Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [54]
His head emerging from the collar, Garald smoothed his hair, grinning over the remembrance. Then, growing more serious, he continued on his original topic of thought. “There are many Dead born in Merilon, or so we’ve heard,” he said, his casual acceptance of the fact slowly smothering Joram’s fiery anger. “Particularly among the nobility. But they try to get rid of them, putting the babies to death or smuggling them into the Outland. They are rotting inside” — his clear eyes grew shadowed, darkening with his own anger — “and they would spread their disease to the entire world if they had their way. Well” — he drew a deep breath, shaking it off — “they won’t have it.”
“We were talking about Merilon,” Joram said harshly. Sitting back down, he grabbed a handful of gravel from the ground, and began tossing rocks at a distant tree trunk.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Garald said. “Now, as to getting inside the city —”
“Look,” Joram interrupted impatiently, “don’t worry about it! We’ll have fancy clothes, if that’s all it takes. The castoffs from Simkin’s wardrobe alone could last us for years….”
“Then what?”
“Then — then….” Joram shrugged impatiently. “What does it matter to you anyway … Your Grace?” he said, his lip curling in contempt. Glancing around, he saw Garald regarding him with a calm and serious expression, the clear eyes delving deep into dark, murky parts of Joram’s soul that Joram himself had never dared explore. Instantly the young man reinforced the stone wall around himself.
“Why are you doing this?” he demanded angrily, gesturing at the Darksword that lay on the ground near him. “What do you care whether I live or die? What’s in it for you?”
Garald regarded Joram silently, then he smiled slowly; a smile of sadness and regret. “That’s all there is for you, isn’t there, Joram?” he said. “‘What’s in it for me?’ It doesn’t matter to you that I’ve heard your story from the catalyst, that I pity you … Ah, yes, that makes you furious, but it’s true. I pity you … and I admire you.”
Joram turned away from the Prince, turned away from the intense gaze of those clear, clear eyes, his own dark eyes staring into the tangled boughs of the bare, dead trees.
“I admire you,” the Prince continued steadily, “I admire the intelligence and perseverance you showed in discovering what has been lost to the world for centuries. I know the courage it took to face Blachloch, and I admire you for standing up to him. If nothing else, I owe you something for saving us — if inadvertently — from the double-dealings of the warlock. But, I see that doesn’t satisfy you. You want my ‘ulterior motive.’”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t got one,” muttered Joram bitterly.
“Very well, my friend, I’ll tell you ‘what’s in it for me.’ You take your sword, your Darksword as you call it, and you go to Merilon. And with it or without it” — Garald shrugged — “you win back your inheritance. You conceal the fact that you are Dead — as you are well capable of doing so long as you have the catalyst to cover for you. Never thought about that, did you? Good idea, consider it. Up until now, it hasn’t mattered whether or not you called upon a catalyst to give you Life. There weren’t any catalysts in the Sorcerers’ village to call. But it will be different in Merilon. You will be expected to use your catalyst, to have one with you. With Saryon at your side, you can keep up your pretense of having Life.
“But now, where was I? Oh, yes. You find your mother’s people and you convince them that they should accept you into the bosom of their family. Who knows, they may be grieving still over the misguided daughter who ran away before they could show her how much they cared and were willing to forgive. Or perhaps the family has died out, perhaps you can prove your claim and gain their lands and title.
“No matter,” Garald continued archly. “Let us suppose that all this has a happy ending and you are a nobleman, Joram; a nobleman of Merilon, complete with title and land and wealth. What do I want from you, noble gentleman? Look at me, Joram.”
The young man could not