The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [238]
Sareth hesitated, then took a step closer. “What are you talking about, Xemeth? What have you gained?”
“This.” Xemeth reached into his robe and drew something out. Soft gold light welled between his fingers. Then he held out his hand.
It rested on his palm, its legs moving slowly against his flesh: a spider made of gold.
At once Travis knew it was not one of the spiders the Scirathi made to carry their poison. It was larger, and vastly more beautiful. Its eyes were like many-faceted opals, and a sparkling red gem was set into its back. Power radiated from the gold spider along with the light. It seemed a living jewel.
“The Scarab of Orú,” Sareth whispered.
78.
The demon might have been gone, but Grace didn’t need Durge to tell her that they were still in grave peril. Sareth had drawn as close to his old friend as he could, but Xemeth would not let the Mournish man come too near, and he would move away if Sareth drew within five paces of him.
He’s not really a Scirathi—he can’t be. If he was a sorcerer, we’d all be dead by now. He’s just dressed like one of them. But why?
Travis and Lirith stood next to Grace, eyes on Sareth. Durge had stepped a little farther away. He still held his greatsword, but he did not move. Xemeth might not have been a sorcerer, but he did have the scarab, and from what Sareth had said there was no telling what Xemeth might be capable of doing with the relic in hand.
Sareth moistened his lips. No doubt the Mournish man was carefully calculating what to speak.
“This is a wonder, Xemeth. You have done what we came here to do that day—you have saved the scarab from the hands of the Scirathi. And I am beyond joy to know you are well. Only why did you not come to us sooner and let us know you were alive? All the Mournish would have been glad.” He paused. “Vani would have been glad.”
A tremor passed through Xemeth. For a moment the left side of his face seemed to go slack. Then the intact half of his expression hardened again.
“Clever, Sareth. However, false platitudes will not make me forget how you left me to die. Nor will your pretty words give me back my face.”
“I am so sorry for what happened to you, my friend. I truly am.”
“And now you offer me false pity,” Xemeth snapped, “an even less potent remedy for what has happened. And while it is satisfying to know that you lost part of yourself as I did, do not think it makes us equals. For what is a missing leg to what I have suffered?”
Again his fingers fluttered over the pit where the right side of his face should have been. Grace knew Xemeth had beaten the odds surviving that injury—especially on this world, where even a small wound could lead to a fatal infection.
But it was sterile excision, wasn’t it, Doctor? Just like Xemeth’s leg. The demon doesn’t really eat things—not with a mouth and teeth. Whatever it touches simply … vanishes. Like the stone in these tunnels.
Or like flesh.
“How, Xemeth?” Sareth said. “How did you survive? And why are you dressed as one of the Scirathi?”
“What, old friend, do you and your companions wish to hear a tale?”
Sareth’s gaze was pleading. “No one should have been able to survive the demon, yet you did.”
Xemeth’s remaining eye shone. Grace understood; Sareth was appealing to Xemeth’s vanity and self-importance, trying to buy them time. But time for what?
“Very well, Sareth. I confess, now that you have come here, I would be disappointed for you to perish without first hearing my story. And I believe there is time enough to tell it.” Xemeth laughed, a bubbling sound. “Time certainly means little to it. And I imagine, soon enough, I will have all the time in the world.” He tightened his grip around the radiant scarab.
Grace saw Travis slip his hand in his pocket. Would the Stone be able to stop Xemeth if he tried to harm them? Grace didn’t know enough about