Doom Of The Darksword Part 19

Lady Rosamund turned to face her husband, her gaze fixed searchingly upon his face. "You know the name of this family, don't you?"

"I do, my dear," he said gravely, taking her hand in his. "And so do you. At least, you will recognize it when you hear it. The young man says his mother's name was Anja."

"Anja," milady repeated, frowning. "Anja...." Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she placed her hand over her mouth. "Merciful Almin!" she murmured.

"Anja, only daughter of the late Baron Fitzgerald -"

"- cousin to the Emperor -"

"- related in one way or another to half the n.o.ble Houses, my dear -"

"- and one of the wealthiest men in Merilon," both said together.

"Are you certain?" Lady Rosamund asked. Her face was pale, she laid her hand upon her bosom to calm her beating heart. "This Joram could be an imposter."

"He could be," Lord Samuels conceded, "but the matter is so easily checked, an imposter would know he couldn't hope to succeed. The young man's story has the ring of truth. He knows enough, but not too much. There are gaps, for example, that he doesn't attempt to fill, whereas an imposter would, I believe, try to have all the answers. He was completely confounded when I told him who his mother really was and what the estate might be worth. He had no idea. The young man was genuinely dazed. What's more, he said Father Dunstable could verify his story."

"You spoke to the catalyst?" Lady Rosamund asked eagerly.

"Yes, my dear. Just this afternoon. The man was reluctant to talk of it - you know how these catalysts hang together. Ashamed, no doubt, to admit that one of his Order could fail so low. But he admitted to me that Bishop Vanya himself had sent him to search for the young man. What could be the reason except that they want someone to take over the estate?" Lord Samuels was triumphant.

"Bishop Vanya! Himself!" Lady Rosamund breathed.

"You see? And" - Lord Samuels leaned closer to speak to milady confidentially once more "- the young man has asked my permission to pay court to Gwendolyn!"

"Ah!" Lady Rosamund gave a little gasp. "And what did you say?"

"I said - sternly, mind you - that I would consider it," Lord Samuels replied, clasping the collar of his robes in a highly dignified manner. "The young man's ident.i.ty will have to be verified, naturally. Joram is reluctant to go to the Church with what little evidence he has now, and I don't blame him. Might weaken his case further down the road. I promised I would make a few more inquiries, see what additional proof we can uncover. He'll need a record of his birth, for example. Shouldn't be too difficult to obtain."

"What about Gwen?" Lady Rosamund persisted, brushing aside such masculine issues.

Lord Samuels smiled indulgently. "Well, you should talk to her at once, my dear. Discover her feelings in the matter -"

"I think those are obvious!" Lady Rosamund said, somewhat bitterly. It was a bitterness that soon pa.s.sed, however, having its roots only in the very natural sorrow at the prospect of losing her beloved daughter.

"But, in the meantime," Lord Samuels continued more gently, "I think we might allow the two of them to go around together, provided we keep our eyes upon them."

"I don't really see how we could do otherwise," said Lady Rosamund with some spirit. At a gesture, she caused a lily to snap off its stem and glide into her hand. "I have never seen Gwen so infatuated with anyone as this Joram. As for them going around together, they've been nowhere else but with each other the past few days! Marie is always with them, but ..." Milady shook her head. The lily slipped from her hand. She dropped down slightly in the air, nearly touching the ground. Her husband caught hold of her.

"You are tired, my dear," said Lord Samuels solicitously, supporting his wife with his own magic. "I have kept you up too long. We will discuss this further tomorrow."

"It has been a wearing few days, you must admit," Lady Rosamund replied, leaning on his arm for comfort. "First Simkin, then the Emperor. Now this."

"Indeed it has. Our little girl is growing up."

"Baroness Gwendolyn," Lady Rosamund said to herself, with a sigh that was part maternal pride, part motherly regret.

One evening three or four or maybe five days later, Joram entered the garden in search of the catalyst. He wasn't certain himself how long it had been since he had asked Gwendolyn to marry him and she had agreed. Time meant nothing to Joram anymore. Nothing meant anything to him except her. Every breath he took was scented with her fragrance. His eyes saw no one but her. The only words he heard were spoken by her voice. He was jealous of anyone else who claimed her attention. He was jealous of the night that forced them to part. He was jealous of sleep itself.

But he soon discovered that sleep brought its own sweetness, though it was a sweetness mingled with aching pain. In his sleep, he could do what he dared not do during the day - give in to his dreams of pa.s.sion and desire, fulfillment and possession. The dreams took their toll - Joram would wake in the morning, his blood on fire, his heart burning. Yet the first sight of Gwendolyn walking in the garden fell like a cooling rain upon his tormented soul. So pure, so innocent, so childlike! His dreams sickened him, he felt ashamed, monstrous; his pa.s.sions seemed b.e.s.t.i.a.l and corrupt.

And yet his hunger was there. When he looked at the tender lips speaking to him of azaleas or dahlias or honeysuckle, he remembered their warm, soft touch in his dreams and his body ached. When he watched her walking beside him, her lithe, graceful body clothed in some pink cloud of a gown, he remembered clasping that body in his dreams, holding her close to his breast with no flimsy barrier of cloth between them, remembered making her his own. At such times, he would fall silent and avert his eyes from her gaze, fearful she would see the fire raging there, fearful this fair and fragile flower would wilt and die in its heat.

It was in the throes of this bittersweet torture that Joram entered the garden late one night, searching for the catalyst, who - so the servants said - often walked here when he could not sleep.

The rest of the household had gone to their beds. The Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar had decreed that there be no wind tonight, and the garden, therefore, was hushed and quiet. Rounding a corner, Joram affected to be surprised when he found Saryon sitting alone upon a bench. had decreed that there be no wind tonight, and the garden, therefore, was hushed and quiet. Rounding a corner, Joram affected to be surprised when he found Saryon sitting alone upon a bench.

"I am sorry, Father," Joram said, standing in the shadows of a eucalyptus. "I did not mean to interrupt you." Half turning, he started - very slowly - to withdraw.

Saryon turned at the sound of the voice, raising his head. The moonlight shone full upon his face. It was a strange face, this facade of Father Dunstable, and Joram always found it startling and somewhat disquieting. But the eyes were those of the scholar he had known in the Sorcerers' village - wise, mild, gentle. Only now, in addition, Joram saw a haunted expression in the eyes when the catalyst looked at him, a shadow of pain that he could not understand.

"No, Joram, don't go," Saryon said. "You do not disturb me. You were in my thoughts, in fact."

"In your prayers, too?" Joram asked as a joke.

The Priest's sorrowful face grew so pale that the words fell flat. Joram heard Saryon sigh heavily. The catalyst pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes. "Come, sit by me, Joram," he said, making room on the bench.

Joram did so. Sitting down beside the catalyst, he relaxed and listened - for the first time - to the silence of the garden at night. Its peace and tranquility drifted down upon him like a gentle snowfall, its cool shadows easing his burning mind.

"Do you know, Saryon," Joram said hesitantly, unaccustomed to speaking his thoughts, yet feeling somehow that he owed this man something and longed to pay the debt, "the other day - when we were together in the chapel - was the first time I had ever been inside a ... a holy place. Oh" - he shrugged - "there was a church of sorts in Walren, a crude building where the Field Magi went once a week to get their daily dose of guilt from Father Tolban. My mother never darkened the door, as I suppose you can guess."

"Yes," murmured Saryon, looking at Joram with a puzzled expression, astonished at this unusual outpouring of words.

"Anja talked about G.o.d, about the Almin," Joram continued, his gaze fixed upon the moonlit roses, "but only to give thanks to him that I was better than the others. I never bothered to pray. Why should I? What did I have to be thankful for?" the young man said, the old bitterness creeping into his voice. He grew quiet, his gaze going from the delicate white flowers on the vine to his hands - so skilled and supple, so deadly. Clasping his hands together, he continued to stare at them, unseeing, as he spoke.

"My mother hated catalysts - for what they had done to my father - and she fed me on hatred. You told me once - Do you remember?" he glanced at Saryon, "- that it is easier to hate than to love? You were right! Oh, how right you were, Father!" Joram's hands parted, clenched into fists. "All my life, I have hated," the young man said in a low, pa.s.sionate voice. "I'm beginning to wonder if I can can love! It's so hard, it hurts ... so much...." love! It's so hard, it hurts ... so much...."

"Joram," Saryon began, his heart full.

"Wait, just let me finish, Father," Joram said, the words almost exploding out of him with pent-up frustration. "Coming in here, tonight, I suddenly thought of my father." The dark brows came together. "I've never thought of him, much," he said, staring at his hands once more. "When I did, it was to see him standing there on the Borderland, his stone face frozen and unmoving, the tears dropping from eyes that stare eternally into a death he'll never know. But now, in here" - lifting his head, glancing around the garden, Joram's face softened - "I think of him as he must have been - a man like myself. With ... pa.s.sions like mine, pa.s.sions he he could not control. I see my mother as she must have been then, a young girl, graceful and beautiful and ..." He hesitated, swallowing. could not control. I see my mother as she must have been then, a young girl, graceful and beautiful and ..." He hesitated, swallowing.

"Innocent, trusting," Saryon said gently.

"Yes," Joram answered inaudibly. Looking at the catalyst, he was astounded at the sight of the anguish he saw in the man's face.

Saryon caught hold of the young man's hands, gripping them with an intensity as painful as his words.

"Leave! Now, Joram!" the catalyst said urgently. "There is nothing for you here! Nothing for her but bitter unhappiness - as there was for your poor mother!"

Stubbornly, Joram shook his head, the curling black hair falling down over his face. He broke free of the catalyst's grip.

"My boy, my son!" Saryon said, clasping his own hands together. "It pleases me more than anything that you feel you can confide in me. I would be but a poor recipient of your confidence if I did not advise you to the best of my ability. If only you knew - If only I could -"

"Knew what?" Joram asked, looking up swiftly at the catalyst.

Saryon blinked and bit off his words, swallowing them hastily. "If only I could make you understand," he finished lamely, sweat beading on hs lips. "I know you plan to marry this girl," he said slowly, his brows knotted.

"Yes," Joram answered coolly. "When my inheritance is settled, of course."

"Of course," repeated Saryon in hollow tones. "Have you given any thought to what we discussed the other day?"

"You mean about me being Dead?" Joram asked evenly.

The catalyst could only nod.

Joram was silent another moment. His hand going absently to his hair, he began to rake through it, combing it with his fingers as had Anja, so long ago. "Father," he said finally, in a tight voice, "don't I have a right to love, to be loved?"

"Joram -" Saryon began helplessly, fumbling for words. "That isn't the point. Of course you have that right! All humans have it. Love is the gift from the Almin -"

"Except to those who are Dead!" Joram sneered.

"My son," Saryon said compa.s.sionately, "what is love if it does not speak the truth? Can love grow and flourish if it is planted in a garden of lies?" His voice broke before he could finish, the word "lies" seeming to shine in the darkness brighter than the moon itself.

"You are right, Saryon," said Joram in a firm voice. "My mother was destroyed by lies - lies she and my father told each other, lies she told herself. It was the lies that drove her mad. I've thought about what you said to me, and I have decided -" He paused, and Saryon looked at him hopefully.

"- to tell Gwendolyn the truth," Joram finished.

The catalyst sighed, shivering in the cool night air. That hadn't been the answer he hoped to hear. Drawing his robes closer about him, he pondered his next words carefully. "I am glad, glad beyond measure, that you realize you cannot deceive this girl," he said finally. "But I still think it would be better to drop out of her life - at least right now. Perhaps, someday, you can return. To tell her the truth will put your own life at risk, Joram! The girl is so young! She may not understand, and you will only endanger yourself."

"My life means nothing to me without her," Joram responded. "I know she is young, but there is a core of strength within her, a strength born of goodness and her love for me. There is an old saying of your Almin's, Catalyst." Looking at Saryon, Joram smiled, a true smile, one that brought a soft light to the dark eyes. "'The truth shall make you free.' I understand that now and I believe it. Good night, Saryon," he added, rising to his feet.

Hesitantly, he laid his hand on the catalyst's shoulder. "Thank you," he said awkwardly. "I sometimes think ... if my father had been more like you - if he had been wise and caring - then the tragedy of his life and mine might never have happened."

Joram turned away abruptly and walked with rapid strides down the winding, twisting garden path. Embarra.s.sed and ashamed over having bared his soul, he did not look back at Saryon as he left.

It was well that Joram did not see the catalyst. Saryon's head sank to his hands, tears crept from beneath his eyelids. "The truth shall make you free," he whispered, weeping. "Oh, my G.o.d! You force me to eat my own words and they are poison to me!"

7.

The Killing Frost Several more days pa.s.sed after the meetings in the garden - days of idyllic bliss for the lovers, days of torture for the catalyst, slowly sinking beneath the burden of his secret. Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund smiled upon the "children" with delight. Nothing in the house was too good for the future Baron and his friends, and Lady Rosamund began to consider how many people could be fit into the dining room for the wedding breakfast and if it would be proper to invite the Emperor or not.

Then one morning Lord Samuels went out to his garden as usual, only to return almost immediately to the house, using language that shocked the servants and caused his wife - seated at breakfast - to raise her eyebrows in reproof.

"d.a.m.n the Sif-Hanar!" Sif-Hanar!" Lord Samuels thundered. "Where's Marie?" Lord Samuels thundered. "Where's Marie?"

"With the little ones. My dear, whatever is the matter?" Lady Rosamund asked, rising from the table in concern.

"A frost! That's what's the matter! You should see the garden!"

The family rushed outside. The garden was truly in a pitiable state. One look at her beloved roses, hanging black and withered on their stems, caused Gwendolyn to cover her eyes in despair. The trees were rimed with white; dead blossoms fell like snow; brown leaves littered the ground. With Marie to grant him Life, Lord Samuels did what he could to repair the worst of the damage, but he predicted it would be many days before their garden recovered.

This damage was not confined to Lord Samuels's garden alone. All of Merilon was in an uproar and, for a few quaking moments that morning, several of the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar envisioned themselves languishing in the dungeons of the envisioned themselves languishing in the dungeons of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, It finally came out that the fault lay with two of them, each of whom had a.s.sumed the other was going to regulate the temperature of the dome in the night. Neither did. The wintry weather outside caused the weather inside to turn from spring to fail in an instant, and all of Merilon was drooping, wilting, brown and dying.

Lord Samuels went to work in a foul temper. The day pa.s.sed in gloom, and evening did nothing to improve anyone's spirits, for Lord Samuels returned home in a darker mood than before. Saying little to anyone, he went out to the garden to survey the damage. On his return, he sat down to dinner with his guests and family as usual, but he was silent and thoughtful during the meal, his gaze resting on Joram, much to that young man's consternation.

Gwendolyn, noticing her father's subdued spirits, immedately lost her appet.i.te. To ask what was bothering him would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette - the only conversations considered suitable for the dinner table were lighthearted recounts of the day's activities.

Lady Rosamund, too, noticed her husband's dark mood and wondered fearfully what had happened. It was obvious that this was more than worry over the garden. There Was nothing she could do, however, but try to cover for it as best she could and entertain their guests. Lady Rosamund chatted about this and that, therefore, with a semblance of cheerfulness that only made the meal more gloomy.

Young Master Samuels had learned to fly up out of his crib that morning, she reported, but, scaring himself by this feat, he had apparently lost his sense of magic and tumbled down to the floor, frightening everyone for a few moments until the lump on his head was examined by Marie and p.r.o.nounced not serious.

No word had been received from Simkin, who had that morning - unaccountably and without saying anything to anyone - disappeared. But a high-placed friend of a high-placed friend of a lower-placed friend of milady's informed her that he had been seen at court, in company with the Empress. This same friend of a friend of a friend reported that the Empress was in low spirits, but that this was only natural, considering the anniversary that was coming up.

"What a dreadful time that was," recalled Lady Rosamund, shuddering delicately, nibbling at an iced strawberry. "That day when the Prince was declared Dead. We had the most splendid party planned, to celebrate his birth, and we had to cancel it. Do you remember, Marie? All the food we conjured up ..." She sighed. "I believe we sent it down to the cousins, so that it wouldn't go to waste."

"I remember," Marie said gravely, trying to keep the conversation going. "We - Why, Father Dunstable, are you all right?"

"He's swallowed something the wrong way," said Lady Rosamund solicitously. "Bring him a gla.s.s of water." She motioned to a servant.

"Thank you," murmured Saryon. Choking, he thankfully hid his face in the goblet of water one of the House Magi sent floating his direction. So shaken was the catalyst that he was forced to clasp it in his trembling hand and drink it in this awkward fashion instead of using his magic to keep the goblet suspended near his lips.

Shortly after this, Lord Samuels rose abruptly from his chair.

"Joram, Father Dunstable, will you take your brandy in my library?" he said.

"But - dessert?" said Lady Rosamund.

"None for me, thank you," Lord Samuels replied coldly, and left the room after casting Joram a meaningful glance. No one else said a word. Gwen sat huddled in her chair, looking very much like one of her frost-blighted roses. Joram and Saryon excused themselves to Lady Rosamund, and Lord Samuels led his guests into his library, the servant following.

A figure started up out of a chair.

"Mosiah!" said Lord Samuels in astonishment.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," Mosiah stammered, flushing.

"We missed you at dinner, young man," Lord Samuels said coldly This was a polite fiction. In the prevailing gloom of the dining room, no one had noticed the young man's absence at all.

"I guess I forgot about the time. I was so involved in reading -" Mosiah held up a book.

"Go ask the servants to get you something to eat," Lord Samuels cut him off, opening the door wide in a gesture of dismissal.

"Tha - thank you, my lord," stuttered Mosiah, his eyes going from the lord's grim face to Joram's worried one. He looked to Saryon for an explanation, but the catalyst only shook his head. Bowing, Mosiah left the room and Lord Samuels motioned to the servant to pour the brandy.

The library was a cozy chamber. Obviously designed by and for the man of the house, it was filled with numerous pieces of finely shaped wood - a large oaken desk, several comfortable chairs, and a great many lovingly shaped bookcases. The books and scrolls contained therein were suitable to Lord Samuels's rank and position in society. He was an educated man, as was necessary to rise to the rank of Guildmaster, but he was not too too educated. That would have been viewed as an attempt to rise above his station, and Lord Samuels - like his wife - was careful to keep a respectful distance between himself and his betters. For this, he was widely admired, particularly by his betters, who were frequently heard to observe that Lord Samuels "knew" his place. educated. That would have been viewed as an attempt to rise above his station, and Lord Samuels - like his wife - was careful to keep a respectful distance between himself and his betters. For this, he was widely admired, particularly by his betters, who were frequently heard to observe that Lord Samuels "knew" his place.

Joram glanced at the books as he entered. Drawn to knowledge as a starving man to food, he was already familiar with every t.i.tle in the library. When he was forced - of necessity - to be parted from Gwen, he spent most of his time in here with Mosiah. True to his promise, Joram had taught his friend to read. Mosiah was an apt pupil, quick and intelligent. The lessons went well, and now, in his enforced confinement, Mosiah found the library a blessing.

He had begun his studies in earnest, working his way painstakingly through the texts, often without help; Joram being somewhat preoccupied. In particular, Mosiah was entranced by the books on the theories and uses of magic, having never been exposed to anything like this before. Joram considered these books boring and useless, but Mosiah devoted most of his leisure hours - and there were many - to the study of his magic.

Saryon, in his turn, did not notice the books at all. The catalyst barely noticed anything in the room, including the chair which milord drew up for him with a gesture and then had to reposition quickly as the catalyst - absorbed in his thoughts - started to sit down in midair.

"I beg your pardon, Father Dunstable," Lord Samuels apologized as the catalyst literally collapsed into the chair that scooted up beneath him.