Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [171]
The Bishop glared at Joram in cold fury. He opened his mouth, but another voice — a voice that slid across the tense surface like oil — broke the silence at last.
“Your Eminence,” said the voice from the darkness, “I do not blame the young man for refusing to answer. You are not, after all, using his correct name. ‘Joram, son of Anja.’ Pah! Who is that? A peasant? You must call him by his real name, Bishop Vanya, then perhaps he will deign to answer your charges.”
The voice might have been a thunderbolt hurled from the skies for the dread impact it had on the Bishop. Though Dulchase could not see Vanya’s face with the light behind it, he saw the head beneath the heavy miter bathed in sweat and heard the breath rattle in the man’s lungs. The pudgy hands went limp; twitching feebly, the fingers closed up in a ball like the legs of a frightened spider.
“Call him by his real name,” continued the smooth, calm voice. “Joram, son of Evenue, Empress of Merilon. Or, shall we say, late Empress of Merilon….”
10
The Prince of Merilon
“Nephew,” said Prince Xavier, bowing his red-hooded head slightly in ironic greeting to Joram as he glided past the prisoner and came to a halt before the Bishop’s throne. The Hall was well-lit now. At a command from the powerful warlock, globes of light appeared in the air, shedding a warm, yellow glow down upon those assembled in the Hall. No longer did Bishop Vanya have the ability to hide his face within shadows. His face was visible for all to see and everyone saw the truth.
Dulchase pressed his hand over his heart. Another shock like this will kill me, he told himself. In fact, it might kill a number of us.
Bishop Vanya had attempted a blustered denial, but his words dried up and blew away beneath The DKarn-Duuk’s withering gaze. Unlike poor Saryon, who had shrunk within himself to the point of shrinking from sight altogether, the Bishop became bloated. Blotches of red mottled his white skin, sweat rolled off his forehead. He lay back in his chair, gasping slightly for breath, his rotund stomach heaving up and down, his hands plucking nervelessly at the red robes. He said nothing, but stared intently at the warlock. Prince Xavier stared back at Vanya, hands folded before his robes, his demeanor calm and assured. But there was mental war being waged between the two; the air fairly crackled with unspoken moves and counter-moves, each trying to gauge how much the other knew and what use he could make of it.
Standing within the fiery rings, the gamepiece over which the two fought, Joram was in a state of bewilderment that came near causing Dulchase to break out into fits of laughter. Indeed, the old Deacon did actually emit a nervous chuckle before he could suppress it. Realizing he was becoming hysterical from the strain, he managed to convert the chuckle into an odd-sounding cough that caused the young Duuk-tsarith guarding the prisoner to glance at him sharply.
Dulchase knew now where he had seen those eyes, that regal tilt to the head, that imperious look. The boy was his mother all over again. Joram saw the truth plainly on Vanya’s face, as did everyone else in the Hall, but — slowly — he shifted his gaze to Saryon as if for confirmation. The catalyst had been sitting huddled in his chair, his head in his hands ever since The DKarn-Duuk’s obviously unexpected and unwanted arrival. Sensing the young man’s thoughts turned toward him, Saryon raised his haggard face and looked directly into the dark, questioning eyes.
“It is true, Joram,” the catalyst said in a soft voice, speaking as though he and the young man were the only two people in the room. “I’ve known it … so long! So long!” He broke down, shaking his head, his hands trembling.
“I don’t understand!” Joram’s voice was thick,