Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [126]
But he couldn’t make himself heard.
“The Emperor! Let’s go show the Emperor!”
Everyone picked up the cry. Laughing and pushing, Mosiahs began to call for the carriages. Mosiahs conjured up carriages. Some Mosiahs simply vanished. Corridors popped open in multitudes, large holes into nothingness, until the air in the Grove began to resemble rat-gnawed cheese. Mosiahs by the hundreds stepped into these, throwing the Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters, into vast confusion.
“You know,” said Simkin/Mosiah in satisfaction, pulling a bit of orange silk from the air and dabbing at his nose with it, “I am a genius.”
Stepping into a Corridor, he dragged another Mosiah after him. “I say, old chap,” one of the befuddled Thon-Li heard him ask, “that is really you, isn’t it?”
11
On the Run
“Mosiah, that fool!” Joram fumed, packing back and forth. “Why did he leave the house?”
“I think Mosiahs been remarkably patient. After all, you can’t expect him to share your interests in gardening,” Saryon said acidly. “He’s been cooped up in this house for well over a week with nothing to do but read books while you have —”
“All right, all right!” Joram interrupted irritably. “Spare me the sermon.”
Sighing, his brow furrowed in concern, Saryon lay back among his pillows, his hands plucking nervously at the sheets. It was evening. Mosiah had been gone all day, no one knew where. Not that anyone in their host’s household was particularly worried. It was perfectly natural that the young man should get out and see the sights of Merilon.
Joram ate dinner with the family, and though Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were polite, they were cold and detached. (Had they known about the incident in the family garden, they might have been decidedly warmer, but Marie kept her young mistress’s secret.) The talk at dinner centered around Simkin. He’d performed a marvelous illusion in Merlyn’s Grove that afternoon. No one knew the details, but it had created a sensation in the city.
“I hope Simkin comes back tomorrow, to escort us to the ball, don’t you, Joram?” Gwendolyn dared address this remark to the young man. Before he could answer, however, Lord Samuels intervened.
“I think you should go to your room now, Gwen,” he said coolly. “Tomorrow will be a busy day. You need your sleep.”
“Yes, Papa,” Gwen replied, obediently rising from the table and retiring to her room; not, however, without a backward glance at her beloved.
Joram took the opportunity to leave the table as well, saying abruptly that he must return to the catalyst.
Weak but now conscious, Saryon was able to sit up in his bed, and even consume a small amount of broth. The Theldara had visited him in the morning and pronounced him recovered, though she had advised rest, the continuation of the soothing music, aromatic herbs, and the broth of a chicken. She had also hinted strongly that she would be willing to talk about anything the catalyst felt like discussing. Saryon had accepted the music, the herbs, and broth, but had said humbly that he had nothing to discuss. The Theldara had left, shaking her head.
Over and over, Saryon considered his dilemma. In a fevered dream, he saw Joram as the fool in the tarok deck — walking the edge of a cliff, his eyes on the sun above him, while a chasm yawned at his feet. More than once, Saryon started to tell him the truth, to stretch out the hand that would keep him from tumbling over the cliff. But just as he started to do so, he woke up.
“That would open his eyes to the chasm,” the catalyst muttered to himself, “but would he meekly draw back from the edge? No! Prince of Merilon. It would be all he dreamed. And he wouldn’t understand that they would destroy him…. No,” the catalyst decided after endless reflection. “No. I will not tell him. I cannot. What is the worst that will happen to him now? He will meet this Theldara and be revealed as an imposter. Lord Samuels will not want to create a scene at the Palace. I will take Joram and we will leave the Palace quickly and quietly. We will go to Sharakan.”
Saryon