Doom Of The Darksword Part 26

The Emperor and Simkin were talking, Joram saw, but he had no idea what was being said. He couldn't hear. There was a roaring in his ears like the rush of a storm wind. He wanted most desperately to flee, yet he couldn't move. He might have stood there forever except that the herald - always conscious of the necessity of keeping the line moving and accustomed to those who experienced this sublime awe in the presence of His Majesty - gave Joram a gentle prod. Stumbling, the young man lurched forward to stand before the Emperor.

Joram had just enough presence of mind to bow deeply, copying Simkin, and started to mumble something without any idea what he was saying. The Emperor cut in smoothly, recalling having met him at Lord Samuels's. Hoped his visit to Merilon was a pleasant one, and then the royal hand waved and Joram moved across the crystal floor to stand before the Empress. He was dimly aware of Simkin watching him and - if it would not be too unbelievable - Joram thought the young man's bearded lips were parted in a grin.

Joram bowed before the Empress self-consciously, wondering desperately what to say, longing to raise his gaze and look at this woman and yet feeling in another part of him the strongest urge to hurry away, his eyes averted as he had seen so many do before him.

Standing before her, he became conscious of a faint, cloying odor.

The most beautiful woman in the world - so it was told. He would see for himself.

Joram lifted his head ...

... and stared into the lifeless eyes of a corpse.

4.

The Champagne Fountain "Name of the Almin!" Joram murmured, s.h.i.+vering, cold sweat drying on his body. "Dead!"

"My dear boy, if you value your life and mine, do keep your voice low!" Simkin said in soft tones, a disarming smile on his face as he nodded to several acquaintances across the room. The two stood near the champagne fountain, this being the place Simkin said Gwen or Saryon would certainly come to meet them. This area - opposite from the alcove where the Emperor still held court - was becoming increasingly crowded as people drifted here in search of friends and merriment. The champagne fountain was, as Simkin said, a natural meeting place; shouts of greeting and boisterous laughter burst constantly around them.

Magically operated by a team of p.r.o.n-alban p.r.o.n-alban disguised as footmen, the champagne fountain stood over twenty feet tall. It was made entirely of ice - to keep the wine cool - and was done in fish motif. Champagne flowed from the mouths of icy seahorses perched upon frozen waves. Wine shot from the pursed lips of gla.s.sy-eyed blowfish; frost-rimed sea nymphs offered guests sips of wine cupped in frigid fingers. Crystal goblets stood in rank upon rank in the air around the fountain, filling themselves at the beck and call of the revelers and hurrying to quench the thirst derived from standing in attendance upon the Emperor and his dead wife for two hours. disguised as footmen, the champagne fountain stood over twenty feet tall. It was made entirely of ice - to keep the wine cool - and was done in fish motif. Champagne flowed from the mouths of icy seahorses perched upon frozen waves. Wine shot from the pursed lips of gla.s.sy-eyed blowfish; frost-rimed sea nymphs offered guests sips of wine cupped in frigid fingers. Crystal goblets stood in rank upon rank in the air around the fountain, filling themselves at the beck and call of the revelers and hurrying to quench the thirst derived from standing in attendance upon the Emperor and his dead wife for two hours.

"It's treason to even think such a thing, let alone speak it in public," Simkin continued.

"How ... how long?" Joram asked with a kind of morbid fascination, the same fascination that kept drawing his eyes in the direction of the crystal throne.

"Oh, a year, perhaps. No one knows for certain. She was in ill health for a long time and, I must admit, looks rather better now than she used to."

"But ... why keep ... ? I mean, I knew he loved her, but ..." Joram lifted a gla.s.s of champagne to his lips, then set it down quickly, his hand shaking. "The Emperor must be mad!" he concluded hollowly.

"Far from it," Simkin said coolly. "You see the man in the red robes coming up to stand near the Emperor now?"

"A DKarn-duuk? Yes," Joram said, wrenching his gaze from the body of the woman in the throne to look at a man leaning down to say something to the Emperor. Though they were some distance away, Joram had the impression of a tall man, well-built, dressed in the red robes of the warlocks who were the War Masters of Thimhallan. Yes," Joram said, wrenching his gaze from the body of the woman in the throne to look at a man leaning down to say something to the Emperor. Though they were some distance away, Joram had the impression of a tall man, well-built, dressed in the red robes of the warlocks who were the War Masters of Thimhallan.

"Not a DKarn-duuk. The a DKarn-duuk. The DKarn-duuk - Prince Xavier. He is DKarn-duuk - Prince Xavier. He is her her brother, which makes brother, which makes him him the next Emperor of Merilon if her death were officially recognized." Simkin raised a gla.s.s of champagne to his lips in a mocking toast. "Farewell to His Boringness. Back to his estate in the rolling meadows of Dren-ga.s.si or wherever he came from. If nothing worse happened to him. People who cross The DKarn-Duuk have a strange way of stepping into Corridors and never stepping out." Simkin swallowed the champagne in a gulp. the next Emperor of Merilon if her death were officially recognized." Simkin raised a gla.s.s of champagne to his lips in a mocking toast. "Farewell to His Boringness. Back to his estate in the rolling meadows of Dren-ga.s.si or wherever he came from. If nothing worse happened to him. People who cross The DKarn-Duuk have a strange way of stepping into Corridors and never stepping out." Simkin swallowed the champagne in a gulp.

"If the man's so powerful, why doesn't he just take over?" Joram asked, eyeing him speculatively and thinking that this new world he was entering might be extremely interesting.

"The Emperor has a powerful counterforce - or should I say counterweight - on his side. Bishop Vanya. Which reminds me, I find it rather strange that His Fatness isn't in attendance, especially when there's free food. Oh, I forgot. He never comes to this anniversary party. Says it goes against Church policy or some such thing. Where was I?"

"The Emperor?"

"Yes, quite. Anyway, rumor has it that Vanya's sun rises and sets with the Emperor's. The DKarn-Duuk has his own man he would like to see fill Vanya's shoes - probably take three of them, come to think of it. The catalysts and the illusionists make certain the Empress is the life of the party, if you'll forgive the expression. And, it is a treasonable act to refer in any way to her health or lack of it. She holds court as usual, and the bright and the beautiful of Merilon and other city-states come to pay homage as usual, and no one looks directly at her or makes any but the most innocent reference to her. Sometimes even that doesn't work."

Simkin motioned for another gla.s.s of champagne to fill itself at the crystal fountain and come bobbing into his hand. An orchestra of enchanted instruments began playing waltzes in a corner, forcing Simkin to lean closer to Joram to continue his story. "I will never forget the night the old Marquis of Dunsworthy was talking to the Emperor over a game of tarok and the Emperor said, 'Don't you think Her Highness looks particularly well tonight, Dunsworthy?' And old Dunsworthy looks over at the corpse seated in a chair and stammers, 'I - I don't know. I find Her Highness seems a bit grave to me.' Well, of course, the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith were on the wretched chap in an instant and that was the last we saw of him." Simkin sipped the champagne and wiped his lips with the orange silk. "I finished playing out his hand and won a silver off His Majesty." were on the wretched chap in an instant and that was the last we saw of him." Simkin sipped the champagne and wiped his lips with the orange silk. "I finished playing out his hand and won a silver off His Majesty."

Joram was about to reply, when he heard his name called. Turning, he looked into blue eyes alight with love and instantly forgot there was such a thing as death or politics in the world.

"Joram!" said Gwendolyn shyly. Holding out her white hand, she was conscious of the admiring stares of several other young men in the crowd, but she truly had eyes only for the man she loved.

Gwendolyn had spent hours - almost the entire day - working with Marie and Lady Rosamund on her gown. She changed the color so often that the room might have pa.s.sed for the dwelling place of the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar who conjure rainbows. Flowers sprouted on the sleeves to be replaced by the feathers of small birds, then the small birds themselves made an appearance but were instantly banished by Lady Rosamund. At last, after many tears and miles of ribbon and a last-moment panic in the carriage that she "wasn't fit to be seen!" Gwendolyn was carried off to the ball, every dream of her young heart seeming to come true at this moment. who conjure rainbows. Flowers sprouted on the sleeves to be replaced by the feathers of small birds, then the small birds themselves made an appearance but were instantly banished by Lady Rosamund. At last, after many tears and miles of ribbon and a last-moment panic in the carriage that she "wasn't fit to be seen!" Gwendolyn was carried off to the ball, every dream of her young heart seeming to come true at this moment.

And what was the result of the effort and tears spent on the gown, tears spent with only Joram in mind? It was, unfortunately, largely wasted. Joram had only a confused impression of golden hair crowned with tiny white flowers known as baby's breath, and white neck and white shoulders, and only the most tantalizing hint of soft, white breast curving into something as blue and frothy as sea foam. Her beauty tonight enchanted him, but it was her her beauty, not the gown's. Gwendolyn could have been wearing sackcloth and her enraptured admirer would never have noticed. beauty, not the gown's. Gwendolyn could have been wearing sackcloth and her enraptured admirer would never have noticed.

"My lady." Joram took the small, white hand in his own, holding it for just a moment longer than was considered proper before he kissed it lingeringly and then reluctantly released it.

"I - That is we -" Gwendolyn amended, blus.h.i.+ng, "were afraid that you might not be able to come. How is Father Dunstable? We have all been terribly concerned."

"Father Dunstable?" Joram stared at Gwen, mystified. "What do you mean? Isn't he -"

"Forgive him, sweet child," Simkin interrupted smoothly, interposing himself between Joram and Gwen. Turning his back on Joram, he captured Gwen's hand in his own. He seemed about to kiss it, then apparently decided the effort was too great and lethargically held onto it instead. "Your beauty has completely overthrown his mind. I've seen more intelligent expressions on a catalyst. Not often, but occasionally. Speaking of catalysts, it would appear from your inquiry that our bald friend is none too well. Zounds, this astounds me."

"But, didn't Joram tell you?" Gwendolyn attempted to look at Joram, who had been cut off by Simkin on one side and the fountain on the other.

"Egad, m'dear," said Simkin loudly, blocking the couple's view of each other once more. "Champagne? No? Well, I'll drink yours then, if you don't mind." Two gla.s.ses floated over. "What were we discussing? I can't recall - Ah, Father Dunstable. Yes Yes, you see, I've been cooped up in this stifling palace all day, listening to The DKarn-Duuk yammering about the war with Somebody-or-Other and the Emperor yammering about taxes and I've been quite bored out of my skull. Then I found Joram here and, well, my pet, you can hardly blame me if the last thing I wanted to discuss was the health of a priest?"

"No, I suppose not ..." began Gwen, her face rosy with embarra.s.sment and confusion. Simkin's conversation was attracting a crowd; people gathered near to hear what scandalous thing he might say next, and the young girl was acutely conscious of the many eyes focused on herself and her companion.

Endeavoring to get near Gwen, Joram found himself elbowed out of the way and, remembering just in time that he must not call attention to himself, was forced to take a step or two backward. Simkin, meanwhile, was the center of attention.

"Well, what did happen to our Bald Friend?" he asked languidly. "Egad!" A look of horror caused the young man's eyebrows to ascend into his hair. "Bishop Vanya didn't mistake him for a pew cus.h.i.+on, did he?" Smothered laughter from the audience and much nudging. "That happened once to a catalyst known before the accident as Sister Suzzane. Quite flattened the poor thing. Now known as Brother Fred ..."

The laughter grew louder.

"No, really!" Gwendolyn tried to withdraw her hand from Simkin's grasp.

But he smoothly held her fast, though without appearing to do so, regarding her with a bored expectancy that sent the audience into m.u.f.fled giggles.

Gwendolyn had to say something. "I - We were awakened in the night by the ... the Theldara Theldara, who had been in attendance on Father Dunstable. She said he had taken a turn for the worse and that she was transferring him to the Houses of Healing in the Druids Grove."

"Turn for the worse, eh? I'm quite devastated. Prostrate with grief, truly. More champagne here!" Simkin called. The audience roared.

"Simkin, let me -" began Joram, pus.h.i.+ng his way around once more. But Simkin cut Joram off casually, reached out a hand, and caught hold of another young man - one of the general crowd standing nearby.

"Marquis d'Ettue. Charmed."

The young Marquis was charmed as well.

"Here's this young woman, pining to dance with you. It's that shrimp-color jacket you're wearing. Quite bowls women over. My dear, the Marquis." And, before she could utter a protest, Gwendolyn found her hand pa.s.sed from Simkin into the hand of an equally astonished Marquis.

"But I -" Gwen protested weakly, looking at Joram over her shoulder.

"Simkin, d.a.m.n you -" Joram again attempted to intercede, his face dark with impatience and frustration and the glimmerings of anger.

"Pleasure of this dance -" the Marquis stammered.

"Charming couple. Off you go!" said Simkin gaily, literally propelling the startled Gwendolyn into the Marquis's shrimp-colored arms. "Oh, there you are," he said, glancing around at the glowering Joram in affected surprise. "Where have you been, dear boy? There's your sweetheart, gone off to dance with another man."

More laughter.

Joram glared at him furiously. "Will you -"

"- comfort you in your afflicted state? Certainly. Give us a few moments alone, will you?" Simkin asked the a.s.sembled mult.i.tude, who obligingly - and with many smiles at Joram's expense - wandered off in search of new amus.e.m.e.nt. "Champagne, follow me!" Gesturing to several gla.s.ses perched on the rim of the flowing fountain, Simkin put his arm through Joram's and drew him over near the crystal wall, three bubbling champagne gla.s.ses dutifully bobbing along in his wake.

"What have you done?" Joram demanded angrily. "I've been searching for Gwendolyn for hours and now you -"

"Dear fellow, keep your voice down," Simkin said, the merriment and gaiety snuffed out of his face. "It was necessary to speak to you privately and immediately about the catalyst."

"Poor Saryon," Joram said, his face darkening, the black brows coming together. "I shouldn't have left him last night, but the Theldara Theldara a.s.sured me he was healing -" a.s.sured me he was healing -"

"And so he is, dear boy," Simkin interrupted.

Joram tensed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean They They have got him, old chap." Simkin smiled, but it was a smile for the crowd alone. Moistening his lips with champagne, he glanced nervously about the hall. "And we could be next." have got him, old chap." Simkin smiled, but it was a smile for the crowd alone. Moistening his lips with champagne, he glanced nervously about the hall. "And we could be next."

Joram suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The air in this room had been in the lungs of too many others already. His heart pounded painfully, as though trying to squeeze the last bit of oxygen from his chest. There was a buzzing in his ears and, once again, he couldn't hear anything.

"I say, steady. Have a sip. People watching. Fun and merriment, remember?"

Joram saw Simkin's lips move and felt a gla.s.s thrust into his hand. His mouth was dry, he lifted it to his lips, and the bubbles of the wine burst on his tongue, cooling his throat. "Are you sure?" he managed to ask, taking a breath and struggling to regain his composure. "What if he really were taken ill ..."

"Bah! The catalyst was perfectly well when we left. Apart from that, I've never known a Theldara Theldara to get a sudden urge to examine a patient in the middle of the night. But the to get a sudden urge to examine a patient in the middle of the night. But the Duuk-tsarith? Duuk-tsarith? ..." Simkin's voice trailed off ominously. ..." Simkin's voice trailed off ominously.

"He won't betray me," Joram said in a low tone.

Simkin shrugged. "He may not have any choice."

Joram's lips tightened, his hands clenched. "I'm not leaving!" he said flatly. "Not until I've talked to this Druidess Lord Samuels promised to bring! And besides" - his brow cleared, he raised his head - "it won't matter. Soon I'll be a Baron. Then everything will be all right."

"Of course. Very well, if you're satisfied. Just thought I'd explain matters," Simkin said lightly, suddenly complacent once more. "As you say, what is it? A few bad hours for the catalyst. Nothing more. They welcome this sort of thing, so I've heard. Martyrdom. Makes them righteous. Ah, the fair one returns - I presume, to take you off to see Daddy from the look in her eye, which is, I note, now fixed on me with a decidedly unfriendly gaze. Say no more, I'm gone. Let me know when to start the celebration, kill the fatted calf and all that. We might use Bishop Vanya for the occasion. Remember, my dear boy, you you have spent a most exhausting evening sitting up with a sick catalyst. Ta-ta!" have spent a most exhausting evening sitting up with a sick catalyst. Ta-ta!"

Leaving Joram alone - for which the young man was grateful - Simkin rose into the air and was immediately absorbed into the crowd. "Do you like it?" His voice floated back to Joram. "I call it Death Warmed Over ..." Death Warmed Over ..."

The hall was growing increasingly hot, the noise level rising. The presentations to the Emperor having ended, the people standing around the throne began to disperse, changing their raiment from mourning to more suitable colors of revelry. Joram leaned against the crystal wall, staring out into the night, wis.h.i.+ng desperately he was out in the cool darkness that looked so inviting compared to the glaring light and heat within. He felt a momentary stab of conscience over the catalyst. Simkin's use of the word "martyrdom" chilled him. The thought of what Saryon might well be suffering because of him made him close his eyes, guilt sliding its thin blade into his soul.

But, after a moment, Joram was able to ignore the pain, covering the wound with bitter salve as he had covered so many in his life, never noticing the ugly scars they left behind. He would make it right for Saryon someday. He would take care of the catalyst for the rest of his life....

"Joram?"

And here was Gwendolyn, looking up at him with the blue eyes that saw the wounds and longed to heal them. Reaching out, he caught hold of both her hands in his and pressed them against his feverish skin, finding another balm in her cool touch.

"Joram, what's wrong?" she asked, alarmed by the grim, haunted expression on his face.

"Nothing," he said gently, kissing the hands. "Nothing, now that you are with me."

Gwendolyn blushed prettily and retrieved her hands, conscious of Lady Rosamund hovering somewhere near. "Joram, Father sent me with a message which I was going to deliver, only Simkin -"

"Yes, yes!" Joram said fiercely. A dark flush stained his face, his eyes devoured her. "What message?"

"He ... he wants you to meet him in one of the private rooms," Gwendolyn faltered, taken aback at the change in the young man. But the next moment, the excitement of her news swept all caution away. "Oh, Joram!" she cried, catching hold of his hands in her own. "The Druidess is with him! The Theldara Theldara who attended your mother when you were born!" who attended your mother when you were born!"

5.

Child of Stone Joram walked majestically through the crowd. In his mind, he was a Baron already; the beautiful woman at his side, his wife. Few people paid him any attention, except to wonder perhaps why he and the dainty young girl were walking on the floor like catalysts. But that would change, change soon! Maybe even in an hour or so, Lord Samuels would be walking - yes, walking - at Joram's side, introducing him as Baron Fitzgerald, hinting to his friends that the Baron was about to become a permanent member of the Samuels family. Then they will take notice of me, Joram thought with grim amus.e.m.e.nt. There won't be enough they can do for me.

I'll find Saryon, he planned, and I'll make that fat Priest who has used the catalyst to hound me apologize to both of us. Maybe I'll even see what I can do to have him removed from his office. And then I'll - "Joram," said Gwendolyn, speaking somewhat timidly. The expression on his face was so strange - elated, eager, yet with a grim darkness she could not understand. "We cannot possibly go any farther walking."

"Why, where are your father and the Druidess?" Joram asked, suddenly realizing he'd lost track of his surroundings.

"On the Water level," said Gwen, pointing below.

The two stood on the balcony, looking down through the nine levels to the golden forest on the floor. It was a breathtaking view, each level glowing with its own color - with the exception of the level of Death, which remained nothing but a gray void. Magi were floating both up and down now, the revelries having extended to all the levels. Glancing at the stairs, Joram saw the catalysts toiling up them, their shoes making shuffling sounds, their breathing labored.

And that gave him the excuse he needed.

"You go on down, my lady," he told Gwendolyn, releasing her slowly and reluctantly. Preoccupied as he was, he had still been very much aware of the warmth and fragrance and the occasional touch of smooth skin and soft flesh moving so near him. "Tell your father I am coming. I will walk."

Gwendolyn looked so astonished at this and regarded the catalysts making their way up and down the stairs with such a pitying gaze that Joram could not help smiling. Taking her hand in his, he said to her inwardly, Soon, my dear, you will be proud to walk these stairs with your husband. Aloud he said, "Surely, you can understand that I could not ask Father Dunstable to grant me Life today, no matter how important the occasion...."

Gwendolyn's face flushed. "Oh, no!" she murmured, ashamed. She had, in truth, forgotten about the poor catalyst. Of course, Joram might have gained Life through another catalyst, but there were many magi who were so fond of and loyal to their catalysts that to use another - a stranger at that - would have been tantamount to committing adultery. "Of course not. How foolish of me to forget and" - she raised her lovely eyes to Joram's - "how very n.o.ble of you to make this sacrifice for him."

Now it was Joram's turn to flush, seeing the love and admiration in the blue eyes and thinking how he had earned it with a lie. Never mind, he told himself swiftly. Soon she will know the truth, soon they will all know the truth....

"Go ahead, your father is waiting," Joram said somewhat gruffly. He escorted her to the opening in the ornamental balcony used by the magi entering and leaving the Hall of Majesty and handed her off it with a bow. His heart lurched as he watched her step gracefully into nothing, and it was all he could do to remain standing and keep from reaching wildly to save her from what - in his case - would have been a deadly plunge to the golden forest nine levels below. But, smiling up at him, Gwendolyn drifted downward as gracefully as a lily riding the water, the layers of her gown floating out about her like petals, the bottom layers clinging to her legs, keeping her body covered modestly.

"Water level," Joram muttered, and, turning, ran to the stairs and hastened down them, nearly knocking over a puffing, irate catalyst - the same catalyst, he noticed in pa.s.sing, that Simkin had taken such delight in tormenting.

Going down the stairs was certainly much easier than coming up. Joram might have been flying himself, he moved so rapidly, and it seemed no time at all before he was standing oh the Water level, trying to catch his breath - whether from the descent or his mounting excitement he couldn't tell.

Gwendolyn was nowhere to be seen, and he was just about to go off searching for her impatiently when a voice called, "Joram, over here."

Turning, he saw her gesture to him from an open door he had not noticed amidst the waterlike surroundings. Hurrying past illusions of mermaids swimming with vividly colored fish, Joram reached the door, devoutly hoping that the private meeting chamber wasn't going to be a dark grotto filled with oyster sh.e.l.ls.

It wasn't. Apparently, the illusions were confined to the area around the balcony, for Gwendolyn introduced Joram into a room that - except for the extreme opulence and luxury of the furniture - might have come from Lord Samuels's dwelling. It was a sitting room, designed to accommodate those magi who wished to relax and avoid the expenditure of magical energy. Several couches covered with silken brocade in fanciful designs were arranged in formal groupings around the cozy room, their tables standing attention at their sides.

On one of these stiff couches, looking extraordinarily like a small bird perched on the cus.h.i.+ons, sat a tiny, dried-up woman. Joram recognized her, by the brown color and fine quality of her robes, as a Druidess of extremely high ranking. She was old - so old, Joram thought, she must have seemed elderly to his mother eighteen years ago. Despite the springtime weather and the closeness of the room, she crowded near a fire Lord Samuels had caused to burn in the fireplace. Her brown robes seemed to puff out from her frail body like the plumage of a s.h.i.+vering bird, and she further enhanced the image by constantly preening and plucking at the velvet fabric with a clawlike hand.