Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [120]
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