The King of Dreams

  “I should take this opportunity to tell you,” said Dekkeret, “that once I am on the throne I plan to ask your brother Teotas to be my High Counsellor.”

  “You say it as if you’re asking my permission. The Coronal chooses whomever he wishes for that post, Dekkeret.” There was a certain brusqueness in Prestimion’s tone.

  “You know him better than anyone in the world. If you think there’s some flaw in him that I’ve overlooked—”

  “He has a very short temper,” Prestimion said. “But that’s not a flaw anyone who spends five minutes in his company could possibly overlook. Other than that, he’s perfect. A wise choice, Dekkeret. I approve. He’ll serve you well. That is what you wanted me to say, isn’t it?” It was clear from his impatience with this discussion that Prestimion had other things on his mind. Or perhaps merely wanted to conceal the pleasure he felt at having so great an honor descend on his brother.—“Look here, now. There’s something else in here for you to see.”

  Dekkeret followed Prestimion through the shadows to an alcove on the left, in which he perceived a sort of altar covered with white damask, and then, as he went closer, a figure lying atop it, facing upward, hands clasped across his breast.

  “Confalume,” said Prestimion in the lowest of tones. “Lying in the place where I’ll lie myself, twenty or forty years from now, and you yourself will be, twenty or forty years after that. They’ve embalmed him to last a hundred centuries or more. There’s a secret vault in the Labyrinth where the last fifty Pontifexes are buried—did you know that, Dekkeret? No. Neither did I. A long, long line of imperial tombs, each with its own little marker. Tomorrow we put Confalume in his.”

  Prestimion knelt and pressed his forehead reverently against the side of the altar. Dekkeret, after a moment, did the same.

  “I met him once when I was a boy: did I ever tell you that?” Dekkeret said, when they had risen. “I was nine. It was in Bombifale. We were there because my father was showing samples of his goods—agricultural machinery, I think, is what he was dealing in then—to the manager of Admiral Gonivaul’s estate, and Lord Confalume was Gonivaul’s guest at the same time. I saw them go out riding together in Gonivaul’s big floater. They went right past me in the road, and I waved, and Confalume smiled and waved back. Just the sight of him made me tremble. He seemed so strong, Prestimion, so radiant—practically godlike. That smile of his: the warmth, the power of it. It’s a moment I’ll never forget. And then, that afternoon, I went with my father to Bombifale Palace, and the Coronal was holding court, and once again he smiled at me—”

  He broke off his story and looked toward the still, shrouded figure lying there atop the altar. It was not easy to accept the fact that a monarch of so much force and grandeur could have vanished from the world between one moment and the next, leaving only this husk behind.

  Prestimion said, “He may have been the greatest of them all. Flawed, yes. His vanity, his love of luxury, his weakness for wizards and soothsayers. But what trifling faults those were, and how wonderful his accomplishments! Guiding the world for sixty years—the heroic power of him—as you say, almost godlike. History will be very kind to him. Let’s hope we’re remembered half as warmly as he will be, Dekkeret.”

  “Yes. I pray that we are.”

  Prestimion began to move toward the exit of the great hall. But as he reached the door he halted and once more indicated the two thrones, the entire length of the room away, with a quick taut nod, and then looked back at the alcove where the dead Pontifex lay. “The single worst moment of his reign took place over there, right in front of those thrones, when Korsibar grabbed the starburst crown.” Dekkeret followed Prestimion’s pointing arm. “I was looking straight at Confalume, just then. He seemed numb. Staggered by it—broken, shattered. They had to take him by the elbows and lead him up the steps and seat him on the Pontifical throne, with his son sitting up there beside him. There. Those very thrones.”

  All so long ago, Dekkeret thought. Ancient history, buried and forgotten by all the world. Except Prestimion, it seemed.

  Who was caught up now in the grip of his own tale. “I had an audience with Confalume a day or two later, and he still appeared to be dazed by the thing that Korsibar had done. He seemed old—weak—beaten. I was furious at having been done out of the throne, and that he had acquiesced in the theft; yet, seeing him in that state, I could only feel compassion for him. I asked him to call out the troops against the usurper, and I thought he was going to weep, because I was asking him to launch a war against his own son. He would not do it, of course. He told me that he agreed that I was the one who should have been Coronal, but that now he had no other path but to accept Korsibar’s coup. He begged me for mercy! Mercy, Dekkeret! And out of pity for him I went away without pressing him further.” There was a sudden startling look of torment in Prestimion’s eyes. “To see that great man in ruins, like that, Dekkeret—that this was mighty Confalume with whom I was speaking, now only the pathetic shadow of a king—”

  So he will not let go of it, Dekkeret thought: the usurpation and all its consequences still resonated in Prestimion’s spirit down to this very moment.

  “What an awful thing that must have been to witness,” he said, since he felt he must say something, as they emerged into the vestibule.

  “It was an agony for me. And for Confalume also, I would think.—Well, eventually my sorcerers carved all memory of Korsibar’s little bit of mischief from his mind, and from everyone else’s as well, and he returned to being his old self and lived on happily for many years thereafter. But I still carry the memory of it in my soul. If only I could have forgotten it too!”

  “There are certain painful memories that don’t want to fade, is what you told me only a minute ago.”

  “True enough.”

  Dekkeret realized in dismay that a painful memory of his own had unexpectedly begun to stir in him. He tried to push it back down into the place from which it had come. But it would not be pushed.

  Prestimion, seeming more cheerful now, opened another door. A giant Skandar guard stood just within. Prestimion waved him aside. “Beyond here,” he said, in an easier tone, “the private dwelling of the Pontifex begins. It goes on and on: dozens of rooms, three score of them, at least. I still haven’t been all the way through the whole place. Confalume’s collections are here, do you see?—all his toys of magic, his paintings and statues, the prehistoric artifacts, the ancient coins, the stuffed birds and mounted bugs. The man scooped up every manner of thing with both hands throughout his life, and here it all is. He’s left everything to the nation. We’ll give him an entire wing in the new Archive building at the Castle. Look—here, do you see this, Dekkeret—?”

  Dekkeret, who was barely paying attention, said, “I also have an unpleasant memory that refuses to fade.”

  “And what is that?” Prestimion asked. He seemed disconcerted by the interruption.

  “You were there when it happened. That day in Normork when the madman tried to assassinate you, and my cousin Sithelle was killed instead—?”

  “Ah. Yes,” said Prestimion, sounding a little vague, as though he had not given the incident a moment’s thought in twenty years. “That lovely girl. Yes. Of course.”

  It all came rushing back yet again. “I carried her through the streets, bleeding all over me, dead in my arms. The worst moment of my life, bar none. The blood. That pale face, those staring eyes. And later in the day they brought me before you, because I had saved your life, and you rewarded me with a knight-initiate’s post, and everything began for me in that moment. I was just eighteen. But I’ve never fully been able to break free of the pain of Sithelle’s death. Not really. It was only after she was dead that I realized how much I loved her.” Dekkeret hesitated. He was not sure, even after having gone this far, that he wanted to share this with Prestimion, for all that the older man had been his guide and mentor these nearly twenty years. But then the words came surging forth as if by their own volition: “Do
you know, Prestimion, I think that it’s on account of Sithelle that I took up with Fulkari? I think I was drawn to her at the outset, and am held by her still, because when I look at her I see Sithelle.”

  Prestimion still did not appear to comprehend the depth of his feelings. To him this was just so much conversation. “You think so, do you? How interesting, that the resemblance should be so strong.” He did not sound interested in the slightest. “But of course I’m in no position to know. I saw your cousin only that once, and for just an instant. It was a long time ago—everything was happening so quickly—”

  “Yes. How could you possibly remember? But if there were some way of standing them next to each other, I know you’d think that they must be sisters. To me, Fulkari looks more like Sithelle than she does her own actual sister. And so—the root of my obsession with her—”

  “Obsession?” Prestimion blinked in surprise. “Wait, there! I thought you were in love with her, Dekkeret. Obsession is something else again, something not quite as pretty and pure. Or are you telling me that you think the two terms are synonymous?”

  “They can be, yes. Yes. And in this case I know that they are.” There was no turning back from this, now. “I swear it, Prestimion, the thing that drew me to Fulkari was her resemblance to Sithelle, and nothing else. I knew nothing about her. I had never spoken a word with her. But I saw her, and I thought, There she is, restored to me, and it was like a trap closing on me. A trap that I had set for myself.”

  “Then you don’t love her? You’ve simply been using her as a surrogate for someone you lost long ago?”

  Dekkeret shook his head. “I don’t want to think that’s true. I do love her, yes. But it’s very clear that she’s the wrong woman for me. Yet I stay with her even so, because being with her seems to call Sithelle back into life. Which is no reason at all. I’ve got to get free of this, Prestimion!”

  Prestimion seemed puzzled. “The wrong woman for you? Wrong in what way?”

  “She doesn’t want to be a Coronal’s consort. The whole idea of it terrifies her—the duties, the demands on my time and hers—”

  “She told you this?”

  “In just so many words. I asked her to marry me, and she said she would, but only if I didn’t let myself be made Coronal.”

  “This is astounding, Dekkeret. Not only do you love her for the wrong reasons, you say, but she’s not suited to be your queen in any case—and yet you refuse to break with her? You have to, man.”

  “I know. But I can’t find the strength.”

  “Because of your memories of your lost Sithelle.”

  “Yes.”

  “These confusions of yours add up to a very unhealthy business, Dekkeret. They are two different people, Sithelle and Fulkari.” Prestimion’s voice was stern, and as close to fatherly as Dekkeret had ever heard it sound. “Sithelle’s gone forever. There’s no way that Fulkari can be Sithelle for you. Put that out of your mind. And she’s not even a good choice for a wife on her own terms, it seems.”

  “What am I supposed to do, though?”

  “Part with her. A complete break.” Prestimion’s words fell upon him like boulders. “There are plenty of other women at this court who’ll be glad to keep company with you until you decide you want to marry. But this relationship is one that has to be severed. You should thank the Divine that Fulkari refused you. She’s obviously not right for you. And it makes no sense to marry a woman simply because she reminds you of someone else.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I do. I do. And yet—”

  “Yet you can’t free yourself of this obsession with her.”

  Dekkeret looked away. This was becoming shameful, now. He had diminished himself woefully in Prestimion’s eyes, he knew. In a small and very unkingly voice he said, “No. I can’t. And you can’t possibly comprehend it, can you, Prestimion?”

  “On the contrary. I think I can.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. All this while they had continued to walk between the rows of Confalume’s showcases of treasures, but neither of them was looking at anything.

  In a different, more intimate tone, Prestimion said, “I can understand how the line between love and obsession can become blurred. There was a woman in my life once also, whom I loved and who was taken from me by violence—Confalume’s daughter, she was, the twin sister of Korsibar—it’s a long story, a very long story—” Prestimion seemed to be having trouble finding the words. “She was killed in the last hour of the civil war, slain right on the battlefield by Korsibar’s treacherous magus. I mourned her for years, and then, more or less, I put her behind me. Or thought I did. In time I found Varaile, who is right for me in every respect, and all was well. Except that Thismet—that was her name, Thismet—haunts me still. Hardly a month goes by when I don’t dream of her. And wake up in a cold sweat, bellowing in pain. I have never told Varaile why that is. No one has any knowledge of this. No one except you, now.”

  Dekkeret had not expected any such confession. It was an astonishing thing. “We all have our ghosts, I see. Who will not quit their hold on our souls, no matter how many years may go by.”

  “Yes. I thank you for sharing these private things with me, Dekkeret.”

  “You don’t think the less of me for all that I’ve said?”

  “Why would I? You’re human, aren’t you? We don’t expect our Coronals to be perfect in every regard. We’d put marble statues on the throne instead, if we did. And this suffering of yours can be healed, perhaps. I could have Maundigand-Klimd try to cleanse your mind of all memory of your dead cousin.”

  “The same way he’s cleansed yours of Thismet?” responded Dekkeret sharply, without a moment’s pause.

  Prestimion gave him a startled look. Dekkeret realized that in the depths of his shame he had suddenly felt impelled to strike back at the very man who was striving to ease his pain, and his hasty words had been hurtful ones.

  “Forgive me. It was a wicked thing to say.”

  “No, Dekkeret. It was a truthful thing to say. You were well within your rights to say it.” Prestimion made as if to slip his arm around Dekkeret’s shoulders, but the younger man was too tall for that. He took Dekkeret lightly by the wrist instead. “This has been a valuable conversation: one of the most important you and I have ever had. I know you much better now than ever I did before, in all these years.”

  “And do you think that a man who carries a burden of this sort is worthy of being Coronal?”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, I think.”

  “Thank you, Prestimion.”

  “And my remark a moment ago, about Maundigand-Klimd—obviously it upset you. I’m sorry for that. As you say, we all have our ghosts. And perhaps it is true that we’re condemned to carry them around with us to the end of our days. But I meant only that your memories of your dead cousin seem to be causing you great pain, and you have a world to govern, and a consort to choose, and much else facing you now, for which you’ll need the full powers of your spirit, without distraction. I think that perhaps Maundigand-Klimd could heal you of your loss. But you may very well not want to surrender your memories of Sithelle despite all the pain they cause you—just as I, I suppose, want to cling to what remains to me of Thismet. So let’s say no more of this, eh? I’m confident that you’ll heal yourself in your own way. And will deal properly with this matter of Fulkari, too.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You will. You’re a king now. Indecision is a luxury allowed only to the common folk.”

  “I was one of those, once,” said Dekkeret. “It’s not something one ever fully escapes.” Then he smiled. “But you’re right: now I must learn to be a king. That’s a subject I fear I’ll spend the rest of my life studying.”

  “So you will, and you’ll never feel you’ve mastered it all. Don’t let that worry you. I felt the same way, and Confalume before me, and Prankipin, very likely, as well, and so on and so on back to Stiamot and the kings who c
ame before him. It’s a thing that goes with the job. We are all common folk, Dekkeret, under our crowns and robes. The test for us is how well we rise above that. But you’ll have me to call on, when doubts arise.”

  “I know that, Prestimion. I give thanks daily for that.”

  “And also I’ve arranged that you’ll have my chamberlain Zeldor Luudwid for your own, when you get back to the Castle. He knows more about how to behave like a Coronal than I do myself. If there’s a problem, simply ask him. He’s yours as my gift.”

  “Thank you—your majesty.”

  “Say nothing of it—my lord.”

  4

  “Even a self-maintaining garden needs a certain degree of maintenance,” Dumafice Moal told his visiting nephew, as they set out together into the uppermost terrace of the magnificent park that Lord Havilbove had laid out three thousand years before. “Hence my continuing employment, dear nephew. If the park were as really perfect as people commonly believed, I’d be selling sausages in the streets of Dundilmir this day.”

  The garden sprawled for forty miles along the lower slopes of Castle Mount. It began at Bibiroon Sweep, below the city of Bibiroon in the Free Cities ring, and angled down the Mount in a broad eastward-reaching curve toward the uppermost cities of the Slope Cities group, approaching at its downslope end the cities of Kazkas, Stipool, and Dundilmir. The site that the garden occupied was known as Tolingar Barrier, though nowadays it was a barrier no longer. Once it had been an almost impenetrable zone of black sharp-edged spiky hillocks, the outcropping remnants of a million-year-old flow of lava from some volcanic vein deep within the Mount. But the Coronal Lord Havilbove, who had devoted much of his reign to the construction of this garden, had had the lava hills of Tolingar Barrier ground down to fine black sand, which proved a fertile soil for the great garden that would be planted there.

  Lord Havilbove, a native of the lowland city of Palaghat in the Glayge Valley, was a fastidious and orderly man who loved plants of all kinds but disliked the ease with which even the finest of gardens quickly became unruly and departed from its plan if not given constant finicky care. Therefore, while his platoons of brawny laborers were toiling to pulverize the lava beds of Tolingar Barrier, craftsmen in the workshops of the Castle were striving, through experiments in controlled breeding, to create plants and shrubs and trees that needed no touch of a gardener’s shears to maintain their graceful forms.