Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [101]
“I’m not at all cold, Marie,” Gwen started to say irritably when a sudden thought struck her. “You are right, as always, Marie,” she said, rubbing her arms. “I am a bit chilled. Be a dear and go inside to fetch my shawl.”
Too late, the catalyst saw her mistake. “My lady can summon the shawl to her,” Marie said, somewhat sternly.
“No, no.” Gwendolyn shook her head, smiling mischievously. “I am drained of Life, and you are too fatigued to grant me more. Please bring it to me, Marie. You know how upset Mama gets when I catch cold. We will wait here for you to return. This gentleman will have no objection, I suppose, to keeping me company?”
The gentleman had no objection whatsoever, and Marie had no choice but to return to the house in search of the shawl, which Gwen prayed was well-hidden.
Still keeping her hands safely behind her back, yet feeling a perverse longing to experience that strange, delightful pain again, Gwendolyn turned to face Joram. Raising her head, she looked into the dark eyes and the pain returned, although not quite as pleasant. Once again, she had the sensation that the warmth and joy of her soul was being absorbed by this young man, that it was feeding some deep hunger inside him, and that he was giving nothing back in return.
The look in the dark eyes was frightening, more frightening than his touch, and Gwen averted her gaze. “It … it is cold,” she faltered, drifting backward slightly. “Perhaps I should go inside….”
“Don’t go, Gwendolyn,” he said in a tone that sent a thrill through her being, as though she had reached into a storm cloud and touched lightning. “You know how I feel about you …”
“I don’t know how you feel, not in the slightest,” Gwen returned coolly, her fear replaced by the sudden enjoyment of the game. Now they were playing by rules she understood. “What’s more,” she said loftily, turning away from him, her hand reaching out to caress a lily, “I don’t care to know.”
It was the same flirtatious speech she had used to the elegant son of the Duke of Manchua, and that ardent youth had thrown himself at her feet — literally — declaring his undying devotion and countless other agreeable absurdities that she and her cousins had giggled over during the night. Her hand on the lily, she waited for Joram to say and do the same.
There was only silence.
Glancing at him from beneath her long eyelashes, Gwen was appalled by what she saw.
Joram looked like a man sentenced to death. His face was pale beneath the tan, his lips ashen and pressed together to keep from trembling or perhaps from uttering the words that burned in his eyes. His jaw muscles clenched. When he spoke, it was with visible effort. “Forgive me,” he said. “I have made a fool of myself. I was mistaken in your kindness, it appears. I will take my leave —”
Gwen gasped. What was he saying? What was he doing? He was leaving! Actually turning and starting to walk away, his boots crunching on the marble pebbles of the path that sparkled in the sun! But this wasn’t part of the game!
And suddenly she realized that — to him — this wad no game. The story of his life came back to her and she heard it, this time, with a woman’s heart. She felt the bleakness, the harshness. She remembered the hunger in his eyes, and some part of her saw the darkness there, too.
For a moment Gwen hesitated, trembling. Part of her wanted to hang back and let him go, remain a little girl, playing the game still. But another part whispered that if she did, she would lose something dear, something precious, never to find it again her entire life. Joram continued walking away. The pain inside Gwen was no longer pleasurable, it was cold and hollow and empty.
Magic drained from her body, she sank to the ground. Joram was moving farther and farther away. Ignoring the sting of the sharp rocks cutting into the flesh of her delicate feet, Gwendolyn ran down the path.
“Stop, oh, stop!” she cried in anguish.
Startled, Joram turned at the sound of her voice.
“Please, don’t go!” Gwen pleaded,