Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [89]
“First someone must wrest control from that quivering mass of jelly who huddles in his Crystal Cathedral and whines to the Almin to protect him,” Garald pointed out. “Begging your pardon, Father Saryon.”
The catalyst smiled wanly and shook his head.
“You’re right, of course, Your Grace, but who will the people follow?” Lord Samuels shifted in his chair, sitting forward. This was politics, something he could understand. “There are some—like d’Chambrey—who are intelligent enough to put aside differences and come together to fight this common enemy. But there are others—like Sir Chesney, that thickheaded, stubborn mule. I doubt he’ll believe any of this about other worlds. Merciful Almin!” Lord Samuels ran his hand through his graying hair “I’m not sure I believe it and I have proof before my own eyes …”
His gaze left the study where the men sat talking and turned toward the adjoining parlor. From within the cold, formal room with its elegant furnishings, barely seen through the half-open door, Saryon could hear Gwen’s voice. Its sad, haunting music was a fitting accompaniment—so it seemed to him—to this talk of war and death.
“Please don’t misunderstand,” Gwendolyn was telling her confused and distraught mother. “Count Devon is pleased with most of the changes you have made in his house. It’s just that he finds it so confusing, what with the new furniture and all. Then there’s so much furniture! He wonders if it’s all necessary. Particularly these little tables.” Gwendolyn fluttered a hand. “Everywhere he turns there’s another little table. He keeps blundering into them in the night. And just when he thought he was growing used to the tables, you moved the china cabinet. It has stood in the same place for years—on the north wall of the dining room, wasn’t it?”
“It—it blocked the morning light … from the east windows …” murmured Lady Rosamund faintly.
“The poor man ran smack into it during the night,” said Gwen. “He broke a salt cellar—quite by accident, he assures you. But the Count was wondering if it would be too much trouble to move it back.”
“My poor child!” said Lord Samuels. With an abrupt motion of his hand, he caused the door between his study and the parlor to shut itself quietly. “What is she talking about?” he demanded in a low, anguished voice. “She doesn’t recognize us, yet she knows about the … the china cabinet and … the salt cellar! The salt cellar! My god! We assumed one of the servants broke it!”
“What was the name of the previous owner of this estate?” Joram asked. He, too, had been listening to his wife, his eyes shadowed with pain that echoed in his voice.
Saryon started to offer comfort, but Lord Samuels was answering Joram’s question and the catalyst clamped his lips shut. Shifting restlessly in his chair, the Priest began to rub his misshapen fingers, as though they ached. What comfort could he offer anyway? Empty words, that was all.
“The previous owner? He’s dead. His name was …” Lord Samuels broke off, staring at Joram in horrified understanding. “Count Devon!”
“I tried to tell you,” Joram said, sighing. “She talks to the dead. In this world, she would be known as a Necromancer.”
“But the Necromancers are gone! Their kind was destroyed during the Iron Wars!” Lord Samuels turned his agonized gaze from Joram back to the parlor; his daughter’s voice could still be heard faintly through the closed door.
Joram absently ran his fingers through his hair. “In the world Beyond they consider her to be insane. They do not believe in Necromancy. The healers theorize that the terrible trauma Gwendolyn underwent caused her to seek escape in a fantasy realm of her own imaginings, a realm where she feels safe from harm. I alone believe that there is a certain sanity in her madness, that she can truly communicate with the dead.”
“Not you alone….” Saryon corrected ominously.
Joram’s dark brows came together. “No, you are right, Father,” he said in a low voice. “I am not alone. Menju the Sorcerer—the man I