Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [91]
“Your Majesty!” cried the knight. “Are you hurt?”
“I am all right, Sir Knight. Only a bruise here and there and those more to my dignity than my person.”
“Allow me to assist you, Your Majesty.”
The knight reached out a gloved hand.
A slender, delicate hand that flashed with jewels reached up from the forest floor and grasped the knight’s hand. A figure clad in the long, straight skirts of an old-fashioned riding habit rose to her feet. It was Eliza, or rather it had been Eliza, I was not sure who she was now, any more than I was sure who I was. The knight in plate and chain mail was undoubtedly Scylla.
“Blessed Almin,” whispered Mosiah, and I would have echoed his prayer if I’d had the voice to do so.
“What is going on?” I signed to Mosiah.
He made no answer, but he stared hard at Scylla.
I tried again. “The Technomancers? Did they follow us?”
He glanced around, shrugged, and then shook his head. “If they have followed us, they’re nowhere in sight and that’s not like them. The D’karn-darah don’t deal in subtleties.”
By which I gathered that if they had followed us we would be their captives by now. I breathed a little easier. Some good had come out of this, it seemed, though the old saying about frying pans and fires came into my mind.
The knight was respectfully brushing dirt from Eliza’s gown, which was made of blue velvet, trimmed in black. A golden crown gleamed in her black hair, jewels sparkled on her hands. I realized in baffled amazement and with a sense of growing wonder that I recognized her. This was the Eliza I had seen in that brief glimpse inside another life. Her dress was different, but everything else about her was the same: her hair, now intricately braided and coiffed, her stance, her bearing, the jewels on her fingers. Eliza was ruefully plucking twigs from her hair and wiping the mud and grass stains from her hands, her every movement graceful and regal.
“Where are our Enforcer and our priest?” she asked worriedly, glancing around. “I hope they escaped the mob safely.”
“I trust they did so, Your Majesty. The catalyst was to my left when we entered the gate, the Duuk-tsarith was behind us. The mob was not that close. Most were at the West Gate, trying to attack the carriage. Our ruse worked perfectly. Everyone thought you were in the carriage, Your Majesty. It never occurred to them that you would dare to enter the Eastroad Gate on foot.”
“My brave knights,” Eliza said with a sigh. “We fear many have suffered grievous harm for our sake.”
“Their lives are pledged to Your Majesty, as is my own.”
Mosiah started forward, slipping silently through the undergrowth. I followed after him, trying to emulate his stealth, but at my very first step my foot snapped a tree branch with a sound like a gunshot.
Scylla raised her sword and moved to stand protectively in front of her charge. Eliza looked curiously and without fear in our direction as Mosiah and I walked into the light filtering down from the oak leaves. I was expecting the same astonishment in their faces which I had seen in Mosiah’s, even laughter at my expense, at the sight of my odd haircut.
But the only expression on the faces of both was relief and gladness, which emotions were echoed in Scylla’s voice.
“Thank the Almin! You are safe!” Scylla’s tone altered, becoming commanding. “Were any of the mob bold enough to follow us through the gate, Enforcer?”
Mosiah glanced around. “Why ask me? You can see as well as I.”
“Pardon, Enforcer,” Scylla returned coolly, “but you Duuk-tsarith have magical means at your disposal, means which I lack.”
“Pardon me, Sir Knight”—Mosiah’s tone was sarcastic—”but have you forgotten that I am devoid of Life and cannot work my magic?”
Scylla indicated me with a nod of her head. “But you have a catalyst with you. He may be a house catalyst and not trained to the specific needs of you warlocks, but he would do in an emergency, I suppose.”
They were all looking at me now.
“Father