Part 28 (2/2)
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, s.h.i.+vering 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....
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