Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [5]
That, at least, was true enough. The child, only ten days old, was lying in his crib, crying lustily—he was a strong, well-formed child—for the love and attention and nourishment he had once received but would now receive no more. Saryon could offer this as his excuse, but he knew from past experience that Bishop Vanya’s face would simply attain a look of vast patience.
“We cannot hear the cries of the Dead, only their echoes,” Saryon heard him say, as he had said last night.
Perhaps that was true. But Saryon was well aware that those echoes would haunt his sleep for a long time to come.
He could tell the Bishop this, which was the truth but only part of the truth, or he could tell him the rest—I was distressed because the death of this child has ruined my life.
It may or may not be to the Bishop’s credit, Saryon thought gloomily, but he had a feeling that Vanya would be more apt to sympathize with the second excuse for his failure in the matter of the robe better than the first.
Feeling a swift jab in the ribs—Dulchase’s elbow—Saryon quickly lowered his head again, forcing the ritual words out from between clenched teeth. Desperately he sought to pull himself together, but it was difficult. The child’s wailing pierced his heart. He longed to rush from the hall, and wished devoutly that the ceremony would come to an end.
Vanya’s chanting voice fell silent. Raising his head, Saryon saw the Bishop look questioningly at the Emperor, who had to give his permission to begin the Death watch. The men stared at each other for an eternity, as far as Saryon was concerned. Then, with a nod, the Emperor turned his back upon the child and stood, his head bowed, in the ritual mourning posture. Saryon heaved such an audible sigh of relief that Deacon Dulchase, looking shocked, jabbed him in the ribs again.
Saryon didn’t care. The ceremony was almost over.
His arms outstretched, Bishop Vanya took a step forward toward the cradle. Hearing his robes rustle, the Empress looked up for the first time since the court had assembled. Glancing around dazedly, she saw Vanya approaching the crib. Frantically her gaze went to her husband, and saw only the Emperors back.
“No!” With a heartbroken moan, she threw her arms over the cradle, clutching it to her breast. It was a pitiful gesture. Even in her grief, she dared not defy the catalysts enough to touch her baby.
“No! No!” she sobbed over and over.
Bishop Vanya glanced at the Emperor and cleared his throat significantly. The Emperor, who was watching Vanya out of the corner of his eye, did not have to turn. Slowly, he nodded his head again. Vanya stepped forward resolutely. Then, greatly daring, he opened a conduit to the Empress, trying to use the flow of Life to ease her unreasoning sorrow. It seemed to Saryon a foolish thing to do, giving additional power to this already powerful wizardess. But then perhaps Vanya knew what he was about. After all, he had known the Empress for thirty years, ever since she was a child.
“Dear Evenue,” Vanya said, abandoning her formal title. “The waiting time may be long and painful. You need rest to recover your health. Think of the loving husband, whose grief is equal to your own and yet must endure in addition your suffering as well. Grant me that I may take the child and perform the Deathwatch for all Thimhallan—”
Raising her tear-streaked face, the Empress stared at Vanya with brown eyes that now glittered as black as her hair. Suddenly she drew upon the power, sucking Life from the catalyst. The conduit of magic, normally not visible to the eye, flared brilliantly between the two of them, arcing with a blinding white light as, with a motion of her hand, the Empress sent the Bishop flying backward five feet in the air. No one in the court dared move, each staring in awe at the tremendous flow of power as Vanya landed heavily upon the weeping-blue marble floor.
Drawing the Life force flowing through the Bishop’s conduit, the weakened Empress gained strength from him that she herself did not possess. Springing