Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [122]
His face hardened. Saryon stared at Joram, wondering at this change. Yet why should it amaze me? he asked himself sadly. I’ve seen it coming. I’ve seen the light of the forge fires shine in his eyes. It is as if all the intervening years, the suffering and hardship that taught him compassion, have been stripped from him, his warm flesh changed to stone.
The chasm Saryon had just escaped yawned before him. Each step drew him nearer its edge. Surely, surely there is a path away from it! Let me turn around and find it.
A hand gripped his arm painfully. “Where are you going, Catalyst? It is time to leave?”
“Please reconsider!” Saryon faltered “There must be another way, Joram!”
The forge fire flared, scorching the Priest. “You have a choice, Father,” Joram said bitingly. “Either come with me or stay behind. Which will it be?”
A choice. Saryon almost laughed. He could see the path leading away from the cliff. It was blocked by boulders that had fallen years before. He could not go back.
“I will come,” the catalyst said, bowing his head.
The white sun filled Lord Samuels’s house with light for the first time in many days. Glinting blindingly off the surface of the melting snow, it was not a warm light or a cheerful one. The garden was lovely beneath its white shroud, but it was a lethal loveliness. The plants were frozen solid, encased in snow. The weight of the ice broke off huge tree limbs. Giant trees split in two.
Despite the discomfort of the cold weather, the streets outside Lord Samuels’s house were packed with people, milling around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Joram, begging those that came out for news. A continual stream of War Masters, Ariels, Guildmasters, Albanara, and others had been flowing into and out of the house since dawn. The preparations for war were well underway.
Inside, Lord Samuels, the Prince, Cardinal Radisovik, several members of the nobility, and the War Masters were assembled in one of the upstairs ballrooms that had been hastily converted into a War Room.
Prince Garald, maps spread out on a large table, began explaining his plans to the assembled leaders. If he noticed that the atmosphere within the ballroom was nearly as chill as the atmosphere without, he ignored it.
“We’ll strike at night, come at them out of the darkness while they’re asleep. They’ll be confused and unorganized. We should seem like a continuation of some terrible night-dream for them, so we’ll use the Illusionists first. Count Marat, you’ll lead your forces in here”—Garald pointed to a grouping of geodesic domes that sprang up magically beneath his fingertips—“and you’ll—”
“Begging your pardon, Prince Garald,” interrupted Count Marat in a smooth voice. “These plans of yours are all very well, but the Emperor is our leader. I came here this morning expecting to discuss matters with him. Where is he?”
Prince Garald glanced swiftly at one of the Duuk-tsarith, hovering like a shadow in the corner. The hood shivered slightly in answer. Frowning, Garald turned back to the Count. Marat was not alone in his demands. Many others of the Albanara of Merilon were nodding agreement.
“The Emperor has not had any sleep in the past two nights,” Prince Garald returned coolly. “Since these are his plans, which I am attempting to discuss with you, I did not feel that his presence was required. I have, however,” he added, seeing the Count about to speak, “sent Mosiah after him. The Emperor should be here—”
A pounding on the sealed door to the War Room interrupted him.
Garald nodded and one of the Duuk-tsarith removed the magical seal from the door. Everyone turned to look, the nobles prepared to bow before their Emperor. But they saw only Mosiah … alone.
“Where is Jor—the Emperor?” Garald demanded.
“He’s … he’s sent me with a message,” Mosiah stammered, giving Garald a swift glance.
“He’s sent me with a message, Your Grace,” rebuked Cardinal Radisovik, but Mosiah didn’t hear him. He continued to look