Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [162]
The warlock thrust him into the Corridor. It began to squeeze shut, pressing in on him. The thorns stabbed his flesh; his blood flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of the witch — now himself — watching him, her face — his face — expressionless.
Then, she spread her hands.
“It’s all the rage,” he saw himself say.
8
The Illusion of a Thousand Mosiahs
“I don’t want to go in there, Gwendolyn faltered, gazing into the whispering blackness of the Grove.
“You … you and me … both,” slurred Simkin, staggering into Joram and nearly knocking him over.
Irritably, Joram caught hold of the young man as Simkin’s knees gave way and he sagged to the ground. Throwing his arms around Joram’s neck, Simkin whispered confidentially. “B-boring as hell in there thish time of night.”
“I don’t want you to go in there, either,” Gwendolyn added, shivering in the night air. Though the Sif-Hanar may have kept the balmy breezes of spring blowing in the city above, the thickness of the foliage in the Garden kept it much cooler than the city. Or perhaps there was a chill within the Grove at night that not even the magic of the Sif-Hanar could warm.
“Why couldn’t your friend have met us outside?”
“He’s on the run, remember,” Joram answered, supporting Simkin, who was peering around with drunken solemnity, “like we are. Life will be different from now on, my lady.”
He didn’t mean to be harsh, but his anger and disappointment — submerged in the fear-laced excitement of escaping the Palace — had returned with the ride through Merilon on the wings of the black swan. It was further enhanced by the gloomy, forbidding atmosphere of the Grove and his irritation with Simkin, who had thoughtfully drunk all the glasses of champagne.
“Duck-shrith won’t be able … track ush … by trail of bubbles,” he declared.
Gwendolyn hung her head. She was back to her own form now, and to see the golden head drooping, the delicate body slump — hurt by his words – made Joram realize he would have to watch more carefully than ever to keep the dark beast chained up inside him.
“Stand up!” he snapped at Simkin, shoving him to an upright position.
“Aye, aye, cap’n.” Simkin saluted, did a graceful pirouette, and sat down flat on the grass.
Ignoring him, Joram took Gwendolyn in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize,” Gwen said, making a small attempt at a smile. “You are right. I must begin to consider things like that.” Thrusting Joram from her, she stood tall, her lips firm, her head thrown back. “I’ll go in there with you,” she said.
“No, there’s no need,” Joram said, smiling the half smile that was lost in the darkness of the night. “You stay here with Simkin —”
“‘Stay with me and be my love,’” recited Simkin drunkenly from where he sat in the grass, “‘And we will cauliflowers grow’
“On second thought,” said Joram, “perhaps you had better come with me.”
“I will. I’d rather! I won’t be frightened. Not any more. I want you to be proud of me,” Gwen added wistfully.
“I am. And I love you!” Joram said, leaning down to brush his lips against hers, spreading balm over the wound festering in his soul. “Come with me, then. It isn’t far. Mosiah will be by the tomb. We’ll fetch him, and pick up this drunken sot on the way back. Then it’s out the Gate as easily as we escaped the Palace and we’re on our way to Sharakan!”
“What drunken sot?” asked Simkin, glaring around indignantly. “One thing, can’t abide. Man … doesn’t know … when to quit …”
* * *
Holding fast to each other’s hands, a prey to the same feelings and unreasoning fears Mosiah had experienced in the angry Grove, Joram and Gwendolyn walked at a rapid pace, eager to meet their friend and leave this place. They did not talk. There was a hush over the Grove. Not a hush of peaceful repose, but a hush of in-held breath, the hush of the