Mosiah was shrewd enough not to let his enemies know that, however. Lying on the ground, his cheek pressed into the damp, cold grass, 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, 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 shivering 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.”
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 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 grass 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 grass, 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 pricking 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! Damn 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.
“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 hell in there thish time of night.”
“I don’t want you to go in there, either,” Gwendolyn added, shivering in the night air. Though the 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 Sif-Hanar 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 glasses of champagne.
“Duck-shrith 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 grass.
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 grass, “‘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 grass and Gwendolyn did not walk at all but drifted in the air by his side, the noise they made in passing 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 grass, 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 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….
“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 reassuring 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 hestitate, 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 withou
t me.”
“Deacon!” said a commanding voice urgently, continuing to harrass 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!” 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 amusement. “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. “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 continued in his cool voice. “The Bishop requests you hurry. The matter is urgent.” The warlock shook out the robes carefully. “I will assist 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.
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