Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [41]
Following the Cardinal, half listening to his polite conversation, it suddenly occurred to Saryon that Radisovik must be a renegade as well; the man of whom Vanya had spoken, the priest who had forced the Church’s true minister into exile.
How strange that they should meet! Was this encounter an answer to prayers Saryon had not prayed? Or merely another indication that the universe was a cold, empty, and unfeeling void?
Only time would tell. Saryon wondered how much of that they had left.
“How are you feeling, sir?” the Prince asked Mosiah.
“Much … much better … Your … Grace,” stammered Mosiah, flushing in embarrassment. Seeing the Prince prepared to kneel to assist him, he hurriedly attempted to stand on his feet. “Please … don’t trouble yourself … mi-milord. I’m all right now, really.”
“You will forgive us for this treatment, I hope,” Garald said with concern in his cool voice. “You can understand that we have been unusually wary in these uncivilized lands.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mosiah, helped to his feet by Simkin, was so red in the face that he appeared feverish. “We … we mistook you for … someone else, too….”
“Indeed?” Garald lifted his soft eyebrows in surprise.
“Pardon, Your Grace,” said the Duuk-tsarith. “But night is falling. We should return to the safety of the glade.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” The Prince made a graceful gesture with his hand. “Would one of you be so kind as to assist this young man to the glade where he may rest?”
One of the Duuk-tsarith glided over to Mosiah, the black robes barely skimming the ground. He did not touch the young man; he merely stood beside him, his hands folded in front of him. Mosiah recognized, however — as had Saryon — that this was an order, not an invitation, and he would disobey it at his peril. He moved off toward the glade, the warlock drifting along behind him, dark and silent as the young man’s shadow. Joram remained in his place some distance from them, watching yet not watching. The second Duuk-tsarith had not taken his eyes from the stern young man.
Looking at Joram, Garald turned to Simkin, speaking in a low voice. “This other friend of yours, the one with the sword, fascinates me. What do you know of him?”
“Claims noble birth. Wrong side of sheets. Mother disgraced. Ran away. Son grew up a Field Magus. Rebellious sort. Killed overseer. Fled Outland. Something odd, though. Bald party sent to bring him to Bishop Vanya. Didn’t do it. Deep trouble. Dark Arts now, both of them,” Simkin rattled off glibly, quite pleased with his summation.
“Mmmm,” Garald mused, his gaze fixed on Joram. “And the sword?”
“Darkstone.”
Garald drew in a deep breath.
“Darkstone? Are you certain?” he whispered, drawing Simkin close.
Simkin nodded.
The Prince let his breath out in a sigh. “Praise be to the Almin,” he said reverently. “Come with me. I want to talk to this young man and I’ll need your help. So, you are from the Sorcerers’ village?” he remarked aloud to Simkin, as the two walked over to Joram.
“Yes, O High and Mighty One,” Simkin said gaily. “And I must admit, I am quite relieved to be away from there.” The orange silk fluttered from the sky to his hand. Catching the sunlight, it looked like a bit of dancing flame. “The smell, milord” — Simkin put the silk to his nose — “quite intolerable, I assure you. Hot coals, sulfurous fumes. To say nothing of infernal hammering, day and night.”
The two came to stand before Joram, who stared past them, refusing to acknowledge their existence.
“Your name is Joram, sir?” Garald inquired politely.
Lips compressed, Joram’s gaze shifted to the Prince. “Return my sword,” he said, his voice thick and husky.
“‘Return my sword,’ Your Grace,” Simkin corrected, mimicking the Cardinal.
Joram cast him an angry glance. Garald