Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [156]
Looking after him, apparently favorably impressed by the firmness of his handshake and his straight, military posture, Garald smiled slightly to himself. The smile vanished, however, as he caught sight of Joram watching him.
With an angry, abrupt motion of his hand, the Prince checked Joram as he started to speak.
“No words between us.” The Prince’s cold eyes stared somewhere above Joram’s shoulder. “You admitted to me that you had the power to save my world and you did not. Instead, you deliberately chose to destroy it Oh, I know!” he said harshly, forestalling Saryon’s attempt to intervene. “I have heard your reasons! Father Saryon has explained your decision to release the magic into the universe. Perhaps, in time, I can come to understand. But I will never forgive you, Joram. Never.”
With a cool bow to Gwendolyn, Prince Garald turned on his heel. He would have walked away had not Joram caught hold of his arm.
“Your Grace, hear me I do not beg for your forgiveness,” Joram said, seeing Garald’s face grow cold and stern. “I am finding it difficult to forgive myself. It seems that the prophecy was fulfilled. Was I destined to do it? Or did I have a choice? I believe I had a choice, as did others. It was because of the choices we all made that this happened. I have learned, you see, that it was not so much a Prophecy as a Warning. And we ignored it. What would have happened to me, to this world, if fear hadn’t overthrown love and compassion? What would have happened if my father and mother had kept me instead of casting me off. What would have happened if I had listened to Saryon and destroyed the Darksword, instead of using it to seek power? Perhaps we could have discovered the world Beyond through peaceful means. Perhaps we would have opened the Borders, released the magic freely….”
Garald’s expression did not change; he remained standing stiffly, tensely, staring straight ahead.
Sighing, Joram clasped the Prince’s arm more firmly. “But we did not,” he said softly. “This world was becoming like my mother—a corpse, rotting and decaying, maintaining a semblance of life by the magic alone. Our world itself is dead, except in the hearts of its people. You will carry Life with you, my friend, wherever you go. May your journey be blessed … Your Grace.”
Garald’s head bowed, his eyes closed in anguish. His own hand, its wrist scarred and bleeding, rested for a brief instant on Joram’s. Storm clouds massed on the horizon, lightning flickering on their fringes. Tiny whirlwinds surged about the ruins of Merilon, sucking up bits of dust and rock and tossing them into the air. Shaking himself free of Joram’s grip, the Prince turned away.
His tattered cape whipped around him, and debris scattered beneath his booted feet. Without a backward glance, Prince Garald exited the crumbling Gate and began the long walk across the barren plains to where the air ship waited.
Sighing, Saryon drew his hood up around his head to protect him from the stinging sand.
“We should be going along as well, Joram,” he said. “Another storm will break soon. We must be on our way to the ship.”
To the catalyst’s astonishment, Joram shook his head.
“We are not going with you, Father.”
“We only came to say good-bye,” Gwendolyn added.
“What?” Saryon stared at them in perplexity. “This is the last ship! You must take it—” Suddenly, their meaning became clear. “But you can’t!” he cried, looking around at the ruins of Merilon; the lowering, swiftly moving storm clouds. “You can’t stay here!”
“My friend”—reaching out, Joram clasped Saryon’s broken hand in his own—“where else can I go? You see them, you hear them.” He gestured toward the refugees being herded out the Gate toward the waiting ship. “They will never forgive me. No matter where they go or what happens to them, my name will always be spoken with a curse. They will tell their children about me. I will be reviled throughout time as the one who fulfilled the Prophecy, the one who destroyed the world. My life and the lives of those I love