Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [137]
Joram followed Simkin’s gaze. The entryway in which he stood was a large cylindrical chamber. Rising hundreds of feet in the air, the chamber passed through nine separate levels of the Palace to culminate in a great dome at the top. Each level had its own balcony, looking down on the main entryway below and up into the dome above. And each level, Joram noticed, was a different color; the lowest being green.
“The levels represent the Nine Mysteries,” said Simkin, pointing upward. “The level we stand on is Earth, therefore the flora-and-fauna motif. Above us is Fire, then Water, then Air. Above that is Life, since it takes those three elements to sustain life. Then there is Shadow, to represent our dreams. Finally there is Time, which rules all things. Then Death — Technology, then Spirit — the afterlife. And above all that,” Simkin added, looking back at Joram with a mischievous grin, “is the Emperor.”
Joram’s lips twisted into a slight smile.
“Sink me,” muttered Simkin, twisting his head, “I’ve given myself the most frightful crick in my neck. Anyway, dear boy,” he continued on a more solemn note, leaning closer to Joram and speaking in an undertone, “you see why it is imperative that I give you magic! People are expected to ascend through the nine levels into the Emperors presence.”
He gestured to the glittering throng of magi around them. As the fanciful carriages pulled up in front of the shining crystal and golden-banded doors, they opened and released their occupants, who floated gracefully into the palace like milkweed seeds. The air rang with their voices, greeting friends, exchanging kisses and gossip and news. They were not loud or boisterous, and their clothes, though beautiful and varied as the colors of the sunset, were, in general, conservative. Even though this was a gala affair, it was, after all, the celebration of a tragic event. The revelry and merrymaking would be kept to a minimum, and all of the guests — when ushered into the presence of the royal couple — would be expected to murmur words of condolence on this, the eighteenth anniversary of the Prince’s birth … Death … and death.
Watching in fascination — and also searching for Gwendolyn — Joram saw that all the magi upon entering the Palace continued to float up into the air, ascending upward through the nine levels into the dome where the Emperor and Empress received their guests. Joram also realized that Simkin was right — there appeared no other way to reach the upper levels except by magic.
“Where will the party be held?” he asked, glancing about the green level where they stood, which was decorated — as Simkin had said — with trees and flowers. “What level. This one?”
Made of gold and silver and crystal, encrusted with jewels, the trees and flowers resembled no trees or flowers that Joram had ever seen in his life. Light created by artificial suns gleamed brightly from the Fire level above, sparkling off the golden leaves and the jeweled fruit, dazzling the eyes. The unnatural forest, standing stiffly and silently, began to make Joram feel closed-in and trapped. The constantly shifting points of light, glancing off gilded branches and gleaming jewels, was dizzying.
“The party will be on all levels, of course,” said Simkin, shrugging. “Why do you ask?”
A shadow crossed Joram’s face. “How will I ever find Lord Samuels or Saryon or anyone in this … this crowd!” He gestured angrily, the darkness returning.
“If you’d only listen to Simkin!” said the bearded young man, heaving a sigh. “I’ve told you half a dozen times! Everyone is presented to the Emperor and Empress. Right now, everyone who is anyone is up there in the Hall of Majesty, standing around watching to see who has been invited and — what is more fun — who hasn’t. They’ll be there until the Emperor himself decrees it is time for the merriment to begin! Either you’ll find Lord