Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [109]
“He likes to read, my lord,” Joram said shortly.
Saryon tensed. A week with Prince Garald had given Joram a thin coating of courtesy and court manners. The young man believed fondly that this had changed his life. But Saryon knew it was only temporary, like the cooled top crust of a lava flow. The fire and rage were there still, bubbling just below the surface. Let the crust crack, and they would spew forth.
“Will there be anything more you require, my lord?” the servant asked.
“No, thank you,” Lord Samuels replied. Bowing, the servant left the room, shutting the door behind him. With a spoken word, Lord Samuels cast a spell of sealing on it, and the three were alone in the library that smelled faintly of musty parchment and old leather.
“We have a matter of some unpleasantness to discuss,” Lord Samuels said in a cool, grave tone. “I find it never helps to put these things off, and so I will get right to the point. A difficulty has arisen concerning the records of your birth, Joram.”
Lord Samuels paused, apparently expecting some response — perhaps even a confused admission from the young man that he was, after all, an imposter. But Joram said nothing. His dark eyes maintained their fixed, steady gaze, staring so intently into Lord Samuels’s eyes that it was His Lordship who eventually lowered his head, clearing his throat in some embarrassment.
“I am not saying that you have deliberately lied to me, young man,” Lord Samuels continued, his brandy hovering untasted in the air beside him. “And I admit that perhaps I compounded the problem by becoming too … enthusiastic. I believe I may have raised false hopes in you —”
“What is the problem with the records?” asked Joram, his voice so brittle that Saryon shuddered, seeing the rock start to crack.
“To put it simply — they do not exist,” replied Lord Samuels, spreading his hands out wide, the palms empty. “My friend has found the record of this woman’s, Anja’s, admittance to the Font’s lying-in chambers. But there is no record at all of her baby’s birth. Father Dunstable” — milord interrupted himself — “are you feeling quite well? Should I send for the servant?”
“N-no, my lord. Please …” Saryon murmured in an inaudible voice. He took a gulp of brandy, gasping slightly as the fiery liquid bit into his throat. “A slight indisposition. It will pass.”
Joram opened his mouth to speak again, but Lord Samuels raised his hand and, with an obvious effort of self-control, the young man remained silent.
“Now, there are undoubtedly reasons why this could be. From what you have told me about your mother’s tragic past, it would be consistent with her distraught state of mind at this period of her life to think she might have taken the records of your birth with her. Particularly if she thought she could come back and use them to claim what was rightfully her inheritance. Did she ever mention to you that she had such records in her possession?”
“No,” Joram answered. “My lord,” he added stiffly.
“Joram” — Lord Samuels’s voice grew stern, annoyed at the young man’s tone — “I want very much to believe you. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to investigate your claims. I did this not only for you, but for my daughter, as well. My child’s happiness means everything to me. I can see quite clearly that she is … shall we say … infatuated with you. And you with her. Therefore, until this matter can be resolved, I think it is in both your best interests if you leave my house —”
“Infatuated? I love her, my lord!” Joram interrupted.
“If you do truly love my daughter as you claim,” Lord Samuels continued coolly, “then you will agree with me that it is in her best interests that you leave this house immediately. If this claim of yours can be proven, of course, I will give my consent to —”
“It is true, I tell you!” Joram cried passionately, half rising from his chair.
The young man’s dark eyes burned, his face flushed in anger. Frowning, Lord Samuels made a