Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [10]
“No, its all right, Holiness,” Mosiah said. “I know what you mean. Joram could never have done … what he did if it hadn’t been for Garald showing him the true meaning of honor and nobility.”
“Garald showed him that, yes. But it was the catalyst who opened his heart to love and sacrifice. A strange man, Father Saryon,” the Cardinal said, speaking more to himself than to Mosiah. “And a strange and tragic turn of events. I am not satisfied yet that I know the truth about Joram. Are you, Mosiah?”
The question was asked quietly. It was unexpected and caught Mosiah unaware. He answered that yes, of course he was satisfied, but his voice was low and he kept his eyes averted from the Cardinal’s penetrating gaze. Nodding to himself, Radisovik looked back out into the beautiful garden.
“But we have strayed off the original path,” he said, resuming the conversation and smiling to himself at the sound of nervous, restless shifting behind him. “We were talking of Garald and of this war. If my prince has one fault, it is that he glories in this upcoming battle—to the point even of forgetting the goals we are fighting to obtain. To marshal his troops, to place his warlocks at their correct stations, to train them and their catalysts, to pour over the Board of Contest—this is all that occupies his mind these days.
“Yet wars, when they are ended, are either won or lost, and plans must be made for the eventuality of either victory or defeat. He refuses to discuss the subject with His Majesty, however.” Radisovik frowned, and Mosiah realized with a start that he was hearing things never intended for the ears of a lowly subject of Sharakan. “The king is blind when it comes to Garald. He is proud of him—deservedly so—but he cannot see the real man for the radiant halo. Garald plays happily with his shining toy soldiers, refusing to stop long enough to consider such mundane issues as what we will do with Merilon if we manage to conquer it. Who will rule the city? Will it be the now-deposed Emperor, although I’ve heard rumors that he is mad? Who is to take Bishop Vanya’s place as head of the Church? What will we do with those nobles who refuse to extend their allegiance to us? The other city-states have kept carefully clear of this war, but what if they—seeing us grow more powerful—decide to attack us?
“You understand the problems?” Cardinal Radisovik demanded, turning around to face the discomfited Mosiah. “Yet whenever I try to talk to Garald about them, he waves his hand and says, ‘I don’t have time for this Discuss it with my father.’ And the king tells me brusquely, ‘I have worries enough with this realm. Refer all matters of war to my son!’”
Mosiah shifted from one foot to another, wondering if he had Life enough to sink quietly through the floor. Seeing the young man’s discomfort and realizing what he had been saying, Radisovik checked himself. “I do not mean to burden you with my problems, young man,” he said.
Leaving the window, he crossed the room to stand near Mosiah, who watched him with a kind of awe. Everything about the minister spoke of court intrigue; even the skirts of his gold-trimmed robes appeared to whisper secrets as he walked. “With the help of the Almin, these things will work themselves out. Now, you came here for a reason and I have kept you talking of inconsequential matters. I apologize. What can I do for you?”
It took Mosiah a moment to gather his thoughts, all the while noting and appreciating Radisovik’s skillful handling of what could have been an awkward situation. Very neatly the Cardinal reduced his criticism of his Prince to an “inconsequential matter” and dumped it in the lap of the Almin, subtly instructing Mosiah to forget what he had heard and put his trust in god.
This Mosiah was only too willing to do. Sharakan was not a dangerous court, as was Merilon rumored to be these days. Still, no royal court was truly safe and Mosiah had learned early on that it did not pay to know either too much or too little.
“I apologize in advance