Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [61]
Saryon crouched back into the shadows of the tent, his relief changing to fear at the sight of the expression on Joram’s face.
Saryon wasn’t certain what change — if any — he had expected to see in the young man. A meek and contrite Joram, humbly begging everyone’s forgiveness and vowing to live a better life? No — Saryon couldn’t imagine that.
An angry, defiant Joram, determined to go to the devil in his own way and quite willing to let everyone else do the same? That was far more realistic. It was, in fact, what the catalyst expected. He would have welcomed it, he realized, in comparison to the Joram he saw.
There was no expression on the young man’s face at all. Pale and wan, cheeks sunken, eyes dark and shadowed, Joram waited silently, unmoving outside the Princes tent, his hands clasped about the hilt of the sword.
Having undoubtedly heard the same footsteps that had caught Saryon’s ear, Garald stepped outside, coming to a halt before the strange figure standing in front of the tent. The Prince was in no danger. The Duuk-tsarith were close-by; their magic would dismember Joram before the boy had even raised the weapon.
It was Joram himself who was in danger, and Garald, knowing this, moved slowly, keeping his hands visible.
“Joram,” he said gently, pleasantly.
“Your Grace.” The words were coldly spoken, deliberately empty and without meaning. Garald’s shoulders slumped in defeat; he sighed softly. Then his patience gave way, it seemed — anger at this arrogant young man finally overtook him.
“What do you want?” Prince Garald asked bitterly.
Joram’s lips pressed together. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, fixing his dark eyes on a point somewhere above the Prince’s shoulder. “We haven’t much time,” he said, speaking to the distance, to the bare trees, the brightening blue sky, the thin rim of the rising sun. “A week, you said.”
The words were so cold, Saryon was somewhat amazed to see the warmth of the breath that spoke them form a mist in the chill air. Joram swallowed. The hands, clasping the hilt of the Darksword, tightened. “I have much to learn,” he said.
Garald’s face brightened with a smile that seemed to warm the glade more than the steaming spring. He made a move as if to take hold of the young man, clap him on the back, grasp him by the shoulders or do something to indicate his pleasure. But Saryon saw Joram’s jaw muscles clench, the entire body stiffen. The Prince saw this, too, and checked his implusive movement.
“I’ll get my sword,” he said, and went back into his tent.
Unaware that anyone was watching — for the catalyst had kept carefully silent — Joram relaxed. His gaze shifted, he looked directly at the spot where the Prince had been standing, and it seemed to Saryon that he saw the stern face softened by a look of regret. Joram’s lips parted, as though he would speak. But he turned away abruptly, his mouth snapping shut. When the Prince came back out — dressed in a fur cloak, sword in hand — Joram met him with a face as cold and trackless as the snow.
How he reaches out for love, Saryon saw, his heart aching. And yet when a hand starts to grasp his in return, he strikes it away.
The two walked off in silence, the Prince glancing occasionally at Joram, Joram walking steadily, his eyes on his destination. In the distance, at the edge of the trees, the catalyst saw a black shadow detach itself from the trunk of a tree and glide slowly and unobserved behind them.
Realizing he was shivering with cold, Saryon returned to his bed. He knew, as he huddled into his blankets, that he should offer a prayer to the Almin in thanks for the young mans safe return.
But Saryon did not trouble his unhearing, perhaps nonexistent god. Recalling Joram’s changed attitude and seeing behind it an even more fixed determination and resolve to achieve his goal, Saryon wasn’t certain if he wanted to offer up thanks.
He felt more inclined to beg for mercy.
14
The Parting