Valentine laughed. “You’re all completely forgotten!”
“No! No!”
“Such a squeaking!” He pointed at the last in the row. “You—Spurifon! No one remembers you.”
“Lord Spurifon, if you please.”
“And you—Lord Scaul. Three thousand years have entirely evaporated your fame.”
“You are mistaken in this. My name is inscribed on the roster of the Powers.”
Valentine shrugged. “So it is. But what does that matter? Lord Prankipin, Lord Meyk, Lord Hunzimar, Lord Struin—nothing but names now—nothing—but—names—”
“Nothing—but—names—” they echoed, in high, thin wailing tones, and began to dwindle and shrink, until they were drole-high on the beach, small and scurrying things that ran about pitifully, crying out their names in sharp little squeaks. Then they were gone, and in their place were small white spheres, no bigger than juggling-balls, which, Valentine realized, as he bent down to inspect them, were skulls. He scooped them up and tossed them blithely in the air, and caught them as they descended and threw them again, arraying them in a gleaming cascade. Their jaws clicked and chattered as they soared and fell. Valentine grinned. How many could he juggle at once? Spurifon, Struin, Hunzimar, Meyk, Prankipin, Scaul—that was only six. There had been hundreds of Coronals, one every ten or twenty or thirty years for the past eleven thousand years or thereabouts. He would juggle them all. From the air he plucked more of them, greater ones, Confalume, Prestimion, Stiamot, Dekkeret, Pinitor, a dozen, a hundred, filling the air with them, hurling and catching, hurling and catching. Never since the days of the first settlement had there been such a display of juggling skill on Majipoor! No longer was he throwing skulls; they had become glittering many-faceted diadems, orbs, indeed a thousand imperial orbs that cast sparkling light in every direction. He juggled them flawlessly, knowing each for the Power that it represented, now Lord Confalume, now Lord Spurifon, now Lord Dekkeret, now Lord Scaul, keeping them all aloft, spreading them out through the air so that they formed a great inverted pyramid of light, all the royal persons of Majipoor dancing above him, all converging toward the fair-haired smiling man who stood with legs planted firmly in the warm sand of that golden beach. He supported them all. The entire history of the world was in his hands, and he sustained it in its flight.
The dazzling diadems formed a great starburst of radiance overhead.
Without missing a beat, Valentine began to walk inland, over the smoothly rising dunes toward the dense jungle wall. The trees parted as he approached, bowing to left and right, clearing a track for him, a scarlet-paved way leading to the unknown interior of the island. He looked ahead and saw foothills before him, low gray hills that rose in slow ascent to become steeply rising granite flanks, beyond which lay jagged peaks, a formidable sharp-tipped cordillera stretching on and on and on to the heart of a continent. And on the highest peak of all, on a summit so lofty that the air about it shimmered with a pale luminous glow seen only in dreams, sprawled the buttressed walls of the Castle. Valentine marched toward it, juggling as he went. Figures passed him along the path, coming the other way, waving, smiling, bowing. Lord Voriax was one, and his mother the Lady another, and the tall solemn figure of the Pontifex Tyeveras, all greeting him cordially, and Valentine waved back to them without dropping a diadem, without breaking the smooth serene flow of his juggling. He was on the foothill trail now, and effortlessly moving upward, with a crowd growing about him, Carabella, and Sleet close at hand, Zalzan Kavol and the whole juggling band of Skandars, Lisamon Hultin the giantess and Khun of Kianimot, Shanamir, Vinorkis, Gorzval, Lorivade, Asenhart, hundreds of others, Hjorts and Ghayrogs and Liimen and Vroons, merchants, farmers, fishers, acrobats, musicians, Duke Nascimonte the bandit chieftain, Tisana the dream-speaker, Gitamorn Suul and Dondak-Sajamir arm in arm, a horde of dancing Metamorphs, a phalanx of dragon-captains merrily brandishing harpoons, a skittering cavorting troop of forest-brethren swinging hand over hand through the trees alongside the path, everyone singing, laughing, prancing, followed him toward the Castle, Lord Malibor’s Castle, Lord Spurifon’s Castle, Lord Confalume’s Castle, Lord Stiamot’s Castle, Lord Valentine’s Castle—
—Lord Valentine’s Castle—
He was nearly there. Though the mountain road led virtually straight upward, though mists thick as wool hung low over the trail, he went onward, faster now, skipping and running, gloriously juggling his hundreds of gleaming baubles. Just ahead he saw three great pillars of fire, which as he drew closer resolved themselves into faces—Shinaam, Dilifon, Narrameer, side by side in his path.
They spoke in a single voice: “Where are you going?”
“To the Castle.”
“Whose Castle?”
“Lord Valentine’s Castle.”
“And who are you?”
“Ask them,” said Valentine, gesturing to those who danced behind him. “Let them tell you my name!”
“Lord Valentine!” cried Shanamir, first to hail him.
“He is Lord Valentine!” cried Sleet and Carabella and Zalzan Kavol.
“Lord Valentine the Coronal!” cried the Metamorphs and the dragon-captains and the forest-brethren.
“Is this so?” asked the ministers of the Pontifex.
“I am Lord Valentine,” said Valentine gently, and threw the thousand diadems high overhead, and they rose until they were lost to sight in the darkness that dwells between the worlds, and out of that darkness they came floating silently down, twinkling, sparkling like snowflakes on the slopes of the mountains of the north, and when they touched the figures of Shinaam and Dilifon and Narrameer, the three ministers vanished instantly, leaving only a silver gleam behind, and the gates of the Castle lay open.
10
Valentine woke.
He felt the wool of the rug against his bare skin, and saw the pointed arches of the gloomy stone ceiling far above. For a moment the world of the dream remained so vivid in his mind that he sought to return to it, not wanting at all to be in this place of musty air and dark corners. Then he sat up and looked about, shaking the fog from his mind.
He saw his companions Sleet and Carabella and Deliamber and Zalzan Kavol and Asenhart huddled together strangely against the far wall, tense, apprehensive.
He turned the other way, expecting to see the three ministers of the Pontifex once more enthroned. As indeed they were, but two more of the magnificent chairs had been brought to the room, and now five seated figures confronted him. Narrameer, robed again, sat at the left. Beside her was Dilifon. At the center of the group was a round-faced man with a blunt broad nose and dark solemn eyes, whom Valentine recognized, after a moment’s thought, as Hornkast, high spokesman of the Pontificate. Next to him sat Shinaam, and in the rightmost chair was a person Valentine did not know, a sharp-featured man, thin-lipped, gray-skinned, strange. The five were watching him sternly, in a distant, preoccupied way, as though they were judges of a secret court, gathered to pass a verdict that was long overdue in rendering.
Valentine stood. He made no attempt to retrieve his clothing. That he was naked before this tribunal seemed somehow appropriate.
Narrameer said, “Is your mind clear?”
“I believe it is.”
“You have slept more than an hour past the end of your dream. We have waited for you.” She indicated the gray-skinned man at the far side of the group and said, “This is Sepulthrove, physician to the Pontifex.”
“So I suspected,” Valentine said.
“And this man”—she indicated the one in the center—“I think you already know.”
Valentine nodded. “Hornkast, yes. We have met.” And then the import of Narrameer’s choice of words reached him. He smiled broadly and said, “We have met, but I was in another body then. You accept my claim?”
“We accept your claim, Lord Valentine,” said Hornkast in a rich, melodious voice. “A great strangeness has been perpetrated upon this world, but it will be set to rights. Come: clothe you
rself. It is hardly fit that you go before the Pontifex naked like this.”
Hornkast led the procession to the imperial throne-room. Narrameer and Dilifon walked behind him, with Valentine between; Sepulthrove and Shinaam brought up the rear. Valentine’s companions were not permitted to come.
The passageway was a narrow high-vaulted tunnel of a glimmering greenish glassy stuff, in the depths of which strange reflections, elusive and distorted, sparkled and swam. It coiled round and round, spiraling inward on a slight downward grade. Every fifty paces there was a bronze door that entirely sealed the tunnel: at each, Hornkast touched his fingers to a hidden panel, and the door slid noiselessly aside to admit them to the next segment of the passage, until at last they came to a door more ornate than the others, richly embellished with the symbol of the Labyrinth in chasings of gold, and the imperial monogram of Tyeveras superimposed on it. This was the very heart of the Labyrinth, Valentine knew, its deepest and most central point. And when this final door slipped aside at Hornkast’s touch it revealed a huge bright chamber of spherical form, a great glassy-walled globe of a room, in which the Pontifex of Majipoor sat enthroned in splendor.
Valentine had beheld the Pontifex Tyeveras on five occasions. The first had been when Valentine was a child, and the Pontifex had come to Castle Mount to attend Lord Malibor’s wedding; then again years later, at the coronation of Lord Voriax, and again a year afterward at the marriage of Voriax, and a fourth time when Valentine had visited the Labyrinth as emissary from his brother, and one last meeting just three years ago—though it felt now more like thirty—when Tyeveras had attended Valentine’s own coronation. The Pontifex had already been old at the first of these events, an enormously tall, gaunt, forbidding-looking man with harsh angular features, a beard of midnight black, deep-set mournful eyes; and as he grew even older those characteristics became greatly accentuated, so that there came to be something cadaverous about him, a stiff, slow-moving, wintry, old dry stalk of a man, but nevertheless alert, aware, still vigorous in his fashion, still projecting an aura of immense power and majesty. But now—
But now—
The throne on which Tyeveras sat was the one he had occupied on Valentine’s earlier visit to the Labyrinth, a splendid high-backed golden seat atop three wide low steps; but now it was wholly enclosed in a sphere of lightly tinted blue glass, into which ran a vast and intricate network of life-support conduits that formed a complex, almost unfathomable cocoon. Those clear pipes bubbling with colored fluids, those meters and dials, those measuring plaques mounted on the Pontifex’ cheeks and forehead, those wires and nodes and connectors and clamps, had a weird and frightening aspect, for plainly they said that the life of the Pontifex resided not in the Pontifex but in the machinery surrounding him.
“How long has he been like this?” Valentine murmured.
“The system has been developing for twenty years,” said the physician Sepulthrove with obvious pride. “But only in the last two have we kept him constantly in it.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Oh, yes, yes, definitely conscious!” Sepulthrove replied. “Go closer. Look at him.”
Uneasily Valentine advanced until he stood at the foot of the throne, peering up at the eerie old man within the glass bubble. Yes, he saw the light still aglow in the eyes of Tyeveras, saw the fleshless lips still clamped in a look of resolve. Now the skin of the Pontifex was like parchment over his skull, and his long beard, though still strangely black, was sparse and wispy.
Valentine glanced at Hornkast. “Does he recognize people? Does he speak?”
“Of course. Give him a moment.”
Valentine’s eyes met those of Tyeveras. There was a terrible silence. The old man frowned, stirred vaguely, let his tongue flicker briefly over his lips.
From the Pontifex came an unintelligible quavering sound, a kind of whining moan, soft and strange.
Hornkast said, “The Pontifex gives greeting to his beloved son Lord Valentine the Coronal.”
Valentine repressed a shudder. “Tell his majesty—tell him—tell him that his son Lord Valentine the Coronal comes to him in love and respect, as always.”
That was the convention: that one did not ever speak directly to the Pontifex, that one phrased one’s sentences as though the high spokesman would repeat everything, although in fact the spokesman did not do so.
The Pontifex spoke again, as indistinctly as before.
Hornkast said, “The Pontifex expresses his concern for the disturbance that has occurred in the realm. He asks what plans Lord Valentine the Coronal has for restoring the proper system of things.”
“Tell the Pontifex,” said Valentine, “that I plan to march toward Castle Mount, calling upon all citizens to give me their allegiance. I ask from him a general directive branding Dominin Barjazid a usurper and denouncing all those who support him.”
From the Pontifex now came more animated sounds, sharp and high of pitch, with weird compelling energy behind them.
Hornkast said, “The Pontifex wishes to be assured that you will avoid battle and the destruction of lives, if at all possible.”
“Tell him that I would prefer to regain Castle Mount without the loss of a single life on either side. But I have no idea whether that can be achieved.”
Odd gurgling sounds. Hornkast looked puzzled. He stood with his head cocked, listening intently.
“What does he say?” Valentine whispered.
The high spokesman shook his head. “Not everything his majesty says can be interpreted. Sometimes he moves in realms too remote for our experience.”
Valentine nodded. He looked with pity and even with love on the grotesque old man, caged within the globe that sustained his life, able to communicate only in this dreamlike moaning. More than a century old, for decade after decade supreme monarch of the world, now drooling and babbling like a child—and yet somewhere within that decaying, softening brain still ticked the mind of the Tyeveras that had been, trapped in the breakdown of the flesh. To behold him now was to understand the ultimate meaninglessness of supreme rank: a Coronal lived in the world of deeds and moral responsibility, only to succeed to the Pontificate and finally to vanish into the Labyrinth and crazy senility. Valentine wondered how often a Pontifex had become the captive of his spokesman and his doctor and his dream-speaker, and finally had had to be eased from the world so that the grand rotation of the Powers could bring a more vital man to the throne. Valentine comprehended now why the system separated the doer and the ruler, why the Pontifex eventually hid himself away from the world in this Labyrinth. His own time would come, down here: but, the Divine willing, it would not be soon.
He said, “Tell the Pontifex that Lord Valentine the Coronal, his worshipful son, will do his utmost to repair the rift in the fabric of society. Tell the Pontifex that Lord Valentine counts on his majesty’s support, without which there can be no swift restoration.”
There was silence from the throne, and then a long painful outwelling of incomprehensibility, a jumble of fluting gurgling sounds that wandered up and down the scale like the eerie melodies of the Ghayrog mode. Hornkast appeared to be straining to catch even a syllable of sense here and there. The Pontifex ceased speaking, and Hornkast, troubled, tugged at his jowls, chewed at his lip.
“What was all that?” Valentine asked.
“He thinks you are Lord Malibor,” said Hornkast dejectedly. “He cautions you against the risks of going to sea to hunt dragons.”
“Wise counsel,” said Valentine. “But it comes too late.”
“He says the Coronal is too precious to gamble his life in such amusements.”
“Tell him that I agree, that if I regain Castle Mount I’ll cling closely to my tasks, and avoid any such diversions.”
The physician Sepulthrove came forward and said quietly, “We are tiring him. This audience must end, I fear.”
“One moment more,” Valentine said.
Sepulthrove frowned. But Valentine, with a smile, adva
nced again to the foot of the throne, and knelt there, and held his outspread hands up toward the ancient creature within the glass bubble, and, slipping into the trance-state, sent forth his spirit toward Tyeveras, bearing impulses of reverence and affection. Had anyone ever shown affection toward the formidable Tyeveras before? Very likely not. But for decades this man had been the center and soul of Majipoor, and now, sitting here lost in a timeless dream of governance, aware only intermittently of the responsibilities that once had been his, he deserved such love as his adoptive son and someday successor could bestow, and Valentine gave as fully as the powers of the circlet would permit.
And Tyeveras seemed to grow stronger, his eyes to brighten, his cheeks to take on a ruddy tint. Was that a smile on those shriveled lips? Did the left hand of the Pontifex lift, ever so slightly, in a gesture of blessing? Yes. Yes. Yes. Beyond doubt the Pontifex felt the flow of warmth from Valentine, and welcomed it, and was responding.
Tyeveras spoke briefly, and almost coherently.
Hornkast said, “He says he grants you his full support, Lord Valentine.”
Live long, old man, Valentine thought, getting to his feet and bowing. Probably you would rather sleep forever, but I must wish upon you a longer life even than you have already had, for there is work for me to do on Castle Mount.
He turned away.
“Let’s go,” he told the five ministers. “I have what I need.”
They marched soberly from the throne-room. As the door swung shut behind them, Valentine glanced at Sepulthrove and said, “How long can he survive like that?”
The physician shrugged. “Almost indefinitely. The system sustains him perfectly. We could keep him going, with some repairs every now and then, another hundred years.”
“That won’t be necessary. But he may have to stay with us another twelve or fifteen. Can you do that?”
“Count on it,” said Sepulthrove.
Lord Valentine's Castle: Book One of the Majipoor Cycle Page 45
