Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [136]
The tomb, made of pure white marble, stood in the center of the circle of trees. The rest of the grove was overgrown with plant life run amok, but no plants had come near the tomb. Vines creeping that direction twined away, went around it. The grass had grown tall, but the blades bent away, as if they would not, from respect, touch it.
Mosiah held the light high, for us to see. “I remember when I first came here,” he said quietly. “I felt very peaceful. This was the only part of Merilon where I was truly at home. I am glad to know that, though much has changed around it, the feel of the place remains the same.”
“It is a blessed place,” said Saryon. “Merlyn’s spirit remains.”
“Now that we are here, what should I do?” Eliza asked. “Should I lay the Darksword on the tomb or—”
She caught her breath. I did the same, both of us having seen the same thing at the same time.
Something already lay on the tomb, a dark form against the tomb’s whiteness.
“I knew it!” Mosiah muttered, with a bitter oath. “This was a trap. We—don’t! Eliza! Stop!”
He reached out to grasp hold of her but he was too late. Her loving eyes had seen clearly what was only a vague shadow to the rest of us. With a wild, stricken, hollow cry, Eliza ran toward the tomb. Reaching the marble sarcophagus, she flung the Dark-sword down onto the wet grass. Hands outstretched, sobbing, she threw herself on the body that lay on the tomb’s cold white surface.
The body was Joram’s.
Mosiah paid no attention to the body on the tomb. His responsibility was the Darksword and he hastened to retrieve it, where it lay in the grass, a thing of ugly darkness, not illuminated by his magical light. He had his hand almost on it when he halted.
“Scylla!” Mosiah shone his light upon her.
It was not surprising we had not noticed her earlier. She was a huddled mass, leaning against the tomb. Blood covered one side of her face. She opened her eyes and looked up at Mosiah.
“Flee!” she warned, with a gasping breath. “Take the Darksword and—”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid.”
A man clad in white robes emerged from the shadows of the charred oaks. Mosiah made a dive for the Darksword. A beam of light flared out from the darkness, struck Mosiah in the chest, slammed him back against the tomb. He slid down it, collapsed onto the wet grass.
Bending down, Kevon Smythe picked up the Darksword.
“A pity you came too late, my dear,” he said, speaking to Eliza. He did not even glance at the two wounded people at his feet. “We had the antidote all prepared, but as you can see, it will do your poor father little good now. His last words were to you. He said he forgave you.”
I lunged at the smug, triumphant man. I had no weapon, but I think—I know—I could have strangled him.
I did not go far. Strong hands caught hold of me, hands covered in silver gloves. They affixed a silver disk on my breast. Pain tingled through my body and I found myself unable to move. Just to breathe was a struggle. My limbs were paralyzed.
They attached silver disks to Saryon, who stood near me, and to Mosiah. I was glad to see that they feared him, for it meant that he was not dead. Scylla’s hands remained free. Her feet were bound by some type of metal restraints that clamped over her combat boots. Weakly, she pushed herself into a sitting position, and I realized that she could not move the lower portion of her body. She looked up at Eliza.
“Forgive me ... Your Majesty,” Scylla said softly. “I ... failed you. I failed him.”
Eliza said nothing. I don’t believe she even heard. She was lost in her grief. Her head lay on her father’s still breast, her arms cradled him. She urged him to come back to her by every term of endearment, but he could not respond, not even to her loved voice.
“Bring the mother,” Smythe called. “We might as well have the entire family.”
A Technomancer emerged from the shadows of the burned trees, dragging Gwendolyn by the arm. She was disheveled, her clothes stained and torn, but she did not appear to have been harmed.
The image we had seen in the dragon’s lair