Forging the Darksword by Margaret Weis

run if we make this separation clean and swift.”
    The Lord Catalyst made a kind of sound here, a sort of choked wail. But Bishop Vanya, his paunchy face freezing as if the chill silence in the room had seeped into his blood, ignored him. Speaking in an emotionless voice, he continued, “From this hour on, the child is to be given no food, no water. He is not to be held. He is Dead.”
    The Bishop went on to say something else, but Saryon did not hear. The baby was hiccuping against his shoulder; his best ceremonial robes were wet with the child’s tears. Having managed to capture one fist, the Prince was sucking on it noisily, staring at Saryon with wide, unfocused eyes. The Deacon could feel the tiny body quiver as, now and then, a soft sob shook it.
    Saryon stared down at the child, his thoughts confused, his heart aching. He’d heard somewhere that all babies are born with blue eyes, but this child’s eyes were a dark, cloudy blue. Did he look like his mother, who was reputed to beextraordinarily beautiful? The Empress had brown eyes, Saryon recalled hearing. And she had long blue-black hair, so luxuriant that she needed no magic to make it glisten like a raven’s wing. Thinking of this and looking at the fuzzy head of dark hair, Saryon saw that the skin of the baby’s temple was beginning to blister. Reflexively he reached to touch it, his lips forming the words of the healing prayer that would enhance the healing Life of the baby’s own body. Then Saryon stopped, remembering. This child had no healing Life within his body. No Life stirred there at all.
    The young Deacon held a corpse in his arms.
    The Prince drew a deep, sudden, shaking breath. He seemed about to cry, but he continued sucking on his fist and this appeared to satisfy him. Snuggling against Saryon, he stared at him with those large, black-lashed eyes.
    From this moment on, Saryon thought, his heart constricting in pain, I will be the last person to hold him, to pat his back, to run fingers over the tiny, silky-haired head. Swift tears stung his eyes, and he looked around helplessly, silently pleading with one of the others to take this burden from him. No one did. No one even met his gaze except Bishop Vanya, who frowned, seeing his orders not being obeyed.
    Saryon opened his lips to speak, to question this cruel decision, but his voice caught in his throat. Vanya had said they must obey without knowing why. The Bishop would take upon himself the responsibility. Would the pleas of a Deacon move him? A Deacon already in disgrace? Not likely. There was nothing for Saryon to do but bow and leave the room, still awkwardly patting the Prince’s back in a manner that seemed to soothe him. Once in the corridor, however, the young Deacon had no idea where he was going in the immense Cathedral. All he knew was that, somehow, he had to get to the Royal Palace. At the end of the hall, Saryon caught a glimpse of a dark shadow, an Enforcer. Saryon hesitated. The warlock could direct him to the Palace. He could send him there, in fact, using his magic.
    Looking at the black-robed figure, Saryon shuddered and, turning, walked hurriedly in the opposite direction. I will find my own way to the Royal Palace, he thought with swift, frustrated anger. At least, if I walk, I can offerthis poor child what comfort I can before … before …
    The last thing Saryon heard as he left the corridor was Bishop Vanya’s voice.
    “Tomorrow morning, the Emperor and the Empress will make public their agreement that the child is Dead. I will take the baby to the Font. There, tomorrow afternoon, the Deathwatch will begin. I hope, for the sake of us all, that it passes swiftly.”
    For the sake of us all.
    The next day, Deacon Saryon stood in the lovely Cathedral of Merilon, listening to the wailing of the dead child and the whispering of his plans and hopes and visions and dreams as they bade him good-bye.
    There would be no celebrations in Merilon now, no introductions to noble