Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [31]
“It was sucking my blood!” he said, shuddering and staring at the plant in horror.
“Ah, I forgot,” said Simkin. “A Kij vine. It considers us edible. Well, I knew it had something to do with food,” he added defensively, as Mosiah glared at him.
They trudged on, Joram going ahead to clear the path with the Darksword.
Saryon watched the young men closely, hoping to catch some hint of their plans. Joram and Mosiah seemed content to follow Simkin’s lead, and, strolling unconcernedly in his Dirt and Dung or Mud and Muck attire, Simkin led them confidently wherever it was they were going. He never hesitated, never appeared lost. The paths he found among the winding labyrinth of Kij vines were easy to follow — too easy. Mosiah pointed out more than once where bones had been stacked in a deliberate manner to mark the trail. Centaur tracks could be seen in the frozen mud. Once they came to a place where all the vines had been smashed flat and several tall trees snapped off like twigs.
“A giant,” said Simkin. “Good thing we weren’t around when he came through. They’re not very bright, you know, and — while not dangerous — they are fond of playing with humans. Unfortunately, they have a nasty habit of breaking their toys.”
Every time they came to a break in the trees, and the sun was visible, Saryon saw that they were still heading due north. And no one said a word.
Perhaps Joram and Mosiah have no idea where Merilon is, the catalyst thought. Both were raised in a Field Shaper village on the borders of the Outland. Joram can read, having been taught the skill by Anja. But has he ever seen a map of the world? Does he trust Simkin implicitly?
That was hard to believe — Joram didn’t trust anyone. But the more Saryon listened and watched, the more the catalyst began to think this was the case. Their talk almost always centered around Merilon.
Mosiah told childhood stories about the crystal city floating upon planes of magic. Simkin regaled them with more incredible tales about life in court. On rare occasions when a talkative mood was on him, Joram contributed stories of his own, tales he had heard from Anja.
Having lived in Merilon many years, Saryon was most touched by these stories of Anja’s. There was a sadness and a poignancy in them — the memories of an exile — that brought visions of the city to the catalyst’s eyes. In them, he saw a Merilon he recognized, certainly different from Mosiah’s faerie tale and Simkin’s imagination.
But if Joram hadn’t changed his mind, why was Simkin guiding them the wrong way?
Not for the first time, the catalyst studied Simkin as they trudged after him through the forest, trying to guess his game. And, as before, Saryon had to admit utter defeat. Not only was it impossible to figure from the young man’s play what cards he held, the catalyst had seen with his own eyes that Simkin could literally pull tricks out of the air.
Older than the other two, probably in his early twenties (though he could easily pass for anything from seventy to fourteen if he chose), Simkin was a mystery. A man who shifted stories of his past as often as he shifted his clothes, a man in whom the magic of the world sparkled through his veins like wine, a man of disarming charm, outlandish lies, and an irreverent attitude toward everything in life including death, Simkin was liked by all and trusted by none.
“No one takes him seriously,” said Saryon to himself. “And I have a feeling that more than one person has lived to regret it — if he was lucky, that is.” The disturbing thought helped the catalyst make up his mind.
“I am thankful you have reconsidered journeying to Merilon, Joram,” Saryon said quietly one day when they had stopped to rest for lunch.
“I haven’t reconsidered,” Joram said, his gaze focusing on the catalyst with immediate suspicion.
“Then, we are traveling the wrong direction,