Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [63]
Garald settled the catalyst comfortably in a veritable nest of luxurious cushions he conjured up. He would have added wine and any other delicacies the catalyst might have desired had not Saryon, embarrassed, refused.
Saryon could not help liking the Prince. Garald treated the catalyst with the utmost respect and courtesy, always solicitous of his welfare and comfort, yet never demeaning or patronizing. Nor was the catalyst alone in this. Garald treated everyone this way — from Simkin and Mosiah to the Duuk-tsarith and Joram.
How his people must love their Prince, the catalyst thought, watching the graceful, elegant nobleman talk to the awkward, diffident youth — listening to Joram respectfully, treating him as an equal, yet not hesitating to point out when he thought the young man was wrong.
Joram, too, appeared to be studying Garald. Perhaps this was what was causing the turmoil in his soul. Saryon knew that Joram would give anything to be accorded the same respect and love that this man received. Maybe the young man was beginning to realize that it had to be given before it could be gained back in return.
Joram and the Prince took their places in the center of the arena, but they did not immediately assume their fighting stances.
“Hand me your sword a moment,” said Garald.
Joram’s eyes flashed, the brows came together, and he hestitated. Saryon shook his head. Well, he couldn’t expect miracles, he told himself. Garald, his gaze on the sword, appeared not to notice but waited patiently.
Finally Joram handed over the weapon with an ungracious “Here.”
Keeping his face carefully expressionless, pretending not to notice the rude comment, Gerald accepted the sword and proceeded to study it intently.
“The last few days, we’ve practiced with it just for the sake of swordsmanship alone,” he said. “Yet, all the time, I can feel it tugging at me, draining my magic so that by the end of the day, I can feel the weakness in my body. But it doesn’t have that effect on me when, for example, we are back in camp. I don’t notice it at all.”
“I think it has to be wielded in order to produce the Life-draining effect,” Joram said, forgetting himself in his interest in the sword. “I noticed the same thing when I fought the warlock. When Blachloch first came into the forge, the sword did not react. But when he attacked me, and I raised the sword to defend myself, I could feel the weapon begin to fight on its own.”
“I think I understand,” Garald murmured thoughtfully. “The weapon must react from some sort of energy it feels from you — anger, fear, the strong emotions generated by battle. Here” — casually he unbuckled the scabbard of his own sword and handed the beautiful weapon to Joram — “take mine. Go ahead. You can use it. The fact that you’re Dead won’t matter. Its magical properties can be activated by command.” The Prince took his fighting stance, raising the Darksword awkwardly. “I wish someone had taught you the art of swordmaking,” he muttered. “This will always be a clumsy, unhandy weapon. But, never mind that now. Say the words ‘hawk, strike,’ and attack me.”
His hands wrapping lovingly around the finely crafted hilt of the Prince’s sword, Joram faced Garald, weapon raised. “Hawk, strike,” he spoke, and pressed forward to the attack. Garald raised the Darksword in defense but, as quick as lightning, his own weapon penetrated his guard, wounding him in the shoulder.
“My god!” Seeing blood stream down the Princes arm, Joram dropped the sword. “I didn’t mean to, I swear! Are you all right?”
Saryon jumped to his feet.
“My own fault,” Garald said grimly, pressing his hand over the wound. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch, as the actors in the play say right before they drop dead — I’m teasing, Father. It really is a scratch, look.” He exhibited the wound and Saryon saw, with relief, that the sword had cut through only the surface layers of skin. He was able to stop the bleeding with a spell of minor healing, and the “lesson” continued.
At least, thought Saryon grimly, this proves the Duuk-tsarith aren’t around.