Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [52]
Chaotic, treacherous, Simkin was quite capable of leading grown people to ruin just for the entertainment value. It shocked me to think that Joram and Gwen—Joram in particular, who knew what Simkin was—had allowed him to be the playmate of their child. Yet Simkin obviously had not harmed her and had provided her with pleasant—albeit strange—childhood memories.
And what would happen when we took Joram and his family back to Earth? Eliza would undoubtedly want to take along her “Teddy.” The image of Simkin loosed upon Earth was appalling. I made a mental note to myself to discuss this with Saryon, who, worried and preoccupied himself, had probably not given this matter much thought.
I found the outbuildings—one for men and one for women— which must have dated back to the very early days of life in the Font. They were as clean as was possible, but being open-air, they made me consider that one of mankind’s most wonderful achievements had been indoor plumbing.
Back in my room, I washed myself from the basin—envying Joram his swim—combed my hair, and changed my clothes, which smelled strongly of sheep. Dressed in clean blue jeans and a blue cable-knit sweater I’d purchased in Ireland and which was one of my favorites, I returned to the living quarters.
Eliza and her mother were busy in the kitchen. I offered my services and was put in charge of slicing loaves of freshly baked bread, which had been cooling on a rack. Eliza set out bowls of dried fruit and honeycombs filled with honey that tasted of clover. Gwen was stirring a pot of beans, cooked with mutton. I understood then that the sheep meant not only wool for their clothes, but meat for their table.
Saryon looked at me rather anxiously, when Gwen talked about the mutton, for I had been known, when younger, to express my disapproval of meat-eaters at the dinner tables of our hosts, usually over the prime rib. I smiled at him and shook my head, and even accepted the responsibility of tasting the beans, when Eliza offered them, to see if they were seasoned properly. I think they were bland. I don’t remember. It was then, when she held the wooden spoon to my lips, that I realized I was falling in love with her.
At that moment Joram entered the room. I could not see him, from my angle in the kitchen, but I knew by the sight of Saryon’s face, which had become as white as polished bone. Gwendolyn and Eliza exchanged glances—conspiratorial glances. It had been by their design that we three were in the back part of the kitchen, leaving Saryon and Joram in the living area alone.
Joram advanced in my view, and my heart sank, for he was every bit as grim and stoic and cold as I had seen him on the hillside. Saryon stood tall and straight, his hands at his sides. The two gazed at each other long minutes without moving or speaking. I don’t know what I feared—that Joram would denounce his mentor and order him out of the house. I could envision this stern, proud man doing anything.
Eliza and Gwen clasped hands. My own hands grew chill and I was worried for Saryon, who had begun to sag and was looking very ill. I was going to go to him. I had already taken a step in that direction.
Joram reached out, clasped his arms around Saryon, and held him in a fast embrace.
“My boy,” Saryon murmured brokenly, stroking the grown man on the back as perhaps the catalyst had once lovingly stroked the baby. “My dear boy! How good it is ... You and Gwen . . .” Saryon broke down completely.
Gwen was sobbing into her apron. Eliza stood watching, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, on her lips a sweet, sad smile. I had tears in my own eyes, and quickly dried them on the sleeve of my sweater.
Joram straightened. He was taller than my master now; Saryon having become stooped with the years. Joram placed his hands—brown and rough—on Saryon’s shoulders and smiled briefly, darkly. “Welcome to our home, Father,” he said, and his tone belied his affectionate gesture, for his voice was cool and shadowed. “Gwen and I are pleased that you have come to visit us.”
He