Read Online Triumph of the Darksword by Margaret Weis - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
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continued.
“Yes,” struck in Simkin cheerfully. “The catalyst’s poor old bald head had been covered up to the eyebrows Had to dig for it. Beastly task. Felt a bit like a grave robber.”
Mosiah made a strangled, choking sound, covering his face with his hand.
“I am truly sorry, Mosiah,” Garald said sternly. “I share your grief. But this is a time for action and revenge, not for tears.”
“Revenge?” Mosiah looked up, startled.
“Yes, young man,” Garald said grimly. “Your friend Saryon was murdered.”
“But … why?” Mosiah gasped.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Garald said. “The Darksword. I think we may safely assume that now it is in the hands of our enemy. Xavier finally succeeded in obtaining it.” The Prince resumed his pacing. “Fool that I was!” he muttered to himself. “I should have kept watch! But I didn’t think there was any way for him to—”
Mosiah opened his mouth, then checked himself, remembering that he was in the presence of his sovereign. To his amazement Cardinal Radisovik caught his eye and—with an urgent gesture—indicated to the young man that he should speak.
“But what about the storm, Your Grace?” Mosiah asked finally, after a second imperative gesture from Radisovik. “It’s … it’s awful!” he said helplessly, unable to find a word powerful enough to describe the terrible sights he had witnessed. “I was frightened, Your Grace! More frightened than I’ve been of anything, even when the
Duuk-tsarith
caught me in the Grove! It was a fear that came from deep inside”—he pressed his hand against his heart—“and went through me like ice.”
“One of Xavier’s spells, no doubt.”
“No, Your Grace!” Mosiah cried. Realizing from Garald’s reproachful glance that he had contradicted his sovereign, Mosiah flushed. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I know that the possibility of Emperor Xavier obtaining the Darksword is serious, but it is nothing to what might be truly happening. I didn’t believe Simkin at first, but now—” He stopped.
Simkin, lying back on the couch, was engaged in blowing the orange silk up into the air and letting it settle back down over his face. Seeing the triumphant smile upon the young man’s bearded lips, Mosiah paled in shame and anger. Staringdown at the floor, he missed the swift exchange of glances between Garald and Radisovik.
“What do you know of this, Simkin?” Garald asked slowly.
“Oh, quite a number of things, actually,” Simkin said airily, blowing the orange silk high above his head, watching as it floated down, spiraling round and round like a dead leaf in the unmoving air. “Among which is the interesting and little known fact that our beloved and sadly missed Joram is destined to return from the dead and destroy the world.”
6
The Prince Frog
P rince Garald cast the Cardinal a reproachful glance. “I have serious matters to attend to,” he said coldly, turning on his heel. “Since Xavier now has the sword, our plans for war must be accelerated before he learns—”
“Your Grace,” said Radisovik, “I suggest you take the time to hear this out.”
Though he spoke quietly, the Cardinal’s tone was firm and not to be questioned. A man well into his middle years, Radisovik had watched his Prince grow from child to man, taught him his lessons, presided over his later schooling, guided him along life’s path. Mosiah saw, with a sudden flash of insight, that it was this priest—not the doting father—who had played a major role in shaping Garald’s nature. As a druid lovingly and carefully nurtures a growing tree, Radisovik had taken an undoubtedly spoiled and willful child and, through love and by example, shaped him into a forceful, disciplined prince. It was the voice of the teacher—the shaper—who spoke now, and it was the pupil who turned in reluctant, yet respectful, obedience to listen.
“Very well, Simkin,” Garald said coldly, “tell your story. It’s a pity there
“Yes,” struck in Simkin cheerfully. “The catalyst’s poor old bald head had been covered up to the eyebrows Had to dig for it. Beastly task. Felt a bit like a grave robber.”
Mosiah made a strangled, choking sound, covering his face with his hand.
“I am truly sorry, Mosiah,” Garald said sternly. “I share your grief. But this is a time for action and revenge, not for tears.”
“Revenge?” Mosiah looked up, startled.
“Yes, young man,” Garald said grimly. “Your friend Saryon was murdered.”
“But … why?” Mosiah gasped.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Garald said. “The Darksword. I think we may safely assume that now it is in the hands of our enemy. Xavier finally succeeded in obtaining it.” The Prince resumed his pacing. “Fool that I was!” he muttered to himself. “I should have kept watch! But I didn’t think there was any way for him to—”
Mosiah opened his mouth, then checked himself, remembering that he was in the presence of his sovereign. To his amazement Cardinal Radisovik caught his eye and—with an urgent gesture—indicated to the young man that he should speak.
“But what about the storm, Your Grace?” Mosiah asked finally, after a second imperative gesture from Radisovik. “It’s … it’s awful!” he said helplessly, unable to find a word powerful enough to describe the terrible sights he had witnessed. “I was frightened, Your Grace! More frightened than I’ve been of anything, even when the
Duuk-tsarith
caught me in the Grove! It was a fear that came from deep inside”—he pressed his hand against his heart—“and went through me like ice.”
“One of Xavier’s spells, no doubt.”
“No, Your Grace!” Mosiah cried. Realizing from Garald’s reproachful glance that he had contradicted his sovereign, Mosiah flushed. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I know that the possibility of Emperor Xavier obtaining the Darksword is serious, but it is nothing to what might be truly happening. I didn’t believe Simkin at first, but now—” He stopped.
Simkin, lying back on the couch, was engaged in blowing the orange silk up into the air and letting it settle back down over his face. Seeing the triumphant smile upon the young man’s bearded lips, Mosiah paled in shame and anger. Staringdown at the floor, he missed the swift exchange of glances between Garald and Radisovik.
“What do you know of this, Simkin?” Garald asked slowly.
“Oh, quite a number of things, actually,” Simkin said airily, blowing the orange silk high above his head, watching as it floated down, spiraling round and round like a dead leaf in the unmoving air. “Among which is the interesting and little known fact that our beloved and sadly missed Joram is destined to return from the dead and destroy the world.”
6
The Prince Frog
P rince Garald cast the Cardinal a reproachful glance. “I have serious matters to attend to,” he said coldly, turning on his heel. “Since Xavier now has the sword, our plans for war must be accelerated before he learns—”
“Your Grace,” said Radisovik, “I suggest you take the time to hear this out.”
Though he spoke quietly, the Cardinal’s tone was firm and not to be questioned. A man well into his middle years, Radisovik had watched his Prince grow from child to man, taught him his lessons, presided over his later schooling, guided him along life’s path. Mosiah saw, with a sudden flash of insight, that it was this priest—not the doting father—who had played a major role in shaping Garald’s nature. As a druid lovingly and carefully nurtures a growing tree, Radisovik had taken an undoubtedly spoiled and willful child and, through love and by example, shaped him into a forceful, disciplined prince. It was the voice of the teacher—the shaper—who spoke now, and it was the pupil who turned in reluctant, yet respectful, obedience to listen.
“Very well, Simkin,” Garald said coldly, “tell your story. It’s a pity there
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