Doom Of The Darksword Part 25

"What the devil are you doing on our stairs, Magus?" the Deacon growled, already huffing and puffing though he had eight more flights to go.

"It's a bet!" said Simkin hastily, rising up into the air next to Joram, who had - truth be told - momentarily forgotten his friend in his excitement. "Two skins of wine says he can't make it all the way to the top."

"d.a.m.n fool kids," mutterea are Deacon, stopping to rest on a landing and glaring at Joram. "All I can say, young fop, is that you're going to win if your friend keeps going at that rate."

"Better slow down," Simkin suggested, hovering close to Joram. "Don't attract attention ... I'll meet you at the top. Don't Don't enter the Hall of Majesty without me!" he added in an uncommonly serious tone. "Promise?" enter the Hall of Majesty without me!" he added in an uncommonly serious tone. "Promise?"

"I promise," said Joram.

It made sense, certainly, but he wondered why Simkin was so intense about it. There was no time to ask; the bearded young man had drifted into the arms of several laughing women. Continuing his climb, Joram took the stairs at a reasonable pace and, by the fifth level, was extremely glad he had done so. He paused a moment, leaning on the stair rail and breathing heavily, wondering if his legs were going to hold out. He still kept watch, but had seen no sign of Saryon or any of Lord Samuels's family, and began to realize that it would be the wildest fluke to find them in the crowd. Somewhere in the air above him, he could hear Simkin's voice, and then he caught a glimpse of the young man, whose white robes showed up remarkably well against the brightly colored clothes of the other magi.

"I call it Death Warmed Over," Death Warmed Over," said Simkin, prattling away merrily to an admiring group. "Suitable for this jolly little gathering, what?" said Simkin, prattling away merrily to an admiring group. "Suitable for this jolly little gathering, what?"

Joram noticed, as he began climbing the stairs again, that Simkin didn't receive the usual laugh that generally accompanied his words. Indeed, some of the magi appeared rather shocked, and drifted away from him hurriedly. Simkin didn't appear to notice, but fluttered on to the next group to regale them with his tale of triumph in what he was now calling the Illusion of a Thousand Mosiahs. This time, he got his laugh and Joram forgot about him, concentrating on keeping his legs moving.

He had not been so intent on his climb as to fail to notice his surroundings. His pleasure in the beauty of the Palace increased as he reached each successive level. He could even look down now upon the gilded, bejeweled forest and wonder how he could have ever thought it stiff and unnatural. Seen from above, it was a realm of enchantment, as was each level he entered after that.

Flames licked the stairs of the Fire level. Heat radiated from walls made of molten lava, making Joram stop in alarm before he realized that it was illusion - all except for the heat, which left him sweating by the time he climbed through it and made him thankful to reach the Water level above.

Done entirely in blue crystal and made to look like the floor of the ocean, the Water level was populated with the illusions of sea creatures. Light from some unseen source seeping through the blue crystal walls gave one the impression of being beneath the water - an impression that was so real Joram actually caught himself holding his breath.

Gasping for air, he found an abundance of that element on the next level. Four giant heads, their cheeks puffed out, glared at each other from the four compa.s.s points, each seeming intent on blowing his neighbors into the next realm. Opposing winds gusted and whirled about, flattening Joram against the wall and making the stair-climbing even more difficult.

The Life level was peaceful and restful after this. It was dedicated to the catalysts - the giving of Life being their special province - and he joined many of them in sitting on the wooden pews, resting in the cathedral-like, holy silence. He studied his fellow stair-climbers intently, hoping to see Saryon - or rather, Father Dunstable - among them, but the catalyst wasn't there.

He's still weak, Joram remembered, wondering if they made special arrangements for sick brethren. Well, he wouldn't find him or anyone sitting around here. Rising to his feet, the young man continued his climb.

The Shadow level next was a disturbing place that Joram, the catalysts, and even the floating magi hurried through without pause. Representing dreams, it gave no impression of size or shape, being at once vast and tiny, round and square, dark and light. Objects hideous and lovely loomed out of the flitting shadows, bearing startling resemblances to people Joram knew but couldn't place, places he'd been but couldn't remember.

Hastening through it, ignoring the weariness in his legs, Joram arrived on the Time level. Overawed, he came to a complete stop and stared, forgetting why he had come or what he was doing here. This level presented - in the most stunningly realistic illusions - the vast sweep of the history of Thimhallan. But it moved so rapidly that it was nearly impossible to understand what was occurring until it was past. The Iron Wars came and went in the drawing of a breath. Joram saw swords flash in the air and he longed to study them, but they appeared and disappeared almost before he realized he had seen them.

He began to feel frantic, desperate, and it suddenly occurred to him that his own life was whisking away at the same, rapid pace. He could do nothing to halt it. Shaken, he continued on and came to the level of Death.

Joram stared around, puzzled. There was nothing on this level. It was a vast void - neither dark nor light. Just empty. The magi floated through it unseeing, uninterested. The catalysts climbed, heads bowed, their shoes slapping against the marble, their faces a little more cheerful since they realized they were nearing the top.

"This doesn't make sense," Joram muttered to himself. "Why is this empty? Death, the Ninth Mystery ..." And then he understood. "Of course!" he murmured. "Technology! And that is why there is nothing here since it has - supposedly - been banished from the world. But there must have been something here, once," he said, looking around intently, peering into the void. "Perhaps the ancient inventions that I read about - the war machines that spewed forth fire, the powder that blew trees from the earth, the machines that printed words on paper. Now lost, perhaps forever. Unless I can bring it back!"

Gritting his teeth, Joram continued the climb. One more level to go.

This was the level of Spirit, the afterlife. Once, it must have been incredibly beautiful, impressing the viewer with the peace and tranquility experienced by those who have pa.s.sed from this world to the next. But now it had a faded quality about it, as if the illusion were dwindling away. In truth, this was what was happening. The art of Necromancy - communicating with the spirits of the dead - had been lost in the Iron Wars, never to be recovered. No one quite remembered, therefore, what this level was supposed to look like.

Instead of feeling awed, Joram just felt tired and very glad the long climb was nearly at an end. He thought, briefly, of being forced to make this climb every time he came to visit the Emperor - after he was made a Baron, of course - and decided that he would find another means of conveyance. Perhaps a black swan....

Emerging from the spirit world, he walked right into the sunset - or so it seemed to him - and he realized that he was, finally, standing in the Hall of Majesty.

3.

The Hall of Majesty His mind still dazzled by the visions of the wonders through which he had already pa.s.sed, Joram stared around the Hall of Majesty, awestruck.

Floating above the top of the Palace like a bubble upon water, the hall was perfectly round and made entirely of crystal - as pure and clear as the air that surrounded it. Although now it was at rest over what was known as the Ascent of the Nine Mysteries, the crystal-bubble hall could be moved at a whim - a whim that took thirty-nine catalysts and an equivalent number of p.r.o.n-alban p.r.o.n-alban twelve hours to perform - to any other location beside, above, or below the Palace. Not only was the round bubble of a hall made of crystal - the walls so thin that one could tap on them with a fingernail and hear a tinkling, resonant chime - but so was the floor that cut through it about a quarter of the way up the side of the bubble. Joram, stepping hesitantly and dazedly off the Stairs of the Catalysts, had the distinct and unnerving feeling that if he walked forward he would be stepping into and onto nothing. twelve hours to perform - to any other location beside, above, or below the Palace. Not only was the round bubble of a hall made of crystal - the walls so thin that one could tap on them with a fingernail and hear a tinkling, resonant chime - but so was the floor that cut through it about a quarter of the way up the side of the bubble. Joram, stepping hesitantly and dazedly off the Stairs of the Catalysts, had the distinct and unnerving feeling that if he walked forward he would be stepping into and onto nothing.

It was just past sunset. The Almin had spread his black cloak over most of the sky; the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar a.s.sisting that great Magician in the performance of his duty so that the revelers might enjoy the mysteries and beauties of the night. But, in the west, the Almin lifted the hem slightly to give a last glimpse of the dying day, its red and purple seeping beneath the blackness like a trickle of blood. a.s.sisting that great Magician in the performance of his duty so that the revelers might enjoy the mysteries and beauties of the night. But, in the west, the Almin lifted the hem slightly to give a last glimpse of the dying day, its red and purple seeping beneath the blackness like a trickle of blood.

It was dark enough, however, that globes of light were beginning to wink on in the hall. Amidst them moved the Emperor's guests, walking the air of the crystal bubble - meeting, mingling, coming together, drifting apart. The lights, dimmed so as not to deter from the beauty of the falling night, gleamed on jewels and silk, sparkled in laughing eyes, glinted on soft waves of rippling hair.

Never had Joram felt the leaden weight of his own Lifeless body more so than at this time. He knew that if he stepped forward, walked out into this enchanted realm, the crystal floor must crack beneath his feet, the crystal walls shatter at his clumsy touch. And so he stood, irresolute, toying with the idea of descending, of retreating into his own darkness that had, at least, the advantage of being a familiar and comfortable refuge.

But another catalyst - a silent partner in his climb, toiling up a few steps behind Joram - pushed his way past with a muttered apology, moving around the young man to walk, seemingly, upon the night. The slap slap of the catalyst's sandals upon the solid crystal had a rea.s.suring sound and gave Joram impetus to follow. Moving gingerly, the young man took several steps out onto the floor, then paused once again, overcome this time by the magnificence of the view. of the catalyst's sandals upon the solid crystal had a rea.s.suring sound and gave Joram impetus to follow. Moving gingerly, the young man took several steps out onto the floor, then paused once again, overcome this time by the magnificence of the view.

Above him and around him, the stars took their accustomed places in the night sky like minor courtiers coming to pay their respects to the Emperor, keeping their distance as befitted their humble station. Below his feet, the city of Merilon outshone the poor stars. Their sparkle was cold and white and dead, while the city burned with color and life. The Guild Halls were ablaze with brilliance, the houses twinkled; here and there bright spirals of light left the city, snaking upward toward the Palace - more carriages joining the glittering throng of approaching guests.

And Joram stood above it all.

His heart swelling with the beauty of everything around him, Joram's soul swelled with the feeling of power. Tiny bubbles of excitement tingled through his blood; wine itself had never been more intoxicating. Though his body must remain earthbound, his spirit flew upward. He was Albanara Albanara, born to walk here, born to rule, and - within hours perhaps - these bejeweled and glittering people who were so far above him now would crowd to prostrate themselves at his feet.

Well, perhaps that was a bit exaggerated, he told himself with a wry inner grin that did not relieve the gravity of his dark face but gave only a warm l.u.s.ter to the brown eyes. I suppose people don't prostrate themselves before a Baron. Still, I will decree that underlings walk when in my presence. I can't think it would be considered proper form to do otherwise. I shall have to ask Simkin, wherever the devil he is - Thinking of Simkin caused Joram to remember that he had promised not to present himself to the Emperor without his friend, and he glanced about somewhat impatiently. Now that he was over his initial awe, he could hear names being called out at the farthest end of the crystal hall. The light shone most brightly there and, like leaves caught in a whirlpool, groups of magi were being swept in that direction. Trying to hear and see, looking for Gwen and Lord Samuels and Saryon, Joram moved closer, peering through the throng. Yet he could not move too far from the stairs. Simkin would undoubtedly look for him here. Where was that fool anyway! Never around - "My dear boy, don't stand there gawping!" came an irritated voice. "Thank the Almin we left Mosiah behind. The sound of your chin hitting the floor must have been loud enough. Do try to look as bored by all this as everyone else is, there's a good chap."

Orange silk fluttering in the air, Simkin drifted slowly down from on high, his robes fluttering about his ankles.

"Where have you been?" Joram demanded.

Simkin shrugged. "The champagne fountains." He raised an eyebrow, seeing Joram frown. "Tut, tut! I know I have mentioned to you before, O Dark and Gloomy One, that your face will freeze in that alarming expression someday. I simply had had to have something to do whilst you were toiling up through the nine levels of h.e.l.l. Now you know why there are no fat catalysts in Merilon. Well, almost none." A rotund catalyst, sweat rolling off his tonsured head, glared at Simkin as he stumbled, panting, up the last of the stairs. to have something to do whilst you were toiling up through the nine levels of h.e.l.l. Now you know why there are no fat catalysts in Merilon. Well, almost none." A rotund catalyst, sweat rolling off his tonsured head, glared at Simkin as he stumbled, panting, up the last of the stairs.

"Cheer up, Father," Simkin said, pulling the orange silk out of the air and offering it with a solicitous gesture. "Think of the lard you've lost! And you've contributed a remarkable s.h.i.+ne to the floor. Mop your head?"

The priest, flus.h.i.+ng even redder, shoved the young man's hand out of his way and, muttering something most unpriestlike, staggered across the floor to collapse in a nearby chair.

Placing his hands together in a prayerful att.i.tude, Simkin bowed. "My blessing on you as well, Father." There was a flurry of orange silk and, suddenly, the catalyst disappeared.

Joram was staring at the empty chair where the man had been sitting when he felt a tug on the sleeve of his robe.

"And now, dear boy," Simkin said, "attend to me, please."

The voice was playful as usual but, turning, Joram saw an unusually hard glint in the pale blue eyes, a certain grimness in the negligent smile that caught his attention.

Simkin nodded slightly. "Yes, now the fun begins. You remember the cards said that you would be King, and I offered to be your fool? Well, up until now, you have been King, dear boy. We've followed your lead without question and without complaint though it has nearly got me arrested, the poor catalyst struck down by a curse from the Almin, and Mosiah on the run for his life." Simkin's voice was soft; it died away almost to a whisper at this point; his eyes studied Joram intently.

"Go on," Joram said. His tone was cool and even, but the expression on his face grew darker, and a faint flush beneath the skin seemed to indicate that somewhere, deep within, the arrow's barb had lodged.

Simkin's smile twisted sardonically. "And now, my king," he said, moving closer and speaking very softly, his eyes going to the crowd around them, "you must follow the lead of your fool. Because, in the hands of your fool rests your life and the lives of those who follow you. You must obey my instructions without question. Is that agreed upon, Your Majesty?"

"What do I have to do?" Joram's voice grated.

Moving closer still, Simkin placed his lips next to Joram's ear. His beard tickled against Joram's flesh; the heady fragrance of gardenia from Simkin's hair and the fumes of the champagne on his breath made Joram queasy. Involuntarily, he tried to pull back, but Simkin held him fast, whispering insistently, "When you are presented to their Majesties, do not do not - I repeat - - I repeat - do not do not stare at the Empress." stare at the Empress."

Standing back, Simkin smoothed his beard and glanced around at the crowd. Joram's frown relaxed to a half smile.

"You are are a fool!" he muttered, twitching his green robes back into place. "You had me really scared there for a moment." a fool!" he muttered, twitching his green robes back into place. "You had me really scared there for a moment."

"Dear boy!" Simkin looked at him with such stern intensity that Joram was taken aback. "I meant every word." He placed his hand on Joram's chest, over his heart. "Bow to her, speak to her - something flattering, inane. But keep your eyes down. Avert your gaze. Look at His Royal Boringness. Anything. Remember, you cannot see the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, but they are here, they are watching.... And now," Simkin said with a languid wave of the orange silk, "we really must take our places in line."

Drawing Joram's arm through his, he led him forward. "Fortunately for you, my earthbound friend, everyone is required to walk on foot when formally introduced into their Majesties' presence. Proper humility, show of respect and all that, plus it is devilishly hard to bow in midair. The d.u.c.h.ess of Blatherskill bowed from the waist, couldn't stop. Kept going. Head over heels. No undergarments. Quite shocking. Empress took to her bed for three weeks. Since then - we walk...."

Moving across the crystal floor, joining other magi who were falling down around them like sparkling rain, Simkin and Joram walked toward the front of the hall. Joram glanced at Simkin, puzzled and disturbed at his words and his instructions. But the young man appeared not to notice his friend's discomfiture, prattling on about the unfortunate d.u.c.h.ess. Shaking his head, Joram pa.s.sed the empty chair where the fat catalyst had been sitting. Joram saw Simkin looking at it with a most wicked grin.

"By the way," said Joram, glancing back at the chair as they pa.s.sed it, "what did you do to him, anyhow?"

"Sent him back down to the bottom of the stairs," said Simkin languidly, dabbing at his nose with the orange silk.

Joram and Simkin joined the line of the wealthy and the beautiful of Merilon, all waiting to pay their respects to the royal couple before dispersing to the more interesting business of revelry and making merry. Some might think revelry would be difficult, considering the sorrowful nature of the anniversary they celebrated. And, indeed, those standing in the line that stretched across the crystal floor like a silk-clad bejeweled snake, were considerably more solemn and serious than they had been when first entering the Palace. Gone was the gay laughter, the lighthearted banter between friends, the gossip and the gus.h.i.+ng over clothes or hair or daughters. Their eyes were downcast, their gown and robe colors subdued to a proper shade of Sorrowful Mien Sorrowful Mien, as Simkin said in an undertone.

Conversations were carried on in low voices between couples now, instead of groups. Consequently, a hush settled over this part of the hall, broken only by the melodious voice of the heralds, announcing the names of those ushered into the Royal Presence.

So long was the line that Joram could not see the Emperor or Empress yet, but only the crystal alcove in which they sat. Gathered in a semicircle around that alcove stood those of the court who had already been presented and who were now watching to see what ill.u.s.trious or amusing personages stood in line. The murmur of voices from the watching crowd was low, since they were in the Presence, but there was an almost continual flow of movement - heads turning, people pointing discreetly or not as the subject warranted. Joram, still searching for Lord Samuels and his family, saw many nods and smiles at Simkin. Arrayed in his white robes, the young man stood out against the myriad colors around him like an iceberg in a jungle, coolly affecting to take no notice of the attention.

Joram's eyes scanned the brilliant throng, stopping always at the glimpse of a blond head or even a tonsured one, hoping to find Saryon here as well. But there were so many people, and most of them were dressed so nearly alike (except for those few trend-setters who had come dressed as Field Magi, much to Simkin's amus.e.m.e.nt), that he deemed it nearly impossible to find those he sought.

"She is watching for me," he told himself, fondly picturing in his mind Gwendolyn standing on tiptoe, peeping up over the broad shoulders of her father, waiting with fast-beating heart for the announcement of each name and drooping in disappointment when it was not the name she longed to hear. The thought made him impatient and even fearful. Suppose they left! Suppose Lord Samuels grew tired of waiting. Suppose ... Joram looked at the long line ahead of him impatiently, bitterly resenting each elderly Duke whose faltering steps had to be aided by his catalyst or the two gossiping dowagers who kept forgetting to move forward and had to be prodded by their neighbors. The line actually moved quite rapidly, all things considered, but it would have had to flash through the room like a thunderbolt to satisfy Joram.

"Quit fidgeting," muttered Simkin, treading on Joram's foot.

"I can't help it. Talk about something."

"Willingly. What?"

"I don't give a d.a.m.n! Anything!" Joram snapped. "You "You said I'm supposed to say a few words to the Emperor. What? Nice night. Wonderful weather. I understand it's been spring for two years, any chance of summer showing up?" said I'm supposed to say a few words to the Emperor. What? Nice night. Wonderful weather. I understand it's been spring for two years, any chance of summer showing up?"

"Shhh," hissed Simkin behind the orange silk. "Egads! I'm beginning to wish I'd brought Mosiah after all. This is an anniversary commemorating the Dead Prince. You offer your condolences, of course."

"That's right. I keep forgetting," Joram said moodily, his gaze flicking about the hall for the hundredth time. "All right. I'll offer my condolences. What did the kid die from, anyway?"

"My dear boy!" said Simkin in a scandalized whisper. "Even if you were were raised in a pumpkin, you don't have to exhibit it to this extent! I was under the impression that your mother regaled you with stories of Merilon. This has to be the stellar story of all time. Didn't she tell you?" raised in a pumpkin, you don't have to exhibit it to this extent! I was under the impression that your mother regaled you with stories of Merilon. This has to be the stellar story of all time. Didn't she tell you?"

"No," said Joram shortly, his dark brows coming together.

"Ah," remarked Simkin suddenly, glancing at Joram. "Mmmm, well, perhaps I understand ... Yes, undoubtedly. You see" - he drew closer, keeping the orange silk in front of their faces as he talked - "the child didn't die. It was quite alive, very much alive, as I've heard the story told. Screamed its little head off during the formal ceremony and puked on the Bishop at the end." Simkin paused, looking at Joram expectantly.

Joram's face darkened, an almost perceptible shadow falling across it.

"Understand?" Simkin asked softly.

"The child was born Dead, like me," Joram said harshly. His gaze was on the floor now, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, their knuckles white. He noticed he could see his reflection on the crystal floor. The lights of Merilon far below shone through his ghostlike, transparent body; the image of himself stared darkly back at him.

"Shhh!" Simkin remonstrated. "Dead, yes. But like you, dear boy?" He shook his head. "He wasn't like anyone born in this world. From what rumors I've heard, Dead was an understatement. The kid didn't just fail one of the Tests. He failed all three! He had no magic in him whatsoever!"

Joram kept his gaze down. "Perhaps he wasn't as unlike some others as you might think," he muttered as the line inched its way nearer and nearer the front. His eyes still on the reflection at his feet, Joram did not see Simkin's swift, penetrating glance, nor did he remark the thoughtful way the young man stroked his smooth brown beard.

"What did you say?" Simkin asked carelessly, raising his head and affecting to blow his nose in the bit of orange silk.

"Nothing," Joram said, shaking himself as though seeking to wake from a nightdream. "Aren't we ever going to get there!"

"Patience," Simkin counseled. Floating off the floor an inch or so, he peered over the heads of the crowd, then settled back down. "Look, you can see the Royal Throne now and catch a glimpse of the Royal Head if you are lucky."

Craning his neck, Joram saw that they had really walked much nearer during their conversation. He could see the crystal throne and several times caught glimpses of the Emperor moving to converse with those in front of him and around him. He could barely see the Empress, seated to the Emperor's right since the royal line came down from her side of the family. But the Emperor was clearly within Joram's view and - glad to be able to fix his mind on something - the young man watched the scene before him with interest.

Seated in a crystal throne that stood on a crystal floor within a crystal alcove, it appeared very much as if His Majesty lounged among the stars. Dressed in the pure white satin of mourning, white light of the most remarkable brilliance beaming down on him, the Emperor was not only one with the stars but actually outshone the brightest among them. Having seen the opulence of the furnis.h.i.+ngs and trappings of the rest of the Palace, Joram was startled to note that both the crystal throne and the alcove itself were done in simple, elegant lines without decoration of any kind. The crystal flowed around the royal bodies like clear water, a flash of reflected light here and there giving the only evidence that there was anything real or solid about them.

Then Joram smiled. Glancing about the room, he realized that this was done intentionally! Even the chair in which the poor catalyst had collapsed - now several hundred feet behind them - was made of fabric magically spun so as to be transparent. Nothing, certainly no material object, should distract one's attention from the one reality as far as the Emperor's subjects were concerned - the reality of the Emperor and his Empress.

Close enough now to hear s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation when voices were lifted above the murmur of the crowd, Joram listened curiously. Accustomed to forming quick and often disparaging opinions about people, Joram had thought the Emperor - on first meeting - to be a man of colossal self-conceit and self-importance who could not see the world for his own nose, as the saying went. But, in listening to the Emperor's conversation, Joram was forced grudgingly to admit he had been wrong.

The man was shrewd and intelligent and - if cold and reserved, it was only to keep himself above the ma.s.ses. He hardly needed the herald, it seemed, to tell him the names of those who came before him and, indeed, addressed many by familiar nicknames rather than by their more formal t.i.tles. Not only that, but he had something personal to say to each - inquiring of fond parents about a beloved child, questioning a catalyst concerning the priests particular area of study, discussing the past with the old, the future with the young.

Intrigued by this phenomenal feat, considering the hundreds of people with whom the Emperor must come into contact daily, Joram watched in growing fascination. He recalled his meeting with the Emperor and the way the man's eyes had seemed to completely absorb him, had focused his complete and undivided attention on him for several seconds. Joram remembered feeling flattered, but also vaguely uncomfortable, and now he knew why. He had been committed to memory as Saryon committed a mathematical equation to memory and with about as much regard. Skilled to a certain extent in manipulating others, Joram could recognize and concede the touch of a master.

Yet, Joram knew - first from his mother and confirmed by Lord Samuels - that there was one person in this world the Emperor cared for very deeply. That was the Empress. The line moved nearer and Joram turned his gaze from the Emperor to his consort. All his life, he had heard of the woman's loveliness - a beauty remarkable even among the noted beauties of court; a beauty that was inborn, that needed no magical enhancement. Increasing his curiosity was the warning - for it could be called nothing else - given by Simkin: Do not stare at the Empress.

The words echoing in Joram's mind, he took an un.o.btrusive step out of line in order to catch a glimpse of the woman seated on the crystal throne beside her husband. And then the line moved and she was clearly in his view.

Joram caught his breath. Simkin's words flew right out of his head, replaced by Anja's distantly remembered description. "Hair as black and as s.h.i.+ning as the wing of a raven, skin smooth and white as a dove's breast. The eyes dark and l.u.s.trous, the face shaped to cla.s.sic perfection, as though by the enchantments of a master. She moves with the grace of the willow in the wind -"

An elbow dug into Joram's midsection. "Stop it!" Simkin shot out of the corner of his mouth. "Look away."

Irritated, half-suspicious that he was the target of one of Simkin's elaborate jokes, Joram started to make a quick retort. But, once again, there was that strange expression on Simkin's usually devil-may-care face - serious, even fearful. Drawing closer - there were only ten or so people ahead of them now - Joram looked at the rest of those standing near him and saw that they, too, were each doing his or her best not not to look directly or too long at the Empress. He saw them dart glances in her direction, even as he was doing himself, and then quickly look aside. And though each spoke to the Emperor in a loud, clear voice and seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, the voice dropped when speaking to Her Majesty, the words spoken almost unintelligible. to look directly or too long at the Empress. He saw them dart glances in her direction, even as he was doing himself, and then quickly look aside. And though each spoke to the Emperor in a loud, clear voice and seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, the voice dropped when speaking to Her Majesty, the words spoken almost unintelligible.

Moving nearer, his eyes aching from the strain of darting glances at the Empress then looking quickly away again, Joram began to admit that there did did seem to be something unusual about the woman. Certainly her celebrated beauty did not diminish as he drew closer, but he found himself oddly repulsed by it rather than attracted. The skin was pure and smooth, but faintly blue and translucent. The dark eyes were certainly lovely, but their l.u.s.ter was not the gleam of light from within. It was the reflection of light upon gla.s.s. Her lips moved when she spoke. Her hand and body moved, but it wasn't the willow's grace so much as the toyshaper's. seem to be something unusual about the woman. Certainly her celebrated beauty did not diminish as he drew closer, but he found himself oddly repulsed by it rather than attracted. The skin was pure and smooth, but faintly blue and translucent. The dark eyes were certainly lovely, but their l.u.s.ter was not the gleam of light from within. It was the reflection of light upon gla.s.s. Her lips moved when she spoke. Her hand and body moved, but it wasn't the willow's grace so much as the toyshaper's.

The toyshaper's ...

Joram turned to Simkin, puzzled, but the bearded young man, playing with the orange silk in his hand, regarded his friend with a slight smile.

"Patience rewarded," he said. "We're next."

And then Joram did not have time to think about anything.

He heard, as if from a great distance, the herald strike the floor with his staff and call out in his melodious voice, "Presenting Simkin, guest of Lord Samuels ..."

The rest of the introduction was lost in a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Simkin was performing some nonsense or other; Joram was too dazed and confused to be consciously aware of what. He saw Simkin move forward, white robes s.h.i.+ning in the same bright light that spread a halo around the Emperor and the Empress.

The Empress. Joram felt his gaze drawn to her again, then the herald was saying, "Joram, guest of Lord Samuels and family."

Hearing his name, Joram knew he must take a step, but he was suddenly a.s.sailed with the consciousness of being the object of hundreds of pairs of eyes. Vividly, the memory of his mother's death rose to the surface of his mind. He could see the people, all staring at him. He wanted only to be alone. Why, why were they looking at him?