Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [92]
The figure stepped into the pool of shimmering light, and Saryon forgot about young men, forgot about Bishops, forgot about enchanted traps. He very nearly forgot about breathing and it was only when he felt light-headed and faint did he remember to draw a deep, quivering breath.
“Father Saryon, may I present Her Majesty, Elspeth, Queen of the Faeries.”
It was Simkin’s voice, but Saryon could not look at him. He could look at only one thing.
The woman drifted closer.
Saryon felt his throat close and an aching sensation spread through his chest.
Golden hair cascaded in undulating waves to the floor, casting a halo of light about the woman as she walked. Silver eyes shone brighter and colder than the stars Saryon had looked upon in the night. She did not walk, that he could see, but she came closer and closer to him, filling his vision. Her naked body—and Saryon had never in his life imagined anything so soft and white and smooth—was wreathed in flowers. And these blossoms, which might have been used to modestly conceal her nakedness, had precisely the opposite effect. Hands of roses and lilacs cupped her white breasts, seeming to offer those breasts to the spellbound catalyst. Fingers of morning glories traced across her sleek stomach and caressed her shapely legs as if saying to Saryon, “Don’t you envy us? Cast us aside! Take our place!”
Nearer and nearer, her fragrance intoxicating him, she drifted toward him until she came to rest before him, her slim feet barely touching the ground. Saryon could do nothing, say nothing. He could only stare into her silver eyes and smell the lilacs and tremble at her nearness.
Tilting her beautiful head to one side, Elspeth studied him intently, earnestly, her sweetly curving lips puckering with the seriousness of her regard. Raising her hands, she laid them on Saryon’s shoulders. The movement of her arms lifted her breasts from their rose and lilac garden …. Saryon shut his eyes, swallowing painfully, holding himself rigid and stiff as her fingers traced along his shoulders, down over his chest, and around his back.
“How old is he?” the low, throaty voice asked suddenly.
Saryon opened his eyes.
“Forty or so,” answered Simkin cheerfully.
Elspeth frowned, almost a pout, her lips curving downward. Saryon swallowed again as her hands came to rest lightly on his shoulders. “That is not too old for humans?”
“Oh, no!” Simkin said hastily. “Not old at all. Many consider it to be the ideal age, prime of life.”
Saryon, finally able to withdraw his gaze from the lovely woman before him, started to ask Simkin what was going on—if he could find his voice, that is. But the young man scowled so fiercely and nodded so emphatically at the Queen that the catalyst kept quiet.
Elspeth’s frown deepened. “He is thin. He is not strong.”
“He is a scholar, a wise man,” answered Simkin quickly. “He has spent his life in study.”
“Indeed?” Elspeth said with interest. Saryon found himself in the silver-eyed gaze once more. “A wise man. We like that. There is much we would learn.”
Pausing a moment longer, her head tilted to one side, keeping Saryon in her enchanting gaze, Elspeth at last nodded slowly to herself. “Very well,” she murmured.
Clasping Saryon’s hand in her own, she drifted up, turned to face her people, and floated down to stand beside him. Her golden hair floated about him, enveloping him, her touch tingled through his body like a sweet, burning poison. Lifting the catalysts unresisting hand, Elspeth cried out, “Faeriefolk, bow down! Prepare for the celebration! Do homage to the one we have chosen to father our child!”
5
The Wedding Feast
Saryon paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in the