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  He paused, looking questioningly at his leader, mentally asking if this was a matter for the entire conclave or for her alone. The witch considered and, after a moment, dismissed the others and closed the great book.

  “Proceed,” she said when they were alone.

  “The catalyst’s name is Father Dunstable. A House Catalyst, he left Merilon several years ago. He has returned to Merilon, he says, upon the death of his Master and the breaking up of the household.”

  “A story that can be verified.”

  “We are doing so, of course, madam. He does not match the description of this Father Saryon, but a disguise could have been easily effected. The interesting point is that he entered town with one of the young men we know to have been at one time a Field Magus.”

  “Any other companions?”

  The warlock hesitated. “We know of one, madam, and there may have been others. The Gate was crowded that day and an incident occurred which involved considerable confusion.”

  “This was?”

  “The attempted arrest of one of the catalyst’s companions, madam. Simkin.”

  The witch frowned. “This complicates matters. The Emperor himself has seen fit to intervene on Simkin’s behalf. Not that Simkin is of any consequence.” The witch made a deprecating motion with her hand. “That matter was trivial and easily smoothed over. But we must not make it appear that we are harassing the young man. The Emperor would be displeased, and matters are too delicate in that area to allow him any excuse to strike out against us — or Prince Xavier. Therefore, proceed with caution. Isolate the Field Magus, if you can, and bring him in for questioning. Or perhaps …” She hesitated, her lips pursed in thought.

  “Madam?” queried the warlock respectfully. “You were saying?”

  “Simkin has worked for us before, has he not?”

  “Yes, madam, but …” It was now the warlock’s turn to hesitate.

  “But?”

  “He is erratic, madam.”

  “Nevertheless” — the witch made her decision — “see what you can accomplish there. He could be of inestimable help. Be discreet, of course. You know how to handle him, I presume?”

  The warlock bowed. “And the catalyst?”

  “The Church will deal with their own, as always. I will inform Bishop Vanya, but I daresay he won’t want to move without proof. Continue your investigation.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  The witch fell silent, her white teeth biting her lower lip. The warlock remained standing unmoving before her, knowing he was not dismissed either from her thoughts or from her presence. Her eyes, gleaming in the shadows of her hood, sought him out at last.

  “There was no other companion? No other person present with these three?”

  The warlock had been waiting for that question. “Madam,” he said in a low voice, aware that she did not tolerate excuses, yet knowing that she must accept her own limitations, “there was a large crowd at the Gate, and a great deal of confusion. The young man, Joram, after all, is Dead. Not only that, but if he truly does have the power of the darkstone, he could remain invisible to our eyes.”

  “Yes,” the witch muttered. “You have the household under surveillance?”

  “As best we can, considering the Emperor has taken them under his protection. I have hesitated to question the staff….”

  “You do right. Servants gossip, and we must be careful not to alarm these young men. Remember that when you deal with Simkin. If it is them, the least hint of trouble and they will flee. Our only hope is to keep them in the city. Once in the Outland, we have lost them. Give them time, lull them into complacency and they will make a mistake. When they do, we will be ready.”

  “Yes, madam.” The warlock bowed and, sensing himself dismissed, vanished.

  The single word “Patience,” whispered in the air, followed after him like a benediction.

  6

  The Garden

  The people of Merilon know that the inner garden, or House Garden as it is known, is the heart of every home. Every dwelling — no matter how humble — has its garden, even if it is nothing but a bed of flowers in the center of a cobblestone walk. From its green serenity springs the joy and solace necessary for a household’s well-being. Legend holds that the amount of Life with which a family is blessed grows in the House Garden.

  Of course, the wealthy in Merilon own gardens of rare and remarkable beauty. An inner garden that was well tended and properly cultivated could bless a house in other ways, as Lord Samuels well knew. Status took root and flourished in a House Garden. Thus, as with so many other things in his life, Lord Samuels’s gardens were not only beautiful … they were good business as well.

  A House Garden is not easy to maintain. Lord Samuels could have afforded a gardener, but that would have appeared to be rising too far above his station. He kept the garden himself, therefore, going out each morning before work to make certain that all was in order. The dragonlilies, for example, had a most disconcerting tendency to flute blue flame at certain hours of the day. Decorative and useful as a timepiece, the plants could be harmful unless carefully watched. He had to prune the choral bamboo daily; some stalks grew faster than others, and it was forever falling out of tune. The wind palms had to be adjusted each morning to the weather. Their swaying fronds generated a constant and pleasant breeze that was welcome on warm days, but uncomfortable on cool ones. In that instance, the palms had to be magically subdued.

  These were minor problems, however. Lord Samuels’s garden was, in general, well planned, well ordered, and much admired. Admittedly it was small compared to the gardens of the upper class. But Lord Samuels had cleverly compensated for this deficiency. The garden paths that wound among the thick, lush plantings, trees, and flowers were a maze of twists and turns. Once in the garden, the visitor not only lost sight of the house but his sense of direction as well. Walking among the hedges that Lord Samuels caused to shift about in their positions daily, a person could “lose” himself quite pleasantly in the garden for hours.

  This was, next to flirting, Gwendolyn’s favorite pastime.

  Gwen was relatively well-educated, it being currently in vogue for the Albanara to educate their daughters. Every morning she spent studying her lessons with Marie, supposedly learning advanced theories and philosophies of magic and religion. It pleased Lord Samuels to look in daily on his daughter at her studies, her golden head bent solemnly over a book. When he left for work, that pleasant sight lingered in his memory. What he did not know was that the book either disappeared promptly after his departure or was replaced with one that dealt with more interesting matters — such as bold Sir Hugo, the highwayman.

  Occasionally Lady Rosamund took over morning lessons, instructing her daughter on the management of the household, dealing with servants, and the raising of children. These lessons Gwendolyn enjoyed almost as much as Lady Rosamund, both spending a great deal of time building and furnishing splendid castles in the air. But, no matter how much she delighted in being with her mother or in reading about Sir Hugo, Gwen looked forward each day to the end of lessons when she and Marie went for their daily stroll in the garden.

  Lady Rosamund always said, laughingly, that Gwen had the blood of a Druid in her veins, for the girl had a way with plants quite remarkable for one not born to that mystery. She could coax blossoms from the most sulky rosebush by her voice alone. Saplings that had lost the will to live lifted their spindly limbs at her gentle touch, while choking weeds cowered at her approach and attempted to hide from her sight.

  Gwen was never happier than when wandering through the garden in the mornings. And it was undoubtedly chance that brought Joram into the garden this time of day as well. At least he said it was chance — he had simply wanted a breath of fresh air. Certainly he appeared surprised to see her floating above him amid the rose trees, her golden hair — elaborately coiled and braided about her head — shining in the sunlight, her pink gown with its fluttering ribbons, making her see
m not unlike a rose itself.

  “I bid you sun arise, sir,” said Gwendolyn, the colors of the roses in her cheeks.

  “Sun arise, my lady,” said Joram gravely, looking up at her from where he stood upon the ground.

  “Won’t you join me, please?” Gwen asked, motioning upward.

  To Gwen’s astonishment, Joram’s face darkened, his black brows coming together in a thick, hard line above his eyes. “No, thank you, my lady,” he said in a measured voice. “I do not have sufficient Life —”

  “Oh,” cried Gwen eagerly, “Marie will grant you Life, if your own catalyst is not about yet this morning. Marie? Where are you?”

  Looking around for the catalyst, Gwen missed seeing the swift spasm of pain that briefly contorted Joram’s face. Marie, coming up behind her mistress, was looking directly at the young man and saw it quite clearly. Though she could not guess what it meant, she was sensitive enough to understand that — for some reason — he could not or would not use his magic. Like any good servant, she provided him with an excuse — her own failing.

  “If my lady and the gentleman will both forgive me,” she said, “I feel somewhat too fatigued. I was up during the night with the little ones.”

  “And I’ve been a selfish beast, draining your energy all morning. Forgive me,” Gwen said, instantly contrite. “I’ll come down. Don’t move.” Her filmy gown swirling about her, enveloping her in a cloud of pink, Gwen drifted down to the ground, hovering just above the path so that she would not bruise her bare feet on the rocks.

  Marie glanced at Joram, and received a look of gratitude. But there was another look in the dark eyes — a piercing scrutiny, as if he was trying to guess how much she knew — that the catalyst found unsettling.

  “I will show you through the garden, if you like, sir,” Gwen said timidly.

  “Thank you, I would like that very much,” Joram replied, but his dark eyes remained on Marie, increasing her discomfort. “My father was a catalyst,” he added, seeming to feel the need for explanation. “I am Albanara, but I have a very low level of Life.”

  “Indeed, sir?” Marie returned politely, feeling confused and — if it hadn’t seemed too absurd — threatened by the intensity of the young man’s gaze.

  “A catalyst?” Gwen asked innocently. “And you’re not a catalyst yourself? Isn’t that unusual?”

  “My life has been unusual,” Joram said gravely, turning from Marie to Gwen, politely giving her his hand to support her as she moved slowly through the air at his side.

  “I would like to hear about your life very much,” Gwen said. “You’ve been out in the world, haven’t you?” Sighing, she glanced about the garden. “I’ve spent all my life here. I’ve never been outside of Merilon. Tell, me about the world. What is it like?”

  “Sometimes, very harsh,” said Joram in low tones, the dark eyes now wistful and shadowed. Glancing down, he saw the white hand resting in his calloused palm — her skin smooth and soft, his skin scarred from the forge fires.

  “I will tell you my story, if you want to hear it,” he said, abruptly shifting his gaze to a magnificent stand of tigerstripe lilies. “I told it to your father, last night. My mother, like you, was born and raised in Merilon. Her name was Anja. She was Albanara …”

  He continued talking, telling Anjas tragic tale (as much as he considered safe for the young woman to know), his voice sometimes faltering or dropping so low that Gwen was forced to drift nearer to him to hear.

  Marie, following at a discreet distance behind, watched without seeming to look, listened without seeming to hear.

  “Your mother died, and so you came here, to seek your fame and fortune?” Gwen said, her eyes shining with tears when the story had come to an end.

  “Yes,” answered Joram steadily.

  “I think it’s a splendid thing you’re doing,” said Gwen, “and I hope you find your mothers family and make them feel absolutely wretched about the terrible way they treated her. I can’t think of anything more cruel! To be made to watch the man you love perish like that!” Gwen shook her head, a tear glistened on her cheek. “No wonder she went mad, poor thing. She must have loved your father very much.”

  “And he loved her,” Joram said, turning on the path and reaching out to take hold of Gwendolyn’s other hand. “He suffered living death, for her sake.”

  Gwen flushed up to the roots of her golden hair; the bodice of the pink gown rose and fell very fast. She saw the unmistakable message in Joram’s eyes, she felt it surge from his hands to hers. A delightful pain shot through her heart, marred by a stab of fear. Holding hands like this suddenly seemed very wrong. With a conscious glance at Marie, Gwen drew her hands away from the young man’s grasp; he did not try to stop her.

  Placing her hands behind her back — out of harm’s way — Gwen turned from the disturbing look in the dark eyes and began to talk of the first thing that came to her mind. “One thing I don’t understand, though,” she said, her brow creased in thought. “If the Church forbade your mother and father to marry, how was it that you were conceived? Did the catalysts —”

  At this moment, Marie came hurrying to her mistress’s side. “Gwendolyn, my pet, you are shivering. I believe the Sif-Hanar have made a mistake this morning. Do you not find it cold for spring?” she asked Joram hastily.

  “No, Sister,” he answered. “But then, I am accustomed to being out in all types of weather.”

  “I’m not at all cold, Marie,” Gwen started to say irritably when a sudden thought struck her. “You are right, as always, Marie,” she said, rubbing her arms. “I am a bit chilled. Be a dear and go inside to fetch my shawl.”

  Too late, the catalyst saw her mistake. “My lady can summon the shawl to her,” Marie said, somewhat sternly.

  “No, no.” Gwendolyn shook her head, smiling mischievously. “I am drained of Life, and you are too fatigued to grant me more. Please bring it to me, Marie. You know how upset Mama gets when I catch cold. We will wait here for you to return. This gentleman will have no objection, I suppose, to keeping me company?”

  The gentleman had no objection whatsoever, and Marie had no choice but to return to the house in search of the shawl, which Gwen prayed was well-hidden.

  Still keeping her hands safely behind her back, yet feeling a perverse longing to experience that strange, delightful pain again, Gwendolyn turned to face Joram. Raising her head, she looked into the dark eyes and the pain returned, although not quite as pleasant. Once again, she had the sensation that the warmth and joy of her soul was being absorbed by this young man, that it was feeding some deep hunger inside him, and that he was giving nothing back in return.

  The look in the dark eyes was frightening, more frightening than his touch, and Gwen averted her gaze. “It … it is cold,” she faltered, drifting backward slightly. “Perhaps I should go inside….”

  “Don’t go, Gwendolyn,” he said in a tone that sent a thrill through her being, as though she had reached into a storm cloud and touched lightning. “You know how I feel about you …”

  “I don’t know how you feel, not in the slightest,” Gwen returned coolly, her fear replaced by the sudden enjoyment of the game. Now they were playing by rules she understood. “What’s more,” she said loftily, turning away from him, her hand reaching out to caress a lily, “I don’t care to know.”

  It was the same flirtatious speech she had used to the elegant son of the Duke of Manchua, and that ardent youth had thrown himself at her feet — literally — declaring his undying devotion and countless other agreeable absurdities that she and her cousins had giggled over during the night. Her hand on the lily, she waited for Joram to say and do the same.

  There was only silence.

  Glancing at him from beneath her long eyelashes, Gwen was appalled by what she saw.

  Joram looked like a man sentenced to death. His face was pale beneath the tan, his lips ashen and pressed together to keep from trembling or perhaps from uttering the words that burned in hi
s eyes. His jaw muscles clenched. When he spoke, it was with visible effort. “Forgive me,” he said. “I have made a fool of myself. I was mistaken in your kindness, it appears. I will take my leave —”

  Gwen gasped. What was he saying? What was he doing? He was leaving! Actually turning and starting to walk away, his boots crunching on the marble pebbles of the path that sparkled in the sun! But this wasn’t part of the game!

  And suddenly she realized that — to him — this wad no game. The story of his life came back to her and she heard it, this time, with a woman’s heart. She felt the bleakness, the harshness. She remembered the hunger in his eyes, and some part of her saw the darkness there, too.

  For a moment Gwen hesitated, trembling. Part of her wanted to hang back and let him go, remain a little girl, playing the game still. But another part whispered that if she did, she would lose something dear, something precious, never to find it again her entire life. Joram continued walking away. The pain inside Gwen was no longer pleasurable, it was cold and hollow and empty.

  Magic drained from her body, she sank to the ground. Joram was moving farther and farther away. Ignoring the sting of the sharp rocks cutting into the flesh of her delicate feet, Gwendolyn ran down the path.

  “Stop, oh, stop!” she cried in anguish.

  Startled, Joram turned at the sound of her voice.

  “Please, don’t go!” Gwen pleaded, reaching out to him. Tripping over her long, fluttering skirts, she stumbled and nearly fell. He caught her in his arms.

  “Don’t leave me, Joram,” she whispered, looking into his eyes as he held her close, his hands gentle and tender, yet trembling even as she trembled. “I do care! I do! I don’t know why I said those things! It was wrong and cruel of me —” Hiding her face in her hands, she began to cry.

  Joram clasped the young woman in his arms, smoothing the silken hair beneath his fingers. Blood pounded in his ears. The fragrance of her perfume, the softness of the body pressed close to his, intoxicated him. “Gwendolyn,” he said in a shaking voice, “may I ask your father for permission to marry you?”