Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [14]
Glancing at Mosiah from beneath his fluttering eyelids, Simkin suddenly straightened, smoothed his hair, and changed his clothes to a very proper and conservative ensemble of gray silk with white lace, pearl buttons, and a tasteful mauve cravat. Adjusting the lace at his wrist, he said casually, “I had no idea you were harboring this resentment. You should have spoken out earlier. Saryon was the traitor, as I’ve told you before. Surely Prince Garald has his sources for discovering the truth? Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t and I have,” Mosiah said, scowling. “And no one knows anything if there’s anything to know—”
“Oh, there is,” inserted Simkin.
Mosiah shook his head in exasperation. “As for the catalyst betraying us, I’ve heard that wild story you concocted about Saryon and Joram and I don’t believe it. Father Saryon would never have betrayed us and—”
“—I would?” Simkin finished calmly, smoothing his hair. With a wave of his hand, he pulled a bit of orange silk from the air and dabbed at his nose. “You’re right, of course,” he continued imperturbably. “I might have betrayed you, but only if things got dull. As it turned out, I didn’t need to. You must admit, we had rather an exciting time of it back there in good old Merilon.”
“Bah!” Angrily turning his gaze from the primping Simkin, Mosiah peered out from the shelter of the shield into the flying sand and howling wind. “I didn’t know storms like this struck the Borderland. How long will it last?” he asked coldly, making it clear he was talking to Simkin only because he needed information. “And keep your answer brief!” he added bitterly.
“They don’t, and a long, long time,” replied Simkin.
“What?” Mosiah demanded irritably. “Say what you mean.”
“I did,” retorted Simkin, offended. “You told me to make it brief.”
“Well, maybe not that brief,” Mosiah amended, feeling more and more uneasy the longer he stayed here. Although it was nearly midday, it was almost dark as night and growing increasingly darker. Though protected by the shield, he could tell that the force of the wind was rising, not abating. It was costing him more and more of his Life energy to keep the magical bubble around them. He could feel his strength beginning to drain and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it in position much longer.
“Are you going to insult me anymore?” Simkin demanded loftily. “Because if you are, I won’t say a word.”
“No,” muttered Mosiah.
“And you’re sorry you accused me of treachery?”
Mosiah didn’t answer.
Simkin, placing his hands behind his back, gazed out into the raging wind. “I wonder how far one would get out there before being hurled into something large and solid like an oak….”
“All right, I’m sorry!” Mosiah said sullenly. “Now tell me what’s going on!”
“Very well.” Simkin sniffed. “They never have storms on the Borderland. Has to do with the magical boundaries or some such thing. And therefore as to how long this particular storm will last, I have a presentiment that it will last a long, long time. Much longer, I imagine, than any of us would care to consider.”
This last was spoken in low tones, Simkin’s face growing increasingly more solemn as he stared out the magical shield into the wind-driven sand.
“Can we walk in this thing?” Simkin asked suddenly. “Can you move it and us with it?”
“I suppose so,” Mosiah said reluctantly “Although it will take a lot of energy and I’m feeling pretty weak as it is—”
“Don’t worry. We won’t be here long,” Simkin interrupted “Head over in that direction.” He pointed.
“You know, you could help me keep this shield in place.” Mosiah said as they floundered through the sand. He had absolutely no idea where they were going, being completely unable to see anything.
“Couldn’t possibly,” Simkin said “Far too fatigued. Having your clothes blown off, then blown back on inside out and upside down takes a great deal out of one. It’s not far.”
“What isn’t?”
“The statue of the catalyst, of course. I thought that was what