Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [3]
The Emperor agreed. (For which agreement, Saryon thought caustically, Bishop Vanya had undoubtedly spent most of last night upon his knees, exhorting the Almin to grant him the smoothness of tongue of the serpent.) Hovering in the air in the nave of the cathedral, the Emperor floated beside the ornate rosewood crib that stood in the center of a marble dais, staring at the baby, his arms folded across his chest to signify rejection. His face stern and set in rigid lines, the only outward sign of his grief was the gradual change of his Golden Sun robes to a shade of Weeping Blue—the same color as the marble floor. The Emperor himself maintained the stately dignity expected of him even at this time, when his last chance for an heir to the throne had died with this tiny baby; for Bishop Vanya had undertaken the Vision and had foreseen that there would be no more issue for the Empress, whose health was fragile and precarious.
Bishop Vanya stood upon the marble dais near the rosewood crib. He did not float above it, as did the Emperor. Standing himself, Saryon could not help but wonder if Vanya felt the envy that gnawed at the catalyst; envy of the magi, who, even on this solemn occasion, seemed to flaunt their power over the weak thaumaturgists, hovering over them in the air.
It is only the magi of Thimhallan who possess the gift of Life in such abundance that they are able to travel the world on the wings of the air. The catalyst’s Life force is so low that he must conserve every spark. Because he is forced to walk through this world and this life, the symbol of the catalyst’s order is the shoe.
The shoe: a symbol of our pious self-sacrifice, a symbol of our humility, reflected Saryon bitterly, wrenching his gaze from the magi and forcing his thoughts back to the ceremony. He saw Bishop Vanya bow his mitered head in prayer to the Almin, and he saw, too, the Emperor keeping close watch on Bishop Vanya, watching for his cues, awaiting instruction. At a subtle sign from Vanya, the Emperor bowed his head as well, as did everyone in the court.
Saryon glanced again at the magi hovering around and above him out of the corner of his eye as he absently murmured the prayer. But this time the glance was a thoughtful one. Yes, a humble symbol the shoe—
Bishop Vanya raised his head briskly. So did the Emperor. Saryon noticed that Vanya’s relief showed markedly in his face. The fact that the Emperor had agreed with him that the Prince was Dead made matters much easier. Saryon’s gaze strayed to the Empress. There would be trouble here. The Bishop knew it, all the catalysts knew it, everyone in court knew it. In a hastily convened meeting among the catalysts last night, they had all been warned how to react. Saryon saw Vanya tense. Ostensibly, he was going over the formalities with the Emperor in the ritual proscribed by law.
“… this Lifeless body will be taken to the Font where the Deathwatch will be performed …”
But, in reality, Vanya was keeping a sharp eye on the Empress, and Saryon saw the Bishop frown slightly. The color of the Empress’s robe, which should have been the most vivid, most beautiful shade of Weeping Blue among all present, was slightly off—a sort of dull Ash Gray. But Vanya refrained from tactfully reminding her, as he would have at any other time, to change it. He was thankful—everyone present was thankful—that the woman was apparently in control of herself once more. A powerful wizardess, one of the Albanara, her initial reaction of outrage and grief upon hearing the news