Sorcerers of Majipoor

  Lowering his arms, Svor caught hold of the reins of his mount.

  “I can carry only one of you at a time, my lady.”

  “I’ll wait here by the floater,” Melithyrrh said immediately. “Take my lady, and send someone back here quickly for me.”

  “Is this agreeable to you?” he asked Thismet.

  “It will have to be,” she said. “Tell me, Svor: how does Prince Prestimion fare?”

  “Well, my lady. Very well.”

  “He has a goodly army assembled by now, does he?”

  “I ask your pardon. You’ll have to judge that for yourself. I must regard you as an enemy, lady, and I ought not be telling you details of—”

  “I’m not an enemy, Svor.”

  He stared and said nothing.

  “My brother’s a fool and his advisers are villains. I want no further part of any of them. Why do you think Melithyrrh and I have come traveling halfway across Alhanroel to be here? A nightmare of a trip it was too. Sleeping in the most horrid of hovels, eating the most dreadful slop, fending off the advances of any number of coarse, vulgar—” She paused. “And then to wreck the floater just a few miles from the end of our journey! We were at our wits’ end, Svor, when you came along. —Is there a place nearby, do you think, where I could wash myself a little before you take me before Prestimion? This coating of filth I have on me disgusts me. I haven’t bathed in two days, or perhaps three. Never before in my life have I been as dirty as this.”

  “A stream lies just over there,” Svor said, nodding to his left.

  “Show us.”

  He led them a hundred feet through the thick grass. It was the stream that fed the bog in which they had stranded their floater, its flow was swift and clean.

  “Stand over there by your mount,” said Thismet. “Turn your back and keep it turned.”

  “I give you my word,” Svor said.

  Only once while they were bathing did he steal a look at them, and that when he could no longer force himself not to. A single glance over his shoulder showed him the two of them knee-deep in the stream, incandescently naked, Melithyrrh with her back to him scooping up water in her shirt and pouring it over Thismet, who stood turned to one side. The sight of Melithyrrh’s pale full buttocks and the Lady Thismet’s round flawless breasts seared itself unforgettably into Svor’s mind, and after all these weeks of solitary life it left him weak-kneed and trembling.

  “Are you all right, Svor?” asked Thismet when she and Melithyrrh, looking cleaner and much refreshed, returned from the stream’s edge. “You seem sickly all of a sudden.”

  “I had an ague last week,” he said. “I am not fully recovered from it, I suppose.” He assisted Thismet into the saddle of the mount, and hopped up dose behind her, his thighs against her haunches, his arm light around her waist. This too stirred him close to madness. He called out to the Lady Melithyrrh not to wander from the place, but to remain by the floater until someone had come for her, and spurred the mount forward.

  As they made their way through the thick herds of vongiforin and klimbergeyst, Svor said, after a time,”You are completely estranged from your brother, my lady?”

  “It would not be far wrong to put it that way. I left the Castle without notifying him, but Korsibar must know by now where I’ve gone. A day came, suddenly, when I could no longer stand being there among them all. A loathing for the place rose in my throat, and I thought, ‘We were wrong to take the throne from Prestimion. It was a terrible sin against the will of the Divine. I’ll go to him and tell him that, and beg his forgiveness.’ Which is what I mean to do. Do you think he’ll accept it, Svor?”

  “Prince Prestimion has only the kindest thoughts for you, my lady,” Svor said mildly. “I have no doubt he’ll be pleased and delighted beyond all measure to hear of your change of heart.”

  But he wondered again if this were all some elaborate scheme of Korsibar’s against Prestimion—or, what was more likely, a plot of Dantirya Sambail’s on Korsibar’s behalf. How could it be, though? What possible benefit could accrue to Korsibar from sending his sister and her lady-of-honor across thousands of miles by themselves to Prestimion’s camp? Did she have some wild notion of thrusting that dagger of hers into Prestimion’s heart the moment she came within reach of him? Somehow Svor did not want to believe that of her. Especially when he sat here like this astride the mount, staring at the slender nape of her neck, with his thighs pressed up against her flesh and his arm grasping her middle just below her breasts.

  His mind was lost for a moment in a frenzied swirl of desire and impossible yearning. And then he found herself saying softly, into the lovely ear that was only inches from his lips, “My lady, may I tell you something?”

  “What is it, Svor?”

  “If you are truly of our faction now, lady, then it may be that I can offer you my protection in this unkind place.”

  “Your protection, Svor?” Her head was turned away from him; but it seemed to him that she was smiling. “Why, what protection would you be, in this camp of rough soldiers?”

  He chose not to take offense. “I mean that you would have my company, that you would not be left alone to be troubled by others who might come upon you, my lady. Do I make myself fully clear?” He was trembling like a lovesick boy, he who had made his way through life always with a clear confident sense of how to attain his destination. “Let me tell you, lady, that ever since I first came to the Castle, I have felt the deepest and most honorable love for—”

  “Oh, Svor. Not you too!”

  That was not encouraging. But he pushed desperately onward, letting the words spill out unchecked. “Of course I could say nothing of it, especially after the coolness began to develop between your brother and the prince. But at all times, lady, have I looked upon you with unequaled delight—with great love in my heart—with a sincere and eager and all-consuming desire to claim you for my own—”

  With surprising gentleness in her tone, Thismet said, “And to how many women before me, Svor, have you professed the same sincere and eager desire?”

  “I speak not only of desire but of marriage, my lady. And the answer to your question is, not one, not a single one.”

  She was silent for a time that seemed to tick on for ten thousand years. Then she said, “This is a passing odd place to be asking for my hand, my lord duke: crunched together as we are on this mount, riding through the back end of nowhere with wild animals snorting and snuffling all about us, me in rags and you clutching me from behind. Farquanor, at least, made his proposal in more appropriate surroundings.”

  “Farquanor?” In horror.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Svor. I refused him. Indignantly, as a matter of fact. I refuse you more kindly, for you are a better man than Farquanor by far. But you are not for me. I’m not sure whether there’s a man who is; but at any rate I know you are not the one. Take that without bitterness, Svor, and let’s speak no more of this ever again.”

  “So be it,” said Svor, as amazed at his own temerity in having let all this pour forth from him as he was by the softness of her response.

  “You might apply yourself to the Lady Melithyrrh,” Thismet said a little while afterward. “Now that she and I are no longer at court, she feels greatly adrift and she might look favorably on your advances. Whether she wants a husband, I can’t say; but whether you truly want a wife is equally doubtful. I think you might do well to approach her, at least.”

  “I thank you for the suggestion, my lady.”

  “I wish you well with it, Svor.” And then, a bit later, as though she had not already asked it just a short time before: “Will Prince Prestimion believe that my repentance is sincere, do you think?”

  Prestimion had not felt such astonishment since the day so long ago when he had come striding into the Court of Thrones to see Korsibar seated on the Coronal’s seat with the starburst crown on his head. Thismet here in the camp? Asking to see him now, alone in his tent?

  It seemed unreal that she c
ould be here in this remote place. Surely it must be the work of sorcerers, this apparition that stood before him now. But no, she was real, he felt no doubt of that. Dressed in little more than rags, she was. Her hair unkempt. Devoid of all jewelry, all cosmetic adornment. Her face drawn and weary. She looked now more like a scullery-maid than the daughter of one king and the sister of another, but the regal grace of her, the fiery eyes, those lips, the finely molded features, all told him that this was the undeniable Thismet. Here. Against all probability, here in Gloyn.

  “I should tell you, my lord, that I come into your presence armed,” she said. She drew back her tattered sleeve, revealing the little scabbard that was attached to her arm. Unclipping it, she tossed it casually across to Svor. “That was only to defend myself while I traveled, my lord. I am not here to do you harm. There are no other weapons on me.” She smiled, in a sly inviting way that sent shivers through him. “I am willing to be searched, if you wish it.”

  But something other than her flirtatiousness had caught his attention. “Twice now you have called me ‘my lord.’ What do you mean by that phrase, Thismet?”

  “Why, what everyone means by it, my lord. The same that is meant by this.” And she raised both her hands in the starburst gesture, smiling all the while and staring directly into Prestimion’s eyes.

  He said slowly, after a bit, “You repudiate your brother’s claim, do you, Thismet?”

  “That I do most sincerely, my lord.”

  “Call me Prestimion, as before.”

  “Prestimion, then. As before.” Her eyes flashed. It was like staring into lightning. “But I recognize you as Coronal Lord of Majipoor. Those clownish men at the Castle—those fools and villains—I have no allegiance to them any longer.”

  “Come closer,” Prestimion said.

  Svor, who was watching from a discreet distance, said, “Perhaps it would be a good idea to search her first, my lord.”

  “You think?” Prestimion smiled. “Another dagger hidden on her somewhere, is that it?”

  “Come and search me, then, Prestimion!” Thismet said, her eyes bright as beacons. “Who knows? I may have a second dagger hidden here”—and she placed her hand between her breasts—“or here.” With her hand against the base of her belly, fingers splayed out wide. “Come look, my lord! See whether I’m still armed!”

  “You have weapons enough on you, I think,” said Prestimion, “and those are indeed the places where you carry them. And I do believe I’m in great peril from them.” He grinned and said, “Since I have your leave to do it, Thismet, I think I will conduct a little search for them, yes.”

  “My lord—” said Svor.

  “Peace,” Prestimion said to him. And to Thismet. “But first tell me truly why you’re here.”

  “Why, to forge an alliance with you,” she said, blunt and outspoken now, not an atom of coquettishness in her tone. “There was a time when I wanted Korsibar to be king in your place, not because I thought you were unworthy of it, but only because I was hungry to see my brother on the throne. That was a great error, and it shames me now to think of the role I played in bringing it about. He is still my brother and I still have a sister’s love for him; but he should never have been king. I’ll proclaim that gladly before all the world. Standing by your side, Prestimion, I’ll hail you as Coronal Lord.”

  He thought he understood her now.

  “And what role do you see for yourself,” he asked carefully, “when I am on the Confalume Throne?”

  “I have been a Coronal’s daughter and a Coronal’s sister,” she said. “No one in all our history could have said such a thing before me. I would set myself apart even further from all others by becoming a Coronal’s consort as well.”

  From Svor came a gasp. Prestimion himself was taken aback by her straightforwardness. There was no coy diplomacy here, only the directness of ultimate will.

  “I see,” he said. “An alliance of the most literal sort.” And saw in the eye of his mind not the weary travelworn Thismet who stood before him now, but the radiant glorious Thismet of the Castle, dressed in some fine gown of thin white satin with glittering bands of gold about her throat, and then, still in his mind’s eye, the light of tall tapers came shining through that gown from behind her and laid bare to him the supple curves of breast and belly and thigh. Such a torrent of passion came crashing through his soul in that instant that for a moment Prestimion thought he was below the Mavestoi Dam once again and the reservoir was pouring down upon him a second time.

  Then he glanced toward Svor. Saw the warning look; the troubled frown. Svor, the man of ladies, so knowing in all the ways of desire, telling him, no doubt, to beware the sorceries of this woman’s body, which might well be more powerful than the most potent spell known to the high magus Gominik Halvor or any of his colleagues in the realm of magic.

  Yes. Very likely. But still—still—

  Then Thismet said, into the continuing silence, “My lord, if I might have an hour to myself, and a basin of warm water, and my clean clothes brought to me from the floater that lies wrecked in the valley beyond this one—”

  “Of course. To be done at once. Go into my tent, Thismet.”

  “We already have sent for the baggage from the floater,” Svor said. “And also for the Lady Melithyrrh, who waits there with it.”

  Prestimion nodded. “Good.” And to the aide-de-camp Nilgir Sumanand, who was nearby, he said, “See to it that the Lady Thismet is given all that she needs to refresh herself. She’s had a long and difficult journey here.” Svor said, when the others had gone inside, “What will you do, Prestimion?”

  “What do you think I’ll do? What would you do yourself, in my place?”

  “I understand,” said Svor. “Who would resist?” A thin rueful smile. Soffly, he went on, “I won’t conceal from you, my friend, that I’m in love with her myself. Long have been. As has everyone else at the Castle, I suppose. But I’ll content myself, like the good subordinate I am, with the Lady Melithyrrh.”

  “One could do worse,” said Prestimion.

  “Indeed.” Svor glanced toward the tent. “You trust yourself alone with her?”

  “I think so. Yes. I don’t really expect her to try to murder me.”

  “Very likely not. But she is dangerous, Prestimion.”

  “Perhaps so. It’s a risk I’ll take.”

  “And if all goes well, will you actually make her your consort, do you think?”

  Prestimion smiled and clapped Svor on the shoulder. “One thing at a time, Svor, one thing at a time! But it would make good political sense, wouldn’t it? The triumphant Lord Prestimion taking the daughter of the Pontifex Confalume as his bride, to close the breach in the commonwealth that foolish Korsibar has opened? I like that idea. Good political sense, yes. But also—the lady, purely for her own sake—”

  “As you said just now, Prestimion, one could do worse.”

  “One could indeed.”

  He told Svor then that he wanted some time alone; and Svor withdrew.

  Drawing his cloak about him, Prestimion paced by himself undisturbed through the camp, revolving in his mind this strange new turn of events.

  Thismet!

  How odd, how unexpected. She was using him, of course, for some manner of revenge against Korsibar; no doubt Korsibar had disappointed her in something, or perhaps had tried to force her into a marriage that was not to her liking, or in any event had created enough displeasure in her to send her racing across the world to the arms of his great enemy. Well, so be it. It was surely possible for them to come to terms, for their mutual benefit. They understood each other, Thismet and he. She would use him, and he would use her. There was no better match for him to make, and all the world knew it.

  And then, of course, questions of politics aside, there was Thismet herself to weigh into the bargain. That fiery, passionate woman whom he had watched hungrily from a distance for so long: coming to him at last, here, now. Offering herself to him. He had lived l
ike a monk long enough. This was not something lightly to be refused.

  “Prestimion? Is that you, all muffled up in that cloak?”

  Septach Melayn, it was, coming up behind him. “Yes,” he said. “You’ve spied me out.”

  “Svor has told me about Thismet.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, I suppose. I do congratulate you. But trouble follows her wherever she goes.”

  “I know that, Septach Melayn.”

  “Do we want that trouble following us right into the midst of our army, Prestimion? Here on the eve of battle, practically?”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Gialaurys and I have just been speaking of this and—”

  “Well, speak no more. She’s bathing in my tent, and when she’s ready to be visited, I intend to go to her there, and let such trouble follow me as it will. But speak no more.” Prestimion laid his hand on Septach Melayn’s arm, just by the wrist. Gently he said, smiling all the while, but there was more than a little force in his tone also, “Listen to me, old friend. I don’t instruct you in how to use your sword. Pray don’t instruct me in the use of mine.”

  * * *

  And then at last they stood face-to-face, alone in his tent. Thismet had bathed, and had changed into a simple sheer white gown, with nothing beneath. He could see the dark points of her nipples rising against its thin fabric, and the deeper darkness at her loins. Yet without her jewelry and cosmetic adornments, there was a strange purity about her now: an odd word to use in connection with Thismet, purity, but there it was. The bravado she had displayed an hour before, inviting him to search her for concealed weapons and all of that, seemed entirely gone. To Prestimion she appeared tense, uncertain, almost frightened. He had never seen her like that before, not ever. But he understood. He felt somewhat like that himself. The possibility suddenly took wing in him that there might be something more to their coming together than blunt conspiratorial power-hunger, and something more to it too than mere physical gratification. Perhaps. Perhaps.