Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [29]
Oh, if only you knew what you truly meant! Saryon thought bitterly. You are not the illegitimate son of some poor, deluded girl and her hapless lover. You do not need to go back a beggar, returning to lay claim on a family who spurned their daughter and turned her from their door seventeen years before.
No. You could go back a prince. To be wept over by your Empress mother, to be embraced in the arms of your Emperor father….
To be condemned to death, dragged by the Duuk-tsarith to the Borders of Thimhallan, to the magic-guarded, misten-shrouded edges of the world, and there cast out.
“The soul of this unfortunate is Dead.” Saryon imagined Bishop Vanya’s voice echoing through the chill, dank fog. “Let now the physical body join the soul and provide this wretched being with his only chance for salvation.”
I must tell Joram the truth, Saryon thought desperately. Surely that will dissuade him from going!
“Joram,” he said, his heart pounding so he could barely talk. “Joram, there is something I have to —”
But the catalyst’s logical mind stepped in.
Go ahead, his brain told him. Tell Joram he is the son of the Emperor. Tell him he can walk in and claim the title Prince of Merilon. Is that going to stop him from going there? Where would be the first place you’d go if you heard that news?
“Weil, what now, Catalyst?” Joram said impatiently. “If you have anything to say, say it and quit muttering to yourself. Although, I warn you, you are wasting your breath. My mind is made up. I am going to Merilon, and no words of yours will change that!”
Yes, he is right, Saryon realized. Biting back his words, he swallowed them like bitter medicine.
And they continued on toward Merilon.
As far as Saryon could recall, the next five days were the most miserable of his life. The swamp took three days to traverse. The smell of the place made the stomach turn and left an oily taste in the mouth that completely killed the appetite. Although there was no lack of pure water — even children can work that simple magic — the putrid smell of the swamp made the water taste bitter and tainted. Their thirst never seemed quenched, no matter how much they drank. And not even magic could start a fire that would burn the wet wood. They never saw the sun, were never warm. Tendrils of perpetual fog coiled about them, haunting the imagination. Nothing materialized out of that fog, but they had the feeling they were being watched. This was made worse by Simkin’s frightful hints.
“What’s all that sniffing you’re doing?” Mosiah asked grumpily, plunging through the marshy grass behind Simkin. “Don’t tell me you’re determining the direction we’re heading by smell!”
“Not the direction. The path,” corrected Simkin.
“Oh, come on! How can you tell the path by smell? And how can you smell anything besides rot in this awful place, anyhow?” Mosiah stopped to wait for the weary catalyst to catch up with them.
“It’s not the path I smell so much as what’s making the path up ahead of us,” Simkin said. “You see, I don’t believe It is likely to misstep and lose Itself in the swamp, having been brought up around here. But then, I always say it is better to be safe than sorry.”
“It? What It? Why are we following an It?” Mosiah started to ask in alarm, but Simkin clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth.
“There, there. Mustn’t worry. Generally, It sleeps through the day quite soundly. Exhausts Itself during the night — all that ripping and tearing with Its fangs and those great, ugly claws. Don’t mention. It to the bald party,” he murmured into Mosiah’s ear. “Nervous enough. Never get anywhere.”
And as if these terrifying hints weren’t bad enough, there were occasional alarms from their “guide” as well.
“Look! Ahead of us!” Simkin cried, grabbing Mosiah and clinging to him, trembling in every limb of his body.
“What?” Mosiah’s heart leaped into his throat, the expression “great, ugly claws” having left an indelible impression on his mind.
“There! Don’t you see It?”
“No —”
“Look! Those eyes! All