Lord Prestimion

by Robert Silverberg

  No matter. It would not happen. Septach Melayn was certain that this was the moment for him to send that great monster from the world at last.

  “On the field at Thegomar Edge you came at Prestimion with two weapons also, did you not, Dantirya Sambail?” Septach Melayn asked him cordially. “And struck at him with an axe, I think, and then went for him with a saber as well. But still he bested you, I’m told.” They were circling each other as they spoke, maneuvering for advantage. Septach Melayn was the younger and taller and quicker man, the Procurator the heavier and stronger one. “He bested you, yes, and spared your life. But I am not Prestimion, Dantirya Sambail. When I best you, it will be the end for you. And none too soon, I’d say.”

  “You talk much too much, you man of flowers and ringlets. You trifling fop! You overgrown boy!”

  “Fop, am I? Well, perhaps it is so. But a boy? A boy, Dantirya Sambail?”

  “A boy is all you are, yes. Come, Septach Melayn, let’s see that famous swordsmanship of yours at last!”

  “I offer you a demonstration with all my soul.”

  Septach Melayn stepped forward, deliberately opening his guard as an encouragement to the Procurator to reveal what it was he had in mind to do with those two weapons of his. But Dantirya Sambail only moved in a crabwise scuttle, brandishing dagger and saber as if uncertain himself of which to use. Septach Melayn flicked a quick elegant thrust at him, only for the sake of letting the Procurator see the flash of sunlight against his swiftly moving blade. Dantirya Sambail smiled and nodded in approval. “Ah, well done, boy, very well done. But you drew no blood.”

  “Not when I choose to slice the air, no,” said Septach Melayn. “But try this, though. Boy, you say?”

  Now was the time for summoning all his mastery of the weapon and making a quick end of the combat. He had no yearning for playing games with Dantirya Sambail. This man had escaped destruction too many times already. Prestimion somehow had opened the way for this moment and it was up to Septach Melayn to complete the act; now it was time to bring Dantirya Sambail quickly to his finish, Septach Melayn thought, without fighting any drawn-out elaborate duel, or giving the Procurator a chance to work some new kind of treachery.

  Coming in quickly on the attack, Septach Melayn feinted idly to the left, chuckling to see how easily Dantirya Sambail mistook that for his real thrust. As the Procurator parried the feint with his saber, Septach Melayn whipped his light sword around the other way and slid its point through the meaty part of the arm that held the dagger. The drawing of first blood brought a sudden flaring of fury and, perhaps, fear, in Dantirya Sambail’s remarkable eyes. With an angry howl he struck at Septach Melayn, a downward blow with the saber that would have cut another man in half. Dancing easily aside, Septach Melayn offered the Procurator a pleasant smile and went straight in on the left, arcing his wrist neatly and putting his blade between Dantirya Sambail’s ribs, tickling it forward until he was certain he had reached the heart.

  There, Septach Melayn thought. It is done. And this tower of evil is gone from our midst.

  They stood close together a moment, the Procurator leaning against him, breathing heavily, and then not seeming to breathe at all. A tremor shook the Procurator’s body the way a volcano’s eruption shakes the ground, and a gush of bright blood spewed from his lips. Then all was still, and Dantirya Sambail was a dead weight against him. Septach Melayn reached out and flicked the saber from Dantirya Sambail’s nerveless grasp. It went clattering to the side. With a single light shove he sent the lifeless Procurator after it.

  “An overgrown boy, yes,” Septach Melayn said. “A trifling fop. No doubt you were right. That is surely what I am.—Goodbye, Dantirya Sambail. You’ll not be greatly missed, I think.”

  But he felt no great sense of triumph, not yet, only a quiet feeling of satisfaction within, of release from a burden. He looked around to see how the others were faring.

  Gialaurys was dealing with three or four of the Procurator’s men at once. He seemed not to be in need of help. In the midst of the struggle he glanced across, saw Septach Melayn standing beside the fallen form of Dantirya Sambail, and gave him a wildly gleeful grin of congratulation.

  But it appeared as though Navigorn had had poorer luck. He was returning now from the manganoza thicket, looking disconsolate. A trail of bloody scratches ran down one side of his face. “Mandralisca got away, damn him! He walked through those miserable palms as though they weren’t there and disappeared.—I would have followed but for the trees. You can see they’ve cut me half to pieces as it is.”

  In this moment of glory Septach Melayn would accept no disappointment, not even this. He clapped Navigorn heartily on the shoulder. “Well, it’s a pity, that. But come, man, don’t be so hard on yourself, Navigorn. The fellow’s a demon, and chasing demons is no easy game. But he’s not likely to get far on his own, is he? May he be devoured by crabs as he wanders around in the jungle!” Septach Melayn pointed then to the bodies strewn all around. “Look! Look you! There lies the Procurator! And the Barjazid over there! The work is done, Navigorn. We’ve nothing left to do here but a little mopping-up!”

  To Prestimion, two thousand miles away, the snapping of the tension came to him like the breaking of some giant cable. He staggered under the impact of it, reeling backward in a sudden access of dizziness.

  Instantly Dekkeret was at his side, steadying his arm. “My lord—”

  “I don’t need any help, thanks,” said Prestimion, disengaging himself from Dekkeret’s grasp. He must not have sounded very convincing, though, for Dekkeret continued to hover watchfully by his side.

  Prestimion thought he knew what had happened just now in the Procurator’s camp, but he was not certain. And in any event his voyage with the helmet and the battle with Venghenar Barjazid had brought him by now to the brink of exhaustion. He felt chilled, as though he had been swimming in icy waters, and his head was whirling. He closed his eyes, drew two or three deep breaths, struggled to find his equilibrium.

  Then he looked toward the Lady. In the hollow, thin voice of a very tired man he asked her, “Is he really dead, then?”

  She nodded solemnly. She looked pale and drawn. Surely she was weary as he was himself. “Gone, and no question of it. It was Septach Melayn who slew him, was it not?” And Maundigand-Klimd, to whom she had addressed the question, nodded, both heads at once, full confirmation.

  “Then there will be no second civil war,” said Prestimion, and the first warm flickers of joy began to cut through the shroud of fatigue that had engulfed him. “We can give thanks to the Divine for that. But there’s still much for us to do before the world is whole again.”

  Dekkeret said, “My lord, you should put the helmet down, now. Simply the wearing of it must draw energy from you. And after what you have done—”

  “But I’ve just told you that I’m not finished. Stand back, Dekkeret! Stand back!”

  And put his hand to the ascent control of the helmet once again before anyone could protest, and sent himself soaring upward a second time.

  Was this wise? he wondered.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. While he still had strength left in him after the voyage to the Stoienzar, this was something he must do.

  He drifted in silence like a great bird of the night above the mighty cities of Majipoor. They sparkled below him in all their glittering majesty, Ni-moya and Stee, Pidruid and Dulorn, Khyntor and Tolaghai and Alaisor and Bailemoona.

  And he felt the weight of the madness in them. He sensed above all else the anguish of the myriad sprung and riven souls who had suffered such harm in the moment when he had ripped the tale of the war against Korsibar from the collective memory of the world. His own heart was drawn downward by sorrow as he perceived, far more clearly even than when he had traveled the world with the Lady’s circlet on his brow, how much damage he had done.

  But what he had done then, he hoped to undo now.

  The helmet of the Barjazids had enormously more power than the circlet
of the Lady. Where she could reassure and comfort, the wearer of the helmet was able to transform. And heal, perhaps. Could it be done? He would find out. Now.

  He touched a shattered mind with his own. Touched two, three, a thousand, ten thousand. Drew all the tumbled pieces together. Made the rough places smooth.

  Yes! Yes!

  It was a fearful effort. He could feel his own vital force flowing outward like a river, even as he healed those with whom he came in contact. But it was working. He was certain of it. He went on and on, making a secret and silent grand processional around the world, swooping down here in Sippulgar, here in Sisivondal, here in Treymone, here in his own Muldemar, touching, mending, healing.

  The task was immense. He knew he could not hope to achieve it all in this one journey. But he was determined to make a beginning here and now. To bring back this day from that bleak realm in which he had forced them to wander for so long as many as he could of those whom he had condemned to madness.

  He moved randomly about the world. The madness was everywhere.

  He halted here.

  Here.

  Here.

  Again, again, again, Prestimion descended, touched, repaired. He had no idea, any longer, whether he was moving from north to south or from east to west, whether this was Narabal he was passing over or Velathys or some city of Castle Mount itself. He went on and on, heedless of the expense of spirit that he was undertaking. “I am Prestimion the Coronal Lord, the Divine’s own anointed king,” he said to them, a hundred times, a thousand, “and I embrace you, I bring you the deepest of love, I offer you the gift of your own self returned. I am Prestimion—I am Prestimion—I am Prestimion—the Coronal Lord—”

  But what was this? The contact was breaking. The sky itself seemed to be shaking apart. He was falling—falling—

  Plunging toward the sea. Whirling, plummeting, descending headlong into darkness—

  “My lord, can you hear me?”

  Dekkeret’s voice, that was. Prestimion opened his eyes, no easy thing to accomplish in his dazed, numbed state, and saw the burly broad-shouldered form of Dekkeret kneeling beside him as he lay stretched full length on the floor of the room. The helmet of the Barjazids was in the younger man’s hands.

  “What are you doing with that?” Prestimion demanded.

  Dekkeret, reddening, laid the thing beside him, putting it down beyond Prestimion’s reach. “Forgive me, my lord. I had to take it from you.”

  “You—took—it—from—me?”

  “You would have died if you wore it any longer. We could see you going from us, right here. Dinitak said, ‘Get it off his head,’ and I told him it was forbidden to touch a Coronal in that way, that it was sacrilege, but he said to take it off anyway, or Majipoor would need a new Coronal within the hour. So I removed it. I had no choice, my lord. Send me to the tunnels, if you wish. But I could not stand here and watch you die.”

  “And if I ordered you to give it back to me now, Dekkeret?”

  “I would not give it to you, my lord,” said Dekkeret calmly.

  Prestimion nodded. He forced a faint smile and sat up a little way. “You are a good man, Dekkeret, and a very brave one. But for you nothing that we have achieved this day would have happened. You, and this boy Dinitak—”

  “You are not offended, my lord, that I took the helmet from you?”

  “It was a bold thing to do. Overbold, one might almost say. But no: no, Dekkeret, I’m not offended. You did the right thing, I suppose.—Help me get up, will you?”

  Dekkeret lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all, and set him on his feet, and waited a moment as though fearing he would fall. Prestimion glanced around the room: at his mother, at Dinitak, at Maundigand-Klimd. The Su-Suheris was as inscrutable as ever, a remote figure displaying no emotion. The other two still showed evidence of the fatigue of the battle, but they seemed now to be making a recovery. As was he.

  The Lady said, “What were you doing, Prestimion?”

  “Healing the madness. Yes, mother, healing it. With the aid of the helmet it can be done, though it’s hard work, and won’t be finished overnight.” He looked down at the helmet, close by Dekkeret’s foot, and shook his head. “What appalling power there is in that thing! I find myself tempted to destroy it, and any more like it that may be found in Dantirya Sambail’s camp. But what has been invented once can come into the world a second time. Better that we keep it for ourselves, and find some good way to put its great force to use—beginning with the task I commenced just now, of going among the poor mad ones and bringing them back among us.”

  Turning then to Dekkeret, he said, “Dantirya Sambail has assembled a fleet off Piliplok. Its captains are waiting for an order from their master to sail toward Alhanroel. Let them know, Dekkeret, that the order they await will never come. See to it that they disperse peacefully.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then we will disperse them by force,” said Prestimion. “But I pray it won’t come to that. Tell them, in my name, that there are to be no more Procurators in Zimroel. That title is now extinct. We will divide the powers of the one who held it among other princes who are more loyal to our crown.”

  And then, to the Lady: “Mother, I thank you for your great help, and I release you now to return to your Isle. Dinitak, you will come with me to the Castle; we’ll find work for you there. And you, Dekkeret—Prince Dekkeret, you are thenceforth—and you, Maundigand-Klimd—come, we’ll prepare for our return to the Mount. This sorry business has kept us away from home long enough.”

  16

  “And this is Prince Taradath,” Varaile said, bringing forth a small fur-wrapped bundle. A wrinkled red face was visible at its upper end.

  Prestimion laughed. “This? This, a prince?”

  “He will be,” said Abrigant, who had come quickly up from Muldemar that morning when news of Prestimion’s return to the Castle from the west-country had reached him. They were gathered in the great sitting-room of the royal apartments of Lord Thraym’s Tower, Prestimion’s official residence. “He’ll be as tall as our brother Taradath was, and just as quick with his wit. And as good an archer as his father, and Septach Melayn’s equal with the sword.”

  “I will begin his instruction as soon as he can walk,” said Septach Melayn gravely, “and by the time he is ten there will be none who can stand against him.”

  “You are all very optimistic,” Prestimion said, peering in astonishment at the small wrinkled visage of his newborn son. Every baby looks like every other one, he thought. But yes, yes, this one is a Coronal’s son and the descendant of princes, and we will make something special of him indeed.

  He looked toward Abrigant. “Since you see such aptitude in store for him, brother, what skills do you propose to offer him yourself? Will you take him down to Muldemar and teach him the secrets of the winery, do you think?”

  “Make a vintner of him, Prestimion? Oh, no: it’s metallurgy I’ll guide him toward!”

  “Metallurgy, eh?”

  “I’ll put him in charge of the great iron-mines of Skakkenoir, on which the foundations of the prosperity of your reign are to stand.—You do remember, Prestimion, that you promised me that I would be given a second chance to go in search of the metals of Skakkenoir, once this little matter of Dantirya Sambail was dealt with? And I have politely sat on my haunches at Muldemar ever since, waiting for my moment. Which is now at hand, I think, brother.”

  “Ah,” Prestimion said. “Skakkenoir, yes. Well, then, take five hundred men, or a thousand, and go to look for Skakkenoir, Abrigant. And come back from there with ten thousand pounds of iron for us, will you?”

  “Ten thousand tons,” said Abrigant. “And that will be only the beginning.”

  Yes, Prestimion thought.

  Only the beginning.

  He had been Coronal how long now? Three years? Four? That was hard to say, because of Korsibar, and the thing that had been done at Thegomar Edge to make it seem that no civil wa
r had ever happened. He had no clear idea of the date of his own reign’s starting-point. In the public chronicles of the realm it would be set at the hour of Prankipin’s death and Confalume’s ascension to the Pontificate; but Prestimion himself knew that there had been the two years of strife, his wanderings in the provinces and the battles far and wide, before he had truly come to the possession of the throne. And even then, hardly had he been formally crowned but there had been Dantirya Sambail to deal with all over again, and everything else—

  Well, there would be a new beginning now, once and for all.

  He took the baby from Varaile and held him very gingerly, not at all certain of the best way of doing it, and he and Varaile walked off a little way to stand by themselves, leaving the others—Septach Melayn and Gialaurys and Navigorn and Abrigant and Maundigand-Klimd, those who had been the pillars of his reign thus far—to gather by the table where an array of the wines of Muldemar had been laid out to celebrate the Coronal’s return. Out of the corner of his eye Prestimion saw Dekkeret somewhat shyly standing at the edge of the group, Dekkeret who would surely be a figure of great importance in the land in the years ahead, and he smiled as Septach Melayn beckoned him to the table and affectionately put an arm around the young man’s shoulders.

  To Varaile, Prestimion said, “And your father? He’s made an extraordinary recovery, I hear.”

  “A miracle, Prestimion. But he’s not really his old self, you know. Hasn’t said a word about all the properties I signed away while he was sick. Hasn’t spent so much as a moment meeting with the moneymen who used to take up all his time. He’s lost all interest in making money, it would seem. The baby, that’s what appears to matter to him the most. Though he said to me yesterday that he hopes he can be some use to you as an economic adviser, now that you’re back at the Castle.”