Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [141]
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 reassuring 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, 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 luster 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 to have something to do whilst you were toiling up through the nine levels of hell. 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