Doom Of The Darksword Part 28

But now her strength was ebbing. The image of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, those nightdream figures who laid chill, unseen hands upon their victims, dragging them to unknown places, had unnerved her. Now she found herself in a strange body. The virile young man began to weep uncontrollably, shoulders heaving, his face hidden in his hands.

"d.a.m.n it, Simkin!" Joram muttered, putting his arms awkwardly around Mosiah's broad shoulders, having the strangest feeling that he was comforting his friend.

"I say, this won't do," Simkin said sternly, glaring at Mosiah. "Pull yourself together, old chap!" he ordered, clapping the young man on the back soundly.

"Simkin!" Joram began angrily, then stopped.

"He's right," said Mosiah with a gulp, pulling himself away from Joram. There was even a hint of laughter in the blue eyes, shining through the tears. "I'm fine. Really I am."

"Thatta boy!" said Simkin approvingly. "Now, my Dark and Gloomy Friend, we must do the same for you - Oops, can't." The silk fluttered in the air in momentary confusion. "That confounded sword, you know. Put it away."

Reluctantly, frowning, Joram did as he was told, placing the sword in the sheath on his back, then drawing his robes around it. "What are you going to do?" he asked Simkin grimly. "You can't change me me into Mosiah, not while I'm wearing the sword. And I won't take it off," he added, seeing Simkin's eyes brighten. into Mosiah, not while I'm wearing the sword. And I won't take it off," he added, seeing Simkin's eyes brighten.

"Oh, well." Simkin appeared crestfallen for a moment, then he shrugged. "We'll do the best we can then, I suppose, dear boy. Change of clothing will have to suffice. No, don't argue."

With a flutter of orange silk, Joram was dressed in a pallbearer's costume identical to Simkin's - white robes and white hood.

"Keep the hood drawn over your face," said Simkin crisply, following his own instructions. "And do relax, both of you. You're attending a party at the Royal Palace of Merilon. You're supposed to look bored out of your skulls, not fightened out of your wits. Yes, that's better," he remarked, watching critically as Mosiah patted at his face with the orange silk, removing all traces of tears, and Joram unclenched his fists.

"If all goes well," Simkin continued coolly, "there'll be only one really bad moment - that's going out the front door -"

"The front!" Joram scowled. "But surely there are back ways ..."

"My poor naive boy." Simkin sighed. "What would you do without your fool? Everyone will be expecting you to go sneaking out the back, don't you see? Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith will be sprouting up around the back exits like fungus after a rain. On the other hand, there'll probably only be a couple dozen or so at the front. And we're not going to sneak! No, we are going to stagger out proudly! Three drunks, heading for a night on the town." will be sprouting up around the back exits like fungus after a rain. On the other hand, there'll probably only be a couple dozen or so at the front. And we're not going to sneak! No, we are going to stagger out proudly! Three drunks, heading for a night on the town."

Seeing Mosiahs pale face, Simkin added cheerfully, "Don't worry. We'll make it! They'll never suspect a thing. After all, they're looking for a lovely young woman and a gloomy young man - not two pallbearers and a peasant."

Mosiah managed a wan smile; Joram shook his head. He didn't like this, any of it, but he supposed there was no help for it. He couldn't think of anything better, his brain was moving sluggishly; he had to goad it to take a step. Reality was rapidly slipping from him and he was suddenly quite content to let it go.

"I say," said Simkin after a moment, looking over at Joram. "I suppose this means the Barony fell through?"

"Yes," answered Joram briefly. The sharp pain of his discovery had subsided into a dull, throbbing ache that would be with him forever. "Anja's child died at birth," he said, his voice expressionless. "She stole a baby from the nursery for unwanted, abandoned wretches...."

"Ah," said Simkin lightly. "Call me Nemo, what? And so, are we ready?" He reviewed his troops. "Set? Ah, almost forgot! Champagne!" he called.

A musical tinkling of gla.s.s sounded in response and an entire battalion of gla.s.ses filled with bubbling wine came floating through the air to fall in behind their leader.

"One each," said Simkin, thrusting a full gla.s.s into Mosiahs limp hand and another into Joram's. "Remember, gaiety, merriment, time of your lives!"

Raising his gla.s.s to his lips, he drained it at a swallow. "Drink up, drink up!" he ordered. "Now! For'ard! March!" Tossing the orange silk in the air, he sent it forth as a banner to wave proudly in front of them. Then, taking hold of Mosiah's arm in his, he motioned for Joram to do the same on the opposite side.

"Here's to folly!" Simkin announced, and together they tottered forward into the fiery illusions, the champagne gla.s.ses clinking merrily along behind.

7.

The Latest in Fashion Trends Mosiah - the real one - crouched in the shadows of the trees in the Grove of Merlyn, staring nervously into the darkness. He was alone in the Grove, he knew - a fact he had been repeating rea.s.suringly to himself at least once every five minutes since night had fallen. Unfortunately, it had done little good. He was far from rea.s.sured. Simkin had been right when he said no one came here after dark. Mosiah understood why. The Grove took on an entirely different aspect at night. It returned to itself.

With the dawning of the sun, the Grove put on all the flowers and garlands and jewels that it owned. Flinging its arms wide, it welcomed its admirers, entertaining them in lavish style. Letting them pluck the fragile blossoms and toss them carelessly away to wither and die under foot. Watching with a smile as they tossed garbage into the crystal pools and trampled the gra.s.s. Listening to their empty words of praise and gushes of rapture that sprang from their mouths in puffs of dust. But at night - the fee collected - the Grove drew the blanket of darkness over its head, curled around its tomb, and lay awake, nursing its wounds.

A Field Magus, as sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of plants as a Druid - perhaps even more sensitive then some Druids, whose lives had never depended on the crops they grew - Mosiah could hear the anger whispering around him, the anger and the sorrow.

The anger emanated from the living things in the Grove. The sorrow, so it seemed to Mosiah, came from the dead. The young man found the tomb of Merlyn strangely comforting, therefore, and lingered near it, resting his hand upon the marble that was warm even in the coolness of the night. From this vantage point, he warily watched and listened and repeatedly told himself that he was alone.

But Mosiah's uneasiness grew. Ordinary noises of a wilderness - even a tamed wilderness such as this - caused his skin to p.r.i.c.kle and sweat to chill in the night air. Trees creaking, leaves whispering, branches rubbing - all had an ominous sound, a malicious intent. He was an intruder here, disturbing the Grove's fitful rest, and he was not welcome. So he paced back and forth beside the tomb, keeping a wary eye upon the forest, and wondering irritably just how long it took to become a Baron, anyway.

To keep his mind off his fear, Mosiah imagined Joram living in wealth, master of an estate with his pretty wife at his side and a bevy of servants to act upon his slightest wish. Mosiah smiled, but it was a smile that faded to a sigh.

Living a lie. All his life, Joram had lived a lie, and now he would continue to do so forever - must must continue to do so, in fact. Though Joram might talk grandly of how wealth would free him, Mosiah had common sense enough to know that it would simply add its own chains to the ones already binding Joram. That the chains would be made of gold instead of iron would make little difference. Joram would never admit to being Dead, Mosiah knew. He would never admit to having murdered the overseer. (Unlike Saryon, Mosiah did not view the death of Blachloch as murder and never would.) continue to do so, in fact. Though Joram might talk grandly of how wealth would free him, Mosiah had common sense enough to know that it would simply add its own chains to the ones already binding Joram. That the chains would be made of gold instead of iron would make little difference. Joram would never admit to being Dead, Mosiah knew. He would never admit to having murdered the overseer. (Unlike Saryon, Mosiah did not view the death of Blachloch as murder and never would.) And then - what about children? Mosiah shook his head, running his hand over the tomb's shaped marble, absently tracing the lines of the sword with his fingers. Would they be born Dead, like their father? Would he hide them, as so many of the Dead were hidden? Was the lie to be perpetuated through generation after generation?

Mosiah could see a darkness spreading over the family, casting its shadow first over Gwendolyn, who would bear Dead children and never know why. Then the children, living a lie - Joram's lie. Perhaps he would teach them the Dark Arts. Perhaps, by then, there would be war with Sharakan. Technology would come back into the world and bring with it death and destruction. Mosiah shuddered. He didn't like Merilon, he didn't like the people or the way they lived. The beauty and wonder that had first enchanted him now glittered too brightly in his eyes. But he supposed this to be his fault, not the fault of the people of Merilon. They didn't deserve - A hand touched his shoulder from behind.

He turned instantly but it was too late.

A voice spoke, the spell was cast.

Life flowed from Mosiah and was greedily absorbed by the Grove as the young man tumbled, helpless, to the ground, his magic nulled by the hand of the black-robed figures that stood around him. But Mosiah had lived among the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. He had been forced to live without the magic for months during that time and, what's more, he had been a victim of this spell before. Its shock value was lessened and therefore the Nullmagic spell - though its first effect was devastating - did not paralyze him completely.

Mosiah was shrewd enough not to let his enemies know that, however. Lying on the ground, his cheek pressed into the damp, cold gra.s.s, he tried to calm his terror and regain his strength, drawing on it from within himself rather than from the magic in the world around him. As he felt his muscles respond to his commands, his body come under his control, he had to fight a panicked desire to leap up and run. It would serve no purpose. He would never escape. They would simply cast a more powerful spell on him, one that he could not fight.

And so he lay on the ground, watching his attackers, letting his strength build up within, holding his fear at bay, and trying desperately to think what to do.

It was the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, of course. Almost invisible in the darkness of the Grove, the black-robed figures stood out against the white marble of the tomb near where Mosiah lay. There were two of them and they were talking together, so close to Mosiah that he might have reached out and plucked at the hems of the black robes. Both casually ignored the young man, having no reason to doubt the effectiveness of their spell.

"So they have left the Palace?" It was the voice of a woman, cool and throaty, and it sent a shudder of fear through Mosiah.

"Yes, madam," replied a warlock. "They were allowed to leave, as you commanded."

"And there was no disturbance?" The witch appeared anxious.

"No, madam."

"Lord Samuels, the father of the girl?"

"He has been taken in hand, madam. He persisted in asking questions, but was eventually made to see that this would not be conducive to his daughter's welfare."

"Questions silenced on the tongue fly to the heart and there take root and grow," muttered the witch, speaking an ancient proverb. "Well, we will deal with that when the time comes. It seems to me, however, that we must uproot these questions and replant them with the truth which, in time, will conveniently wither and die. That will be up to Bishop Vanya, of course, but until I have a chance to talk to His Holiness, take the girl into custody as well."

There was no answer, merely a shivering of the robe near Mosiah which indicated that the warlock had bowed in response.

Mosiah listened closely, his fear lost in his desperate need to know what had happened. How could they have discovered Joram? The Darksword protected him. And how could they have discovered me? Mosiah asked himself suddenly. Not only that, but connect the two of us apparently. No one knew we were meeting here except - "They are on their way to the Grove?" the witch asked with a touch of impatience.

"So the betrayer said," the warlock responded, "and we have no reason to doubt him."

Betrayer! Sickness swept over Mosiah, wrenching his bowels, bringing a hot, bitter bile to his throat. So that was the answer. They had been betrayed, and now Joram was walking into a carefully laid trap. But who had turned them in? A vision of a bearded young man in white robes, wafting a bit of orange silk in the air, came vividly to Mosiah.

Simkin! He choked. Tears of rage stung his eyes. If it's the last thing I do, I'll kill you!

Calm, calm, his mind commanded. There's a chance. You must find Joram, warn him ...

Mosiah forced himself to forget, to concentrate on one thing - escape. Cautiously, he moved a hand, holding his breath for fear the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith would notice. But they were absorbed in their conversation, confident that their spell held the young man captive. Mosiah let his hand crawl silently over the ground and his heart leaped when his fingers touched the rough surface of a stick. Never mind that it was a tool, that he would be giving Life to that which was Lifeless. would notice. But they were absorbed in their conversation, confident that their spell held the young man captive. Mosiah let his hand crawl silently over the ground and his heart leaped when his fingers touched the rough surface of a stick. Never mind that it was a tool, that he would be giving Life to that which was Lifeless.

His hand closed over the weapon. Raising his head ever so slightly, he peered upward. Elation flooded his body. The warlock stood with his back to him. A swift blow to the head, keep the limp body between himself and the witch, use it to block her spell. Mosiah's grip tightened on the stick. His muscles bunched. He sprang to his feet - Cords of Kij vine sprouting sharp thorns leaped from the ground and wrapped themselves around the young man's upper arms and thighs. With an agonized cry, Mosiah dropped the stick as the thorns pierced his flesh and the vines bound him tight. Toppling over, he lay writhing in the gra.s.s at the feet of the warlock, who turned to look at him in some astonishment, then glanced apprehensively at the witch.

"Yes, you erred," she said to the warlock, who bowed his head, chagrined. "I will deal with your punishment later. Now, our time is short. I know his face. I must now hear his voice."

Kneeling beside the struggling Mosiah, the witch laid her hand upon him and the thorns suddenly vanished. With a gurgling sigh, Mosiah rolled over on the gra.s.s, moaning. Blood oozed from a hundred small puncture wounds, sliding down his arms, staining his clothes.

"What is your name?" the witch asked coolly, turning the young man's sweaty, pain-twisted face toward her, studying it intently.

Mosiah shook his head, or at least tried to; it was more of a spasmodic jerk.

Her face expressionless, the witch spoke a word and Mosiah caught his breath in fear as the thorns began to grow on the vines again, this time merely p.r.i.c.king his flesh but not digging into it.

"Not yet," said the witch, reading his thoughts on his pale face, seeing the eyes widen. "But they will grow and keep on growing until they pierce right through skin and muscle and organs, tearing out your life with them. Now, I ask you again. What is your name?"

"Why? What can it matter?" Mosiah groaned. "You know it!"

"Humor me," the witch said, and spoke another word. The thorns grew another fraction of an inch.

"Mosiah!" He tossed his head in agony. "Mosiah! d.a.m.n it! Mosiah, Mosiah, Mosiah...."

Then their plan penetrated the haze of pain. Mosiah choked, trying to swallow his words. Watching in horror, he saw the witch become Mosiah. Her face - his face. Her clothes - his clothes. Her voice - his voice.

"What do we do with him?" the warlock asked in subdued tones, his mistake obviously rankling him.

"Throw him in the Corridor and send him to the Outland," the witch - now Mosiah - said, rising to her feet.

"No!"

Mosiah tried to fight the warlock's strong hands that dragged him to his feet, but the tiniest movement drove the thorns into his body and he slumped over with an anguished cry. "Joram!" he yelled desperately as he saw the dark void of the Corridor open within the foliage. "Joram!" he shouted, hoping his friend would hear, yet knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. "Run! It's a trap! Run!"

The warlock thrust him into the Corridor. It began to squeeze shut, pressing in on him. The thorns stabbed his flesh; his blood flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of the witch - now himself - watching him, her face - his face - expressionless.

Then, she spread her hands.

"It's all the rage," he saw himself say.

8.

The Illusion of a Thousand Mosiahs "I don't want to go in there, Gwendolyn faltered, gazing into the whispering blackness of the Grove. don't want to go in there, Gwendolyn faltered, gazing into the whispering blackness of the Grove.

"You ... you and me ... both," slurred Simkin, staggering into Joram and nearly knocking him over.

Irritably, Joram caught hold of the young man as Simkin's knees gave way and he sagged to the ground. Throwing his arms around Joram's neck, Simkin whispered confidentially. "B-boring as h.e.l.l in there thish time of night."

"I don't want you to go in there, either," Gwendolyn added, shivering in the night air. Though the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar may have kept the balmy breezes of spring blowing in the city above, the thickness of the foliage in the Garden kept it much cooler than the city. Or perhaps there was a chill within the Grove at night that not even the magic of the may have kept the balmy breezes of spring blowing in the city above, the thickness of the foliage in the Garden kept it much cooler than the city. Or perhaps there was a chill within the Grove at night that not even the magic of the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar could warm. could warm.

"Why couldn't your friend have met us outside?"

"He's on the run, remember," Joram answered, supporting Simkin, who was peering around with drunken solemnity, "like we are. Life will be different from now on, my lady."

He didn't mean to be harsh, but his anger and disappointment - submerged in the fear-laced excitement of escaping the Palace - had returned with the ride through Merilon on the wings of the black swan. It was further enhanced by the gloomy, forbidding atmosphere of the Grove and his irritation with Simkin, who had thoughtfully drunk all the gla.s.ses of champagne.

"Duck-shrith won't be able ... track ush ... by trail of bubbles," he declared. won't be able ... track ush ... by trail of bubbles," he declared.

Gwendolyn hung her head. She was back to her own form now, and to see the golden head drooping, the delicate body slump - hurt by his words made Joram realize he would have to watch more carefully than ever to keep the dark beast chained up inside him.

"Stand up!" he snapped at Simkin, shoving him to an upright position.

"Aye, aye, cap'n." Simkin saluted, did a graceful pirouette, and sat down flat on the gra.s.s.

Ignoring him, Joram took Gwendolyn in his arms. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Forgive me."

"No, I'm the one who should apologize," Gwen said, making a small attempt at a smile. "You are right. I must begin to consider things like that." Thrusting Joram from her, she stood tall, her lips firm, her head thrown back. "I'll go in there with you," she said.

"No, there's no need," Joram said, smiling the half smile that was lost in the darkness of the night. "You stay here with Simkin -"

"'Stay with me and be my love,'" recited Simkin drunkenly from where he sat in the gra.s.s, "'And we will cauliflowers grow'

"On second thought," said Joram, "perhaps you had better come with me."

"I will. I'd rather! I won't be frightened. Not any more. I want you to be proud of me," Gwen added wistfully.

"I am. And I love you!" Joram said, leaning down to brush his lips against hers, spreading balm over the wound festering in his soul. "Come with me, then. It isn't far. Mosiah will be by the tomb. We'll fetch him, and pick up this drunken sot on the way back. Then it's out the Gate as easily as we escaped the Palace and we're on our way to Sharakan!"

"What drunken sot?" asked Simkin, glaring around indignantly. "One thing, can't abide. Man ... doesn't know ... when to quit ..."

Holding fast to each other's hands, a prey to the same feelings and unreasoning fears Mosiah had experienced in the angry Grove, Joram and Gwendolyn walked at a rapid pace, eager to meet their friend and leave this place. They did not talk. There was a hush over the Grove. Not a hush of peaceful repose, but a hush of in-held breath, the hush of the waiting hunter. A whisper would seem like a shout in the silence. Their heartbeats thudded loudly and, though Joram crept through the gra.s.s and Gwendolyn did not walk at all but drifted in the air by his side, the noise they made in pa.s.sing sounded louder than the thunder of armies in their ears.

Following the stream that babbled merrily during the day but now ran through its banks as silently and malevolently as a snake slipping through the gra.s.s, Gwen and Joram made their way easily through the maze and came at last to the heart of the Grove.

The tomb of Merlyn stood Merlyn stood alone in the center of the ring of oaks, its white marble glowing more cold and pale than the moon. The lovers clasp tightened, they moved closer together. Joram was suddenly conscious of his white robes, gleaming in the eerie light reflected from the tomb. Once he stepped out into the open, he would be an easy target. alone in the center of the ring of oaks, its white marble glowing more cold and pale than the moon. The lovers clasp tightened, they moved closer together. Joram was suddenly conscious of his white robes, gleaming in the eerie light reflected from the tomb. Once he stepped out into the open, he would be an easy target.

Not that there was anything to fear, he reminded himself. How could there be? They had escaped the Palace....