Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [93]
I breathed it. I heard it singing. I smelled it and tasted it as it flowed through my being. I concentrated it within me and then gave it, a wondrous gift, to Mosiah.
His eyes widened with astonishment as he felt the Life flow into his body. His arm jerked in my grasp. He wanted at first to break the connection. He didn’t want to believe this any more than I did. But common sense prevailed. We were in danger. He needed Life and I was supplying it. He held his arm still in my grasp.
And then it was over. The Life was drained from me. As a catalyst, I could neither use magic nor retain it. I could act only as the intermediary. I was exhausted. It would take many hours of rest for me to recover, still more before I would be able to open the Conduit again. Yet I knew that I had been blessed, for I felt within me the touch of this world and all its beings, a touch which would never leave me.
Suffused with Life, looking considerably confused by it all, Mosiah stared from one to the other of us—from me, drained and tired, but left with a feeling of serenity; to Scylla, who was frowning with impatience and tapping the hilt of her sword with her fingers; to Eliza, calm and aloof, standing somewhat apart from the rest of us, in a shaft of sunlight that glittered on the golden circlet she wore in her black hair.
“I wish I knew what the hell was going on,” he muttered to himself, and then, shrugging, he placed his hand on the nearest of the oak trees, bent his head near it as if he were conversing with it.
Branches above my head began to creak and rattle together as if in a high wind, rubbing against the intermingled branches of the tree’s neighbor, who stirred and began conversation with its neighbor. Soon all the trees around us were shifting branches and dropping twigs and reaching out their long arms to touch other trees.
The leaves rustled and shadows shifted. Mosiah stood beside the oak, his cheek pressed against its rough trunk. At length the rustling and creaking seemed to die down somewhat.
“This part of the Zoo is safe to walk in,” he reported, “for the time being. A band of centaurs live near here, but they are out hunting and will not be back before nightfall. Because of them, no one else dares enter. That includes the mob, Your Majesty,” he said, with a slight touch of cynical disbelief remaining in his voice. “Your knights entered the West Gate safely, though I fear your carriage is destroyed.”
Eliza received this news with equanimity, bowing her head in gracious appreciation and smiling to hear those who risked their lives to protect her had not met with any harm.
“Also,” he added, watching the reaction of the other two, “the Darksword is nowhere to be seen. The trees have no knowledge of such a weapon.”
“Well, I should hope not,” said Scylla. “You don’t suppose it would be lying right out in the open!”
“I might suppose that, since I threw it in here,” Mosiah said, but his voice was low. I was the only one who heard him.
“There is one other person inside this part of the Zoo,” Mosiah continued. “A catalyst, by his garb. He is in a clearing about twenty paces to the east of our current position.”
“Excellent!” Scylla grinned and nodded. “That will be Father Saryon.”
I gasped and would have signed something, but Mosiah halted me.
His eyes narrowed with suspicion and displeasure. “What do you mean? You mentioned a rendezvous. Is that with Saryon? How did he escape? Is Joram with him?”
Now it was Scylla who looked astonished. Eliza drew herself up straight and regarded Mosiah with a cold gaze.
“What sort of cruel joke do you make, Enforcer?” Scylla demanded angrily. “To ask of Joram!”
“I make no joke, believe me,” Mosiah returned. “Tell me— what of Joram?”
“You know the answer very well, Enforcer,” Scylla retorted.
“The Emperor of Merilon is dead. He died twenty years ago, in the Temple of the Necromancers.”
“How did he die?” Mosiah asked, and his voice was calm.
“At the hands of the