Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [44]
I did not love her. Love was impossible, at that first moment of our meeting, for love is between humans and she was something extraordinary, not truly human. It would have been like falling in love with the image in a painting or with a statue in a gallery. I was awed, admiring.
Prospero’s daughter, I said inwardly, recalling my Shakespeare. And then I smiled derisively at myself, remembering her words on seeing the strangers washed ashore by her father’s art: “How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!”
I could tell from her glance that raked across me with curiosity and little more that I was not providing images of brave new worlds. And yet I interested her. Though she had her parents for company, youth yearns for its own, to share the newfound dreams and budding hopes that belong to youth alone.
But for now, her first care was for her mother. She put her arms protectively around her mother’s shoulders and faced us boldly, accusingly, her black brows a straight, heavy line.
“Who are you? What have you said to upset her? Why do you people keep intruding upon us?”
Gwen lifted her head, dashed away her tears, and managed a smile. “No, Eliza, don’t talk in that tone. This man is not like the others. He is one of us. This is Father Saryon. You’ve heard us speak of him. He is an old friend and very dear to both your father and to me.”
“Father Saryon!” Eliza repeated, and the heavy line lifted, the blue eyes were light and radiant, like the sun shining down after a thunderstorm. “Of course, I have heard of Father Saryon. You have come to teach me! Father said I was to go to you, but he kept putting it off and now I know why—you have come to me!”
Saryon reddened, swallowed again, and, embarrassed, looked to Gwen for guidance, to know what to say.
She was unable to assist him, but her assistance wasn’t necessary because Eliza’s quick gaze went from one to the other and she realized her mistake. The light dimmed. “That is not why you’ve come. Of course not. My mother would not be crying if that were the case. Why are you here, then? You and your”—she turned her brilliant gaze on me, made a guess— “your son?”
“Reuven!” said Saryon. He turned around and stretched out his hand, urging me forward. “My boy, forgive me! You’re so quiet ... I forgot you were here. He is my son by affection, though not by birth. He was born in Thimhallan, born here in the Font, as a matter of fact, for his mother was a catalyst.”
Eliza regarded me with cool intensity and suddenly I had another of those strange flashes, such as I had experienced earlier, where I seemed to be looking through a window into another lifetime.
I saw myself a catalyst, standing in a crowd of catalysts. We were dressed in our best ceremonial robes, all blending together, our tonsured heads bowed in respect. And she walked past us, regal, gracious, clad in silks and jewels, our queen. I lifted my head, greatly daring, to look at her and she, at that moment, turned her head and looked at me. She had been searching for me in the crowd and she smiled to see me.
I smiled at her, we shared a secret moment, and then, fearing my superiors would notice, I lowered my gaze. When I next dared look again—hoping that perhaps she was still looking at me—I saw only her back, and even that vanished, for she was followed by all her courtiers, every one of them walking. Walking. Why did that seem strange to me?
The image faded from before my eyes, but did not fade in my mind. Indeed, it was so clear and well defined that the words Your Majesty were on my lips and I think I would have spoken them aloud, had I been able to speak. As it was, I felt bewildered and disoriented, much as when Mosiah released us to return to our own bodies.
Recovering, I signed that I was honored