Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [86]
She ordered the driver of the carriage to take them through the shops and stalls that had sprung up around Earth Gate like a ring of enchanted mushrooms. More than a few people glanced at them as they drove by, many pointing them out as Simkin’s companions and laughing heartily. Leaving the area around Earth Gate, they drove past the tropical gardens, admiring the flowers that grew here and nowhere else in Thimhallan. Enchanted trees on the Walk of Crafts were singing in chorus, and raised their limbs as the carriage flew beneath them. A unit of Imperial Guards mounted on seahorses bobbed through the air in perfect unison.
They could have spent hours in the Grove, but the afternoon sun was nearing the point designated by the Sif-Hanar as twilight. It was time to start home and — at Gwen’s command — their carriage joined others circling upward to reach the floating rock pedestal of City Above.
Sitting in the carriage across from the young men, Gwendolyn thought how time had flown by all too rapidly. She could have stayed here forever. Seeing Merilon’s wonders reflected in the eyes of her guests — particularly the dark eyes of one of the guests — she seemed to see the city for the first time and she couldn’t remember having noticed before how beautiful it was.
And what did her guests think? Mosiah was wrapped in a spell of enchantment, pointing and gaping at the splendors with a naïveté and childlike wonder that made him a figure of fun to all observers.
Saryon didn’t see the city at all. His thoughts were turned inward. The fabulous sights brought back nothing but bitter memories to the catalyst, and only made the knowledge of his secret more burdensome.
And Joram? At last he was seeing the city whose wonders his mother had described in such vivid detail every night of his childhood. But he wasn’t seeing it through Anja’s half-mad gaze. Joram’s first glimpse of Merilon was seen through eyes of blue innocence and a mist of fine, golden hair. Its beauty made his heart ache.
3
The Guildmaster’s Home
“Mama,” said Gwen, “may I introduce Father Dunstable.”
“Father.” Lady Rosamund gave the catalyst the very tips of her fingers, curtsying slightly. The catalyst bowed, murmuring words of appreciation for milady’s hospitality which milady returned cordially, if somewhat vaguely, her gaze fixed expectantly on the gate beyond him. Lady Rosamund greeted her guests in the front court garden as was customary in Merilon, the garden — of which milady was justly proud — providing a beautiful setting of ferns and rose trees.
“And this is Mosiah and … and Joram,” continued Gwen, blushing prettily. Hearing a smothered giggle from her cousins in the background, the young girl tried to appear completely unconscious of the fact that his name came to her lips like a song of joy. An astute and doting mother like Lady Rosamund ordinarily would have noted the blush and guessed the truth the moment her daughter introduced the young man. But Lady Rosamund was nervous and somewhat flustered.
“Gentlemen,” she said, giving them each her hand and looking around them and above them at the gateway. “But where is Simkin?” she asked after a moment passed and no one else entered.
“Lady Rosamund,” said Joram, “we thank you for your hospitality. And we would like you to accept this as a token of our gratitude.” So saying, Joram drew the tulip — somewhat crushed and battered — from inside his tunic and handed it to his hostess.
Her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed, as if she suspected she was the brunt of some joke, Lady Rosamund coldly reached out her hand —
— and touched Simkin’s flowing, purple silk sleeve.
“Merciful Almin!” she cried, backing up with a start. Then, “I ask forgiveness, Father, for the blasphemy,” she murmured, blushing nearly as pink as her daughter.
“An understandable reaction, my lady,” Saryon said gravely, glancing at Simkin, who was staggering about the garden, gasping for air and fanning himself with the orange silk.
“Almin’s Blood! My dear boy” — he turned