Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [42]
“Yes,” he murmured to himself, “I can believe his claim to high birth. There is noble blood there, if not noble manners. I know that face, in fact!” Garald frowned in thought. “And the hair … magnificent! The eyes … proud, sensitive, intelligent. Too intelligent. A dangerous young man. I can believe he discovered darkstone. Now what does he intend to do with it? Does he know, even, what dread power he has brought back to the world? Does anyone know, for that matter?”
“My sword!” Joram repeated stubbornly, his face growing dark under the Prince’s scrutiny.
“Please forgive me. Slight tickle in my throat. The wind-flowers …” Garald bowed slightly. “The sword is yours, sir.” He glanced over to it where it lay on the ground. “And please accept my apology for our actions. You took us by surprise, and we reacted in haste.” The Prince straightened, regarding the young man with a grave smile.
Completely taken aback, Joram looked from the Prince to the sword to the Prince again. His face flushed, the brows came together. But it was no longer in anger. His rage was deserting him and taking its strength with it, leaving behind nothing but humiliation and shame. For the first time in his life, Joram was acutely conscious of his shabby clothes, his tangled hair. He looked at the Princes hand, smooth and supple, and he saw his own hand, calloused and dirty by comparison. He tried to fan the coals of rage, but they only glimmered to life then died, leaving his soul cold.
Keeping his eyes on Garald, suspecting some trick, Joram walked slowly over to where the sword lay — an object of darkness — in the sunlit grass. The Prince did not move. Neither did the watching Duuk-tsarith. Bending down, Joram lifted his weapon. He thrust it into the crude sheath hurriedly, flushing as the Prince’s eyes glanced at it in — he thought — scorn.
“Am I free to go?” Joram asked harshly.
“You are free to go, though you are, I suppose, still our prisoners,” the Prince answered smoothly. “But I would much prefer it if you would remain with us tonight as our guests. Let us make amends for attacking you —”
“Stop mocking us!” Joram sneered. “Your Grace.” He could taste the bitterness in his voice. “You had every right to attack us — kill us, even. As for the sword, it’s crude enough. Worthless, compared to yours” — Joram could not help himself, his eyes went longingly to the beautiful sword the Prince wore at his side in its magically tooled leather scabbard — “but I made it myself.” His voice softened, he sounded like a wistful child. “And I had never seen a real sword like that before.”
“Not worthless, I think,” Garald said. “Not a sword of darkstone that absorbs magic….”
Joram looked sharply at Simkin, who smiled innocently.
“Come with me to the glade,” Garald continued. “It is much warmer there and, as my guards remind me, it is dangerous in the Outland at night.” Walking over to the young man, Garald rested his hand lightly on Joram’s shoulder.
It was an affectionate gesture, as a man might make to a friend. Or as a man might calm a restive animal. Joram flinched at Garald’s touch. He saw the pity in the man’s eyes and he barely resisted the temptation to strike the hand aside. Why did he resist? Why did he bother? How Joram knew it, he could not have told, but he understood that while Garald would respect a refusal to be pitied, he would never forgive a blow. And it had suddenly become important to Joram to gain this man’s respect.
“Where are you from, Joram?” Garald asked.
“What has that got to do with anything?” Joram demanded sullenly.
“Where does your family come from, I meant to say,” the Prince amended.
Once again, Joram glanced darkly at Simkin, flitting along beside them, and Garald smiled. “Yes, he’s told me something about you. I confess to being quite curious. I understand from Simkin’s brief description that your life