Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [113]
Shaking her head, the druidess poked and picked at various packets of powders and bunches of seeds and herbs that she carried in a large wooden container that hovered obediently in the air beside her.
“What do you mean? Not madness?” Lord Samuels demanded. “Talking to dead Counts, going on about mice in the attic—”
“Madness is a state into which the subject falls whether he or she wills it or not,” said the Theldara, thrusting out her jaw and glaring at Lord Samuels. “Sometimes its brought on by upsets in the body’s harmonies, sometimes by upsets in the soul’s. And I tell you, milord and milady, that there is nothing wrong with your daughter. If she talks to the dead, it’s because she obviously prefers their company to that of the living. And from the way I gather some of the living have treated her, I don’t much blame her.”
Having fussed over and arranged her medicines to her satisfaction, the Theldara called briskly for her cloak.
“I’ve got to get back to the Houses of Healing and tend those who were wounded in that terrible battle,” she said as the servant assisted her with her wrap. “You were lucky I happened to be making another call out near here or I wouldn’t have had time to look in on this case. Too many others are dependent on me for life itself.”
“We’re very grateful, I’m sure,” said Lady Rosamund, twisting the rings on her fingers, “but I don’t understand! Surely there must be something you can do!”
They followed the Theldara to the door of Gwen’s bedchamber, and Joram, moving close to the window, was forced to press his face against the pane in order to hear the druidess’s reply. He might have spared himself the trouble, however, for the Theldara spoke in a loud, clear voice.
“Madam,” she said, raising a finger in the air as though it were a flagpole and she was going to hoist her words on it, “your daughter chooses to be who she is and where she is. She may live her entire life in this manner. She may decide at breakfast tomorrow that she doesn’t want to anymore. I can’t say and I can’t force her to come out of that world into one that doesn’t appear to me to be much better. Now I must get back to those who truly need me. If you want my advice, you’ll do as your daughter says—hang up that painting of Count Whosit and buy a cat.”
The Corridor opened wide, swallowing the druidess at a gulp. Lord Samuels and his lady stared bleakly after her. Turning listlessly, they looked back into the bedchamber where Marie was endeavoring to persuade Gwen to go to bed. But Gwendolyn, blithely ignoring the catalyst, continued to talk to her unseen companions.
“My friends, you are all so agitated? I can’t understand why. You say dreadful things are going to happen tomorrow. But dreadful things are always happening tomorrow. I don’t see why this should make tonight any different. I will sit with you tonight, however, if you think it will help. Now, Count Devon, tell us more about the mice. Dead, you say, with no trace of blood.
“Dead mice?” Lady Rosamund laid her head on her husband’s chest. “I wish she were dead herself, poor child!”
“Hush, don’t say such a thing!” said Lord Samuels, holding his wife close.
“It’s true!” Lady Rosamund cried “What kind of life is she leading?”
His arm around his wife, Lord Samuels led her from her daughters room Marie remained with her charge, sitting in a chair near the bed. Gwen, relaxing, propped up among her pillows, chatted with the air.
Though he was chilled to the bone, Joram remained standing in the dark garden, his head pressed against the glass.
Your groom’s gift to her will be grief…
The catalyst’s words echoed mournfully in his soul. Once long ago Joram had dreamed of being a Baron. Everything would be right with his life when he had wealth and power. Now he was Emperor of Merilon. now. He had wealth, but there was nothing he wanted to buy. He had squandered the only thing he’d ever had of value. now. He had power. And he was using it to fight a war—a war that would cost countless lives.
Dead bodies lying in the scorched grass.
Tiny, furry bodies littering the attic