Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [72]
Had Saryon been in the room, he would have seen instantly the family resemblance in the man’s thick black eyebrows and the stern expression of the cold and handsome face. But the catalyst would have missed an inner warmth in this man that he saw in the man’s nephew — a flicker in Joram’s dark eyes, like the reflection of the forge fires. There was no light in this man’s eyes, no light in his soul.
“Bishop Vanya,” said the man, bowing.
“Prince Xavier,” said Bishop Vanya bowing. “I am honored. This unexpected and unannounced” — the words were emphasized — “visit is a surprise to me.”
“I have no doubt,” Xavier said smoothly and evenly. He invariably spoke smoothly and evenly. There was never a touch of emotion. He never allowed himself to become angry, bored, irritated, or happy.
Born to the Mystery of Fire, he was a high-ranking warlock, a DKarn-duuk, one who is trained in the art of waging war. He was also the Empress’s younger brother — and most important — because the Empress was childless and the inheritance passed through the female side, Xavier was heir to the throne of Merilon. Thus the title, “Prince,” and thus Vanya’s grudging show of homage.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Bishop Vanya inquired. Standing up as tall and straight as his rotund figure would allow, he stared with undisguised dislike at the Prince, who was coolly returning the compliment.
Xavier clasped his hands behind the skirts of his long, flowing crimson robes. Because he was in court, Xavier could have worn court dress, like everyone else. Unlike the Duuk-tsarith, the DKarn-duuk were not required to wear their crimson robes that were an indication of their order. But Xavier found this style of dress advantageous. It reminded people — particularly his brother-in-law, the Emperor — of the warlock’s power.
“I desired to welcome you to Merilon, Holiness,” Xavier said.
“Most kind of you, my lord, I am sure,” said the Bishop, “And now, though I am highly sensible of the honor you do me and completely unworthy of such attention, I beg that you depart. If there is nothing I can do for you, that is.”
“Ah, there is something.” Prince Xavier drew forth one smooth, supple hand from behind his back and held it up before him. With that hand, he might call down lightning from the skies or raise demons from the ground. The Bishop found it difficult to take his eyes off that hand, and waited somewhat nervously.
“My lord has only to name it,” he said, more subdued.
“You can end the charade.”
A ripple of consciousness passed across the Bishop’s face, making it appear as though someone had shaken a bowl of flabby pudding. The lips twitched, and he laid a pudgy hand on them. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I have no idea what you are talking about. A charade?” Vanya repeated politely, still not taking his eyes from the warlock’s hand.
“You know quite well what I am talking about.” Xavier’s voice was even and pleasant and remarkably sinister. But he let the hand fall to his side, fingering an ornament of silver that hung from his waist. “You know that my sister is —”
Prince Xavier stopped speaking abruptly. Vanya’s eyes, nearly hidden by the puffy folds in the face, had suddenly bulged out, staring at him with shrewd intensity.
“Yes, your sister, the Empress,” the Bishop prodded blandly. “You were saying? She is … what?”
“What you and everyone else knows, yet what you and my imbecile brother-in-law have made treasonable to say,” returned Xavier smoothly. “And it is only through your power and that of your catalysts that he can keep this up. Bring it to an end. Put me on the throne.” Xavier smiled, and shrugged slightly. “I am no trained bear as is my brother-in-law. I will not dance at the end of your rope. Still, I can be amenable, easy to work with. You