Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [153]
“I am sorry you had to witness this, Father,” Garald said abruptly, his scowling gaze on the white-robed man. “But he shouldn’t have come. He brings it on himself.”
Saryon kept silent, knowing that nothing. He could say would alleviate the Prince’s bitter anger. His heart ached with sorrow—sorrow for the people, for Garald, for Joram.
Major Boris snapped a command and the guards began herding the people out of the Gate, marching them toward the waiting air ship. This distraction helped restore order, the people being forced to gather up their belongings. Slowly they filed out of the ruins of their city. All cast narrow-eyed glances at Joram as they left, shouting a final imprecation, shaking clenched fists.
Joram continued walking. Accompanied by Gwendolyn and Major Boris, surrounded by bodyguards, he was seemingly oblivious to the peoples screams of hatred, his face so cold it might have been carved of stone. But Saryon—who knew that face so well—saw the deep pain burning in the brown eyes, the jaw muscles clenched tight against it.
“If he is to travel with us, I refuse to go! You can do what you like to me!” Garald cried out harshly to the Major, as the three came near him.
Standing tall and straight, holding his manacled hands before him with a grimly noble air as if he wore bracelets of rare jewels instead of strong steel, the Prince cast Joram one dark look—a look so expressive of contempt, anger, and betrayal that it was far worse than the vilest curse and cut into Joram’s flesh more deeply than the sharpest rock.
Joram did not falter. He met Garald’s gaze unflinchingly, facing him with pride tempered only by sadness.
Watching the two, Saryon was reminded vividly of the time Garald and Joram had first met, when the Prince had mistaken the young man for a bandit and held him prisoner. There was the same pride in the set of Joram’s shoulders, the same air of nobility. But the fire of arrogance and defiance that had flared in the eyes of the boy was gone, leaving behind ashes of grief and sorrow.
The same memories might have stirred within Garald, or perhaps it was Joram’s steadfast, unfaltering gaze that met his without shame or apology, for the Prince was the first to avert his eyes. His face flushed, he looked out over the wrecked city of Merilon into the storm-ravaged lands beyond.
Major Boris spoke at some length in his own language. Joram listened, then turned to Garald to translate.
“Your Grace,” Joram began.
Garald sneered. “Not Your Grace!” he said bitingly. “Say ‘prisoner’ instead!”
“Your Grace—” Joram repeated, and now it was Garald who flinched, hearing in those two words a deep respect and a deeper sadness, sorrow over something precious lost, never to be regained. The Prince did not look at Joram, but continued staring off into the distance. His eyes blinked rapidly, however, and pressing his lips together, he swallowed the tears his pride would not permit him to show.
“—Major Boris extends his wish that you will consider yourself his guest aboard the transport,” Joram said. “He says it will be an honor to share his quarters with so brave and noble a soldier as yourself. He hopes that you will do him the favor of spending the long hours of the journey in teaching him more about our people—”
“Our people?” Garald’s lip curled.
“—and our ways and customs so that he might better serve them when you arrive at your destination,” Joram said, ignoring the interruption.
“When we arrive at the slave camps, you mean!” Garald spit the words. “Some of us, that is?” he added bitterly, refusing to look at Joram. “I suppose, traitor, that you will go back to your friends—”
It was clear that Major Boris understood Garald’s bitter words. Shaking his head in regret over an apparent misunderstanding, he said something to Joram, then—with a gesture—motioned for the guard to remove the manacles.