Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [53]
Catching hold of the skin as it came near, he lifted it and drank a few sips, then passed it to Joram. “Not much,” he cautioned. “Cramps the belly.”
Joram drank and passed it back. Garald poured some in his hand and splashed it on his face and chest, his skin shivering in the biting air.
“You’re doing … well, young man …” Garald said, drawing deep breaths. “Very … well. If … we’re not both dead … at the end of the week … you should be … ready….”
“Week? … Ready?” Joram saw the trees blur before his eyes. Talking coherently at the moment lay beyond his capacity. “I … leave … Merilon….”
“Not for a week.” Garald shook his head, and took another pull at the waterskin. “Don’t forget …” he said with a grin, resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head down to breathe more easily, “you are my prisoner. Or do you think … you could fight me … and the Duuk-tsarith?”
Joram closed his eyes. His throat ached, his lungs burned, his muscles twitched, his cuts stung. He hurt all over. “I couldn’t … fight … the catalyst … right now….” he admitted with almost a smile.
The two sat upon the boulder, resting. Neither spoke, neither felt the need for speech. As he grew more rested, Joram relaxed, a warm and pleasant feeling of peace stole over him. He took note of the surroundings — a small clearing in the center of the forest, a clearing that might have been formed magically, it was so perfect. In fact, Joram realized, it probably had been carved from the woods by magic — the Prince’s magic.
Joram and the Prince were alone, something else Joram wondered about. They had been making noise enough for a regiment, and the young man expected at any moment to see the snooping catalyst come to find out what was going on, or at least Mosiah and the ever-curious Simkin. But Garald had spoken to the Duuk-tsarith before they left, and Joram assumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away.
“I don’t mind,” Joram decided. He liked it here — peaceful, quiet, the sun warm upon the rock where he was sitting. He couldn’t remember, in fact, ever having felt this content. His restless mind slowed its frenetic pace and glided easily among the treetops, listening to the steady breathing of his companion, the pumping of his own heart.
“Joram,” said Garald, “what do you plan to do when you get to Merilon?”
Joram shrugged, wishing the man had not spoken, willing him to be quiet and not break the spell.
“No, we need to discuss this,” Garald said, seeing the expressive face grow shadowed. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I have the feeling ‘going to Merilon’ is like some child’s tale with you. Once you get there, you expect your life to be ‘all better’ just because you stand in the shadows of its floating platforms. Believe me, Joram” — the Prince shook his head — “it won’t happen. I’ve been to Merilon. Not recently, of course.” He smiled sardonically. “But in the days when we were at peace. And I can tell you that — right now — you won’t get within sight of the city gates. You are a savage from the Outland. The Duuk-tsarith will have you” — he snapped his fingers — “like that!”
The sun disappeared, shrouded by clouds. A wind came up, whistling mournfully among the trees. Shivering, Joram stood up and started to walk across the clearing to where his shirt lay on the grass.
“No, stay. I’ll get it,” Garald said, putting a restraining hand on Joram’s arm. With a gesture, he caused both shirts to take wing, flitting through the air toward them like fabric birds. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you are Dead. We have so few Dead in Sharakan, I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Joram scowled, feeling the swift, sharp pain he always experienced whenever reminded of the difference between himself and everyone else in this world. He glared at the Prince angrily, certain the man was mocking him. But Garald wasn’t watching, he had his head in his shirt. “I have always envied Simkin his ability to change his clothes at a whim. Not to mention,” the Prince grunted, pulling the fine cambric shirt down over his shoulders, “changing himself at a whim.