Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [139]
“I call it Death Warmed Over,” 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 compass 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