Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [86]
A sip or two of brandy restored milord’s composure—though he continued to stare at Saryon—and milady was recovered enough to flush deeply at the sight of the Prince waiting on them. She begged His Grace to be seated near the fire and dry his wet robes.
“Thank you, Lady Rosamund. We took a carriage here,” said Prince Garald, noting the color returning to his lordships face, yet still deeming it wise, for the moment, to keep the conversation general. “Despite that, I am soaked through. The Duke’s conveyances are not equipped to deal with snowstorms, and there was no one in the manor this morning with magical energy enough to alter them. By the time we arrived, there was an inch of snow in the bottom of the carriage.” He glanced ruefully down at his elegant, wine-colored velvet robes. “I fear I am dripping water on your carpet.”
Milady begged the Prince not to concern himself in the slightest degree. The storm was certainly dreadful. Their garden had been ruined…. Her voice died. She could not continue. Lying upon the couch, holding tightly to Marie’s hand, she stared at the Prince.
Garald exchanged glances with Saryon, who nodded slightly. Rising to his feet, the catalyst walked across the floor to stand before Lord Samuels. In his hands, he held a scrollcase.
“My lord,” Saryon began, but hearing his voice, Lady Rosamund made a choking sound.
“I know you!” she cried, half-rising, thrusting aside Marie’s gentle hands, “You are Father Dunstable! But your face is different.”
“Yes, I am the man you knew as Father Dunstable I was in your home in disguise.” Saryon bowed his head, flushing in shame. “I beg your forgiveness. I took the face and body of another catalyst when I came to Merilon because—had I appeared in my own form—I would have been recognized and seized by the Church. How … how much of my history and of … Joram’s do you know, my lord?” Saryon asked Lord Samuels hesitantly.
“A great deal,” Lord Samuels replied. His voice was steady now. He gazed fixedly at Saryon, the horror gone from his eyes, replaced by hope, mingled with dread. “I know too much, in fact, or so Xavier thought. I know about Joram. I know his true lineage. I know, even, about the Prophecy.”
At this, Garald’s face became grave. “Are there many who know about that?” he asked abruptly.
“About the Prophecy?” Lord Samuels transferred his gaze to the Prince, “Yes, Your Grace. I believe so. Although it is never discussed openly, I have caught—now and then—oblique references to it among several of the higher ranking nobles. There were, you remember, many catalysts present that day …”
“The Font has ears and eyes and a mouth,” murmured Saryon. “Deacon Dulchase knew. He was present at that mockery of a trial Vanya held for Joram.” The catalyst smiled faintly, turning the scrollcase over in his hand. “Dulchase was never noted for his ability to hold his tongue.”
“This makes matters easier, Lord Samuels,” Prince Garald remarked, “at least as far as you are concerned. What it may mean to us later is difficult to tell, so many knowing of the Prophecy.”
He stared thoughtfully into the fire. The flickering flames did not brighten the Prince’s face. They only made it seem darker, etched with deep shadows of worry and care. He made a gesture to the catalyst. “I am sorry for the interruption. Continue, Father.”
“Lord Samuels,” began Saryon gently, withdrawing a sheaf of parchment from the scrollcase and holding it out to the man, who stared at it but did not take it. “A great shock lies ahead of you. Be strong, milord!” The catalyst placed his hand over the trembling hand of the nobleman. “We have considered the best way to prepare you and, after much consultation, Prince Garald and I decided that you should read this document I now hold in my hand. The one who wrote it agrees with us. Will you read it, Lord Samuels?”
Lord Samuels reached out his hand, but it shook so that he let it fall back in his lap. “I can’t! You read