Part 29 (1/2)

”Wait!” he cautioned Gwen, and held back in the shadows of the trees which - though they were not friendly shadows - covered them both with a mantle of darkness. The two waited, watching, barely breathing. The glade appeared empty. There was no one by the tomb. Or was there? Was that a figure moving near it? It was too far to distinguish....

Joram's hand itched to draw the Darksword, but he dared not. The sword would begin to suck up magic, draining both Gwen's strength and Mosiah's. They might need all the strength and all the magic these two possessed to get past the Gate; Joram bitterly counting Simkin as less than useless at this point.

”I think that's your friend!” whispered Gwen, squeezing Joram's hand.

”Yes.” Joram stared into the darkness, seeing the figure walk around to the side of the tomb near them. ”Yes, you're right! That's Mosiah. No, you wait here for us.” He released her hand and started forward.

”Joram!” Gwen caught hold of the sleeve of his white robe.

”What, my dear?” His voice was gentle. He turned to face her, forcing his expression to one of patience. But he must not have fooled her, because her hand dropped from his sleeve limply.

”Nothing,” she said with a fleeting smile barely seen in the tombs ghostly light. ”Only my foolish fears again. Please hurry, though,” she said through lips so stiff she could barely move them.

”I will,” he promised, and with a rea.s.suring smile, he turned and walked out into the glade.

”Mosiah!” he risked calling softly into the night.

The figure turned, startled, peering into the darkness. Joram raised a hand. Then, as he saw the figure hest.i.tate, it occurred to him that Mosiah wouldn't be expecting him in white robes. He was near enough now to see his friend's features, and he threw back the hood so that Mosiah could see his face.

”It's me, Joram!” he said more loudly, his confidence growing at the sight of his friends familiar features.

At this, Mosiah grinned and let out a sigh of relief that echoed through the Glade. Arms outstretched, he hurried forward, and before Joram quite knew what was happening, his friend had clasped him in a thankful embrace.

”Name of the Almin, it's good to see you!” Mosiah said, hugging his friend close. ”Where is everyone?”

”Gwen's waiting up by those trees,” Joram began, awkwardly returning his friend's embrace, then instinctively endeavoring to free himself from Mosiah's arms. ”Simkin's drunk as a lord. We have to leave Merilon,” he added, wondering why Mosiah wouldn't let him loose. ”Look,” he said finally, irritably, trying to push his friend away, ”we've got to get going! We're in danger. Now quit -”

He couldn't move his arms. Mosiah had him pinned tightly and was staring into his face with a cold smile, the tomb's light glittering in his blue eyes. ”Mosiah!” Joram said angrily, fear rising in him, making him grow as cold as stone. ”Let go!” He twisted suddenly, to break the young man's hold, but it was useless. The arms tightened around him, squeezing him with a clasp he knew now - the fear growing within him - was magic. He was caught in a spell! Joram squirmed, trying to reach the Darksword, but his body was fast losing all strength as the grip of the arms continued to tighten.

And then it became a struggle, not for the sword, but for life - a struggle to breathe. Joram gasped for air, staring into Mosiahs face, not understanding. Somewhere he heard a scream, a woman's scream that was cut off swiftly and skillfully. He tried to speak, but he had no breath. The darkness of the Grove was rapidly creeping over his eyes. Death was very near, and he ceased to fight, welcoming an end to the pain.

Skilled in such matters, the arms relaxed their hold. The face of Mosiah smiled and spoke a word, and then Mosiah's face was gone and Joram - in his last moments before consciousness fled - looked up and saw the white skin and expressionless face of a black-robed woman, who caught him in her arms as he fell.

Gently, she lowered him to the ground. As his senses slowly slipped from him, he heard her issue a warning to a dimly seen companion.

”Don't touch the sword.”

9.

Adjudication Deacon Dulchase woke from a sound sleep with an irritated snort, rolling over in an effort to escape the hand that was shaking his shoulder.

”So I'm late for Morning Prayers,” he grumbled, burrowing deeper into his mattress and burying his face in the pillow. ”Tell the Almin to start without me.”

”Deacon!” said a commanding voice urgently, continuing to harra.s.s the priest. ”Wake up. Bishop Vanya summons you.”

”Vanya!” Dulchase repeated incredulously. The elderly, perennial Deacon struggled up from the depths of his comfortable repose, blinking in the globe of light that hovered near a black-robed figure standing above him ”Duuk-tsarith!” ”Duuk-tsarith!” he muttered beneath his breath, trying to nudge his sleep-soaked brain into functioning. he muttered beneath his breath, trying to nudge his sleep-soaked brain into functioning.

The sudden surge of fear at the sight of the warlock helped admirably, although by the time Dulchase had drawn his legs out from under the bedclothes and had his feet on the floor, the fear had been replaced by a cynical amus.e.m.e.nt. ”They have me this time,” he reflected, groping about with one hand to find the robe he had tossed at the end of the bed. ”Wonder what it was? Undoubtedly that remark about the Empress at the party last night. Ah, Dulchase. You'd think at your age you would learn!”

With a sigh, he began to struggle into the robe, only to be stopped by the cold hand of the warlock who stood above him, faceless in his black hood.

”What's the matter now?” Dulchase snapped, figuring he had nothing to lose. ”It isn't enough His Holiness decides to exact punishment in the middle of the night? Am I to go before him naked as well?”

”You are to dress in formal robes of ceremony,” intoned the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith. ”I have them here.”

Sure enough, now that Dulchase looked, he could see the warlock holding his best ceremonial robes folded over his arms in the manner of the most efficient of House Magi. Dulchase stared, first at the robes, then at the warlock.

”There has been no mention of punishment,” the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith continued in his cool voice. ”The Bishop requests you hurry. The matter is urgent.” The warlock shook out the robes carefully. ”I will a.s.sist if I may.” continued in his cool voice. ”The Bishop requests you hurry. The matter is urgent.” The warlock shook out the robes carefully. ”I will a.s.sist if I may.”

Numbly, Dulchase stood up and - within the speaking of a word of magic - was attired in the formal robes of ceremony he had not worn since ... when? The ceremony marking the Death of the young Prince? ”What ... what color?” the befuddled Deacon asked, running his hand over his head that had once been tonsured but was now as bald as the rocks of the Font in which he lived.

”What color, Father?” the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith repeated. ”I fail to understand -” repeated. ”I fail to understand -”

”What color shall I make the robes?” Dulchase asked irascibly, gesturing. ”They're Weeping Blue Weeping Blue, as you can see? Is it official mourning? I'll leave them the same. A wedding, perhaps? If so, I'll have to change them to -”

”Judgment,” said the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith succinctly. succinctly.

”Judgment,” repeated Dulchase, pondering. Taking his time, he made use of the chamber pot in the corner of his small room, noting - as he did so - that even the disciplined warlock was growing edgy over the delay. The fingers of the hands, supposed to be folded quietly in front of the man, were twisting round each other. ”Mmpf,” the Deacon snorted, making a great show of rearranging his robes around him again and turning them to the proper shade of neutral gray required for a trial. All the while, his brain - now wide awake - was trying to guess at what was happening.

A summons to Bishop Vanyas's in the dead of night. A Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith sent to escort him - not a novitiate as was customary. He was not being punished but told he was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had not worn in eighteen years - eighteen years almost to the very day, he realized - the anniversary of the Prince's death having been held last night. Deacon Dulchase could make nothing of it, however. Immensely curious, he turned back to the waiting sent to escort him - not a novitiate as was customary. He was not being punished but told he was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had not worn in eighteen years - eighteen years almost to the very day, he realized - the anniversary of the Prince's death having been held last night. Deacon Dulchase could make nothing of it, however. Immensely curious, he turned back to the waiting Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, who actually started to breathe a sigh of relief before he caught himself in time.

A young one, that, Dulchase noted, grinning inwardly.

”Well, let's get on with it,” the Deacon muttered, taking a step toward the door. To his astonishment, he felt the cold hand on his arm again.

”The Corridors, Father,” said the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith.

”To His Holiness's chambers?” Dulchase glowered at the warlock. ”You may be new around here, young man, but surely you know that this is forbidden -”

”Follow me, if you please, Father.” The Duuk-tsarith The Duuk-tsarith, perhaps nettled by the Deacon's remark about his age, was obviously out of patience. A Corridor gaped in Dulchase's room; the cold hand propelled the old Deacon into it. An instants sensation of being squeezed and compressed, then Dulchase stood in a huge, cavernous hall carved from the heart of the mountain fastness by - legend had it - the hand of the powerful wizard who had led them here.

This was the Hall of Life. (Its name from ancient times had been originally the Hall of Life and Death, in order to represent both sides of the world. This had become frowned upon in modern times and - with the banishment of the Sorcerers - it had been officially renamed.) Legend being true or not, the Hall did look very much as though it had been scooped out of the granite like the fruit from the rind of a melon. Located in the very center of the Font, built around the Well of Life from which the magic in the world gushed forth like unseen water, it was dome-shaped, extending hundreds of feet into the air, its rock ceiling ornamented by carved arches of polished stone. Four gigantic grooves gashed out of the rock wall at the front of the Hall were known as the Fingers of Merlyn and formed four alcoves where sat the four Cardinals of the Realm during occasions of state. Another large gouge in the rock wall, on the opposite side of the vast Hall, was known somewhat irreverently and unofficially as Merlyn's Thumb. Here sat the Bishop of the Realm, across from his ministers. Spanning the length of the stone floor between them were row after row of stone pews. Cold and uncomfortable to sit upon, these stone pews had an even more irreverent name that was whispered and sn.i.g.g.e.red over by new novitiates.

The Hall's vast expanse was usually illuminated by the magical lights sent dancing upward by the magi who served the catalysts. Yet on this occasion the lights had not been brought to Life. Dulchase stared around in the cold darkness.

”Name of the Almin!” breathed the Deacon, nearly staggering in complete and total amazement as he realized where he was. ”The Hall of Life! I haven't been here since ... since ...”

The memory of eighteen years ago came quickly, though Dulchase often found he had trouble recalling incidents that occurred only yesterday. That was a hallmark of growing old, so he'd been told. One tended to live in the past. Well, and why not? It was a h.e.l.l of a lot more interesting than the present. Although that seemed likely to change, he thought, glancing about the dark Hall with a frown.

”Where is everyone?” he snapped at the young Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, who - hand on his arm - was guiding him through the maze of pews toward Merlyn's Thumb.

At least that was where the old Deacon guessed they were headed, judging from what he could remember of the lay of the room. The warlock walked in a path of light cast by his hand held before him, Dulchase stumbling along in his wake. He could see practically nothing. The Well of Life was in the exact center of the Hall, he recalled, searching around for it. Yes, there it was, glowing with a faint, phosph.o.r.escent radiance, but, beyond that, the Hall was almost pitch-dark. Then, suddenly, a single light flared ahead of them. Squinting into it, Dulchase tried to see its source, but it was so bright that all he could see were several figures pa.s.sing before it, eclipsing it momentarily.

The last time Dulchase had been here was to witness the trial of a male catalyst accused of joining with a young n.o.ble woman - Tanja or Anja or some such name. Ah! Dulchase shook his head in fond remembrance. The Hall had been crowded with members of his Order. All catalysts residing in the Font and in the home city of the accused - Merilon - had been required to attend. The details of the couple's crime had been described graphically by the Bishop in order to impress upon his flock the enormity of such a sin. Whether or not any were deterred from temptation because of it was never established. It was known that not one catalyst fell asleep during the three-day trial, and there had been such a state of fevered excitement among the novitiates at night that Evening Prayers had been lengthened from one hour to two for a month following.

Undoubtedly the punishment of the Turning - which all were called upon to witness - had a more profound effect. Dulchase still had nightdreams over that tragic scene. He kept seeing, over and over, the one hand of the man - as the stone slowly crept over his living body - clenching in a final gesture of hatred and defiance.