Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [163]
Following the stream that babbled merrily during the day but now ran through its banks as silently and malevolently as a snake slipping through the grass, Gwen and Joram made their way easily through the maze and came at last to the heart of the Grove.
The tomb of Merlyn stood alone in the center of the ring of oaks, its white marble glowing more cold and pale than the moon. The lovers clasp tightened, they moved closer together. Joram was suddenly conscious of his white robes, gleaming in the eerie light reflected from the tomb. Once he stepped out into the open, he would be an easy target.
Not that there was anything to fear, he reminded himself. How could there be? They had escaped the Palace….
“Wait!” he cautioned Gwen, and held back in the shadows of the trees which — though they were not friendly shadows — covered them both with a mantle of darkness. The two waited, watching, barely breathing. The glade appeared empty. There was no one by the tomb. Or was there? Was that a figure moving near it? It was too far to distinguish….
Joram’s hand itched to draw the Darksword, but he dared not. The sword would begin to suck up magic, draining both Gwen’s strength and Mosiah’s. They might need all the strength and all the magic these two possessed to get past the Gate; Joram bitterly counting Simkin as less than useless at this point.
“I think that’s your friend!” whispered Gwen, squeezing Joram’s hand.
“Yes.” Joram stared into the darkness, seeing the figure walk around to the side of the tomb near them. “Yes, you’re right! That’s Mosiah. No, you wait here for us.” He released her hand and started forward.
“Joram!” Gwen caught hold of the sleeve of his white robe.
“What, my dear?” His voice was gentle. He turned to face her, forcing his expression to one of patience. But he must not have fooled her, because her hand dropped from his sleeve limply.
“Nothing,” she said with a fleeting smile barely seen in the tombs ghostly light. “Only my foolish fears again. Please hurry, though,” she said through lips so stiff she could barely move them.
“I will,” he promised, and with a reassuring smile, he turned and walked out into the glade.
“Mosiah!” he risked calling softly into the night.
The figure turned, startled, peering into the darkness. Joram raised a hand. Then, as he saw the figure hestitate, it occurred to him that Mosiah wouldn’t be expecting him in white robes. He was near enough now to see his friend’s features, and he threw back the hood so that Mosiah could see his face.
“It’s me, Joram!” he said more loudly, his confidence growing at the sight of his friends familiar features.
At this, Mosiah grinned and let out a sigh of relief that echoed through the Glade. Arms outstretched, he hurried forward, and before Joram quite knew what was happening, his friend had clasped him in a thankful embrace.
“Name of the Almin, it’s good to see you!” Mosiah said, hugging his friend close. “Where is everyone?”
“Gwen’s waiting up by those trees,” Joram began, awkwardly returning his friend’s embrace, then instinctively endeavoring to free himself from Mosiah’s arms. “Simkin’s drunk as a lord. We have to leave Merilon,” he added, wondering why Mosiah wouldn’t let him loose. “Look,” he said finally, irritably, trying to push his friend away, “we’ve got to get going! We’re in danger. Now quit —”
He couldn’t move his arms. Mosiah had him pinned tightly and was staring into his face with a cold smile, the tomb’s light glittering in his blue eyes. “Mosiah!” Joram said angrily, fear rising in him, making him grow as cold as stone. “Let go!” He twisted suddenly, to break the young man’s hold, but it was useless. The arms tightened around him, squeezing him with a clasp he knew now — the fear growing within him — was magic. He was caught