Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [94]
“The mushroom ring! That is how faeriefolk trap mortals.” The voice of the old House Magus sang in his ears like the laughter of the faeries. “Anyone foolish enough to step into the enchanted ring will fall down, down, down into their caves far beneath the ground. And there the poor mortal, be he ever a wizard so powerful, will find himself enthralled by the faerie spells and so he will lose his own magic and become a prisoner, spending his days in luxury, his nights in unspeakable acts, until he goes mad from the pleasure.”
As a child, Saryon had a confused idea of what “unspeakable acts” might be. He recalled thinking dimly that it had something to do with cutting out someone’s tongue. Even so, it had been a sufficiently frightening story to set the small boy running away in gleeful panic at the sight of a mushroom in the grass.
But I forgot. I lost the wonder of that little boy. Here I am, lounging on a cushion of sweet-smelling grasses and clover and moss, softer than the finest couches of the Emperor. Here I am, my blood burning every time I conjure up a vision of Elspeth, part of me longing to commit those “unspeakable acts.”
Half-turning, peering out through half-open lids, Saryon’s unwilling gaze was drawn, fascinated, to the faeriefolk in the doorway, whom Simkin was trying unsuccessfully to shoo away.
“I know I am not dreaming,” Saryon whispered to himself, “because even in my dreams, I do not have the imagination to conjure up such as these.”
Sprouting up in his doorway like their enchanted mushrooms, the faeriefolk shifted and changed before his eyes like their mad, magical creations. Some were nearly four feet tall, with brown, laugh-crinkled, mischievous faces, like children grown old but not wise. Others were tiny, small enough to fit in the palm of Saryon’s hand. These appeared as little more than balls of light, each a slightly different color. But, on staring at them closely, Saryon thought he could detect delicate, naked, winged bodies surrounded by a magical radiance. And in between these two extremes was an entire range of other faerie species, some short, some squat, some thin, some all, some none. There were children, too—smaller copies of the adults—and animals of every description who wandered about freely, many appearing to serve as mounts or servants to the larger faeries.
None of the faeries were as tall or looked as human as Elspeth. But that wasn’t unusual, according to Saryon’s nursery tale remembrances. Just as the queen bee is the largest and most pampered in the hive, so the Faerie Queen is tall and voluptuous and beautiful. For the same reason, he guessed, his face burning—to continue her species. Without a Queen to guide them, the irresponsible faeries would die. The Queen must, therefore, mate with a human male and produce a child ….
Saryon put his head in his hands, trying to blot out the sight of the leering grins and the flitting lights.
But he couldn’t blot out their voices.
So different are the varieties of faeriefolk and so varied their voice range and pitch—from squeaking sounds like mice to deep rumblings like frogs—that Saryon was bewildered and even uncertain as to whether or not they were all speaking the same language. He couldn’t understand a word but, he noticed, Simkin could. Simkin could not only understand them, but he could converse with them as well. He was doing so now, sending them into gales of merriment. Writhing in embarrassment, Saryon could just imagine what he was telling them.
Explain this logically, Saryon, he told himself. Explain this, catalysts, with all the books in your libraries. Explain these people away, and then explain to yourself why you are watching them dance in your flower-filled bower. Explain why you are thinking of losing yourself in this sweet prison, of yielding to that soft, white flesh ….
No! The yammering and twittering and giggling was beginning to tear his nerves to shreds. I’ve got to get out of here! Saryon realized wildly, getting