show him the evil of his ways as he ties old Andon by his hands to the whipping post. You watch while his men flail the flesh from that old man's bones. You watch, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that it may be wrong but it isn't going against your your conscience-" conscience-"

"Stop!" Saryon's fist clenched. He glared angrily at the young man. "I don't want to see that happen anymore than you-"

"Then, help me to stop it!" Joram hissed. "It's up to you, Catalyst! You're the only one who can!"

Saryon shut his eyes again, resting his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped.

Sitting back, Joram watched and waited. The catalyst raised a haggard face. "According to the text, I must give Life ... to that which is Dead."

Joram's face darkened, the thick brows drew together. "What do you mean?" he asked tightly. "Not to me-"

"No." Drawing a deep breath, Saryon turned to the text. Moistening a finger, he carefully turned one of the brittle parchment pages, his touch gentle and reverential. "You have failed for two reasons. You have not been mixing the alloy in the correct proportions. According to this formula, that is quite important. A deviation of a few drops can mean the difference between success and failure. Then, once it is taken from the mold, the metal must be heated to a extremely high temperature-"

"But it will lose its form," Joram protested.

"Wait ..." Saryon raised his hand. "This second heating is not done in the fires of the forge." Licking his lips, he paused a moment, then continued, speaking slowly and reluctantly. "It is heated within the flame of magic ...."

Joram stared at him in confusion. "I don't understand."

"I must open a conduit, take the magic from the world, and infuse it into the metal." Saryon looked at Joram steadily. "Can't you understand, young man? I must give the Life of this world to something Dead, made by the hands of men. This goes against everything I have ever believed. It is truly the blackest of the Dark Arts."

"So what will you do, Catalyst?" Joram asked, sitting back and regarding Saryon with triumph.

But Saryon had lived over forty years in the world. Sheltered years, as he had come to learn, but he had lived them nonetheless. He was not the fool Joram thought him, walking near the edge of the cliff, his eyes staring at the sun shining above him instead of at the reality of the world around him. No, Saryon saw the chasm. He saw that in a very few steps he would fall over the edge. He saw it because this was a familiar path he walked, one he had trod before, though it had been a long time ago.

A soft knocking upon an overhead door caused both men to start up in alarm.

"Well?" said Joram insistently.

Looking at him, seeing the eager intensity of the face, Saryon drew a breath, shut his eyes, and leaped off the cliff. '"Yes," he answered inaudibly.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Joram hurried across the floor to the center of the small room and peered upward as the door in the ceiling above him opened a crack.

"It is Andon," came the whisper. "The guard is looking for you. You must return."

"Let down the ladder."

A rope ladder tumbled down in response, Joram catching it as it fell.

"Catalyst ..." He motioned.

"Yes." Gathering his robes about him, Saryon came over to stand beneath the ladder, not without a final, hungry glance at the storehouse of treasure that surrounded him.

"Should we take the book with us?" Joram asked, starting back to pick it up.

"No," Saryon said tiredly. "I have the formula memorized. You had best put it back in its place, however."

Hastily Joram set the book on the shelves, then snuffed out the candle. Thick darkness buried the chamber, musty with the smell of the ancient texts lying in their hidden sepulcher.

Did the spirits of those who had written them live in this place as well, Saryon wondered as he fumbled clumsily with the rope ladder in the dim light from a candle Andon held above them. Perhaps my my spirit will return here when I am dead, the catalyst thought, unable to refrain from a backward look as he clamored up the ladder with Joram's impatient assistance. Certainly, here, I could remain happily for centuries. spirit will return here when I am dead, the catalyst thought, unable to refrain from a backward look as he clamored up the ladder with Joram's impatient assistance. Certainly, here, I could remain happily for centuries.

"Here, Father, give me your hand."

He was at the top. Clasping him by the wrist, Andon pulled him through the trapdoor, helping Saryon climb up into the old mineshaft that ran beneath Andon's house. "Hold the light," the old man told him, handing him the candle in its wrought-iron holder. Shadows leaped and danced about the rock walls as Saryon took the light.

Joram pulled himself up easily; Saryon looked at the strong, muscular arms with envy. Bending down, the young man made certain the trapdoor was closed tightly, then he and Andon between them fastened it with something the old man called a lock, inserting a piece of oddly shaped metal into it and turning it with a clicking sound. Returning the key to his pocket, Andon stepped back and, after a brief inspection, nodded to Joram.

Placing his hands upon a gigantic boulder, the young man slowly and with obvious effort rolled the rock into place over the trapdoor, effectively concealing it from sight.

Andon shook his head. "It generally takes two grown men to move that rock," he said to Saryon, watching Joram and smiling in admiration. "At least so I remember from my youth. The rock had not been moved in years, not until the young man here insisted on seeing the ancient texts." He sighed. "There was no need to move it, no need to go down there. None of us can read them, nor could they in my father's day. I saw that rock moved only once, and then I suppose it was just to check to make certain the texts were surviving without damage."

"They are well preserved," Saryon murmured, "The room is dry. They should last for centuries if they are undisturbed."

His face soft with sympathy, Andon laid his hand upon the catalyst's arm. "I am sorry, Father. I can imagine how you must feel." His brow creased in irritation. "I tried to tell Joram-"

"No, do not blame him," Saryon said steadily. "It was my decision to come here. I am not sorry I did."

"But you seem upset ...."

"So much knowledge ... lost," the catalyst replied, his gaze going to the boulder, his thoughts with what lay beneath it.

"Yes," agreed Andon sadly.

"Not lost," said Joram coming over to them, his eyes burning brighter than the flame of the candle. "Not lost ..." he repeated, rubbing his hands.

"'Pon my honor, it's devilishly cold in here. Or is that a contradiction in terms? You'll forgive me, I trust," Simkin said, slipping into a fur cape that he conjured up with a negligent wave of his hand, "but I have a tendency to weakness in the lungs. Sister died of pneumonia, you know. Well, not actually. She died of being rather badly squashed from falling off one of the platforms in Merilon, but she wouldn't have fallen if she hadn't been wandering about delirious from the fever that she ran on account of the pneumonia. Still-"

"Not now," snapped Mosiah, sitting down at the table near the young man. "We can't stay long. The guard didn't want to let us in at all, but Simkin got Blachloch to agree to it. Why did you send for us?"

"I need your help," Joram said, sitting down near the young men.

"Oh, I say, a conspiracy! How frightfully fearful sounding. I am all ears. I could could be all ears, you know," Simkin added in sudden inspiration. "If it would help." be all ears, you know," Simkin added in sudden inspiration. "If it would help."

"All mouth is nearer the mark. Shut up," muttered Mosiah.

"I won't say another word." Muffled to the eyes in fur, Simkin obligingly snapped his lips shut and gazed at Joram with grave intensity that was, however, rather spoiled by a gaping yawn. "Beg pardon," he said.

Huddled, shivering, in a corner as close to the feeble fire as he could get, Saryon snorted in disgust. Joram glanced at him irritably, making a motion as if to reassure him. Then he turned back to his friends.

"The catalyst and I have to get out of here tonight ..."

"You're escaping?" Mosiah asked eagerly. "I'll come with you-"

"No, listen!" Joram said in exasperation. "I can't tell you what we're doing. It's better you don't know, anyway. In case anything goes wrong. We have to get out of here and back in without the guard knowing and, more important, we have to be free to do ... what we have to do without being interrupted,"

"That should be easy." Mosiah appeared disappointed. "You went to Andon's last night-"

"And the guard escorted us there and back, just like he escorts me to the forge every day," Joram finished grimly.

"In other words," said Simkin coolly, "you want the guard to be in the land of Bidey-Bye whilst you two perform dark and treacherous acts. In the morning you want him to find you slumbering peacefully in your little beds when he himself awakes."

Glancing at Simkin, Saryon stirred uneasily. The young man was near the mark with his playful guessing. Too near. The catalyst hadn't wanted to involve these two at all-Mosiah because it was dangerous and Simkin because he was Simkin.

"In addition," the fur-covered young man was continuing languidly, "you do not want interruptions by one person in particular-our Blond and Baleful Leader. My dear boy"-Simkin snuggled comfortably into his cape-"nothing simpler. Leave everything to me."

"What do you intend to do?" Saryon asked, his voice rasping.