Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [54]
“Simkin changed himself into a tulip,” Saryon was saying, bringing the story to its conclusion. “He planted himself in the bouquet your mother was carrying and urged her to tell the guards at the city gate that my young friends and I were all guests of her father’s! And so they admitted us—who were in reality fugitives from the law—safely into Merilon. She told a lie, of course, but I believe that the Almin forgave her, for she acted out of love.”
Saryon smiled benignly and gave a gentle nod toward Joram. Gwendolyn lifted her head, looked at her husband. He returned the look and again I saw the darkness, that seemed to hang over him perpetually, lift. The love that had been kindled that day still burned, its warmth surrounded us and blessed us.
“Mama! You were a heroine! How romantic. But tell me more about this Simkin,” Eliza said, laughing.
At this, Saryon looked extremely discomfited. My glance went involuntarily to the stuffed bear, which seemed to be quivering with either anticipation or suppressed laughter. Saryon opened his mouth. I’m not sure what he would have replied, but at that moment Joram, his face grim, shoved his plate back and rose to his feet.
“We’ve had enough stories for the night. You came here for a reason, or so I understand, Father. Come into the warming room and tell us. Leave the dishes, Gwen,” he added. “Father Saryon has important work to do back on Earth. We don’t want to prolong his visit unnecessarily. You and Reuven will be our guests tonight, of course.”
“Thank you,” said Saryon faintly.
“It will only take a moment to clear the table, Joram,” Gwendolyn said nervously. “You and Father Saryon go into the warming room. Eliza and Reuven and I will—”
Her chill, trembling hands dropped a plate. It struck the stone floor and shattered.
All of us stood and stared at it in unhappy silence. Everyone in that room read its dread portent.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sword lay like a corpse at Saryon’s feet, the personification of the catalyst’s sin.
THE DARKSWORD
Eliza brought a broom and swept up the remnants of the plate.
“Reuven and I will do the dishes, Mama,” Eliza said in a low voice. “You stay with Papa.”
Gwendolyn did not reply, but she nodded, and going to Joram, she put her arm around him, rested her head on his chest. He held her fast, bowed his dark head over her blond hair, and kissed her gently.
I cleared the table, carried the plates into the kitchen. Eliza tossed the broken plate into a bin, then filled a tub with hot water from a kettle that had been steaming on the hearth. She didn’t look at me once, but kept her eyes on her work.
I guessed what she must be feeling: guilt, remorse. Prospero’s daughter wanted to see this brave new world. She was certain in her own mind that this was why we had come—to take her back with us. She wanted to go, to see the wonders about which she had only read. Yet she realized, perhaps for the first time, how her going would grieve her parents. She would never leave them.
She won’t have to. They will come with her. The knowledge cheered me.
Joram made certain that Saryon was settled comfortably near the fire, then sat down in what I must assume was his accustomed chair. Gwendolyn took her place in a chair beside Joram’s, near enough that they could reach out and touch hands.
On tables beside each chair were several books and, near Gwen’s chair, a basket holding balls of yarn, hand-carved knitting needles, and another basket of mending. She reached, by habit, for one of these. Only when the basket was in her lap did she look at Father Saryon, and with a sigh, she put her work away and folded her hands together tightly.
No one said a word. We might have been a party of mutes, except that then the silence would have been alive,