Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [88]
“You were right, Father,” he whispered bitterly to Saryon under the cover of Simkin’s grand act. “We were fools to come to Merilon. Let’s leave, right now!”
“I’m afraid it isn’t that easy, my boy,” said Saryon with a sigh, shaking his head. “The Kan-Hanar must approve all who leave the city through Earth Gate as well as all who enter. We would never be allowed to go now. We must do what we can to survive this.”
“Survive?” Mosiah repeated, thinking Saryon was joking. Then he saw the catalyst’s face. “You’re serious.”
“Prince Garald said it would be dangerous,” Saryon answered gravely. “Didn’t you believe him?”
“I guess not,” Mosiah muttered, his narrow-eyed gaze going to Simkin. “I thought he was, well, overreacting. I never dreamed it would be … so … different! We’re outsiders! Some of us, at least,” he added softly, with a glance at Joram. Mosiah shook his head. “How does he do it, Father? He seems a part of all this, as though he belonged here! Even more than Simkin! That fool is just a plaything. He knows it, and laps up the attention. But Joram —” Mosiah gestured helplessly — “he has everything these people have — grace, beauty.” His voice trailed off despondently.
Yes, thought Saryon, his gaze going to Joram. He belongs….
The young man stood some distance apart from where Saryon and Mosiah huddled near the wall. The separation was not intentional, but as though he, too, sensed the difference between them. His head thrown back proudly, he watched Simkin with that half smile on his lips as though the two were sharing a private joke on the rest of the world.
He belongs, and he knows it now, Saryon saw with a pang of sorrow. Beauty? I would never have said it of him, not cold, bitter, and withdrawn as he is. Yet, look at him now. Much of it is the young woman’s influence, of course. What man does not become beautiful under the spell of first love? Yet it is more than that. He is a man in darkness, stumbling toward the light. And, in Merilon, that light beats down upon him, bringing a radiance and a warmth to his soul.
What will he do, Saryon wondered sadly, if he ever discovers that the brightness of that light covers only a darkness deeper than his own? Shaking his head, he felt Mosiah’s warning touch on his arm, and returned to their present predicament.
The household of Lady Rosamund that had been marching forward with such dispatch and efficiency suddenly came to a halt in the middle of the road, so to speak. Simkin lay languidly on the couch, moaning bleakly about “docks and gibbets, stocks and thumbscrews” in a manner not at all calculated to endear him to his hostess. Lady Rosamund hovered in the center of the parlor, clearly at a loss for what to do next. The servants stood about, some with teacups balanced in the air before them, others holding brandy decanters or bed linens, all looking uncertainly at their mistress for orders.
The cousins, Lilian and Majorie, had retreated into a far corner, knowing that they, too, were not wanted and both wishing devoutly they were at home. Gwen stood near Marie, the catalyst, trying very hard not to look at Joram, though her gaze constantly strayed in his direction. The pretty flush had drained from her cheeks at the dreadful turn of events; however, her pallor made her more lovely than ever. The blue eyes were large and lustrous with tears; her lips trembled.
But she’s our only hope, Saryon said to himself. Going over his idea once more in his mind, he decided to act on it. Things couldn’t get much worse. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Lady Rosamund was going to send for her husband and then, though a “mere” Guildmaster, Lord Samuels would undoubtedly turn them all over to the Duuk-tsarith. Saryon may have been dealt a losing hand, but he was suddenly determined to play it out to its final, bitter finish. Besides, he was startled