Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “What do I have to do?” Joram’s voice grated.

  Moving closer still, Simkin placed his lips next to Joram’s ear. His beard tickled against Joram’s flesh; the heady fragrance of gardenia from Simkin’s hair and the fumes of the champagne on his breath made Joram queasy. Involuntarily, he tried to pull back, but Simkin held him fast, whispering insistently, “When you are presented to their Majesties, do not — I repeat — do not stare at the Empress.”

  Standing back, Simkin smoothed his beard and glanced around at the crowd. Joram’s frown relaxed to a half smile.

  “You are a fool!” he muttered, twitching his green robes back into place. “You had me really scared there for a moment.”

  “Dear boy!” Simkin looked at him with such stern intensity that Joram was taken aback. “I meant every word.” He placed his hand on Joram’s chest, over his heart. “Bow to her, speak to her — something flattering, inane. But keep your eyes down. Avert your gaze. Look at His Royal Boringness. Anything. Remember, you cannot see the Duuk-tsarith, but they are here, they are watching…. And now,” Simkin said with a languid wave of the orange silk, “we really must take our places in line.”

  Drawing Joram’s arm through his, he led him forward. “Fortunately for you, my earthbound friend, everyone is required to walk on foot when formally introduced into their Majesties’ presence. Proper humility, show of respect and all that, plus it is devilishly hard to bow in midair. The Duchess of Blatherskill bowed from the waist, couldn’t stop. Kept going. Head over heels. No undergarments. Quite shocking. Empress took to her bed for three weeks. Since then — we walk….”

  Moving across the crystal floor, joining other magi who were falling down around them like sparkling rain, Simkin and Joram walked toward the front of the hall. Joram glanced at Simkin, puzzled and disturbed at his words and his instructions. But the young man appeared not to notice his friend’s discomfiture, prattling on about the unfortunate Duchess. Shaking his head, Joram passed the empty chair where the fat catalyst had been sitting. Joram saw Simkin looking at it with a most wicked grin.

  “By the way,” said Joram, glancing back at the chair as they passed it, “what did you do to him, anyhow?”

  “Sent him back down to the bottom of the stairs,” said Simkin languidly, dabbing at his nose with the orange silk.

  Joram and Simkin joined the line of the wealthy and the beautiful of Merilon, all waiting to pay their respects to the royal couple before dispersing to the more interesting business of revelry and making merry. Some might think revelry would be difficult, considering the sorrowful nature of the anniversary they celebrated. And, indeed, those standing in the line that stretched across the crystal floor like a silk-clad bejeweled snake, were considerably more solemn and serious than they had been when first entering the Palace. Gone was the gay laughter, the lighthearted banter between friends, the gossip and the gushing over clothes or hair or daughters. Their eyes were downcast, their gown and robe colors subdued to a proper shade of Sorrowful Mien, as Simkin said in an undertone.

  Conversations were carried on in low voices between couples now, instead of groups. Consequently, a hush settled over this part of the hall, broken only by the melodious voice of the heralds, announcing the names of those ushered into the Royal Presence.

  So long was the line that Joram could not see the Emperor or Empress yet, but only the crystal alcove in which they sat. Gathered in a semicircle around that alcove stood those of the court who had already been presented and who were now watching to see what illustrious or amusing personages stood in line. The murmur of voices from the watching crowd was low, since they were in the Presence, but there was an almost continual flow of movement — heads turning, people pointing discreetly or not as the subject warranted. Joram, still searching for Lord Samuels and his family, saw many nods and smiles at Simkin. Arrayed in his white robes, the young man stood out against the myriad colors around him like an iceberg in a jungle, coolly affecting to take no notice of the attention.

  Joram’s eyes scanned the brilliant throng, stopping always at the glimpse of a blond head or even a tonsured one, hoping to find Saryon here as well. But there were so many people, and most of them were dressed so nearly alike (except for those few trend-setters who had come dressed as Field Magi, much to Simkin’s amusement), that he deemed it nearly impossible to find those he sought.

  “She is watching for me,” he told himself, fondly picturing in his mind Gwendolyn standing on tiptoe, peeping up over the broad shoulders of her father, waiting with fast-beating heart for the announcement of each name and drooping in disappointment when it was not the name she longed to hear. The thought made him impatient and even fearful. Suppose they left! Suppose Lord Samuels grew tired of waiting. Suppose … Joram looked at the long line ahead of him impatiently, bitterly resenting each elderly Duke whose faltering steps had to be aided by his catalyst or the two gossiping dowagers who kept forgetting to move forward and had to be prodded by their neighbors. The line actually moved quite rapidly, all things considered, but it would have had to flash through the room like a thunderbolt to satisfy Joram.

  “Quit fidgeting,” muttered Simkin, treading on Joram’s foot.

  “I can’t help it. Talk about something.”

  “Willingly. What?”

  “I don’t give a damn! Anything!” Joram snapped. “You said I’m supposed to say a few words to the Emperor. What? Nice night. Wonderful weather. I understand it’s been spring for two years, any chance of summer showing up?”

  “Shhh,” hissed Simkin behind the orange silk. “Egads! I’m beginning to wish I’d brought Mosiah after all. This is an anniversary commemorating the Dead Prince. You offer your condolences, of course.”

  “That’s right. I keep forgetting,” Joram said moodily, his gaze flicking about the hall for the hundredth time. “All right. I’ll offer my condolences. What did the kid die from, anyway?”

  “My dear boy!” said Simkin in a scandalized whisper. “Even if you were raised in a pumpkin, you don’t have to exhibit it to this extent! I was under the impression that your mother regaled you with stories of Merilon. This has to be the stellar story of all time. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No,” said Joram shortly, his dark brows coming together.

  “Ah,” remarked Simkin suddenly, glancing at Joram. “Mmmm, well, perhaps I understand … Yes, undoubtedly. You see” — he drew closer, keeping the orange silk in front of their faces as he talked — “the child didn’t die. It was quite alive, very much alive, as I’ve heard the story told. Screamed its little head off during the formal ceremony and puked on the Bishop at the end.” Simkin paused, looking at Joram expectantly.

  Joram’s face darkened, an almost perceptible shadow falling across it.

  “Understand?” Simkin asked softly.

  “The child was born Dead, like me,” Joram said harshly. His gaze was on the floor now, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, their knuckles white. He noticed he could see his reflection on the crystal floor. The lights of Merilon far below shone through his ghostlike, transparent body; the image of himself stared darkly back at him.

  “Shhh!” Simkin remonstrated. “Dead, yes. But like you, dear boy?” He shook his head. “He wasn’t like anyone born in this world. From what rumors I’ve heard, Dead was an understatement. The kid didn’t just fail one of the Tests. He failed all three! He had no magic in him whatsoever!”

  Joram kept his gaze down. “Perhaps he wasn’t as unlike some others as you might think,” he muttered as the line inched its way nearer and nearer the front. His eyes still on the reflection at his feet, Joram did not see Simkin’s swift, penetrating glance, nor did he remark the thoughtful way the young man stroked his smooth brown beard.

  “What did you say?” Simkin asked carelessly, raising his head and affecting to blow his nose in the bit of orange silk.

  “Nothing,” Joram said, shaking himself as though seeking to wake from a nightdream. “Aren’t we ever goi
ng to get there!”

  “Patience,” Simkin counseled. Floating off the floor an inch or so, he peered over the heads of the crowd, then settled back down. “Look, you can see the Royal Throne now and catch a glimpse of the Royal Head if you are lucky.”

  Craning his neck, Joram saw that they had really walked much nearer during their conversation. He could see the crystal throne and several times caught glimpses of the Emperor moving to converse with those in front of him and around him. He could barely see the Empress, seated to the Emperor’s right since the royal line came down from her side of the family. But the Emperor was clearly within Joram’s view and — glad to be able to fix his mind on something — the young man watched the scene before him with interest.

  Seated in a crystal throne that stood on a crystal floor within a crystal alcove, it appeared very much as if His Majesty lounged among the stars. Dressed in the pure white satin of mourning, white light of the most remarkable brilliance beaming down on him, the Emperor was not only one with the stars but actually outshone the brightest among them. Having seen the opulence of the furnishings and trappings of the rest of the Palace, Joram was startled to note that both the crystal throne and the alcove itself were done in simple, elegant lines without decoration of any kind. The crystal flowed around the royal bodies like clear water, a flash of reflected light here and there giving the only evidence that there was anything real or solid about them.

  Then Joram smiled. Glancing about the room, he realized that this was done intentionally! Even the chair in which the poor catalyst had collapsed — now several hundred feet behind them — was made of fabric magically spun so as to be transparent. Nothing, certainly no material object, should distract one’s attention from the one reality as far as the Emperor’s subjects were concerned — the reality of the Emperor and his Empress.

  Close enough now to hear snatches of conversation when voices were lifted above the murmur of the crowd, Joram listened curiously. Accustomed to forming quick and often disparaging opinions about people, Joram had thought the Emperor — on first meeting — to be a man of colossal self-conceit and self-importance who could not see the world for his own nose, as the saying went. But, in listening to the Emperor’s conversation, Joram was forced grudgingly to admit he had been wrong.

  The man was shrewd and intelligent and — if cold and reserved, it was only to keep himself above the masses. He hardly needed the herald, it seemed, to tell him the names of those who came before him and, indeed, addressed many by familiar nicknames rather than by their more formal titles. Not only that, but he had something personal to say to each — inquiring of fond parents about a beloved child, questioning a catalyst concerning the priests particular area of study, discussing the past with the old, the future with the young.

  Intrigued by this phenomenal feat, considering the hundreds of people with whom the Emperor must come into contact daily, Joram watched in growing fascination. He recalled his meeting with the Emperor and the way the man’s eyes had seemed to completely absorb him, had focused his complete and undivided attention on him for several seconds. Joram remembered feeling flattered, but also vaguely uncomfortable, and now he knew why. He had been committed to memory as Saryon committed a mathematical equation to memory and with about as much regard. Skilled to a certain extent in manipulating others, Joram could recognize and concede the touch of a master.

  Yet, Joram knew — first from his mother and confirmed by Lord Samuels — that there was one person in this world the Emperor cared for very deeply. That was the Empress. The line moved nearer and Joram turned his gaze from the Emperor to his consort. All his life, he had heard of the woman’s loveliness — a beauty remarkable even among the noted beauties of court; a beauty that was inborn, that needed no magical enhancement. Increasing his curiosity was the warning — for it could be called nothing else — given by Simkin:

  Do not stare at the Empress.

  The words echoing in Joram’s mind, he took an unobtrusive step out of line in order to catch a glimpse of the woman seated on the crystal throne beside her husband. And then the line moved and she was clearly in his view.

  Joram caught his breath. Simkin’s words flew right out of his head, replaced by Anja’s distantly remembered description. “Hair as black and as shining as the wing of a raven, skin smooth and white as a dove’s breast. The eyes dark and lustrous, the face shaped to classic perfection, as though by the enchantments of a master. She moves with the grace of the willow in the wind —”

  An elbow dug into Joram’s midsection. “Stop it!” Simkin shot out of the corner of his mouth. “Look away.”

  Irritated, half-suspicious that he was the target of one of Simkin’s elaborate jokes, Joram started to make a quick retort. But, once again, there was that strange expression on Simkin’s usually devil-may-care face — serious, even fearful. Drawing closer — there were only ten or so people ahead of them now — Joram looked at the rest of those standing near him and saw that they, too, were each doing his or her best not to look directly or too long at the Empress. He saw them dart glances in her direction, even as he was doing himself, and then quickly look aside. And though each spoke to the Emperor in a loud, clear voice and seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, the voice dropped when speaking to Her Majesty, the words spoken almost unintelligible.

  Moving nearer, his eyes aching from the strain of darting glances at the Empress then looking quickly away again, Joram began to admit that there did seem to be something unusual about the woman. Certainly her celebrated beauty did not diminish as he drew closer, but he found himself oddly repulsed by it rather than attracted. The skin was pure and smooth, but faintly blue and translucent. The dark eyes were certainly lovely, but their luster was not the gleam of light from within. It was the reflection of light upon glass. Her lips moved when she spoke. Her hand and body moved, but it wasn’t the willow’s grace so much as the toyshaper’s.

  The toyshaper’s …

  Joram turned to Simkin, puzzled, but the bearded young man, playing with the orange silk in his hand, regarded his friend with a slight smile.

  “Patience rewarded,” he said. “We’re next.”

  And then Joram did not have time to think about anything.

  He heard, as if from a great distance, the herald strike the floor with his staff and call out in his melodious voice, “Presenting Simkin, guest of Lord Samuels …”

  The rest of the introduction was lost in a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Simkin was performing some nonsense or other; Joram was too dazed and confused to be consciously aware of what. He saw Simkin move forward, white robes shining in the same bright light that spread a halo around the Emperor and the Empress.

  The Empress. Joram felt his gaze drawn to her again, then the herald was saying, “Joram, guest of Lord Samuels and family.”

  Hearing his name, Joram knew he must take a step, but he was suddenly assailed with the consciousness of being the object of hundreds of pairs of eyes. Vividly, the memory of his mother’s death rose to the surface of his mind. He could see the people, all staring at him. He wanted only to be alone. Why, why were they looking at him?

  The Emperor and Simkin were talking, Joram saw, but he had no idea what was being said. He couldn’t hear. There was a roaring in his ears like the rush of a storm wind. He wanted most desperately to flee, yet he couldn’t move. He might have stood there forever except that the herald — always conscious of the necessity of keeping the line moving and accustomed to those who experienced this sublime awe in the presence of His Majesty — gave Joram a gentle prod. Stumbling, the young man lurched forward to stand before the Emperor.

  Joram had just enough presence of mind to bow deeply, copying Simkin, and started to mumble something without any idea what he was saying. The Emperor cut in smoothly, recalling having met him at Lord Samuels’s. Hoped his visit to Merilon was a pleasant one, and then the royal hand waved and Joram moved across the crystal floor to stand before the Empress. He was dimly aware
of Simkin watching him and — if it would not be too unbelievable — Joram thought the young man’s bearded lips were parted in a grin.

  Joram bowed before the Empress self-consciously, wondering desperately what to say, longing to raise his gaze and look at this woman and yet feeling in another part of him the strongest urge to hurry away, his eyes averted as he had seen so many do before him.

  Standing before her, he became conscious of a faint, cloying odor.

  The most beautiful woman in the world — so it was told. He would see for himself.

  Joram lifted his head …

  … and stared into the lifeless eyes of a corpse.

  4

  The Champagne Fountain

  “Name of the Almin!” Joram murmured, shivering, cold sweat drying on his body. “Dead!”

  “My dear boy, if you value your life and mine, do keep your voice low!” Simkin said in soft tones, a disarming smile on his face as he nodded to several acquaintances across the room. The two stood near the champagne fountain, this being the place Simkin said Gwen or Saryon would certainly come to meet them. This area — opposite from the alcove where the Emperor still held court — was becoming increasingly crowded as people drifted here in search of friends and merriment. The champagne fountain was, as Simkin said, a natural meeting place; shouts of greeting and boisterous laughter burst constantly around them.

  Magically operated by a team of Pron-alban disguised as footmen, the champagne fountain stood over twenty feet tall. It was made entirely of ice — to keep the wine cool — and was done in fish motif. Champagne flowed from the mouths of icy seahorses perched upon frozen waves. Wine shot from the pursed lips of glassy-eyed blowfish; frost-rimed sea nymphs offered guests sips of wine cupped in frigid fingers. Crystal goblets stood in rank upon rank in the air around the fountain, filling themselves at the beck and call of the revelers and hurrying to quench the thirst derived from standing in attendance upon the Emperor and his dead wife for two hours.