Forging the Darksword (30 page)

“What do we do?” Saryon asked, wearily cutting Simkin off in mid-tragedy.

“Wait for my signal,” said Simkin, standing up and arranging his leaves in a fashionable manner. “Ah, here they are, come to escort the bridegroom to his blushing bride.”

“What will the signal be?” Saryon whispered as the stone door began to dissolve. Outside, he could see flaming torches surrounded by thousands of dancing, blinking lights and he could hear hundreds of shrill, deep, soft, loud voices raised in eerie, enchanting song. At the far end of the vast, flower-decked cavern, he could barely make out the figure of Elspeth, seated on a throne made of a living oak tree, her golden hair glistening in the torch light.

Saryon swallowed. “The signal?” he repeated hoarsely.

“You’ll know it,” Simkin assured him. Taking the catalyst by the arm, he led him forward into the presence of the Faerie Queen.

“More wine, my love?”

“N-no, thank you,” stammered Saryon, putting his hand
over
the golden goblet. Too late. With a word, Elspeth caused the cup to fill to overflowing with the sweet, blood-red liquid. Grimacing, Saryon snatched his hand away and wiped it surreptitiously on his robes.

“More honeycomb?” Some appeared on his golden plate.

“No, I’m—”

“More fruit, meat, bread?” Within seconds, the plate was heaped with delicacies, their rich aroma blending with the other smells—smoke of torches, steaming platters of roast meat, and, near him, the fragrance of Elspeth herself, dark, musky, more intoxicating than the wine. “You’ve eaten nothing!” she said to him, leaning so close that he could feel her hair brush against his cheek.

“Really, I’m—I’m not hungry,” Saryon said in a faint voice.

“I expect you are nervous,” Elspeth said, her lips curving into a smile, her eyes inviting him to draw nearer still. “Is it true that you have never lain with a woman?”

Saryon flushed redder than the wine and cast an irritated glance at Simkin, who was sitting next to him.

“I had to tell them
something
, old boy,” Simkin muttered out of the corner of his mouth, draining his goblet. “They simply couldn’t understand why you carried on so when their Queen made the announcement about you fathering the child and so forth. All that hand-waving and shouting. You were lucky they just put you in that little room to cool off. Once I explained—”

“Why are you bothering with that fool? Pay attention to me, my love,” Elspeth said in a soft voice, catching hold of the fabric of Saryon’s robe and tugging him toward her. She moved in a playful manner, her voice was soft and sultry, yet her words chilled Saryon. “I will be very good to you, my own, but remember—you
are
my own! I need, I demand, your complete attention. At all times, day and night, every thought you think must be
of
me. Every word you speak must be
to
me.” Lifting his hand, she rubbed it against her petal-smooth cheek. “Now, my
own
, since you will not eat and since it is too early to go to the bridal bower—”

“When—when is that?” Saryon asked, flushing.

“Moonrise,” said Simkin, watching the wine level rise in his goblet again with appreciative eyes.

Elspeth gave him an angry glance but, at that moment, a riotous clamoring broke out on the other side of the Faerie Queen, momentarily distracting her. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Saryon grabbed hold of Simkin’s shoulder.

“Moonrise! That’s less than an hour!”

“Yes,” said Simkin, staring into the wine.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Saryon whispered frantically.

“Soon,” murmured Simkin.

Saryon dared not pursue the matter further, for the quarrel or joke or whatever it had been was quieting down. Trying to keep hold of himself, all the while feeling as if he was about to scream and fling himself into the center of the table, Saryon decided that a sip of wine might be beneficial.

Lifting the goblet to his lips, trying to keep his hand from shaking, he stared about him with the dazed look of a sleepwalker. He had attended revels in court. He had attended what were considered wild revels in court—All Fools’ Day, for example, when supposedly all propriety is cast to the wind. But staring at the madness and mayhem going on before him, his senses were literally so overwhelmed that he could not comprehend it completely, but saw it in blurs of color and bursts of noise and flares of light.

Every conceivable activity was going on around him, from pitched battle being fought in the center of the table to shameless lovemaking on couches. Bears danced in the aisles, acrobats juggled flaming brands, children sang bawdy songs, food splattered on the walls and floors and ceilings. Looking over here, he was horrified; looking over there, he was embarrassed; looking somewhere else, he was nauseated.

“Are you thinking of me?” whispered a sweet voice in Saryon’s ear.

The catalyst started. “Of course,” he answered hastily, turning to face Elspeth, who smiled and, inserting her hand up the sleeve of his robes, softly caressed his arm. And as he looked at her, the catalyst noticed something. Though all might be chaos around her, she herself was a haven of peace, of restfulness. He felt drawn to her to escape the madness.

“And now,” she said, slightly pouting. “You will tell me why you have never been with a woman. You enjoy my touch, I can tell,” she added, feeling Saryon’s muscles tense involuntarily.

“It—it is not the … custom … of my people,” stammered Saryon, licking his dry lips and breaking free of her grasp to reach for his wine goblet again. “Such … mating … is done by animals, but not by civilized … men and—uh—women.”

“I had heard something of this,” said Elspeth, her silver eyes gleaming with laughter and amazement, “but I did not believe it.” She shrugged, her breasts, decked with lilies-of-the-valley, rising and falling with her soft breath. “How, then, do you have children?”

“When the will of the Almin was made known to the people regarding this matter,” Saryon said, his voice shaking, “we catalysts, together with the
Theldari
, the shamans skilled in such medicines, were given the knowledge to perform this rite. The granting of a life, after all, is a sacred gift and should be entered into only in the most … most reverent frame of mind.” Oh, how silly this sounded, so close to her soft body …

“A truly beaut—beaut—bu’ful speech,” blubbered Simkin, causing his wine goblet to fill again. “You’re going to make a wonderful father. Just like mine!” Breaking down, he laid his head on Saryon’s arm and wept.

“Simkin!” hissed Saryon, shaking him, aware of Elspeth’s glittering-eyed gaze upon them. “Stop this! Sit up!”

Simkin sat up, but only to wrap one arm around Saryon’s neck and drag him down with him, causing the catalyst to bang his head smartly on the table.

“What are you doing?” Saryon demanded, trying to free himself and nearly choking from the wine fumes exhaling from Simkin’s mouth.

“Thish … shignal,” Simkin said in a loud whisper, wrapping his other arm around the catalyst’s neck and smiling up at him drunkenly. “Time to”—he belched—“shcape.”

“What?” demanded Saryon, still trying to break Simkin’s hold. But every time he loosened one of the young man’s hands, the other entwined itself around him again. Simkin was hanging onto his neck, then—falling forward—around
his waist, then—leaning his head on his chest—lolling around his shoulders.

“Shcape,” whispered Simkin, frowning solemnly. “Now.”

“How?” Saryon muttered, dimly aware that there was singing going on in the background. To his dismay, he saw moonlight filtering down onto the table through the rifts in the high cavern ceiling. Elspeth was rising to her feet, her beautiful face as cold and pale as the light shining on it.

“Tell … tell them I’m shick,” said Simkin, belching again. “Hor—hor—hor’ble illness. Plague.”

“But you’re drunk!” Saryon snarled furiously.

Suddenly Simkin lurched forward, his dead weight dragging Saryon to the floor. The faeries laughed and cheered. Elspeth was shouting something. Completely tangled up in Simkin, his robes, and the chair, Saryon lay on his back on the floor, Simkin on top of him, as feet of every shape and description danced and darted about him.

Lifting his head from where it rested on Saryon’s chest, Simkin looked at the catalyst with round, solemn, unfocused eyes. “You shee …” he breathed in a grape-laden whisper, “faeries never get drunk. Physh … ically im-possible. They’ll b’lieve I’m shick. Shcape. Shee?”

Saryon stared at the young man hopefully. “Then, you’re only pretending to be drunk?”

“Oh, no!” said Simkin solemnly. “N’ver do anythin’ halfway. Jush … help me to my … feet. All … four of ’em.”

At that moment, several of the stronger male faeries grasped hold of Simkin and dragged him off the catalyst. Several more helped Saryon to his feet, the catalyst stalling as long as possible to try to think what to say and do, wondering if he might not be able to get out on his own.

Simkin, meanwhile, was being held upright by the combined forces of four faeries, two holding his feet and two more flying over his head, gripping him firmly by the hair. Looking at the young man’s rolling eyes, crazed grin, and wobbly legs, Saryon suddenly went calm with despair. Leave without Simkin? Impossible. Saryon had no idea where he was and he guessed, from what little he had seen, that the Faerie Kingdom was a vast catacomb of twisting, winding tunnels and caverns. He would be lost by himself. Besides, if
he did make it back into the wilderness, his life was worth nothing anyway.

Stay here … with Elspeth … He would go mad, soon. But what sweet madness ….

Sighing softly, Saryon turned to the Faerie Queen. “Send for your Healer,” he commanded in his sternest voice.

“What?” She appeared astonished and, raising her hand, instantly quieted the clamor and commotion of the faeries. Darkness descended suddenly on the great hall except for a light that gleamed from her golden hair. “A Healer? We have no Healer.”

“What, none?” Saryon was shocked. “No
Mannanish
at least?”

“What for? “Elspeth responded scornfully. “We are never sick. Why do you think we avoid human contamina—”

Pausing, she looked at Simkin more intently, her eyes narrowing.

“Until now,” Saryon said grimly, pointing to Simkin, who was looking worse all the time. His face had turned an unbecoming green beneath the beard, his eyes were rolling in his head. The faeries supporting the weak and reeling young man stared at their Queen in alarm.

“Here,” offered Saryon, stepping over and putting his arm firmly around Simkin’s sagging body, “I’ll take him to his chambers—”

“I’ll take care of him!” said Elspeth calmly. “At once!”

Saryon’s heart leaped into his throat as he saw her preparing to cast a magic spell that would probably have sent Simkin to the bottom of the river.

“No! Wait!” the catalyst cried, hanging onto the foolishly grinning Simkin. Peacefully swaying from side to side, he was humming a little ditty. “No, you mustn’t send him away. We—we need to know what he’s got!” Saryon finished in a burst of inspiration. “To see if it’s … catching.”

“Fatal,” said Simkin mournfully, and was promptly sick all over the floor. The faeries who had been attending him screeched and jabbered in fear and anger, backing up until there was a clear circle around the catalyst and his guide.

“Are humans subject to such frailties?” Elspeth asked, frowning.

“Yes, oh yes!” Saryon said breathlessly, seeing a ray of hope drift down among the moonbeams. “It happens to me constantly!”

Looking at him, Elspeth smiled. “Then it is well that we mingle the blood of your child with mine. In time, perhaps we will wipe out this weak, human trait. Take him to his chambers, then. You four”—she detailed four of the tallest of the tall faeries—“accompany them. When Simkin is settled, bring my beloved to my bed.”

Moving closer, she brushed her lips against Saryon’s cheek. Her warm flesh, soft and curving, pressed against his and for an instant the catalyst was as weak as Simkin. Then she was gone, her cloud of golden hair shimmering around her.

“Let the merriment continue!” she shouted and the darkness came alive.

Saryon turned, his despair complete, and proceeded to half-walk, half-drag the drunken Simkin through the hall, followed by four dancing faerie guards.

“Well, it was a good try,” Saryon whispered to Simkin with a sigh. “But it didn’t work.”

“It didn’t?” asked Simkin, looking about in amazement. “Did they catch us? I don’t remember running!”

“Running!” Saryon said, puzzled. “What do you mean—running? I thought we were trying to convince them to let us go because you were sick?”

“I shay, that’sh a good idea!” said Simkin, regarding Saryon with misty-eyed admiration. “Letsh try it.”

“I did,” snapped Saryon tensely, his arms and back aching with the strain, his hands pricked by the leaves Simkin was wearing. He was growing increasingly nauseated from the smell of forest, wine, and vomit. “It didn’t work.”

“Oh.” Simkin appeared downcast, then almost immediately cheered up. “I guessh we’ll have to … to make … makearunforit.”