Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [24]
King Garald had been Prince Garald then. Of him I had written:
The beauty of the voice matched the features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The eyes were large and intelligent. The mouth was firm, the lines about it indicative of smiling and laughter. The chin was strong without arrogance, the cheekbones high and pronounced.
My description, taken from my early memories and Saryon’s account, was accurate, even now, when the King was in his middle years. The lines around the firm mouth had darkened, graven by sorrow and suffering and wearisome toil. But when the mouth smiled, the lines softened. The smile was warm and genuine, the source of its warmth coming from deep within. I saw at once how this man had won the respect and perhaps even the affection of the sullen, obdurate boy Joram.
Saryon started to bow, but Garald took my master’s hand and clasped it in both his own.
“Father Saryon,” he said, “let me be the one who does you reverence.”
And the King bowed to my master.
Between pleasure and confusion, Saryon was completely taken aback. His fears and trepidation melted in the warmth of the King’s smile. He stammered and blushed and could only protest incoherently that His Majesty did him far too much honor. Garald, seeing my master’s embarrassment, said something light and inconsequential, to put them both at ease.
Saryon gazed at the King, now without restraint, and clasped his hand and said over and over with true pleasure, “How do you do, Your Highness? How do you do?”
“I could be better, Father,” the King replied, and the lines on his face deepened and darkened. “Times are very difficult, right now. You remember James Boris?”
But the spell was broken. Garald had lifted, for one moment, the burden from my master’s shoulders, only to cast it back on the next. James Boris—short, square-shouldered, solid as one of his own tanks—was a good man, a good soldier. He had been merciful, in Thimhallan, when, by rights, he could have been vengeful. He was genuinely pleased to see Saryon and shook hands with my master quite cordially. So cordially that Saryon winced as he smiled. But James Boris and his army represented Thimhallan’s doom. He could not help but be a bleak omen.
“General Boris, welcome to my home,” Saryon said gravely.
He led the way into the living room, the move being an absolute necessity, for four of us were a tight fit in the small entryway and the aides and entourage were forced to camp out on the front lawn. In the living room, Saryon presented me. The King and the General both made polite comments on my work in writing the history of the Darksword. The King, with his innate charm, relaxed into another of those warm and disarming smiles and told me he thought my portrayal of him far too flattering.
“Not half so flattering, Your Majesty,” I signed and Saryon translated, “as some would have had me make it.” I cast a fond glance at my master. “I had to dig very hard to discover some human flaws in you, to make you an interesting and believable character.”
“I have flaws enough, the Almin knows,” Garald said with a slight smile, adding, “Several of my staff members have taken a great interest in your work, Reuven. Perhaps you would be so kind as to do them the favor of answering their questions while your master and the General and I talk over old times.”
I admired and appreciated the smooth way he was getting rid of me. Rising to my feet, I was about to leave when Saryon reached out a hand and clasped me by the wrist.
“Reuven is in my confidence.”
Garald and General Boris exchanged looks. The General gave a slight nod, and the King responded with a nod in his turn.
“Very well. General, if you please?”
The General went to the entrance to the living room, spoke a few words to a member of his staff. The soldier gestured to several of his men and they departed, leaving the four of us