Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [33]
“Uh,” said Simkin, appearing ill at ease, “I’m not quite certain. Better let me check.” And before anyone could stop him, he had disappeared, cloak, boots, hat, feather, and all.
“I knew it!” Mosiah said grimly. “He’s gotten us lost and he won’t admit it! Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to wait here in this horrible “forest one moment longer.”
He and Joram plunged forward, hacking grimly at Kij vines with renewed effort. Saryon hurried after them.
The light grew brighter the closer they came. It was about midday, the sun would be at its zenith, and the catalyst thought longingly of warmth and light and an end to the oppressive trees and the blood-sucking plants. As they drew nearer, he heard a welcome sound — the sound of fresh water, splashing over rocks. Where there was fresh water, there might be fresh food: fruits and nuts — no more clumsily conjured, tasteless bread, no more water that tasted like Kij vine.
Throwing caution to the wind, the group hurried forward, no longer caring if anything or anyone was watching them. Saryon believed he might well give his life for the warmth of sunlight on his face one last time.
Bursting through the trees, the men came to a stop, staring in awe.
Sunlight from a cloudless sky beamed down through a break in the forest canopy. The sun sparkled upon a cascade of blue water falling from a high cliff, danced in the ripples of a shallow stream. It formed rainbows in steam that drifted above a bubbling pool. It shone down upon a glade filled with tall grass and sweet flowers.
“Thank the Almin,” breathed the catalyst.
“No, wait!” Simkin appeared suddenly, out of nowhere. “Don’t go in. This isn’t supposed to be here.”
“So this is not supposed to be here!” Mosiah muttered lazily.
Three of them, Mosiah, Joram, and Saryon, lay in the tall grass, reveling in its warm, fragrant sweetness, sated with the luscious fruit they had found growing on bushes lining the hot springs.
“If anything, this place is more real than he is!”
Although Simkin protested even entering the glade — “I tell you, it wasn’t here the last time I was” — the other three were determined to camp here for the night.
“We’ll keep low,” Joram told him impatiently when Simkin’s vague hints became too ridiculous to tolerate. “It’s actually safer in this grass. We’ll see and hear anything that enters this glade long before it gets to us!”
Simkin fell into a sulking silence. Trailing after the rest as they entered the sunlit glade, he moodily ripped off the heads of flowers. The others drank their fill of the cool water from the falls, bathed in the warm spring, and hungrily devoured the fruit. Then they spread their blankets beneath a giant tree at the glade’s edge, resting in the tall grass, a feeling of comradeship enveloping them in its warmth.
But Simkin spent the time prowling about restlessly. He fidgeted in the grass, kept starting up to peer into the woods, and changed his clothes from one garish color to another.
“Ignore him,” Mosiah said, as he saw Saryon watching the young man, a worried expression on the catalyst’s face.
“He’s acting strangely,” Saryon said.
“Since when is that anything new!” Mosiah retorted. “Tell us about Merilon, Father. You’re the one who’s lived there and you’ve never said a word. I know you don’t exactly approve of us going….”
“I know. I’ve been sulking as badly as Simkin.” Saryon smiled. Feeling comfortably weary, he began to talk at length about the Merilon he remembered — telling of the beauty of the crystal Cathedral and the wonders of the city. He described the fanciful carriages drawn by huge squirrels or peacocks or swans that flew in the air upon the wings of magic, carrying their noble passengers up into the clouds to make their daily appearances