Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [104]
At this, Scylla gave a brief, mirthless laugh. “You’re such a comfort!” she said through clenched teeth.
“I have my magic,” Mosiah told her. “I don’t want to use it, unless I have to. But I will not let you fall. Look at me. Look at me, Scylla.”
Scylla managed to twist her head, looked at Mosiah.
He extended his hand. “Here, take hold.”
She raised her arm, the armor scraping against the rock, and slowly reached toward Mosiah, her hand outstretched. He clasped his hand over hers, and held on to her tightly. Her face smoothed in relief. She ventured forward. He drew her along the path, holding her steady.
At the end, when they reached safe ground, Scylla gave a great shuddering sob and covered her face with her hands. I think Mosiah would have put his arms around her, but for her armor.
Hugging her would have been tantamount to embracing an iron stove.
“I have shamed myself,” Scylla whispered fiercely. “Before my queen!”
“By what? Proving you’re human like the rest of us. I, for one, was happy to see it. I was beginning to wonder.”
Scylla uncovered her eyes and looked at Mosiah, as if she suspected there might be more to this statement than appeared. He was half-amused, half-sympathetic, nothing deeper.
“Thank you,” Scylla said, her voice husky. “You saved my life, Enforcer. I am in your debt.” Subdued, she walked over to Eliza and knelt before her on one knee. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, for my cowardice in the face of danger. If you wish to remove me from the position of trust in which you have placed me, I will readily understand.”
“Oh, Scylla!” cried Eliza warmly. “We are of Mosiah’s opinion. We are glad to see that you are flawed, like the rest of us. It’s very difficult to love a paragon.”
Scylla was overcome and, for a moment, could not speak. At length, wiping her hand across her nose and eyes, she stood up and threw back her head, faced us proudly, if somewhat defiantly.
“Which way do we go now, Father?” Eliza asked.
We had been concentrating so hard on the path behind us that we had given no consideration to the path before us. The river veered off to the right. Our ledge ended, but we could see the shadowy opening of what appeared to be a tunnel.
“We go down,” said Saryon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Perhaps the killer’s gone. ...”
“I doubt it. He didn’t get what he came for.”
JORAM; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD
We went down. And down. And down. A flaming brand lit our way. Mosiah had been going to expend more of his magical Life to provide light, but that proved unnecessary.
“You will find a brand, tinderbox, and flint in a small chamber near the entrance to the tunnel,” Saryon advised us. “I left them there myself, on the chance that someday I would return.”
“Tools of the Dark Arts,” Mosiah said, with a slight smile, barkening back to a time on Thimhallan when the use of such “tools” as a tinderbox and flint was prohibited. Such objects gave Life to that which was Dead.
Scylla carried the brand, walked in front with Saryon. I remained at Eliza’s side, our hands twined together. From this point on, our lives would be changed for good or ill. Perhaps, in a short time, we would be dead. It didn’t matter anymore that she was a queen and I was her house catalyst. Our love, a love that had sent down its roots in early childhood, had grown strong like the oak, and though the tree might be cut down, it could never be uprooted.
Mosiah followed behind alone, the raven having refused to accompany us anywhere near the dragon.
The path ran smooth, cutting down through the rock in a steep spiral that was almost a corkscrew. It was easy to walk, almost too easy. It seemed to be hurrying us downward—a circumstance which we found ominous.
“This was never formed by nature,” Mosiah observed.
“No,” Saryon agreed. “So I thought when I first discovered it.”
Mosiah came to a halt. “And you descended this all unknowing, Father? When anything from griffins to darkrovers could have been at the bottom? Forgive me, Father, but you were never the adventurous sort. I think you