Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [8]
“A world of beauty, yes,” said Saryon, “but there was ugliness there, too. Ugliness made more hideous by being denied.”
“The ugliness was in the hearts of men and women, was it not, Father?” Mosiah asked. “Not in the world itself.”
“True, very true,” Saryon said, and he sighed.
“And the ugliness lives still,” Mosiah continued, and there came a change in his tone, a tension, which caused both my master and me to glance at each other and brace ourselves, for we each felt that a blow was coming.
“You have not been back to the camps for many years,” Mosiah said abruptly.
Saryon shook his head.
“You have not been in contact with Prince Garald or anyone else? You truly know nothing of what has been going on with our people?”
Saryon looked ashamed, but he was forced to shake his head. At that moment I would have given all I own to be able to talk, for it seemed to me that there was accusation in Mosiah’s tone, and I would have spoken most vehemently in my master’s defense. As it was, Saryon heard me stir in restless anger. He set his hand on mine and patted it gently, counseling patience.
Mosiah was silent, wondering, perhaps, how to begin. At length he said, “You maintain that our people could leave the camps of their own free will, as you did. In the beginning, that might have been true. It is not true now.
“The guards of the mundane left us years ago. To give them credit, they fought to protect us, as they were ordered, but they were not equal to the task. After several had died and more had deserted, the army pulled out. The guards of the mundane were replaced—by our own.”
“Fought against whom? Who attacked you? I’ve heard nothing of this!” Saryon protested. “Forgive me for doubting you, Mosiah, but surely, if such dreadful things were happening, journalists from all over the world would have descended on the camp.”
“They did, Father. The Khandic Sages spoke to them. The journalists believed the lie—they could not help themselves, for the Khandic Sages coat all their bitter lies with the sweet honey of their magic.”
“Khandic Sages! Who are they?” Saryon was bewildered, shocked beyond coherent speech. “And Prince Garald . . . How could he ... He would have never allowed ...”
“Prince Garald is a prisoner, held hostage by his love for his people.”
“A prisoner!” Saryon gaped. “Of ... of the mundanes?”
“No, not of the mundanes. And not of us Enforcers, either,” Mosiah added, with another slight smile, “for I see that question in your mind.”
“Then of whom? Or what?” Saryon asked.
“They call themselves T’kon-Duuk. In the language of the mundanes—Technomancers. They give Life to that which is Dead. Most horribly”—Mosiah’s voice lowered—”they draw Life from that which is dead. The power of their magic does not come from living things, as was true in Thimhallan, but from the death of the living. Do you remember the man who called himself Menju the Sorcerer? The man who sought to murder Joram?”
Saryon shuddered. “Yes,” he said in a low voice.
“He was one of them. I know them well,” Mosiah added. “I used to be one of them myself.”
Saryon stared aghast, unable to speak. It was left to me—the mute—to communicate. I made a gesture, pointing from Mosiah to Saryon and myself, asking in dumb show why Mosiah had come to us with this information now, at this time, and what this all had to do with us. And either he understood my gesture or he read the question in my mind.
“I have come,” he said, “because they are coming. Their leader, a Khandic Sage known as Kevon Smythe, is coming tomorrow to talk to you, Father. The Duuk-tsarith chose me to warn you, knowing that I am the only one of that order you would trust.”
“The Duuk-tsarith,” Saryon murmured, perplexed. “I am to trust the Duuk-tsarith and so they send Mosiah, who is