Forging the Darksword (29 page)

Clasping Saryon’s hand in her own, she drifted up, turned to face her people, and floated down to stand beside him. Her golden hair floated about him, enveloping him, her touch tingled through his body like a sweet, burning poison. Lifting the catalysts unresisting hand, Elspeth cried out, “Faeriefolk, bow down! Prepare for the celebration! Do homage to the one we have chosen to father our child!”

The Wedding Feast

S
aryon paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in the small cavern chamber until, too exhausted to take another step, he collapsed onto a soft, leafy bower and, groaning, let his head sink into his hands.

“I say, old boy, cheer up! You’re the bridegroom, the reason for the feast—not its main course.”

At the sound of the cheerful voice, Saryon raised his haggard face.

“What have you gotten me into! You have—”

“There, there, calmly, old boy, calmly,” Simkin said with a laugh and a grin as he entered the room. Nodding his head casually behind him, he gripped Saryon’s wrist tightly and jerked him up off the bed. “Company,” he muttered under his breath. “We can talk back here,” he added, steering the catalyst toward the far end of the cavern.

Glancing over his shoulder, Saryon saw several of the faeriefolk standing or flitting about the doorway, leering at him, giggling, and winking. With the arrival of the faeries,
the cavern that up until now had been dark and peaceful erupted into chaos. Highly sensual beings, faeries live literally from moment to moment. Their only object in life is to indulge themselves in any sensation that will give them an instant’s gratification. The magic of the world flows through them like wine, they live in a constant state of intoxication. Neither rules nor morals govern their actions; no conscience guides them. Each does as he or she pleases without regard to others. Their only bond, and the only force that keeps their small band together, is their unswerving loyalty to their Queen. When her mind is with them, there is some semblance of order. But once it is withdrawn …

Saryon stared in shock. Where previously a leafy, fragrant bower had filled one corner of the shadowy cavern, now a great pool of water stood there, lilies and swans floating upon its surface. An instant’s time changed the swans to horses, splashing frantically to escape the water, the lilies were parrots, screeching raucously and flapping about the caverns. And then the pool was a coach, drawn by the horses, who came charging straight at the catalyst. Shutting his eyes and flinging his arms over his head with a shriek, Saryon felt the steeds’ hot breath and heard the thunder of their hooves, expecting to be crushed at any second. Laughter hooted around him. Opening his eyes, he saw the horses change to lambs that gamboled at his feet while he screamed in terror. His breath catching in his throat, Saryon staggered backward, only to feel Simkin’s arm embrace him firmly.

“Don’t look,” said the young man, forcibly turning Saryon around.

Closing his eyes, Saryon drew in a deep breath, only to regret it immediately. Every smell conceivable flew up his nostrils and down his lungs—delicate perfumes, foul odors of decaying bodies, the smell of freshly baked bread.

“What must I do now? Quit breathing?” he asked Simkin. But the young man ignored him.

“That’s better,” said Simkin, patting Saryon’s hand solicitously. Turning to the faeries crowded in the doorway, he added by way of explanation, “Touch of nerves. Man of the cloth. Never been with a woman … if you know what I mean …”

The faeries obviously
did
know by the raucous noise they made.

Blood rushed to Saryon’s head. He felt dizzy, burning with fever, and chilled, all at the same time. Snatching his hand away from Simkin, he groaned again and tried to force himself to think clearly.

“Best sit down, old chap,” said Simkin, guiding Saryon to the mossy cushion that changed to a fainting couch and then to a giant toadstool before they were even halfway near it. “I’ll see if I can induce the wedding guests to go inflict their attentions on more deserving personages.”

Numbly following Simkin’s direction, Saryon cast the toadstool a shuddering glance and sank down upon the floor, only to find himself sitting upon the soft, leafy bower once more.

He thought of all the dangers he had expected to face in the Outland—everything from being ripped apart by centaurs to falling under a dragon’s terrible enchantment. Being taken captive by the Faerie Queen and expected to … to … Well, this was something he’d never considered.

“I don’t even
believe
in the faeries!” he muttered to himself. “Or I didn’t. It’s all nursery tales!”

“The mushroom ring! That is how faeriefolk trap mortals.” The voice of the old House Magus sang in his ears like the laughter of the faeries. “Anyone foolish enough to step into the enchanted ring will fall down, down, down into their caves far beneath the ground. And there the poor mortal, be he ever a wizard so powerful, will find himself enthralled by the faerie spells and so he will lose his own magic and become a prisoner, spending his days in luxury, his nights in unspeakable acts, until he goes mad from the pleasure.”

As a child, Saryon had a confused idea of what “unspeakable acts” might be. He recalled thinking dimly that it had something to do with cutting out someone’s tongue. Even so, it had been a sufficiently frightening story to set the small boy running away in gleeful panic at the sight of a mushroom in the grass.

But I forgot. I lost the wonder of that little boy. Here I am, lounging on a cushion of sweet-smelling grasses and clover and moss, softer than the finest couches of the Emperor. Here I am, my blood burning every time I conjure up
a vision of Elspeth, part of me longing to commit those “unspeakable acts.”

Half-turning, peering out through half-open lids, Saryon’s unwilling gaze was drawn, fascinated, to the faeriefolk in the doorway, whom Simkin was trying unsuccessfully to shoo away.

“I know I am not dreaming,” Saryon whispered to himself, “because even in my dreams, I do not have the imagination to conjure up such as these.”

Sprouting up in his doorway like their enchanted mushrooms, the faeriefolk shifted and changed before his eyes like their mad, magical creations. Some were nearly four feet tall, with brown, laugh-crinkled, mischievous faces, like children grown old but not wise. Others were tiny, small enough to fit in the palm of Saryon’s hand. These appeared as little more than balls of light, each a slightly different color. But, on staring at them closely, Saryon thought he could detect delicate, naked, winged bodies surrounded by a magical radiance. And in between these two extremes was an entire range of other faerie species, some short, some squat, some thin, some all, some none. There were children, too—smaller copies of the adults—and animals of every description who wandered about freely, many appearing to serve as mounts or servants to the larger faeries.

None of the faeries were as tall or looked as human as Elspeth. But that wasn’t unusual, according to Saryon’s nursery tale remembrances. Just as the queen bee is the largest and most pampered in the hive, so the Faerie Queen is tall and voluptuous and beautiful. For the same reason, he guessed, his face burning—to continue her species. Without a Queen to guide them, the irresponsible faeries would die. The Queen must, therefore, mate with a human male and produce a child ….

Saryon put his head in his hands, trying to blot out the sight of the leering grins and the flitting lights.

But he couldn’t blot out their voices.

So different are the varieties of faeriefolk and so varied their voice range and pitch—from squeaking sounds like mice to deep rumblings like frogs—that Saryon was bewildered and even uncertain as to whether or not they were all speaking the same language. He couldn’t understand a word but, he noticed, Simkin could. Simkin could not only
understand them, but he could converse with them as well. He was doing so now, sending them into gales of merriment. Writhing in embarrassment, Saryon could just imagine what he was telling them.

Explain this logically, Saryon, he told himself. Explain this, catalysts, with all the books in your libraries. Explain these people away, and then explain to yourself why you are watching them dance in your flower-filled bower. Explain why you are thinking of losing yourself in this sweet prison, of yielding to that soft, white flesh ….

No! The yammering and twittering and giggling was beginning to tear his nerves to shreds. I’ve got to get out of here! Saryon realized wildly, getting a grip on reality. I’m going mad, as the old stories said. But how? Simkin is in league with them! He brought me here! But even as Saryon thought this, a vision of Elspeth came to his mind—swelling breasts, soft skin, warmth, sweetness, perfume … Frantically, Saryon started up from the cushion of moss, the look on his ashen face one of such panic and determination to flee that Simkin, catching a glimpse of him, shoved the faeriefolk unceremoniously out into the hallway and slammed shut the oaken door.

“Let me out!” Saryon cried in a hollow voice.

“Now do be reasonable, my dear fellow,” began Simkin, standing in front of the door.

Saryon did not answer. Grabbing hold of the young man with a strength born of desperation, he threw him to one side.

“Sorry to do this, but you must listen to reason,” Simkin said with a sigh. Speaking several words in the birdlike language of the faerie, he watched with a sigh as the oaken door began to dissolve and reshape itself into part of the cavern wall just as the catalyst lunged against it.

Groaning in pain, feeling his reason start to slip away, the catalyst let his body slide slowly to the floor.

“Don’t take it so hard, old chap,” Simkin said, squatting down beside him and laying a reassuring hand on Saryon’s shoulder. “I’m going to get us out of this predicament. You’ve just got to give me a little time, that’s all.”

Casting the leafily clad young man a bitter glance, Saryon shook his head and did not reply.

Simkin’s voice quavered. “I see. You don’t trust me. After everything I’ve done for you … What we’ve been to each other …” Two great tears rolled down into his beard. “I’ve thought of you as my father … My poor father. He and I were very close, you know,” the young man said in choked tones, “until the Enforcers came and dragged him away!” Two more tears trickled down his face. Covering his face with his hands, Simkin stumbled across the room and landed on the cushion of leaves, sending up a shower of fragrant blossoms. “You know what they’ll do to my sister if I don’t get you back to the Coven!” he sobbed. “Oh, this is too much to bear! Too much!”

Staring at the young man in amazement, Saryon was completely at a loss. Finally, the catalyst stood up and walked across the cavern floor. Coming near the weeping young man, Saryon clumsily patted Simkin on the shoulder.

“There, now,” the catalyst said awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I—I’m just distraught, that’s all.”

No response.

“Can you blame me?” Saryon asked feelingly. “First you lead us into an enchanted forest—”

“That was an accident,” came a muffled voice from amid the flowers.

“Then the mushroom ring—”

“Anyone can make a mistake.”

“Then the next thing I see you are dressed like one of
them!”

“Only being hospitable—”

“The Queen calls you by name, you speak their language. You even joke with them, for ’Min’s sake,” Saryon concluded in exasperation, losing his patience and committing an unforgivable sin by taking the god’s name in vain. “What am I supposed to think?”

Sitting up, Simkin peered at him with red-rimmed eyes. “You might have given me the benefit of the doubt,” he said, sniffing. “It can all be explained, I assure you. Only … well … there isn’t much time now,” he added hastily, wiping away his tears. “You don’t have a comb, do you?” Glancing at Saryon’s bald head, he sighed. “Stupid question. I’ll have to make do, I guess, though I look a perfect fright.” Picking twigs out of his hair and beard, Simkin began combing
through his curls with a forked stick that he plucked from the bower.

“You’d better get ready, too,” he stated, glancing at Saryon. “I say, can’t you come up with anything better than those drab robes? I’ve an idea! Open up a conduit to me! I’ll have you decked out in no time! Leaves from the … um … copper maple. That would do quite nicely. Not ostentatious in the least. A pine bough in the strategic location. Perfect thing. The pine needles itch a little at first, but you’ll get used to it. Oh, come on! After all, you
are
getting married—”

“I am not!” cried Saryon, springing to his feet and pacing feverishly about the sealed cavern chamber.

“Well, of course not,” Simkin said with a light little laugh that cracked about halfway through. Clearing his throat, he glanced hopefully at the pale-faced catalyst. “I mean, it wouldn’t be unthinkable, would it? Elspeth is really quite charming, don’t you know? A great personality, not to mention—”

Saryon shot him a vicious glance.

“Yes, you’re right. Unthinkable,” Simkin said firmly. “Therefore, I have a plan. Everything all arranged. My sister … you know …” he added in low tones. “Life at stake. I believe I mentioned how they are holding her captive—”