Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [164]
And then it became a struggle, not for the sword, but for life — a struggle to breathe. Joram gasped for air, staring into Mosiahs face, not understanding. Somewhere he heard a scream, a woman’s scream that was cut off swiftly and skillfully. He tried to speak, but he had no breath. The darkness of the Grove was rapidly creeping over his eyes. Death was very near, and he ceased to fight, welcoming an end to the pain.
Skilled in such matters, the arms relaxed their hold. The face of Mosiah smiled and spoke a word, and then Mosiah’s face was gone and Joram — in his last moments before consciousness fled — looked up and saw the white skin and expressionless face of a black-robed woman, who caught him in her arms as he fell.
Gently, she lowered him to the ground. As his senses slowly slipped from him, he heard her issue a warning to a dimly seen companion.
“Don’t touch the sword.”
9
Adjudication
Deacon Dulchase woke from a sound sleep with an irritated snort, rolling over in an effort to escape the hand that was shaking his shoulder.
“So I’m late for Morning Prayers,” he grumbled, burrowing deeper into his mattress and burying his face in the pillow. “Tell the Almin to start without me.”
“Deacon!” said a commanding voice urgently, continuing to harrass the priest. “Wake up. Bishop Vanya summons you.”
“Vanya!” Dulchase repeated incredulously. The elderly, perennial Deacon struggled up from the depths of his comfortable repose, blinking in the globe of light that hovered near a black-robed figure standing above him “Duuk-tsarith!” he muttered beneath his breath, trying to nudge his sleep-soaked brain into functioning.
The sudden surge of fear at the sight of the warlock helped admirably, although by the time Dulchase had drawn his legs out from under the bedclothes and had his feet on the floor, the fear had been replaced by a cynical amusement. “They have me this time,” he reflected, groping about with one hand to find the robe he had tossed at the end of the bed. “Wonder what it was? Undoubtedly that remark about the Empress at the party last night. Ah, Dulchase. You’d think at your age you would learn!”
With a sigh, he began to struggle into the robe, only to be stopped by the cold hand of the warlock who stood above him, faceless in his black hood.
“What’s the matter now?” Dulchase snapped, figuring he had nothing to lose. “It isn’t enough His Holiness decides to exact punishment in the middle of the night? Am I to go before him naked as well?”
“You are to dress in formal robes of ceremony,” intoned the Duuk-tsarith. “I have them here.”
Sure enough, now that Dulchase looked, he could see the warlock holding his best ceremonial robes folded over his arms in the manner of the most efficient of House Magi. Dulchase stared, first at the robes, then at the warlock.
“There has been no mention of punishment,” the Duuk-tsarith continued in his cool voice. “The Bishop requests you hurry. The matter is urgent.” The warlock shook out the robes carefully. “I will assist if I may.”
Numbly, Dulchase stood up and — within the speaking of a word of magic — was attired in the formal robes of ceremony he had not worn since … when? The ceremony marking the Death of the young Prince? “What … what color?” the befuddled Deacon asked, running his hand over his head that had once been tonsured but was now as bald as the rocks of the Font in which he lived.
“What color, Father?” the Duuk-tsarith repeated. “I fail to understand —”
“What color shall I make the robes?” Dulchase asked irascibly, gesturing. “They’re Weeping Blue, as you can see? Is it official mourning? I’ll leave them the same. A wedding, perhaps? If so, I’ll have to change them to —”
“Judgment,” said the Duuk-tsarith succinctly.
“Judgment,” repeated Dulchase, pondering. Taking his time, he made use of the chamber pot in the corner of his small room, noting — as he did so — that even the disciplined warlock was