Gwendolyn had heard Joram’s anguished cry, she had heard his rage and his anger, and the girl longed to run away. But the woman stayed, and it was the woman Joram faced when he slashed through the door. He stared at her grimly, sword in hand. Blazing fiercely and brightly, its glow was reflected in the blue eyes that looked at him from the ashen face.
He knew she had heard it all and he felt suddenly a vast and overwhelming sense of relief. He could see the horror in her eyes. Next would come the pity and then the loathing. He wouldn’t avoid it. He would hurry it, in fact. It would be so much easier to leave hating her. He could sink thankfully into the darkness, knowing that he would never rise again.
“So, lady” — he spoke in low tones, as fierce as the sword’s bright light — “you know. You know that I am no one, nobody.” His face grim, Joram raised the Darksword, watching its white-blue blaze burn in the wide, staring eyes of the woman in the hall. “You once said that whatever I was would not matter to you, Gwendolyn. That you would love me and come with me.” Slowly, switching the Darksword to his left hand, Joram held out his right. “Come with me, then.” He sneered. “Or were your words lies like the words of all the rest?”
What could she do? He spoke arrogantly, goading her to refusal. Yet Gwen saw behind that; she saw the pain and anguish in his eyes. She knew that if she rebuffed him, if she turned from him, he would walk into the arid desert of his despair and sink beneath the sand. He needed her. As his sword drank up the magic of the world, so did his thirst for love drink up all she had to offer.
“No, not a lie,” she said in a calm, steady voice.
Reaching out her hand, she caught hold of his. Joram stared at her in astonishment, struggling with himself. It seemed for a moment that he might hurl her away from him. But she held onto him tightly, gazing at him with steadfast love and resolve.
Joram lowered the Darksword. Still holding Gwen’s hand, he hung his head and began to cry — bitter, anguished sobs that tore at his body so that it seemed they might rend him in half. Gently, Gwen put her arms around him and gathered him close, soothing him as she would a child.
“Come, we must go,” she whispered. “This place is dangerous for you now.”
Joram clung to her. Lost and wandering in his inner darkness, he had no thought of where he was, no care for his own safety. He would have sunk to the floor were it not for her arms around him.
“Come!” she whispered urgently.
Dully, he nodded. His stumbling feet followed her lead.
“Gwendolyn! No! My child!” Lord Samuels called out to her, pleading. He tried desperately to move, but the Darksword had drained his Life. He could only stand, helplessly, watching.
Without a backward glance at her father, Gwendolyn led the man she had chosen to love away.
6
Here’s to Folly
Uncertain what to do or where to go, Gwen led Joram to the Fire level. Here, in a dark alcove made even darker and more shadowy by the fiery illusions around them, the couple hid, starting at every sound, scarcely willing to draw a breath.
“We must get away, before the Duuk-tsarith start searching for us, if they haven’t already,” Gwen whispered. “How long will my father be under that spell?”
Joram had regained a measure of control, though he held onto Gwen as a dying man clings to life. His arm around her, he pressed her close, his dark head resting on her golden one, his tears drying in her soft hair.
“I don’t know,” Joram admitted bitterly, glancing at the Darksword in his left hand. “But not long, I should imagine. I don’t really know how this sword functions yet.”
Looking at the ugly, misshapen weapon, Gwen shuddered. Joram drew her closer, protectively, ignoring the realization that it was himself from which he sought to protect her.
She did not understand, but she nodded anyway. Frightened and confused, already half regretting her decision, her own heart torn with sorrow for what she knew would be a devastating blow to her family, Gwendolyn was further confused by the stirrings of a painful pleasure she felt at being held fast in Joram’s embrace. She longed to stay here, held close to his fast-beating heart. She wanted, in fact, to get closer, somehow, to feel the pleasure and the pain expand within her. But the thought of that made her quail with a fear that was cold in the pit of her stomach. And all-encompassing was the more real and pressing fear of capture.
“If we can get away from the Palace,” she asked, “where will we go?”
“To the Grove of Merlyn,” Joram said immediately, suddenly seeing everything clearly in his mind. “Mosiah is waiting for us there. We’ll slip out of the Gate …” He paused, frowning. “Simkin. We need Simkin! He can get us out. Then, once we’re away from this cursed city, we’ll travel to Sharakan.”
“Sharakan!” Gwen gasped, her eyes widening in alarm.
Joram smiled at her briefly, reassuringly. “I know the Prince there,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine.” He fell silent, staring off into the distance. Perhaps Garald wasn’t his friend. Not anymore, now that he was nobody. No. He shook his head. After all, he had the Darksword. He knew of darkstone and how to forge it. That made him someone. His expression grew grim, fierce. “And I’ll forge darkstone,” he muttered. “We’ll raise an army. I’ll return to Merilon,” he said softly, his grip tightening on the sword. “And whatever I want I will take! That, too, will make me somebody!”
Feeling Gwendolyn shiver in his grasp, Joram looked down into the blue eyes. “Don’t be frightened,” he murmured, relaxing. “It will all be all right. You will see. I love you. I would never do anything to hurt you.” Bending down, he kissed her gently on the forehead. “We will be married in Sharakan,” he added, feeling her trembling lessen. “Perhaps the Prince himself will come to our wedding….”
“Egad!” came a voice from out of the fiery, illusionary inferno that surrounded them. “Here’s the Black Death searching high and low, nook and cranny, hither and yon for you two and I find you playing at slap and tickle in a corner!”
Joram whirled about, sword raised. “Simkin!”, he gasped, when he could breathe normally again. “Don’t creep up on me like that!” Lowering the sword, Joram wiped sweat from his face with the back of his swordhand. Gwen crept out from behind him, half-smothered from being pressed back against the wall.
“My dear turtledoves,” said Simkin casually, “I can assure you that something much nastier and uglier than myself is likely to be creeping up on you at any moment. The alarm has been sounded.”
Joram listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
“You won’t, old bean.” Simkin smoothed his beard with his hand. “This is the Palace, remember? Wouldn’t do to upset His Majesty or to startle the Empress in her fragile state of health. But rest assured that there are eyes seeking and ears pricking and noses twitching. The Corridors are alive.”
“It’s hopeless,” whispered Gwen, slumping back against Joram, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“No, no. Quite the contrary,” Simkin remarked. “Your fool is here to save you from your folly. Rather a nice ring to that. I must remember it.” Tilting his head back affectedly, Simkin peered at Gwen down his long nose. “You will make a charming Mosiah, my dear. One of my better ones.” Wafting the orange silk that appeared suddenly in his hand, Simkin laid it solemnly over Gwen’s head before she could protest, spoke a word or two, then, “Abracadabra!” he cried, whipping the silk away.
Mosiah leaned against Joram now, brushing tears from his face. Looking down at himself, he gave a cry of dismay and stared wildly back at Simkin.
“Charming,” said Simkin, eyeing him complacently and with a glint of mischievous fun. “It’s all the rage, you know.”
Flushing, Joram started to remove his arm from the shoulders of what was now a virile, handsome young man. But the virile, handsome young man was in truth a frightened young girl. It was Gwen who had been strong at the outset, guiding the despairing Joram away from the room where her father stood, a he
lpless statue of flesh. It was she who had found this hiding place, she who had laid Joram’s head upon her breast, comforting and holding him until he could fight back the darkness that was always there, ready to enslave him.
But now her strength was ebbing. The image of the 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.
“Damn 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 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 naïve 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 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 glass sounded in response and an entire battalion of glasses filled with bubbling wine came floating through the air to fall in behind their leader.
“One each,” said Simkin, thrusting a full glass into Mosiahs limp hand and another into Joram’s. “Remember, gaiety, merriment, time of your lives!”
Raising his glass 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 glasses 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 reassuringly to himself at least once every five minutes since night had fallen. Unfortunately, it had done little good. He was far from reassured. 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 grass. 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 prickle 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 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.
Doom of the Darksword Page 36