Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [153]
Lord Samuels indicated for Joram to be seated, and though he would have much preferred to continue standing, the young man forced himself to obey.
“I have not yet broached the matter with Theldara Menni, Joram, preferring as a point of honor to first enter into such a delicate subject in your presence.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Joram said, and meant it.
Lord Samuels bowed slightly and continued. “The Theldara has been kind enough to meet with us as a favor to my friend, Father Richar. I leave it to you, young man, to explain the situation.”
The Theldara stared at Joram with eager eyes, her thin lips pursed in a beak-like manner.
This was unexpected. Somehow, Joram had not expected to have to explain matters himself, although he was grateful to Lord Samuels for not prejudicing his case one way or the other by discussing it without him. He wished Saryon was here. The catalyst had a way of reducing things to simple terms that were easy to understand. Joram felt vague about where to begin. He was also frightened, realizing just how much was at stake here.
“My name is Joram,” he stated lamely, trying to think, trying to pull the pieces together. “My mother’s name was Anja. Does — does that mean anything to you?”
The Druidess pecked at the word like a bread crumb, bobbing her small head, but otherwise keeping silent.
Not knowing whether that was a positive or negative response, Joram floundered on. “I was raised in a Field Magi village and … spent all my life there. But … my mother always told me I was of” — he felt his skin burn — “noble blood and that my family came from Merilon. She … my mother … said that my father was a … a catalyst. They had committed a criminal act — joining together bodily — and so created me. They were caught” — Joram could not keep the bitterness from tinging his voice — “and my father was sentenced to the Turning. He stands today, on the Border….”
He fell silent, recalling the stone statue, feeling the warmth of the tear splashing on his body. Would he want me here? Joram wondered suddenly, then, angrily shaking his head, continued talking.
“My mother gave birth to me at the Font, so she told me. Then, taking me with her, she ran away. I don’t know why she left. Maybe she was afraid. Or maybe, then, she was already a little mad….” The word was hard to say and made him choke. He hadn’t realized this would be so painful. He couldn’t look at Lord Samuels now or even at the Theldara, but sat staring grimly at his hands that clenched and unclenched before him.
“She told me that one day we would return to Merilon and claim what was rightfully ours, but” — he drew a deep breath — “she died before she saw that day. For one reason or another, I fled the village where I had been raised and have been living since in the Outland. But then, I found a way to return to Merilon and claim my birthright.”
“The problem, Theldara Menni,” struck in Lord Samuels, aware that Joram had apparently said all he could, “is that there exist no records of this young man’s birth. That is not unusual, I understand.” He made a deprecating gesture with his hands. “The number of indigent and … shall we say … fallen women who come to the Font to bear their children is large and, in the confusion, records are known to be misplaced. Or — as is probable in Joram’s circumstance — the mother left the Font in secret and, fearing she might be pursued, either destroyed the records or took them with her. What we are hoping is that you can identify him as —”
“There was a Birthing Moon that night, too,” cawed the Theldara suddenly and shrilly.
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Samuels blinked. Joram, catching his breath, raised his head.
“A Birthing Moon,” the old woman repeated irritably. “Full moon. We knew when we saw it in the sky that the nursery would be full as well, and we weren’t wrong.”
“Then, you do remember?” Joram breathed, sitting forward in his seat, his body trembling.
“Remember?” The Druidess laughed raucously,