Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [88]
Gwen’s golden hair gleamed in the firelight. Her pale, sweet face with the bright blue eyes glanced curiously around the room.
“My child!” Lady Rosamund attempted to float through the air to her daughter’s side, but her magical energy failed her. Bereft of Life, she stumbled across the floor. “My child! My Gwendolyn!” Reaching out, she clasped her daughter in her arms and held her close, laughing and crying at the same time.
Gently pushing her mother away, Gwen stared at the woman in amazement. Then recognition gleamed eerily in her blue eyes. But it was not the recognition for which her parents hungered.
“Ah, Count Devon,” Gwendolyn said, turning from Lady Rosamund to talk—it appeared—to an empty chair. “These must be the people you were telling me about!”
3
Of Salt Cellars And
Teapots
Though it was only late afternoon, the snowfall in Merilon brought premature night to the city. The House Magi’s magic caused the lights in Lord Samuels’s elegant mansion to glow softly, bringing cheerful light into the cheerless parlor where Lady Rosamund sat with Marie and her daughter. Globes of light brightened guest rooms that had been long closed up as the servants aired out linen and warmed beds, scattering rose petals about to drive out the musty odor of long disuse. As they worked, the servants repeated to each other whispered tales of people returned from the dead.
The only room in the house that remained dark was milord’s study. The gentlemen who met in there preferred the shadows that seemed conducive to the nature of their dark conversation.
“And that is the situation we face, Lord Samuels,” concluded Joram, staring out the window, watching the snow that continued to fall. “The enemy is intent on conquering our world and releasing the magic into the universe. We have convinced them that such a goal will be difficult to attain and will cost them dearly.”
He had spent the past hour describing as best he could the battle on the Field of Glory. Lord Samuels listened in dazed silence. Life Beyond. Creatures made of iron who kill with a glance. Humans with metal skin. Gazing from Joram to Lord Samuels, Saryon saw that milord was apparently struggling to get a firm grip on the situation, but it was obvious from the bemused expression on his face that he felt as if he were trying to catch hold of fog.
“What … what do we do now?” he asked helplessly.
“We wait,” replied Joram. “There is a saying in Beyond. We must hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
“What is the best?”
“According to the Duuk-tsarith who have been watching them, the invaders fled in panic. It was a rout, something better than I had hoped. They appear to be—from what the warlocks can tell—divided and unorganized. I know the officer they chose to lead this expedition, a Major James Boris. In any other situation he would be a good officer, he is rooted in logic and common sense. But that makes him a poor choice to send to this world. He is out of his depth, over his head. He won’t be able to cope with a war that—to him—must come straight out of a horror novel. I am betting he will retreat, take his men off-world.”
“And then?”
“Then, we must find a way to seal the Border once and for all. That shouldn’t be too difficult—”
“The Duuk-tsarith are already working on it,” Garald said. “But it will take an extraordinary amount of Life. Some from each Living person in Thimhallan—or so they speculate.”
“And what about the worst?” Lord Samuels asked, after a pause.
Joram’s lips tightened. “Boris will send for help. We don’t have the time or the energy now to stop them on the Border. We must fortify