Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [68]
The Prince cast a glance at Simkin who was, at that moment, tweaking the raven’s tail.
“Study this well, my friend.” The Prince laid the book in the young man’s trembling hands.
“T-thank you, Your Grace,” stammered Mosiah, flushing in what he hoped would appear as embarrassment.
Garald understood it, however, and knew it was shame.
“The journey to Merilon is long,” said the Prince softly. “And you have a friend who will be more than happy to teach you to read.”
Mosiah followed the Princes gaze to Joram.
“Is that true? Will you?” he asked.
“Of course! I never knew you wanted to learn!” Joram answered impatiently. “You should have said something.”
Taking the book, Mosiah held it fast in his hands. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he repeated.
The two exchanged looks and, for an instant, the field magus and the nobleman were in perfect understanding.
Garald turned away. “Now, Simkin, my old friend —”
“Nothing for me, Your Grass. Ha, ha. Your Grass. That’s how the Duke of Deere referred to his gardener. I know, it’s a stupid joke, but then so was the Duke. No, I mean it. I won’t accept a thing. Well …” Simkin heaved a sigh, as the Prince started to speak, “if you insist. Perhaps one or two of the more valuable jewels of the realm —”
“For you,” said Garald, finally able to insert a word. He handed Simkin a deck of tarok cards.
“How delightful!” said Simkin, attempting to stifle a yawn.
“Each card is hand painted by my own artisans,” remarked Garald. “They are done in the ancient style, not by magic. The deck is, therefore, quite valuable.”
“Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Simkin languidly.
Garald raised his hand. “You note I hold something in my palm. Something that’s missing from your deck.”
“The Fool card,” Simkin said, peering at it intently. “How amusing.”
“The Fool card,” repeated Garald, toying with it. “Guide them well, Simkin.”
“I assure you, Your Highness,” said Simkin earnestly. “They couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Neither could you,” replied Garald. He closed his fingers over the card and it disappeared. No one spoke, each staring at the other uncomfortably. Then the Prince laughed. “Just my joke,” he said, clapping Simkin on the back.
“Ha, ha,” Simkin echoed, but his laughter was hollow.
“And now, Father Saryon,” said Garald, moving on to stand before the catalyst, who was staring down at his shoes. “I have nothing of material value to give you.” Saryon looked up in relief. “I sense that would be unwelcome to you anyway. But I do have a gift of sorts, although the present is more to myself than to you. When you return to Sharakan with Joram” — Saryon noted that the Prince always spoke of this as a settled fact — “I want you to join my household.”
A catalyst in a royal household! Saryon glanced involuntarily at Cardinal Radisovik, who smiled at him encouragingly.
“This —” stammered Saryon, clearing his throat, “this is an unexpected honor, Your Grace. Too great an honor for one who has broken the laws of his faith.”
“But not too great an honor for one who is loyal, one who is compassionate,” Prince Garald finished gently. “As I said, the gift is to myself. I look forward to the day, Father Saryon, when I can once again ask you to grant me Life.”
Turning from the catalyst, Garald came, at last, to Joram.
“I know, you don’t want anything from me either,” the Prince remarked, smiling.
“As the catalyst said, you’ve given us enough,” Joram said evenly.
“’Given us enough, Your Grace,” repeated the Cardinal sternly.
Joram’s face darkened.
“Yes, well” — Garald struggled to keep his countenance — “it seems to be your lot in life, Joram, to have to keep accepting things from me.”
Once again, the Prince held out his hands. The air above