Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [4]
But the Emperor had talked to his beloved wife, and now even she, too, appeared to be in agreement. Her baby was Dead.
In fact, the only one present who was not in agreement that the baby was Dead appeared to be the baby himself, who was screaming frenziedly. But his cries were lost, ascending as they did into the vast, vaulting crystal heaven above him.
Bishop Vanya, his gaze now fully on the Empress, launched into the next part of the ceremony rather more hurriedly than was absolutely proper. Saryon knew why. The Bishop feared the Empress might pick up the baby whose body had been washed and purified. Only Bishop Vanya himself was now permitted to touch him.
But the Empress, exhausted by the difficult birth and by her recent outburst, apparently had no energy left to defy Vanya’s orders. She lacked even the energy to float above the crib, but sat on the floor beside it, shedding crystal tears that shattered upon the blue marble. These sparkling tears were her sign of agreement.
A muscle in Vanya’s face twitched when those tears began to fall with a musical sound upon the floor. Saryon even thought he saw the Bishop start to smile in relief, but the man recollected himself in time and carefully arranged his face to a more suitable expression of sorrow.
When the Bishop came smoothly to the end of the ritual, the Emperor nodded once with grave dignity, repeating the ancient, prescribed words, whose meaning no one remembered, with only the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice.
“The Prince is Dead. Dies ireae, dies illa. Solvet saeclum in favilla. Toeste David cum Sibylla.
Then Vanya, who was growing more relaxed as every passing moment brought the ceremony nearer completion, turned to look around at the court to make certain that each was in his proper place, that each had his or her robes changed to the proper shade of blue to match his or her station.
His gaze went from the Cardinal to the two Priests present to the three Deacons. And there his gaze stopped. Bishop Vanya frowned.
Saryon trembled. The Bishops stern eye was on him! What had he done? He had no idea what was wrong. Frantically he looked around, hoping to catch some hint from those standing near him.
“Too damn much green!” muttered Deacon Dulchase out of the corner of his mouth. Hastily Saryon glanced down at his robes. Dulchase was right! Saryon was Turbulent Water in the midst of Weeping Skies!
Feeling his face flush until it was a wonder he wasn’t dripping blood upon the floor as the Empress was dripping tears, the young Deacon endeavored to change the color of his robe to match those of his brethren standing in the Illustrious Circle of the Court. Since changing the color of one’s raiment requires only the smallest use of the Life force, it is magic even the weak catalysts can perform. Saryon was thankful for that. It would have been embarrassing past endurance if he had been forced to ask one of the magi to assist him. As it was, he was so flustered that he barely had it in him to cast this simple spell. His robe went from Turbulent Water to Still Pond, hovered there an agonizing moment, then finally—with a wrench—the young Deacon achieved Weeping Skies.
Vanya’s eye remained on him until he got it right. The eyes of everyone were on the poor young man by now, even the Emperor. It was probably just as well that I was not born a magus, Saryon thought in agony. I would have vanished on the spot. As it was, he could only stand there, wilting beneath the Bishop’s glare, until, still frowning, Vanya completed his inspection, his gaze continuing on around the semicircle to the nobles of the court.
Satisfied, Vanya turned back to face the Emperor and embarked upon the final portion of the ceremony for the Dead Prince. Saryon, absorbed in his own shame, did not attend to what was being said. He knew he would be reprimanded. What would he say in his own defense? That