Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [117]
But much as he obviously longed to, the Prince couldn’t say a word. This was an intensely personal matter, not only to Joram, but to the poor girl’s father. It would be all very well for the Prince to remind Joram of his responsibilities as Emperor, his duty to his people. But Father Saryon knew, as did Garald, that Joram would throw all of that away in order both to cure his wife and to assuage his own guilt.
The catalyst looked at Lord Samuels. His face carefully expressionless, he sat with his head lowered, his brandy untouched in his hand.
Reading milord’s thoughts, Saryon was not surprised when Lord Samuels lifted his head and looked at him, breaking the silence at last. “You seem to know something about this place, Father. Do you believe there is a danger?”
“Most certainly,” replied Saryon emphatically. He knew what Lord Samuels was going to ask next and he was prepared with his answer.
“Is there … hope?” milord asked through trembling lips.
“No!” Saryon fully intended to reply. Aware of Joram’s intense, unwavering gaze upon him, he meant to say it firmly, whether he believed it or not.
But as the catalyst opened his mouth to douse their hopes with cold logic, a strange sensation swept over him. His heart jolted painfully in his chest. When he tried to speak, his throat swelled, his lungs suddenly had no air. The frightening sensation of being turned to stone crept over him again. This time, however, it was no magic spell that froze him. Saryon had the terrifying impression that a great Hand had reached into his body, strangling him, choking off his lie. The catalyst struggled against it, but to no avail. The Hand gripped him fast, he could not answer.
“There is hope then, Father!” Joram said, his unwavering gaze never leaving Saryon’s face. “You cannot deny that! I see it plainly!”
The catalyst stared at him pleadingly and even made a strangled sound, but it was too late.
“I will go,” Joram said resolutely. “If you and Lady Rosamund agree with me, milord,” he added belatedly, hearing Lord Samuels draw a shaking breath.
Milord faltered, his voice broke. But when he spoke it was with quiet dignity. “My daughter lives among the dead now. What worse fate could befall her, except to join them. If you will excuse me, I will go talk to my wife.” Bowing, he hurriedly left the room.
“Then it is settled,” Joram said, standing up. The brown eyes gleamed with inner flame; the dark, grim lines of grief and suffering on his face smoothed out. “Will you come with us, Father?”
Of that there was no question, no doubt. His life was bound up in Joram’s; it had been since he first held the tiny, doomed child…. The Hand released Saryon. Gasping from the suddenness of his freedom, shaken by the inexplicable experience, the catalyst could only nod in reply.
“Tomorrow,” Simkin repeated a third time. “At noon.”
This was too much for Prince Garald to swallow in silence. Glancing at Simkin sharply, he rose to his feet, stopping Joram as he was about to leave the room. “You have every right to tell me that it is not my place to interfere.”
“Then don’t,” Joram said coolly.
“I’m afraid I have to,” Garald continued sternly. “I must remind you, Joram, that you have a responsibility to our world. My god, man, we’re going to war tomorrow! I insist you reconsider!”
A slight sneer twisted Joram’s lip. “This world can go to the devil—” he began.
“—and fulfill the Prophecy!” Garald finished.
The thrust hit home There was a sharp intake of breath. Joram’s face went livid, the brown eyes blazed. Saryon was reminded again, chillingly, of the youth who had forged the Darksword. He hurried forward to intervene, fearing that Joram might strike the Prince, but it was Simkin who ended the matter.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, if you two are going