Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [145]
The man was shrewd and intelligent and — if cold and reserved, it was only to keep himself above the masses. He hardly needed the herald, it seemed, to tell him the names of those who came before him and, indeed, addressed many by familiar nicknames rather than by their more formal titles. Not only that, but he had something personal to say to each — inquiring of fond parents about a beloved child, questioning a catalyst concerning the priests particular area of study, discussing the past with the old, the future with the young.
Intrigued by this phenomenal feat, considering the hundreds of people with whom the Emperor must come into contact daily, Joram watched in growing fascination. He recalled his meeting with the Emperor and the way the man’s eyes had seemed to completely absorb him, had focused his complete and undivided attention on him for several seconds. Joram remembered feeling flattered, but also vaguely uncomfortable, and now he knew why. He had been committed to memory as Saryon committed a mathematical equation to memory and with about as much regard. Skilled to a certain extent in manipulating others, Joram could recognize and concede the touch of a master.
Yet, Joram knew — first from his mother and confirmed by Lord Samuels — that there was one person in this world the Emperor cared for very deeply. That was the Empress. The line moved nearer and Joram turned his gaze from the Emperor to his consort. All his life, he had heard of the woman’s loveliness — a beauty remarkable even among the noted beauties of court; a beauty that was inborn, that needed no magical enhancement. Increasing his curiosity was the warning — for it could be called nothing else — given by Simkin:
Do not stare at the Empress.
The words echoing in Joram’s mind, he took an unobtrusive step out of line in order to catch a glimpse of the woman seated on the crystal throne beside her husband. And then the line moved and she was clearly in his view.
Joram caught his breath. Simkin’s words flew right out of his head, replaced by Anja’s distantly remembered description. “Hair as black and as shining as the wing of a raven, skin smooth and white as a dove’s breast. The eyes dark and lustrous, the face shaped to classic perfection, as though by the enchantments of a master. She moves with the grace of the willow in the wind —”
An elbow dug into Joram’s midsection. “Stop it!” Simkin shot out of the corner of his mouth. “Look away.”
Irritated, half-suspicious that he was the target of one of Simkin’s elaborate jokes, Joram started to make a quick retort. But, once again, there was that strange expression on Simkin’s usually devil-may-care face — serious, even fearful. Drawing closer — there were only ten or so people ahead of them now — Joram looked at the rest of those standing near him and saw that they, too, were each doing his or her best not to look directly or too long at the Empress. He saw them dart glances in her direction, even as he was doing himself, and then quickly look aside. And though each spoke to the Emperor in a loud, clear voice and seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, the voice dropped when speaking to Her Majesty, the words spoken almost unintelligible.
Moving nearer, his eyes aching from the strain of darting glances at the Empress then looking quickly away again, Joram began to admit that there did seem to be something unusual about the woman. Certainly her celebrated beauty did not diminish as he drew closer, but he found himself oddly repulsed by it rather than attracted. The skin was pure and smooth, but faintly blue and translucent. The dark eyes were certainly lovely, but their luster was not the gleam of light from within. It was the reflection of light upon glass. Her lips moved when she spoke. Her hand and body moved,