Part 11 (1/2)

Joram intended to kill. He wanted to kill. He could feel the satisfying impact of the sword striking flesh, see the blood flow, the proud figure crumble at his feet, the dying eyes gazing up at him ...

Garald regarded him calmly a moment, then slid his own bright sword back in its leather scabbard. ”You are are Dead, Joram,” he said softly. ”You stink of death! And you have made a sword of darkness, a thing as dead as you are. Go ahead, kill me. Death is your solution!” Dead, Joram,” he said softly. ”You stink of death! And you have made a sword of darkness, a thing as dead as you are. Go ahead, kill me. Death is your solution!”

Joram willed himself forward. But he couldn't see. A film coated his eyes and he blinked, trying to clear them.

”Come to life life, Joram,” Garald said earnestly. The Princes voice sounded far away, drifting to Joram out of the blood-red mist that surrounded him. ”Come to life and wield your sword in the cause of life, the cause of the living! Otherwise you might as well turn that sword upon yourself, and spill every drop of that n.o.ble blood right here on the ground. At least it will give life to the gra.s.s.”

The last words were spoken in disgust. Turning his back on Joram, the Prince walked calmly from the clearing.

Sword in hand, Joram lunged after him, determined to slay the arrogant man. But he was completely blind in his fury. Stumbling, Joram fell flat on his face. With a wild, ragged cry of anger, he struggled to stand, but his rage had drained him, left him weak and helpless as a baby. Desperate, he tried using the Darksword as a crutch to pull himself to his feet. But the blade sank deep in the churned-up dirt and Joram sagged to his knees.

His hands clenching around the hilt of the sword that stood before him, buried in the mud, Joram slumped over it. Tears crept from beneath his eyelids. Anger and frustration welled up inside him until he thought his heart would burst. A racking sob tore open his chest, easing the pressure. His head bowed, Joram cried the tears that neither pain nor suffering had wrung from him since he was a small child.

13.

Winter Night ”Where is Joram?” asked Saryon as the Prince returned to the glade. The catalyst's eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Garald's pale face, his muddy clothes, and the spots of blood upon the white s.h.i.+rt where one of his cuts had come open in his struggles with Joram.

”Rest easy, Father,” Garald said wearily. ”He is back in the woods. We ... had a little talk....” The Prince smiled ruefully, looking down at his torn clothing. ”He needs time to think. At least, I hope he thinks.”

”Should he be out there? By himself?” Saryon persisted, his eyes going to the forest. Above the trees, gray clouds skittered across the sky. To the northwest, darker, heavier ma.s.ses of clouds could be seen forming. The wind had switched direction, blowing warmer. But the air itself was heavy, laden with moisture - rain almost a.s.suredly, snow by nightfall.

”He'll be all right,” Garald said, running his hand through his damp hair. ”We've seen no signs of centaurs in these woods. Besides, he isn't by himself. Not really.” The Prince glanced around the camp.

Following his gaze, Saryon understood at once. Only one of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith was present. Instead of being comforted, the catalyst only appeared more worried. ”Forgive me, Your Grace,” Saryon said hesitantly, ”but Joram is ... is a criminal. I know that they have heard us talking.” He gestured toward the black-robed, silent figure. ”Nothing escapes their attention. What -” was present. Instead of being comforted, the catalyst only appeared more worried. ”Forgive me, Your Grace,” Saryon said hesitantly, ”but Joram is ... is a criminal. I know that they have heard us talking.” He gestured toward the black-robed, silent figure. ”Nothing escapes their attention. What -”

”What prevents them from disobeying me and taking Joram back to Merilon? Nothing.” Garald shrugged. ”I certainly couldn't stop them. But, you see, Father, as my personal guard, they are sworn to be loyal to me unto death. If they betrayed me, and took the boy against my command, they would not face a hero's welcome. Far to the contrary. For breaking their sworn oath, they would receive the most severe form of punishment their Order metes out. And what that might be, among their strict kind” - the Prince shuddered - ”I dare not venture to guess. No,” he said with a smile and shrug, ”Joram is not worth that to them.”

Joram isn't - but the Prince of Merilon certainly would be, Saryon thought. He would have to guard his secret that much more closely.

The Prince retired to his tent, and Saryon returned to sit by the warm pools of the spring, noticing that Radisovik, at a gesture from Garald, followed the Prince. The remaining Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith stood silently, staring at nothing and everything from beneath his black hood. Lounging on the gra.s.s beside the steaming waters, Simkin was teasing the raven, trying to make it talk in exchange for a piece of sausage. stood silently, staring at nothing and everything from beneath his black hood. Lounging on the gra.s.s beside the steaming waters, Simkin was teasing the raven, trying to make it talk in exchange for a piece of sausage.

”Come on, you wretched bird,” Simkin said. ”Repeat after me: 'The Prince is a fool. The Prince is a fool.' Say that for Simkin, and Simkin will give you this nice bit of meat.”

The bird regarded Simkin gravely, its head c.o.c.ked to one side, but refused to utter a croak.

”Hush, you idiot!” Mosiah whispered, referring to Simkin, not the bird. He motioned toward the silken tent. ”Aren't warn enough trouble?”

”What? Oh, Garald? Bah!” Simkin grinned, smoothing his beard. ”He'll think it loads of fun. Quite the joker himself. He once brought a live bear to a costume bail at court. Introduced him as Captain Noseblower, of the Royal Navy of Zith-el. You should have seen the King, keeping up polite conversation with the supposed captain and endeavoring to look perfectly unconscious of the fact that the bear was munching on his cravat. Bear lost the prize for best costume, though. Now, you red-eyed fiend from h.e.l.l” - Simkin fixed the raven with a stern gaze - ”say, 'The Prince is a fool! The Prince is a fool!'” He spoke in a high-pitched, birdlike squawk.

The bird raised a yellow foot and scratched its beak in what might have been taken for a rude gesture.

”Stupid bird!” Simkin remarked testily.

”Simkin's a fool! Simkin's a fool!” cried the raven. With a flutter of wings, it bounced up from the ground, s.n.a.t.c.hed the meat from the young man's hand, and carried off the prize to a nearby tree.

Simkin laughed heartily, but Mosiah's worried expression only grew deeper. Moving near Saryon, he glanced apprehensively at the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, then said quietly, ”What do you think is going to happen? What does the Prince intend to do with us?”

”I don't know,” Saryon answered gravely. ”A lot depends on Joram.”

”Gad! We'll all hang then,” Simkin interjected cheerfully, scooting across the ground to sit next to the catalyst. ”The two of them got into a frightful row this morning. The Prince stripped the flesh from our poor friends bones and hung him out to dry, while the ever-tactful Joram called His Royal Highness an -” Simkin didn't say the word, but pointed to the part of the body to which it referred.

”Name of the Almin!” gasped Mosiah, turning pale.

”Pray all you like, but I doubt it will help,” said Simkin languidly. He dabbled his hand in the hot water. ”We should just count ourselves fortunate that he merely called His Grace an - you know - and didn't turn him into one, as happened to the unfortunate Count d'Chambray. It occurred during a quarrel with Baron Roethke. The Count shouted, 'You're an - !' The Baron cried, 'You're another!' Grabbed his catalyst, cast a spell, and there the Count was, turned into one, right in front of the ladies and everything. Repulsive sight.”

”Do you suppose that's true?” Mosiah asked worriedly.

”I swear it on my mothers grave!” vowed Simkin with a yawn.

”No, I don't mean the Count,” Mosiah snapped. ”I mean about Joram.”

The catalyst's gaze went to the woods. ”I wouldn't doubt it,” he said glumly.

”Hanging isn't a bad way to die,” remarked Simkin, lying full length upon the gra.s.s, his eyes on the ma.s.sing clouds above. ”Of course, are there good ways? That's the question.”

”They don't hang people anymore,” Mosiah said irritably.

”Ah, but they might make an exception in our case,” Simkin replied.

”Simkin's a fool! Simkin's a fool!” croaked the raven from the branches above, hopping nearer in hopes of more sausage.

Is he a fool? Saryon asked himself. No, the catalyst decided uneasily. If what he said was correct and Joram had insulted the Prince, then - for once in his life and probably without knowing it - Simkin may have spoken the truth.

The storm broke at midafternoon, rain pouring from clouds hanging so low in the sky it seemed they might have been punctured by the tall, p.r.o.ng-branched trees. With the Cardinal granting him Life, the Prince used his magic to create an invisible s.h.i.+eld over the glade, protecting them from the deluge. In order to have energy enough to perform this magic, however, it was necessary for Garald to remove the warm springs. Saryon saw the steaming pool go with regret. The s.h.i.+eld kept them dry, but it was not particularly warm. And it gave the catalyst an odd feeling to look up and see the rain slas.h.i.+ng down at them without touching them; watery spears that were suddenly deflected and turned aside by the unseen s.h.i.+eld.

”I miss the warmth of the springs, but this is much better than being cooped up in a stuffy tent all day, wouldn't you agree, Father?” Garald said conversationally. ”Under the s.h.i.+eld, we can at least move about in the open air. Come nearer the fire, if you are chilled, Father.”

Saryon was in no mood to talk, however, although he did walk over to sit by the fire, and even managed to mumble a polite rejoinder. His gaze continually strayed through the curtain of steaming water into the forest. Hours had pa.s.sed and Joram had not returned.

The Cardinal also attempted conversation with Saryon, but soon gave it up, seeing the catalysts worried preoccupation. Radisovik, with a meaningful glance at the Prince, retired to his tent to study and meditate.

Gathering near the fire, Garald, Mosiah, and Simkin played at tarok. The game got off to a slow start; Mosiah was so overawed at playing cards with a Prince that he fumbled his cards - dropping them twice - misdealt a hand, and made such glaring errors in play that Simkin suggested the bird take his place. But Garald, without losing any of his dignity or the quiet, regal air that surrounded him, soon made Mosiah so relaxed and at ease that the young man actually dared laugh in the Prince's presence and once made a feeble, blus.h.i.+ng attempt at a joke.

Saryon noted uneasily, however, that Garald managed to lead the conversation more than once to Joram, urging Mosiah - during breaks in the game - to tell him stories of their childhood. Having never truly conquered his homesickness, Mosiah was only too happy to recall his early life in the farm village. Garald listened to all the tales with an air of grave interest very flattering to the young man, sometimes allowing him to range far afield, yet always, with a seemingly offhand question, subtly leading the talk specifically to Joram.

Why this interest in him? Saryon wondered with growing fear. Does he suspect the truth? The catalyst thought back to their first encounter. He recalled the strange, intense way the Prince had looked at Joram, as if trying to remember where he had seen the face before. Garald had been to the court of Merilon often as a child. To Saryon, burdened with his secret, it seemed that Joram's resemblance to his true mother, the Empress, grew daily. There was a way he had of throwing back his head in haughty dignity, a way of tossing the rich, luxuriant, wild black hair that made Saryon want to scream at them - ”Can't you see, you fools! Are you blind?”

Perhaps Garald did did see. Perhaps he see. Perhaps he wasn't wasn't blind. Certainly he was intelligent, shrewd, and - for all his disarming charm - he was blind. Certainly he was intelligent, shrewd, and - for all his disarming charm - he was Albanara Albanara, born to politics, born to rule. The state and its people came first in his heart. What would he do if he did know or suspect the truth? Saryon couldn't imagine. Perhaps nothing more or less than he was doing now - until time came to leave. The catalyst pondered until his head ached, but got nowhere. Meanwhile, the hours pa.s.sed. The gray stormy afternoon darkened to gray stormy evening. The rain changed to snow.

And still Joram did not return.

The card game broke up for dinner. The meal consisted of a woodland stew that the Prince had proudly concocted with his own hands, expounding at length upon the various herbs that went into its preparation, boasting that he had gathered these himself upon his journey.