Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [155]
“And, of course, Your Grace,” Saryon said with fine irony, “there are those among us like Bishop Vanya who will, undoubtedly, try to establish their own stranglehold over these new worlds. We need strong and honorable people like yourself and like Major Boris. Working together, you can accomplish much that is good.”
Stepping forward, Gwendolyn laid her gentle hand upon Garald’s arm “Hatred is a poisonous soil in which nothing can grow,” she said “A tree—no matter how strong—planted in such soil will only wither and die.”
Garald stared straight ahead beneath his lowered brow, his face grim and implacable. The Major motioned again to undo the manacles and, once more, the guard stepped forward. The Prince kept his hands close to his body, concealing them beneath his torn, bloody robes. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he extended his arms. The guard removed the manacles, and Garald’s proud gaze turned unwillingly to Major Boris.
Though the short, sturdy Major did not even come up to Garald’s chest, his shoulders were equal in breadth to the strong Prince’s. The two men were near the same age, both in their thirties, and—though one was dressed in red velvet, silken doublet, and hose, and the other in drab khaki—there was a similarity between the two that showed itself in the upright stance of each, and in their honest, forthright demeanor.
“I will accept your offer, Major Boris,” Garald said stiffly. “I will do what I can to help you … understand my people and, in turn, I … will”—he swallowed, then continued gruffly—“learn to speak your language. I have the following conditions, however.”
Major Boris listened attentively, his face slightly shadowed.
“First, that my advisor, Father Saryon, be permitted to remain with me.” Garald looked at Saryon gravely. “If you will, Father?”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Saryon said simply.
Nothing was easier to arrange. Major Boris had been about to suggest it himself.
“Second, that the chains and manacles be removed from my people,” Garald said firmly. “I will talk to them,” he added, seeing the Major frown, “and I will pledge my word that—if we are treated well as you promise—we will give you and your rulers no cause for alarm. I also ask that we be allowed—for the time being—to govern ourselves.”
After a moments hesitation, Major Boris nodded, speaking to Joram.
“He agrees for his part,” said Joram, “but he cannot answer for his superiors. He believes, however, that both of you, acting together, can help persuade the rulers of the worlds Beyond that this is in the best interests of all concerned.”
“Your hand, sir?” Major James Boris said clumsily, stumbling over the words that he spoke in Garald’s language. He held out his hand.
Slowly, Garald extended his own. As he did so, the marks of the manacles could be seen plainly upon his wrists. Remembering his anguish, Garald hesitated, and his hand shook. He appeared about to refuse the Majors courtesy, and Saryon held his breath, a prayer in his heart.
His lips setting in an even, firm line, Garald pulled the tattered sleeve of his shirt down over the scars, then accepted the Major’s hand. James Boris grasped the Prince’s hand firmly in turn, shaking it heartily, his own lips widening in a grin.
Gwendolyn inclined her head to listen to some voice only she could hear, then looked at the two of them with a smile. “The dead tell me that this friendship you have forged today will become legend in the history of the worlds Beyond. Many are the times when each of you will be willing to lay down his life for the other as you fight to bring order to your universe. As the potential for good grows now in the worlds with the return of magic, so too the potential for evil, beyond even what you can now imagine. But with your faith in each other and in your God”—she glanced at Father Saryon—“you will triumph.”
Major Boris, embarrassed and seemingly a little nonplussed at being lectured by the dead, hurriedly cleared his throat and barked out orders to the guards. Saluting the Prince, Father Saryon, and—last and most respectfully—Joram, Major James Boris