Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [173]
Dulchase shivered. Yes, I must leave, he told himself heavily, and, turning, he took a step toward the stairs at the end of the Hall. Winding up into the mountain, they would take him, eventually, back to his cozy cell.
But Prince Xavier’s voice stopped him. “I sympathize, Deacon. I really do,” said the warlock coolly. “But it is too late to end this dream, I fear. Besides, you are still sitting in judgment. Your verdict is needed. And” — though his back was turned, Dulchase knew The DKarn-Duuk was glancing at Vanya — “I need witnesses. You will please, therefore, wake up and attend.”
Dulchase considered making one final attempt to escape. He opened his mouth and saw the eyes of the warlock narrow ever so slightly.
“Yes, my lord.” Dulchase acquiesced without enthusiasm, relapsing gloomily back into his chair.
“Now, where to start?” Prince Xavier placed the tips of his fingers together delicately, tapping them against the thin lips. “There are several questions on the floor. You, Holiness” — a fine irony — “demand to know how much I know and how I found out. You, Nephew” — again, the irony — “have asked very simply, ‘How?’ meaning, I assume, ‘how’ you are here when the world and most of those dwelling within fondly believe you to be dead. With all due respect, Holiness” — Bishop Vanya gnawed his lip, the sarcasm of The DKarn-Duuk making him livid with rage that he dared not express — “I will answer my nephew’s question first. He is, after all, my sovereign.”
Prince Xavier made a bow to Joram, lowering his eyes respectfully, then lifting them to see Joram scowl at him darkly. “No,” answered the warlock, “I am not making sport of you, young man. Far from it. I am in earnest, deadly earnest, I assure you.” The thin lips no longer smiled. “You see, Joram, the right of succession to the throne of Merilon passes through the Empress’s side of the family. Lamentably, your mother has left us to go Beyond, into the realm of death.” The DKarn-Duuk spoke the word with emphasis, watching those around him cringe involuntarily. “A grievous tragedy that will soon become a matter of public knowledge.” He glanced at Vanya, who was sucking in air through his nose, glaring at him in impotent fury. “You, Joram, are now Emperor of Merilon.” He sighed, smiling. “Enjoy your rule while you may. It will not last long. For, you see, as Her Late Majesty’s brother, I am next in line after you.”
Joram’s expression smoothed, the dark eyes cleared.
He understands, Dulchase thought, lowering his head to his hand and resting his elbow on the arm of the chair in despair. Name of the Almin, its murder, then….
A muffled groan from Saryon indicated that he, too, understood. “No,” he began wretchedly, “you can’t! You don’t —”
“Shut up!” Prince Xavier said coldly. “You are broken, old puppet. You have played your role foolishly, but that was, in many respects, not your fault. The one who pulled your strings bungled his script.
“And now, Nephew, I will answer your questions both for your own benefit and for the benefit of those who sit in judgment and who will decide your fate.”
Dulchase heaved a sigh and wished himself at the bottom of the Well.
“What knowledge I reveal,” The DKarn-Duuk continued, “I have gained from questioning many people this night. The Bishop will, I trust, correct me in anything I say that is in error.
“Eighteen years ago, His Holiness, Bishop of the Realm, made a mistake. It was only a small mistake.” The warlock waved his hand deprecatingly. “He misplaced a child. But it would prove to be a disastrous mistake for him. The child he misplaced was no ordinary child. The child was the Dead Prince of