Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [24]
Turning on his heel, Prince Garald headed for the door. “Remove the seal,” he commanded.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” One of the Duuk-tsarith stepped forward. “But I may be able to assist with this matter.”
The Prince turned to look at the warlock in astonishment. The silent, watchful guardians of the law in Thimhallan rarely spoke at all and when they did it was generally only in response to a question. Garald had never in his life known one to volunteer information.
“Do you warlocks know something about this?” the Prince demanded. “I questioned you once before following the incident, and you claimed you knew nothing!”
“At the time, all we knew about Joram was what you knew, what was given out in the official statement,” replied the Duuk-tsarith coolly, untouched by the Prince’s anger. “As you are aware, Your Grace, our Order takes strict oaths of loyalty and fealty to those we serve. The members of our Order who were in attendance at the execution serve Bishop Vanya and Emperor Xavier. They would no more betray them than we would betray the secrets of His Majesty and yourself.”
“Of course,” Garald said, flushing, knowing he deserved the rebuke. “Forgive me.”
“But we do know something of this Prophecy of which the young man has spoken.”
“That child’s tale? Live and die and live and die—”
“No, Your Grace. The Prophecy is, I fear, no child’s tale. Given in the dark days following the Iron Wars by the Bishop of Thimhallan, the Prophecy actually runs thus: There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world—”
“I was close.” Simkin sniffed.
“May the Almin protect us!” Radisovik prayed, making a sign of blessing.
“May He indeed!” remarked Garald fervently. “How do you know this?” He turned upon Simkin.
“Egad, I was there!” Simkin said languidly.
“Where?”
“There, with the catalysts. Several hundred years ago it was. We were gathered around the Well of Life, waiting for the Almin, who is—by the by—a remarkably shabby dresser. Considers Himself above clothes, no doubt, but that doesn’t excuse—”
“Bah!” Garald interrupted angrily, turning back to the warlock. “Who else knows? I never heard it mentioned.”
“No, Your Grace. It is—or was—” the hooded head moved slightly in Simkin’s direction—“the most carefully guarded secret in all of Thimhallan. For obvious reasons, as Your Grace can readily understand.”
“Yes.” Garald shivered, then paled as the consequences occurred to him. “No royal child would be safe!”
“Precisely, Your Grace. Therefore the Prophecy was put into the keeping of the Duuk-tsarith, who reveal it to one person outside their Order and that is the current, reigning Bishop of Thimhallan. If this Joram was truly the son of the Empress and if he was Dead—”
The warlock paused. Prince Garald, after a moments profound consideration, acquiesced to both with a nod.
“—then you see why it would be impossible to have him put to death. The Turning would be the ideal solution, for it would keep him alive, yet rendered harmless. Apparently, that didn’t work. Knowing himself near to being captured, he chose to die by casting himself into Beyond—thus fulfilling the beginning of the Prophecy.”
“Captured? But he wasn’t! If you’d only listen!” Simkin struck in “I keep telling you I’m not finished—”
“But, surely, he is dead, then, isn’t he?” Garald interrupted in a low, shaking voice. “No one has ever returned from Beyond!”
The Duuk-tsarith did not reply. It was his duty to impart information, not speculate on its veracity.
“Your Grace,” Simkin tried again.
“Do you believe this, Radisovik?” Garald asked abruptly, ignoring Simkin who, with a sigh, folded his arms and sat languidly back in his chair.
“I’m not certain, Your Grace,” said the Cardinal, obviously shaken. “The matter