Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [34]
Mosiah listened open-mouthed, propped up against a tree. Joram, lying prone, turned his face toward the sun, an unusually relaxed expression softening the sharp, angular lines. He listened with apparent enjoyment, a dreamy look in the dark eyes, perhaps seeing himself riding in one of those carriages. Suddenly Simkin popped out from behind a tree, interrupting the catalyst, staring into the glade with an intense frown.
“Lie down, you’re driving us crazy,” Mosiah said irritably.
“If I did lie down, I’d never get up,” Simkin responded in ill humor. “You’d find me bored stiff by nightfall, just as we found the Duke d’Grundie after one of the Emperor’s speeches. Had to soak him in a vat of wine to limber him up.”
“Go ahead, Father,” Mosiah said. “Tell us more about Merilon. Ignore this fool.”
“No need,” said Simkin loftily. “I’m leaving. I tell you again I don’t like this place!”
With a toss of his head — which now sported a green pointed hat with a long pheasant feather dangling down his green-cloaked back — Simkin left the campsite, disappearing into the wilderness.
“He’s in an odd mood,” the catalyst remarked thoughtfully. Noticing that he had spread his blanket down over a protruding tree root that was poking him uncomfortably in the back, Saryon stood up and shifted his blanket to another location. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have let him go….”
“How do you propose to stop him?” Joram asked lazily, tossing bits of bread from his pack to a raven. The bird had been perched in the branches of the tree under which they lay, and now fluttered down to the ground to accept the food with a condescending air. So comfortable were they that no one thought to wonder why this bird was here, when they had seen no animal for days.
“Oh, Simkin’s all right,” said Mosiah, watching the bird’s dignified strutting with a smile. “He’s just mad because he’s lost and won’t admit it. Go on about Merilon, Father. Tell about the floating platforms of stone and the Guild Houses —”
“If he’s lost, so are we!” Saryon’s peaceful mood was broken. The sunlight in the glade was suddenly too hot, too bright. It was giving him a headache.
“Don’t start on Simkin again, Catalyst!” said Joram, scowling and accidentally hitting the bird with a hunk of bread. Squawking indignantly, the raven flew up into the tree again, where it sat moodily pruning its ruffled feathers. “I’m sick and tired of you two —”
“Hush!”
Seemingly coming out of the empty air, the voice startled all of them. Mosiah cast a wild glance at the bird, but before he could react, Simkin materialized in the center of the glade, his hat askew, his thin, sharp face pale beneath the soft beard.
“What is it?” Joram was on his feet, his hand reaching instinctively for the Darksword.
“Down! Hide!” Simkin gasped, pulling him back into the tall grass.
The rest followed, flopping down flat on their stomachs, hardly daring to breath.
“Centaurs?” Mosiah asked in a choked whisper.
“Worse!” Simkin hissed. “Duuk-tsarith!”
9
Caught!
“Duuk-tsarith!” Mosiah gasped.
“But that’s impossible!” Saryon whispered. “They could never have tracked us; the Darksword shields us! Are you certain?”
“Almin’s blood, Hairless One,” sputtered Simkin, staring at them wild-eyed from among the tall grass. “Of course, I’m certain! Granted, it’s a bit hard to see in the dark woods, of course, especially if the parties you are observing are all wearing black robes. But if you’d like, I can return and ask them —”
At that moment, the raven gave a loud caw that sounded exactly like raucous laughter and flew from the trees. “Or better yet, ask him,” Simkin said with grim irony. “How long has that bird been here?”
Shaking his head, Saryon sighed. Sprawled flat, he still felt little protection from the tall grass, and hugged the ground