“This is ridiculous, “he told himself firmly, trying to remain calm, even as he was positive he saw the shining scaled tail of a dreadful monster slither away in the murky water of the swamp. Trembling from fear and damp and cold, he kept his eyes on Simkin, who was walking swiftly ahead of him, seemingly confident of every step. “Look at him. He’s my guide. He knows where he’s going. I have only to follow—”
The catalyst slowed, looking about him more intently, his senses now completely alert. Of course! How had he missed it at first?
“Simkin!” Saryon hissed.
“What is it, O Bald and Quivering One?” The young man turned around carefully, looking annoyed at being stopped.
“Simkin, this forest is under an enchantment!” Saryon gestured. “I can tell! I can sense the magic. It’s unlike anything I’m used to!” So it was. The magic was so pervasive, Saryon almost felt smothered by it.
Simkin appeared uncomfortable. “I … I suppose you’re right,” he muttered, glancing about at the mist drifting up from the water and twining round about the twisting trees. “I … believe I did hear at one time that this forest was … er … enchanted, as you say.”
“Who laid it? The Coven?”
“N-no,” Simkin admitted. “They don’t go in for that sort of thing, generally. Plus we haven’t had a catalyst around, like yourself, you know, so it would have been rather difficult—”
“Then who?” Saryon carne to a halt, staring at Simkin suspiciously.
“I say, old chap, I suggest you keep moving.”
“Who?” Saryon repeated angrily.
Smiling and shrugging, Simkin pointed at the catalyst’s feet.
Looking down, Saryon was alarmed to note that he was slowly sinking into the bog.
“Give me your hand!” said Simkin, tugging at the catalyst. It took considerable effort to drag Saryon’s feet free of the muck and, when they did, the ground let loose with a sucking pop as though angry at having to release its prey.
Thoroughly frightened, there was nothing for the catalyst to do but keep stumbling after Simkin, though Saryon was so oppressed with the stifling sensation of the heavy enchantment that he could scarcely breathe. It seemed it was sucking the Life out of him unbidden, draining his strength.
“I must rest,” Saryon gasped, staggering through the black water, his wet robes burdening him like a heavy weight.
“No, not now!” Simkin said insistently. Turning, he caught hold of Saryon’s arm and pulled him on. “There’s firmer ground, just a little farther …”
Clasped firmly in the young man’s grip, Saryon trudged wearily on, noticing as he went that Simkin was having no trouble walking, but was moving lightly over the surface, his boots barely leaving any impression at all.
“After all, he is a magus,” Saryon told himself bitterly, floundering after him. “Probably a wizard ….”
“Here we are,” said Simkin brightly, coming to a halt. “Now you can rest a bit, if you must.”
“I must,” Saryon said, thankful to feel solid ground beneath his feet. Following Simkin up onto a small round knoll that rose out of the bog, Saryon wiped the chill perspiration from his face with his sleeve and, shivering, glanced about their surroundings. “How far—” he began when suddenly, his breath catching in his throat, he made a strangled sound. “Run!” he cried.
“What?” Simkin whirled around, crouching, prepared for any enemy.
“Get … out!” Saryon managed to gasp, trying to move his feet but feeling the enchantment drawing him slowly and inexorably down.
“Get out of what?” Simkin’s voice seemed to come from far away. The mist was rising and swirling around them.
“Ring … mushrooms!” Saryon shouted, falling to his hands and knees as the ground shivered and quaked beneath his feet. “Simkin … look …”
With a last, desperate lunge, the catalyst tried to escape from the magical ring by flinging his body outside it. But as he lurched forward, the ground gave way and he fell. His fingers scrabbled for an instant among the mushrooms as he sought frantically to hold on, but the enchantment was irresistible, drawing him down, down …
The last thing he heard was Simkin’s voice, sounding ghostly through the whirling mist.
“I say, old boy, I believe you’re right. Frightfully sorry.
“Simkin?” whispered Saryon into the impenetrable darkness.
“Here, old boy,” came a cheerful response.
“Do you know where we are?”
“I’m afraid so. Try to be calm, will you? Everything’s under control.”
Calm. Saryon closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking to slow the beating of the heart that was lurching unsteadily in his chest. His mouth was dry, it hurt to breathe. He was standing on firm ground, however, which was some comfort, even though when he put his hands out and groped about in the darkness he could feel nothing around him. He could sense nothing around him either—nothing living, that is. For, oddly enough, his entire being pulsed and throbbed with magic—the source of the enchantment … as Simkin must have known.
When he thought he could speak in a relatively normal sounding voice, with only the hint of a quiver, he began, “I demand to know—”
At that moment, Saryon’s vision literally exploded with light and sound. Torches flared, stars seemed to shout from the sky and go flitting about him. Specks of green fire zoomed before his eyes and danced in his head. Brilliant bursts of white phosphorus blinded him as trumpet blasts deafened him. Reeling backward, he covered his eyes with his hands and heard laughter tingle and sparkle around him, while other, deeper laughter, boomed and shouted.
Blinking and rubbing his eyes, trying to see in the dazzling, smoky atmosphere that was somehow light and dark at the same time, Saryon heard a deep, low voice flowing out of the laughter like a cool river running through a vast, echoing cave.
“Simkin, my sweet, pretty boy, you have returned. And have you have brought me my desire?”
“Well, er, not exactly. That is … perhaps. Your Majesty is so difficult to please ….”
“I am not difficult to please. I would have settled for you.”
“Ah, come, come, now, Your Majesty. We’ve been over that, you know,” Simkin answered with a catch in his breath, or so it seemed to Saryon, who was still trying to see through the bursting blaze of light. “You know I would be … be honored, but if I left the Coven, Blachloch would come searching for me and he’d find me. And then he’d find you. He’s a powerful warlock—”
Saryon heard a throaty growl of impatience.
“Yes,” said Simkin hastily, “I know you could handle him and his men, but it would be so ugly. They have iron, you know—”
At this, the darkness was filled with hissing and yammering, dreadful to hear, while the lights blinked and flared, causing Saryon to shield his eyes with his hand.
“Someday,” said the deep, low voice, “we will deal with this matter. But now there are more urgent needs.”
Saryon heard a rustling sound, as if someone had moved, and instantly silence fell. The dazzling, brilliant lights winked out, the horrible noise stopped, and the catalyst was, once more, left standing in the darkness. But this darkness was alive, he could hear it breathing all around him—light, quick, shallow breaths; deep, even, rumbling breaths; and, above them all, a soft, whispering, throaty breathing.
He had no idea what to do. He dared not speak or call Simkin’s name. The breathing continued all around him—coming closer, it seemed—and the tension built inside him until he knew that any moment he would fling himself into the darkness and begin to run aimlessly, probably dashing himself to pieces among rocks—
Light flared again, only this time it was a pleasant, yellow light that did not blind him or hurt his eyes. He could see by it, he discovered, once his eyes became accustomed to it. And, looking around, he saw Simkin.
The catalyst blinked in astonishment. It was the same young man who had found him in the wilderness, the s
ame brown hair curled upon his shoulders, the same brown mustache adorned his upper lip. But the brown robes were gone, so were the leather boots. Simkin was now dressed in nothing but shining green leaves that twined about his body like ivy. He was facing Saryon and regarding the catalyst with a pleading look on his expressive face—a look that changed the next instant when a figure emerged from where it had been standing in the darkness behind Simkin.
The figure stepped into the pool of shimmering light, and Saryon forgot about young men, forgot about Bishops, forgot about enchanted traps. He very nearly forgot about breathing and it was only when he felt light-headed and faint did he remember to draw a deep, quivering breath.
“Father Saryon, may I present Her Majesty, Elspeth, Queen of the Faeries.”
It was Simkin’s voice, but Saryon could not look at him. He could look at only one thing.
The woman drifted closer.
Saryon felt his throat close and an aching sensation spread through his chest.
Golden hair cascaded in undulating waves to the floor, casting a halo of light about the woman as she walked. Silver eyes shone brighter and colder than the stars Saryon had looked upon in the night. She did not walk, that he could see, but she came closer and closer to him, filling his vision. Her naked body—and Saryon had never in his life imagined anything so soft and white and smooth—was wreathed in flowers. And these blossoms, which might have been used to modestly conceal her nakedness, had precisely the opposite effect. Hands of roses and lilacs cupped her white breasts, seeming to offer those breasts to the spellbound catalyst. Fingers of morning glories traced across her sleek stomach and caressed her shapely legs as if saying to Saryon, “Don’t you envy us? Cast us aside! Take our place!”
Nearer and nearer, her fragrance intoxicating him, she drifted toward him until she came to rest before him, her slim feet barely touching the ground. Saryon could do nothing, say nothing. He could only stare into her silver eyes and smell the lilacs and tremble at her nearness.
Tilting her beautiful head to one side, Elspeth studied him intently, earnestly, her sweetly curving lips puckering with the seriousness of her regard. Raising her hands, she laid them on Saryon’s shoulders. The movement of her arms lifted her breasts from their rose and lilac garden …. Saryon shut his eyes, swallowing painfully, holding himself rigid and stiff as her fingers traced along his shoulders, down over his chest, and around his back.
“How old is he?” the low, throaty voice asked suddenly.
Saryon opened his eyes.
“Forty or so,” answered Simkin cheerfully.
Elspeth frowned, almost a pout, her lips curving downward. Saryon swallowed again as her hands came to rest lightly on his shoulders. “That is not too old for humans?”
“Oh, no!” Simkin said hastily. “Not old at all. Many consider it to be the ideal age, prime of life.”
Saryon, finally able to withdraw his gaze from the lovely woman before him, started to ask Simkin what was going on—if he could find his voice, that is. But the young man scowled so fiercely and nodded so emphatically at the Queen that the catalyst kept quiet.
Elspeth’s frown deepened. “He is thin. He is not strong.”
“He is a scholar, a wise man,” answered Simkin quickly. “He has spent his life in study.”
“Indeed?” Elspeth said with interest. Saryon found himself in the silver-eyed gaze once more. “A wise man. We like that. There is much we would learn.”
Pausing a moment longer, her head tilted to one side, keeping Saryon in her enchanting gaze, Elspeth at last nodded slowly to herself. “Very well,” she murmured.
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!”
5
The Wedding Feast
Saryon 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.
Forging the Darksword Page 21