Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [6]
“Never! Get out!” she shrieked, her voice searing like the heat of the fire. “Get out, you bastard! I don’t believe you, any of you! Get out! You lied! My baby did not fail your Tests! He is not Dead! You fear him! You fear he’ll usurp your own precious power!”
A murmur and a rustle spread through the Illustrious Circle, no one knowing where to look. It was unseemly to stare at the Bishop in his undignified position. His miter on the floor, his tonsured head gleaming in the moonlight, the Bishop had become entangled in his ceremonial robes and was struggling to stand up. A few people glanced at the Empress, but it was painful to look upon her, and more painful still to hear her sacrilegious words.
Saryon took refuge in staring at his shoes, wishing most desperately that he were a hundred miles from this pathetic scene. It was obvious that most of those in the court shared his feeling. The colors of Weeping Blue, so carefully gradated to reflect rank and status, shifted with each wearers nervousness so that the overall effect was one of ripples passing over a calm and placid lake.
With the Cardinal’s help, the Bishop at last managed to stand up. Seeing his livid face, everyone in the court shrank back, many of the magi sinking weakly nearer the floor. Even the Emperor, who had turned around, paled visibly at the sight of the Bishop’s anger. As the Cardinal replaced the miter upon his head, Vanya twitched his robes into place—the man had such control that they had not changed color in the slightest degree—and, gathering what strength he had remaining, abruptly closed off the conduit to the Empress.
The fiery globe vanished. The Empress had gained enough Life from the Bishop, however, that she continued to float above the child, her crystal tears falling upon the baby. As the tears hit the tiny, naked chest, they shattered, causing the child to shriek louder, screaming in a hysterical paroxysm of terror and pain. Everyone in the court could see blood running down the baby’s skin.
Vanya’s lips tightened. This had gone too far. The child would have to be washed and purified all over again. The Bishop cast another look at the Emperor. This time, Vanya’s look was not questioning. He was commanding, and everyone in the court knew it.
The Emperor’s stern expression softened. Floating through the air, he came to rest beside his wife and, reaching out his hand, gently stroked her lovely, glistening hair. It was said among the members of the Royal Household that he doted on this woman and would have given anything in his vast power to please her. But the one thing she wanted, apparently, he could not give her—a living child.
“Bishop Vanya,” the Emperor said to the catalyst, though he did not look at him directly, “take the child. Send us the sign when it is ended.”
Relief flooded through the court. Saryon could hear it sigh upon the air. Glancing around, he saw that the color of nearly everyone’s robes had shifted slightly again. Where there had once been a perfect blue spectrum of mourning, now the shades and hues wobbled and wandered among sickly greens and woeful grays.
Relief mingled with anger was obvious on the Bishop’s face, as well. Even he was too weakened to conceal it any longer. A trickle of sweat rolled down his shaved head from beneath the miter Wiping it away, he exhaled deeply, then bowed to the Emperor.
Moving much more hurriedly than was proper for such a solemn occasion, all the while keeping his eyes on the Empress, who was still hovering above him, the Bishop reached out and lifted the frantic baby in his arms. Turning to a warlock, a Marshal of the Enforcers, Vanya said in a low, husky voice, “Through your talent, take me to the Font.” Then he added, speaking to the Emperor. “I shall send the sign, Your Majesty. Be waiting.”
The Emperor, his eyes still on his frail wife, did not appear to hear.