Triumph of the Darksword (48 page)

“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, embarrassed 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….”

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 would be in constant danger. Far better for my wife and me and for our children that we remain here, in peace.”

“But alone!” Saryon looked at Joram in despair. “On a dead world! Swept by storms! The earth itself shakes. Where will you live? The cities lie in rubble.

“The mountain fortress of the Font stands unharmed,” Joram said. “We will make our home there.”

“Then I will stay here with you!”

“No, Father.” Joram glanced again at Garald’s tall, upright figure as it made its lonely way across the plains. “Others need you now.”

“We will not be alone, Father,” Gwendolyn said, placing her soft hand over her husbands. “The dead will inherit this world. We will be company for them and they will be company for us.”

Saryon saw—standing behind Gwen—indistinct shapes and ghostly forms, staring at him with intense, knowing eyes. He even thought he saw, though it vanished when he looked at it directly, a fluttering of orange silk.

“Farewell, Father,” Gwen said, kissing his wrinkled cheek. “When our son is of age, we will send him to you to teach as you taught Joram.”

She smiled so sweetly and cheerfully, looking at her husband with so much love in her face, that Saryon could not find it in his heart to pity her.

“Good-bye, Father,” Joram said, grasping the catalyst’s trembling hand tightly. “You
are
my father, the only true one I ever knew.”

Clasping Joram in his arms, Saryon held him close, remembering the baby whose small head once rested upon his shoulder. “Something tells me, my son, that I will never see you again, and I must say this to you before we part. When I was near death, I saw—I understood, at last.” His voice breaking, he whispered huskily, “What you did was right, my son! Always believe that! And always know that I love you! I love you and honor you—” His words failed, he could not go on.