Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [144]
“No,” said Joram shortly, his dark brows coming together.
“Ah,” remarked Simkin suddenly, glancing at Joram. “Mmmm, well, perhaps I understand … Yes, undoubtedly. You see” — he drew closer, keeping the orange silk in front of their faces as he talked — “the child didn’t die. It was quite alive, very much alive, as I’ve heard the story told. Screamed its little head off during the formal ceremony and puked on the Bishop at the end.” Simkin paused, looking at Joram expectantly.
Joram’s face darkened, an almost perceptible shadow falling across it.
“Understand?” Simkin asked softly.
“The child was born Dead, like me,” Joram said harshly. His gaze was on the floor now, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, their knuckles white. He noticed he could see his reflection on the crystal floor. The lights of Merilon far below shone through his ghostlike, transparent body; the image of himself stared darkly back at him.
“Shhh!” Simkin remonstrated. “Dead, yes. But like you, dear boy?” He shook his head. “He wasn’t like anyone born in this world. From what rumors I’ve heard, Dead was an understatement. The kid didn’t just fail one of the Tests. He failed all three! He had no magic in him whatsoever!”
Joram kept his gaze down. “Perhaps he wasn’t as unlike some others as you might think,” he muttered as the line inched its way nearer and nearer the front. His eyes still on the reflection at his feet, Joram did not see Simkin’s swift, penetrating glance, nor did he remark the thoughtful way the young man stroked his smooth brown beard.
“What did you say?” Simkin asked carelessly, raising his head and affecting to blow his nose in the bit of orange silk.
“Nothing,” Joram said, shaking himself as though seeking to wake from a nightdream. “Aren’t we ever going to get there!”
“Patience,” Simkin counseled. Floating off the floor an inch or so, he peered over the heads of the crowd, then settled back down. “Look, you can see the Royal Throne now and catch a glimpse of the Royal Head if you are lucky.”
Craning his neck, Joram saw that they had really walked much nearer during their conversation. He could see the crystal throne and several times caught glimpses of the Emperor moving to converse with those in front of him and around him. He could barely see the Empress, seated to the Emperor’s right since the royal line came down from her side of the family. But the Emperor was clearly within Joram’s view and — glad to be able to fix his mind on something — the young man watched the scene before him with interest.
Seated in a crystal throne that stood on a crystal floor within a crystal alcove, it appeared very much as if His Majesty lounged among the stars. Dressed in the pure white satin of mourning, white light of the most remarkable brilliance beaming down on him, the Emperor was not only one with the stars but actually outshone the brightest among them. Having seen the opulence of the furnishings and trappings of the rest of the Palace, Joram was startled to note that both the crystal throne and the alcove itself were done in simple, elegant lines without decoration of any kind. The crystal flowed around the royal bodies like clear water, a flash of reflected light here and there giving the only evidence that there was anything real or solid about them.
Then Joram smiled. Glancing about the room, he realized that this was done intentionally! Even the chair in which the poor catalyst had collapsed — now several hundred feet behind them — was made of fabric magically spun so as to be transparent. Nothing, certainly no material object, should distract one’s attention from the one reality as far as the Emperor’s subjects were concerned — the reality of the Emperor and his Empress.
Close enough now to hear snatches of conversation when voices were lifted above the murmur of the crowd, Joram listened curiously. Accustomed to forming quick and often disparaging opinions