Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [160]
And then — what about children? Mosiah shook his head, running his hand over the tomb’s shaped marble, absently tracing the lines of the sword with his fingers. Would they be born Dead, like their father? Would he hide them, as so many of the Dead were hidden? Was the lie to be perpetuated through generation after generation?
Mosiah could see a darkness spreading over the family, casting its shadow first over Gwendolyn, who would bear Dead children and never know why. Then the children, living a lie — Joram’s lie. Perhaps he would teach them the Dark Arts. Perhaps, by then, there would be war with Sharakan. Technology would come back into the world and bring with it death and destruction. Mosiah shuddered. He didn’t like Merilon, he didn’t like the people or the way they lived. The beauty and wonder that had first enchanted him now glittered too brightly in his eyes. But he supposed this to be his fault, not the fault of the people of Merilon. They didn’t deserve —
A hand touched his shoulder from behind.
He turned instantly but it was too late.
A voice spoke, the spell was cast.
Life flowed from Mosiah and was greedily absorbed by the Grove as the young man tumbled, helpless, to the ground, his magic nulled by the hand of the black-robed figures that stood around him. But Mosiah had lived among the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. He had been forced to live without the magic for months during that time and, what’s more, he had been a victim of this spell before. Its shock value was lessened and therefore the Nullmagic spell — though its first effect was devastating — did not paralyze him completely.
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