Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [56]
“The dead have little use for honor, as I said before. They have little use for anything else, either. What are title, wealth, breeding to them? We may walk different paths through this life, Joram, but they all lead the same place — to the grave. It is our duty — no, it is our privilege, as fellow travelers who have been blessed more than others — to make the way as smooth and pleasant for as many as we can.”
“Fine words!” Joram retorted furiously. “But you’re quick enough to lap up ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Your Highness’! I don’t see you dressed in the coarse robes of the peasants. I don’t see you rising at dawn and spending your days grubbing in the fields until your very soul starts to shrivel like the weeds you touch!” He pointed at the Prince. “You’re a wonderful talker! You and your fancy clothes and bright swords, silk tents and bodyguards! That’s what I think of your words!” Joram made an obscene gesture, laughed, and began to walk away.
Reaching out, Garald caught hold of him by the shoulder and spun him around. Joram shook free. His face distorted by rage, he struck at the man, swinging his fist wildly. The Prince countered the blow easily, catching it on his forearm. With practiced skill, he grabbed Joram’s wrist, gave it a twist, and forced the young man to his knees. Gagging in pain, Joram struggled to stand up.
“Stop it! Fighting me is useless. With one word of magic I could tear your arm from its socket!” Garald said coldly, holding the young man fast.
“Damn you, you — !” Joram swore at him, spitting filth. “You and your magic! If I had my sword, I’d —” He looked around for it, feverishly.
“I’ll give you your cursed sword,” the Prince said grimly. “Then you can do what you want. But first, you will listen to me. In order to do my work in this life, I must dress and act in a manner befitting my station. Yes, I wear fancy clothes and bathe and comb my hair, and I’m going to see to it that you do these things, too, before you go to Merilon. Why? Because it shows you care what people think of you. As for my title, people call me ‘milord’ and ‘Your Grace’ as a mark of respect for my station. But I hope it is a mark of respect for me as a person as well. Why do you think I don’t force you to do it? Because the words are empty for you. You don’t respect anybody, Joram. You don’t care for anybody. Least of all yourself!”
“You’re wrong!” Joram whispered huskily, looking for the sword. But it was hard to see, a green-tinged, blood-red pool of rage blinded him. “You’re wrong! I care —”
“Then, show it!” Garald cried. Grabbing hold of the long black hair, the Prince jerked Joram’s head back, forcing the young man to look up at him. Joram did so, he had no choice. But the pain-filled, defiant eyes glared at the Prince in bitter hatred.
“You were willing to give your life for Mosiah last night, weren’t you?” Garald continued relentlessly. “Yet, you treat him as if he were some mongrel slouching at your heels. And the catalyst — a man learned and gentle, who should be spending his middle years in peace, pursuing the study that he loves. He fought the warlock with you, and now he follows you through the wilderness, weary and aching, when he could have turned you over to the Church. For what reason, do you suppose? Ah yes, of course, I forgot. His ‘ulterior motive.’ He wants something from you! What? Insults, gibes, sneers?”
“Bah!” Garald sent Joram sprawling facedown on the frozen ground. Lifting his head, Joram saw the Darksword lying right in front of him. Lunging forward, he grasped the hilt. He scrambled to his feet, twisting around to face his enemy. Garald stood staring at him coldly,