Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [3]
The Enforcer’s gaze shifted to me, entered my soul, caught and held fast to my heart, so that I feared if I disobeyed, my beating heart would stop.
The Duuk-tsarith spoke. “First, I caution you both to remain silent. It is for your own protection. Do you understand?”
The words were not spoken aloud. They were fiery letters, traced across the back of my eyes.
Saryon nodded. He didn’t understand what was going on, any more than I did, but neither of us was going to argue.
“Good,” said the Enforcer. “Now I am going to perform a magic spell. Do not be alarmed. It will not harm you.”
The Duuk-tsarith spoke inaudible words, that came to me only in whispers. Fearfully, not terribly reassured by the Duuk-tsarith’s promise, we stared around, waiting for the Almin knew what to happen.
Nothing happened, at least that I could see. The Duuk-tsarith, his finger on his lips, again to enjoin silence, led the way into the living room. We shuffled along behind him, keeping close to each other. Once we were in the living room, the Enforcer pointed one long, white finger.
A painting hung on the wall, a painting which had been acquired along with the flat and which depicted a pastoral scene of cows in a field. From behind that painting now glowed an eerie green light.
The Duuk-tsarith pointed again, this time to the phone. The same green light surrounded the phone.
The Duuk-tsarith nodded to himself, as if he’d expected to find this phenomenon, whatever it was. He didn’t bother to explain. Once again, and this time emphatically, he silently cautioned us not to speak.
And then the Duuk-tsarith did a most peculiar thing. He turned with the calm repose of a guest who has been invited to remove his hat and coat and stay to tea. Moving with quiet grace among the furniture, the Enforcer walked to the window, parted the curtain a minuscule crack, and looked outside.
I was overwhelmed by a series of fleeting impressions as my brain tried frantically to grapple with the strange occurrence. At first, I thought that the Duuk-tsarith was signaling reinforcements. Logic arrived to remark dryly that the apprehension of one elderly catalyst and his scribe would hardly call for a SWAT team. That first impression was replaced by another.
The Duuk-tsarith was looking outside to see if he had been followed.
Not knowing what else to do and, by now, more curious than fearful, both Saryon and I stayed with the Duuk-tsarith in the living room. Through force of habit, I fumbled for the light switch.
“You needn’t bother. It will not work.”
The voice of the Duuk-tsarith inside my head was vibrant and sent a mild shock through me, reminding me of the first time I had encountered electricity on this strange world.
“Don’t move,” the inner voice commanded.
We remained standing in the darkened living room. I could sense Saryon shivering in his nightshirt, for he’d turned the heat down in the flat and his thin robe was woefully inadequate. I was wondering if I might be allowed to bring my master a sweater, when the Duuk-tsarith spoke silently again. And though the words were not addressed to me, I understood them.
“You don’t remember me, do you, Saryon?”
Having had many encounters with the Duuk-tsarith—all of them extremely unpleasant—Saryon later told me that he feared this must be one of the Enforcers who had caught him in the forbidden library of the Font, or maybe even one who had performed the Turning to Stone, that excruciatingly painful punishment inflicted on those catalysts who rebelled against the Church’s authority. Why one of these people should drop by Saryon’s house for a chat in the small hours of the night was beyond him. He could only stare and stammer and whisper to me something to the effect that, if the person would permit us to turn on the lights and let us see a face, such an act would aid recognition considerably.
“All