Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [188]
Corridors opened and cleared rapidly. Theldara carried the stricken Bishop back to the Font. The body of the Empress, wrapped in white linen, was taken to the Palace. The DKarn-Duuk, surrounded by Duuk-tsarith and accompanied by the Executioner, returned to whatever dark and hidden place his Order inhabited, there to begin frantic studies into the properties of darkstone. Lord Samuels, stricken nearly mad with grief, returned to his home to break the news of their dreadful loss to his wife.
Soon, the only one standing on the beach was the Emperor. No one had spoken a word to him. They had removed the body of his wife from where it lay at his feet and he had never even looked down. He stood as still as stone himself, staring fixedly into the mists — that strange, sad smile upon his lips.
Joram had passed Beyond, and the wind blowing among the sand dunes whispered, “The Prince is Dead…. The Prince is Dead.”
Coda
Twilight came to the Border, touching the mists with whorls of red and pink, purple and orange.
The beach was empty, except for the stone statue that stood there, staring out into the Realm of Death. Even the Emperor had gone at last, though no one knew where. He had not returned to the Palace and they were searching for him, needing him to begin the ceremonies for his dead wife.
A palm tree — a rather tall, thin, and sleek palm tree — located on the fringes of the grass near the beach shook itself, stretched, and gave a cavernous yawn.
“Egad,” stated the palm irritably. “I’m stiff. Should know better than to fall asleep standing up like that. And I’ve been out in the sun all day. I’ve probably ruined my complexion!”
With a shiver of leaves, the palm changed form — turning into a bearded young man of indistinguishable age, dressed in a flamboyant costume consisting of skintight trousers over silken hose and a velvet coat that came to his knees. Trimmed in ostrich feathers, the coat parted in front to reveal a matching vest — likewise trimmed in ostrich feathers. Lace spilled from the feather-decorated cuffs and bubbled up around his neck. The entire ensemble was done in wide stripes of brownish orange and dark red.
“Perfect for the funeral. I’ll call it Rust in Puce,” Simkin said, conjuring up a mirror and examining himself in it critically. He stared intently at his nose. “Ah, I did get sunburned. Now I’ll freckle.” He sent the mirror away with an irritated gesture.
Thrusting his hands into pockets that appeared when he put his hands into them, Simkin flitted moodily along the beach.
“Perhaps I’ll cover my skin all over with spots,” he remarked to the empty sand. Drifting across the beach, he came to a halt before the statue of the catalyst and slowly lowered himself to stand in front of it.
“Sink me!” Simkin said after a moment, profoundly moved. “I am impressed! A remarkable likeness! Bald pate and all.”
Turning from the statue, Simkin looked into the mists of Beyond. The mists took on night’s blackness, their bright colors fading as twilight’s dying grasp slipped from the world. Creeping and curling in upon the shore, they seemed, like the incoming tide, to advance a little farther each time. Simkin watched, smiling to himself, and smoothing his beard.
“Now the game begins in earnest,” he murmured.
Drawing forth the bit of orange silk from the air, he tied the silk around Saryon’s stone neck. Then, humming to himself, Simkin disappeared into the evening, leaving the statue to stand in awful solitude on the silent shore, the orange banner fluttering from its neck; a tiny flicker of flame in the gathering gloom.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman are the New York Times bestselling authors of the Dragonlance® series, The Darksword Trilogy, and the Rose of the Prophet trilogy. With The Death Gate Cycle, this imaginative team opens an ambitious, new chapter in epic fantasy.
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