Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [96]
“Well, of course not,” Simkin said with a light little laugh that cracked about halfway through. Clearing his throat, he glanced hopefully at the pale-faced catalyst. “I mean, it wouldn’t be unthinkable, would it? Elspeth is really quite charming, don’t you know? A great personality, not to mention—”
Saryon shot him a vicious glance.
“Yes, you’re right. Unthinkable,” Simkin said firmly. “Therefore, I have a plan. Everything all arranged. My sister … you know …” he added in low tones. “Life at stake. I believe I mentioned how they are holding her captive—”
“What do we do?” Saryon asked, wearily cutting Simkin off in mid-tragedy.
“Wait for my signal,” said Simkin, standing up and arranging his leaves in a fashionable manner. “Ah, here they are, come to escort the bridegroom to his blushing bride.”
“What will the signal be?” Saryon whispered as the stone door began to dissolve. Outside, he could see flaming torches surrounded by thousands of dancing, blinking lights and he could hear hundreds of shrill, deep, soft, loud voices raised in eerie, enchanting song. At the far end of the vast, flower-decked cavern, he could barely make out the figure of Elspeth, seated on a throne made of a living oak tree, her golden hair glistening in the torch light.
Saryon swallowed. “The signal?” he repeated hoarsely.
“You’ll know it,” Simkin assured him. Taking the catalyst by the arm, he led him forward into the presence of the Faerie Queen.
“More wine, my love?”
“N-no, thank you,” stammered Saryon, putting his hand over the golden goblet. Too late. With a word, Elspeth caused the cup to fill to overflowing with the sweet, blood-red liquid. Grimacing, Saryon snatched his hand away and wiped it surreptitiously on his robes.
“More honeycomb?” Some appeared on his golden plate.
“No, I’m—”
“More fruit, meat, bread?” Within seconds, the plate was heaped with delicacies, their rich aroma blending with the other smells—smoke of torches, steaming platters of roast meat, and, near him, the fragrance of Elspeth herself, dark, musky, more intoxicating than the wine. “You’ve eaten nothing!” she said to him, leaning so close that he could feel her hair brush against his cheek.
“Really, I’m—I’m not hungry,” Saryon said in a faint voice.
“I expect you are nervous,” Elspeth said, her lips curving into a smile, her eyes inviting him to draw nearer still. “Is it true that you have never lain with a woman?”
Saryon flushed redder than the wine and cast an irritated glance at Simkin, who was sitting next to him.
“I had to tell them something, old boy,” Simkin muttered out of the corner of his mouth, draining his goblet. “They simply couldn’t understand why you carried on so when their Queen made the announcement about you fathering the child and so forth. All that hand-waving and shouting. You were lucky they just put you in that little room to cool off. Once I explained—”
“Why are you bothering with that fool? Pay attention to me, my love,” Elspeth said in a soft voice, catching hold of the fabric of Saryon’s robe and tugging him toward her. She moved in a playful manner, her voice was soft and sultry, yet her words chilled Saryon. “I will be very good to you, my own, but remember—you are my own! I need, I demand, your complete attention. At all times, day and night, every thought you think must be of me. Every word you speak must be to me.” Lifting his hand, she rubbed it against her petal-smooth cheek. “Now, my own, since you will not eat and since it is too early to go to the bridal bower—”
“When—when is that?” Saryon asked, flushing.
“Moonrise,” said Simkin, watching the wine level rise in his goblet again with appreciative eyes.
Elspeth gave him an angry glance but, at that moment, a riotous clamoring broke out on the other side of the Faerie Queen, momentarily distracting her. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Saryon grabbed hold of Simkin’s shoulder.
“Moonrise! That’s less than an hour!”
“Yes,” said Simkin, staring into the wine.
“We’ve got to get out of here!