Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [172]
Saryon moaned, rocking back and forth in the cold stone chair. “I did it for the best, Joram! You must believe me! I … I was wrong,” he faltered, with a glance at Vanya. “But I did it for the best. You can’t understand,” he finished somewhat wildly. “There’s more to it —”
“Indeed there is, Nephew,” said Prince Xavier suddenly, whipping around with such speed that his robes shimmered about him like living flame. Throwing back his red hood with his thin hands, the warlock faced Joram, studying the young man’s face with interest. “You favor our side of the family — your mothers and mine — which is why you have fallen into this predicament. Had the weak blood of that fool your father run in your veins, you would have dropped into obscurity and been happy tending carrots in that village where you were raised.”
With a gesture, The DKarn-Duuk caused the flaming rings around the young man to vanish. Weak from the strain, exhaustion, and shock, Joram staggered and nearly fell. He caught himself, however, pulling himself upright. He’s existing on nothing but pride alone, Dulchase thought in admiration. The same admiration was reflected on the face of Prince Xavier, who glanced at Bishop Vanya.
“The young man is weary. He has been, I assume, kept in prison since his capture last night?”
Bishop Vanya nodded, but did not reply.
“Have you eaten, drunk?” The DKarn-Duuk turned back to Joram.
“I need nothing,” the young man said.
Prince Xavier smiled. “Of course not, but you should sit down. We are going to be here some time.” Once more, his eyes glanced at the Bishop. “Explanations are, I believe, in order.”
Bishop Vanya sat forward, his mottled face regaining some of its color. “I want to know how you found out!” he cried hoarsely, his pudgy hands grasping the arms of the chair. “I want to know what you know!”
“Patience,” said The DKarn-Duuk. Making a motion with his hand, he caused two more stone chairs to spring up from the floor, and with a graceful gesture, he invited Joram to sit. The young man glanced at the chair suspiciously, transferring the same suspicious glance to his uncle. Prince Xavier absorbed the suspicion with his thin-lipped smile, neither denying it nor accepting it. Once again, he gestured, and Joram sat down suddenly, as though his weakened body had made the decision for him.
The DKarn-Duuk took a seat beside the young man, his own body drifting gracefully into the chair. Assuming a seated position, he kept himself floating above the seat about an inch, however — whether for comfort’s sake or flaunting his magical power, Dulchase wasn’t certain. But the old Deacon knew he’d had enough.
Rising, bones creaking, to his feet, Dulchase faced his Bishop, his hand placed humbly over his heart.
“Eminence,” said the catalyst, and was secretly pleased to note Prince Xavier’s start at hearing him speak, “I am an old man. I have lived sixty years of my life in peace, finding consolation for what some might consider a boring life in the observation of the never-ending follies of my fellow humans. My tongue has been my curse. I admit that freely. I could not forebear on many occasions to comment on these follies. Thus I have remained a Deacon, and will be content to die a Deacon, I assure you. I just don’t want to die a Deacon too soon, if you understand.”
The DKarn-Duuk appeared to enjoy this, glancing at Dulchase out of the corner of his eye, the smile playing about his thin lips. Bishop Vanya was glowering at him, but Dulchase was in the comfortable position of knowing that his superior was apparently in worse trouble than he could ever possibly be, and so continued.
“I am subject to nightdreams, Eminence,” Dulchase said simply. “But my nature is such that I forget about them immediately come morning. I am experiencing one of these dreams now, Holiness. It is extremely bad and I foresee that it will only get worse.” He bowed most humbly, hand over his heart. “If you will excuse me, I will return to my bed