Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [128]
“No!” Joram said impatiently, turning away.
But Mosiah moved to stand in front of his friend, so that Joram was forced to confront him.
“This place isn’t for us,” Mosiah said earnestly. “It’s beautiful and it’s wonderful but … it isn’t any of it real! These people aren’t real! I know I’m not explaining this very well …” he hesitated, thinking, “But when I created the images of our home, the illusions of our friends and families seemed more alive to me than the living people watching!”
“The people are like their seasons here in Merilon,” Saryon said softly, his eyes staring at the ceiling. “It is always spring for them. Their hearts are as green and hard as the buds of a young tree. They have never blossomed in the summer, nor given fruit in the fall. They have never felt the touch of winter’s chill winds to give them strength….”
Joram glanced from Mosiah to Saryon, his gaze dark. “A Field Magus who’s a catalyst and a catalyst who’s a poet,” he muttered.
“You always have me,” said Simkin cheerfully. Going over to the harp, he proceeded to disrupt the spell surrounding it and began to play a gay dance tune that set the taut nerves of everyone in the room vibrating. “I’m the fixed point of insanity in any sane situation. Many people find this comforting.”
“Stop that!” Angrily, Mosiah placed his hands over the harpstrings. “You’ll wake the whole house!”
Joram shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what you say. I’m not going. And neither are you,” he added, his dark gaze turning to Mosiah. “Tomorrow night, my identity will be established. I will become Baron Fitzgerald, then no one can touch any of us!”
Flinging his arms wide in exasperation, Mosiah looked at Saryon pleadingly. “Isn’t there anything you can say, Father, to convince him?”
“No, my son,” the catalyst replied in quiet sorrow. “I’m afraid not. I’ve tried …”
Mosiah stood silently a moment, his head bowed in thought. Then he held out his hand to Joram. “Goody-bye, my friend. I’m leaving. I’m going back home. I miss it —”
“No, you’re not!” snapped Joram tensely, ignoring the hand held out to him. “You can’t go yet. It’s too dangerous. Lay low, for one more day. I’ll come with you to this Grove, if that will make you happy.” He glanced at the catalyst. “And by tomorrow night, everything will, be fine! I know it!” His fist clenched.
Mosiah drew a deep breath. “Joram,” he said sadly, staring out the window into the moonlit garden. “I really want to go home —”
“And I want you to stay,” Joram interrupted, catching hold of Mosiahs shoulder. “I’m not much better at saying things than you are,” he said in a low voice. “You’ve been my friend ever since I can remember. You were my friend when I didn’t want one. I did … I’ve done everything I could to drive you away.” His hands tightened their grip on Mosiah, as though now fearful to let go. “But, somewhere deep inside me, I —”
A discordant twang came from the harp. “Beg pardon,” said Simkin, shamefacedly grabbing the strings to silence them. “Must have nodded off.”
Joram bit his lip, his face flushed. “Anyway,” he continued, speakng now with an effort, “I want you to stay and see this through with me. Besides,” he added with an attempt at lightness that failed completely in the tense atmosphere, “how can I get married, without you at my side? Where you’ve always been …” His voice died. Abruptly, Joram withdrew his hands and turned away. “But you do what you want,” he said gruffly, staring out the window in his turn.
Mosiah was silent, staring at his friend in wonder. He cleared his throat. “I — I guess one more day … wouldn’t matter so much,” he said huskily.
Saryon saw tears glimmering in the young man’s eyes; the catalyst felt tears of his own. There was no doubting Joram’s sincerity or the obvious pain it cost him to reveal his heart to another. “Yet a cynical