Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [100]
Marie glanced at Joram, and received a look of gratitude. But there was another look in the dark eyes — a piercing scrutiny, as if he was trying to guess how much she knew — that the catalyst found unsettling.
“I will show you through the garden, if you like, sir,” Gwen said timidly.
“Thank you, I would like that very much,” Joram replied, but his dark eyes remained on Marie, increasing her discomfort. “My father was a catalyst,” he added, seeming to feel the need for explanation. “I am Albanara, but I have a very low level of Life.”
“Indeed, sir?” Marie returned politely, feeling confused and — if it hadn’t seemed too absurd — threatened by the intensity of the young man’s gaze.
“A catalyst?” Gwen asked innocently. “And you’re not a catalyst yourself? Isn’t that unusual?”
“My life has been unusual,” Joram said gravely, turning from Marie to Gwen, politely giving her his hand to support her as she moved slowly through the air at his side.
“I would like to hear about your life very much,” Gwen said. “You’ve been out in the world, haven’t you?” Sighing, she glanced about the garden. “I’ve spent all my life here. I’ve never been outside of Merilon. Tell, me about the world. What is it like?”
“Sometimes, very harsh,” said Joram in low tones, the dark eyes now wistful and shadowed. Glancing down, he saw the white hand resting in his calloused palm — her skin smooth and soft, his skin scarred from the forge fires.
“I will tell you my story, if you want to hear it,” he said, abruptly shifting his gaze to a magnificent stand of tigerstripe lilies. “I told it to your father, last night. My mother, like you, was born and raised in Merilon. Her name was Anja. She was Albanara …”
He continued talking, telling Anjas tragic tale (as much as he considered safe for the young woman to know), his voice sometimes faltering or dropping so low that Gwen was forced to drift nearer to him to hear.
Marie, following at a discreet distance behind, watched without seeming to look, listened without seeming to hear.
“Your mother died, and so you came here, to seek your fame and fortune?” Gwen said, her eyes shining with tears when the story had come to an end.
“Yes,” answered Joram steadily.
“I think it’s a splendid thing you’re doing,” said Gwen, “and I hope you find your mothers family and make them feel absolutely wretched about the terrible way they treated her. I can’t think of anything more cruel! To be made to watch the man you love perish like that!” Gwen shook her head, a tear glistened on her cheek. “No wonder she went mad, poor thing. She must have loved your father very much.”
“And he loved her,” Joram said, turning on the path and reaching out to take hold of Gwendolyn’s other hand. “He suffered living death, for her sake.”
Gwen flushed up to the roots of her golden hair; the bodice of the pink gown rose and fell very fast. She saw the unmistakable message in Joram’s eyes, she felt it surge from his hands to hers. A delightful pain shot through her heart, marred by a stab of fear. Holding hands like this suddenly seemed very wrong. With a conscious glance at Marie, Gwen drew her hands away from the young man’s grasp; he did not try to stop her.
Placing her hands behind her back — out of harm’s way — Gwen turned from the disturbing look in the dark eyes and began to talk of the first thing that came to her mind. “One thing I don’t understand, though,” she said, her brow creased in thought. “If the Church forbade your mother and father to marry, how was it that you were conceived? Did the catalysts —”
At this moment, Marie came hurrying to her mistress’s side. “Gwendolyn, my pet, you are shivering. I believe the Sif-Hanar have made a mistake this morning. Do you not find it cold for spring?” she asked Joram hastily.
“No, Sister,” he answered.