Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [90]
“Valuable?” Garald stirred in his chair. Sitting at Lord Samuels’s desk, he’d been studying maps of Thimhallan, but it had grown too dark in the room to read them, and now he listened to the conversation. “How? What can the dead offer the living?”
“Have you never studied the work of the Necromancers, Your Grace?” asked Saryon.
“Not much,” Garald admitted indifferently. “They propitiated the spirits of the dead—making amends for misdeeds, finishing tasks left undone, that sort of thing. According to the histories, their dying out after the Iron Wars was no great loss.”
“I beg to differ with you, Your Grace,” Saryon said earnestly. “When the Necromancers died out, the Church made it appear to be no great loss. But it seems to me that it was. I have spent many hours with Gwendolyn, listening to her talk with those only she can see and hear. The dead possess something of incomparable value—something that will forever be withheld from the living.
“And that is—” Garald said somewhat impatiently, obviously wanting to turn the conversation to more important matters but too polite to offend the catalyst.
“Complete understanding, Your Grace! When we die, we will become one with the Creator. We will know His plans for the universe. We will see, at last, the Cosmic Scheme!”
Garald suddenly appeared interested “Do you believe this?” he asked.
“I—I’m not certain” Saryon flushed, averting his face, staring down at his shoes. “It is what we are taught,” he added lamely. The old tormenting questioning of his faith—questioning he had thought answered by Joram’s “death”—was being bandied about by his soul again.
“Say this is true,” Garald persisted. “Could the dead grant this knowledge of the future to the living?”
“Whether or not I believed it, Your Grace”—Saryon smiled sadly—“that would seem to me to be impossible. The world the dead see is beyond our ability to comprehend, much as it is impossible for us to understand this world Joram has seen. We see time through a single window that faces only one direction. The dead see time through hundreds of windows facing all directions.” The catalyst spread his scarred hands in an effort to express the enormity of this vision. “How, then, can they hope to describe what they see? But they can offer advice. And they did—through the Necromancers. In ancient days, the dead were granted the opportunity to counsel the living. People venerated their dead, they kept in contact with them, and they had the benefit of the dead’s insight into the one Vast Mind. That is what has been lost, Your Grace.”
“I see.” Garald pondered, his eyes gazing thoughtfully at the closed door.
Saryon shook his head.
“No, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “She cannot help us. For all we know, this unfortunate Count, talking of china cabinets and salt cellars, may be trying to get our attention to explain something much more important. But, if so, Gwendolyn could not impart that information to us. She can communicate with the dead, but not with the living.”
The Prince appeared ready to pursue the subject, but Saryon—with a glance at Lord Samuels and another at Joram—shook his head slightly, reminding the Prince that—for two people at least—this was a painful subject. The father gazed through the closed door, the expression on his face one of perplexity and grief. The husband stared out into the dead, snow-shrouded garden in bitter resignation. Clearing his throat, Prince Garald abruptly changed the subject.
“We were discussing the fact that Merilon needs a leader, someone to rally the people,” he said briskly. “I have stated before, I can think of only one person….”
“No!” Joram turned from the window with an impatient gesture. “No, Your Grace,” he added more gently, in a belated attempt to soften the harshness of his reply.
“Joram, listen to me!” Garald leaned forward to argue. “You are by far the—”
A Corridor