Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [68]
With a wild and incoherent cry, Eliza ran down the hallway, heading for the main living quarters. I followed after her, adrenaline pumping, sparking my tired legs to exertion.
Scylla, shaking her head in sorrow, followed more slowly behind.
We reached the door leading to the warming room. Eliza gave a moan, as if she’d been struck, and her body sagged. I was there to catch her, hold her, support her, though it was all I could do to support myself. I was sick with horror.
Dawn’s light filtered through the window, filtered through a faint and rapidly dissipating haze of smoke. Recalling the blast, my first thought was that a bomb had exploded. The floor was strewn with the wreckage of shattered, smoldering furniture. The curtains had been torn from the windows; the glass was cracked and broken. Beyond the warming room, in the kitchen, the table had been overturned. Chairs were smashed.
“Father!Mother!” Eliza called.
Coughing in the smoke, she pushed me away and started toward the door opposite, the door which led to her parents’ rooms.
A figure, clad in black robes, took shape and form from the smoke. Eliza halted, appalled and frightened.
“You won’t find them,” he said. “They are gone.”
“What have you done with them?” Eliza cried.
The man cast his hood from his face and I recognized Mosiah. He folded his hands together before him. “I did not take them. I tried to stop the Technomancers, but there were too many of them.” He turned his face to me. “They took Father Saryon as well, Reuven. I am sorry.”
I could make no response. My hands hung limp at my sides. On the floor, near the hem of Mosiah’s black robe, was a smear of blood. I dreaded lest Eliza should see it. Moving close to Mosiah, I shoved a broken chair over the stain. But either I was too late or else Eliza read my thoughts.
“Are they all right?” she demanded, confronting Mosiah. “Were they hurt?”
Mosiah hesitated, before reluctantly replying, “Your father was injured.”
“Very . . . very badly?” Eliza faltered.
“I am afraid so. But Father Saryon is with him. I don’t think your mother was harmed.”
“You don’t thinkl Don’t you know?” Eliza cried. Her voice broke; she coughed again. The smoke stung our throats, brought tears to the eyes. Both of us were coughing—but not Mosiah.
“No. I do not know for certain what happened to your mother,” he replied. “It was all very confused. At least, they did not find what they sought. They did not find the Darksword. You were wise to take it away.” Mosiah’s gaze went from me to Eliza. His eyes narrowed, his voice softened. “Where is it?”
“Safe,” answered Scylla, emerging from the shadows of the hallway.
Mosiah’s head jerked. “Who the devil are you?”
“Scylla,” she replied, as if that were all anyone needed to know. She strode into the room, glanced around. Again she showed her ID card.
Mosiah took a good look at it. His brow wrinkled. “I’ve never heard of this organization. Are you part of the CIA?”
“If I were, I couldn’t tell you now, could I?” Scylla said, putting away the card. “I thought you Duuk-tsarith were standing guard on Joram. What happened? Take the night off?”
Mosiah was angry. His lips tightened. “We did not expect them to attack Joram. Why should they, when it was probable they were going to get what they wanted?”
“Ah, but they knew they weren’t,” Scylla said. “Kevon Smythe once paid a visit here. He sat in that very chair, or what’s left of it. Does that give you a hint?”
“A listening device! Of course.” Mosiah was grim. “We should have foreseen the possibility. They knew, then, that Joram had refused to relinquish the sword.” He regarded Scylla with suspicion. “You know a lot about the D’karn-darah.”
“I know a lot about you, too,” Scylla retorted. “That doesn’t make me Duuk-tsarith.”
“You’re from the government?”
“In a manner of speaking. Let’s lay our cards on the table. I can’t talk about the work I do any more than you