Triumph of the Darksword (36 page)

Between Joram, Mosiah, and Prince Garald, they carried the comatose Simkin—red brocade dressing gown, fur-trimmed collar, curly shoes, and all—into the sitting room. Lady Rosamund, her hands fluttering helplessly, hurried along behind, calling distractedly for Marie and generally alarming the entire household.

“What happened to him?” Garald asked, dumping Simkin rather unceremoniously on a sofa.

“I hit him,” Joram said grimly.

“About time!” Mosiah muttered.

“I didn’t mean to. He was standing in the garden, disguised—”

“Ohhhhhh!” groaned Simkin, lolling back on the sofa and flinging an arm over his head. “I’m dying, Egypt, dying!”

“You’re not dying!” said Garald disgustedly, leaning down to examine the patient. “You’ve just had the breath knocked out of you. Sit up. You’ll feel better.”

Thrusting the Prince aside with a feeble gesture, Simkin motioned weakly for Joram to come nearer.

“I forgive you!” Simkin murmured pitifully, gasping for breath like a freshly caught trout. “After all, what’s murder between friends?” He gazed dimly around the room. “Dear lady! Lady Rosamund. Where are you? My vision’s fading. I can’t see you! I’m going fast!”

He held out a groping hand to Lady Rosamund, who was standing next to him. Glancing uncertainly from Prince Garald to her husband, Lady Rosamund took Simkin’s hand in hers.

“Ah!” he breathed, placing her hand on his forehead. “To be speeded heavenward by a woman’s gentle touch! Bless you, Lady Rosamund. My last apologies … for littering your sitting room … with my corpse. Farewell.”

His eyes closed, his arm sagged, his head fell back upon the sofa cushions.

“Dear me!” Lady Rosamund became extremely pale, dropping the hand she held.

Opening his eyes, Simkin lifted his head.

“Don’t bother about … last rites.” He grabbed hold of Lady Rosamund’s hand again. “Not necessary. I’ve led … life of a saint… Most likely … I’ll be canonized Farewell.”

The
eyes
rolled up. The head fell back The hand went limp.

“I have the brandy, milady,” said Mane gently, entering the room.

An eye opened. The hand fluttered. A voice whispered faintly from the depths of the sofa cushions.

“Domestic or imported?”

“Quite a shock, I assure you?” Simkin said feelingly an hour later. “There I was standing in the garden, taking a deep whiff of the fine evening air when—wham! I am struck painfully and unexpectedly in the midriff.”

Covered with Lady Rosamund’s own silk shawl, his fourth glass of brandy—imported—hovering within reach, Simkin sat propped up among innumerable pillows, apparently fully recovered from his “brush with death.”

“I’ve said I was sorry,” Joram remarked, not bothering to hide the smile whose warm glow actually touched the brooding eyes. Grinning ruefully, he held up his hand, exhibiting knuckles that were scratched and bruised from having slammed into the tree trunk. “I hurt myself as much as I hurt you.”

“One might say my bark is worse than my bite!” Simkin replied, sipping brandy.

Joram laughed, such an unexpected sound that Father Saryon, entering the room from having visited Gwen, stared at his friend in amazement. Seated in a chair near the sofa on which Simkin lay in luxury, Joram appeared—for the first time since his return—to forget his troubles and relax.

“Forgive the fool his sins,” muttered the catalyst, who could never quite break himself of the habit of communicating with a deity in which he didn’t believe.

“And I accept your apology, dear boy,” said Simkin, reaching out to pat Joram on the knee. “But it
was
rather a shock,” he added, wincing and consoling himself with another brandy. “Especially considering that I’d come here with the express purpose of bringing you good news!”

“What’s that?” Joram asked lazily, winking at Prince Garald, who shook his head in amused forbearance and shrugged.

It was now either very late at night or very early in the
morning
, depending
on one’s
viewpoint. Lady Rosamund, exhausted from the day’s events, had been assisted to her bed by Marie. Lord Samuels suggested that the gentlemen gather in the sitting room with Simkin (so as not to be forced to move the invalid) and partake of a brandy themselves before going to bed, each putting off, for a few moments, the thoughts of what tomorrow might bring.

“What news?” Joram repeated, feeling the brandy warm his blood as the fire warmed his body. Sleep was stealing up on him, putting soft hands over his eyes, whispering soothing words.

“I’ve discovered a way to cure Gwendolyn,” Simkin announced.

Starting, Joram sat up straight, spilling his brandy.

“That isn’t funny, Simkin!” he said quietly.

“I had no intention of being funny—”

“I think you had best drop the subject, Simkin,” Prince Garald interposed sternly, his gaze going from Joram to Lord Samuels, who had pushed his brandy glass aside with a trembling hand. “I was about to suggest we retire for the night anyway. Some of us, it seems, already have.” He glanced at Mosiah, asleep in his chair.

“I am perfectly serious!” Simkin retorted, injured.

Garald lost patience. “We have put up with your nonsense long enough. Father, would you—”

“It
isn’t
nonsense.”

Tossing the blanket aside, Simkin sat up on the sofa. Though he answered Garald, he wasn’t looking at the Prince. His gaze rested on Joram with a strange, half-serious, half-mocking expression, as though daring Joram to refuse to believe in him.

“Explain yourself then,” Joram said briefly, toying with the brandy glass in his hand.

“Gwendolyn talks to the dead. She’s obviously a throwback to the old Necromancers.” Simkin squirmed into a more comfortable position. “Now, by purest coincidence, this was an affliction suffered by my little brother, Nate. Or
was it Nat? At any rate, he used to entertain assorted ghosties and ghoulies nightly, causing my mother no end of worry, not to mention the tedium of being constantly wakened by clanking chains, snapping whips, and unearthly shrieks and howls. Or was that the time Aunt Betsy and Uncle Ernest came to spend then honeymoon with us?

“Anyway, to continue,” Simkin hurried on, seeing Joram’s face grow darker, “one of the neighbors suggested that we take poor little Nat … Nate? Nat,” he muttered, “I’m positive that’s it…. Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, whatever his name, we took the tyke to the Temple of the Necromancers.”

Joram, who had been staring into his brandy glass impatiently, only half-listening, turned his gaze full upon Simkin.

“What did you say?”

“See there, no one ever pays attention to me,” Simkin complained in aggrieved tones. “I was mentioning the fact that we took little Nate to the Temple of the Necromancers. It’s located above the Font, on the very top of the mountain. It’s not used anymore, of course. But it was once the center of the Order of Necromancy in the ancient days. The dead used to come from miles around, so I’ve heard, to catch up on all the gossip.”

Ignoring Simkin, Joram turned to look at Father Saryon, hope burning in the dark eyes so brightly that the catalyst hated himself for being forced to quench the flame.

“You must put this thought out of your mind, my son,” he answered reluctantly “Yes, the Temple is there, but it is nothing more than pillars and walls of stone, lying in ruins. Even the altar is broken.”

“So?” Joram said, eagerly sitting forward.

“Let me finish!” Saryon said with unaccustomed sternness “It has degenerated into an evil, unhallowed place, Joram! The catalysts attempted to restore its sanctity, but they were driven away, according to report, and returned to tell fearsome tales. Or worse, some never returned at all! The Bishop finally declared that the Temple was cursed and prohibited all from going there!”

Joram brushed aside his words. “The Temple is on top of the Font, on top of the Well of Life—the source of magic in this world! Its power must have once been great.”

“Once!”
Saryon repeated with emphasis. He laid his hand on Joram’s arm, feeling his excited tension. “My son,” he said earnestly, “I would give anything to be able to say that,
yes
, in this ancient and holy place, Gwendolyn could find the help she needs. But it cannot be! If there ever was a power there, it died with the Necromancers!”

“And now a Necromancer has returned!” Gently but firmly, Joram withdrew from the catalyst’s touch.

“One who is undisciplined, untrained!” Saryon argued in frustration. “One who is—forgive me, Joram—insane!”

“It is rumored to be a dreadful place,” said Lord Samuels slowly, his eyes reflecting the light of Joram’s hope. “But I must admit that this seems a good idea! We could take the
Duuk-tsarith
for protection.”

“No, no!” said Simkin, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t do at all, I’m afraid. Those creepy warlocks are spookier than the spooks. Joram and Gwen must go alone, or perhaps with the bald Father here, who might be useful in intervening with the Powers of Darkness, should any be lurking about. It will be quite all right, I assure you. It was with poor little Nate. Cured him completely.” Simkin heaved a heart-rending sigh. “At least we supposed it did. We never knew for certain. He was dancing for joy among the rocks when his foot slipped and he tumbled over the side of the mountain!”

Wiping his eyes with the orange silk, Simkin made a manly struggle to fight back the tears. “Don’t offer to comfort me,” he choked. “It’s all right. I can bear it. You must go at noon tomorrow when the sun is right above the mountain.”

“Joram, I am opposed to this!” Saryon pursued his argument. “The danger is—”

“Pish-tosh!” Simkin sniffed, lying back on the sofa cushions with a yawn. “Joram
does
have the Darksword to protect himself, after all.”

“Of course! The Darksword!” Joram glanced at the catalyst in triumph. “If there is any evil magic about this place, Father, the sword will protect us!”

“Absolutely. Go tomorrow, before the battle,” Simkin repeated, casually toying with the blanket.

“Why this insistence on tomorrow?” Garald asked suspiciously.

Simkin shrugged. “Makes sense. If Gwen should happen to get rid of the mice in
her
attic—no offense intended, dear boy—she might be able to establish contact with the long departed. The dead could be of help to us in the forthcoming altercation. Then, too, Joram, think what a comfort it would be to go into battle knowing that you will be greeted on your return by a loving spouse who does
not
, as a general rule, smash china cabinets.”

Joram bit his hp to silence his tongue during this last tirade, his face the face of one undergoing the torments of the damned. Nor did anyone else speak, and the room filled with quiet—an uneasy, restless quiet, a quiet loud with unspoken words.

Gazing intently at Simkin, brows furrowed, as though he longed to pierce the lolling head with his eyes, Prince Garald opened his mouth, then changed his mind, clamping his lips firmly shut Father Saryon knew what the Prince wanted to say, he wanted to say it himself—What game is Simkin playing now? What are the stakes? Above all, what cards does he hold that none of us can see?

But much as he obviously longed to, the Prince couldn’t say a word. This was an intensely personal matter, not only to Joram, but to the poor girl’s father. It would be all very well for the Prince to remind Joram of his responsibilities as Emperor, his duty to his people. But Father Saryon knew, as did Garald, that Joram would throw all of that away in order both to cure his wife and to assuage his own guilt.

The catalyst looked at Lord Samuels. His face carefully expressionless, he sat with his head lowered, his brandy untouched in his hand.

Reading milord’s thoughts, Saryon was not surprised when Lord Samuels lifted his head and looked at him, breaking the silence at last. “You seem to know something about this place, Father. Do you believe there is a danger?”

“Most certainly,” replied Saryon emphatically. He knew what Lord Samuels was going to ask next and he was prepared with his answer.

“Is there … hope?” milord asked through trembling lips.

“No!” Saryon fully intended to reply. Aware of Joram’s intense, unwavering gaze upon him, he meant to say it firmly, whether he believed it or not.

But as the catalyst opened his mouth to douse their hopes with cold logic, a strange sensation swept over him. His heart jolted painfully in his chest. When he tried to speak, his throat swelled, his lungs suddenly had no air. The frightening sensation of being turned to stone crept over him again. This time, however, it was no magic spell that froze him. Saryon had the terrifying impression that a great Hand had reached into his body, strangling him, choking off his lie. The catalyst struggled against it, but to no avail. The Hand gripped him fast, he could not answer.

“There
is
hope then, Father!” Joram said, his unwavering gaze never leaving Saryon’s face. “You cannot deny that! I see it plainly!”

The catalyst stared at him pleadingly and even made a strangled sound, but it was too late.

“I will go,” Joram said resolutely. “If you and Lady Rosamund agree with me, milord,” he added belatedly, hearing Lord Samuels draw a shaking breath.

Milord faltered, his voice broke. But when he spoke it was with quiet dignity. “My daughter lives among the dead now. What worse fate could befall her, except to join them. If you will excuse me, I will go talk to my wife.” Bowing, he hurriedly left the room.

“Then it is settled,” Joram said, standing up. The brown eyes gleamed with inner flame; the dark, grim lines of grief and suffering on his face smoothed out. “Will you come with us, Father?”

Of that there was no question, no doubt. His life was bound up in Joram’s; it had been since he first held the tiny, doomed child…. The Hand released Saryon. Gasping from the suddenness of his freedom, shaken by the inexplicable experience, the catalyst could only nod in reply.

“Tomorrow,” Simkin repeated a third time. “At noon.”

This was too much for Prince Garald to swallow in silence. Glancing at Simkin sharply, he rose to his feet, stopping Joram as he was about to leave the room. “You have every right to tell me that it is not my place to interfere.”