Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [156]
Gwendolyn had heard Joram’s anguished cry, she had heard his rage and his anger, and the girl longed to run away. But the woman stayed, and it was the woman Joram faced when he slashed through the door. He stared at her grimly, sword in hand. Blazing fiercely and brightly, its glow was reflected in the blue eyes that looked at him from the ashen face.
He knew she had heard it all and he felt suddenly a vast and overwhelming sense of relief. He could see the horror in her eyes. Next would come the pity and then the loathing. He wouldn’t avoid it. He would hurry it, in fact. It would be so much easier to leave hating her. He could sink thankfully into the darkness, knowing that he would never rise again.
“So, lady” — he spoke in low tones, as fierce as the sword’s bright light — “you know. You know that I am no one, nobody.” His face grim, Joram raised the Darksword, watching its white-blue blaze burn in the wide, staring eyes of the woman in the hall. “You once said that whatever I was would not matter to you, Gwendolyn. That you would love me and come with me.” Slowly, switching the Darksword to his left hand, Joram held out his right. “Come with me, then.” He sneered. “Or were your words lies like the words of all the rest?”
What could she do? He spoke arrogantly, goading her to refusal. Yet Gwen saw behind that; she saw the pain and anguish in his eyes. She knew that if she rebuffed him, if she turned from him, he would walk into the arid desert of his despair and sink beneath the sand. He needed her. As his sword drank up the magic of the world, so did his thirst for love drink up all she had to offer.
“No, not a lie,” she said in a calm, steady voice.
Reaching out her hand, she caught hold of his. Joram stared at her in astonishment, struggling with himself. It seemed for a moment that he might hurl her away from him. But she held onto him tightly, gazing at him with steadfast love and resolve.
Joram lowered the Darksword. Still holding Gwen’s hand, he hung his head and began to cry — bitter, anguished sobs that tore at his body so that it seemed they might rend him in half. Gently, Gwen put her arms around him and gathered him close, soothing him as she would a child.
“Come, we must go,” she whispered. “This place is dangerous for you now.”
Joram clung to her. Lost and wandering in his inner darkness, he had no thought of where he was, no care for his own safety. He would have sunk to the floor were it not for her arms around him.
“Come!” she whispered urgently.
Dully, he nodded. His stumbling feet followed her lead.
“Gwendolyn! No! My child!” Lord Samuels called out to her, pleading. He tried desperately to move, but the Darksword had drained his Life. He could only stand, helplessly, watching.
Without a backward glance at her father, Gwendolyn led the man she had chosen to love away.
6
Here’s to Folly
Uncertain what to do or where to go, Gwen led Joram to the Fire level. Here, in a dark alcove made even darker and more shadowy by the fiery illusions around them, the couple hid, starting at every sound, scarcely willing to draw a breath.
“We must get away, before the Duuk-tsarith start searching for us, if they haven’t already,” Gwen whispered. “How long will my father be under that spell?”
Joram had regained a measure of control, though he held onto Gwen as a dying man clings to life. His arm around her, he pressed her close, his dark head resting on her golden one, his tears drying in her soft hair.
“I don’t know,” Joram admitted bitterly, glancing at the Darksword in his left hand. “But not long, I should imagine. I don’t really know how this sword functions