Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [118]
An orange silk night cap appeared out of nowhere and floated through the air, settling upon Simkin’s head Curling up comfortably amid the sofa cushions, the young man fell instantly, to all appearances, fast asleep.
Turning abruptly, Joram walked toward the door.
Garald stood a moment, staring at Joram’s back, obviously wanting to say something, yet undecided. He glanced at Father Saryon, who made an urgent gesture with his hand. Garald hurried after Joram, interposing his body between his friend and the door.
“Forgive me for pursuing this matter, Joram I can only imagine what torture you undergo daily.”
Laying his hand on the Prince’s arm, Joram started to shove Garald aside.
“Joram, listen to me!” Garald demanded, and Joram stopped, caught and held by the caring and compassion he heard in the man’s voice more than by the restraining hand laid upon his.
“Think about this carefully!” the Prince continued “Why is Simkin suddenly so interested in Gwen’s welfare or in yours either, for that matter? He’s never given a damn about anyone before. Why is he so insistent about you going and why tomorrow?”
“It’s just his way!” Joram said impatiently. “And he had helped me before this. Maybe even saved my life….”
“Joram,” interrupted Garald firmly, “it could be a trap. There could be more waiting for you there than ghosts. Think about this. I’ve been thinking about it all day. How did Simkin understand what the enemy said? That’s impossible, even for one of his ‘talents.’ How did he understand unless they told him what to say.”
It was dark in the hall. Before retiring for the night, the servants had dimmed the magical lights. The globes in the lofty cobwebby corners of the hallway gleamed with a white, cold light, making it appear as if stars, flying through the house like insects, had been captured in the webs of the house spiders. Far away—it sounded as if it came from the morning room—could be heard a thud and a crash. Father Saryon wondered briefly if poor Count Devon was roaming the halls.
Joram did not reply. Saryon—looking at his face, seeing it white and cold as the face of the moon—could tell by the brooding expression that this last argument had at least made an impression. Prince Garald, noting this as well, wisely took his leave.
Saryon said nothing either. He was, he admitted to himself, afraid to speak. Still unsettled by his recent unnerving experience, the catalyst dared not add anything. He could only trust that Garald’s seed of doubt, planted in Joram’s soul, would take root and grow.
It appeared to have fallen on fertile soil at least. Sighing heavily, Joram started to turn away when a voice—muffled and slightly fluff-filled—came out of the depths of the sofa.
“Trust your fool….”
3
Falling
There was a family chapel in the house of Lord Samuels, as in almost all the houses of the nobility and the upper middle class in Thimhallan. Although all the chapels were generally similar in appearance, some were vastly different, a difference that rose higher than vaulted ceilings and gleamed more brightly than polished rosewood. In some households, the chapel was obviously the heart of the dwelling. Here everyone—master and mistress, children and servants (all being considered one in the sight of the Almin, if nowhere else)—gathered daily for prayer, led by the House Catalyst. These chapels breathed with Life. The wood glowed from much use. The stained glass windows, with their symbols of the Almin and of the Nine Mysteries, glistened in the morning sun. At night, tiny, magical lights filled the chapel with a soft radiance, relaxing to the spirit, conducive to private prayer and meditation. It was easy to believe that the Almin dwelt in such