Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [95]
“Let me out!” Saryon cried in a hollow voice.
“Now do be reasonable, my dear fellow,” began Simkin, standing in front of the door.
Saryon did not answer. Grabbing hold of the young man with a strength born of desperation, he threw him to one side.
“Sorry to do this, but you must listen to reason,” Simkin said with a sigh. Speaking several words in the birdlike language of the faerie, he watched with a sigh as the oaken door began to dissolve and reshape itself into part of the cavern wall just as the catalyst lunged against it.
Groaning in pain, feeling his reason start to slip away, the catalyst let his body slide slowly to the floor.
“Don’t take it so hard, old chap,” Simkin said, squatting down beside him and laying a reassuring hand on Saryon’s shoulder. “I’m going to get us out of this predicament. You’ve just got to give me a little time, that’s all.”
Casting the leafily clad young man a bitter glance, Saryon shook his head and did not reply.
Simkin’s voice quavered. “I see. You don’t trust me. After everything I’ve done for you … What we’ve been to each other …” Two great tears rolled down into his beard. “I’ve thought of you as my father … My poor father. He and I were very close, you know,” the young man said in choked tones, “until the Enforcers came and dragged him away!” Two more tears trickled down his face. Covering his face with his hands, Simkin stumbled across the room and landed on the cushion of leaves, sending up a shower of fragrant blossoms. “You know what they’ll do to my sister if I don’t get you back to the Coven!” he sobbed. “Oh, this is too much to bear! Too much!”
Staring at the young man in amazement, Saryon was completely at a loss. Finally, the catalyst stood up and walked across the cavern floor. Coming near the weeping young man, Saryon clumsily patted Simkin on the shoulder.
“There, now,” the catalyst said awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I—I’m just distraught, that’s all.”
No response.
“Can you blame me?” Saryon asked feelingly. “First you lead us into an enchanted forest—”
“That was an accident,” came a muffled voice from amid the flowers.
“Then the mushroom ring—”
“Anyone can make a mistake.”
“Then the next thing I see you are dressed like one of them!”
“Only being hospitable—”
“The Queen calls you by name, you speak their language. You even joke with them, for ’Min’s sake,” Saryon concluded in exasperation, losing his patience and committing an unforgivable sin by taking the god’s name in vain. “What am I supposed to think?”
Sitting up, Simkin peered at him with red-rimmed eyes. “You might have given me the benefit of the doubt,” he said, sniffing. “It can all be explained, I assure you. Only … well … there isn’t much time now,” he added hastily, wiping away his tears. “You don’t have a comb, do you?” Glancing at Saryon’s bald head, he sighed. “Stupid question. I’ll have to make do, I guess, though I look a perfect fright.” Picking twigs out of his hair and beard, Simkin began combing through his curls with a forked stick that he plucked from the bower.
“You’d better get ready, too,” he stated, glancing at Saryon. “I say, can’t you come up with anything better than those drab robes? I’ve an idea! Open up a conduit to me! I’ll have you decked out in no time! Leaves from the … um … copper maple. That would do quite nicely. Not ostentatious in the least. A pine bough in the strategic location. Perfect thing. The pine needles itch a little at first, but you’ll get used to it. Oh, come on! After all, you are getting married—”
“I am not!” cried Saryon, springing to