Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [20]
Seeing the Cardinal, Garald immediately and respectfully descended to the floor where the catalyst stood. The Prince was attired in the tight pants and white, flowing-sleeved shirt he normally wore in practicing his swordsmanship—an art in which he was known to be highly skilled. Although he approached them with the winning smile and the grace and poise that came naturally to the handsome man, it was obvious from the dark line between the feathery brows that he was irritated. Whether this irritation stemmed from the fact that the Cardinal had interrupted him in his work or whether he was irritated by his students was difficult to determine.
His first words soon cleared up the matter.
“Well, Cardinal Radisovik,” Prince Garald said, frowning at the head of the Church in Sharakan. “I am not at all impressed with your brethren.”
Radisovik, preoccupied with more important matters, merely smiled. “Be patient, Your Grace,” he said soothingly. “The catalysts are beginners at this. They will learn. I seem to recall a time when you yourself were a beginner in the art of fencing.”
Prince Garald glanced at Radisovik out of the corner of his eye, seeming a bit chagrined. “Come now, Radisovik, I wasn’t that bad.”
“I seem to recall Your Grace entering the classroom, tripping over your sword, and falling flat on your—”
“I did no such thing!” Garald denied, his face flushed. Seeing Radisovik regarding him with a stern gaze, he shrugged. “All right, I did stumble over the sword, but I did not fall…. Oh, have it your way!” Grinning ruefully, he relaxed, his frown easing. “And you are correct, Cardinal, as always. I am being too impatient. Mosiah, it is good to see you again.” He made a point to recognize the young man with a warm smile, extending his hand not to be kissed but in friendship. “You are well, I hope? How are things at the forge?”
Having known the Prince for some months, Mosiah had recovered from his awe of this man sufficiently to be able to take his hand and reply to his question without having to untangle his tongue. Though the initial feeling of awe was gone, it had been replaced by respect, admiration, and love. It was easy for Mosiah to understand why all of Sharakan was following their handsome Prince to war. They would have done the same if Garald had announced his intention of leaping into the sea.
“Simkin,” said Garald, turning to the bearded young man, “I find your attire strangely depressing. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Matters of grave consequence, Your Grace,” said Simkin in a doleful tone that might have served the head pallbearer in a funeral procession.
Garald raised his eyebrows at this, a laugh playing about his lips, prepared to hear the rest of the joke. But a glance at the grave face of Radisovik warned the Prince instantly that the matter was of an important and serious nature.
“Send the people to their luncheon,” Garald ordered one of the War Masters who floated in the air nearby. “Call them back in half an hour. If I have not returned, have them repeat this drill.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the War Master, bowing, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his flowing red robes.
Prince Garald led the Cardinal and the two young men from the War Room that was now echoing with relieved sighs and cheerful voices. The castle at Sharakan was a warren of rooms and it was not difficult for the Prince to find one vacant, suitable for private conversation.
Long unused, the chamber was empty and windowless. Waving his hand, Garald caused globes of light to flicker among the shadows of the high ceiling. The light was bright as the sun, gleaming warmly from the walls and sparkling on the shaped, inlaid, decorative tiles that graced the floors in intricate patterns of flowers and birds. There was no furniture in the room. Garald obviously didn’t expect to