Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [51]
“Perhaps.” Saryon smiled wanly. “To my mind, it was still murder. Killing has become easy for Joram — too easy. He sees it as his way to gain the power he lacks in magic. I bid you good-night, Your Grace.”
“Good night, Father,” said Garald, considering his words thoughtfully, “May the Almin watch over you.”
“May He indeed,” Saryon murmured, turning away.
The Prince of Sharakan did not retire to his own tent until far into the starlit hours of early morning. Back and forth he walked over the grass in the cold night air, cloaked in furs that he caused to appear without thinking about it. His thoughts were occupied by the strange, dark tale of madness and murder, of Life and Death, of magic and its destroyer. At last, when he knew himself to be tired enough that he could banish the tale into the realm of sleep, he stood looking down at the slumbering group fate had cast into his path.
Or was it fate?
“This isn’t the way to Merilon,” he said to himself, the fact suddenly occurring to him. “Why are they traveling this route? There are others to the east far shorter and safer….
“And who has been their guide? Let me guess. Three who have never traveled in the world. One who has been everywhere.” His eyes went to the figure in the white nightshirt. No babe in his mothers arms slumbered more sweetly than Simkin, though the tassel of the nightcap had fallen down over his mouth and there was every likelihood that he would inhale it and swallow it before the night was ended.
“What game are you playing now, old friend?” muttered Garald. “Certainly not tarok. Of all the shadows I see falling across this young man, why is yours, somehow, the darkest?”
Musing on this, the Prince retired to his tent, leaving the unmoving, watchful Duuk-tsarith to rule the night.
But Garald’s sleep was not unbroken as he had hoped. More than once, he found himself waking with a start, thinking he heard the gleeful laughter of a bucket.
12
The Fencing Master
“Get up!”
The toe of a boot struck Joram in the ribs, not gently. Startled, half-asleep, his heart pounding, the young man sat up from his blankets and shoved the tangled black hair back from his eyes. “What —”.
“I said, get up,” repeated a cool voice.
Prince Garald stood above Joram, regarding him with a pleasant smile.
Joram rubbed his eyes and glanced about. It was just before dawn, he supposed, although the only indication was a faint brightening of the sky above the treetops to the east. Otherwise, it was still dark. The fire had burned low; his companions lay asleep around it. Two silken tents, barely visible in the prelight, stood at the edge of the clearing, flags fluttering from their pointed tops. These had not been there the day before and were, presumably, where the Prince and Cardinal Radisovik spent the night.
In the center of the clearing, near the dying fire, stood one of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith in what Joram could swear was the same position he had seen him standing in last night. The warlock’s hands were folded before him, his face lost in shadow. But the hooded head was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes.
“What is it? What do you want?” Joram asked. His hand crept to the sword beneath his blanket.
“‘What do you want, Your Grace,’” corrected the Prince with a grin. “That does stick in your craw, doesn’t it, young man. Yes, bring the weapon,” he added, though Joram had supposed he was making his move unobserved.
Chagrined, Joram drew the Darksword from beneath the blanket, but he did not stand up.
“I asked what you wanted … Your Grace,” he said coldly, his lip curling.
“If you are going to use that weapon” — the Prince glanced at the sword in amused distaste — “then you had better learn how to use it properly. I could have skewered you like a chicken yesterday