Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [96]
Inside the house of the Samuels, joy was unbounded. Lady Rosamund glowed with pride, her gaze going with satisfaction to the aforementioned neighbors. Gwen was in raptures over the invitation to the ball, until she realized she had nothing to wear and burst into tears. Mosiah stood staring after the Emperor and the marvelous coach in a dazed state from which he was rescued by cousin Lilian’s bumping into him — quite by accident, the blushing girl assured him. Upon receiving his apology, she wondered if he would be interested in seeing the inner garden, and led him outdoors, cooing with delight at his “quaint” way of talking.
And Joram discovered that he had routed his enemy — horse, foot, and artillery.
Coming over to the young man, Lord Samuels laid a hand affectionately on Joram’s shoulder. “Simkin tells me you believe yourself to have some claim upon estates here in Merilon,” the lord said gravely.
“My lord,” said Joram, eyeing him warily, “the story about the wicked uncle isn’t true …”
Lord Samuels smiled. “No, I never believed that for a moment. Wormed the truth out of Simkin last night. It’s much more interesting, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I can be of help. I have access to certain records …” So saying, he drew the young man away into his private study and shut the door behind them.
No one noticed the catalyst, for which Saryon was grateful. He returned to the family chapel, where he was certain of being alone, and sank down upon the cushions of the pews. The sun no longer shone through the stained-glass window, the room was left in cool shadows. Saryon began to shiver uncontrollably, not from cold, but from a vast, overwhelming fear.
Having witnessed the treachery of man, he had lost his faith in his god. The universe was to him nothing more than one of those gigantic machines he had read about in the ancient texts of the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts: a machine that — once started — ran by itself, operating by physical laws. Man was a cog in the wheels, driven by his own physical laws, his life dependent upon the motion of the other lives around him. When a cog broke, it was replaced. The great machine kept going and would do so, on and on, perhaps forever.
It was a bleak glimpse of the universe, and Saryon found no comfort in it. Yet, it was better than the view that the universe was run by some petty god who doted on power and dabbled in politics, who allowed his name to be mouthed sanctimoniously by his Bishop, who herded his “flock” like so many sheep.
But now, for the first time, Saryon began to consider another possibility, and his soul shrank from the thought in awe. Suppose the Almin was out there and He was vast and mighty in His power. Suppose He knew the number of the grains of sand that lay upon the shores of Beyond. Suppose He knew the hearts and minds of men. Suppose He had a plan as vast as dreams, a plan no mere mortal could begin to see or comprehend.
“And suppose,” whispered Saryon to himself, staring at the stained-glass window where the symbol of the Almin was represented in the nine-pointed star, “that we are a part of this plan and that we are being rushed toward our destiny, swept to our doom like a man caught in the river rapids. We might cling to rocks, we might strive to reach the shore, but our strength is unequal to the task. Our arms are torn from their safe hold, our feet touch the bank, and then the current catches us once more. And soon the dark waters will close over our heads….”
Letting his head sink into his hand, Saryon closed his eyes, a tight feeling in his chest as though he were truly drowning, his lungs burning for air.
Why had this terrifying notion