“All right,” he said, “how many groups do we have here? Please, divide yourselves up, spread out, so I can see what the situation is.” The petitioners milled about in confusion; clearly, several had not understood his Ethsharitic. He repeated the instructions as best he could in Semmat and waited while the group sorted itself out into smaller groups.
There were five petitions, it appeared, one group of four, a group of three, two pairs, and a single. “Who speaks Ethsharitic?” Sterren asked.
One hand went up in each group; the single, unfortunately, just looked blank. Sterren asked him in Semmat, “Do you speak Semmat?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.
That, Sterren thought, would have to do.
He decided to start with the largest group and work down; it seemed fairest to keep the fewest possible waiting.
“All right,” he said, pointing, “You four, come on in.”
The Ethsharitic-speaking spokesman for the foursome led his party into the audience chamber, down the rich red carpet as the doors swung shut behind them, to stand before the dais. Sterren watched them closely, to see if they seemed aware that anything was out of the ordinary.
They did not. Apparently, either nobody had told them that the Great Vond had no throne and always conducted business floating in the air, or they had dismissed such tales as exaggerations.
They went down on their knees before the emperor and bowed deeply.
“Rise,” Vond said.
His unenhanced voice seemed horribly weak to Sterren, a thin little sound that was almost lost in the great stone chamber.
The petitioners did not seem to notice anything odd. They rose.
Their spokesman took a cautious step forward and waited.
“Speak,” Vond said.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” the petitioner said, “we have come here as representatives for many, many of your subjects who grow peaches. This year, thanks to the fine weather you have given us, we have a very large, very fine crop, and it is all ripening at once, so fast that we do not have time to harvest it. We...” He hesitated, glanced at Sterren, who looked encouraging, and then continued, “We have seen you light the sky at night. Could you do this again? If you could light the sky above our trees, we could harvest by night, as well as by day, and we would not leave fruit to ripen and rot on the tree before we can get to it. I... we understand that you have other concerns, but-”
“No,” Vond said flatly, interrupting the petitioner.
The spokesman blinked. “No?” he said. “But your Majesty-”
“No, I said!”
“May I ask why-”
“No!” Vond bellowed, rising from the throne, not by magic, but standing naturally upon his own feet. His voice echoed from the walls.
A breeze stirred the warlock’s robes, in a closed room where no natural breeze could reach. Vond felt it and looked down at the swaying fabric of his sleeve in horror.
He turned to Sterren and said, “Get them out of here.”
Then he turned and ran from the room.
The petitioners stared after him in astonishment. Sterren stepped forward and told them, “The Great Vond is ill. He had hoped that he would be able to hear petitions regardless, but it appears that the gods would have it otherwise.” He hesitated, then continued, “And I’m afraid that’s why he refused your petition; while his illness persists, his magic is somewhat limited, and to light the sky as you ask would be too great a strain upon his health.”
The petitioners looked at him uncertainly as he spoke, and he saw fear appear on the spokesman’s face. Sterren thought he understood that; after all, when the king is sick, the kingdom is in danger. That old proverb would hold true all the more for an emperor, and a young emperor of a young and still-unsteady empire at that. Worst of all, Vond was an emperor without an heir. “Don’t worry,” Sterren said soothingly. “It’s not that serious.” He hoped the lie would not be obvious.
“What can we do?” the spokesman asked.
“Go home, harvest your peaches as best you can, and don’t worry unduly. If you know the names of any gods, you might pray to them on the emperor’s behalf, and I’m sure healing charms won’t hurt.” He took the spokesman’s arm and led the party back down the hall to the door.
Once again, a single rap opened the doors, and Sterren escorted the little party out into the hall. There he raised his voice and called, “The Great Vond is ill, and all audiences for today are canceled!” He repeated it in Semmat. “If you wish to, you may stay in the area and check with the guards daily, and present your petitions when the Great Vond has recovered; or you may put them in writing and give them to any guard or servant with instructions that they be delivered to Chancellor Sterren, who will see that they are read by the Great Vond as soon as his health permits. If you cannot write, there are scribes for hire in the village.”
The little crowd milled about again, muttering uneasily.
“That is all!” Sterren announced firmly. He turned to the four servants at the doors and dismissed them.
That done, he turned and headed for the stairs. He kept his pace slow and dignified until he knew he was out of sight of the petitioners, then broke into a trot, heading directly for Vond’s bedchamber.
As he had expected, he found Vond there, sitting in a chair and staring at the gaping hole, edged with bits of glass and leading, that had once been the window overlooking the courtyard gardens.
“I can’t even fix the window,” Vond said without preamble as Sterren entered.
“I’ll have the servants take care of it immediately,” Sterren said.
“Sterren,” Vond wailed, “I can’t even fix the damned window! I can’t do anything. I can’t afford to lose my temper; I was struggling as hard as I could to shut out the magic down there, but you heard my voice, you felt the wind. How can I live without magic?”
“I didn’t feel any wind,” Sterren said truthfully. “I saw your clothes move, so I knew what happened, but it didn’t reach me. You had it almost under control. It will take practice, that’s all. Most people live their whole lives without magic. You ask how you can live without it; ask how long you can live with it.”
Vond turned and glared at him. “You did this to me,” he said bitterly.
“You did it to yourself,” Sterren retorted. “And whoever did it, it’s done now, isn’t it?”
“Oh, gods!” Vond burst out, throwing himself from the chair to the bed. “And the nightmares have already begun!”
“You’ve only had one so far,” Sterren pointed out, “and that was right after working the mightiest magic any warlock has ever performed. Perhaps, if you use no more magic, you won’t have any more nightmares.” “Oh, get out of here!” Vond shouted. Sterren retreated to the door. “I’ll send the servants to fix the window,” he said as he left.
CHAPTER 39
There were no nightmares that night, or the next, and Vond grew more optimistic. He stayed sequestered in his apartments, but spoke of venturing forth again and taking up his role as emperor, when he had adjusted to using no magic.
Even the rain on the second day did not seriously dampen his spirits. If anything, this sign that he was no longer controlling the weather seemed to cheer the warlock.
On the third night his screams woke the entire palace. Sterren took the stairs three steps at a time on his way to Vond’s chamber.
Two guards and Vond’s valet were already there, staring in shocked silence as Vond, hanging a foot off the floor, beat on the north wall of the room with his fists.