Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [113]
“Am I that heartless?” she asked herself. “Is there nothing more to me than a desire for wealth, for an easy, happy, fun-loving life?” Surely, she thought guiltily, looking around her in the moonlight that the filmy curtains could not shut out, surely that is how I must appear or my parents would not have said such things.
Recalling her words and her dreams over the past few days, her guilt increased tenfold.
“When I’ve dreamed of Joram,” she murmured, “I’ve dreamed of him in fine clothes, not the plain clothes he wears now. I’ve pictured him floating over his estate, his servants around him, or riding his horses at a gallop in a game of King’s Ransom, or taking me with him as he visits the farms once a year, all the peasants bowing to us in respect….” She closed her burning eyes. “But he was a Field Magus! A peasant — one of those who bowed! And if he fails to prove his claim, that’s likely what he’ll go back to being. Could I stand beside him, my feet in the dirt, bowing? …”
For a moment, she doubted. Fear overcame her. She had never been to a Field Magi village before, but she had heard about them from Joram. She pictured her white skin burned and blistered by the sun, her fair hair tangled by wind, her body worn and weary and hurting by day’s end. She saw herself plodding back home through the fields, walking because she lacked the energy to fly. But there was Joram beside her, walking with her to their hut. He had his arm around her, supporting her tired footsteps. They would return home together. She would cook their simple meal (“I suppose I could learn to cook” she whispered.) while he watched their children playing….
Gwendolyn flushed, a warmth flowing through her body. Children. The catalysts would perform the ceremony, transferring his seed to her body. She wondered how they did it, for it was a subject about which her mother never spoke. No well-bred woman did, for that matter. Still, Gwen couldn’t help but feel curious, and it was odd that this curiosity should come over her now, when she was picturing Joram eating his meal, looking at her, his dark eyes shining in the firelight …
The warmth of that fire spread through Gwen, enveloping her in a sweet golden aura that seemed in her mind to outshine the pale, cold light of the moon. Laying her head down on her arms, she began to cry again, but these tears sprang from a different well, one deeper and purer than she had ever imagined existed. They were tears of joy, for she knew that she loved Joram unselfishly. She had loved him as Baronet, she could love him as peasant. No matter what happened or where he went, her place was with him, even if it was in a field….
If Gwendolyn had known the true rigors of the life she so innocently planned sharing with Joram, the heart that was beginning for the first time to feel the strong pulsing of a woman’s love might have faltered. The simple hut she conjured up in her mind was at least five times the size of a real Field Magus’s crude dwelling. The simple meal she pictured cooking would have fed a real peasant family for a month and, in her fond dream, all her children were born healthy, and thrived in their environment. No tiny graves dotted the landscape of her imagination.
But, in her present mood, that might not have mattered. Indeed, the harder the life, the more she embraced it, for that would prove her love! She raised her head, tears glistening on her cheeks. She hoped that Joram would not be able to claim the Barony! She pictured him crushed, dejected. She pictured her father grabbing her and starting to drag her away.
“But I will break free!” she said to herself in a fervor that was almost holy. “I will run to Joram and he will take me in his arms and we will be together forever and ever….”
“Forever and ever,” she repeated, falling to her knees and folding her hands. “Please, Heavenly Almin,” she whispered, “please let me find a way to tell him! Please.”
A feeling of peace and contentment stole over her and