Valentine Pontifex m-3

by Robert Silverberg

  “Hissune?”

  The voice came from behind him. “Who is it?” Hissune called, without looking around.

  “Alsimir.” A knight-initiate from Peritole, a year or two older than he was.

  “Are you all right?” Hissune asked.

  “I’m hurt. Malorn stung me.”

  “Hurt bad?”

  “My arm’s puffing up. Venomous.”

  “I’ll be there right away. But first—”

  “Watch out. It jumps.”

  And indeed the malorn seemed to be flexing its legs for a leap. Hissune waited, balancing on the balls of his feet, rocking lightly. For an infinitely long moment nothing happened. Time itself seemed frozen: and Hissune stared patiently at the malorn. He was perfectly calm. He left no room in his mind for fear, for uncertainty, for speculation on what might happen next.

  Then the strange stasis broke and suddenly the creature was aloft, kicking itself into the air with a great thrust of all its legs; and in the same moment Hissune rushed forward, scrambling down the ridge toward the soaring malorn, so that the beast in its mighty leap would overshoot him.

  As the malorn coursed through the air just above Hissune’s head he threw himself to the ground to avoid the stabbing swipes of the deadly tail. Holding the cudgel in both his hands, he jabbed fiercely upward, ramming it as hard as he could into the creature’s underbelly. There was a whooshing sound of expelled air and the malorn’s legs flailed in anguish in all directions. Its claws came close to grazing Hissune as it fell.

  The malorn landed on its back a few feet away. Hissune went to it and danced forward between the thrashing legs to bring the cudgel down into the malorn’s belly twice more. Then he stepped back. The malorn was still moving feebly. Hissune found the biggest boulder he could lift, held it high above the malorn, let it fall. The thrashing legs grew still. Hissune turned away, trembling now, sweating, and leaned on his cudgel. His stomach churned wildly and heaved; and then, after a moment, he was calm again.

  Alsimir lay some fifty feet up the ridge, with his right hand clasped to his left shoulder, which seemed swollen to twice its normal size. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy.

  Hissune knelt beside him. “Give me your dagger. I’ve lost mine.”

  “It’s over there.”

  Swiftly Hissune cut away Alsimir’s sleeve, revealing a star-shaped wound just above the biceps. With the tip of the dagger he cut a cross over the star, squeezed, drew blood, sucked it, spat, squeezed again. Alsimir trembled, whimpered, cried out once or twice. After a time Hissune wiped the wound clean and rummaged in his pack for a bandage.

  “That might do it,” he said. “With luck you’ll be in Ertsud Grand by this time tomorrow and you can get proper treatment.”

  Alsimir stared in horror at the fallen malorn. “I was trying to edge around it, same as you—and suddenly it jumped at me and bit me. I think it was waiting for me to die before it ate me—but then you came along.”

  Hissune shivered. “Ugly beast. It didn’t look half so repulsive in the training manual pictures.”

  “Did you kill it?”

  “Probably. I wonder if we’re supposed to kill the trackers. Maybe they need them for next year’s tests.”

  “That’s their problem,” said Alsimir. “If they’re going to send us out here to face those things, they shouldn’t be annoyed if we kill one occasionally. Ah, by the Lady, this hurts!”

  “Come. We’ll finish the trek together.”

  “We aren’t supposed to do that, Hissune.”

  “What of it? You think I’m going to leave you alone like this? Come on. Let them flunk us, if they like. I kill their malorn, I rescue a wounded man—all right, so I fail the test. But I’ll be alive tomorrow. And so will you.”

  Hissune helped Alsimir to his feet and they moved slowly toward the distant green trees. He found himself trembling again, suddenly, in a delayed reaction. That ghastly creature floating over his head, the ring of red staring eyes, the clacking jaws, the soft exposed underbelly—it would be a long time before he forgot any of that.

  As they walked onward, a measure of calmness returned.

  He tried to imagine Lord Valentine contending with malorns and zeils and zytoons in this forlorn valley, or Elidath, or Divvis, or Mirigant. Surely they all had had to go through the same testing in their knight-initiate days, and perhaps it was this same malorn that had hissed and clacked its jaws at the young Valentine twenty years ago. It all felt faintly absurd to Hissune: what did escaping from monsters have to do with learning the arts of government? No doubt he would see the connection sooner or later, he thought. Meanwhile he had Alsimir to worry about, and also the zeil, the weyhant, the min-mollitor, the zytoon. With any luck he’d only have to contend with one or two more of the trackers: it went against probability that he’d run into all seven during the trek. But it was still a dozen miles to Ertsud Grand, and the road ahead looked barren and harsh. So this was the jolly life on Castle Mount? Eight hours a day studying the decrees of every Coronal and Pontifex from Dvorn to Tyeveras, interrupted by little trips out into the scrub country to contend with malorns and zytoons? What about the feasting and the gaming? What about the merry jaunts through the parklands and forest preserves? He was beginning to think that people of the lowlands held an unduly romantic view of life among the highborn of the Mount.

  Hissune glanced toward Alsimir. “How are you doing?”

  “I feel pretty weak. But the swelling seems to be going down some.”

  “We’ll wash the wound out when we reach those trees. There’s bound to be water there.”

  “I’d have died if you hadn’t come along just then, Hissune.”

  Hissune shrugged. “If I hadn’t come, someone else would. It’s the logical path across that valley.”

  After a moment Alsimir said, “I don’t understand why they’re making you take this training.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sending you out to face all these risks.”

  “Why not? All initiates have to do it.”

  “Lord Valentine has special plans for you. That’s what I heard Divvis saying to Stasilaine last week.”

  “I’m destined for great things, yes. Master of the stables. Keeper of the hounds.”

  “I’m serious. Divvis is jealous of you, you know. And afraid of you, because you’re the Coronal’s favorite. Divvis wants to be Coronal—everybody knows that. And he thinks you’re getting in the way.”

  “I think the venom is making you delirious.”

  “Believe me. Divvis sees you as a threat, Hissune.”

  “He shouldn’t. I’m no more likely to become Coronal than—than Divvis is. Elidath’s the heir presumptive. And Lord Valentine, I happen to know, is going to stay Coronal himself as long as he possibly can.”

  “I tell you—”

  “Don’t tell me anything. Just conserve your energy for the march. It’s a dozen miles to Ertsud Grand. And four more tracker beasts waiting for us along the way.”

  2

  This is the dream of the Piurivar Faraataa:

  It is the Hour of the Scorpion and soon the sun will rise over Velalisier. Outside the gate of the city, along the road that was known as the Road of the Departure but will be known from this day forward as the Road of the Return, an immense procession is assembled, stretching far toward the horizon. The Prince To Come, wrapped in an emerald aura, stands at the head of the line. Behind him are four who wear the guise of the Red Woman, the Blind Giant, the Flayed Man, and the Final King. Then come the four prisoners, bound with loose withes; and then come the multitudes of the Piurivar folk: Those Who Return.

  Faraataa floats high above the city, drifting easily, moving at will over all its vastness, taking in the immensity of it at a glance. It is perfect: everything has been made new, the rampart restored, the shrines set up once more, the fallen columns replaced. The aqueduct carries water again, and the gardens thrive, and the weeds and shrubs that had invaded every crevic
e have been hacked down, and the sand drifts swept away.

  Only the Seventh Temple has been left as it was at the time of the Downfall: a flat stump, a mere foundation, surrounded by rubble. Faraataa hovers above it, and in the eye of his mind he journeys backward through the dark ocean of time, so that he sees the Seventh Temple as it had been before its destruction, and he is granted a vision of the Defilement.

  Ah! There, see! Upon the Tables of the Gods the unholy sacrifice is being readied. On each of the Tables lies a great water-king, still living, helpless under its own weight, wings moving feebly, neck arched, eyes glowering with rage or fear. Tiny figures move about the two huge beings, preparing to enact the forbidden rites. Faraataa shivers. Faraataa weeps, and his tears fall like crystal globes to the distant ground. He sees the long knives flashing; he hears the water-kings roaring and snorting; he sees the flesh peeled away. He wants to cry out to the people, No, no, this is monstrous, we will be punished terribly, but what good, what good? All this has happened thousands of years ago. And so he floats, and so he watches. Like ants they stream across the city, the sinful ones, each with his fragment of the water-king held on high, and they carry the sacrifice meat to the Seventh Temple, they hurl it on the pyre, they sing the Song of the Burning. What are you doing? Faraataa cries, unheard. You burn our brothers! And the smoke rises, black and greasy, stinging Faraataa’s eyes, and he can remain aloft no more, and falls, and falls, and falls, and the Defilement is performed, and the doom of the city is assured, and all the world is lose with it.

  Now the first light of day gleams in the east. It crosses the city and strikes the moon-crescent mounted on its high pole atop the stump of the Seventh Temple. The Prince To Come lifts his arm and gives the signal. The procession advances. As they march, Those Who Return shift form from moment to moment, in accordance with the teachings of the Book of the Water-Kings. They take on in turn the guises known as the Flame, the Flow, the Falling Leaf, the Blade, the Sands, the Wind. And as they pass the Place of Unchangingness they return themselves to the true Piurivar form, and maintain it thenceforth.

  The Prince To Come embraces each of the four prisoners. Then they are led to the altars atop the Tables of the Gods. The Red Woman and the Flayed Man take the younger king and his mother to the east Table, where long ago the water-king Niznorn perished on the night of blasphemy. The Blind Giant and the Final King conduct the older king and the one who comes by night in dreams to the west Table, where the water-king Domsitor was given into death by the Defilers.

  The Prince To Come stands alone atop the Seventh Temple. His aura now is scarlet. Faraataa descends and joins him and becomes him: they are one.

  “In the beginning was the Defilement, when a madness came over us and we sinned against our brothers of the sea,” he cries. “And when we awakened and beheld what we had done, for that sin did we destroy our great city and go forth across the land. But even that was not sufficient, and enemies from afar were sent down upon us, and took from us all that we had, and drove us into the wilderness, which was our penance, for we had sinned against our brothers of the sea. And our ways were lost and our suffering was great and the face of the Most High was averted from us, until the time of the end of the penance came, and we found the strength to drive our oppressors from us and reclaim that which we had lost through our ancient sin. And so it was prophesied, that a prince would come among us and lead us out of exile at the time of the end of penance.”

  “This is the time of the end of penance!” the people reply. “This is the time of the Prince To Come!”

  “The Prince To Come has arrived!”

  “And you are the Prince To Come!”

  “I am the Prince To Come,” he cries. “Now all is forgiven. Now all debts have been paid. We have done our penance and are cleansed. The instruments of the penance have been driven from our land. The water-kings have had their recompense. Velalisier is rebuilt. Our life begins anew.”

  “Our life begins anew! This is the time of the Prince To Come!”

  Faraataa lifts his staff, which flashes like fire in the morning light, and signals to those who wait upon the two Tables of the Gods. The four prisoners are thrust forward.

  The long knives flash. The dead kings fall, and crowns roll in the dust. In the blood of the invaders are the Tables washed clean, The last act has been played. Faraataa holds high his hands.

  “Come, now, and rebuild with me the Seventh Temple!”

  The Piurivar folk rush forward. They gather the fallen blocks of the temple and at Faraataa’s direction they place them where they once had been.

  When it is complete, Faraataa stands at its highest point, and looks out across hundreds of miles to the sea, where the water-kings have gathered. He sees them beating the surface of the water with their great wings. He sees them lift their huge heads high and snort.

  “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.

  3

  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 Struin 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—”