Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [62]
The arrival of the summons, coming as it did on the dark anniversary, brought such dreadful and unhappy memories to Saryon that he could not help but accept it with some trepidation. He had, in fact, returned to the Font from his current home in the Abbey of Merilon expressly to avoid the holiday that reminded him not only of his shattered hopes and dreams and of the Empress’s bitter sorrow, but of the sorrow of others he had seen whose children had been born Dead.
Saryon always returned to the Font, if he could, during this time every year. He found comfort there, for no one at the Font was allowed to ever refer to the death of the Prince, much less celebrate it as a memorial. Bishop Vanya had forbidden it, an occurrence that everyone thought odd.
“Old Vanya really detests this holiday,” remarked Deacon Dulchase to Saryon as the two walked the silent, peaceful corridors of their mountain fastness.
“I can’t say that I blame him,” Saryon replied, shaking his head with a sigh.
Dulchase snorted. Still a Deacon in his middle years, and knowing that he would undoubtedly die a Deacon, Dulchase had no compunction about speaking his mind—even in the Font where, it was said, the walls had ears, eyes, and mouths. Why he hadn’t been sent to the fields long ago was due strictly to the intervention of the now elderly Duke of Justar, in whose household he had been raised.
“Bah! Let the Empress have her fancy. It’s little enough, the Almin knows. You heard that Vanya tried to dissuade the Emperor from declaring the holiday?”
“No!” Saryon looked shocked.
Dulchase nodded, smug in his knowledge. He knew all the gossip of the court. “Vanya told the Emperor that it was sinful to remember one who had been born without Life, one who was obviously cursed.”
“And the Emperor refused him?”
“They draped Merilon in weeping blue again this year, didn’t they?” Dulchase asked, rubbing his hands. “Yes, the Emperor had guts enough to face up to His Holiness, even though it meant that His Holiness stalked out in a huff and now refuses to go near the Royal Court.”
“I can’t believe it,” Saryon murmured.
“Oh, that won’t last long. It’s just for show. Vanya will be the winner in the end, no doubt about it. Just wait, the next matter that comes up, the Emperor will be only too happy to give in. They’ll be reconciled, and Vanya will simply wait until next year to do it all over again.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Saryon said, glancing around uneasily and drawing Dulchase’s attention to one of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith, who was standing silently in the corridor, his face hidden in the depths of his cowl, his hands folded before him as was correct. Dulchase snorted again in disdain, but Saryon noticed that the Deacon crossed the corridor to walk upon the other side. “I mean, I can’t believe the Emperor refused him.”
“It was all due to the Empress, of course.” Dulchase said, nodding knowingly and slightly lowering his voice, with a glance at the Enforcer. “She wanted it done, and so, of course, it was done. I tremble to think what might happen if she took it into her head to want the moon! But you should know that. You’ve been at court.”
“No, not that much,” Saryon admitted.
“In Merilon and doesn’t attend court!” Dulchase dashed Saryon an amused glance.
“Look at me,” Saryon said. Flushing, he raised his large, clumsy hands. “I don’t fit in with the rich and the beautiful. You saw what happened during the ceremony seventeen years ago, when I got the color of my robe wrong? And I don’t believe that I’ve once gotten it right since then! If the color was Apricot Flambé, I was Rotting Peach. Oh, you laugh, but it’s true. Finally I left off changing it altogether. It was easier wearing the plain, untrimmed white of my rank and calling.”
“I’ll bet you were a hit!” Dulchase said caustically.
“Oh, wasn’t I!” Saryon answered with a bitter smile and a shrug. “You know what they called me behind my back—Father Calculus. It was because all I could ever talk about was mathematics.” Dulchase groaned. “I know. I bored them to tears,