“If you’d only listen to Simkin!” said the bearded young man, heaving a sigh. “I’ve told you half a dozen times! Everyone is presented to the Emperor and Empress. Right now, everyone who is anyone is up there in the Hall of Majesty, standing around watching to see who has been invited and — what is more fun — who hasn’t. They’ll be there until the Emperor himself decrees it is time for the merriment to begin! Either you’ll find Lord Samuels up there or he’ll find you. Now, give me your arm. I’ll use my magic and, voilà, up, up and away!”
“It won’t work!” Joram whispered grimly. “Have you forgotten the Darksword?” He gestured behind him. “It will absorb your magic! I won’t!”
“‘Pon my honor, I did forget about that beastly sword,” said Simkin. He glanced about him gloomily. “I say, this is incredibly dull and boring. No one even knows I’m here. I don’t suppose you — Wait!” His face brightened. “The Stairs of the Catalysts!”
“What?” Joram asked impatiently, watching closely everyone that entered, especially young women with golden hair.
“The Stairs of the Catalysts, dear boy!” Simkin said, all joy and light once more. “They can’t ride the wings of magic any more than you, old chap. They have to climb stairs to get into the Emperors presence. Oh, not Bishop Vanya, of course. He has his own specially designed conveyance — a dove, it used to be, until His Tubbiness became too heavy for the poor bird. Squashed flat, I heard. Nothing but dove served at the Palace for days — roasted, broiled, stewed … Where was I?” Simkin asked, seeing Joram glower. “Oh, yes. Stairs. They begin right over here, t’other side of that solid gold oak. There” — he pointed — “you can see some of the holy brethren beginning the long trek now.”
Their shoes slapping against the marble on which they walked, several catalysts were climbing the stairs that began on the bottom level and spiraled upward, round and round, finally ending in the Hall of Majesty at the top. Expressions of resignation and humility were visible on the faces of the holy brothers and sisters as they made the wearing climb, although here and there — particularly on the faces of the younger catalysts — Joram thought he saw darted glances of envy at the magi who floated by them with careless ease.
Joram’s spirits began to rise. He felt almost as if he were buoyed up with magic. Hurriedly making his way through the forest of precious metal and jewels, he reached the staircase. Halting a moment at the lowest step to allow a catalyst to go in front of him, Joram glanced up at the hundreds of marble stairs that spiraled above him, each flight a different color to match its level and he nodded to himself in satisfaction.
It is fitting that I climb these stairs, he said to himself. Just as it was fitting that I wear the green robes in memory of my mother. Joram thought with pain of the stone statue staring eternally into the realms of Beyond. My father must have climbed these stairs often. Saryon has climbed these stairs, maybe he’s climbing them at this very moment!
Joram had a mental image of the catalyst, his face haggard and wan from his recent illness, struggling up the stairs, and he began to climb hastily, shoving past the slower catalysts. He’ll need my help, Joram thought, bounding up the first flight with all the strength and energy of his youth and nearly bowling over an elderly Deacon in the process.
“What the devil are you doing on our stairs, Magus?” the Deacon growled, already huffing and puffing though he had eight more flights to go.
“It’s a bet!” said Simkin hastily, rising up into the air next to Joram, who had — truth be told — momentarily forgotten his friend in his excitement. “Two skins of wine says he can’t make it all the way to the top.”
“Damn fool kids,” mutterea are Deacon, stopping to rest on a landing and glaring at Joram. “All I can say, young fop, is that you’re going to win if your friend keeps going at that rate.”
“Better slow down,” Simkin suggested, hovering close to Joram. “Don’t attract attention … I’ll meet you at the top. Don’t enter the Hall of Majesty without me!” he added in an uncommonly serious tone. “Promise?”
“I promise,” said Joram.
It made sense, certainly, but he wondered why Simkin was so intense about it. There was no time to ask; the bearded young man had drifted into the arms of several laughing women. Continuing his climb, Joram took the stairs at a reasonable pace and, by the fifth level, was extremely glad he had done so. He paused a moment, leaning on the stair rail and breathing heavily, wondering if his legs were going to hold out. He still kept watch, but had seen no sign of Saryon or any of Lord Samuels’s family, and began to realize that it would be the wildest fluke to find them in the crowd. Somewhere in the air above him, he could hear Simkin’s voice, and then he caught a glimpse of the young man, whose white robes showed up remarkably well against the brightly colored clothes of the other magi.
“I call it Death Warmed Over,” said Simkin, prattling away merrily to an admiring group. “Suitable for this jolly little gathering, what?”
Joram noticed, as he began climbing the stairs again, that Simkin didn’t receive the usual laugh that generally accompanied his words. Indeed, some of the magi appeared rather shocked, and drifted away from him hurriedly. Simkin didn’t appear to notice, but fluttered on to the next group to regale them with his tale of triumph in what he was now calling the Illusion of a Thousand Mosiahs. This time, he got his laugh and Joram forgot about him, concentrating on keeping his legs moving.
He had not been so intent on his climb as to fail to notice his surroundings. His pleasure in the beauty of the Palace increased as he reached each successive level. He could even look down now upon the gilded, bejeweled forest and wonder how he could have ever thought it stiff and unnatural. Seen from above, it was a realm of enchantment, as was each level he entered after that.
Flames licked the stairs of the Fire level. Heat radiated from walls made of molten lava, making Joram stop in alarm before he realized that it was illusion — all except for the heat, which left him sweating by the time he climbed through it and made him thankful to reach the Water level above.
Done entirely in blue crystal and made to look like the floor of the ocean, the Water level was populated with the illusions of sea creatures. Light from some unseen source seeping through the blue crystal walls gave one the impression of being beneath the water — an impression that was so real Joram actually caught himself holding his breath.
Gasping for air, he found an abundance of that element on the next level. Four giant heads, their cheeks puffed out, glared at each other from the four compass points, each seeming intent on blowing his neighbors into the next realm. Opposing winds gusted and whirled about, flattening Joram against the wall and making the stair-climbing even more difficult.
The Life level was peaceful and restful after this. It was dedicated to the catalysts — the giving of Life being their special province — and he joined many of them in sitting on the wooden pews, resting in the cathedral-like, holy silence. He studied his fellow stair-climbers intently, hoping to see Saryon — or rather, Father Dunstable — among them, but the catalyst wasn’t there.
He’s still weak, Joram remembered, wondering if they made special arrangements for sick brethren. Well, he wouldn’t find him or anyone sitting around here. Rising to his feet, the young man continued his climb.
The Shadow level next was a disturbing place that Joram, the catalysts, and even the floating magi hurried through without pause. Representing dreams, it gave no impression of size or shape, being at once vast and tiny, round and square, dark and light. Objects hideous and lovely loomed out of the flitting shadows, bearing startling resemblances to people Joram knew but couldn’t place, places he’d been but couldn’t remember.
Hastening through it, ignoring the weariness in his legs, Joram arrived on the Time level. Overawed, he came to a complete stop and stared, forgetting why he had come or what he was doing here. This level presented — in the most stunningly realistic illusions — the vast sweep of the history of Thimh
allan. But it moved so rapidly that it was nearly impossible to understand what was occurring until it was past. The Iron Wars came and went in the drawing of a breath. Joram saw swords flash in the air and he longed to study them, but they appeared and disappeared almost before he realized he had seen them.
He began to feel frantic, desperate, and it suddenly occurred to him that his own life was whisking away at the same, rapid pace. He could do nothing to halt it. Shaken, he continued on and came to the level of Death.
Joram stared around, puzzled. There was nothing on this level. It was a vast void — neither dark nor light. Just empty. The magi floated through it unseeing, uninterested. The catalysts climbed, heads bowed, their shoes slapping against the marble, their faces a little more cheerful since they realized they were nearing the top.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Joram muttered to himself. “Why is this empty? Death, the Ninth Mystery …” And then he understood. “Of course!” he murmured. “Technology! And that is why there is nothing here since it has — supposedly — been banished from the world. But there must have been something here, once,” he said, looking around intently, peering into the void. “Perhaps the ancient inventions that I read about — the war machines that spewed forth fire, the powder that blew trees from the earth, the machines that printed words on paper. Now lost, perhaps forever. Unless I can bring it back!”
Gritting his teeth, Joram continued the climb. One more level to go.
This was the level of Spirit, the afterlife. Once, it must have been incredibly beautiful, impressing the viewer with the peace and tranquility experienced by those who have passed from this world to the next. But now it had a faded quality about it, as if the illusion were dwindling away. In truth, this was what was happening. The art of Necromancy — communicating with the spirits of the dead — had been lost in the Iron Wars, never to be recovered. No one quite remembered, therefore, what this level was supposed to look like.
Instead of feeling awed, Joram just felt tired and very glad the long climb was nearly at an end. He thought, briefly, of being forced to make this climb every time he came to visit the Emperor — after he was made a Baron, of course — and decided that he would find another means of conveyance. Perhaps a black swan….
Emerging from the spirit world, he walked right into the sunset — or so it seemed to him — and he realized that he was, finally, standing in the Hall of Majesty.
3
The Hall of Majesty
His mind still dazzled by the visions of the wonders through which he had already passed, Joram stared around the Hall of Majesty, awestruck.
Floating above the top of the Palace like a bubble upon water, the hall was perfectly round and made entirely of crystal — as pure and clear as the air that surrounded it. Although now it was at rest over what was known as the Ascent of the Nine Mysteries, the crystal-bubble hall could be moved at a whim — a whim that took thirty-nine catalysts and an equivalent number of Pron-alban twelve hours to perform — to any other location beside, above, or below the Palace. Not only was the round bubble of a hall made of crystal — the walls so thin that one could tap on them with a fingernail and hear a tinkling, resonant chime — but so was the floor that cut through it about a quarter of the way up the side of the bubble. Joram, stepping hesitantly and dazedly off the Stairs of the Catalysts, had the distinct and unnerving feeling that if he walked forward he would be stepping into and onto nothing.
It was just past sunset. The Almin had spread his black cloak over most of the sky; the Sif-Hanar assisting that great Magician in the performance of his duty so that the revelers might enjoy the mysteries and beauties of the night. But, in the west, the Almin lifted the hem slightly to give a last glimpse of the dying day, its red and purple seeping beneath the blackness like a trickle of blood.
It was dark enough, however, that globes of light were beginning to wink on in the hall. Amidst them moved the Emperor’s guests, walking the air of the crystal bubble — meeting, mingling, coming together, drifting apart. The lights, dimmed so as not to deter from the beauty of the falling night, gleamed on jewels and silk, sparkled in laughing eyes, glinted on soft waves of rippling hair.
Never had Joram felt the leaden weight of his own Lifeless body more so than at this time. He knew that if he stepped forward, walked out into this enchanted realm, the crystal floor must crack beneath his feet, the crystal walls shatter at his clumsy touch. And so he stood, irresolute, toying with the idea of descending, of retreating into his own darkness that had, at least, the advantage of being a familiar and comfortable refuge.
But another catalyst — a silent partner in his climb, toiling up a few steps behind Joram — pushed his way past with a muttered apology, moving around the young man to walk, seemingly, upon the night. The slap slap of the catalyst’s sandals upon the solid crystal had a reassuring sound and gave Joram impetus to follow. Moving gingerly, the young man took several steps out onto the floor, then paused once again, overcome this time by the magnificence of the view.
Above him and around him, the stars took their accustomed places in the night sky like minor courtiers coming to pay their respects to the Emperor, keeping their distance as befitted their humble station. Below his feet, the city of Merilon outshone the poor stars. Their sparkle was cold and white and dead, while the city burned with color and life. The Guild Halls were ablaze with brilliance, the houses twinkled; here and there bright spirals of light left the city, snaking upward toward the Palace — more carriages joining the glittering throng of approaching guests.
And Joram stood above it all.
His heart swelling with the beauty of everything around him, Joram’s soul swelled with the feeling of power. Tiny bubbles of excitement tingled through his blood; wine itself had never been more intoxicating. Though his body must remain earthbound, his spirit flew upward. He was Albanara, born to walk here, born to rule, and — within hours perhaps — these bejeweled and glittering people who were so far above him now would crowd to prostrate themselves at his feet.
Well, perhaps that was a bit exaggerated, he told himself with a wry inner grin that did not relieve the gravity of his dark face but gave only a warm luster to the brown eyes. I suppose people don’t prostrate themselves before a Baron. Still, I will decree that underlings walk when in my presence. I can’t think it would be considered proper form to do otherwise. I shall have to ask Simkin, wherever the devil he is —
Thinking of Simkin caused Joram to remember that he had promised not to present himself to the Emperor without his friend, and he glanced about somewhat impatiently. Now that he was over his initial awe, he could hear names being called out at the farthest end of the crystal hall. The light shone most brightly there and, like leaves caught in a whirlpool, groups of magi were being swept in that direction. Trying to hear and see, looking for Gwen and Lord Samuels and Saryon, Joram moved closer, peering through the throng. Yet he could not move too far from the stairs. Simkin would undoubtedly look for him here. Where was that fool anyway! Never around —
“My dear boy, don’t stand there gawping!” came an irritated voice. “Thank the Almin we left Mosiah behind. The sound of your chin hitting the floor must have been loud enough. Do try to look as bored by all this as everyone else is, there’s a good chap.”
Orange silk fluttering in the air, Simkin drifted slowly down from on high, his robes fluttering about his ankles.
“Where have you been?” Joram demanded.
Simkin shrugged. “The champagne fountains.” He raised an eyebrow, seeing Joram frown. “Tut, tut! I know I have mentioned to you before, O Dark and Gloomy One, that your face will freeze in that alarming expression someday. I simply had to have something to do whilst you were toiling up through the nine levels of hell. Now you know why there are no fat catalysts in Merilon. Well, almost none.” A rotund catalyst, sweat rolling off his tonsured head, glared at Simkin as he stumbled, panting, up the last of the stairs.
“Cheer up, Father,” Si
mkin said, pulling the orange silk out of the air and offering it with a solicitous gesture. “Think of the lard you’ve lost! And you’ve contributed a remarkable shine to the floor. Mop your head?”
The priest, flushing even redder, shoved the young man’s hand out of his way and, muttering something most unpriestlike, staggered across the floor to collapse in a nearby chair.
Placing his hands together in a prayerful attitude, Simkin bowed. “My blessing on you as well, Father.” There was a flurry of orange silk and, suddenly, the catalyst disappeared.
Joram was staring at the empty chair where the man had been sitting when he felt a tug on the sleeve of his robe.
“And now, dear boy,” Simkin said, “attend to me, please.”
The voice was playful as usual but, turning, Joram saw an unusually hard glint in the pale blue eyes, a certain grimness in the negligent smile that caught his attention.
Simkin nodded slightly. “Yes, now the fun begins. You remember the cards said that you would be King, and I offered to be your fool? Well, up until now, you have been King, dear boy. We’ve followed your lead without question and without complaint though it has nearly got me arrested, the poor catalyst struck down by a curse from the Almin, and Mosiah on the run for his life.” Simkin’s voice was soft; it died away almost to a whisper at this point; his eyes studied Joram intently.
“Go on,” Joram said. His tone was cool and even, but the expression on his face grew darker, and a faint flush beneath the skin seemed to indicate that somewhere, deep within, the arrow’s barb had lodged.
Simkin’s smile twisted sardonically. “And now, my king,” he said, moving closer and speaking very softly, his eyes going to the crowd around them, “you must follow the lead of your fool. Because, in the hands of your fool rests your life and the lives of those who follow you. You must obey my instructions without question. Is that agreed upon, Your Majesty?”
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