“Brothers! Brothers!” Faraataa calls to them. “We hear you, land-brother.”
“The enemy is destroyed. The city is reconsecrated. The Seventh Temple has risen again. Is our penance done, O brothers?” And they reply: “It is done. The world is cleansed and a new age begins.”
“Are we forgiven?”
“You are forgiven, O land-brothers.”
“We are forgiven,” cries the Prince To Come.
And the people hold up their hands to him, and change their shapes, and become in turn the Star, the Mist, the Darkness, the Gleam, the Cavern.
And only one thing remains, which is to forgive those who committed the first sin, and who have remained in bondage here amidst the ruins ever since. The Prince To Come stretches forth his hands, and reaches out to them, and tells them that the curse that was upon them is lifted and they are free.
And the stones of fallen Velalisier give up their dead, and the spirits emerge, pale and transparent; and they take on life and color; and they dance and shift their shapes, and cry out in joy.
And what they cry is:
“All hail the Prince To Come, who is the King That Is!”
* * *
That was the dream of the Piurivar Faraataa, as he lay on a couch of bubblebush leaves under a great dwikka-tree in the province of Piurifayne, with a light rain falling.
THE CORONAL SAID, “Ask Y-Uulisaan to come in here.”
Maps and charts of the blighted zones of Zimroel, heavily marked and annotated, were spread out all over the desk in Lord Valentine’s cabin aboard his flagship, the Lady Thiin. This was the third day of the voyage. He had departed from Alaisor with a fleet of five vessels under the command of the Grand Admiral Asenhart, bound for the port of Numinor on the Isle of Sleep’s northeastern coast. The crossing would be a journey of many weeks, even under the most favorable of winds, and just now the winds were contrary.
While he waited for the agricultural expert to arrive, Valentine scanned once more the documents Y-Uulisaan had prepared for him and those that he had called up out of the historical archives. It was perhaps the fiftieth time he had looked them over since leaving Alaisor, and the story they told grew no less melancholy with repetition.
Blights and pestilences, he knew, were as old as agriculture itself. There was no reason why Majipoor, fortunate world though it was, should be entirely exempt from such ills, and indeed the archives showed ample precedent for the present troubles. There had been serious disruptions of crops through disease or drought or insect attack in a dozen reigns or more, and major ones in at least five: that of Setiphon and Lord Stanidor, that of Thraym and Lord Vildivar, that of Strum and Lord Guadeloom, that of Kanaba and Lord Sirruth, and in the time of Signor and Lord Melikand, deep in the misty recesses of the past.
But what was happening now seemed far more threatening than any of those, Valentine thought, and not merely because it was a present crisis rather than something safely entombed in the archives. The population of Majipoor was immensely greater than it had been during any of the earlier pestilences: twenty billion, where in Struin’s time, say, it had been scarcely a sixth as much, and in Signor’s only a relative handful. A population so huge could fall easily into famine if its agricultural base were disrupted. The structure of society itself might collapse. Valentine was well aware that the stability of the Majipoori way over so many thousands of years—so contrary to the experience of most civilizations—was founded on the extraordinarily benign nature of life on the giant planet. Because no one was ever in real need, there was nearly universal acquiescence in the order of things and even in the inequalities of the social order. But take away the certainty of a full belly and all the rest might fall apart overnight.
And these dark dreams of his, these visions of chaos, and the strange omens—wind-spiders drifting over Alhanroel, and other such things—all of that instilled in him a sense of grim danger, of unique peril.
“My lord, Y-Uulisaan is here,” said Sleet.
The agricultural expert entered, looking hesitant and ill at ease. In an awkward way he began to make the starburst gesture that etiquette demanded. Valentine shook his head impatiently and beckoned Y-Uulisaan to take a seat. He pointed to the zone marked in red along the Dulorn Rift.
“How important a crop is lusavender?”
Y-Uulisaan said, “Essential, my lord. It forms the basis for carbohydrate assimilation in all of northern and western Zimroel.”
“And if severe shortages develop?”
“It might be possible to create diet supplements using such foods as stajja.”
“But there’s a stajja blight too!”
“Indeed, my lord. And milaile, which fulfills similar nutritional needs, is suffering from root weevils, as I have shown you. Therefore we can project general hardship in this entire sector of Zimroel within six to nine months—”
With the tip of a finger Y-Uulisaan drew a broad circle over the map covering a territory that ran almost from Ni-moya in the east to Pidruid on the western coast, and southward as far as Velathys. What was the population of that territory, Valentine wondered? Two and a half billion, perhaps? He tried to imagine two and a half billion hungry people, accustomed all their lives to a plentitude of food, crowding into the cities of Til-omon, Narabal, Pidruid—
Valentine said, “The imperial granaries will be able to meet the need in the short run. Meanwhile we’ll endeavor to get these blights under control. Lusavender smut was a problem a century or so ago, so I understand, and it was beaten then.”
“Through extreme measures, my lord. Whole provinces were quarantined. Entire farms were put to the torch, and afterward scraped bare of topsoil. The cost ran into the many millions of royals.”
“What does money matter when people are starving? We’ll do it again. If we begin an immediate program in the lusavender-growing regions, how long do you estimate it’ll take to return things to normal?” Y-Uulisaan was silent a moment, rubbing his thumbs reflectively against his strangely broad and sharp cheekbones. At length he said: “Five years, minimum. More likely ten.”
“Impossible!”
“The smut spreads swiftly. Probably a thousand acres have been infested during the time we have been talking this afternoon, my lord. The problem will be to contain it, before we can eradicate it.”
“And the niyk-tree disease? Is that spreading as fast?”
“Faster, my lord. And it appears to be linked to the decline of the stajja plants that are usually grown in conjunction with niyk.”
Valentine stared toward the cabin wall, and saw only a gray nothingness.
He said after a time, “Whatever this costs, we’ll defeat it. Y-Uulisaan, I want you to draw up a plan for countering each of these blights, and I want estimates of expense. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lord,”
To Sleet the Coronal said, “We’ll have to coordinate our efforts with those of the Pontificate. Tell Ermanar to open contact at once with the minister of agricultural affairs at the Labyrinth—find out what if anything he knows of what’s going on in Zimroel, what steps are proposed, and so forth.”
Tunigorn said, “My lord, I’ve just spoken with Ermanar. He’s already been in touch with the Pontificate.”
“And?”
“The ministry of agricultural affairs knows nothing. In fact the post of minister of agricultural affairs itself is currently vacant.”
“Vacant? How?”
Quietly Tunigorn said, “I understand that with the incapacitation of the Pontifex Tyeveras, many high posts have been left unfilled in recent years, my lord, and therefore a certain slowing of Pontifical functions has developed. But you can learn much more on this point from Ermanar himself, since he is our chief liaison with the Labyrinth. Shall I send for him?”
“Not at the moment,” said Valentine bleakly. He turned back to Y-Uulisaan’s maps. Running his finger up and down the length of the Dulorn Rift, he said, “The two worst problems seem to be concentrated in this
area. But according to the charts, there are significant lusavender growing zones elsewhere, in the flatlands between Thagobar and the northern boundaries of Piurifayne, and over here south of Ni-moya stretching down to the outskirts of Gihiorna. Am I correct?”
“You are, my lord,” Y-Uulisaan said.
“Therefore our first line of priority must be to keep the lusavender smut out of those regions.” He looked up, ai Sleet, Tunigorn, Deliamber. “Notify the dukes of the affected provinces at once that all traffic between the smut infested zones and the healthy lusavender districts is halted at once: a complete closing of the borders. If they don’t like it, let them send a delegation to the Mount to complain to Elidath. Oh, and notify Elidath of what’s going on, too. Settlement of unpaid trade balances can be routed through Pontifical channels for the time being Hornkast had better be told to be prepared for a lot of screaming, I suppose. Next: in the stajja-growing districts—”
For close to an hour a stream of instructions flowed from the Coronal, until every immediate aspect of the crisis appeared to be covered. He turned often to Y-Uulisaan for advice, and always the agricultural expert had something useful to offer. There was something curiously unlikable about the man, Valentine thought, something remote and chilly and overly self-contained, but he was plainly well versed in the minutiae of Zimroel agriculture, and it was a tremendous stroke of good luck that he had turned up in Alaisor just in time to sail for Zimroel with the royal flagship.
All the same, Valentine was left with an odd feeling of futility when the meeting broke up. He had given dozens of orders, had sent messages far and wide, had taken firm and decisive action to contain and eradicate these pestilences. And yet, and yet—he was only one mortal man, in a small cabin aboard a tiny ship tossing in the midst of an immense sea that was itself only a puddle on this gigantic world, and at this moment invisible organisms were spreading blight and death over thousands of acres of fertile farmland, and what could all his bold orders do against the inexorable march of those forces of doom? Yet again he felt himself slipping into a mood of hopeless depression, so alien to his true nature. Perhaps I have some pestilence in me, he thought. Perhaps I am infested with some blight that robs me of my hope and cheer and buoyancy, and I am condemned now to live out my days in sullen misery.
He closed his eyes. Once more came that image out of his dream in the Labyrinth, an image that haunted him endlessly: great crevasses appearing in the solid foundations of the world, and huge slabs of land rearing up at steep angles to crash against their neighbors, and he in the midst of it all, desperately trying to hold the world together. And failing, failing, failing.
Is there a curse on me? he wondered. Why am I chosen, out of all the hundreds of Coronals that have been, to preside over the destruction of our world?
He looked into his soul and found no dark sin there that might be bringing the vengeance of the Divine upon him and upon Majipoor. He had not coveted the throne; he had not schemed to overthrow his brother; he had not made wrongful use of the power he had never expected to gain; he had not—
He had not—
He had not—
Valentine shook his head angrily. This was foolishness and a waste of spirit. A few coincidental troubles among the farmers were occurring, and he had had a few bad dreams; it was preposterous to exaggerate that into some kind of dread cosmic calamity. All would be well in time. The pestilences would be contained. His reign would be known in history for unusual troubles, yes, but also for harmony, balance, happiness. You are a good king, he told himself. You are a good man. You have no reason to doubt yourself.
The Coronal rose, left his cabin, went out on deck. It was late afternoon; the swollen bronze sun hung low in the west, and one of the moons was just rising to the north. The sky was stained with colors: auburn, turquoise, violet, amber, gold. A band of clouds lay thick on the horizon. He stood alone by the rail for a time, drawing the salt air deep into his lungs. All would be well in time, Valentine told himself once again. But imperceptibly he felt himself slipping back into uneasiness and distress. There seemed no escaping that mood for long. Never in his life had he been plunged so often into gloom and despair. He did not recognize the Valentine that he had become, that morbid man forever on the edge of sadness. He was a stranger to himself.
“Valentine?”
It was Carabella. He forced himself to thrust aside his forebodings, and smiled, and offered her his hand.
“What a beautiful sunset,” she said.
“Magnificent. One of the best in history. Although they say there was a better one in the reign of Lord Confalume, on the fourteenth day of—”
“This is the best one, Valentine. Because this is the one we have tonight.” She slipped her arm through his, and stood beside him in silence. He found it hard, just then, to understand why he had been so profoundly grim-spirited such a short while ago. All would be well. All would be well.
Then Carabella said, “Is that a sea dragon out there?”
“Sea dragons never enter these waters, love.”
“Then I’m hallucinating. But it’s a very convincing one. You don’t see it?”
“Where am I supposed to look?”
“There. Do you see over there, where there’s a track of color reflected on the ocean, all purple and gold? Now go just to the left. There. There.”
Valentine narrowed his eyes and peered intently out to sea. At first he saw nothing; then he thought it might be some huge log, drifting on the waves; and then a last shaft of sunlight cutting through the clouds lit up the sea, and he saw it clearly: a sea dragon, yes, unquestionably a dragon, swimming slowly northward by itself.
He felt a chill, and huddled his arms against his breast.
Sea dragons, he knew, moved only in herds; and they traveled a predictable path about the world, always in southern waters, going from west to east along the bottom of Zimroel, up the Gihorna coast to Piliplok, then eastward below the Isle of Sleep and along the torrid southern coast of Alhanroel until they were safely out into the uncharted reaches of the Great Sea. Yet here was a dragon, by itself, heading north. And as Valentine stared, the great creature brought its black enormous wings up into the air, and beat them against the water in a slow, determined way, slap and slap and slap and slap, as though it meant to do the impossible and lift itself from the sea, and fly off like some titanic bird toward the mist-shrouded polar reaches.
“How strange,” Carabella murmured. “Have you ever seen one do anything like that?”
“Never. Never.” Valentine shivered. “Omen upon omen, Carabella. What am I being told by all this?”
“Come. Let’s go in, and have a warm mug of wine.”
“No. Not yet.”
He stood as if chained to the deck, straining his eyes to make out that dark figure against the darkness of the sea in the gathering dimness of the evening. Again and again the huge wings flailed the sea, until at last the dragon furled them in, and raised its long neck high and threw back its heavy three-cornered head and let out a booming mournful cry that resounded like a foghorn cutting through the dusk. Then it slipped below the surface and was lost entirely to his sight.
WHENEVER IT RAINED, and at this time of the year in Prestimion Vale it rained all the time, the sour odor of charred vegetation rose from the burned fields and infiltrated everything. As Aximaan Threysz shuffled into the municipal meeting-hall in the center of town, her daughter Heynok guiding her carefully with a hand to her elbow, she could smell the scent of it even here, miles from the nearest of the torched plantations.
There was no escaping it. It lay upon the land like floodwaters. The acrid reek found its way through every door and every window. It penetrated to the cellars where the wine was stored, and tainted the sealed flasks. The meat on the table stank of it. It clung to one’s clothes and could not be rinsed away. It seeped through every pore and into one’s body, and fouled one’s flesh. It even entered the soul, Aximaan Threysz was beginning to believe. When the time
came for her to return to the Source, if ever she was permitted to quit this interminable life, Aximaan Threysz was sure that the guardians of the bridge would halt her and coldly turn her back, saying with disdain, “We want no smell of vile ashes here, old woman. Take up your body again and go away.”
“Would you like to sit here, mother?” Heyrok asked.
“I don’t care. Anywhere.”
“These are good seats. You’ll be able to hear well from here.”
There was a little commotion in the row as people shifted about, making room for her. Everyone treated her like a doddering old woman now. Well, of course she was old, monstrously old, a survivor out of Ossier’s time, so old that she remembered when Lord Tyeveras had been young, but there was nothing new about her being old, so why were they all suddenly so patronizing? She had no need of special treatment. She still could walk; she still could see well enough; she still could go out into the fields at harvest time and gather the pods—and gather—go out into—the fields—and—gather—
Aximaan Threysz, faltering just a little, fumbling about, took her seat. She heard murmurs of greeting, and acknowledged them in a remote way, for she was having trouble now in matching names and faces. When the Vale folk spoke with her these days it was always with condolence in their voices, as though there had been a death in her family. In a way, that was so. But not the death she was looking for, the death that was denied her, which was her own.
Perhaps that day would never come. It seemed to her that she was condemned to go on and on forever in this world of ruination and despair, tasting that pungent stench with every breath she drew.
She sat quietly, staring at nothing in particular. Heynok said, “He’s very courageous, I think.”
“Who is?”
“Sempeturn. The man who’s going to speak tonight. They tried to stop him in Mazadone, saying that he preaches treason. But he spoke anyway, and now he’s traveling through all the farming provinces, trying to explain to us why the crops have been ruined. Everyone in the Vale is here tonight. It’s a very important event.”
Valentine Pontifex Page 15
