Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [69]
“I left it this way purposefully, Joram,” the Prince said, “so that you could have your family crest drawn upon it at some later date. Now, let me show you how this works.
“I had it designed especially for you,” Garald continued proudly, exhibiting the scabbards features. “These straps attach around your chest like this, so that you can wear your sword on your back, concealed beneath your clothes. The runes carved upon the leather will cause the sword to shrink in size and weight when it is in the scabbard, thus enabling you to wear it at all times.
“That is of the utmost importance, Joram,” the Prince said, looking at the young man earnestly. “The Darksword is both your greatest protection and your greatest danger. Wear it always. Mention it to no one. Reveal its existence to no one. Use it only if you are in peril of your life.”
He glanced at Mosiah. “Or to protect the lives of others.”
The Prince’s clear brown eyes came back to Joram and Garald saw, for the first time, the stone facade shatter.
Joram stared at the scabbard, his eyes warm with longing and desire and gratitude. “I … I don’t know what … to say,” he faltered.
“How about, ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’” said Garald softly, and he placed the scabbard in Joram’s hands.
The rich smell of the leather filled Joram’s nostrils. His hands ran over the smooth finish, touching the intricate runes, examining the complex leatherwork. Looking up, he saw the man’s eyes on him, amused, yet expectant, certain of victory.
Joram smiled.
“Thank you, my friend. Thank you — Garald,” he said firmly.
Interlude
Bishop Vanya sat behind his desk in his elegant quarters in the Cathedral of Merilon. Though not as sumptuous as his rooms in the Font, the Bishop’s chambers in Merilon were large and comfortable, containing a private bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and an office with an antechamber for the Deacon who served as his secretary. The view from any of his rooms was magnificent, though it was not the broad expanse of plains or the jagged edges of mountains such as he was accustomed to enjoying at the Font. From the Cathedral, with its crystal walls, he could look down upon the city of Merilon. Gazing farther off, he could see beyond the dome, into the countryside around the city. Or, glancing above, he could see — through the crystal spires atop the Cathedral — the Royal Palace, which hovered above the city, its walls of shimmering crystal shining in the heavens like a sedate and civilized sun.
This early evening, the Bishop’s gaze was lowered, his eyes on the city of Merilon, if not his thoughts. The citizens were providing a spectacular show in the form of an enhanced sunset — a gift from the Pron-alban of the Stone Shaper’s Guild, intended to welcome His Holiness to the city. Though winter land, it was springtime in Merilon — spring being the Empress’s current favorite season. The sunset was, therefore, a sunset appropriate to spring, being magically enhanced by the Sif-Hanar to glisten in colors of muted pinks with here and there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple at the heart.
It was truly a beautiful sunset, and the inhabitants of Merilon’s City Above — the nobility and members of the upper middle class — floated about the streets in filmy silks, fluttering lace, and shining satins, admiring the view.
Not so Bishop Vanya. The sun might not have set, for all he knew or cared. The weather outside might have been a howling hurricane. In fact, such would have suited his mood. His pudgy fingers crawled over his desk, pushing this, shoving that, rearranging something else. It was his only outward sign of displeasure or nervousness, for the Bishop’s broad face was as cool, his regal manner as composed, as ever. The two black-robed figures standing silently before him, however, noted this paper-shuffling as