Part 28 (1/2)

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, s.h.i.+ning 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 Fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+vering 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.”