Adatha Za spoke swiftly: "As you see his weapon form, combat it. Use the antidote. Not knowing that," she was choking now, almost sobbing, "not knowing that, attack the weapon with your mind. It has existence, but it is a mentally energized existence. Mental energy may dissipate it if strong enough. It is not considered good form—but it is safe."
The dark eyes shimmered through tears as she looked up at him.
"Farewell," she whispered.
And turned and fled.
Morka Kar stretched out a foot and kicked shut the cover of the coffer before his throne. The clunk of the closing lid sounded loud in the high chamber, merging with the breathless gasp that shook the throng. Only a mathless monomachy fighter scorned the help of the box.
Jonathan looked at Morka Kar and grinned.
He put out his own foot and slammed the cover down. Dimly he caught, in some remote recess of his brain, the amaze that held the onlookers. They didn't know, as did Adatha Za, that the contents of that box were as much a mystery to Jonathan as were the black shadows. He'd be better off without it. It gave him less to think about, and he needed all his powers of thought.
Morka Kar snarled. His eyes blazed right at Jonathan—
Purple balls hung in the air before the Zarathzan!
They shimmered and glittered, filled with opalescent mists of green and red and white and purple. They danced eerily, as though drunk, as though to the music of some alien piper. They bounced and swayed on invisible strings in a wild and eerie saraband. They swung outward, circling.