Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [85]
“Merciful Almin!” Lady Rosamund murmured.
“The lower classes of Merilon are in much the same state. Wild rumors fly among them. I have heard that they are gathering in front of the Cathedral, crying out for Bishop Vanya to show himself. Even among the nobility, families who have lost loved ones are angry and demanding answers. But the Bishop has shut himself up in his chambers in the Cathedral and refuses to see anyone, not even Duke d’Chambray or the other high-ranking nobles. Prince Garald and his retinue are staying with the Duke—”
“With the Duke?” Lady Rosamund gasped. “Here, in Merilon? A guest?”
“My dear,” said Lord Samuels. “The situation is serious, I may even say desperate. I don’t want to alarm you, but you must be prepared to face the truth. According to the message I received from the Duke, Merilon itself is in danger.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Lady Rosamund crisply. “The city has never been taken, not even during the Iron Wars. Nothing can penetrate the magic—”
Lord Samuels appeared about to remonstrate his wife when they were interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing in a distant part of the large house.
“The front door,” said Lady Rosamund, inclining her head to listen. “How very strange. Someone has come out in this storm! Were you expecting anyone?”
“No,” replied Lord Samuels, puzzled. “Not even the Ariels have been able to fly in this weather. They used the Corridors—I wonder …”
The two said nothing more but waited nervously and impatiently for the House Magus to appear.
“My lord,” said a wide-eyed and flustered servant, flinging open the door to the parlor “P-Prince Garald of Sharakan and a catalyst named Saryon to see you on a matter of extreme urgency.”
“Show them in, please,” said Lady Rosamund faintly. Prince Garald! Here, in her house? She had time enough to exchange a swift, questioning glance with her husband, who mutely indicated that he knew nothing more than she, when the guests were shown in. The Prince was attended by the ever-present black shadows of the Duuk-tsarith.
“Your Highness.” Lady Rosamund sank into a curtsey but not as deep as she would have made to the late Xavier, after all, Prince Garald was the enemy. At least, he had been an enemy forty-eight hours ago. This was all so confusing, so frightening.
“Your Grace.” Lord Samuels bowed. “We are honored—”
“Thank you,” replied Prince Garald, cutting off milord’s speech. He did not do so rudely or even intentionally, but simply out of weariness. “May I present Father Saryon?”
“Father,” murmured both milord and milady.
But when the catalyst withdrew his hood from his head, Lord Samuels recoiled, staring at him in shock and horror.
“You?” he cried in a hollow voice.
“My lord, I am truly sorry!” Saryon’s face was drawn and anguished. “I forgot that you would recognize me from … from the Turning. I would not have come upon you in this sudden way had I known—”
Lady Rosamund went deathly pale. “My lord, who is this man?” she cried, clutching her husband.
“Lord Samuels, Lady Rosamund,” said Prince Garald gravely, “I suggest that you be seated. The news we bring you will be difficult to bear and you both must be strong. It is unfortunate that we have to spring it on you in this abrupt manner, but our time is short.”
“I don’t understand!” Lord Samuels said, looking from one man to the other, his face suddenly grown pale. “What news?”
“It’s about Gwendolyn!” Lady Rosamund cried suddenly, with a mothers instinct. She swayed where she stood and Prince Garald moved to help her to a couch; her husband—still staring at Saryon in a dazed manner—being totally incapable of coming to his wife’s assistance.
“Send for the House Catalyst!” Garald said aside to one of the Duuk-tsarith, who did as he was instructed. Within moments, Marie was at the side of her mistress with a bowl of