Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [99]
A few of those in the crowd who had descended to get a better view suddenly sprang back up to join their fellows. An awed whisper began to circulate.
“The Emperor! The old Emperor!”
The circle around the old man grew larger, people craning their heads to see. Bishop Vanya, recognizing him, flushed red, then went white in anger. The Cardinal gasped audibly.
Prince Garald looked swiftly at Joram to see his reaction. There was none. Joram regarded the old man silently, without expression. The Prince gestured to the Duuk-tsarith, and the platform on which they stood sank slowly to the ground, the people swirling around it like leaves in a whirlwind.
As the platform came to rest on the stone pavement, the Prince motioned to the old man, who walked haltingly forward.
Looking intently into the old man’s face, Prince Garald bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said softly.
The Emperor nodded absently. He hadn’t even looked at the Prince. Coming to stand in front of Joram, the old man reached out to touch him, but Joram—his face impassive, his eyes focused above his Father.’s head—took a step backward. The Emperor, smiling sadly, nodded and slowly withdrew his hand.
“I don’t blame you,” he said softly. “Once, many years ago, I turned my back on you and they took you away to die.” He glanced up at Joram. Though he was level with him, his bent body forced him to twist his head to look into the face of the tall man standing on the platform. “This makes the fifth time I have seen you, my son. My son …” The Emperor’s voice lingered over the words. “Gamaliel. That was to have been your name. It is a word of the ancient days. It means ‘reward of God.’ You were to have been our reward, your mother’s and mine.” The Emperor sighed heavily. “Instead, the mad woman named you Joram—‘a vessel.’ It was a fitting name. In our pride and fear, we cast you from us. The poor mad woman caught you up, and poured into you the sorrows of this world.”
The Emperor gazed into the face of his son, who still did not look at him.
“I remember the day they took you from me I remember the tears your mother shed, the crystal tears that shattered on your body. Tiny streams of blood ran down your skin I turned my back on you, and they took you away to die. My fault, you say? The Church’s fault?”
Straightening suddenly, rising almost to his full height, the Emperor cast a stern glance about the crowd. For an instant, the wan face was regal again, the crooked old man a proud and noble ruler. “My fault?” the Emperor questioned loudly. “What would you have done, people of Merilon, if you knew that a Dead child was destined to rule over you?”
The people drew away from him, looking askance at one another. The word mad was whispered about, and there was much nodding of heads. Yet there was not one among them who could meet the old man’s accusing eyes.
Unconsciously, Joram’s hand moved to touch his chest as though it pained him.
“Yes, my son”—the Emperor noticed the gesture—“they tell me you bear the scars of your mother’s tears. They tell me that those scars helped prove your identity. I knew you long before that! I didn’t have to see the scars on your chest. I saw the scars on your soul. Do you remember? It was the day at the house of Lord Samuels, the day I came to rescue Simkin the Fool from his latest folly. I saw your face in the sunlight, I saw your hair.” The Emperor’s eyes went to Joram’s black hair, glistening in the rain. “I knew then that the son I’d fathered eighteen years ago lived! Yet I did nothing. I said nothing. I was afraid! Afraid for myself, but more afraid for you! Can you believe that?”
Joram’s lips tightened, the