Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [73]
“A tragic circumstance we pray the Almin to avoid,” Bishop Vanya said piously, raising his eyes to heaven. “You are aware, Prince Xavier, that the Emperor is opposed to war. He will turn the other cheek —”
“— and get kicked in the ass,” Xavier concluded.
Bishop Vanya flushed, his eyes narrowed in rebuke. “With due regard to your station, Prince Xavier, I cannot allow even you to speak with disrespect of my sovereign lord. I do not know what you want with me. I do not understand your words and I resent your insinuations. I must again ask you to go. It is nearly time for Evening Prayers.”
“You are a fool,” Xavier said pleasantry. “You would find it much to your advantage to work with me, much to your disadvantage to thwart me. I am a deadly enemy. Oh, you and my brother-in-law are protected now, I admit. The Duuk-tsarith are in your pocket. But you can’t keep this charade going forever.”
Xavier spoke a word and the Corridor opened behind him.
“If you are returning to the Palace, my lord,” said Bishop Vanya humbly, “please give my regards to your sister and say that I hope to find her in good health …”
The words lingered on the Bishop’s lips.
For an instant, Xavier’s studious, calm demeanor cracked — a flaw in the ice. The face paled, the dark eyes glittered.
“I will give her your regards, Bishop,” Xavier said, stepping into the Corridor. “And I will add that your health is good, as well, Bishop. For the time being….”
The Corridor closed its jaws over him, and the last Vanya saw of Prince Xavier was a splash of crimson, flowing like a stream of blood through the air. The image was an alarming one, and it remained with Bishop Vanya long after the Prince had disappeared. With a shaking hand, Vanya rang the bell, demanding that the lights in his chamber be lit immediately. And he ordered up a bottle of sherry as well.
BOOK TWO
1
Gwendolyn
“Where are you going today, my treasure?”
The young woman to whom this question was fondly addressed bent over her mother, entwining white arms around the elderly lady’s neck and laying her naturally rose-tinted cheek against the cheek that magic kept in full bloom.
“I am going to visit Papa at the Three Sisters and dine with him. He said I might, you know. And then I am going to City Below to spend the afternoon with Lilian and Majorie. Oh, don’t be a frowning mama. There, you see, a wrinkle line comes when you frown like that. Look, now watch. See, it’s gone.” The girl — for she was a girl at heart still, though woman in figure and face — laid her delicate fingers on her mother’s lips and turned them upward into a smile.
Midmorning sunshine crept into the room like a thief, sneaking between the folds of the drawn tapestries, crawling across the floor and gleaming out suddenly from unexpected places. It flashed off the shaped glass of crystal vases and glistened in the silken thread of gowns tossed carelessly over chairs. The sun did not touch the feather bed that floated beneath the arched canopy in the corner. It wouldn’t dare. Full sunshine was never permitted into the room until noon at least, by which time Lady Rosamund had risen from her bed and she and her catalyst had performed the magic necessary for milady to face the day.
Not that Lady Rosamund required much magic to enhance her appearance. She prided herself on that and kept her touches to a minimum, most of these reflecting whatever was currently in style in Merilon. Lady Rosamund made no attempt to disguise her age. That was undignified, particularly when she had a daughter who, at sixteen, had recently left the nursery and entered into adult society.
Milady was wise and observant; she had heard the women of the noble classes laugh behind their fans at those of her own station who looked younger than the daughters they chaperoned. The family of Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund was not a member of these noble classes, but so close were they that the only thing needed was one hand outstretched in matrimony to lift them into glittering