Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [15]
Being young, my body was lithe, although certainly not strong. Exercise of the mind suited me far better than running very fast on a machine that took me nowhere. Yet now I looked at those thin hands and spindly arms with disfavor. If Saryon was in danger, how could I defend him?
I found that I did not have the leisure to spend long on this inspection. The nearer my spirit drew to my body, the more it longed to return, and I had the impression that I dove down to my body from a great height. I awoke, shaking, stomach clenching, as one does from a falling dream. And I have wondered, ever since, if perhaps those dreams aren’t really the first tentative journeys our spirits make.
I sat up in my bed, shaking off the feelings of sleep that clung to my body. Hurriedly grabbing my robe, I wrapped it around myself, and switching on the hall light, hastened down the stairs. Light came from Saryon’s bedroom. I found my master, looking as groggy as I felt, staring at the object which the D’karn-darah had left upon the blanket.
“It will not harm you,” Mosiah was saying as I entered. “You may pick it up, if you like.”
“I will do so, sir,” I signed, and swooped down upon the object, gathering it into my hand before Saryon could touch it.
Mosiah watched me with a slight smile, which was, I think, approving. Saryon just shook his head with fond exasperation.
When I was certain that the object was benign, not likely to explode or burst into flame or—I don’t know what I’d expected exactly—I opened my hand and held it out. Saryon and I peered down on it wonderingly.
“What is it?” he asked, puzzled.
“Death,” said Mosiah.
CHAPTER FOUR
Like a Living being, the sword sucked the magic from him, drained him. dry, then used him to continue to absorb magic from all around it.
FORGING THE DARKSWORD
“Death!” Saryon tried to snatch the object from me, but I was too quick for him. I clasped my hand over it tightly.
“I do not mean for any of us, here and now,” Mosiah said. His voice held a note of gentle rebuke. “I would not have allowed this to remain in this room if it had been dangerous.”
Saryon and I exchanged glances, both considerably ashamed.
“Of course, Mosiah,” Saryon said. “Forgive me—forgive us—for not trusting you. . . . It’s just ... it has all been so strange. . . . Those dreadful people. . . .” He shivered and drew his robe closer around his tall, spare form.
“Who were they?” I gestured. “And what is this?”
I opened my palm. In it lay a round medallion about two inches in diameter made of very hard, heavy plastic. The medallion had what appeared to be a sort of magnet on the back. One side was clear. I could see inside and what I saw was very strange. Encased in the medallion was some sort of bluish-green, thick, and viscous sludge. As I held the medallion in my hand the sludge began undulating, surging against the sides of the medallion, as if it were trying to escape. It was not a pleasant sight and made me feel queasy to watch it.
I was loath to hold on to the medallion longer and I fidgeted with it in my hand.
“It ... it looks as if it’s alive!” Saryon said, frowning in disgust.
“They are,” Mosiah answered. “Or rather they were. Most are already dead, which is why the D’karn-darah gave this up. The rest will be dead shortly.”
“The rest of what! What’s trapped in there?” Saryon was horrified and looked about vaguely, as if for something he could use to crack the medallion open.
“I will explain in a moment. I am first going to remove the listening devices which the D’karn-darah placed in your living room and in the phone. They made their presence known. There is no longer any reason to keep up the pretense.”
He left the room, returned a moment later. “There. Now we may speak freely.”
I handed over the medallion, thankful to be rid of it.