Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [43]
The shame that burned in Joram’s face was answer enough for the Prince, but the young man tossed his head proudly. “No.” It was all he meant to say, but the grave interest on Garald’s face drew him into speaking more than he had intended. “All I know is that my mother’s name was Anja, and that she came from Merilon. My father was … was a … catalyst.” His lip twisted as he spoke; his eyes went to the glade where Saryon could be seen, standing among the flowers and tall grass, talking to the Cardinal.
“Life’s blood!” The Prince’s gaze followed. “You don’t mean —”
“Of course not!” Joram snapped, realizing Garald’s mistake. “Not him!” The bitterness returned. “My creation was my father’s crime. He was sentenced to the Turning, and now he stands, a living statue, upon the Border.”
“My god,” the Prince murmured, and there was no longer pity in his voice but sympathy. “So you come from Merilon by birth.” Once again, he studied Joram in the sunlight. “Yes, that fits somehow. Yet … I cannot place …”
Irritably, he shook his head, trying to remember. But his thoughts were interrupted by Simkin, who gave a great, gaping yawn. “Hate to break up this frightfully fascinating little party, don’t you know. And I am most awfully tickled to see you again, Garald, old bean. But I should like a brief nap before dinner.” Another yawn. “It isn’t easy being a bucket. To say nothing of the fact that those black-robed guards of yours are, in reality, two great oafs who tripped over me in the grass. Gave me a turn, so to speak, from which I may doubtless never recover.” Sniffing indignantly, he dabbed his nose with the orange silk.
“By all means, go rest in the glade, my friend.” Garald smiled. “You do seem a bit pale.”
“Ouch!” Simkin winced. “A pun that was quite unworthy of you, my prince. Sweet dreams. You, too, O Dark and Gloomy One.” Waving negligently at Joram, the bearded young man drifted forward, riding on the warm currents of spring air that could be felt as they drew nearer the magical campsite.
“How do you know Simkin?” Joram asked involuntarily, watching as the green cape and the green hat with the pheasant feather fluttered away.
“Know Simkin?” Glancing at Joram, the Prince raised one eyebrow in amusement. “I wasn’t aware anyone ever did.”
“Well, Radisovik, what have you found out?”
Night — real night, not magical — had come to the glade. A campfire burned in the center of a cleared area. It had been used for cooking a brace of rabbit the Prince had snared earlier in the day, and now it cast a pleasant, warm light throughout the peaceful glade. With the magic of himself and his guards at his command, Prince Garald could have dispensed with the need for fire and snares. The rabbits could conceivably have cooked themselves. But Garald liked to keep in training. A man never knew, particularly in these unsettled times, when he might be forced to live without the magic.
Tonight the Prince and his Cardinal walked slowly among the trees, keeping within sight of the camp, both under the watchful, protective eyes of the black-hooded Duuk-tsarith. Some distance from where they walked, the catalyst sat, nodding by the fire, drinking a cup of hot tea. Mosiah lay near him, asleep, wrapped in soft blankets that the Prince had conjured up for them with his own hands. Joram lay near his friend, but he was wide awake. His eyes followed the Prince and the Cardinal; his sword lay by his side, within easy reach. Garald wondered if the young man intended trying to remain awake all night, watching. Grinning to himself, he shook his head. He had been seventeen once himself. Not that long ago either. He was twenty-eight now. And he could remember.
Their other guest, Simkin, had spread his blanket in a flower