Part 10 (1/2)
”No, a bed by the fire is fine. Much better than what I am accustomed to, in fact, Your Grace.” Saryon bowed wearily. ”Besides, I am suddenly so tired that I will probably never know whether I am lying on swan's down or pine needles.”
”Very well, Father. I bid you good-night. And, Father” - Garald rested his hand on the older man's arm - ”erase your conscience of the guilt of Blachloch's death. The man was evil. Had you allowed him to live, he would have killed Joram and taken the darkstone. It was by the Almin's will that Joram acted, the Almin's justice that Joram meted out.”
”Perhaps.” Saryon smiled wanly. ”To my mind, it was still murder. Killing has become easy for Joram - too easy. He sees it as his way to gain the power he lacks in magic. I bid you good-night, Your Grace.”
”Good night, Father,” said Garald, considering his words thoughtfully, ”May the Almin watch over you.”
”May He indeed,” Saryon murmured, turning away.
The Prince of Sharakan did not retire to his own tent until far into the starlit hours of early morning. Back and forth he walked over the gra.s.s in the cold night air, cloaked in furs that he caused to appear without thinking about it. His thoughts were occupied by the strange, dark tale of madness and murder, of Life and Death, of magic and its destroyer. At last, when he knew himself to be tired enough that he could banish the tale into the realm of sleep, he stood looking down at the slumbering group fate had cast into his path.
Or was it fate?
”This isn't the way to Merilon,” he said to himself, the fact suddenly occurring to him. ”Why are they traveling this route? There are others to the east far shorter and safer....
”And who has been their guide? Let me guess. Three who have never traveled in the world. One who has been everywhere.” His eyes went to the figure in the white nights.h.i.+rt. No babe in his mothers arms slumbered more sweetly than Simkin, though the ta.s.sel of the nightcap had fallen down over his mouth and there was every likelihood that he would inhale it and swallow it before the night was ended.
”What game are you playing now, old friend?” muttered Garald. ”Certainly not tarok. Of all the shadows I see falling across this young man, why is yours, somehow, the darkest?”
Musing on this, the Prince retired to his tent, leaving the unmoving, watchful Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith to rule the night. to rule the night.
But Garald's sleep was not unbroken as he had hoped. More than once, he found himself waking with a start, thinking he heard the gleeful laughter of a bucket.
12.
The Fencing Master ”Get up!”
The toe of a boot struck Joram in the ribs, not gently. Startled, half-asleep, his heart pounding, the young man sat up from his blankets and shoved the tangled black hair back from his eyes. ”What -”.
”I said, get up,” repeated a cool voice.
Prince Garald stood above Joram, regarding him with a pleasant smile.
Joram rubbed his eyes and glanced about. It was just before dawn, he supposed, although the only indication was a faint brightening of the sky above the treetops to the east. Otherwise, it was still dark. The fire had burned low; his companions lay asleep around it. Two silken tents, barely visible in the prelight, stood at the edge of the clearing, flags fluttering from their pointed tops. These had not been there the day before and were, presumably, where the Prince and Cardinal Radisovik spent the night.
In the center of the clearing, near the dying fire, stood one of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith in what Joram could swear was the same position he had seen him standing in last night. The warlock's hands were folded before him, his face lost in shadow. But the hooded head was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes. in what Joram could swear was the same position he had seen him standing in last night. The warlock's hands were folded before him, his face lost in shadow. But the hooded head was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes.
”What is it? What do you want?” Joram asked. His hand crept to the sword beneath his blanket.
”'What do you want, Your Grace Your Grace,'” corrected the Prince with a grin. ”That does stick in your craw, doesn't it, young man. Yes, bring the weapon,” he added, though Joram had supposed he was making his move un.o.bserved.
Chagrined, Joram drew the Darksword from beneath the blanket, but he did not stand up.
”I asked what you wanted ... Your Grace,” he said coldly, his lip curling.
”If you are going to use that weapon” - the Prince glanced at the sword in amused distaste - ”then you had better learn how to use it properly. I could have skewered you like a chicken yesterday instead of merely disarming you. Whatever powers that sword possesses” - Garald regarded it more intently - ”won't do you much good if it is lying on the ground ten feet away from you. Come on. I know a place in the woods where we can practice without disturbing the others.”
Joram hesitated, studying the Prince with his dark eyes, searching for the man's motive behind this show of interest.
Undoubtedly he wants to learn more about the sword, Joram thought. Perhaps even take if from me. What a charmer he is - almost as good as Simkin. I was duped by him last night. I won't be today. I'll go along with this, if I can truly learn something. If not, I'll leave. And if he tries to take the sword, I'll kill him.
Antic.i.p.ating the chili air, Joram reached for his cloak, but the Prince stepped on it with his foot. ”No, no, my friend,” Garald said, ”you'll be warm enough soon. Very warm indeed.”
An hour later, laying flat on his back on the frozen ground, the breath knocked from his body and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Joram thought no more of his cloak.
The steel blade of the Prince's sword slammed into the ground near him, so close that he flinched.
”Right through the throat,” Garald remarked. ”And you never saw it coming....”
”It wasn't a fair fight,” Joram muttered. Accepting the Prince's hand, he heaved himself to his feet, swallowing a groan. ”You tripped me!”
”My dear young man,” said Garald impatiently, ”when you draw that sword in earnest, it is - or should be - a matter of life and death. Your life and your opponent's death. Honor is a very fine thing, but the dead have little use for it.”
”A pretty speech, coming from you,” mumbled Joram, ma.s.saging his aching jaw and spitting out blood.
”I can afford honor,” Garald said with a shrug. ”I am a skilled swordsman. I have trained in the art for years. You, on the other hand, cannot. There is no way, in the short time we have together, that I can teach you even a part of the intricate techniques of sword fighting. What I can teach you is how to survive against a skilled opponent long enough to permit you to call upon the sword's ... um ... powers to defeat him.
”Now” - more briskly - ”you try it. Look, your attention was concentrated on the sword in my hands. Thus I was able to bring my foot around, catch you behind the heel, drag you off balance, and clout you in the face with the hilt like this -” Garald demonstrated, stopping just short of Joram's bruised cheek. ”Now you try it. Good! Good!” the Prince cried, tumbling down. ”You're quick and strong. Use that to your advantage.” He rose to his feet, taking no note of the mud on his fine clothes.
Stepping into a fighting stance, he raised his sword and grinned at Joram.
”Shall we have a go at it again?”
Hours pa.s.sed. The sun rose in the sky and, though the day was far from warm, both men soon stripped off their s.h.i.+rts. Their labored breathing misted the air about them; the ground soon looked as though a small army had fought over it. The forest rang with the sound of blade against blade. Finally, when both were so exhausted they could do nothing but lean upon their weapons and gasp for breath, the Prince called a halt.
Sinking down on a boulder warmed by the sun, he motioned for Joram to sit beside him. The young man did so, panting and wiping his face. Blood seeped from numerous cuts and scratches on his arms and legs. His jaw was swollen and aching, several teeth had been knocked loose, and he was so tired that even breathing seemed an effort. But it was a good kind of tiredness. He'd held his own against the Prince in their last few pa.s.ses and had, once, even knocked the sword from Garald's hand.
”Water,” the Prince muttered, glancing about. A waterskin lay near their s.h.i.+rts - far across the clearing. With a weary gesture, Garald motioned for the waterskin to come to them. It obeyed, but the Prince was so tired that he had little energy to expend in magic. Consequently, the waterskin dragged itself across the ground, rather than flying swiftly through the air.
”It looks like I feel!” Garald said, panting.
Catching hold of the skin as it came near, he lifted it and drank a few sips, then pa.s.sed it to Joram. ”Not much,” he cautioned. ”Cramps the belly.”
Joram drank and pa.s.sed it back. Garald poured some in his hand and splashed it on his face and chest, his skin s.h.i.+vering in the biting air.
”You're doing ... well, young man ...” Garald said, drawing deep breaths. ”Very ... well. If ... we're not both dead ... at the end of the week ... you should be ... ready....”
”Week? ... Ready?” Joram saw the trees blur before his eyes. Talking coherently at the moment lay beyond his capacity. ”I ... leave ... Merilon....”
”Not for a week.” Garald shook his head, and took another pull at the waterskin. ”Don't forget ...” he said with a grin, resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head down to breathe more easily, ”you are my prisoner. Or do you think ... you could fight me ... and the Duuk-tsarith?” Duuk-tsarith?”
Joram closed his eyes. His throat ached, his lungs burned, his muscles twitched, his cuts stung. He hurt all over. ”I couldn't ... fight ... the catalyst ... right now....” he admitted with almost a smile.
The two sat upon the boulder, resting. Neither spoke, neither felt the need for speech. As he grew more rested, Joram relaxed, a warm and pleasant feeling of peace stole over him. He took note of the surroundings - a small clearing in the center of the forest, a clearing that might have been formed magically, it was so perfect. In fact, Joram realized, it probably had had been carved from the woods by magic - the Prince's magic. been carved from the woods by magic - the Prince's magic.
Joram and the Prince were alone, something else Joram wondered about. They had been making noise enough for a regiment, and the young man expected at any moment to see the snooping catalyst come to find out what was going on, or at least Mosiah and the ever-curious Simkin. But Garald had spoken to the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith before they left, and Joram a.s.sumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away. before they left, and Joram a.s.sumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away.