Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [95]
He looked at a man he no longer knew.
In the excitement and danger of the past day and night, Mosiah had been able to avoid looking at Joram—a Joram who had aged ten years to Mosiah’s one, who had lived in another world, who had seen wonders that Mosiah could neither imagine nor comprehend. Now, in the hushed, fear-laden silence, Mosiah could no longer avoid studying the face that he knew so well, yet didn’t know at all. His eyes misted with tears and he chided himself, knowing that he should be concerned with this larger tragedy, the impending destruction of his people, his world.
But that was too big, too awful to grasp. He focused on his smaller, personal tragedy, feeling selfish, but helpless to do otherwise. Hearing Joram’s voice was like listening to one who was dead. It was—to Mosiah—the ghost of his friend speaking through this stranger.
Had it been the same for Saryon? Mosiah glanced at the Priest, whose eyes were fixed on Joram as well. Grief and sorrow mingled with pride and love on the catalyst’s face, and it made Mosiah feel very lonely. No, the catalyst’s love for the man is as strong and abiding as it was for the youth. And why shouldn’t it be? After all, Saryon had sacrificed his life for that love.
And Garald? Mosiah’s gaze turned toward the Prince. That was different. It had been easy for the Prince to find in this man the admired comrade he had seen in the young Joram. Differences in age and maturity had made friendship difficult to establish then. Now at last they were equals. It was Garald who had taken Mosiah’s place.
As for Simkin, Mosiah cast him a bitter glance. Joram could have come back a salamander and it wouldn’t have affected the fool’s feelings one way or the other. There was no one else who mattered. Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were still in shock, unable to register any feelings at all except confusion and grief and fear.
That was how Mosiah had felt at first, but the initial fear had been submerged in much greater fears, the shock had worn itself out. Now he felt only empty and sad—a feeling made worse whenever Joram looked at him. For Mosiah saw, reflected in the man’s eyes, his own sense of bitter loss. Neither could ever regain what they once had. For him, Joram had died when he stepped across that Border. Mosiah had lost his friend, never to find him again.
Long minutes passed. The only sound intruding on the silence in milord’s study was Gwendolyn’s voice, rising and falling, wandering in and out like a playful child. The voice wasn’t disturbing. In an odd way, Mosiah considered it as much a part of the silence as the silence itself. If silence found a tongue and could speak, it would talk with her voice. And then, Gwen’s voice could no longer be heard. Unnoticed by Saryon, who was lost in a frightful dream of the past, she glided silently from the parlor.
Now a waterclock, keeping track of the seconds, could be heard, its drip, drip of passing time causing tiny ripples to mar the surface of the silence. Outside, the snow changed to rain. Drumming dismally upon the roof, it thudded into the thick snow with dull, plopping splatters. A miniature avalanche of snow, loosened by the rain, slid off the roof with a rumbling, scraping sound, crashing down in the garden outside the window. So quiet was the room and so tense were those inside that this caused everyone to start, including the disciplined, unmoving Duuk-tsarith. Black hoods quivered, fingers twitched.
At last, Joram spoke.
“We have seventy-two hours,” he said, turning to face them, his voice firm, resolved. “Seventy-two hours to do to them what they intend to do to us.”
“No, Joram!” Saryon rose from his chair “You can’t mean that?”
“I assure you I do mean it, Father. It is our only hope,” Joram said coldly. His white robes, catching the light of the dying fire, gleamed faintly in the gray gloom of the room that was darkening with the coming of night. “We must destroy the enemy utterly, to the last man. There must be no one left alive to return to Beyond. Once we have wiped them out, we