A god? A demon? An idol? Its brown, leathery skin is thick and glossy, and ridged like a reptile’s hide. Its massive body is low and long, blunt-snouted, goggle-eyed, with a high vaulting back, fat sides, bulging belly, pedestal-like underparts. Teotas has never seen a creature so huge. That mouth alone—
That mouth—
That gaping mouth—
Teotas is unable to halt himself. The mouth yawns like the entrance to the cavern of caverns, and he marches onward, no longer moving with difficulty: gliding, rather, speeding toward that mouth, rushing toward it—
Wider and wider. That great cavern fills the sky. A terrible bellowing comes from it, loud enough to shake the ground. Landslides begin; rocks fall in thundering avalanches; there is no place to take refuge except within the mouth itself, that waiting mouth, that eternally gaping mouth—
Teotas rushes forward into the blackness.
“It’s all right,” someone is saying. “A dream, only a dream! Teotas—please, Teotas—”
He was bathed in sweat, shivering, a huddled heap. Fiorinda cradled him in her arms, murmuring an unending flow of soothing words. Gradually he could feel himself coming back from the nightmare, though its residue, like an oily slick, still laps at the edges of his mind.
“Only a dream, Teotas! It wasn’t real!”
He nodded. What could he say, how to explain? “Yes. Only a dream.”
10
Prestimion said, “So now it’s finally over and done with, all the jolly festivals and amusements. Now the real work begins, eh, Dekkeret?”
It had taken him back to earlier days, these weeks of formal ceremonies that marked the end of the old reign and the beginning of the new. He had been through all this once before, only that time he was the one whose ascent to the throne was being celebrated. The influx of coronation gifts from all over the world—had he ever actually unpacked more than a fraction of those myriad boxes and crates?—the rite of the passing of the crown, the coronation banquet, the recitals from The Book of Changes, the chanting of The Book of Powers, the passing and repassing of the wine-bowls, the gathered lords of the realm rising to make the starburst salute and cry out the greeting to the new Coronal—
“Prestimion!” they had cried. “Lord Prestimion! Hail, Lord Prestimion! Long life to Lord Prestimion!” So long ago! It seemed to him now that his entire reign as Coronal had gone by in the twinkling of an eye, and now here he was mysteriously transformed into a man of middle years, no longer as buoyant and impulsive as he once had been, nor as good-humored, either—a little testy at times, indeed, he would admit—and now they had done it all once again, the immemorial rituals played out anew, but this time the name they called was that of Dekkeret, Dekkeret, Lord Dekkeret, while he himself looked on from one side, smiling, willingly surrendering his share of glory to the new monarch.
But some part of him would always be Coronal, he knew.
His boyish younger self stood before him in the mirror of his memory like some other person, that youthful, agile Prestimion of two decades ago: that endlessly resilient young man who had survived the humiliation of the Korsibar usurpation and the ghastly bloodlettings of the civil war, to make himself Coronal despite all. How he had fought for it! It had cost him a brother, and a lover, and much bodily suffering besides, nights camped on muddy shores, days spent trekking through the deadliest desert this side of Suvrael, mounts shot out from beneath him on the battlefield, wounds whose scars he still carried. Dekkeret was fortunate to have been spared any of that, let alone anything like a repetition of it. His rise to the throne had been orderly and normal. It was a much simpler way to become king.
Everything should have been simple for me, too, Prestimion thought. But that was not the fate that the Divine had in mind for me.
He stood with Dekkeret—Lord Dekkeret—in the Confalume throne-chamber, just the two of them, amid the echoes. As they looked far across the floor of brilliant yellow gurnawood to the throne itself, that massive block of ruby-streaked black opal rising on its stepped pedestal of dark mahogany, Dekkeret said, “You’ll miss it, I know. Go on, Prestimion: climb up there one last time, if you like. I’ll never tell.”
Prestimion smiled. “I never cared to sit on it when I was Coronal. It would feel even wronger for me to sit on it now.”
“But you took your place on that throne often enough when you were king, and you put a good face on it then.”
“It was my job to put a good face on it, Dekkeret. But now the job’s yours. I have no business up there, even for sentiment’s sake.”
He continued to ponder the great throne, though, for a time. He could not help, even now, but be amused by the pretentiousness of the astoundingly costly throne-room Confalume had so grandly thrust into the heart of the Castle, and the throne itself that was its jewel. But at the same time he honored it for the symbol of rightful power that it was, and for the way it summoned up in his mind the memory of Confalume himself, who in some senses had been more of a father to him than his own.
At length he said, “You know, Dekkeret, we have to take the old man’s gaudy throne very seriously while we’re seated upon it. We need to believe with every fiber of our souls in its majesty. Because what we really are are performers, you know, and there’s our stage. And for the little time we strut that stage, we need to believe that the play is real and important: for if we don’t seem to believe it, who else will want to?”
“Yes. Yes, I do comprehend that, Prestimion.”
“But now I have a different stage for myself, and no one will see me moving back and forth upon it.—Let’s get ourselves out of this place, shall we?” Prestimion gave the great throne a final, almost fond, glance.
They crossed from the throne-room into to the judgment-hall, a room of his own making. It was of no trifling degree of splendor itself. Would they think, someday, that the ancient Lord Prestimion had been a man as much given to ostentatiousness and grand display as his predecessor Lord Confalume? Well, let them think it, then. That was nothing for him to concern himself over. History would invent its own Prestimion, as it had invented its own Stiamot, its own Arioc, its own Guadeloom. It was a process with which no man could interfere. He was probably well on his way toward becoming mythical already.
Dekkeret said, “These rooms beyond here—I’m going to clear them away, and build a chapel for the Coronal, I think. I feel it’s needed here.”
“A good idea.”
“A chapel right here, you mean?”
“The general idea of building things. I like it that you already have that in mind. If you want a chapel here, build one. Put your mark on the Castle, Dekkeret. Take it in your hands. Shape it as you will. This place is the sum of all the kings who have lived in it. We’ll never be finished building it. So long as the world lasts, there’ll be new construction up here.”
“Yes. Majipoor expects it of us.”
It pleased Prestimion to be making this last tour of these sacred rooms with the sturdy, strong-willed man whom he had picked to succeed him. Dekkeret would be a splendid Coronal, of that he was sure. It was a necessary thing for him to know that he had bestowed such a successor upon the world. However great his own accomplishments had been, history would not forgive him if he provided Majipoor with a weakling or a fool as the next king.
Great Coronals had made such mistakes in the past. But Prestimion was confident that no one would ever lay that charge against him. Dekkeret would live up to all expectations. He would be a different sort of king from his predecessor, yes, earnest and straightforward where Prestimion had often relied on craftiness and manipulation. And Dekkeret cut a grand and heroic figure, who commanded respect merely by walking into a room, whereas Prestimion, built by the Divine on a much smaller scale, felt that he had had to achieve kingliness by sheer force of personality.
Well, these differences would make it easier for the people of future years to tell one of them from the other, anyway. “In the time of Prestimion and Dekkeret,” they
would say, hearkening back as if to a golden age, the way sometimes people spoke of the times of Thraym and Vildivar, or Signor and Melikand, or Agis and Klain. But those kings existed only as interchangeable paired names, not as individuals in their own right. Prestimion hoped for a kinder fate. So different was he from Dekkeret that those who lived in time to come would of necessity always see in the eyes of their minds the image of the quick, supple little Prestimion, the master archer, the great planner, and the broad-shouldered big-bodied form of Dekkeret beside him, and they would know, forever, which one was which. Or so Prestimion hoped.
“Shall we stroll out to the Morvendil Parapet?” he asked, gesturing toward the northwestern gate. “The view from there by night is one I’ve often enjoyed.”
“And will again, many times,” said Dekkeret. “You will come visiting often?”
“As often as is appropriate for a Pontifex to show his nose at the Castle, I suppose. But that’s not often at all, is it? And you won’t want me here, anyway. However you may feel right now, you’ll not want me snooping around the premises once you start believing that the place is really yours.”
Dekkeret chuckled, but made no other response.
They went quickly through the halls, out into the dusk. Distant guards saluted them. Others, shadowy figures who might have been princes of the realm, peered at them from afar also, but no one dared approach: who would interrupt the private conference of the Pontifex and the Coronal? A covered walkway that carried an inscription from Lord Dulcinon’s time took them into the Gaznivin Court, which had a balcony at its lower end that gave access to Lord Morvendil’s Parapet.
What sort of ruler Lord Morvendil had been, or even when he had lived, were matters of which Prestimion had no knowledge, but the parapet itself, a long and narrow breastwork of black Velathyntu stone, had long been one of Prestimion’s private places of refuge from the cares of the crown. Here the Mount tapered to a narrow point, falling away below the Castle wall in a steep declivity that gave a spectacular view of several of the High Cities and part of the band of Inner Cities just below. Darkness was coming on quickly down there, and islands of light were springing up against the giant mountain’s flank. It was always instructive to consider that this small spot of light off to the left was actually a city of six million people, and that dot there the home of seven million more. And that one down there, pressed up snugly against the side of the mountain and surrounded by a semicircle of inky blackness, was Prestimion’s own lovely Muldemar.
Memories stirred in him of his youth in that beautiful city, his happy family life, the warm and loving mother and the strong noble father, taken so early by death, who had seemed as kingly as any Coronal. What a warm community, what a satisfying existence! He had never known a moment of sadness or despair. If the Castle had not called to him, he would be Prince of Muldemar now, busy and content among the grapes and wine-cellars.
But it had seemed a natural and normal thing for him to move outward from the bosom of his family and the princely responsibilities of the city of his birth to the service of mankind. So the yearning had come over him to be Coronal, and thus to hold all of Majipoor in warm familial embrace, he the focus of everyone’s dreams, he the benign leader, he the father of the world.
Was that how he had seen it then, or was it simple power-hunger that had impelled him to the throne? He could not say. There had, of course, been some component of the desire for mastery in his rise through the Castle hierarchy. But that had been far from his dominant motive, he was certain—very far. Prestimion had learned that in the Korsibar war.
He had fought then for the throne, yes, fought desperately, but not so much because he simply wanted it, as Korsibar had, but because he was sure he deserved it, that he was needed for it, that he was the necessary and unique man of his era. No doubt many a dread tyrant and monstrous villain had felt the same way precisely about himself, in the long course of human history going back to the all but forgotten times of Old Earth. Well, so be it; Prestimion had faith in his own understanding of his own motives. And so, he knew, did all of Majipoor. He was beloved by all, and that was the confirmation of everything. He had served ably as Coronal; so would he serve now, now that he was Pontifex.
He looked toward Dekkeret, who was standing a little apart, plainly unwilling to intrude on his reflections. “Have you given thought yet to how you will begin?”
“New decrees and laws, you mean? Overturning ancient precedents, repealing existing protocols, standing the world on its head? I thought I might wait some little while before setting out on that course.”
Prestimion laughed. “A wise position, I think. The Coronal who governs wisest is the one who governs least. Lord Prankipin put the world back on its course by lessening the grip of government; Confalume followed that course, and so have I. The benefits can be seen on every side.—But no, no, I wasn’t speaking of legislative matters, only symbolic ones. Is it your intention to sequester yourself here at the Castle until you’ve fully settled into your tasks, or will you show yourself to the people?”
“If I hide here until I feel I’ve fully settled into my tasks, I may grow old and die before the world sees my face. But surely it’s too soon for a grand processional, Prestimion!”
“I would say that it is. Save the processional for the traditional fifth year, unless circumstances force it sooner. But once I became Coronal I lost little time in visiting the nearby cities, if nothing farther. Of course, I was ever a restless man: you are more content to see the same set of doors and windows several weeks running, I think. Still, there’s something to be said for a Coronal’s getting himself away from the Castle as often as is seemly. One gets a damned narrow view of the world from thirty miles up.”
“So I would think,” said Dekkeret. “Where did you go, in your first months?”
“In the very beginning, I simply slipped away with Septach Melayn and Gialaurys, saying nothing about it to anyone, going in the night to places like Banglecode or Greel or Bibiroon. We wore wigs and false whiskers, even, and kept our ears open, and learned much about the world that had been given us to govern. The Night Market of Bombifale—ah, now that was a time! We tasted foods no Coronal may ever have eaten before. We visited the dealers in sorcery-goods. It was there that I met Maundigand-Klimd, who had no difficulty seeing through my disguise.—Not that I recommend such subterfuges to you.”
“No. Such things as wigs and false whiskers are not my style, I suspect.”
“A little later I journeyed in a more formal way. I would take Teotas or Abrigant with me, Gialaurys, Navigorn, various members of my Council. And visit the cities of the Mount—Peritole, Strave, Minimool, down the Mount even to Gimkandale—never imposing myself on any one place for long, because of the expense it would involve for them, merely arriving and making a speech or two, listening to complaints, promising miracles, and moving along. It was in this phase of my reign that I came to Normork, you may recall.”
“How could I ever forget it?” said Dekkeret gravely.
“Finding Maundigand-Klimd on one trip, and you on another; and there was a third journey, a visit to Stee, where I met the Lady Varaile. Fortuitous meetings, all three, the merest of accidents, and yet how they transformed my reign, and my life! Whereas if you remain sequestered at the Castle—”
Dekkeret nodded. “Yes. I do take the point.”
“One more question, and then we should go in,” Prestimion said. “Maundigand-Klimd came to you, did he not, with his tale of perceiving a Barjazid as a Power of the Realm? What did you make of that story?”
“Why, very little, if anything.” Dekkeret indicated surprise that Prestimion would so much as mention anything so fantastic. “The three positions are filled, and let us hope no vacancies develop for many years to come.”
“You take his words very literally, I see.”
“The Su-Suheris made the very same comment. But how else am I to look upon words, other than as things with meanings? You seem to find i
t diverting to listen now and then to the murmurings of sorcerers, but to me they are all worthless idlers and parasites, even your cherished Maundigand-Klimd, and their prognostications are mere vapor to me. If a magus comes to me and says that in his dreams he has seen a Barjazid wearing the aura of a Power of the Realm, why should I search for hidden meanings and buried subtleties? I look first at the message itself. That particular message strikes me as foolishness. So I put it out of mind.”
“You do yourself an injustice by ignoring Maundigand-Klimd’s warning.”
A certain note of exasperation came into Dekkeret’s voice now. “We should not quarrel on this happy day, Prestimion. But—forgive me—what sense can there be in his prophecy? The Barjazids are all loathsome scoundrels, my friend Dinitak aside. The world would never embrace them as kings.”
“But Dinitak might, you think?”
“It would be very far-fetched. I grant you I could choose to name him as my successor, which would indeed make him a Power of the Realm, and if I did, I think he’d be a capable ruler, if perhaps somewhat stern. But I assure you most assuredly, Prestimion, that it’ll be many years before I begin fretting about finding a replacement for myself, and when I do I doubt very much that my choice would ever land on Dinitak. Two commoners in a row may be more than the system can stand. Dinitak has many virtues and is, I suppose, my closest friend, but he’s not, I think, generous enough of soul to be considered even in jest as a potential Coronal. He is a hard man, without much charity in him. Therefore—”