Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [46]
“I am obliged, Your Grace,” Saryon said, flushing at the attention. “To your health.” He sipped at the wine. It was delicious, and brought memories of court life and Merilon back to him.
“I would like to speak to you of Joram, Father,” Garald said, settling himself onto the grassy carpet. Leaning on one elbow, he looked directly into the catalyst’s face while keeping his own turned from the firelight.
“You are direct and to the point, milord.” said Saryon, smiling faintly.
“A failing of mine, sometimes,” said Garald with a rueful grin, plucking at the grass beneath his hand. “Or at least so my father tells me. He says that I scare people, pouncing on them like a cat when I should creep up on them from behind.”
“I will tell you gladly what I know of the young man, milord,” Saryon said, his gaze going to the sleeping form that lay near the fire. “The story of his early life I heard from other people, but I have no reason to doubt the facts.”
The catalyst continued to speak, telling of Joram’s bleak, strange upbringing. The Prince listened, silent, absorbed, fascinated.
“There is no doubt Anja was mad, Your Grace,” said Saryon with a soft sigh. “Her ordeal had been a terrible one. She had seen the man she loved —”
“Joram’s father, the catalyst,” clarified the Prince.
“Um … yes, milord.” Saryon coughed and was forced to clear his throat before he could resume. Garald noted that the man did not look at him as he talked. “The catalyst. She had seen him sentenced to the Turning. Have you ever watched that punishment, Highness?” Now the catalyst turned his gaze to the Prince.
“No,” Garald replied, shaking his head. “As the Almin is my witness, may I be spared that.”
“You do well to pray so, milord,” Saryon replied, his gaze going once again to the dancing flames of the fire. “I saw it. In fact, I saw the edict carried out on Joram’s father, though, of course, I didn’t know it at the time. How strange is fate….” He was silent for so long that Prince Garald touched him on the arm.
“Father?”
“What?” Saryon started. “Oh, yes.” Shivering, he drew his robes close around him. “It is a dreadful punishment. In the ancient world, so we are told, men were sentenced to die for their crimes. We consider that barbarism, and I suppose it is. Yet sometimes I think death must be easy compared to our more civilized ways.”
“I have seen a man sent Beyond,” said the Prince in a low voice. “No, wait. It was a woman. Yes, a woman. I was only a boy. My father took me. It was the first time I had traveled the Corridors. I remember being so excited about the journey that I scarcely knew its intent, although I am certain my father must have tried to prepare me for it. If so, he did not succeed.”
Restlessly, the Prince shifted. Sitting up from his comfortable lounging position he, too, stared into the flames. Memory shadowed his handsome face and clear brown eyes.
“What was her crime, milord?”
“I was trying to remember.” Garald shook his head. “It must have been a heinous one; probably something to do with adultery, because I remember my father being rather confused and vague about the details. She was a wizardess, I remember that. Albanara — a high-ranking member of the court. There was something about casting spells of enchantment, enticing a man against his will.” Garald shrugged. “At least I suppose that was his story.
“Boy that I was,” he continued, “I thought it was going to be a game. I was terribly excited. All the members of the royal courts were there, dressed in their lovely clothes, specially colored in varying shades of blood red for the occasion. I was quite proud of my outfit and wanted to keep it, but Father forbade me. We stood there, on the Border, at the feet of the great living guardians …”
He paused. “I didn’t know then that these men and women of stone were alive. My father never told me. I was in awe of them, towering thirty feet into the air, staring eternally with unblinking eyes into the shadowed mists of Beyond. A man came forward, dressed