Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “With the Duke?” Lady Rosamund gasped. “Here, in Merilon? A guest?”

  “My dear,” said Lord Samuels. “The situation is serious, I may even say desperate. I don’t want to alarm you, but you must be prepared to face the truth. According to the message I received from the Duke, Merilon itself is in danger.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Lady Rosamund crisply. “The city has never been taken, not even during the Iron Wars. Nothing can penetrate the magic—”

  Lord Samuels appeared about to remonstrate his wife when they were interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing in a distant part of the large house.

  “The front door,” said Lady Rosamund, inclining her head to listen. “How very strange. Someone has come out in this storm! Were you expecting anyone?”

  “No,” replied Lord Samuels, puzzled. “Not even the Ariels have been able to fly in this weather. They used the Corridors—I wonder …”

  The two said nothing more but waited nervously and impatiently for the House Magus to appear.

  “My lord,” said a wide-eyed and flustered servant, flinging open the door to the parlor “P-Prince Garald of Sharakan and a catalyst named Saryon to see you on a matter of extreme urgency.”

  “Show them in, please,” said Lady Rosamund faintly. Prince Garald! Here, in her house? She had time enough to exchange a swift, questioning glance with her husband, who mutely indicated that he knew nothing more than she, when the guests were shown in. The Prince was attended by the ever-present black shadows of the Duuk-tsarith.

  “Your Highness.” Lady Rosamund sank into a curtsey but not as deep as she would have made to the late Xavier, after all, Prince Garald was the enemy. At least, he had been an enemy forty-eight hours ago. This was all so confusing, so frightening.

  “Your Grace.” Lord Samuels bowed. “We are honored—”

  “Thank you,” replied Prince Garald, cutting off milord’s speech. He did not do so rudely or even intentionally, but simply out of weariness. “May I present Father Saryon?”

  “Father,” murmured both milord and milady.

  But when the catalyst withdrew his hood from his head, Lord Samuels recoiled, staring at him in shock and horror.

  “You?” he cried in a hollow voice.

  “My lord, I am truly sorry!” Saryon’s face was drawn and anguished. “I forgot that you would recognize me from … from the Turning. I would not have come upon you in this sudden way had I known—”

  Lady Rosamund went deathly pale. “My lord, who is this man?” she cried, clutching her husband.

  “Lord Samuels, Lady Rosamund,” said Prince Garald gravely, “I suggest that you be seated. The news we bring you will be difficult to bear and you both must be strong. It is unfortunate that we have to spring it on you in this abrupt manner, but our time is short.”

  “I don’t understand!” Lord Samuels said, looking from one man to the other, his face suddenly grown pale. “What news?”

  “It’s about Gwendolyn!” Lady Rosamund cried suddenly, with a mothers instinct. She swayed where she stood and Prince Garald moved to help her to a couch; her husband—still staring at Saryon in a dazed manner—being totally incapable of coming to his wife’s assistance.

  “Send for the House Catalyst!” Garald said aside to one of the Duuk-tsarith, who did as he was instructed. Within moments, Marie was at the side of her mistress with a bowl of aromatic, restorative herbs. Ordering chairs to come forward around the fire, the Prince persuaded Lord Samuels to be seated as well.

  A sip or two of brandy restored milord’s composure—though he continued to stare at Saryon—and milady was recovered enough to flush deeply at the sight of the Prince waiting on them. She begged His Grace to be seated near the fire and dry his wet robes.

  “Thank you, Lady Rosamund. We took a carriage here,” said Prince Garald, noting the color returning to his lordships face, yet still deeming it wise, for the moment, to keep the conversation general. “Despite that, I am soaked through. The Duke’s conveyances are not equipped to deal with snowstorms, and there was no one in the manor this morning with magical energy enough to alter them. By the time we arrived, there was an inch of snow in the bottom of the carriage.” He glanced ruefully down at his elegant, wine-colored velvet robes. “I fear I am dripping water on your carpet.”

  Milady begged the Prince not to concern himself in the slightest degree. The storm was certainly dreadful. Their garden had been ruined…. Her voice died. She could not continue. Lying upon the couch, holding tightly to Marie’s hand, she stared at the Prince.

  Garald exchanged glances with Saryon, who nodded slightly. Rising to his feet, the catalyst walked across the floor to stand before Lord Samuels. In his hands, he held a scrollcase.

  “My lord,” Saryon began, but hearing his voice, Lady Rosamund made a choking sound.

  “I know you!” she cried, half-rising, thrusting aside Marie’s gentle hands, “You are Father Dunstable! But your face is different.”

  “Yes, I am the man you knew as Father Dunstable I was in your home in disguise.” Saryon bowed his head, flushing in shame. “I beg your forgiveness. I took the face and body of another catalyst when I came to Merilon because—had I appeared in my own form—I would have been recognized and seized by the Church. How … how much of my history and of … Joram’s do you know, my lord?” Saryon asked Lord Samuels hesitantly.

  “A great deal,” Lord Samuels replied. His voice was steady now. He gazed fixedly at Saryon, the horror gone from his eyes, replaced by hope, mingled with dread. “I know too much, in fact, or so Xavier thought. I know about Joram. I know his true lineage. I know, even, about the Prophecy.”

  At this, Garald’s face became grave. “Are there many who know about that?” he asked abruptly.

  “About the Prophecy?” Lord Samuels transferred his gaze to the Prince, “Yes, Your Grace. I believe so. Although it is never discussed openly, I have caught—now and then—oblique references to it among several of the higher ranking nobles. There were, you remember, many catalysts present that day …”

  “The Font has ears and eyes and a mouth,” murmured Saryon. “Deacon Dulchase knew. He was present at that mockery of a trial Vanya held for Joram.” The catalyst smiled faintly, turning the scrollcase over in his hand. “Dulchase was never noted for his ability to hold his tongue.”

  “This makes matters easier, Lord Samuels,” Prince Garald remarked, “at least as far as you are concerned. What it may mean to us later is difficult to tell, so many knowing of the Prophecy.”

  He stared thoughtfully into the fire. The flickering flames did not brighten the Prince’s face. They only made it seem darker, etched with deep shadows of worry and care. He made a gesture to the catalyst. “I am sorry for the interruption. Continue, Father.”

  “Lord Samuels,” began Saryon gently, withdrawing a sheaf of parchment from the scrollcase and holding it out to the man, who stared at it but did not take it. “A great shock lies ahead of you. Be strong, milord!” The catalyst placed his hand over the trembling hand of the nobleman. “We have considered the best way to prepare you and, after much consultation, Prince Garald and I decided that you should read this document I now hold in my hand. The one who wrote it agrees with us. Will you read it, Lord Samuels?”

  Lord Samuels reached out his hand, but it shook so that he let it fall back in his lap. “I can’t! You read it for me, Father,” he said softly.

  Saryon glanced questioningly at the Prince, who nodded again. Carefully unrolling and smoothing the document, the Priest began reading aloud:

  I leave this record with Father Saryon to be read in the event that I do not survive my initial encounter with the enemy …

  As he read Joram’s description of his entry into Beyond, Saryon glanced up now and then to observe Lord Samuel’s reaction and that of his wife. He saw upon their faces first perplexity, then growing comprehension, and, finally, unwilling, fearful understanding.

  I can tell you little of my thoughts
and feelings upon walking—as I suppose I did—into death, into Beyond.

  A moan escaped Lady Rosamund at these words, accompanied by soothing, whispered words from Marie. Lord Samuels said nothing, but his expression of grief and sorrow and confusion touched Saryon deeply.

  He glanced at Garald. The Prince was staring into the flames. He had read the document; Joram had given it to him on their return from the battlefield last night. He had read it many times and Saryon wondered if he fully comprehended it, fully understood. The Priest didn’t think so. It was too much to grasp. He knew it to be true. After all, he had seen the evidence with his own eyes. Yet it was so unreal.

  I did not even know—so lost was I in my own despair—that Gwendolyn had followed me. I remember hearing her voice as I stepped into the mists, calling me to wait….

  Lord Samuels groaned—a deep, wrenching sob. His head sank into his hand Saryon ceased reading. Rising swiftly, Prince Garald came to kneel by the man’s side. Resting his hand upon milord’s arm, he repeated gently, “Be strong, sir!”

  Lord Samuels could not reply, but he laid his hand gratefully over the hand of the Prince and seemed to indicate, by a weak nod, that Saryon was to continue. The catalyst did so, his own voice breaking once, forcing him to stop and clear his throat.

  When I awoke, I found myself in a new world, living a new life I married my poor Gwen—to keep her safe and secure—and part of every day I spent with her in the quiet, loving place where she stayed while the healers of Beyond endeavored to find some means to help her.

  It has been ten years … ten years in our world.

  “My child!” Lady Rosamund cried brokenly. “My poor child!”

  Marie held Lady Rosamund close, her own tears mingling with those of her mistress. Lord Samuels sat quite still; he did not raise his head or even move. Saryon, after glancing at him a moment in concern, continued reading without interruption to the end.

  The game is nothing, the playing of it everything.

  Saryon fell silent. Sighing, he began to roll the parchment in his hand.

  Outside the window, the falling snow deadened all sound. It seemed to be covering Merilon in heavy, white silence. The parchment rustling in the Priest’s hands sounded unnaturally loud and jarring. Cringing, he stopped.

  Then Prince Garald said, very softly, “My lord, they are here, in your home.”

  Lord Samuels raised his head “Here? My Gwen.”

  Lady Rosamund clasped her hands together with an eager cry.

  “They are waiting in the hall I want to make certain you are strong, my lord,” Garald continued earnestly, holding onto Lord Samuels’s arm, restraining him as it seemed he was about to fly from his chair. “Remember! It has been ten years for them! She is not the girl you knew! She is changed—”

  “She is my daughter, Your Grace,” Lord Samuels said hoarsely, thrusting the Prince aside. “And she has come home!”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the Prince quietly, sadly. “She has come home. Father Saryon—”

  The catalyst left without a word. Lady Rosamund, with Marie at her side, came to stand by her husband. He put his arm around her; she clung to him, hastily wiping away all traces of her tears from her face and smoothing her hair. Then she caught hold of Marie, holding the catalyst’s arm with one hand, her husband’s with the other.

  Saryon returned, accompanied by Joram and Gwen, who stood waiting in the doorway, hesitant to enter. Both were muffled in heavy fur cloaks and hoods that they had retained, not wanting to reveal their identity to the servants. On entering, Joram cast his hood back from his head, revealing a face that was—at first glimpse—cold and impassive as stone. At the sight of Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund, however, the man’s stern facade crumbled. Tears glimmered in the brown eyes. He seemed to try to say something to them, but he could not speak. Gently, turning to his wife, he helped Gwen remove the hood from her head.

  Gwen’s golden hair gleamed in the firelight. Her pale, sweet face with the bright blue eyes glanced curiously around the room.

  “My child!” Lady Rosamund attempted to float through the air to her daughter’s side, but her magical energy failed her. Bereft of Life, she stumbled across the floor. “My child! My Gwendolyn!” Reaching out, she clasped her daughter in her arms and held her close, laughing and crying at the same time.

  Gently pushing her mother away, Gwen stared at the woman in amazement. Then recognition gleamed eerily in her blue eyes. But it was not the recognition for which her parents hungered.

  “Ah, Count Devon,” Gwendolyn said, turning from Lady Rosamund to talk—it appeared—to an empty chair. “These must be the people you were telling me about!”

  3

  Of Salt Cellars And

  Teapots

  Though it was only late afternoon, the snowfall in Merilon brought premature night to the city. The House Magi’s magic caused the lights in Lord Samuels’s elegant mansion to glow softly, bringing cheerful light into the cheerless parlor where Lady Rosamund sat with Marie and her daughter. Globes of light brightened guest rooms that had been long closed up as the servants aired out linen and warmed beds, scattering rose petals about to drive out the musty odor of long disuse. As they worked, the servants repeated to each other whispered tales of people returned from the dead.

  The only room in the house that remained dark was milord’s study. The gentlemen who met in there preferred the shadows that seemed conducive to the nature of their dark conversation.

  “And that is the situation we face, Lord Samuels,” concluded Joram, staring out the window, watching the snow that continued to fall. “The enemy is intent on conquering our world and releasing the magic into the universe. We have convinced them that such a goal will be difficult to attain and will cost them dearly.”

  He had spent the past hour describing as best he could the battle on the Field of Glory. Lord Samuels listened in dazed silence. Life Beyond. Creatures made of iron who kill with a glance. Humans with metal skin. Gazing from Joram to Lord Samuels, Saryon saw that milord was apparently struggling to get a firm grip on the situation, but it was obvious from the bemused expression on his face that he felt as if he were trying to catch hold of fog.

  “What … what do we do now?” he asked helplessly.

  “We wait,” replied Joram. “There is a saying in Beyond. We must hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

  “What is the best?”

  “According to the Duuk-tsarith who have been watching them, the invaders fled in panic. It was a rout, something better than I had hoped. They appear to be—from what the warlocks can tell—divided and unorganized. I know the officer they chose to lead this expedition, a Major James Boris. In any other situation he would be a good officer, he is rooted in logic and common sense. But that makes him a poor choice to send to this world. He is out of his depth, over his head. He won’t be able to cope with a war that—to him—must come straight out of a horror novel. I am betting he will retreat, take his men off-world.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, we must find a way to seal the Border once and for all. That shouldn’t be too difficult—”

  “The Duuk-tsarith are already working on it,” Garald said. “But it will take an extraordinary amount of Life. Some from each Living person in Thimhallan—or so they speculate.”

  “And what about the worst?” Lord Samuels asked, after a pause.

  Joram’s lips tightened. “Boris will send for help. We don’t have the time or the energy now to stop them on the Border. We must fortify Merilon. We must wake this city from its enchanted sleep and prepare its people to defend it.”

  “First someone must wrest control from that quivering mass of jelly who huddles in his Crystal Cathedral and whines to the Almin to protect him,” Garald pointed out. “Begging your pardon, Father Saryon.”

  The catalyst smiled wanly and shook his head.

  “You’re right, of course, Your Grace, but who will the people follow?” Lord Samuels shif
ted in his chair, sitting forward. This was politics, something he could understand. “There are some—like d’Chambrey—who are intelligent enough to put aside differences and come together to fight this common enemy. But there are others—like Sir Chesney, that thickheaded, stubborn mule. I doubt he’ll believe any of this about other worlds. Merciful Almin!” Lord Samuels ran his hand through his graying hair “I’m not sure I believe it and I have proof before my own eyes …”

  His gaze left the study where the men sat talking and turned toward the adjoining parlor. From within the cold, formal room with its elegant furnishings, barely seen through the half-open door, Saryon could hear Gwen’s voice. Its sad, haunting music was a fitting accompaniment—so it seemed to him—to this talk of war and death.

  “Please don’t misunderstand,” Gwendolyn was telling her confused and distraught mother. “Count Devon is pleased with most of the changes you have made in his house. It’s just that he finds it so confusing, what with the new furniture and all. Then there’s so much furniture! He wonders if it’s all necessary. Particularly these little tables.” Gwendolyn fluttered a hand. “Everywhere he turns there’s another little table. He keeps blundering into them in the night. And just when he thought he was growing used to the tables, you moved the china cabinet. It has stood in the same place for years—on the north wall of the dining room, wasn’t it?”

  “It—it blocked the morning light … from the east windows …” murmured Lady Rosamund faintly.

  “The poor man ran smack into it during the night,” said Gwen. “He broke a salt cellar—quite by accident, he assures you. But the Count was wondering if it would be too much trouble to move it back.”

  “My poor child!” said Lord Samuels. With an abrupt motion of his hand, he caused the door between his study and the parlor to shut itself quietly. “What is she talking about?” he demanded in a low, anguished voice. “She doesn’t recognize us, yet she knows about the … the china cabinet and … the salt cellar! The salt cellar! My god! We assumed one of the servants broke it!”