Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [112]
“Thank you for helping him,” Joram said.
“Humph! I wish I could say the same for you!” The Theldara gave a final, bitter nod, then, bidding her tray follow, she floated down the corridor to take her farewell of Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund.
Joram stared after her unseeing, his mind’s eye going back to the scene in the library. He and Lord Samuels had been discussing how to prove Joram’s claim to the Barony. The young man couldn’t remember Saryon saying anything, but then, Joram admitted to himself unhappily, he hadn’t been paying any attention to the catalyst. His thoughts had been centered on his own concerns. What had been said right before the catalyst collapsed? Joram sought back in his mind.
“Yes.” His hand went to his chest. “We had been talking about these scars….”
Gwendolyn sat in her room, alone in the darkness. Her eyes burned from the tears she had cried and now, having no more tears left and fearful that her face would be red and swollen in the morning, she was bathing it in rose water.
“Even if I cannot talk to Joram, he will see me,” she said to herself, sitting at her dressing table.
The moon, its cold light enhanced by the magic of the Sif-Hanar, shed a pearlized glow over Merilon. The moon’s light touched Gwen, but she could not see its beauty and, in fact, it chilled her. The moon’s cold eye seemed to stare at her tears without caring or compassion; its white rays on her skin made the warm flesh appear corpselike in its pallor.
Gwen preferred the company of the darkness and, rising to her feet, she drew the curtain shut with her hand — a task she ordinarily would have performed by a gesture and the use of magic. But she was physically drained, and there was no magic left in her.
Lord Samuels, following the assurances of the Theldara that Father Dunstable would be quite well in the morning, had informed his daughter that she was not to speak to Joram or allow him to address her until this matter of the young man’s inheritance could be firmly established.
“I do not accuse him of being an imposter,” Lord Samuels had said to his daughter, who was weeping bitterly in her mother’s arms. “I believe his story. But if it cannot be proven, then he is a nobody. A man without wealth, without family background. He is” — milord had shrugged helplessly — “a Field Magus! That is what he was and, until he can rightfully claim better, that is what he must remain! Worse than that, he must live in the shadow of disgrace —”
“It wasn’t his fault!” Gwen had cried passionately. “Why should he pay for his father’s sin?”
“I know that, my dear,” said Lord Samuels. “And I am certain that, if he achieves his Barony, everyone else will feel the same way. I am sorry this had to happen, Gwendolyn,” milord had said, stroking his daughter’s hair with a kind hand, for he truly doted on his girl and it broke his heart to see her in such grief. “It is my fault,” he had added, sighing, “for encouraging this connection before I knew the facts. But it seemed such … such a good investment in your future at the time….”
“And things may come out right yet, my pet!” Lady Rosamund had brushed her daughter’s hair back from the tear-laden eyes. “Day after tomorrow is the Emperor’s ball. The midwife now attends Her Majesty. Your father will arrange to meet her and we will find out then if she recognizes Joram. If she does, why, what a wonderful time we will have! If not, think of the young noblemen who will be in attendance and who will be very happy to help you put this young man out of your life.”
Put this young man out of your life. Alone in her room, Gwen