“No,” Dekkeret said, catching hold of Septach Melayn’s wrist and putting his face very near to the older man’s. He was one of a very few Castle princes who came close to matching Septach Melayn in height. “No,” he said again, in a low, dark tone. “You are altogether mistaken in that, Septach Melayn. If the Divine means me to be Coronal someday, well, I’ll be ready for the task, whenever it comes to me. But I am in no way eager for it to come before its time. Anyone who thinks otherwise is in great error.”
Septach Melayn smiled. “Easy, Dekkeret! I meant no offense. None whatever. Come: I’ll see you to your rooms, so you can refresh yourself after your journey. The Council will be in session later this afternoon in the Stiamot throne-room. You should attend, if you will.”
“I’ll be there,” said Dekkeret.
But it was a pointless, useless meeting. What was there to say? The highest levels of the government were in a kind of paralysis. The Pontifex had suffered a stroke, perhaps was on the verge of dying, might even already have died. The Coronal had gone off to the Labyrinth, as was appropriate, to attend the bedside of the senior monarch. In both capitals the ordinary functions of the bureaucracy continued as usual, but the ministers who directed those functions found themselves caught in stasis, not knowing from one day to the next how long it would be before they would have to leave office.
Without any real information to work with, the members of the Council could only offer up high-minded statements of hope that the Pontifex would recover his faculties and continue his long and glorious reign. But the uncertainty left its mark on every face. When Confalume died, some of these men would be asked to join the administration of the new Pontifex at the Labyrinth, and others, passed over by the incoming Coronal, would be forced into retirement after many years close to the mainsprings of power. Either alternative carried with it its own problems; and no one could be certain of what would be offered him.
All eyes were on Dekkeret. But Dekkeret had his own destinies to consider. He said little during the meeting. It behooved him to remain quiet during this ambiguous period. A Coronal-designate is a very different thing from a Coronal.
When it was over, he retreated to his private apartments. He had a pleasant suite, by no means the grandest of its kind; but it had been good enough for Prestimion when he was the Coronal-designate, and Dekkeret found it more than satisfactory. The rooms were large and well arranged, and the view, through great curving multi-faceted windows, the work of cunning craftsmen from Stee, was a spectacular one into the abyss called the Morpin Plunge that bordered this wing of the Castle.
He met briefly with his personal staff: Dalip Amrit, the tactful one-time schoolmaster from Normork who was his private secretary, and bustling, hyperefficient Singobinda Mukund, the master of the household, a ruddy-faced Ni-moyan, and Countess Auranga of Bibiroon, who served as his official hostess in the absence of any consort. They brought him up to date on the events of his absence from the Castle. Then he sent them away, and slipped gratefully into the great bathing-tub of black Khyntor marble for a long quiet soak before dinner.
It was his thought to eat alone and get to sleep early. But he had scarcely donned his dressing gown after his bath when Dalip Amrit came to him with word that the Lady Varaile requested his presence at dinner that evening in the royal residence at Lord Thraym’s Tower, if he had no other plans.
One did not treat invitations from the Coronal’s consort casually. Dekkeret changed into formal costume, a long-waisted golden doublet and close-fitting violet hose trimmed with velvet stripes, and arrived punctually at the royal dining-hall.
He was, it seemed, the only guest. That surprised him just a little; he would have expected Septach Melayn, perhaps, or Prince Teotas and the Lady Fiorinda, or some other members of the inner court. But Varaile alone awaited him, so simply dressed in a long green tunic and a wide-sleeved yellow overblouse that he felt abashed by his own formality.
She presented her cheek for a kiss. They had always been close friends, he and the Lady Varaile. She was no more than a year or two older than he was, and, like him, had been snatched up suddenly out of a commoner’s life to make her home among the lords and ladies of the Castle. But she had been born to wealth and privilege, the daughter of the infinitely rich merchant banker Simbilon Khayf of the great city of Stee, whereas he was only the son of a hapless itinerant salesman; and so Dekkeret had always looked up to Varaile as someone who moved easily and comfortably among the aristocracy of the Mount, while he had had to master the knack of it slowly and with great difficulty, as one might learn some advanced kind of mathematics.
Over bowls of golden-brown Sippulgar dates and warm milk laced with the red brandy of Narabal she asked him pleasantly about his visit to Normork. She spoke fondly of his mother, whom she liked greatly; and she told him a few quick bits of Castle gossip that had reached her ears while he was away, lively if insignificant tales of tangled intrigues involving certain men and women of the court old enough to have known better. It was as if nothing in any way unusual had taken place in the world lately.
Then she said, as a course of pale-fleshed quaalfish simmered in sweet wine was set before them, “You know, of course, that Prestimion has gone to the Labyrinth?”
“Septach Melayn told me this afternoon. Will the Coronal be gone long?”
“As long as is necessary, I would think.” Varaile turned her huge, dark, glowing eyes on him with sudden unexpected intensity. “This time he’ll return to the Castle when he’s done. But the next time he goes there—”
“Yes. I know, lady.”
“You have no reason to look so stricken. For you it will mean the call to greatness, Dekkeret. But for me—for Lord Prestimion—for our children—”
She stared at him reproachfully. That struck him as unwarranted: did she think him so insensitive that he would not understand her predicament? But for love of her he kept his voice gentle. “Yet in truth, Varaile, the death of the Pontifex means the same thing for us all: change. Huge and incomprehensible change. You and yours go to the Labyrinth; I don a crown and take my seat on the Confalume Throne. Do you think I’m any less apprehensive than you are about what is to come?”
She softened a little. “We should not quarrel, Dekkeret.”
“Are we quarreling, lady?”
She left the question unanswered. “The strain of these anxieties has made us both edgy. I wanted only a friendly visit. We are friends, are we not?”
“You know that we are.”
He reached for the wine-flask to refresh their glasses. She reached for it at the same moment; their hands collided, the flask toppled. Dekkeret caught it just before it overturned. They both laughed at the clumsiness that this present unrest was creating in them, and their laughter broke, for the moment, the tensions that had sprung up between them.
She was right, Dekkeret knew. She was facing the tremendous sacrifice of giving up her familiar and beautiful surroundings in order to live in a distant and disagreeable place. He, though, would move on to the post that would bring him fame and glory, the one for which he had been preparing himself for ten years or more. What comparison was there, really, in their situations? He told himself to be more gentle with her.
“We should talk of other things,” she said. “Have you spoken with the Lady Fulkari since your return to the Castle?”
Dekkeret found it an unfortunate change of subject. Tautly he said, “Not yet. Is there some special reason why I should?”
Varaile seemed flustered. “Why, only that—she is very eager to see you. And I thought that you—having been gone more than a week—”
“Would be just as eager to see her,” Dekkeret finished, when it became apparent that Varaile either could not or would not. “Well, yes, I am. Of course I am. But not the first thing. I need a little time to collect myself. If you hadn’t summoned me tonight, I’d have spent the evening in solitude, resting from my trip, pondering the future, contemplating the responsibilities to come.”
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“I beg your pardon for calling you away from your contemplations, then,” she said, and there was no mistaking the acidity in her tone. “I was very specific in saying that you were to come to me only if you had no other plans for tonight. I thought perhaps that you might prefer to be with Fulkari. But even an evening of quiet solitary meditation is a plan, Dekkeret. You certainly could have refused.”
“I certainly could not,” he said. “Not an invitation from you. And so here I am. Fulkari didn’t send for me, and you did. Not that I understand why, Varaile. For what purpose, exactly, did you ask me here this evening? Simply to lament the possibility that you’ll have to go to the Labyrinth?”
“I think that we’re quarreling again,” said Varaile lightly.
He would have taken her hand in his, if he dared such familiarities with the Coronal’s wife. Taking care to keep his tone temperate and mild, he said, “This is a difficult time for us both, and the stress is taking its toll. Let me ask you a second time: why am I here? Was it only because you wanted someone’s company tonight? You could have invited Teotas and Fiorinda, then, or Gialaurys, or Maundigand-Klimd, even. But you sent for me, even though you thought I might be spending the evening with Fulkari.”
She said, “I asked for you because I think of you as a friend, someone who understands the emotions I feel as the possibility of a change in the government begins to unfold, someone who—as you yourself pointed out—may be experiencing similar feelings himself. But also it was a way of finding out whether you were going to be with Fulkari tonight.”
“Ah. How devious, Varaile.”
“Do you think so? In that case, I suppose it was.”
“Why is that something you would want to know?”
“There are tales around the Castle that you have lost interest in her.”
“Untrue.”
“Well, then, do you love her, Dekkeret?”
He felt heat surging to his cheeks. This was unfair. “You know that I do.”
“And yet, your first night back, you preferred your own company to hers.”
Dekkeret toyed with his napkin, twisting it in his hands, crumpling it. “I told you, Varaile: I wanted to be alone. To think about—what is coming for us all. If Fulkari had wanted to see me, she would only have had to say so, and I would have gone to her, just as I’ve come to you. But no message came from her, only from you.”
“Perhaps she was waiting first to see what you would do.”
“And now she’ll think I’m your lover, is that it?”
Varaile smiled. “I doubt that very much. What she will think, though, is that she can’t be very important to you. Why else would you be avoiding her like this, on your first night back? That’s a mark of indifference, not of passion.”
“You heard me say that I love her. She knows that too.”
“Does she?”
Dekkeret’s eyebrows rose. “Have I left her in doubt of that, do you think?”
“Have you spoken with her of marriage, Dekkeret?”
“Not yet, no. Ah—now I see the true purpose of your calling me here!” Dekkeret glanced away. “She asked you to do this, eh?” he said coldly.
Anger flared a moment in Varaile’s eyes. “You come very close to the edge with a question like that. But no, no, Dekkeret: this is none of her doing. I am entirely to blame. Will you believe that?”
“I would never challenge your word, milady.”
“All right, then, Dekkeret: here is the crux. You will soon become Coronal: that is clear. The custom among us is for the Coronal to have a wife. The king’s consort has important functions of her own at the Castle, and if there is no consort who is to perform those functions?”
So that was it! Dekkeret did not reply. He cupped his wine bowl and held it without putting it to his lips, and waited for her to continue.
“You’re no longer a boy, Dekkeret. Unless I’ve lost count, and I doubt that I have, you’ll be forty soon. You’ve kept company with the Lady Fulkari for—what is it, three years now?—and not said a word to anyone about marriage. Including, apparently, to her. It’s a subject that ought to be on your mind now.”
“It is. Believe me, Varaile, it is.”
“And will Fulkari be your choice, do you think?”
“You press me too hard here, lady. I ask you to give over this inquisition. You are my queen, and also one of my dearest friends, but these are matters I propose to keep to myself, if I may.” Pushing back his chair, he looked at her in a way that set up a wall of silence between them.
Now it was her hand that reached out for his. Affectionately she said, “It was never my intention to cause you any discomfort, Dekkeret. I only wanted to speak my mind about something that causes me great concern.”
“I tell you once again: I do love Fulkari. I don’t know whether I want to marry her, nor am I sure if she wants me. There are problems between Fulkari and me, Varaile, that I will not discuss even with you. Especially with you.—May we once again change the subject, now? What can we talk about? Your children, shall it be? Prince Akbalik: he’s been writing an epic poem, isn’t that so? And the Princess Tuanelys—is it true that Septach Melayn has promised to begin training her in swordsmanship when she’s a year or two older—?”
When he awoke in the morning he found that a note had been slipped under his bedroom door during the night:
Can we go riding tomorrow? Into the southern meadows, perhaps?
—F.
His household people told him that some Vroon had brought it in the small hours. Dekkeret knew who that had to be: little Gurjara Yaso, Fulkari’s own magus, an inveterate caster of spells and brewer of potions who was her usual go-between in such matters. Dekkeret suspected the Vroon of having used sorcery even on him from time to time in an attempt to keep Fulkari in the prime place in his heart.
Not that any sorcery was needed: she was constantly in his thoughts. He was not in any way indifferent to Fulkari; and all through his sojourn in Normork he had needed only to let his mind drift briefly away from whatever was happening at the moment and there she was, burning like a beacon in his brain, smiling, beckoning to him, drawing him to her—
Certainly, after a week’s separation, the urge to rush to her side upon his return had been a powerful one. But Dekkeret had felt it was important to put some distance between himself and her for the moment, if only to give himself time to begin to comprehend what it was he really wanted from her, and she from him. That resolution shattered in an instant now. He felt a torrent of relief and delight and keen anticipation go through him as he read her note.
“Do I have any official functions this morning?” he asked Singobinda Mukund at breakfast.
“None, sir,” replied the master of the household.
“And no news has come from the Labyrinth, I take it?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Singobinda Mukund. He gave Dekkeret a horrified look, as though to indicate how astounded he was that Dekkeret should feel there was any need to ask.
“Send word to the Lady Fulkari, then, that I’ll meet her in two hours at the Dizimaule Arch.”
Fulkari was waiting for him when he arrived, a lovely, willowy sight in a riding habit of soft green leather that clung to her like a second skin. Dekkeret saw that she had already ordered up two high-spirited sporting-mounts from the Castle stables. That was Fulkari’s way: she seized the moment, she moved swiftly to do what needed to be done. Her waiting, last night, to see if he would make the first move had not been at all typical of her. And indeed when he had not done so she had made the move herself, by having that note slipped beneath the door.
They had been lovers almost three years now, almost since the first day of Fulkari’s residence at the Castle. She was a member of one of the old Pontifical families, a descendant of Makhario of Sipermit, who had ruled five hundred years before. The Castle was full of such nobility, hundreds, even thousands who carried the blood of bygone monarchs.
Though the monarchy could never b
e hereditary, the offspring of Pontifexes and Coronals were ennobled forever, and had the right to occupy rooms at the Castle for as long as they pleased, whether or not they had any official function in the current government. Some chose to take up permanent residence there and became fixtures at the court. Most, though, preferred to spend much of the year on their family estates, elsewhere on the Mount, visiting the Castle only in the high season.
Sipermit, where Fulkari had grown up, was one of the nine High Cities of Castle Mount that occupied the urban band just downslope from the Castle itself. But she had not actually set foot in the Castle until she was twenty-one, when she and her younger brother Fulkarno were sent by their parents, as young aristocrats usually were, to dwell for some years at court.
Dekkeret had noticed Fulkari almost instantly. How could he not? She looked enough like his long-lost cousin Sithelle, who had fallen before the assassin’s blade that terrible day some twenty years before in Normork, to be Sithelle’s own ghost walking among them in the halls of the Castle.
She was lean and athletic, as Sithelle had been, a tall girl with arms and legs that were long in proportion to her trunk. Her hair was the same sort of fiery red-gold cascade, her eyes were a similar rich gray-violet, her lips were full, her chin a strong one, also like Sithelle’s. Her face was broader than he remembered Sithelle’s to have been, and there was a curious tiny cleft in Fulkari’s chin that Sithelle’s had not had; but in the main the resemblance was extraordinary.
Dekkeret halted in his tracks and gasped when he first saw her. “Who is that?” he asked, and on being told that she was the newly arrived niece of the Count of Sipermit, he quickly wangled for her an invitation to a court levee being held the following week by Varaile; and arranged to be there himself, and had her brought up to him for an introduction, and stared at her in such intense fascination that he must have seemed a little mad to her.