Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [64]
The beauty and the revelry of court life was, he’d discovered, nothing but an illusion. As an example, Saryon had watched the Empress succumb, day by day, to a wasting illness that the Healers found impossible to treat. She was dying, everyone knew it. No one discussed it. Certainly not the Emperor, who never failed to comment nightly on how improved his lovely wife looked and how beneficial the spring air brought about by the Sif-Hanar (it had been spring a year in Merilon) was for her recovered health. Everyone in the court nodded and agreed. The magical arts of her ladies in waiting put color into the Empress’s chalk-white cheeks and changed the hues of her eyes.
“She looks radiant, Your Majesty. Only grows more beautiful, Majesty. Never seen her in such delightful spirits, have you, Highness?”
They could not, however, add flesh to the sunken face or dim the feverish luster of her gaze, and the whispers around court were, “What will he do when she dies? The line runs through the female side. Her brother is visiting, heir to the throne. Have you been introduced? Allow me. Might be wise.”
And through it all, through all the beauty and illusion, the only reality seemed to be Bishop Vanya—moving, working, lifting a finger to beckon someone here, motioning with his hand to smooth something out there, guiding, controlling, always in supreme control himself.
Yet Saryon had seen him shaken once, seventeen years ago. And he wondered, not for the first time, what it was that Vanya was keeping hidden from them. Once again, he heard the Bishop’s words, I could give you the reason—Then the sigh that stopped the words, then the look of stern, cold resolution. No. You must do what I tell you without question.
A novitiate appeared before him, touching him gently on the shoulder. Saryon started. How long had the boy been standing there, unnoticed?
“Yes, Brother? What is it?”
“Forgive me for interrupting you, Father, but I have been sent to bring you to the Bishop’s quarters, whenever it is most convenient.”
“Yes. Right now will—uh—be fine.” Saryon rose to his feet with alacrity. Not even the Emperor, it was said, kept Bishop Vanya waiting.
“Father Saryon, enter, enter.” Vanya, rising to his feet, made a cordial motion with his hand. His voice was warm, though Saryon thought it seemed a bit strained, as if he were having a difficult time keeping the fires of his hospitality burning.
Starting to kneel to kiss the hem of his robes as was proper, Saryon was vividly and painfully reminded of the last occasion when he had performed this act, seventeen years earlier. Perhaps Bishop Vanya remembered as well.
“No, no, Saryon,” Vanya said pleasantly, taking the priest by the hand. “We can dispense with obsequities. Reserve those for the public for which they are intended. This is a private, quiet little meeting.”
Saryon looked at the Bishop sharply, hearing more said in the tone of the words than in the words themselves.
“I am—am honored, Holiness,” Saryon began in some confusion, “to be summoned into your presence—”
“There is one here, Deacon, I would like you to meet,” continued Bishop Vanya smoothly, ignoring Saryon’s words.
Turning, startled, Saryon saw that there was another person in the room.
“This is Father Tolban, a Field Catalyst from the settlement of Walren,” said Vanya. “Father Tolban, Deacon Saryon.”
“Father Tolban.” Saryon bowed as was customary. “May the Almin’s blessing be yours.”
It was no wonder Saryon had not noticed the man upon first entering. Brown and dried and withered, the Field Catalyst disappeared into the woodwork as thoroughly as if he had grown there.
“Deacon Saryon,” Tolban mumbled, bobbing nervously, his eyes darting from Saryon to Bishop Vanya and back to Saryon again, his hands twitching and tugging at the long sleeves of his untrimmed, mud-stained, and shabby green robes.
“Please, everyone be seated,” Vanya said kindly, indicating