Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [159]
“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
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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