Triumph of the Darksword Page 35

  The guard nodded and the catalyst entered the Gate, walking up to the man, who did not notice him. The prisoner’s head was bowed, he stared at the ground in despair so dark and bitter that the people standing in line looked at him with pity and respect, finding comfort in his presence, knowing that he shared their sorrow.

  “Your Grace,” said the catalyst softly, coming up to stand beside him.

  Raising his head, Prince Garald looked at the catalyst and a wan smile of recognition lightened his face. “Father Saryon I wondered where you had gone.” He glanced at the catalyst’s neatly bandaged head. “I feared perhaps your injury–”

  “No, I am fine,” Saryon said, reaching up to touch the bandage and wincing slightly. “The pain comes and goes, but that is to be expected, so they tell me, with what they call a ‘concussion.’ I have been to the healing rooms in the ship, but it was to visit our young patient.”

  “How is Mosiah?” Garald asked gravely, his smile disappearing.

  “He is improving … finally,” Saryon said with a sigh. “I have been with him most of the night and we came very near losing him. But we finally persuaded him to take the treatment offered by the … the healers of their kind”—he gestured toward the strange humans—“since the Theldara have lost their power. Eventually, Mosiah listened to me. He accepted their help at last, and he will live. I left him in the care of Lord and Lady Samuels to come tell you.”

  Prince Garald’s face darkened. “I don’t blame Mosiah. I would not have taken their treatment,” he said with a bitter oath. “I would sooner have died!”

  Angry tears filled his eyes. He shook his manacled hands, fists clenched, his wrists straining against his bonds. Seeing this, one of the guards raised his weapon and said something in a sharp voice that sounded inhuman and mechanical through the metal helm.

  “I would sooner have died!” Garald repeated in a choked voice, glaring at the guard.

  Saryon laid his hand upon the Prince’s arm, about to offer what words of comfort he could, when a stirring among the waiting crowd caught their attention and that of their guard as well.

  Three figures walked down the ruined street of Merilon. Picking their way carefully among the rubble that littered the streets, they passed the still-smoldering, fire-blackened trees of the Grove, and approached the Gate. One of the three—a short-statured, muscular man in a plain, neat uniform—did not pay much attention to the wreckage, but regarded it with the grim face of one who has seen this kind of thing all too often. The two accompanying him, however, appeared genuinely moved and distressed by it.

  One in particular—a golden-haired woman with a gentle, lovely face—gestured here and there, speaking to her companion in a low voice, shaking her head as though recalling happier times. The companion—a dark-haired man dressed in white robes, his right arm in a sling—bent close to hear her; the man’s face, though stern and dark, was marked by a grief the depths of which few could know or understand.

  One person watching saw, one person understood. Saryon brushed his hand swiftly across his eyes.

  The three people were accompanied by at least a dozen silver-skinned, weapon carrying humans, who kept their eyes and weapons trained on the crowd.

  The silence of the people of Merilon broke. The crowd surged to its feet. Shaking their fists at the white-robed man, they screamed curses and threats. They threw rocks. People lunged out of line, trying to attack the man. The silver-skinned humans closed around their commander and the man and the woman, while other guards shoved the worst offenders back against the wall or turned their stunning light beams on them, causing them to crumple to the ground. The most violent were taken into custody and hustled away to the makeshift guardhouse within what was left of the Kan-Hanar’s office.

  The black-haired man in the white robes did not appear angry or frightened. He even stopped a guard from apprehending a young woman who had darted out of the crowd to spit upon him. His concern appeared to be for the golden-haired woman, for he put his arm around her and held her close, protectively. She was pale but composed and looked at the people with a sad sympathy, all the while appearing to speak words of comfort to the man.

  The shouting and the rock-throwing continued as the three moved along the line of people standing near the Gate. The curses were bitter, the threats vile and ugly, and Prince Garald, his brows contracted in a frown, glanced at Father Saryon. The catalyst was pale and shaken.

  “I am sorry you had to witness this, Father,” Garald said abruptly, his scowling gaze on the white-robed man. “But he shouldn’t have come. He brings it on himself.”

  Saryon kept silent, knowing that nothing. He could say would alleviate the Prince’s bitter anger. His heart ached with sorrow—sorrow for the people, for Garald, for Joram.

  Major Boris snapped a command and the guards began herding the people out of the Gate, marching them toward the waiting air ship. This distraction helped restore order, the people being forced to gather up their belongings. Slowly they filed out of the ruins of their city. All cast narrow-eyed glances at Joram as they left, shouting a final imprecation, shaking clenched fists.

  Joram continued walking. Accompanied by Gwendolyn and Major Boris, surrounded by bodyguards, he was seemingly oblivious to the peoples screams of hatred, his face so cold it might have been carved of stone. But Saryon—who knew that face so well—saw the deep pain burning in the brown eyes, the jaw muscles clenched tight against it.

  “If he is to travel with us, I refuse to go! You can do what you like to me!” Garald cried out harshly to the Major, as the three came near him.

  Standing tall and straight, holding his manacled hands before him with a grimly noble air as if he wore bracelets of rare jewels instead of strong steel, the Prince cast Joram one dark look—a look so expressive of contempt, anger, and betrayal that it was far worse than the vilest curse and cut into Joram’s flesh more deeply than the sharpest rock.

  Joram did not falter. He met Garald’s gaze unflinchingly, facing him with pride tempered only by sadness.

  Watching the two, Saryon was reminded vividly of the time Garald and Joram had first met, when the Prince had mistaken the young man for a bandit and held him prisoner. There was the same pride in the set of Joram’s shoulders, the same air of nobility. But the fire of arrogance and defiance that had flared in the eyes of the boy was gone, leaving behind ashes of grief and sorrow.

  The same memories might have stirred within Garald, or perhaps it was Joram’s steadfast, unfaltering gaze that met his without shame or apology, for the Prince was the first to avert his eyes. His face flushed, he looked out over the wrecked city of Merilon into the storm-ravaged lands beyond.

  Major Boris spoke at some length in his own language. Joram listened, then turned to Garald to translate.

  “Your Grace,” Joram began.

  Garald sneered. “Not Your Grace!” he said bitingly. “Say ‘prisoner’ instead!”

  “Your Grace—” Joram repeated, and now it was Garald who flinched, hearing in those two words a deep respect and a deeper sadness, sorrow over something precious lost, never to be regained. The Prince did not look at Joram, but continued staring off into the distance. His eyes blinked rapidly, however, and pressing his lips together, he swallowed the tears his pride would not permit him to show.

  “—Major Boris extends his wish that you will consider yourself his guest aboard the transport,” Joram said. “He says it will be an honor to share his quarters with so brave and noble a soldier as yourself. He hopes that you will do him the favor of spending the long hours of the journey in teaching him more about our people—”

  “Our people?” Garald’s lip curled.

  “—and our ways and customs so that he might better serve them when you arrive at your destination,” Joram said, ignoring the interruption.

  “When we arrive at the slave camps, you mean!” Garald spit the words. “Some of us, that is?” he added bitterly, refusing to look at Joram. “I suppose, traitor, that
you will go back to your friends—”

  It was clear that Major Boris understood Garald’s bitter words. Shaking his head in regret over an apparent misunderstanding, he said something to Joram, then—with a gesture—motioned for the guard to remove the manacles.

  Jerking his hands back, Garald rebuffed him. “I will remain chained as long as my people are chained!” he cried furiously.

  “Your Grace,” interposed Father Saryon, speaking in a low, firm voice, “I ask you to remember that you are the leader of your people, now that your father is dead. The people have put their trust in you and—as their leader in exile—you must keep their best interests in mind. You cannot give way to hatred. That will accomplish nothing except breed more hatred and bring us back to this—” The catalyst gestured with his misshapen hand to the ruins around them.

  Prince Garald struggled within himself. Standing beside him, Saryon could feel the strong body tremble and see the proud lips quiver as the Prince fought to conquer his pride, his rage, and his pain.

  “I realize I don’t know much about politics, Your Grace,” Saryon added. “But I speak to you as a man who has suffered much and seen others suffer. I want this suffering to end. Remember, too, that I act—by your request—in the capacity of your advisor I am, I know, a poor substitute for that wise man who commended me to you with his dying breath, but I believe Cardinal Radisovik would have offered this same counsel.”

  Garald bowed his head, the tears coursing unchecked and unheeded down his cheeks. He bit his lip, either unable or unwilling to answer. Major Boris, watching him anxiously, spoke again to Joram and it was obvious from the tone of the Major’s voice that he was earnest and sincere in what he said.

  Joram, listening, nodded and translated. “The Major reiterates to you his pledge that our people are not slaves. You are being taken to relocation camps where you can adapt to the new worlds in which you will be living. Eventually, when it is deemed wise, you will be free to go where you choose, live where you will in whatever manner that you see fit. There is only one restriction, of course—that you do not return to this world. This is solely for your own good. The violent nature of the frequent storms sweeping the land make it virtually impossible for anyone to live here.”

  At this statement, Saryon thought he saw Gwendolyn smile sadly and press nearer her husband. Joram’s arm around her tightened as he continued speaking, his steady, unwavering gaze never leaving Garald’s face.

  “Although your powers in magic appear gone now, because there is no longer a concentration of magic within this world, the wise rulers of the worlds Beyond know that, in time, Life will return to you. Since the magic has been dispersed once again throughout the universe, it is believed that your powers will conceivably grow as strong as they were in ancient times. Our people could be a tremendous asset for the worlds Beyond.”

  “We could also be tremendously dangerous,” Garald muttered darkly.

  Major Boris answered, emphasizing his words with a pronounced movement of his hand.

  “The Major admits that this is true,” Joram said. “He knows that it is the nature of some men to abuse power and attempt to use it for their own selfish interests. Such a man was Menju the Sorcerer. But he also knows that it is the nature of others to sacrifice themselves for the good of the people and to do what they can to make the world—all worlds—a better place.”

  It seemed Saryon would have spoken here, but Joram, with a glance, shook his head and continued.

  “The Major has received word that the other magicians who were in the plot with Menju have not been deterred by the death of their leader or the fact that he meant—all along—to betray them as well. They have fled to secret locations and are planning to continue their fight, using the new strength that they will acquire now that the magic is back in the universe.

  “James Boris does not say, but I will add,” Joram remarked quietly, “that these evil magi are our responsibility in a way, since it was we who cast them out of our society. The magi out there will, of course, consider you and all like you a threat and will do what they can to destroy you. The rulers of the worlds Beyond hope that our people will help find and defeat them.”

  “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, em
barrassed 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 turned and left, stomping off to attend to other duties.

  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….”