possible to talk to them or to provide them with some measure of human involvement.
“What do we talk about?” Simkin asked, pausing a moment as if to get his bearings, though how he could tell where he was in the blinding storm was more than Mosiah could figure. “Ah, yes. We’re headed in the right direction. Just a few more steps. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, I regale our statuesque friend with the latest gossip from court. I exhibit my newest fashions, though I do find it depressing that his responses to them are definitely what one might call stony. And I read to him.”
“What?” At this startling statement, Mosiah stopped floundering through the sand, partly to catch his breath and recover his strength and partly to stare at Simkin in amazement. “You
read
to him? What? Texts? Scriptures? I can’t imagine you—”
“—reading anything so boring?” Simkin lifted an eyebrow. “How right you are! Gad! Scriptures!” Growing pale at the thought, he fanned himself with the orange silk. “No, no. I read him jolly things to keep up his spirits. I found a large book of plays written by this frightfully prolific chap back in the old days. Quite entertaining. I get to act out all the characters. Listen, I have some of it memorized.” Simkin assumed a tragic pose. “‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet has fallen through the glass. Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth….’” He frowned. “Is that how it goes? Doesn’t quite scan.” Shrugging, he continued. “Or, if we’re not in a scholarly mood, I read him this.”
With a wave of his hand, he produced a leather-bound book and handed it to Mosiah. “Open it, any page.”
Mosiah did so. His eyes widened. “That’s disgusting!” he said, slamming the book shut. He glared at Simkin. “You don’t mean you read that … that filth to … to—”
“Filth! You peasant! It’s art!” Simkin cried, snatching the book away from Mosiah and consigning it to the ethers. “As I said, it
helped
keep up his spirits—”
“Helped? What do you mean ‘helped’?” Mosiah interrupted. “Why past tense?”
“Because I am afraid our catalyst is now in the past tense,” Simkin said. “Move the shield over a fraction of an inch. There, at your feet.”
“My god!” Mosiah whispered in horror. He glanced back up at Simkin. “No, it can’t be!”
“I’m afraid so, dear boy,” Simkin said, shaking his head sadly. “There is no doubt in my mind that these blocks, these stones, these worse than senseless things are all that is left of our poor bald friend.”
Mosiah knelt down. Protected by the magical shield, he brushed away the sand from what appeared to be the statues head. He blinked back sudden tears. He had been hoping, praying that Simkin had made a mistake, that this was one of the other Watchers, perhaps. But there was no denying that it was Saryon—the mild, scholarly face; the gentle, loving expression he remembered so well. He could even see, as Garald had said, the look of infinite peace carved forever in the stone.
“How could this happen?” Mosiah demanded angrily. “Who could have done such a thing? I didn’t know it was possible to break the spell—”
“It isn’t,” said Simkin with a strange smile.
Mosiah rose to his feet. “It isn’t?” he repeated, regarding Simkin suspiciously. “How do you know?
What
do you know about this?”
Simkin shrugged. “Simply that this spell is not reversible. Stop and think. The Watchers have been here hundreds of years. During that time, nothing and no one has been able to alter them or return them to life.” He gestured at the broken pieces on the sand. “I’ve stood here and watched while Xavier and his merry band hacked and hammered at the rock hands of our friend, trying to free the Darksword. All they got for their pains was gravel. I saw the warlock shoot spell after spell at Saryon, and beyond setting fire to a few