Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [45]
“No!” Garald said firmly, his gaze going involuntarily to the black-robed figures standing in disciplined silence near the fire. “We will leave that type of thing to Vanya and his puppet Emperor of Merilon. If it is the Almin’s will that this man’s secret become known to us, then we will discover it. If not, then we are not meant to know it.”
“Amen,” murmured the Cardinal, appearing relieved.
“After all, the Almin willed it that we discovered Blachloch’s treachery in time,” Garald continued with a smile.
“All praise to our Creator,” responded the Cardinal. “And now, knowing this, milord, do we proceed with our journey to the Sorcerers?”
“Yes, of course. If you agree, I mean,” Garald added hastily. Accustomed to acting quickly and decisively, the young Prince occasionally forgot to seek the advice of the older, more experienced Cardinal. It was one reason his father, the King, had sent the two of them together on this mission.
“I think it would be wise, Your Grace. Particularly now,” Radisovik said, it being his turn to conceal his smile. “The Sorcerers will be in confusion following the death of their leader. The catalyst tells me that there is one faction who wants peace, but another, stronger faction that favors pursuing this war. It should be easy to step in, take control, and work with them in earnest now that the warlock is gone.”
“Yes, that is how I see it.” Garald smiled. “In the meantime, I suppose there is no hurry?”
The Cardinal appeared surprised. “Well, no, I shouldn’t think so, Your Grace. We must arrive in the village before the people have had a chance to establish a firm leadership figure —”
“A week would make no difference more or less, do you think?”
“N-no, milord,” said the Cardinal, mystified. “I should think not.”
“And what are the intentions of our guests? Where are they bound?”
“To Merilon, Your Grace,” said the Cardinal.
“Yes, that makes sense,” Garald said, speaking more to himself than to his companion. “Joram seeks his name and his fortune. This could work out quite nicely….”
“Your Grace?”
“Nothing, just talking to myself. I believe we will camp here for a week, if you do not object, Radisovik.”
“And what do you intend to do here, milord?” asked the Cardinal.
“Turn fencing instructor. Good night, Eminence.”
Bowing, Garald walked back toward the fire.
“Good night, Your Grace,” murmured Radisovik, staring after the Prince in astonishment.
11
Joram
Garald returned to the fire, his head bent in thought. The Cardinal continued on across the glade, entering a silken tent that had appeared near the hot springs by the command of one of the Duuk-tsarith. The Prince noted, as he walked, that both he and Cardinal were under the catalysts careful scrutiny, and that Saryon’s gaze went from them to Joram. The young man had finally fallen asleep, his hand still resting on his sword.
The catalyst loves him, that much is certain, the Prince thought, watching Saryon from beneath lowered lids as he drew near. And what a difficult love it must be. It is apparently not returned. Radisovik is right. There’s some deep secret here. He won’t give it up, that’s obvious. But, in talking about the young man, he might say more than he realizes. And I will find out something about Joram.
“No, please don’t rise, Father,” the Prince said aloud, coming to stand beside the catalyst. “If you have no objection, I would like to sit with you for a while, unless you plan to retire, that is.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” replied the catalyst, sinking back down into the soft, fragrant grass that had been magically transformed into a carpet as thick and luxurious as any in court. “I would be glad of your company. I — I find that I suffer from insomnia on occasion.” The catalyst smiled wearily. “It seems that this is one of those nights.”
“I, too, am often wakeful,” the Prince said, seating himself gracefully beside the catalyst. “My Theldara prescribes a glass of wine before bed.” A crystal goblet appeared in the Prince’s hand, filled with a ruby-red