Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [137]
Gwendolyn put her arms around Eliza, who sobbed against her mother’s breast.
“Oh, Mother, it is all my fault!”
“Hush, child!” Gwen smoothed Eliza’s black curls, the curls that were so like her father’s. “It would not have mattered. If you had not taken the Darksword, your father would have used it and they would have killed him. Your father loved you, Eliza, and he was very proud of you.”
Eliza shook her head, unable to talk. Gwen continued to soothe her.
“Your father is well, now, child. At long last, he is well and he is happy.”
Silence fell, a silence broken only by Eliza’s lessening sobs. I glanced worriedly at Saryon. His body trembled with the enormity of his own emotion. Tears slid unchecked down his cheeks. He could not lift his hand to wipe them away.
Kevon Smythe stood before us, holding the Darksword. His lip curled slightly. “An ugly thing, isn’t it?”
“You’re no beauty yourself.”
I knew that voice. Simkin!
I looked about expectantly, hopefully, my eyes searching the darkness.
Nothing appeared, not a teapot, not a stuffed bear, not a washed-out, watercolor transparency of the foppish young man.
I began to doubt myself. Had I really heard the voice? Had anyone else heard it? Smythe was still gazing triumphantly at the sword. The Technomancers, who outnumbered us at least three to one, were at ease, relaxed. Why not? Their captives were completely immobilized. Scylla was concerned with Mosiah, who was starting to regain consciousness. Gwen and Eliza comforted each other. Saryon wept for the man that had been dearer than a son.
I must have imagined it, I thought, despair closing in on me.
“It is almost midnight, sir,” said one of the Technomancers, speaking to Smythe.
“Yes, thank you for reminding me. I will take the sword to the meeting place. Once I hand it over to the Hch’nyv—”
“You’ll be a fool if you do,” Scylla told him. “They will never keep their bargain with you. They will allow no humans to remain alive.”
“On the contrary, they appear quite well disposed toward us,” Smythe countered smoothly. “Perhaps because we have shown them how we can be of use to them.”
“What are your orders while you’re away, sir?” the Technomancer asked. “What do we do with these?” The silver-gloved hand gestured, included all of us. “Kill them?”
“Not all of them,” Smythe replied after a moment’s thought. “Hand the Enforcer over to the Interrogators. He’ll soon be glad to die. Turn the girl and her mother over to the Interrogators as well. Joram must have told them something about how he forged the Darksword, where he discovered the darkstone, and so forth. They may yet be of use to us.”
I bent every ounce of my strength, my will, into attempting to break free. I focused all my energy upon lifting my hand, to tear the paralyzing disk from my chest. I could not move so much as my little finger.
“As for the priest and the mute and the CIA agent or whatever she is,” Smythe continued, “we will give them to the Hch’nyv, as a symbol of our good faith. The rest of you, make the arrangements for the first of those refugee ships to land. Go aboard and start the culling process. You know those we want: those who are young, fit, and strong. Pull out the elderly, children below an age where they might be of use, and any who are sick or handicapped. They will be given to the Hch’nyv, as we agreed. Also remove any magi who possess Life and who refuse to join our ranks. Execute them immediately. Once they are back on their homeland, they might be a danger to us.”
Smythe held up the Darksword, his two hands clasped just beneath the hilt. “Now that the Darksword is mine—”
“Am I yours?” cried the sword in a mocking voice. “Oh, this is the happiest day of my life! Give us a hug, snookums!”
The Darksword began to wriggle and writhe. The bulbous head atop the hilt nodded back and forth, the crosspiece—that was like