Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [114]
My fault! My doing! The Prophecy is coming to fulfillment despite everything I do! Maybe there’s nothing I can do to stop it! Maybe I don’t have a choice. Maybe I’m being dragged inexorably to the edge of the cliff….
“Damn You!” He swore at the dark and cheerless heavens. “Why have You done this to me?”
In despairing, bitter anger, he slammed his fist against the trunk of a young spruce tree.
“Oooof!” gasped the spruce. With a painful cry, it toppled over. Branches writhing, leaves rustling, the tree lay moaning at Joram’s feet.
2
Simkin’s Bark
I say!” gasped the spruce “You’ve killed me!”
The air shimmered around the tree, eventually coalescing, somewhat weakly, into the prostrate form of Simkin. Clutching his stomach, he rolled on the ground, his clothes every which way, leaves stuck in his hair and beard, the orange silk wrapped around his neck.
“Simkin! I’m sorry!” Fighting a wild desire to laugh, Joram helped the young man stagger to his feet. “Forgive me I—I didn’t know that tree … was you.”
A chuckle escaped him. Recognizing in it a note of hysteria, Joram firmly forced himself to swallow it. His lips twitched, however, as he assisted the weak-kneed, doubled-over Simkin inside the house.
“Blessed Almin!” Lady Rosamund cried, meeting them in the hallway “What has happened? Simkin? Are you all right? Oh, dear! The Theldara’s just left!”
Wheezing pathetically Simkin gazed at Lady Rosamund with pain-filled eyes, mouthed the word brandy, and fainted dead away, collapsing in a pitiful heap on the floor.
Between Joram, Mosiah, and Prince Garald, they carried the comatose Simkin—red brocade dressing gown, fur-trimmed collar, curly shoes, and all—into the sitting room. Lady Rosamund, her hands fluttering helplessly, hurried along behind, calling distractedly for Marie and generally alarming the entire household.
“What happened to him?” Garald asked, dumping Simkin rather unceremoniously on a sofa.
“I hit him,” Joram said grimly.
“About time!” Mosiah muttered.
“I didn’t mean to. He was standing in the garden, disguised—”
“Ohhhhhh!” groaned Simkin, lolling back on the sofa and flinging an arm over his head. “I’m dying, Egypt, dying!”
“You’re not dying!” said Garald disgustedly, leaning down to examine the patient. “You’ve just had the breath knocked out of you. Sit up. You’ll feel better.”
Thrusting the Prince aside with a feeble gesture, Simkin motioned weakly for Joram to come nearer.
“I forgive you!” Simkin murmured pitifully, gasping for breath like a freshly caught trout. “After all, what’s murder between friends?” He gazed dimly around the room. “Dear lady! Lady Rosamund. Where are you? My vision’s fading. I can’t see you! I’m going fast!”
He held out a groping hand to Lady Rosamund, who was standing next to him. Glancing uncertainly from Prince Garald to her husband, Lady Rosamund took Simkin’s hand in hers.
“Ah!” he breathed, placing her hand on his forehead. “To be speeded heavenward by a woman’s gentle touch! Bless you, Lady Rosamund. My last apologies … for littering your sitting room … with my corpse. Farewell.”
His eyes closed, his arm sagged, his head fell back upon the sofa cushions.
“Dear me!” Lady Rosamund became extremely pale, dropping the hand she held.
Opening his eyes, Simkin lifted his head.
“Don’t bother about … last rites.” He grabbed hold of Lady Rosamund’s hand again. “Not necessary. I’ve led … life of a saint… Most likely … I’ll be canonized Farewell.”
The eyes rolled up. The head fell back The hand went limp.
“I have the brandy, milady,” said Mane gently, entering the room.
An eye opened. The hand fluttered. A voice whispered faintly from the depths of the sofa cushions.
“Domestic or imported?”
“Quite a shock, I assure you?” Simkin said feelingly an hour later. “There I was standing in the garden, taking a deep whiff of the fine evening air when—wham! I am struck painfully and unexpectedly in the midriff.”
Covered with Lady Rosamund’s own silk shawl, his fourth glass of brandy—imported—hovering within reach, Simkin sat propped up among innumerable pillows,