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—”
“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 h
e 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 swee
t 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.
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