Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [138]
“It won’t work!” Joram whispered grimly. “Have you forgotten the Darksword?” He gestured behind him. “It will absorb your magic! I won’t!”
“‘Pon my honor, I did forget about that beastly sword,” said Simkin. He glanced about him gloomily. “I say, this is incredibly dull and boring. No one even knows I’m here. I don’t suppose you — Wait!” His face brightened. “The Stairs of the Catalysts!”
“What?” Joram asked impatiently, watching closely everyone that entered, especially young women with golden hair.
“The Stairs of the Catalysts, dear boy!” Simkin said, all joy and light once more. “They can’t ride the wings of magic any more than you, old chap. They have to climb stairs to get into the Emperors presence. Oh, not Bishop Vanya, of course. He has his own specially designed conveyance — a dove, it used to be, until His Tubbiness became too heavy for the poor bird. Squashed flat, I heard. Nothing but dove served at the Palace for days — roasted, broiled, stewed … Where was I?” Simkin asked, seeing Joram glower. “Oh, yes. Stairs. They begin right over here, t’other side of that solid gold oak. There” — he pointed — “you can see some of the holy brethren beginning the long trek now.”
Their shoes slapping against the marble on which they walked, several catalysts were climbing the stairs that began on the bottom level and spiraled upward, round and round, finally ending in the Hall of Majesty at the top. Expressions of resignation and humility were visible on the faces of the holy brothers and sisters as they made the wearing climb, although here and there — particularly on the faces of the younger catalysts — Joram thought he saw darted glances of envy at the magi who floated by them with careless ease.
Joram’s spirits began to rise. He felt almost as if he were buoyed up with magic. Hurriedly making his way through the forest of precious metal and jewels, he reached the staircase. Halting a moment at the lowest step to allow a catalyst to go in front of him, Joram glanced up at the hundreds of marble stairs that spiraled above him, each flight a different color to match its level and he nodded to himself in satisfaction.
It is fitting that I climb these stairs, he said to himself. Just as it was fitting that I wear the green robes in memory of my mother. Joram thought with pain of the stone statue staring eternally into the realms of Beyond. My father must have climbed these stairs often. Saryon has climbed these stairs, maybe he’s climbing them at this very moment!
Joram had a mental image of the catalyst, his face haggard and wan from his recent illness, struggling up the stairs, and he began to climb hastily, shoving past the slower catalysts. He’ll need my help, Joram thought, bounding up the first flight with all the strength and energy of his youth and nearly bowling over an elderly Deacon in the process.
“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.”
“Damn 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 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