Triumph of the Darksword by Margaret Weis Page A

carriages or drifted lightly among the clouds of City Above. The middle-classes flowed into City Below, gathering around the Gates, crowding into the Grove, massing around the perimeter of the protective magical dome.
    There was a festive air about the crowd. Not even the oldest among them could remember the last time a Challenge had been issued. It was an historic occasion and excitement was widespread. Lavish parties were being given by the nobility this night following the Challenge. Military garb of every day and age was the style; the city looked somewhat like an encampment of Julius Caesar’s that had been overrun by the combined forces of Attila the Hun and King Richard the Lion-Hearted. But amid all this heady excitement, there ran a single thread of disappointment. One tiny cloud cast a shadow over an otherwise perfect day.
    There was to be no party held at the Crystal Palace.
    People wondered at this. Emperor Xavier was known to be a serious-minded man (some even used the term
dour
to describe him—but only in whispers). Everybody believed it perfectly right and proper that he treat this war seriously. But a party in honor of the momentous event had been expected and, when it was not forthcoming, when word went out that the Emperor specifically demanded not to be disturbed, people exchanged dark looks and shook their heads. Such a thing would not have happened under the old Emperor, they said wistfully (again only in whispers). And more than a few began to speculate that perhaps this war wasn’t going to be the easy victory. The DKarn-Duuk had been predicting.
    Xavier knew the people were disturbed by his refusal to celebrate tonight. His Minister of Morale had spent the last two days informing him of nothing else. The DKarn-Duuk didn’t care. Moody and restless, he flitted back and forth in front of the vast expanse of crystal wall, his hands twisting together behind his back. Xavier indulged himself in this unusual outward display of agitation only because he was alone in his study. Though the walls were transparent in order that he could see out, he had cast a Mirror Image spell upon them, thus keeping others from seeing inside. A highly trained and disciplined warlock, Xavier appeared to the rest of the world to be enigmatic and imperturbable. Indeed, he was, most of the time. But not on this particular occasion. Not with what he had on his mind.
    And it wasn’t the Challenge.
    The entrance of someone into the Emperor’s study brought Xavier’s pacing to a halt The person had traveled the Corridor that opened silently to admit him; the rustle of heavy robes and the grunt of labored breathing were the first indications of the man’s arrival. Xavier knew who it was—only one man in this world had access to him through the Corridors—and so he merely glanced over his shoulder to see the expression on the face, more interested in that than the face itself.
    At the sight of that expression, Xavier scowled. Biting his lip, he turned back to staring intently out at the panorama of city spread beneath him. There was nothing to see yet. The Challenge hadn’t begun, and he wasn’t truly watching anyway; his thoughts and his vision ranged far afield. Pretending to be preoccupied with the forthcoming event provided him with the opportunity to conceal his face from his visitor.
    “I take it the news is bad, Eminence?” Xavier said in a cold, even voice. He had ceased his airborne pacing and stood perfectly still now, his hands held quietly before him—the Almin alone knew by what effort of will.
    “Yes,” puffed Bishop Vanya.
    Although the stroke had left the Bishop paralyzed in his left arm and had immobilized the left side of his face, Vanya had been able—with the help of the
Theldara—
to overcome these handicaps and lead a fairly normal life. Certainly hispower in the realm had not diminished. If anything, it had grown under Xavier’s new regime.
    The elderly Bishop tired easily these days, however.