“What was the name of the previous owner of this estate?” Joram asked. He, too, had been listening to his wife, his eyes shadowed with pain that echoed in his voice.
Saryon started to offer comfort, but Lord Samuels was answering Joram’s question and the catalyst clamped his lips shut. Shifting restlessly in his chair, the Priest began to rub his misshapen fingers, as though they ached. What comfort could he offer anyway? Empty words, that was all.
“The previous owner? He’s dead. His name was …” Lord Samuels broke off, staring at Joram in horrified understanding. “Count Devon!”
“I tried to tell you,” Joram said, sighing. “She talks to the dead. In this world, she would be known as a Necromancer.”
“But the Necromancers are gone! Their kind was destroyed during the Iron Wars!” Lord Samuels turned his agonized gaze from Joram back to the parlor; his daughter’s voice could still be heard faintly through the closed door.
Joram absently ran his fingers through his hair. “In the world Beyond they consider her to be insane. They do not believe in Necromancy. The healers theorize that the terrible trauma Gwendolyn underwent caused her to seek escape in a fantasy realm of her own imaginings, a realm where she feels safe from harm. I alone believe that there is a certain sanity in her madness, that she can truly communicate with the dead.”
“Not you alone….” Saryon corrected ominously.
Joram’s dark brows came together. “No, you are right, Father,” he said in a low voice. “I am not alone. Menju the Sorcerer—the man I mentioned in my document—also believes that she is a Necromancer. When he realized how valuable this ancient skill could prove to him, he tried to abduct her. That was when I first became aware of his true nature.”
“Valuable?” Garald stirred in his chair. Sitting at Lord Samuels’s desk, he’d been studying maps of Thimhallan, but it had grown too dark in the room to read them, and now he listened to the conversation. “How? What can the dead offer the living?”
“Have you never studied the work of the Necromancers, Your Grace?” asked Saryon.
“Not much,” Garald admitted indifferently. “They propitiated the spirits of the dead—making amends for misdeeds, finishing tasks left undone, that sort of thing. According to the histories, their dying out after the Iron Wars was no great loss.”
“I beg to differ with you, Your Grace,” Saryon said earnestly. “When the Necromancers died out, the Church made it appear to be no great loss. But it seems to me that it was. I have spent many hours with Gwendolyn, listening to her talk with those only she can see and hear. The dead possess something of incomparable value—something that will forever be withheld from the living.
“And that is—” Garald said somewhat impatiently, obviously wanting to turn the conversation to more important matters but too polite to offend the catalyst.
“Complete understanding, Your Grace! When we die, we will become one with the Creator. We will know His plans for the universe. We will see, at last, the Cosmic Scheme!”
Garald suddenly appeared interested “Do you believe this?” he asked.
“I—I’m not certain” Saryon flushed, averting his face, staring down at his shoes. “It is what we are taught,” he added lamely. The old tormenting questioning of his faith—questioning he had thought answered by Joram’s “death”—was being bandied about by his soul again.
“Say this is true,” Garald persisted. “Could the dead grant this knowledge of the future to the living?”
“Whether or not I believed it, Your Grace”—Saryon smiled sadly—“that would seem to me to be impossible. The world the dead see is beyond our ability to comprehend, much as it is impossible for us to understand this world Joram has seen. We see time through a single window that faces only one direction. The dead see time through hundreds of windows facing all directions.” The catalyst spread his scarred hands in an effort to express the enormity of this vision. “How, then, can they hope to describe what they see? But they can offer advice. And they did—through the Necromancers. In ancient days, the dead were granted the opportunity to counsel the living. People venerated their dead, they kept in contact with them, and they had the benefit of the dead’s insight into the one Vast Mind. That is what has been lost, Your Grace.”
“I see.” Garald pondered, his eyes gazing thoughtfully at the closed door.
Saryon shook his head.
“No, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “She cannot help us. For all we know, this unfortunate Count, talking of china cabinets and salt cellars, may be trying to get our attention to explain something much more important. But, if so, Gwendolyn could not impart that information to us. She can communicate with the dead, but not with the living.”
The Prince appeared ready to pursue the subject, but Saryon—with a glance at Lord Samuels and another at Joram—shook his head slightly, reminding the Prince that—for two people at least—this was a painful subject. The father gazed through the closed door, the expression on his face one of perplexity and grief. The husband stared out into the dead, snow-shrouded garden in bitter resignation. Clearing his throat, Prince Garald abruptly changed the subject.
“We were discussing the fact that Merilon needs a leader, someone to rally the people,” he said briskly. “I have stated before, I can think of only one person….”
“No!” Joram turned from the window with an impatient gesture. “No, Your Grace,” he added more gently, in a belated attempt to soften the harshness of his reply.
“Joram, listen to me!” Garald leaned forward to argue. “You are by far the—”
A Corridor gaped open suddenly in the center of the study, interrupting the Prince. Everyone in the room stared at it expectantly, but for a moment nothing was visible. Saryon could hear voices coming from within, however, and what sounded like a struggle.
“Take your hands off me! Lout! You’ve crushed the velvet. I’ll have fingermarks on my sleeve for a week! I—”
Simkin, dressed in bright green hose, an orange hat, and a green velvet doublet tumbled out of the Corridor, landing in a heap on the floor. He was followed by Mosiah, still dressed in the uniform of an archer of Sharakan, and by two, black-robed and hooded Duuk-tsarith.
Apparently nonplussed at his less than graceful entrance, Simkin rose to his feet, bowed to the assembled gentlemen, and said grandly, with a flutter of orange silk and a graceful wave of his hand, “Your Grace, congratulate me I have found them?”
Ignoring Simkin, who was preening himself on his latest triumph, Mosiah turned to the Prince. “Your Grace, we found him. He was in the enemy’s camp. Acting on your orders, the Thon-li, the Corridor Masters, caught him and brought him to me. With their help”—he indicated the warlocks—“I managed to drag him here.”
“Which is precisely where I was coming!” said Simkin with a pained expression. “Or I would have been if I’d known where here was. I’ve been searching everywhere, quite pining away for a glimpse of your handsome face, O Prince. You see, I have the most frightfully important information—”
“According to the Thon-li, he was on his way to the Cathedral,” interrupted Mosiah caustically.
Simkin sniffed. “I presumed Your Grace was there, of course. Everyone who is anyone is at the Cathedral. The peasants are giving the most jolly riot—”
“Riot?” Prince Garald looked at the Duuk-tsarith for confirmation.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the black-robed warlock, hands folded before him. “We were coming to report this to you when Mosiah requested our assistance. The Field Magi have broken out of the Grove and are storming the Cathedral, demanding to see the Bishop.” The black hood lowered slightly, one of the hands making a deprecating movement. “We could not stop them, Your Grace. Though they have few catalysts, they are still strong in magic, and our forces are weakened.”
“I understand,” Prince Garald said gravely, exchanging alarmed glances with Lord Samuels. Saryon saw both of them look toward Joram, who refused to meet their eyes, bu
t stood with his back turned, staring into the garden that could now barely be seen through the gloom. “What is the Bishop doing?”
“He refuses to see them, Your Grace. He has ordered the doors to the Cathedral magically sealed. Those members of our Order with strength enough to cast spells are guarding it.”
“So the Cathedral is safe for the time being?”
“Yes–”
“They won’t attack it, Your Grace!” Mosiah cried. “They don’t want to hurt anyone! They’re frightened and they want answers.”
“Is your father among them, Mosiah?” Prince Garald asked quietly.
“Yes, my lord,” Mosiah said. His face flushed. “My father is their leader. He knows what really happened in the battle yesterday. I told him. Maybe it was wrong of me,” he added with half-proud, half-shamed defiance, “but they have a right to know the truth!”
“They do indeed,” Prince Garald said, “and hopefully we will be able to impart it to them.” He glanced at Joram, who continued to stare into the night, his face stern and impassive. Shoving aside the maps, Prince Garald stood up and began pacing the room, his hands behind him. “So, Simkin,” he said abruptly, turning to the green velvet clad young man, “you’ve been to see the enemy.”
“E’gad! Of course!” said Simkin. With a wave of his hand, he conjured up a fainting-couch. “You will excuse me, I hope?” he asked languidly, stretching out on the couch that sat squarely in the center of the study, making it impossible for the Prince to continue pacing without running into it. “And do you mind if I change clothes? I’ve been wearing this same color of green for hours and I fear it does nothing for my complexion. Makes me look quite jaundiced.”
As he spoke, the green hose and doublet transformed themselves into a red brocade dressing gown, trimmed with black fur cuffs and a thick fur collar. Red slippers with curled toes adorned his feet. Simkin appeared quite charmed with these and, lifting a foot, regarded it with delight.
“The enemy?” Garald reminded him.
“Oh, yes! Well, what else was I supposed to do, Your Grace? I trotted about the battlefield for a bit, but—while undeniably entertaining, it struck me that there was a chance that I might see the light, so to speak, in a most painful manner. Having a hole burned in one’s skull is not my idea of an illuminating experience. However,” continued Simkin, plucking the orange silk from the air and dabbing delicately at his nose, “I was determined to do something for my country. So, at great personal risk to myself, I decided”—dramatic flourish of the orange silk—“to become a spy!”
“Go on,” ordered Gerald.
“Certainly. By the bye, Joram, dear fellow,” said Simkin, reclining among an abundance of silk pillows, “did I say that I am delighted to see you?” He waved the orange silk. “You’re looking well, though I must say you have not aged the least bit gracefully.”
“If you were in the enemy’s camp, tell us what you saw!” Joram persisted.
“Oh, I was there,” said Simkin, smoothing his mustache with a slender finger. “Shall I prove it to you, my King? I am, after all, your fool. Do you remember? Two Death cards.” You dying twice? They laughed at me then”—he glanced slyly at Mosiah and Saryon—“but I don’t see them laughing now. I had a devil of a time getting into camp Corridor is crawling with black and creepy things”—a scathing glance at the Duuk-tsarith—“all lurking about the enemy …
“That’s going to end, by the way,” Simkin added nonchalantly. “An old friend of yours who calls himself Dog Doo the Sorcerer or something like that has sealed off the Corridors—”
Joram went white to the lips, becoming so pale that Saryon went to his side, resting a supportive hand on his arm. So this is it, Saryon thought. What he’s feared all along has come to pass.
“Menju.” Joram said in a barely audible voice.
“What did you say? Menju? That’s it! Beastly name! Charming fellow, however. Travels about with a crude sort—a short, thick-necked military type who doesn’t drink tea. Nevertheless, there I sat, a perfect teapot upon his desk. Crude fellow sent me out with a heavy-handed sergeant, a dim-witted man, fortunately. It was simplicity itself for me to return while he wasn’t looking. I say, dear boy, are you listening?”
Joram didn’t answer. Gently putting aside Saryon’s hand, he walked blindly to the fireplace, his white robes brushing the floor. Gripping the edge of the mantelpiece, he stared into the embers of the dying fire, his face drawn and troubled.
“He is here!” he said at last. “Of course, I was expecting it. But how? Did he escape or did they free him?” He turned, staring at Simkin with eyes that burned more brightly than the smoldering coals. “Describe this man. What does he look like?”
“A handsome devil. Sixty if he’s a day, though he pretends he’s thirty-nine. Tall, broad-shouldered, gray hair, lovely teeth. I don’t think the teeth are his, by the way. Dressed in the most fearfully drab clothes ….”
“It’s him!” muttered Joram, slamming his fist into the mantel in sudden anger.
“And he’s in charge, dear boy. It seems this Major Boris was all for clearing out and—Ha, ha! There was one highly amusing incident, must mention in passing. Sorcerer … ha, ha … mutated the Major’s hand … turned it into a chicken foot! The look on the wretched man’s face … priceless, I assure you! Ah, well,” Simkin said, wiping his eyes, “I suppose you had to be there. Where was I? Oh, yes. Major was going to chuck it all and call it quits, but this—what did you say his name was? Menju? Yes. This Menju fellow changed poor old Boris’s hand into a drumstick, causing the Major to “chicken” out if you’ll forgive the expression.”
Simkin appeared quite pleased with his joke.
“And?” persisted Joram.
“And what? Oh, that. The Major’s not leaving.”
“Joram—” Garald began sternly.
“What do they plan to do?” Joram asked, silencing the Prince.
“There was a word they used,” Simkin said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “A word that described it quite aptly. Let me think…. Ah! I have it! Genocide!”
“Genocide?” Garald repeated in perplexity. “What does that mean?”
“Extermination of a race of people,” Joram answered grimly. “Of course. It makes sense. Menju must kill us all.”
4
The Almin Have Mercy
Joram, keep your voice down!” Mosiah ordered.
It was too late The door between the rooms opened, but Lady Rosamund appeared. Her face was livid. She and Marie had obviously both overheard Joram. Only Gwendolyn remained unaffected, sitting in the parlor and chatting calmly with the late Count Devon.
“I’m certain they’ll move the china cabinet back to the north wall, since I’ve explained,” she was saying. “Is there anything else? Mice, you say, in the attic? They’re eating your portrait that’s stored up there? I’ll mention it, but—”
Distractedly, Lady Rosamund gazed from her daughter to her husband “Mice? China cabinets… Now … what I heard him say in here? They’re going to kill us? Why? Why is this happening?” Putting her head in her hands, she began to sob.
“My dear, calm yourself,” said Lord Samuels, hurrying to his wife’s side. Taking her in his arms, he laid her head upon his chest, smoothing her hair with his hand. “Remember the children,” he murmured, “and the servants.”
“I know!” Biting on her handkerchief, Lady Rosamund sought to hush her weeping. “I’ll be strong. I will!” she said, choking. “It’s just … all too much! My poor child! My poor child!”
“Gentlemen, Your Grace,” said Lord Samuels, looking back into the study, “please excuse me. Come, my dear,” he said, helping his wife stand. “I’ll take you to your room. Everything’s going to be all right. Marie, stay with my daughter.”
“Gwendolyn will be fine, my lord.” Father Saryon intervened. “I will stay with her. Marie should be with her mistress.”
Lord Samuels led his wife upstairs, Marie attending her. Fathe
r Saryon sat down in a chair near Gwendolyn, looking anxiously at her to see if this news disturbed her as well. Apparently not. Perfectly at home in the world of the dead, she was oblivious to anything transpiring in the world of the living.
“Father,” said Joram abruptly, turning from where he stood beside the fireplace in milord’s study, “please move closer, where you can hear us. I need your counsel.”
What counsel can I offer? the catalyst wondered bitterly. Joram brought this doom upon the woman who loved him, upon her parents, upon the world. Upon himself.
Did he have a choice? Did we?
Patting Gwendolyn’s hand, Saryon left her discussing the need for acquiring a cat with the Count. Moving his chair nearer the door that separated the parlor from milord’s study, he sat down, his heart a burden almost too heavy to bear. What will he do now? Saryon asked himself, his eyes on Joram. What will he do?
Raising his head, almost as though he had heard the unspoken question, Joram faced him. The lead weight of Saryon’s heart sank, his fears bearing it down. The pain-filled, anguished lines carved in the sculptured face had been ground out, leaving it smooth, hard, and unyielding. The bleeding soul had crept into its stone fortress and was hiding there, nursing its wounds.
“Genocide. This explains everything,” Joram said coolly. “The murder of the civilians, the disappearance of the catalysts—”
“Joram, listen to me!” interrupted Prince Garald sternly. The Prince gestured at Simkin who was lounging, eyes closed, on the fainting-couch. “How did he know what they were saying?”
“By the Almin!” Joram swore softly. “That’s true!” He turned from the mantelpiece. “How did you understand what they said, Simkin? You can’t speak their language.”
“I can’t?” Simkin’s eyes flared open wide. He appeared no end astonished. “By Jove, I wish someone had told me! Here I wasted all this time, sitting on the Major’s desk, allowing that ham-fisted sergeant to run off with me, listening to them talk of sending for reinforcements, hearing that the reinforcements will be unable to get here for seventy-two hours…. Now you tell me that I didn’t understand a single word they said? I’m quite put out!” Simkin glared round at them indignantly “The least you could have done was tell a chap beforehand!”
Triumph of the Darksword Page 21
