Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [55]
Joram stared at him incredulously. “What makes you think I’ll do that? Once I have gained my rightful holdings, I’ll do nothing but —”
“— watch the world go by?” Garald smiled. “No, I don’t think you will, Joram. You couldn’t do that among the Sorcerers. Fear for yourself didn’t prompt you to fight the warlock. Oh, I don’t know the details, but — if that had been the case — you could have always fled on your own, leaving someone else to face him. No, you did it because there is something deep inside you that feels the need to protect and defend those weaker than yourself. That is your birthright; you were born Albanara. And because of that I believe you will see Merilon with eyes that are not blinded by the pretty clouds among which its people dwell.
“You have been a Field Magus. By the Almin!” Garald continued more passionately as Joram, shaking his head, turned away again. “You have lived under the tyranny of Merilon, Joram! Its rigid traditions and beliefs caused your mother to be cast out, your father to be sentenced to living death! You will see a city of beauty, certainly, but it is beauty covering decay! It is even said that the Empress —” Garald stopped abruptly. “Never mind.” He spoke in a low voice, clasping his hands together. “I can’t believe that is true, not even of them.”
The Prince paused, drawing a deep breath. “Don’t you see, Joram?” he continued more calmly. “You — a noble of Merilon — come to us, prepared to fight to restore your city’s ancient honor. My people would be impressed. And, most importantly, you would help influence the Sorcerers, whom you have lived among. We hope to ally with them, but I am certain they would follow my father’s guidance much more readily if he could point to you and say, ‘Look, here is one you know and trust, fighting on our side as well!’ The Sorcerers do know and like you, I suppose?” the Prince asked offhandedly.
Had Joram been knowledgeable about such things as verbal parry and thrust, he would have recognized that the Prince was maneuvering him into position.
“They know me, at least,” Joram said briefly, not giving the matter much thought. He was considering the Prince’s words. He could see himself riding into Sharakan, resplendent with the trappings of his rank, to be welcomed by the King and his son. That would be a fine thing. But going to war with them? Bah! What did he care….
“Ah!” Garald said casually. “‘They know me, at least,’ you say. Which means, I suppose, that they know you but don’t particularly like you. And, of course, you don’t give a damn about that, do you?”
Joram raised his dark eyes, on his guard at once. It was too late.
“You will fail in Merilon, Joram. You will fail anywhere you go.”
“And why is that … Your Grace?” Sneering, Joram never felt the point of the verbal blade pressed against his heart.
“Because you want to be a noble, and perhaps by rights you are a noble. But unfortunately, Joram, there isn’t one ounce of nobility within you,” answered Garald coolly.
The words struck home. Torn and bleeding inside, Joram made a clumsy attempt to return the blow. “Forgive me, Your Grace!” he whined in mockery. “I don’t have fine clothes, like you. I don’t bathe in rose petals, or perfume my hair! People don’t call me ‘milord’ and beg to kiss my ass! Not yet they don’t! But they will!” His voice shook in anger. He sprang to his feet, facing Garald, his fists clenched. “By the Almin, they will! And so will you, damn you!”
Garald rose to face the enraged young man. “Yes, I should have guessed that is your idea of a nobleman, Joram. And this is precisely why you will never be one. I’m beginning to think that I mistook you, that you belong in Merilon, because this is exactly what many of them think!” The Prince glanced eastward, in the direction of the faraway city. “They will soon learn they are wrong,” he said earnestly, “but they will