The Field Magus had seen the ring of oaks from a distance and felt drawn to them; they reminded him of his home on the borders of the forest. Upon reaching the trees, he discovered the tomb, and entered the sacred ring with reverential awe. Coming to stand beside the ancient tomb of the wizard, Mosiah laid his hand upon the stone that had been shaped out of love and grief. It was a simple tomb, made of white marble magically enhanced so that no trace of another color marred the stone’s purity. It stood four feet high and was six feet long and — at first glimpse — appeared plain and unadorned.
Solemnly, whispering a prayer to propitiate the spirits of the dead, the young man ran his hand along the tomb’s surface. The marble felt warm to the touch in the Groves humid air, and there was a sense of deep sadness lingering about the tomb that made Mosiah understand, suddenly, why the revelers avoided this place.
It was the sadness of homesickness, he realized, recognizing and identifying the feeling that was growing on him. Even though the old wizard had left his world willingly to bring his people to a world where they could live and thrive without persecution, he had never felt at home here.
“His mortal remains are buried in this ground. I wonder where his spirit lives?” Mosiah murmured.
Moving to stand at the tomb’s head, still running his hand across the smooth marble, Mosiah felt ridges beneath his finger. There was something carved into the surface. Slowly he walked around the tomb to where he could see the shadows cast by the sun’s light, and on the opposite side, he could barely make out what had been etched in the rock. The wizard’s name in ancient letters and something beneath it he could not read. Then … something else below that …
Mosiah gasped.
Hearing a snicker, he looked around to find Simkin standing beside him, an amused smile upon his face. “I say, dear boy, you are a delight to take places. You gape and gawk to perfection, and over the oddest things, too. Can’t imagine why you enjoy hanging about this moldy old ruin, though …” Simkin added with a disparaging glance at the tomb.
“I wasn’t gawking,” Mosiah muttered irritably. “And don’t talk about this place like that! It seems sacrilegious somehow. Do you know anything about this?” He gestured at the tomb.
Simkin shrugged. “I know so much, one thing blends with another. Try me.”
“Why is there a sword on it?” Mosiah asked, pointing to the figure carved below the wizard’s name.
“Why not?” Simkin yawned.
“A weapon of the Dark Arts, on a wizard’s tomb?” Mosiah said, shocked. “He wasn’t a Sorcerer, was he?”
“Almin’s blood, didn’t they teach you anything except how to plant potatoes?” Simkin snorted. “Of course he wasn’t a Sorcerer. DKarn-Duuk, a warlock of the highest ranking. According to legend, he asked that the sword be carved there. Something about a King and an enchanted realm where all the tables were round and they dressed in clothes made of iron to go on quests after cups and saucers.”
“Oh, for the love of — Just forget it!” Mosiah said, exasperated.
“I’m telling the truth,” Simkin said loftily. “The cups and saucers were of religious significance. They kept trying to get a complete set. And now, are you going to stand here all day moping or shall we have some fun? The illusionists and shapers are in the pavilion, practicing.”
“I’ll go,” said Mosiah, glancing in the direction Simkin indicated. Beautiful, multicolored silk streamers hung suspended from midair, fluttering magically over the crowd. He could hear tantalizing sounds of laughter, gasps of wonder and awe, and applause coming from all directions, and his pulse beat faster at the thought of the marvels he was to soon witness. Yet, as he turned from the tomb, he felt a stab of pain and regret. It was so quiet here, so peaceful …
“I wonder what happened to the enchanted realm?” Mosiah murmured, running his hand for the last time over the warm marble as they started to leave.
“What always happens to enchanted realms. I suppose,” Simkin said languidly, pulling the orange silk from the air and dabbing his nose with it. “Someone woke up and the dream ended.”
Throngs of people floated and hovered and drifted beneath the gaily colored silks of the illusionist amphitheater. Mosiah had never imagined so many people could be in one place at one time, and he stopped at the entrance, daunted by the crowd. But Simkin, darting here and there like a bright-plumaged bird, put his hand on his friend’s arm and guided him into the pavilion with surprising ease. Flitting into this person, dancing around that one, brushing up against another, Simkin kept up a steady flow of lively conversation as he moved ever nearer the front of the crowd.
“Beg pardon, old chap. Was that your foot? Mistook it for a cauliflower. You should really have the Theldara do something about those toes…. Just passing through, don’t mind us. Do you like this ensemble? I call it Rotting Plum. Yes, I know it’s not up to my usual standards, but my friend and I are supposed to be traveling incognito. Pray take no notice of us. Duke Richlow! Sink me! In town for the gala? Did I do that? Frightfully sorry, old boy. Must’ve jostled your elbow. Actually that wine stain rather helps your somewhat drab robe, if you don’t mind my saying — Well … if you’ve no imagination, allow me.” Simkin snatched the orange silk out of the air. “I’ll have you as spotless, old chap, as your wife’s reputation. Ah, is it my fault you drink this cheap brand that won’t wash out? Try a lemon rinse. It does wonders for the Duchess’s hair, doesn’t it? Ah, Contessa! Charmed. And your privileged escort? I don’t believe we’ve met. Simkin, at your service. Any relation to the Contessa? Cousin? Yes, of course, I should have known. You’re about the eighth cousin I’ve met. Kissing cousin, too, I’ll wager. I envy the Contessa her large family … and you are unaccountably large, aren’t you, dear boy? I was just thinking, Contessa, it’s such a coincidence that all your cousins are male, six feet tall, with such perfect teeth …”
Heads turned. People laughed and pointed, some floating higher or lower to get a better view, many moving nearer to hear the irreverent young man’s barbed comments. Floundering along in Simkin’s wake, Mosiah felt his skin alternately burn with embarrassment or go cold with fear. In vain he tugged on Simkin’s sleeve — which once came off in his hand to the delight of two Earls and a Marchioness — in vain he reminded him in a low voice that they were supposed to be “mingling with the throng.” This only goaded Simkin to perpetrate greater outrages — such as changing his clothes five times in as many minutes “to throw off pursuit.”
Glancing about uneasily Mosiah expected any moment to see the black-robed figures of the Duuk-tsarith appear. But no black hoods shot up from among the flowered and plumed and bejeweled heads, no correctly folded hands cast a pall over the laughter and merriment. Gradually, Mosiah began to relax and even to enjoy himself, figuring that the dread watchers must not find much to watch in this gay throng.
Simkin could have told Mosiah — had the innocent Field Magus asked — that the Duuk-tsarith were here as they were everywhere, watching and listening, discreet and unobserved. Let the tiniest ripple mar the glittering surface of the festivities and they were present in an eyeblink to smooth it out. Three university students — having imbibed too much champagne — began singing songs considered to be in poor taste. A dark shadow appeared, like a cloud passing over the sun, and the students were gone, to sleep off their inebriation.
A troupe of players, presenting what they thought was a harmless little satire on the Emperor, were whisked away at intermission with such skill and dispatch that the audience never noticed and left, thinking the play had ended. A cutpurse was apprehended, punished, and released so swiftly and silently that the wretched fellow had the feeling it had all been some sort of horrible nightdream except that his hands — now magically deformed so that they were five times larger than normal — were a monstrous reality.
Mosiah knew nothing of this, he saw nothing. He was not intended to see or know. The pleasure of the crowd must not be disturbed. And so he forgot himself,
forgot his plain clothing (Simkin had offered to change it but Mosiah — after seeing himself attired in rosebud-pink silk trousers — adamantly refused), and gave himself up to the beauty that surrounded him. He even managed, more or less, to forget about Simkin. No one seemed to take offense at the bearded young man’s offhanded insults or scandalous remarks. He dragged so many skeletons out of closets that Mosiah expected to see them dancing along behind him. But though here and there a noble mustache quivered or a rouged cheek paled, the Dukes and Barons, Countesses and Princesses, mopped up their own blood and watched in delight as Simkin neatly knifed his next victim.
Knowing that he would soon get lost by himself, Mosiah stayed near the witty fool. But his attention left the finely dressed lords and ladies who obviously had no use for him either. They took in his simple clothes and sunburned skin, his calloused hands and work-thickened arms, and appeared to spit him out again immediately, their lips twisting as though he’d left behind a bad taste.
“Why does Joram want to be a part of this?” Mosiah asked himself as Simkin stopped to stab yet another merry party with his rapier wit. The feeling of homesickness that Mosiah had experienced beside the tomb of the wizard returned. He had never felt more alone than when surrounded by these people who cared nothing for him. Memories of his father and mother came back to him and tears stung his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he swallowed them, hoping no one noticed. Then, to wrench his mind free of its childish wallowings, he began to concentrate on the floating stage in front of him.
Mosiah’s eyes widened, his breath left him in a sigh, and he was so enthralled that he slowly drifted down to stand on the soft green grass. He had been so confused by the crowd, so intent on watching for the Duuk-tsarith, and so flurried by Simkin that he had passed by several such stages without noticing what was going on. But this … this was remarkable! He had never dreamed of anything so wonderful.
Actually, it was nothing more than a Water Dancer. She was good, but not great, and Mosiah, a small group of children, an elderly catalyst who was half blind, and two moderately drunk university students were her only audience. The children soon flew off, bored. The catalyst took a short nap standing up and the university students wavered off in search of more wine. But Mosiah stayed, enraptured.
The stage — a platform of crystal — floated above one of the many sparkling streams that ran through the Grove; the Druids having altered the course of the great river that flowed through Merilon, bringing it into the Grove so that it could provide nourishment to the plants and trees and entertainment to the populace. Using her magical arts, the Water Dancer caused the waters of the stream below her stage to leap up and join her in her ballet.
The young girl was lovely, with hair the color of the water. She seemed clothed in water, too; her thin wet gown clinging to her lithe body as the water spiraled up and twisted about her in an intricate dance. By her magical arts, the water came to life. It caught her and held her in its foaming arms; the rippling of her own body made her one with her element.
Too soon the dance ended. Mosiah thought he might have watched until the river itself dried up. The girl on her crystal stage — water running from her body in sparkling rivulets — waited a moment, smiling down on Mosiah expectantly. Then, seeing that he had no money to throw to her, she tossed her wet blue hair and caused the stage to rise up in the air, drifting further downstream.
Mosiah followed her with his eyes and was just about to take the rest of his body along when he suddenly became aware of a crowd gathering around him. Startled, he discovered that Simkin had floated down out of the air to stand beside him on the grass. The bearded young man had changed his dress, too. He was now wearing the motley and cap and bells of a fool, and he was, Mosiah slowly realized in growing alarm, gesturing at him.
“Brought to you, lords and ladies, at great expense and tremendous personal risk from the darkest, deepest wilderness of the Outland! Here it is, lords and ladies, the genuine article, the only one in Merilon. I present for your enjoyment — a peasant!”
The crowd laughed appreciatively. Mosiah, blood pounding in his ears, caught hold of Simkin by a multicolored arm. “What are you doing?” he snarled.
“Go along with me, there’s a good chap!” Simkin muttered in an undertone. “Look, over there! The Kan-Hanar who nearly caught us at the Gate! Told him we were actors, remember? Must appear legitimate, mustn’t we?”
Suddenly he shoved Mosiah backward. “Ye gads! It’s attacking!” he shouted. “Savage creatures, these peasants, lords and ladies. Back, I say! Back!” Taking off his belled cap, Simkin waved it furiously at Mosiah, to the enjoyment of the crowd.
Staring at Simkin in confusion, Mosiah was wondering fleetingly if he had enough Life within him to turn himself invisible, or at least enough to choke Simkin to death, when the bearded young man came dancing up to him and began stroking his nose!
“See here?” Simkin called to the audience. “Quite docile. At the close of the act, I’ll put my head in his mouth. What are you doing, Mosiah?” Simkin hissed in his friend’s ear. “Strolling troupe of players, what? Remember? The Kan-Hanar is watching! You’re doing a remarkable impression of a flounder, dear boy, but I’m afraid someone’s going to find it a bit fishy after a while. Come up with something more original. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves….”
“You’ve already taken care of that! What the devil am I supposed to do?” Mosiah whispered back angrily.
“Bow, bow,” said Simkin between clenched teeth. Smiling and bowing and waving his hat to the crowd, he put his hand on the back of Mosiah’s neck. Digging his fingers into his skin, Simkin forced his “savage peasant” to duck his head awkwardly. “Let’s see,” he muttered, “are you lyrical? Can you sing, dance, tell the odd joke? Keep bowing. No? Mmmmm. I’ve got it! Swallowing fire! Perfectly simple. You don’t suffer from gas, do you? Might be dangerous …”
“Just leave me alone!” Mosiah snapped, breaking away from Simkin with difficulty. Standing up, his face flushed and his palms sweating, he faced the crowd, who were staring at him expectantly. Mosiah’s limbs were as cold as ice; he was frozen, unable to move or speak or even think. Looking out at the people hovering over him, staring down at him as he stood on the grass, Mosiah saw the Kan-Hanar — or at least it was a man in the robes of the Kan-Hanar. He couldn’t be certain if it had been the one at the Gate or not. Still, he supposed they couldn’t take chances. Now, if there was only something he could do! …
“Hey, Simkin! Your peasant’s boring. Take him back to the Outland —”
“No, wait! Look! What’s he doing?”
“Ah, that’s more like it. He’s painting! How original!”
“What is that?”
“It’s … yes, my dear … it’s a house. Made out of a tree! How marvelous and primitive. I’ve heard the Field Magi live in these quaint little hovels but I never thought I’d see one! Isn’t this fun? This must be his village he’s painting for us…. Bravo, peasant! Bravo!”
The comments continued, along with the applause. Simkin was saying something, but Mosiah couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything anymore. He was listening to the voices from his past. He was painting a picture, a living picture, using the air for his canvas, his homesickness for his brush.
The crowd around the young man grew larger as the images created by Mosiah’s magic shifted and changed in the air above his head. As the images became clearer and more detailed — the young man’s memory giving them life — the laughter and the excited chatter of the crowd gave way to murmurs. Then awed silence. No one stirred or even spoke. All watched as Mosiah portrayed to the glittering, gay audience the lives of the Field Magi.
The people of Merilon saw the houses that had once been trees, their trunks magically transformed by the Druids into crude dwellings, the roofs made of branches woven and thatched together. Fierce winds of winter drove the snow through the cracks in the wood, while the magi expended their precious Life to surround their chil
dren with bubbles of warmth. They saw the magi eating their scant meals while outside, in the snow, wolves and other hunger-driven beasts prowled and nosed about, smelling warm blood. They saw a mother cradle a dead infant in her arms.
Winter eased his cruel grip, allowing the warmth of spring to seep through his fingers. The magi returned to the fields, breaking up ground that was still half-frozen or plodding in mud to their knees when the rains came. Then they took to the air, seeds falling from their fingers to the plowed earth, or they set the seedlings, nurtured through the dying days of winter, into the soil. Children worked beside their parents, rising at dawn and returning to their homes when the light of day failed.
Summer brought land to be cleared, homes repaired, and the never-ending weeding and tending of the young plants, the constant fight with bugs and animals for a share in the crops, the burning sun by day and the often violent thunderstorms by night. But there were simple pleasures, too. The catalyst and his young charges out during the noon hour, the children tumbling through the air, learning to use the Life that would eventually earn them their bread. There were the few, peaceful moments between dusk and nightfall when the Field Magi gathered together at day’s end. There was Almin’s Day. They spent the morning listening to the reedy voice of the catalyst describing a heaven of golden gates and marble halls that they did not recognize. In the afternoon, they worked twice as hard to make up for lost time.
Fall brought fiery colors to the trees and hours of back-breaking labor to the Field Magi as they harvested the fruits of their toil, only a part of which they would ever share in. The Ariels came flying to the village, bearing huge golden disks. The magi loaded the corn and potatoes, wheat and barley, vegetables and fruits, onto the disks and watched as the Ariels bore them away to the granaries and storage houses of the nobleman who owned the lands. When this was done, they took their own small share and planned how to make it last the winter, already breathing on them with his bitter breath. Their children gleaned in the fields, picking up every vestige and scrap, each grain as precious as a jewel.
Doom of the Darksword Page 28