Doom of the Darksword Read online

  “Shut up!” snapped Mosiah furiously. Looking around, he caught hold of Simkin’s arm and dragged him into the library. “You idiot! How dare you talk like that? We’re in enough trouble as it is!” He slammed the door shut.

  “Are we?” asked Simkin, looking enthused. “How positively jolly. I was getting frightfully bored. What have we done? Not got caught in a compromising position? Our hand up her skirt?”

  “Will you quit it!” Mosiah said, shocked.

  “Down her bodice?”

  “Listen to me! Lord Samuels claims that Joram can’t prove his identity and nearly threw him out of the house last night, but Saryon had some kind of fit or something and they had to call the Theldara —”

  “The catalyst? A fit? How is the old boy?” asked Simkin coolly, helping himself to some of Lord Samuels’s brandy. “Ah, still domestic,” he muttered, frowning. “He could afford better. I wonder why he doesn’t? However, I suppose we must make allowances.” He drained the glass. “Not dead, is he?”

  “No!” snarled Mosiah. Catching hold of Simkin’s arm, he forcibly removed the brandy bottle. “No, he’s all right. But he has to rest. Lord Samuels said we could stay, but only until the Emperor’s party tomorrow night.”

  “What happens then?” Simkin asked, yawning. “Joram turn into a giant rat at the stroke of twelve?”

  “He’s supposed to meet someone there, some Theldara who saw him when he was a baby or something and can identify him as being Anja’s son.”

  Simkin looked puzzled. “I say, this all sounds quite amusing, but has it occurred to anyone that Joram has changed slightly since then? I mean, what are we going to do to nudge the old girl’s memory? Strip the dear boy and put him on a bearskin rug? I recall we did that with the — Oh, sorry. Swore on my mother’s grave I’d never tell that story.” He went extremely red. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Babies. It’s been my experience, you know, that all babies look alike. The Emperor’s mother and all that.”

  “What?” Pacing worriedly around the room, Mosiah was only half listening.

  “All babies look like the Emperor’s mother.” Simkin nodded profoundly. “Large round head that she can’t hold up, puffy cheeks, squinty eyes and this kind of befuddled expression —”

  “Oh, will you get serious?” Mosiah said in exasperation. “Joram’s got some kind of scars on him from when he was born. You know, you’ve seen them. Those little white marks on his chest?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever taken much interest in his chest,” remarked Simkin, “except to note a distinct lack of hair. I suppose, though, it all went to his head.”

  “There used to be talk in our village about those scars,” said Mosiah reflectively, ignoring Simkin. “I remembered Old Marm Hudspeth saying they were a curse; that Anja sank her teeth into him and sucked his blood. I never heard him say how he really got them. ’Course, it isn’t the type of question one asks Joram, after all. Maybe I was afraid to ask.” Mosiah gave a nervous laugh. “Maybe I was afraid he’d tell me….”

  “So now the curse becomes the blessing, just like in the House Magi’s tale,” said Simkin, a smile playing about his lips. He smoothed his mustache with one finger. “Our frog becomes a Prince….”

  “Not Prince,” said Mosiah, exasperated. “Baron.”

  “Sorry, dear boy,” said Simkin. “Forgot you grew up in the wilderness, illiterate and all that. Say,” he continued hurriedly, seeing Mosiah growing angry again, “I came back to get you all to come with me. Merriment and jollification taking place in the Grove of Merlyn, down below. Artists practicing the performances they’re going to present for His Boringness tomorrow night. Quite entertaining, really. One’s allowed to throw things if they botch the job. Starts any minute, near noon. Where’s Joram?”

  “He won’t come,” said Mosiah. “Lord Samuels told him he couldn’t see Gwendolyn anymore, not until this all was settled. But then Samuels left for the Guild, and Joram hopes to meet her anyhow. He’s been out in the garden since breakfast. Saryon’s too weak to go anywhere.”

  “Then it’s you and me, dear boy,” said Simkin, clapping Mosiah on the back. “I’ll bet you’ve been entombed in this place for days, haven’t you?”

  “Well …” Mosiah glanced outside longingly.

  “Relax! No need to worry about getting caught. You’ll be with me,” Simkin said easily. “I’ve the Emperor’s protection. No one dares touch me. Besides, there’ll be the most tremendous crowd. We’ll lose ourselves amidst the throng.”

  “Hah!” Mosiah snorted, giving Simkin’s glaring green finery a scathing glance. “I’d like to see you lose yourself …”

  “What? Don’t you like this?” the young man asked, wounded. “I call it Shocking Green Grape. Still, you are right. It does stand out a bit. I’ll tell you what. Come with me and I’ll tone it down. There” — he waved his hand — “how’s this? I’ll call it … let’s see … Rotting Plum. Now I’m as drab as you. I say, old fellow, do come.” Simkin yawned again, dabbing gloomily at his nose with the orange silk. “I’ve spent I don’t know how many hours at court simply bored to pieces. That happened to the Earl of Montbank, you know. During one of the Emperor’s stories. Most of us simply went to sleep, but when we awoke we found the Earl, scattered all about the parlor…. Anyway, I’ve had Dukes and Earls up to here! I thirst for the common touch.”

  “I’d like to give you a common touch!” Mosiah muttered, flexing his hands as Simkin wandered over to study the titles on Lord Samuels’s bookshelves.

  “What did you say, dear boy?” Simkin asked, half turning.

  “I’m thinking,” said Mosiah.

  Secretly, the young man was longing to see the Grove of Merlyn, said to be one of the wonders of Thimhallan. Touring these fabulously beautiful gardens, plus the chance to view the artistic delights of the illusionists, seemed a dream come true to the Field Magus. But he knew that Saryon wouldn’t want him to go outside; the catalyst had emphasized over and over again how important it was that they remain hidden indoors.

  We’ve been here almost two weeks, Mosiah told himself, and nothings happened. The catalyst is well-meaning, but he’s such a worrier! I’ll be careful. Besides, Simkin’s right. Strange as it may seem, he does have the Emperors protection….

  “I say,” said Simkin suddenly, “wouldn’t it be fun to change this highly somnambulic volume on The Diversity of Household Magics to something more interesting? Centaur Bondage, for example …”

  “No, it would not!” said Mosiah, making up his mind. “Come on, let’s get out of this place before you destroy what little credibility we have left around here.” Grasping hold of Simkin firmly by his drab, plum-colored sleeve, Mosiah dragged him out the door.

  Meekly allowing himself to be led along, Simkin cast a backward glance at the bookshelf, muttered a word, and winked. The orange silk fluttered through the air, wrapped itself around The Diversity of Household Magics, and then disappeared, leaving in its place another volume in a brown leather binding.

  “Complete with detailed, colorful illuminations,” said Simkin to himself, grinning in delight.

  Joram went walking in the garden that morning, hoping to meet Gwendolyn, just as she had gone walking, hoping to find him. But when he did come upon her, sitting listlessly among the roses in the company of Marie, the young man bowed coldly, turned, and began to walk away.

  He couldn’t bring himself to talk to her. What if she refused to speak to him? What if she could not love him for the person he was, instead of the person he might become?

  “And what if I don’t become a Baron?” Joram asked himself. The sudden realization that his plans and hopes and dreams might come falling down around him nearly buried him in the rubble. “Why didn’t I think of this last night? How could she love a man who doesn’t know who he is!”

  “Joram, please … Wait a moment …”

  He stopped, his back turned, refusing to look at her. Gwen had called out to him, but, behind him, he heard Marie’
s voice remonstrating in low tones — “Gwendolyn, go inside. Your father has forbidden —” and he smiled in bitter satisfaction.

  “I know what Papa said, Marie,” returned Gwen’s voice with a firmness born of sorrow and pain that sent a thrill through Joram’s heart, “and I will respect his wishes. I only want” — her voice faltered here — “to inquire after Father Dunstable. I should think you would be concerned about the catalyst’s health, as well,” she added in rebuke.

  Joram turned slightly as the voices drew nearer. He could see Gwen now, out of the corner of his eye. He saw the sleepless night in the shadows beneath the blue eyes. He saw the traces of the tears that not all the magic and rose water of Thimhallan could completely erase from the pale face. She had cried over losing him. His heart beat so he would not have been much surprised to see it leap out of his chest and fall at her feet.

  “Please, Joram, stay for just a moment. How is Father Dunstable this morning?”

  There was the touch of a soft hand upon his arm, and Joram looked into the blue eyes — eyes filled with such love, such unhappiness, that it was all he could do to keep himself from taking the young woman in his arms and, holding her close, shield her with his own body from the pain he was bound to inflict. For a moment his heart was too full for him to talk. He could only stare at her, the dark eyes burning with a fire warmer than any that ever melted iron.

  And yet what would they say to each other? Marie was watching them sternly, disapprovingly. Once I answer the question about the catalyst, Marie will order her charge inside. If Gwen refuses, there will be a scene … the House Magi summoned, perhaps even Lord Samuels….

  Joram looked at Gwen, Gwen looked up at him.

  Does the Almin hear the prayers of lovers?

  Certainly it seemed so, for at that moment there came a wail from inside the house.

  “Marie!” one of the House Magi shrieked. “Come quickly!”

  Another House Magi hurried out into the garden in search of the catalyst. Master Samuels, playing at being a bird, had actually flown into the aviary. He was now being chased by an angry peahen for disturbing her nest and appeared to be in dire peril of his life. The catalyst must come!

  Marie hesitated. The little boy might well be in danger of being pecked, but — wise woman that she was — she knew her darling in the garden was in worse danger still. Another wail, this one more frantic, sounded from Master Samuels. There was no help for it. Bidding Gwendolyn follow her immediately — a command Marie knew had about as much chance of being obeyed as if she had ordered the sun out of the sky — the catalyst sped off with the servant to rescue, soothe, and chastise Master Samuels.

  “I … can … only stay … a moment,” said Gwen. Blushing beneath the intense stare of the dark eyes and conscious that she was disobeying her father, she started to remove her hand from Joram’s arm when Joram caught hold of it.

  “Father Dunstable is resting comfortably this morning,” he said.

  “Please, don’t,” Gwen said, confused by the feelings his touch aroused in her. Gently pulling her hand away from him, she put both hands behind her back. “Papa wouldn’t … That is, I mustn’t … What were you saying about the kind Father?” she asked finally, desperately.

  “The Theldara said it was a … um … mild attack,” Joram continued, a prey to sudden longings and desires himself. “Something about the blood vessels constricting and preventing the blood from reaching the brain. I don’t understand it, but it could have been very bad, paralyzing him permanently. As it is, she said Father Dunstable’s own magic forces were able to completely heal the damage. I — I was going to thank Marie for her help,” Joram added gruffly, being little used to thanking anyone, “before she left. If you would do so when you go into the house …” Once more, he bowed and started to leave, and again, the soft hand on his arm stopped him.

  “I — I prayed to the Almin that he would be well again,” Gwen murmured in such a low voice that Joram had to move closer to her in order to hear. Gwen accidentally left her hand upon his arm and Joram was quick to capture it.

  “Is that all you prayed for?” he asked her softly, his lips brushing the golden hair.

  Gwendolyn felt the touch of his lips, soft as it had been. Her entire body was sensitive to him suddenly; her very hair seemed to tingle at his nearness. Raising her head, Gwen found herself much closer to Joram than she had expected. The strange feelings of pleasurable pain that had stirred within her when he held her hand became stronger and more frightening. She was very much aware of him, of his physical body, The lips that had touched her hair were parted, as though they thirsted. His arms were strong and they crept around her, drawing her into a darkness and a mystery that made her heart both stand still with fear and race with wild excitement.

  Alarmed, Gwen tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

  “Please, let me go,” she said faintly, averting her face, afraid to look up at him again, afraid of letting him see what she knew must be plain in her eyes.

  Instead, he pressed her close. The blood surged through her body; she was warm inside yet shaking with chills. She could feel his warmth surround her; his strength comforted her and, at the same time, frightened her. She lifted her head to look into his eyes and tell him to let her go …

  Somehow, the words were never spoken. They were on her lips but then his lips touched hers and the words were swallowed up, vanished in a thrill of sweet pain.

  Perhaps the Almin doesn’t hear the prayers of lovers, after all. If He did, He would have left them in that fragrant garden forever, clasped in each others arms. But the wailing of Master Samuels ceased, a door banged, and Gwen, blushing deeply, hurriedly tore herself free of Joram’s embrace.

  “I — I must go,” she cried, backing away, stumbling in panicked confusion.

  “Wait, one word!” Joram said swiftly, taking a step after her. “If … if … something happens, and I don’t receive the inheritance, will that matter to you, Gwendolyn?”

  She looked up at him. Maidenly confusion, girlish vanities melted in the desperate longing and hunger she saw within him. Her own love flowed out to fill this blank emptiness as the magic flows from the world through a catalyst to its user.

  “No! Oh, no!” she cried, and now it was she who reached out and clasped hold of him. “A week ago, I might have answered differently. Yesterday morning, even. Yesterday I was a girl playing at romance. But last night, when I knew I might lose you, I realized then it didn’t matter. Papa says I’m young and that I will forget you as I’ve forgotten others. He’s wrong. No matter what happens, Joram,” she said earnestly, moving nearer to him, “you are in my heart and you will stay there, always.”

  Joram bowed his head; he could say nothing. This was precious, so precious he dreaded to lose it. If he did lose it, he would die. Yet … he had to tell her. He had promised Saryon, he had promised himself.

  “I need you, Gwendolyn,” he said gruffly, gently withdrawing from her embrace but keeping hold of her hand. “Your love means everything to me! More than life …” He paused, clearing his throat. “But you don’t know anything about me, about my past,” he continued earnestly.

  “That doesn’t matter!” Gwen began.

  “Wait!” Joram said, gritting his teeth. “Listen to me, please. I’ve got to tell you. You must understand. You see, I’m D —”

  “Gwendolyn! Come inside this moment!”

  There was a rustling among the honeysuckle plants and Marie appeared. The catalysts usually cheerful, pleasant face was pale and angry as she glanced from the flushed, disheveled young woman to the pale, fervent young man. At the sight of her, Joram dropped Gwen’s hand, the words died on his lips. Catching hold of Gwendolyn, Marie led her away, scolding her angrily all the while.

  “But you won’t tell Papa, will you, Marie?” Joram heard Gwen say, her voice drifting back to him with the fragrance of the lilacs. “It was you who ran off and left me, after all. I wouldn’t want Papa to be mad at you …�
��

  Joram stood, staring after them, not knowing whether to curse the Almin or thank Him for His timely intervention.

  10

  The Grove of Merlyn

  The Grove of Merlyn was the cultural heart of Merilon. Built to honor the wizard who had led his people from the Dark World of the Dead to this one of Life, it was now a repository for the arts. The wizard’s tomb was the heart of the Grove. A ring of oak trees surrounded the tomb, patiently standing their guardian watch over the centuries. A carpet of lush, green grass spread out from the feet of the oaks, unrolling until it reached the tomb itself. The grass was soft and pleasant to walk on, the area around the tomb peaceful and quiet — which was probably the reason few people ever visited there.

  Outside the oak ring lay the main part of the Grove. Hedges of brilliant picket rose, whose blossoms were every color of the rainbow and then some, formed a gigantic maze around the tomb. Within this maze were small amphitheaters where artists painted, actors acted, clowns capered, and music played day in and day out. The maze itself was simple to navigate — visitors could, if lost, simply fly over the hedge rows. But this was considered “cheating.” Tall locust trees — standing higher than the hedges — were daily shaped by the Druids into fantastical “guides” through the maze, which itself shifted daily. Part of the fun of entering the Grove was to figure out the maze; the trees often offered “clues.” The fact that the maze always led to the tomb was considered its weakest point. Many of the nobility had been to the Emperor protesting this — stating that the tomb was outdated, ugly, and depressing. The Emperor discussed the matter with the Druids, but they were obstinate, refusing to change. Knowledgeable visitors, therefore, never penetrated the maze. It was only the uninitiated or uninformed tourist — like Mosiah — who followed it to its heart.