Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [152]
On one of these stiff couches, looking extraordinarily like a small bird perched on the cushions, sat a tiny, dried-up woman. Joram recognized her, by the brown color and fine quality of her robes, as a Druidess of extremely high ranking. She was old — so old, Joram thought, she must have seemed elderly to his mother eighteen years ago. Despite the springtime weather and the closeness of the room, she crowded near a fire Lord Samuels had caused to burn in the fireplace. Her brown robes seemed to puff out from her frail body like the plumage of a shivering bird, and she further enhanced the image by constantly preening and plucking at the velvet fabric with a clawlike hand.
Lord Samuels stood on the floor — a mark of the solemnity of the occasion — to one side of the couch, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in the subdued colors worn by the rest of the magi on this sad anniversary; his robes, though fine, were not nearly so fine as those worn by his betters — a fact duly noted and applauded by his betters. He bowed stiffly as Joram entered, Joram bowing stiffly in return. The Druidess stared at Joram curiously with bright, beady eyes.
“Thank you, Daughter,” said Lord Samuels, his gaze turning to Gwendolyn with a fondness and pride even the seriousness of the forthcoming conversation could not diminish. “I think it would be best if you left us.”
“Oh, but, Father!” Gwendolyn cried, then, seeing the tiniest hint of a frown on his face, she sighed. With a final glance at Joram — a glance that carried with it her heart and soul — she made a pretty curtsy to the Druidess, who chirped and fluttered in return, then withdrew from the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Lord Samuels cast a spell upon the door, so that they would not be disturbed.
“Joram,” he said coolly, stepping forward and gesturing with his hand, “allow me to present Theldara Menni. The Theldara was, for many years, the Druidess presiding over the Birthing Rooms of the Font. She now has the honor,” he added in guarded tones, “of attending our beloved Empress, whose continued good health we pray for daily.”
Joram noted that Lord Samuels carefully did not look at him as he said this; he had noticed that everyone who spoke of the Empress did so in measured words and without meeting the eye.
Joram himself found it difficult to meet the eyes of the Druidess and he bowed, thankfully avoiding the necessity. He was overwhelmed with disgust at the thought of this woman attending a corpse. His skin crawled and he fancied he could smell death and decay in the stuffy, overheated room. Yet he found himself wondering, with a terrible, morbid fascination, what magic they performed to keep the body in its suspended state. Did elixirs run through the silent heart instead of blood? Did potions pulse in the veins, herbs keep the skin from rotting? What magic words made the stiff hand move with that awful grace, what alchemy caused the dull eyes to shine?
He was conscious of the Darksword strapped to his back, feeling its presence reassuring. I have given Life to that which is lifeless, and for that I am labeled a Sorcerer of the Dark Arts, he said to himself. And yet what greater sin is this, to keep that which belongs to the gods — if one believes in such things — from finding its true destiny among the stars, keeping it chained in its prison house of flesh?
Straightening, he feared he could not bring himself to look at this woman without openly betraying his loathing. Then he sternly reminded himself that none of this was his concern. What did this Empress matter to him? It was his life that was important, not another’s death.
Raising his gaze, shaking back the black hair that hung about his face, Joram stared at the Druidess with equanimity and even a slight smile. She made a kind of caw, as though aware of his thoughts and taking pleasure in them. Raising the clawlike hand, she held it out for Joram to kiss, and this he did, stepping forward