“There was no other way?”
“No other way,” Elidath said. “We slew them, and as they died they—changed—”
“Every one?”
“All were Metamorphs, yes.”
Valentine shivered. Strangeness upon strangeness in this nightmare revolution! He felt exhaustion rushing upon him. The engines of life turned again; the Castle was his, and the false Coronal a prisoner; the world was redeemed, order restored, the threat of tyranny averted. And yet—and yet—there was this new mystery, and he was so terribly tired—
“My lord,” said Carabella, “come with me.”
“Yes,” he said hollowly. “Yes, I’ll rest a little while.” He smiled faintly. “See me to the couch in the robing-room, will you, my love? I think I will rest, an hour or so. When was it that I last slept—do you recall?”
Carabella slipped her arm through his. “It seems like days, doesn’t it?”
“Weeks. Months. Just an hour—don’t let me sleep more than that—”
“Of course, my lord.”
He sank to the couch like one who had been drugged, Carabella drew a coverlet over him and darkened the room, and he curled up, letting his weary body go limp. But through his mind darted luminous images: Dominin Barjazid clinging to that old man’s knees, and the King of Dreams angrily trying to shake him off, all the while waving that strange machine about, and then the shifting of shapes, the eerie Piurivar face glaring at him—Dominin Barjazid’s terrifying cry—the Metamorph rushing toward the open window—again and again, again and again, scenes beyond comprehension acting themselves out in Valentine’s tormented mind—
And sleep came over him gently, slipping up on him as he lay wrestling with the demons of the judgment-hall.
He slept the hour he had asked, and something more than that, for when he woke it was because the bright golden light of morning was in his eyes. He sat up, blinking and stretching. His body ached. A dream, he thought, a wild and bewildering dream of—no, no dream. No dream.
“My lord, are you rested?”
Carabella, Sleet, Deliamber. Watching him. Standing guard over his slumber.
Valentine smiled. “I’m rested, yes. And the night is gone. What has been happening?”
“Little enough,” said Carabella, “except that the air grows warm again, and the Castle rejoices, and word is spreading down the Mount of the change that has come upon the world.”
“The Metamorph who sprang from the window—was it killed?”
“Indeed, my lord,” said Sleet.
“It wore the robes and regalia of the King of Dreams, and carried one of his devices. How was that, do you think?”
Deliamber said, “I can make guesses, my lord. I have spoken with Dominin Barjazid—he is the next thing to a madman now, and will be a long time healing, if ever—and he told me certain things. Last year, my lord, his father the King of Dreams fell gravely ill and was thought close to death. This was while you still held the throne.”
“I recall nothing of that.”
“No,” said the Vroon, “they made no advertisement of it. But it looked perilous, and then a new physician came to Suvrael, someone of Zimroel who claimed great skills, and indeed the King of Dreams made a miraculous recovery, like one who had risen from the dead. It was then, my lord, that the King of Dreams placed into his son’s mind the notion of trapping you in Til-omon, and displacing you from the throne.”
Valentine gasped. “The physician—a Metamorph?”
“Indeed,” said Deliamber. “Masquerading, by his art, as a man of your race. And masquerading afterward as Simonan Barjazid, I think, until undone by the frenzy and confusion of that struggle in the judgment-hall, which caused the metamorphosis to waver and fail.”
“And Dominin? Is he also—”
“No, my lord, he is the true Dominin, and the sight of the thing that pretended to be his father has wrecked his mind. But do you see, it was the Metamorph that put him up to the usurpation, and one might suppose another Metamorph would have replaced Dominin, by and by, as Coronal.”
“And Metamorphs guarding the weather-machines—obeying not Dominin’s orders, but the false King’s! A secret revolution, is it, Deliamber? Not at all a seizure of power by the Barjazid family, but the beginning of a rebellion by the Shapeshifters?”
“So I fear, my lord.”
Valentine stared into emptiness. “Much is explained now. And much more is cast into disorder.”
Sleet said, “My lord, we must search them out and destroy them wherever they hide among us, and bottle the rest up in Piurifayne where they can do us no harm!”
“Easy, friend,” Valentine said. “Your hatred of Metamorphs still lives, eh?”
“And with reason!”
“Yes, perhaps so. Well, we will search them out, and have no secret Metamorphs pretending to be Pontifex or Lady or even the keeper of the stables. But I think also we must reach toward those people, and heal them of their anger if we can, or Majipoor will be thrown into endless war.” He rose and fastened his cloak and held his arms high. “Friends, we have work to do, I fear, and no small measure of it. But first comes celebration! Sleet, I name you the chancellor of my restoration festivities, to plan the banquet and arrange the entertainments and summon the guests. Let the word go forth to Majipoor that all is well, or nearly so, and Valentine’s on his throne again!”
17
The Confalume throne-room was the largest and grandest of the rooms of the Castle, with glittering gilded beams and fine tapestries and a floor of smooth gurna-wood from the Khyntor peaks, a hall of splendor and majesty in which the most significant of imperial ceremonies took place. But rarely had the Confalume throne-room beheld a spectacle such as this.
For high on the great many-stepped Confalume Throne sat Lord Valentine the Coronal, and on a throne to his left, nearly as lofty, sat the Lady his mother, resplendent in a gown all of white, and to his right, on a throne of the same height as the Lady’s, was Hornkast, the high spokesman of the Pontifex, for Tyeveras had sent his regrets and Hornkast in his place. And arrayed before them, virtually filling the room, were the dukes and princes and knights of the realm, such an assembly as had not been seen in one place since the days of Lord Confalume himself—overlords out of far Zimroel, from Pidruid and Til-omon and Narabal, and the Ghayrog duke from Dulorn, and the great ones of Piliplok and Ni-moya and fifty other cities of Zimroel, and a hundred more of Alhanroel, beyond the fifty of Castle Mount. But not all this throng were dukes and princes, for there were humbler people also, Gorzval the stump-armed Skandar and Cordeine who had been his sailmender and Pandelon his carpenter, and Vinorkis the Hjort dealer in haigus hides, and the boy Hissune of the Labyrinth, and Tisana the old dream-speaker of Falkynkip, and many more of no rank higher than that, standing among these grandees with faces shining in awe.
Lord Valentine rose and saluted his mother, and rendered a salute to Hornkast, and bowed as the cries went up, “Long live the Coronal!” And when silence fell he said quietly, “Today we hold grand festival to celebrate the restoration of the commonwealth and the making whole of the order of things. We have entertainment for you this day.”
He clapped his hands and there was music: horns, drums, pipes, a lively and lilting outburst of melody, a dozen players striding into the room, Shanamir leading them. And behind them came the jugglers, in costumes of surpassing beauty, costumes worthy of great princes: Carabella first, and little scar-faced white-haired Sleet just back of her, and then gruff shaggy Zalzan Kavol and the two brothers who remained to him. They carried juggling gear of many kinds, swords and knives and sickles, torches ready to be lit, eggs, plates, gaily painted clubs, and a host of other things. When they reached the center of the room they took up their positions facing one another along the points of an imaginary star, and stood straight-shouldered and poised.
“Wait,” said Lord Valentine. “There’s room for one more!”
Step by step down the Confalume Throne he came, until he was three ste
ps from the bottom. He grinned at the Lady, and winked at young Hissune, and gestured to Carabella, who flung a blade at him. He caught it neatly and she threw another, and a third, and he began to juggle them on the steps of the throne, as he had vowed to do so long ago on the Isle of Sleep.
It was the signal, and the juggling commenced, and the air glistened with the multitude of strange objects that seemed to fly of their own accord. Never had juggling of such quality been seen in the known universe; Lord Valentine was sure of that. He threw from the throne another few moments, and then he came down into the group, laughing, in high joy, interchanging sickles and torches with Sleet and the Skandars and Carabella. “As in the old days!” Zalzan Kavol called. “But you’re even better now, my lord!”
“The audience inspires me,” replied Lord Valentine.
“And can you juggle as a Skandar can?” said Zalzan Kavol. “Here, my lord! Catch! Catch! Catch! Catch!” Seemingly from out of the air Zalzan Kavol plucked eggs and plates and clubs, his four arms never ceasing to weave and seize, and each thing he caught he sent toward Lord Valentine, who tirelessly received and juggled and passed off to Sleet or Carabella, while the cheers of the audience—no mere flattery, that was certain—resounded in his ears. Yes! This was the life! As in the old days, yes, but even better now! He laughed and caught a shimmering sword and sent it high. Elidath had thought it might be unseemly for a Coronal to do such a thing as juggle before the princes of the realm, and Tunigorn had felt the same, but Lord Valentine had overruled them, telling them with kindness and love that he cared not at all for protocol. And now he saw them watching openmouthed from their places of honor, stupefied by the skill of this amazing exhibition.
And yet he knew his time had come to quit the juggling-floor. One by one he emptied his hands of the objects he had caught, and gradually he retreated. When he had reached the first step of the throne he halted and beckoned to Carabella.
“Come,” he said. “Join me up here, and now we become spectators.”
Her cheeks deepened in color, but without faltering she rid herself of the clubs and knives and eggs, and moved toward the throne. Lord Valentine took her by the hand and together they ascended.
“My lord—” she whispered.
“Shhh. This is very serious business. Careful you don’t trip on the steps.”
“I, trip? I, a juggler?”
“Pardon me, Carabella.”
She laughed. “I pardon you, Valentine.”
“Lord Valentine.”
“Is that how it is to be, my lord?”
“Not really,” he said. “Not between the two of us.” They reached the highest step. The double seat, gleaming in green and gold velvet, awaited them. Lord Valentine stood a moment, looking out at the throng, at the dukes and princes and the common folk. “Where’s Deliamber?” he whispered. “I don’t see him!”
“He had no taste for this event,” said Carabella, “and has gone off to Zimroel, I think, on holiday. Wizards are bored by such festivities. And the Vroon was never fond of juggling, you know.”
“He should be here,” Lord Valentine murmured.
“When you need him again, he’ll return.”
“I hope so. Come: let’s sit now.”
They took their places on the throne. Below, the remaining jugglers were engaged in their most dazzling routines, which seemed miraculous even to Lord Valentine, who knew the secrets of timing that underlay them; and as he watched, he felt a strange sadness come over him, for he had withdrawn himself from the company of the jugglers now, he had drawn apart to mount the throne, and that was a grave and solemn alteration of his life. He knew beyond doubt that his time as a wandering juggler, the freest and in some ways the most joyful time of his life, was ended now, and the responsibilities of power, which he had not sought but which he had not been able to refuse, were descending on him in their full weight once again. He could not deny the sorrow of that. To Carabella he said, “Perhaps privately—when the court is looking the other way—we can all get together now and then, and throw the clubs, eh, Carabella?”
“I think so, my lord. I would like that.”
“And we can pretend—that we’re somewhere between Falkynkip and Dulorn, wondering if the Perpetual Circus will hire us, wondering if we can find an inn, if—if—”
“My lord, look at what the Skandars are doing! Can you believe the skill of it! So many arms, and every one busy!”
Lord Valentine smiled. “I must ask Zalzan Kavol to tell me how that one is done,” he said. “Someday soon. When I have time.”
Robert Silverberg has won five Nebula Awards, four Hugo Awards, and the prestigious Prix Apollo. He is the author of more than one hundred science fiction and fantasy novels—including the bestselling Majipoor Cycle and the classics Dying Inside and A Time of Changes—and more than sixty nonfiction works. Mr. Silverberg’s Majipoor Cycle, set on perhaps the grandest and greatest world ever imagined, is considered one of the jewels in the crown of speculative fiction.
Robert Silverberg, Lord Valentine's Castle: Book One of the Majipoor Cycle
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