Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [40]
Two eyes appeared suddenly on the buckets rim, and studied the tall man intently. The eyes widened, then, with a laugh, the bucket transformed itself into the figure of the bearded young man, clad in his favorite Muck and Mud outfit.
“Garald!” he cried, flinging his arms around the elegant man.
“Simkin!” Garald clapped him on the back.
The Cardinal appeared to be less pleased at the sight of Simkin himself than he had been at the talking bucket. Glancing heavenward, the priest folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes and shook his head.
“I didn’t recognize you,” said Simkin, standing back and regarding the nobleman with a delighted gaze. “What are you doing in these beastly parts? Oh, wait,” he said, appearing to remember something. “I must introduce you to my friends.”
“Joram, Mosiah” — Simkin turned to the two, one lying spellbound on the ground, the other imprisoned by rings of flame — “may I present His Royal Highness, Garald, Prince of Sharakan.”
10
His Grace
“So these are friends of yours, are they, Simkin?” The Prince’s gaze flickered over Mosiah to rest more intently on Joram. Imprisoned by the fiery rings, the young man dared not move or risk being severely burned. But there was no fear on the stern face; only pride, anger, and humiliation at his ignominious defeat.
“Closer to me than brothers,” averred Simkin. “You recall how I lost my brother? Dear little Nat? It was in the year —”
“Uh, yes,” interrupted the Prince hastily. He turned to the Duuk-tsarith. “You may release them.”
The warlocks bowed and, at a gesture and a word, they lifted the Nullmagic from Mosiah, who gasped and rolled over on his back, breathing heavily. The rings disappeared from around Joram, but still the young man did not move. Folding his strong arms across his chest, Joram stared off into the sunlit forest. He looked at nothing in particular, but was simply making it clear that he had chosen to stand in that spot of his own free will and would continue standing there until he dropped over dead.
Garald’s mouth twitched. Putting his hand on his lips to hide his smile, he turned again to Simkin. “What about the catalyst?”
“The bald party is a friend of mine, too,” remarked the young man, glancing about vaguely. “Where are you, Father? Oh, yes. Prince Garald, Father Saryon. Father Saryon, Prince Garald.”
The Prince bowed gracefully, hand over his heart as was the custom in the north. Saryon returned the bow more clumsily, his mind in such a state of confusion that he barely knew what he did.
“Father Saryon,” said the Prince, “may I present His Eminence, Cardinal Radisovik, friend and adviser to my father.”
Walking forward, Saryon knelt humbly to kiss the fingers of the white-robed Cardinal. But the Priest took him by the hand and raised him to his feet.
“We have dispensed with those degrading obeisances in the north,” said the Cardinal. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Father Saryon. You appear exhausted. Will you return with me to our glade? The springs warm the air most pleasantly there, don’t you agree?”
Suddenly aware that he was bitterly cold, Saryon realized that it was as if he had stepped from spring to winter again by entering these woods. Simkin’s words came back to him. This glade isn’t supposed to be here. Undoubtedly it wasn’t! The Prince had conjured up a pleasant place for his campsite and they had stumbled into it! What incredible, naive fools….
“I sense a tale of great adventure about you, Father,” Radisovik continued, walking toward the glade. “I would be interested in hearing how a man of the cloth comes to be in such” — the Cardinal appeared momentarily at a loss — “um … interesting company.”
Nothing could have been more polite than the Cardinal’s words, but Saryon had seen the exchange of swift glances between the Prince and Radisovik just prior to the Cardinal’s formal welcome of the catalyst. Now Radisovik was leading Saryon back to the glade, and the Prince and Simkin were walking over to assist Mosiah.
Saryon understood. We are