Part 13 (1/2)

”Don't take this pleasure away from me, Father,” Garald interrupted, laying his hand upon the catalysts. ”Giving gifts is one of the best parts about being a King's son.”

Walking over to stand before Mosiah, the Prince clapped his hands once, and then held them out to catch a book that materialized in midair.

”You are a powerful wizard, Mosiah. More powerful than many Albanara Albanara I know. And this is not unusual. In my travels, I have discovered that many of our truly strong magi are being born in the fields and the alleys, not in n.o.ble halls. But magic, like all other gifts of the Almin, requires disciplined study to perfect it or it will flow into you and out of you like wine through a drunkard.” I know. And this is not unusual. In my travels, I have discovered that many of our truly strong magi are being born in the fields and the alleys, not in n.o.ble halls. But magic, like all other gifts of the Almin, requires disciplined study to perfect it or it will flow into you and out of you like wine through a drunkard.”

The Prince cast a glance at Simkin who was, at that moment, tweaking the raven's tail.

”Study this well, my friend.” The Prince laid the book in the young man's trembling hands.

”T-thank you, Your Grace,” stammered Mosiah, flus.h.i.+ng in what he hoped would appear as embarra.s.sment.

Garald understood it, however, and knew it was shame.

”The journey to Merilon is long,” said the Prince softly. ”And you have a friend who will be more than happy to teach you to read.”

Mosiah followed the Princes gaze to Joram.

”Is that true? Will you?” he asked.

”Of course! I never knew you wanted to learn!” Joram answered impatiently. ”You ”You should have said something.” should have said something.”

Taking the book, Mosiah held it fast in his hands. ”Thank you, Your Grace,” he repeated.

The two exchanged looks and, for an instant, the field magus and the n.o.bleman were in perfect understanding.

Garald turned away. ”Now, Simkin, my old friend -”

”Nothing for me, Your Gra.s.s. Ha, ha. Your Gra.s.s. That's how the Duke of Deere referred to his gardener. I know, it's a stupid joke, but then so was the Duke. No, I mean it. I won't accept a thing. Well ...” Simkin heaved a sigh, as the Prince started to speak, ”if you insist. Perhaps one or two of the more valuable jewels of the realm -”

”For you,” said Garald, finally able to insert a word. He handed Simkin a deck of tarok cards.

”How delightful!” said Simkin, attempting to stifle a yawn.

”Each card is hand painted by my own artisans,” remarked Garald. ”They are done in the ancient style, not by magic. The deck is, therefore, quite valuable.”

”Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Simkin languidly.

Garald raised his hand. ”You note I hold something in my palm. Something that's missing from your deck.”

”The Fool card,” Simkin said, peering at it intently. ”How amusing.”

”The Fool card,” repeated Garald, toying with it. ”Guide them well, Simkin.”

”I a.s.sure you, Your Highness,” said Simkin earnestly. ”They couldn't be in better hands.”

”Neither could you,” replied Garald. He closed his fingers over the card and it disappeared. No one spoke, each staring at the other uncomfortably. Then the Prince laughed. ”Just my my joke,” he said, clapping Simkin on the back. joke,” he said, clapping Simkin on the back.

”Ha, ha,” Simkin echoed, but his laughter was hollow.

”And now, Father Saryon,” said Garald, moving on to stand before the catalyst, who was staring down at his shoes. ”I have nothing of material value to give you.” Saryon looked up in relief. ”I sense that would be unwelcome to you anyway. But I do have a gift of sorts, although the present is more to myself than to you. When you return to Sharakan with Joram” - Saryon noted that the Prince always spoke of this as a settled fact - ”I want you to join my household.”

A catalyst in a royal household! Saryon glanced involuntarily at Cardinal Radisovik, who smiled at him encouragingly.

”This -” stammered Saryon, clearing his throat, ”this is an unexpected honor, Your Grace. Too great an honor for one who has broken the laws of his faith.”

”But not too great an honor for one who is loyal, one who is compa.s.sionate,” Prince Garald finished gently. ”As I said, the gift is to myself. I look forward to the day, Father Saryon, when I can once again ask you to grant me Life.”

Turning from the catalyst, Garald came, at last, to Joram.

”I know, you don't want anything from me either,” the Prince remarked, smiling.

”As the catalyst said, you've given us enough,” Joram said evenly.

”'Given us enough, Your Grace,” Your Grace,” repeated the Cardinal sternly. repeated the Cardinal sternly.

Joram's face darkened.

”Yes, well” - Garald struggled to keep his countenance - ”it seems to be your lot in life, Joram, to have to keep accepting things from me.”

Once again, the Prince held out his hands. The air above the outspread palms s.h.i.+mmered, then coalesced, taking the shape of a hand-tooled leather scabbard. Runes of power were etched upon it in gold, but, other than that, there was no other symbol. The center of the scabbard was blank.

”I left it this way purposefully, Joram,” the Prince said, ”so that you could have your family crest drawn upon it at some later date. Now, let me show you how this works.

”I had it designed especially for you,” Garald continued proudly, exhibiting the scabbards features. ”These straps attach around your chest like this, so that you can wear your sword on your back, concealed beneath your clothes. The runes carved upon the leather will cause the sword to shrink in size and weight when it is in the scabbard, thus enabling you to wear it at all times.

”That is of the utmost importance, Joram,” the Prince said, looking at the young man earnestly. ”The Darksword is both your greatest protection and your greatest danger. Wear it always. Mention it to no one. Reveal its existence to no one. Use it only if you are in peril of your life.”

He glanced at Mosiah. ”Or to protect the lives of others.”

The Prince's clear brown eyes came back to Joram and Garald saw, for the first time, the stone facade shatter.

Joram stared at the scabbard, his eyes warm with longing and desire and grat.i.tude. ”I ... I don't know what ... to say,” he faltered.

”How about, 'Thank you, Your Grace,'” said Garald softly, and he placed the scabbard in Joram's hands.

The rich smell of the leather filled Joram's nostrils. His hands ran over the smooth finish, touching the intricate runes, examining the complex leatherwork. Looking up, he saw the man's eyes on him, amused, yet expectant, certain of victory.

Joram smiled.

”Thank you, my friend. Thank you - Garald,” he said firmly.

Interlude Bishop Vanya sat behind his desk in his elegant quarters in the Cathedral of Merilon. Though not as sumptuous as his rooms in the Font, the Bishop's chambers in Merilon were large and comfortable, containing a private bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and an office with an antechamber for the Deacon who served as his secretary. The view from any of his rooms was magnificent, though it was not the broad expanse of plains or the jagged edges of mountains such as he was accustomed to enjoying at the Font. From the Cathedral, with its crystal walls, he could look down upon the city of Merilon. Gazing farther off, he could see beyond the dome, into the countryside around the city. Or, glancing above, he could see - through the crystal spires atop the Cathedral - the Royal Palace, which hovered above the city, its walls of s.h.i.+mmering crystal s.h.i.+ning in the heavens like a sedate and civilized sun.

This early evening, the Bishop's gaze was lowered, his eyes on the city of Merilon, if not his thoughts. The citizens were providing a spectacular show in the form of an enhanced sunset - a gift from the p.r.o.n-alban p.r.o.n-alban of the Stone Shaper's Guild, intended to welcome His Holiness to the city. Though winter land, it was springtime in Merilon - spring being the Empress's current favorite season. The sunset was, therefore, a sunset appropriate to spring, being magically enhanced by the of the Stone Shaper's Guild, intended to welcome His Holiness to the city. Though winter land, it was springtime in Merilon - spring being the Empress's current favorite season. The sunset was, therefore, a sunset appropriate to spring, being magically enhanced by the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar to glisten in colors of muted pinks with here and there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple at the heart. to glisten in colors of muted pinks with here and there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple at the heart.

It was truly a beautiful sunset, and the inhabitants of Merilon's City Above - the n.o.bility and members of the upper middle cla.s.s - floated about the streets in filmy silks, fluttering lace, and s.h.i.+ning satins, admiring the view.

Not so Bishop Vanya. The sun might not have set, for all he knew or cared. The weather outside might have been a howling hurricane. In fact, such would have suited his mood. His pudgy fingers crawled over his desk, pus.h.i.+ng this, shoving that, rearranging something else. It was his only outward sign of displeasure or nervousness, for the Bishop's broad face was as cool, his regal manner as composed, as ever. The two black-robed figures standing silently before him, however, noted this paper-shuffling as they noted everything else that went on around them from the sunset to the uneaten remnants of the Bishops supper.