Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [60]
And still Joram did not return.
The card game broke up for dinner. The meal consisted of a woodland stew that the Prince had proudly concocted with his own hands, expounding at length upon the various herbs that went into its preparation, boasting that he had gathered these himself upon his journey.
Saryon made a show of eating so as not to offend the Prince, though — in actuality — he managed to smuggle most of his dinner to the raven. The Duuk-tsarith who had — presumably — been watching over Joram returned, and the other left to take his place. At least that is what Saryon assumed; he could not distinguish between the two guards, faceless in their black hoods. The warlock conferred with Garald, and by the glances the Prince cast in the direction of the forest, Saryon knew the subject of their conversation. This was confirmed when the Prince came over to talk to the catalyst immediately afterward.
“Joram is safe and well, Father,” Garald reported. “Please do not concern yourself. He has taken shelter in a cleft in the cliff face. He needs time to be alone. The wound I inflicted is deep, I think, but not mortal, and he will be better for the bloodletting.”
Saryon was not convinced, and neither was Mosiah.
“You remember those black moods that used to come upon him, Father?” the young man said softly, sitting down beside the catalyst as he toyed with his uneaten food. The raven, perched at the catalyst’s left hand, kept a hungry eye on them. “He hasn’t had any recently, but in the past I’ve seen him lie on his bed for days, not eating, not talking. Just staring into nothing.”
“I know. And if he’s not back by morning, we’ll go after him,” Saryon said resolutely.
The snow continued to fall, and the Prince was forced to remove the shield, since keeping it in place through the storm was draining both his energy and that of the Cardinal. Simkin and Mosiah moved into the Prince’s large tent for the night; Saryon accepted the offer to share Radisovik’s.
As for the Duuk-tsarith, they had both vanished, though the catalyst knew the warlocks were around somewhere, guarding the Princes rest. When they themselves found time to sleep, the catalyst couldn’t imagine. He had heard rumors that the warlocks had the ability to put mind and body to sleep while maintaining unceasing vigilance. That sounded improbable, however, and he disregarded it as legend.
Grateful for any small problem to keep his mind off his worries, Saryon considered the matter as he lay awake in the darkness, listening for the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Eventually, the catalyst slept. But it was a disturbed sleep. Awakening often in the night, he padded softly to the opening of the tent and gently, so as not to disturb the slumbering Cardinal, parted the flaps to look out.
What he hoped to see, he had no idea, for the snow fell so thickly he could barely make out the dark shape of the Prince’s tent that stood next to theirs. He did notice that he wasn’t the only one keeping watch. Once he caught a gleam of light from Garald’s tent and thought he saw, through the snow, the tall figure of the Prince, peering out into the night.
By morning, the snow ended. Lying on thick cushions, the catalyst watched the light of dawn creep slowly into his tent, picturing it filtering through the tangled boughs of the snow-laden trees, leaving a glistening track across the smooth expanse of white outside.
He started to close his eyes, force himself to try to sleep, then he heard what he had been waiting for — footsteps.
His heart constricting in relief, Saryon hastily rose and threw aside the tent flap. There, he stopped, drawing back out of sight.
Joram stood in the center of the snow-covered glade. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak. Where had that come from? Had the Duuk-tsarith taken it to him? Saryon found time to wonder as he waited, breathlessly, to see what Joram would do now.
Moving through snow that was halfway up his tall boots,