Page 35 of The King of Dreams


  But she became infuriated anyway. “The fool!” she cried. “The preposterous little prig! So holy that I can’t travel with him, is that it? Well, then. I’ll spare him the shame of it. I never want to see him again!”

  “You will,” Fulkari said.

  4

  This would be Prestimion’s fifth visit to the Isle of Sleep. That was unusual in itself, and more so because he was Pontifex now. But Prestimion had been an unusual monarch since the earliest days of his reign.

  A Coronal might visit the Isle once or twice during his reign, generally in the course of making a grand processional: the post of Lady of the Isle, after all, was normally held by the mother of the Coronal, and it was reasonable for the Coronal to want to visit his mother now and then.

  But for him to go to the Isle once he had become Pontifex was a very different matter. The Pontifex normally would have no official reason for going there. Pontifexes did relatively little traveling in general, and such as they did do was usually confined to the continent of Alhanroel.

  If the Pontifex’s prior reign as Coronal had been a lengthy one, his mother might well not have survived to the end of it: that had been the case with Lord Confalume, whose elder sister Kunigarda had served as Lady of the Isle during the latter half of his incumbency at the Castle. Any Lady who did live long enough to see her son’s ascent to the senior throne customarily would remain on the Isle even after she had retired from her duties to make room for the new Coronal’s mother. Former Ladies of the Isle dwelled at the capacious estate that was provided for them in the Terrace of Shadows on the Isle’s Third Cliff.

  Perhaps her son the Pontifex might choose to pay a call on her there once he had settled fully into the responsibilities of his new post. But more often than not he would neglect to make the journey until it was too late: his mother died before he could find an opportunity to go, or he himself grew too old to want to travel. Whole centuries had gone by without a visit by a Pontifex to the Isle.

  Prestimion, who had always had the closest and warmest of relationships with his mother the Lady Therissa, had journeyed to the Isle of Sleep in his early years as Coronal Lord in order to introduce his bride Varaile to her, and to enlist his mother’s aid in the struggle against the rebellious Dantirya Sambail. He had gone there again in the fifth year of his reign, having decided then to make his first grand processional for the sake of presenting himself to the world in the aftermath of the chaos that had been engendered by the Procurator Dantirya Sambail’s two insurrections. That time he had crossed Alhanroel by land, just as he had done now, and had taken ship at Alaisor for the Isle, and gone on from there to Zimroel, making stops at Piliplok on the eastern coast and at Ni-moya inland.

  In his eleventh year Prestimion had chosen to make a second processional, this one following a similar route, but carrying him onward beyond Ni-moya, clear across Zimroel to the crystalline city of Dulorn and beyond it to the remote western cities of Pidruid and Narabal and Til-omon, where visits from a Coronal were few and far between. Prestimion had found occasion on that trip for still another visit to his mother. And in the sixteenth year of his reign as Coronal he had undertaken the third and last of his grand processionals, this one a truly extraordinary one that had taken him across the bottom of Alhanroel to Stoien, thence to the Isle yet again, and from there, to the astonishment of all the world, southward to the forbidding desert continent of Suvrael, that had not seen a Coronal’s face in three hundred years.

  Now here he was arriving at the Isle once again. There before him in the sea reared the familiar colossal bulk of the place, that phenomenal wall of glittering white chalk rising high above the water, its three great tiers going up and up in diminishing circles to the holy sanctuary at the top, Inner Temple, where the Lady and her millions of acolytes dwelled. The sun, at this time of day, lay nearly overhead, and the smooth face of the Isle gleamed with an almost unbearable reflected brilliance in its intense light.

  Large as the Isle was—and on any planet but Majipoor it would have been deemed a continent, not an island—it was accessible to shipping only at two harbors, Taleis on the western side facing Zimroel, and Numinor, in the Isle’s northeastern corner, looking toward Alhanroel. Prestimion had always come to the Isle by the Numinor entrance. Taleis port was a place he had never seen. He realized now, standing on the deck of the swift vessel that had brought him here this time and peering out yet again at the brilliant white rampart that surrounded the harbor at Numinor, that he probably never would.

  This, so Prestimion expected, would be the last visit he would ever make to the Isle of Sleep. Nor would he go on to Zimroel when he was finished here, which might have justified a brief stop at Taleis to satisfy his curiosity. The world was Dekkeret’s now; Pontifexes did not undertake grand processionals; in years to come, as he aged, he would settle ever more deeply into his life at the Labyrinth.

  A warm, sweet breeze blew toward them as their ship glided toward Numinor. Eternal summer was the rule in these latitudes. The Isle was forever in bloom: even from this distance Prestimion fancied that he could make out the bright colors of the groves of eldirons and tanigales and purple-blooming thwales that grew so profusely on its multitude of chalky terraces.

  As they neared the Isle Varaile stood at Prestimion’s side, with Septach Melayn and Gialaurys, who had accompanied the Pontifex on this voyage, nearby. The princes Taradath and Akbalik and Simbilon flanked their father and mother on the deck. The young Lady Tuanelys, who had no liking for ocean travel, had remained below in her cabin, as she had for most of the journey.

  The ship’s captain, a massive Skandar with grayish-purple fur, called out for the anchor to be lowered.

  “Why are we dropping anchor all the way out here?” Prince Simbilon asked.

  Prestimion began to reply; but Taradath, who had made the journey to the Isle with his father on Prestimion’s last processional, spoke first: “Because any ship that’s fast enough to get us across from Alaisor to here in any decent time is going to be too big to fit into the harbor,” he said, a bit too patronizingly for Prestimion’s taste. “Numinor port’s a tiny little place, and they’ll have to take us in by ferry. You’ll see.”

  The protocol for a visiting Coronal upon landing at Numinor was for him to stop first at the royal guesthouse known as Seven Walls, a single-story building of gray-black stone situated right on the seawall at the rampart of the port. There he was required to perform various rituals of purification before beginning the ascent to the uppermost of the three terraces, where the Lady would be waiting for him. It was generally the custom for the Coronal to go upward to the Lady, rarely for the Lady to come down to the shore to meet him.

  But Prestimion was Pontifex now, not Coronal, and he had no idea what kind of arrangements would be made. Nor had he asked. Perhaps Seven Walls was reserved only for Coronals, and Pontifexes were taken elsewhere. It made no difference. Let it come as a surprise, he thought.

  Everything seemed to be going as usual, at first. The transfer to the ferry was carried out smoothly; the ferry pilot steered them efficiently through the reefs and shallows of the channel to their landing at Numinor port; a little group of the Lady’s hierarchs, solemn in their golden robes with red trim, was waiting as always to greet him. They made the spiraling Labyrinth sign of reverence to him, formally greeted the Lady Varaile and the High Spokesman Septach Melayn and the Grand Admiral Gialaurys, and led them ashore, conducting Prestimion and his family in the customary fashion to Seven Walls, and the others to a hostelry off in the opposite direction.

  Then things began to vary from the old routine. “The Lady herself awaits you in the guesthouse, your majesty,” one of the hierarchs told him, as they drew near the building.

  Prestimion’s first response was surprise that his mother, who on his last visit had seemed at last to be beginning to succumb to the inevitabilities of age, would have subjected herself to the effort of descending from her sanctuary high up atop this mountainous island when
it would be so much easier on her for him to go upward to her. Then he reminded himself that his mother was no longer Lady of the Isle. The person who was waiting for him at Seven Walls would be the new incumbent, Dekkeret’s mother, the Lady Taliesme.

  Why, he wondered, had Taliesme come here to him? Perhaps she did not yet feel firmly established in the grandeur that now was hers, and found herself, when confronted here with the arrival of a visiting Pontifex, impelled by the awe his office inspired to go down the mountain to him rather than require him to go up to her. But then another possibility, a much more troublesome one, leaped into Prestimion’s mind as he saw Taliesme coming toward him through the courtyard of Seven Walls.

  His mother Therissa had always been a woman of unconquerable strength of spirit. But the years were doubtless taking their toll. She must surely have found Teotas’s death a mighty blow. Perhaps her health had given way beneath it. Perhaps, hard as it was to believe, she had undergone some kind of emotional collapse, or even a physical one. She might be seriously ill—dying, maybe. Or possibly already dead. And Taliesme had not wanted him to make the ascent to Inner Temple unaware of the Lady Therissa’s condition. So she had come to him here for the sake of breaking the news to him.

  Yet Prestimion did not sense any atmosphere of stark calamity about Taliesme as she came forward to greet him. She moved with quick bird-like steps: a small, energetic woman robed in white, with the silver circlet of her office about her forehead. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, her hands readily outstretched.

  “Your majesty,” she said. “I offer you and your family the warmest welcome to our island.”

  “For that we thank you, your ladyship.”

  “And you have, of course, my deepest sympathies on your great loss.”

  He could not wait any longer. “My mother, I hope, has borne it well?”

  “As well as could be expected, I should say. She looks forward eagerly to seeing you.”

  “I’ll find her in good health, then?” Prestimion asked tensely.

  There was just the tiniest moment of hesitation. “You’ll find her not as strong as you remember her, your majesty. The death of Prince Teotas has been hard on her. I will not pretend otherwise. And there have been other troublesome little difficulties, of which we should speak before you ascend to Inner Temple. But first, I think, perhaps some refreshment is in order.—Will you come within, your majesty?”

  A light meal had been laid out for them in Seven Walls: flasks of golden wine, trays of oysters and smoked fish, bowls of fruit. It seemed to Prestimion that Taliesme was as comfortable playing hostess to the Pontifex as she might have been entertaining some longtime neighbors in her old home in Normork, which Dinitak had told him once was a very humble little place indeed.

  He was fascinated by the way she had been transformed, and yet not transformed at all, in the course of her elevation to the Ladyship.

  She could not have been more different in her manner from her predecessor at the Isle. There was a world of contrast between Taliesme’s simplicity and unassuming modesty and the aristocratic stateliness of the Lady Therissa. Yet an undeniable nobility had settled over her since she had assumed her duties here.

  From the moment of her first visits to the Castle in the days when Dekkeret was merely Coronal-designate, Prestimion had been impressed by Taliesme’s confidence, her poise, her serenity. Now that she was Lady of the Isle, a certain aura of grace and assurance of the sort that almost invariably came to typify every woman who held the post of Lady had been added to those qualities. But her essential self seemed fundamentally unchanged, not in any way overwhelmed by the greatness that had come to her with Dekkeret’s ascent to the throne.

  Prestimion felt his judgment of her son confirmed anew in her. Once again, as so often in the past, it had proved to be the case that the mother of the man who was deemed worthy of the title of Coronal Lord of Majipoor was herself a fitting candidate for the role of Lady of the Isle.

  The conversation, which Prestimion allowed her to lead, traveled easily through a wide range of topics. They spoke first of all of the tragic death of Teotas: how startling, how mystifying, that a man of his abilities and character should undergo such a breakdown. “All the world mourns your brother, your majesty, and feels great sadness on your behalf and on your family’s,” Taliesme assured him. “I sense their grief and sorrow constantly.” She touched the circlet that kept her in contact with the dreaming minds of Majipoor’s billions, night after night.

  Then, when it was appropriate to change the subject, she turned it deftly to her son Dekkeret, asking for news of him in his new role as Coronal. “He will be one of the greatest of our kings,” Prestimion told her, and offered a sketchy summary of the plans Dekkeret had made, as much of them as he had revealed thus far, for his reign. He touched also—lightly, very lightly—on the matter of Dekkeret and the Lady Fulkari, indicating only that their often complex and sometimes stormy relationship appeared to be entering a new and sunnier period.

  Finally, after Taliesme had taken the opportunity to praise the handsomeness of Prestimion’s three sons and the blossoming beauty of his pretty young daughter, Prestimion judged it was time to return to the topic that was of the greatest interest to him.

  A quick sidelong glance at Taradath was sufficient to convey to the boy that this would be a good moment for him and his brothers and sister to go outside for a stroll along the Numinor seawall. When they were gone he said, “You mentioned, when we arrived, certain troublesome little difficulties that my mother has been having. I would like to speak of those now, if we may.”

  “Indeed I think we should, your majesty.” Taliesme drew herself up in her seat as though fortifying herself for what was to be said.—“I regret to tell you that your mother has been afflicted, for some months now, by dreams. Very bad dreams: dreams that I can only describe as nightmares. Which have had a fairly serious effect on her general well-being.”

  Prestimion caught his breath in shock and amazement. His mother too? There was no limit to Mandralisca’s audacity. He had already shown himself willing to strike almost anywhere in the royal family.

  But now his mother also? His mother? She who for twenty years had been the world’s beloved Lady, and now wanted to live only in peaceful retirement? This was intolerable.

  Before he could reply, though, Varaile said, breaking a long silence, “My daughter Tuanelys has had troubled dreams recently as well, your ladyship.” Though she had addressed the Lady Taliesme, she was looking at no one in particular. She was hollow-eyed and haggard, having had yet another bleak dream herself in the night just past. “She cries out, she shivers in fright, she bursts into sweat. It was dreams of this sort, night after night, that drove Prince Teotas to take his life. And even I—I, too—”

  Varaile was trembling. Taliesme looked toward her in shock and surprise. “Oh—my dear woman—my dear—”

  Prestimion went to his wife and rested his hands gently on her shoulders to soothe her. But he maintained a calm tone of voice as he said, as though musing over the irony of it, “The Lady of the Isle receiving dreams instead of sending them? The former Lady, I mean. But even so: it seems so strange.—Has my mother described these dreams to you?”

  “Not very clearly, majesty. Either she is unable to be specific, or unwilling. All I get from her is vague talk of demons, monsters, dark images—and something else, something deeper and more subtle and powerfully distressing, which she absolutely will not describe at all.” Taliesme touched the tips of her fingers to her silver circlet. “I’ve offered to enter her mind and probe for the source, or to have one of the more experienced hierarchs of the Isle do it. But she will not allow it. She says that one who was once the Lady of the Isle must not open herself to the circlet of the Lady. Is that true, majesty? Is there some prohibition against doing that?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Prestimion. “But the Isle has its own customs, and few outside it know anything about them. I’ll speak of this
with her when I get to see her.”

  “You should,” Taliesme said. “I’ll mince no words, majesty. She suffers terribly. She should avail herself of whatever aid can be had, and she of all people should know that we stand ready here to help her.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “And another thing, majesty. These dreams, which have entered your family so freely—they are widespread throughout the world. Again and again I’m told by my acolytes that as they monitor the minds of sleeping people they detect pain, shock, torment. I tell you, your majesty, we spend nearly all of our time now with such people, seeking them out, trying through sendings to heal their suffering—”

  So it was even worse than he had expected. Prestimion let his eyelids drift shut, and sat in silence for a time.

  When he spoke again, it was in the quietest of voices. “It is almost like an epidemic of madness, would you not say, your ladyship?”

  “An epidemic indeed,” said Taliesme.

  “We’ve had such a thing on Majipoor before. In the early years of my reign as Coronal, it was. I found out what was causing it, and I took steps to bring an end to it. This is, I think, a plague of a somewhat different sort, but I think I know what is causing this one too, and I tell you in the most solemn way that I’ll bring an end to this one as well. An old enemy of mine is loose in the land. He will be dealt with.—When will I be able to see my mother, your ladyship?”

  “It is too late in the day now to make the ascent to Third Cliff,” Taliesme answered. Her face was set and somber and there was no sparkle in her eyes now. She and he had passed far beyond the pleasant courtesies of an hour before. Each now understood that a serious challenge lay ahead for them all. The note of fierce determination in Prestimion’s tone seemed to have had a powerful effect on her. With just a few words he had conveyed a sense of present crisis, of impending large events that would require her participation at a time when she had only begun to take command of the great powers of the Isle. “I will escort you to her in the morning.”