Part 19 (1/2)
Lady Rosamund turned to face her husband, her gaze fixed searchingly upon his face. ”You know the name of this family, don't you?”
”I do, my dear,” he said gravely, taking her hand in his. ”And so do you. At least, you will recognize it when you hear it. The young man says his mother's name was Anja.”
”Anja,” milady repeated, frowning. ”Anja....” Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she placed her hand over her mouth. ”Merciful Almin!” she murmured.
”Anja, only daughter of the late Baron Fitzgerald -”
”- cousin to the Emperor -”
”- related in one way or another to half the n.o.ble Houses, my dear -”
”- and one of the wealthiest men in Merilon,” both said together.
”Are you certain?” Lady Rosamund asked. Her face was pale, she laid her hand upon her bosom to calm her beating heart. ”This Joram could be an imposter.”
”He could be,” Lord Samuels conceded, ”but the matter is so easily checked, an imposter would know he couldn't hope to succeed. The young man's story has the ring of truth. He knows enough, but not too much. There are gaps, for example, that he doesn't attempt to fill, whereas an imposter would, I believe, try to have all the answers. He was completely confounded when I told him who his mother really was and what the estate might be worth. He had no idea. The young man was genuinely dazed. What's more, he said Father Dunstable could verify his story.”
”You spoke to the catalyst?” Lady Rosamund asked eagerly.
”Yes, my dear. Just this afternoon. The man was reluctant to talk of it - you know how these catalysts hang together. Ashamed, no doubt, to admit that one of his Order could fail so low. But he admitted to me that Bishop Vanya himself had sent him to search for the young man. What could be the reason except that they want someone to take over the estate?” Lord Samuels was triumphant.
”Bishop Vanya! Himself!” Lady Rosamund breathed.
”You see? And” - Lord Samuels leaned closer to speak to milady confidentially once more ”- the young man has asked my permission to pay court to Gwendolyn!”
”Ah!” Lady Rosamund gave a little gasp. ”And what did you say?”
”I said - sternly, mind you - that I would consider it,” Lord Samuels replied, clasping the collar of his robes in a highly dignified manner. ”The young man's ident.i.ty will have to be verified, naturally. Joram is reluctant to go to the Church with what little evidence he has now, and I don't blame him. Might weaken his case further down the road. I promised I would make a few more inquiries, see what additional proof we can uncover. He'll need a record of his birth, for example. Shouldn't be too difficult to obtain.”
”What about Gwen?” Lady Rosamund persisted, brus.h.i.+ng aside such masculine issues.
Lord Samuels smiled indulgently. ”Well, you should talk to her at once, my dear. Discover her feelings in the matter -”
”I think those are obvious!” Lady Rosamund said, somewhat bitterly. It was a bitterness that soon pa.s.sed, however, having its roots only in the very natural sorrow at the prospect of losing her beloved daughter.
”But, in the meantime,” Lord Samuels continued more gently, ”I think we might allow the two of them to go around together, provided we keep our eyes upon them.”
”I don't really see how we could do otherwise,” said Lady Rosamund with some spirit. At a gesture, she caused a lily to snap off its stem and glide into her hand. ”I have never seen Gwen so infatuated with anyone as this Joram. As for them going around together, they've been nowhere else but with each other the past few days! Marie is always with them, but ...” Milady shook her head. The lily slipped from her hand. She dropped down slightly in the air, nearly touching the ground. Her husband caught hold of her.
”You are tired, my dear,” said Lord Samuels solicitously, supporting his wife with his own magic. ”I have kept you up too long. We will discuss this further tomorrow.”
”It has been a wearing few days, you must admit,” Lady Rosamund replied, leaning on his arm for comfort. ”First Simkin, then the Emperor. Now this.”
”Indeed it has. Our little girl is growing up.”
”Baroness Gwendolyn,” Lady Rosamund said to herself, with a sigh that was part maternal pride, part motherly regret.
One evening three or four or maybe five days later, Joram entered the garden in search of the catalyst. He wasn't certain himself how long it had been since he had asked Gwendolyn to marry him and she had agreed. Time meant nothing to Joram anymore. Nothing meant anything to him except her. Every breath he took was scented with her fragrance. His eyes saw no one but her. The only words he heard were spoken by her voice. He was jealous of anyone else who claimed her attention. He was jealous of the night that forced them to part. He was jealous of sleep itself.
But he soon discovered that sleep brought its own sweetness, though it was a sweetness mingled with aching pain. In his sleep, he could do what he dared not do during the day - give in to his dreams of pa.s.sion and desire, fulfillment and possession. The dreams took their toll - Joram would wake in the morning, his blood on fire, his heart burning. Yet the first sight of Gwendolyn walking in the garden fell like a cooling rain upon his tormented soul. So pure, so innocent, so childlike! His dreams sickened him, he felt ashamed, monstrous; his pa.s.sions seemed b.e.s.t.i.a.l and corrupt.
And yet his hunger was there. When he looked at the tender lips speaking to him of azaleas or dahlias or honeysuckle, he remembered their warm, soft touch in his dreams and his body ached. When he watched her walking beside him, her lithe, graceful body clothed in some pink cloud of a gown, he remembered clasping that body in his dreams, holding her close to his breast with no flimsy barrier of cloth between them, remembered making her his own. At such times, he would fall silent and avert his eyes from her gaze, fearful she would see the fire raging there, fearful this fair and fragile flower would wilt and die in its heat.
It was in the throes of this bittersweet torture that Joram entered the garden late one night, searching for the catalyst, who - so the servants said - often walked here when he could not sleep.
The rest of the household had gone to their beds. The Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar had decreed that there be no wind tonight, and the garden, therefore, was hushed and quiet. Rounding a corner, Joram affected to be surprised when he found Saryon sitting alone upon a bench. had decreed that there be no wind tonight, and the garden, therefore, was hushed and quiet. Rounding a corner, Joram affected to be surprised when he found Saryon sitting alone upon a bench.
”I am sorry, Father,” Joram said, standing in the shadows of a eucalyptus. ”I did not mean to interrupt you.” Half turning, he started - very slowly - to withdraw.
Saryon turned at the sound of the voice, raising his head. The moonlight shone full upon his face. It was a strange face, this facade of Father Dunstable, and Joram always found it startling and somewhat disquieting. But the eyes were those of the scholar he had known in the Sorcerers' village - wise, mild, gentle. Only now, in addition, Joram saw a haunted expression in the eyes when the catalyst looked at him, a shadow of pain that he could not understand.
”No, Joram, don't go,” Saryon said. ”You do not disturb me. You were in my thoughts, in fact.”
”In your prayers, too?” Joram asked as a joke.
The Priest's sorrowful face grew so pale that the words fell flat. Joram heard Saryon sigh heavily. The catalyst pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes. ”Come, sit by me, Joram,” he said, making room on the bench.
Joram did so. Sitting down beside the catalyst, he relaxed and listened - for the first time - to the silence of the garden at night. Its peace and tranquility drifted down upon him like a gentle snowfall, its cool shadows easing his burning mind.
”Do you know, Saryon,” Joram said hesitantly, unaccustomed to speaking his thoughts, yet feeling somehow that he owed this man something and longed to pay the debt, ”the other day - when we were together in the chapel - was the first time I had ever been inside a ... a holy place. Oh” - he shrugged - ”there was a church of sorts in Walren, a crude building where the Field Magi went once a week to get their daily dose of guilt from Father Tolban. My mother never darkened the door, as I suppose you can guess.”
”Yes,” murmured Saryon, looking at Joram with a puzzled expression, astonished at this unusual outpouring of words.
”Anja talked about G.o.d, about the Almin,” Joram continued, his gaze fixed upon the moonlit roses, ”but only to give thanks to him that I was better than the others. I never bothered to pray. Why should I? What did I have to be thankful for?” the young man said, the old bitterness creeping into his voice. He grew quiet, his gaze going from the delicate white flowers on the vine to his hands - so skilled and supple, so deadly. Clasping his hands together, he continued to stare at them, unseeing, as he spoke.
”My mother hated catalysts - for what they had done to my father - and she fed me on hatred. You told me once - Do you remember?” he glanced at Saryon, ”- that it is easier to hate than to love? You were right! Oh, how right you were, Father!” Joram's hands parted, clenched into fists. ”All my life, I have hated,” the young man said in a low, pa.s.sionate voice. ”I'm beginning to wonder if I can can love! It's so hard, it hurts ... so much....” love! It's so hard, it hurts ... so much....”
”Joram,” Saryon began, his heart full.
”Wait, just let me finish, Father,” Joram said, the words almost exploding out of him with pent-up frustration. ”Coming in here, tonight, I suddenly thought of my father.” The dark brows came together. ”I've never thought of him, much,” he said, staring at his hands once more. ”When I did, it was to see him standing there on the Borderland, his stone face frozen and unmoving, the tears dropping from eyes that stare eternally into a death he'll never know. But now, in here” - lifting his head, glancing around the garden, Joram's face softened - ”I think of him as he must have been - a man like myself. With ... pa.s.sions like mine, pa.s.sions he he could not control. I see my mother as she must have been then, a young girl, graceful and beautiful and ...” He hesitated, swallowing. could not control. I see my mother as she must have been then, a young girl, graceful and beautiful and ...” He hesitated, swallowing.
”Innocent, trusting,” Saryon said gently.
”Yes,” Joram answered inaudibly. Looking at the catalyst, he was astounded at the sight of the anguish he saw in the man's face.
Saryon caught hold of the young man's hands, gripping them with an intensity as painful as his words.
”Leave! Now, Joram!” the catalyst said urgently. ”There is nothing for you here! Nothing for her but bitter unhappiness - as there was for your poor mother!”
Stubbornly, Joram shook his head, the curling black hair falling down over his face. He broke free of the catalyst's grip.
”My boy, my son!” Saryon said, clasping his own hands together. ”It pleases me more than anything that you feel you can confide in me. I would be but a poor recipient of your confidence if I did not advise you to the best of my ability. If only you knew - If only I could -”
”Knew what?” Joram asked, looking up swiftly at the catalyst.
Saryon blinked and bit off his words, swallowing them hastily. ”If only I could make you understand,” he finished lamely, sweat beading on hs lips. ”I know you plan to marry this girl,” he said slowly, his brows knotted.