Korsibar gave her a startled look. “I can hardly believe that those words came from your lips, sister. Kill Prestimion, you say?”
“What I said is to put him out of the way. I said nothing about killing.”
“Put him out of the way how?”
“By making yourself Coronal before he can get the crown. He’ll have no means of striking at you then. The army and the people will be yours.”
“Making myself Coronal,” Korsibar said wonderingly.
“Yes! Yes! Listen to your friends, Korsibar! They all feel as I do.” The words, so long pent up, came pouring from Thismet in a wild rush now. “You were made to be a Coronal; you were destined for it; and we’ll see to it that you are. You are a prince of a quality very rarely seen before in this world. Everyone knows it; everyone is saying it, wherever I turn. And everyone will rise up for you as soon as the signal is given. We’ll strike in a single day. Farquanor will gather support for you among the princes. Farholt and Navigorn will rally the troops behind you. Sanibak-Thastimoon stands ready to weave powerful enchantments to quell all opposition. The moment Prankipin dies, you make your move. You proclaim yourself; you stand before the people as their king and let them hail you; and then you go to Father with the whole thing already done and show him that you had no alternative but to stand aside and be slain.”
“Hush, Thismet. These are evil words.”
“No! No! Listen to me! The omens all point to you! Hasn’t Sanibak-Thastimoon told you what he—”
“Yes. Hush. Say no more. I beg you.”
“Lord Korsibar is what you will be!”
“Enough, Thismet!” Korsibar held both his clenched fists pressed together at his middle. The muscles of his jaw were knotted as though he were in pain. “No more of this! No more!” Once again he turned from her. His back and shoulders rose like a wall beside her.
But he was beginning to weaken, Thismet knew. She had seen, as Count Farquanor had seen before her, the momentary glint of temptation in his eyes as she had cried out that acclamation of him as Lord Korsibar. How close was he to yielding? Would one final push suffice?
Perhaps. But not just now. She understood the volatility of her brother’s character; she knew when he could be nudged toward action and when he would pull himself back into utter immobility. For the moment she had gone as far as she dared.
“Look,” she said. “Prestimion’s coming back. Why is that? To claim his prize, I suppose.”
“All the prizes will be given at the final celebration,” said Korsibar.
“Then why is he out here again now? And he looks as though he’s ready to shoot all over again.”
That was true enough. Prestimion had his bow in his hand and a full quiver over his shoulder. And now one of the judges was rising with an announcement: the winner of the archery competition, he declared, was Prince Prestimion of Muldemar, who at this time, by universal request, would offer a special additional demonstration of his skills.
’This is very unusual,” Korsibar remarked quietly.
“It has to be purely political,” said Thismet. “They’re making a point of putting him on display, do you see? Letting the people get another little look at their wonderful next Coronal. It’s all for show, Korsibar!”
Korsibar’s only answer was a wordless sound of acknowledgment.
The same enthusiastic cry was coming at once from many parts of the stands: “Prestimion! Prestimion!” He smiled, saluted the boxes of the nobility, waved toward the crowd with one upraised outspread hand. That radiant, regal glow was on him again. Lifting his bow, he began now a demonstration of the most extraordinary archery, issuing volley after volley with none of his former deliberation, but a series now of rapid shots, coming at the target from a variety of distances and angles and unfailingly achieving his mark.
“Prestimion! Prestimion!” came the cry, over and over.
“They love him,” Thismet said bitterly.
Korsibar uttered another little grunting affirmation, as though he could not bring himself to speak in actual words. He was staring down rigidly at Prestimion’s performance.
Indeed it was a splendid show that Prestimion was putting on, a spectacular demonstration of skill; and the onlookers were responding to it accordingly. Despite herself, Thismet still could not help but react with a certain measure of admiration as well.
But hatred coursed through her also as she watched the compact little prince performing his wonders on the field. His boundless confidence—his sublime smugness—most of all the fact that he was down there at all, making a public show of himself in this way, at what was supposed to be a competitive event, not some theatrical exhibition of one man’s prowess—how she detested him for all that! How profoundly she wished that one of those arrows would circle around back on him and skewer him through the throat!
She stole a cautious look at her brother and saw what seemed to be cold rage on his face as well; or annoyance, at least, at Prestimion’s arrogance in having allowed himself to be brought forth for this display.
“This offends you, doesn’t it?” Thismet said.
“He behaves as if he’s Coronal already!”
“As well he might. He will be, soon enough.”
“Yes,” said Korsibar gloomily. “Four more days and the crown is his.”
“You say that as though it’s a certainty.”
“Father’s sure of it. He’s cast the runes for Prankipin: four days and the old man’ll be dead. Father’s completely confident of that. His own mages have confirmed the calculation.”
“Four days, then,” said Thismet. “And how much time will you have to live, yourself, after that?”
She shot him a wary glance, fearful that it might have been far too soon for her to have returned to the theme of Dantira Sambail’s prediction. But no: no. Korsibar only shrugged.
“He’s too proud,” Korsibar muttered. “He ought not to be Coronal.”
“Who’ll stop him, if not you?”
“It would shake the world if I did.” Korsibar looked toward her and smiled strangely. “Those were Sanibak-Thastimoon’s own words,” he said, in an odd way, as though he had forgotten all about them until just now. “ ‘You will shake the world.’ ”
“Shake it, then,” said Thismet.
Korsibar stared down at Prestimion, who had just sent two arrows at once speeding toward the target. He said nothing.
“Shake it, then!” Thismet cried. “Shake it or die, Korsibar! Come. Come with me to Sanibak-Thastimoon. There’s planning for us to do, and spells to be cast.”
“Thismet—”
“Come,” she said. “Now. Now!”
* * *
There were no surprises in the fencing matches the following day. Septach Melayn quelled all rivals with his unsurpassable handling of the rapier, besting Count Farquanor in the final contest by a series of blind-ingly swift strokes that brought the entire host of onlookers to their feet in homage. The quick-wristed Farquanor was no trifling fencer himself, and yet Septach Melayn was everywhere around him at once, mincing and prancing in his most disdainful way as he slipped past Farquanor’s guard again and again. He made it look almost too easy.
Korsibar, too, had an expected triumph in the saber contests, battering his opponents’ heavy weapons aside with ease. In the special contests for Skandars—who were too big and had too many arms to compete fairly against humans—it was Habinot Tuvone, the famed fencing-master of Piliplok, who carried off the trophy in the two-sword competition, as had been virtually preordained. And so it went.
The jousting was to be the next day’s event, and the atmosphere among the visiting lords was tense and controlled as the time for it approached. No one wanted a repetition of the bloody spectacle that the wrestling match between Gialaurys and Farholt had been; and it would be only too easy, when the armed men were atop their swift battle-mounts, for more carnage to take place under the guise of zeal in the chivalrous arts.
A list of the competi
tors had been carefully drawn up by the senior lords in such a manner that each team of jousters would consist of an equal mix of men known to be loyal to Prestimion and those who were plainly in Korsibar’s entourage. But there would be no way to keep individual princes from attacking opponents of the other camp with the same murderous ferocity with which Farholt had attacked Gialaurys and with which Gialaurys had responded.
The plan was for the ninety contestants to assemble in the Court of Thrones fully armored for the bout, and to be transported in a group to the Arena. Septach Melayn was the first to arrive in that great dungeon-like room of black stone walls that rose to pointed arches, with Count Iram close behind him, and then Farholt and Farquanor together, Navigorn, Mandrykarn, Kanteverel of Bailemoona. There was much joking among them, but of a stiff, clanking, stilted sort. To Septach Melayn it seemed that an overheavy array of Korsibar’s people was in the hall thus far, though Korsibar himself had not yet arrived, nor the Coronal his father.
Gradually other competitors filtered in: Venta of Haplior and Sibellor of Banglecode, and then the Procurator Dantirya Sambail with three or four of his men, and Earl Kamba of Mazadone; still mainly Korsibar’s men. Septach Melayn looked about for Prestimion and Gialaurys, but they were not yet here, nor Svor, who was unlikely to come: Svor was no jouster.
Dantirya Sambail, who wore conspicuous showy armor of gleaming gold inlaid in red and blue gems with horrific designs of dragons and monsters, and a heavy brazen helmet bedecked with tall green plumes, looked to Septach Melayn and said, “Has your prince overslept himself today, friend?”
“That is not his habit. Perhaps he’s misplaced his helmet plumes and is searching hard for them: for such plumes are all the fashion this year, I see,” said Septach Melayn with a pointed glance at the Procurator’s high-soaring ornaments. “But he’ll be in time for the jousting, I think. Being on time is ever his way. For that matter, I see no sign of our great prince Korsibar, or his royal father.”
“And yet Korsibar’s Su-Suheris wizard is here,” Dantirya Sambail said, indicating with a jab of his helmet-plumes the presence of Sanibak-Thastimoon, whose two heads rose up into view in the midst of Farholt, Farquanor, and Navigorn. “Will he be jousting with us, I wonder? He doesn’t seem to be in armor. But perhaps sorcerers don’t need any.”
Septach Melayn frowned. “He has no business in this room today. Why, I wonder, is—”
“Now his lordship comes,” said Dantirya Sambail. And the old ceremonial cry went up: “Confalume! Confalume! Lord Confalume!”
The Coronal, in his formal robe of office, green and gold with ermine trim, acknowledged the cheers with brusque little gestures of greeting as he entered the hall. A little group of his court ministers accompanied him, a Vroon and a Hjort and some others. The Hjort, Hjathnis by name, who was unusually officious-looking even for a Hjort, trotted along close beside him carrying the starburst crown on a pillow of maroon velvet.
Iram said, “How weary he looks. This waiting for the change of rule to come has greatly tired him.”
“He’ll have time to rest soon enough, once Prankipin’s gone,” said Septach Melayn. “It’s a much quieter life being Pontifex than Coronal.”
“But when will that be?” asked Kamba. “It begins to look as if the Pontifex Prankipin intends to live forever.”
“Cures are available for such intentions, my lord Kamba,” Dantirya Sambail said, with a laugh and an ugly grin.
A retort for the Procurator’s crassness was on Septach Melayn’s lips; but instead he found himself putting his hand to his head and shutting his eyes a moment, for a mysterious fogginess had come suddenly over him. His eyelids felt heavy, his mind was a blur. After a moment it passed.
How very odd, he thought, shaking his head to clear it.
“Make way for Prince Korsibar!” a loud voice called. “Make way! Make way!”
In that instant Korsibar appeared in the entryway to the hall, looking flushed and excited.
“News!” he cried in the first moment of his entry. “I bring you news! The Pontifex Prankipin is dead!”
“You see?” said Dantirya Sambail, grinning his most evil grin. “A solution can always be found, even for immortality!”
“Look you,” said Iram to Septach Melayn, with a nod toward Lord Confalume. “The Coronal himself doesn’t seem to know anything about this. And where’s Prestimion? He should be here for the passing of the crown.”
In truth Lord Confalume seemed to have been caught off guard by the news Korsibar had brought. Every aspect of his expression reflected astonishment and consternation. His hand went to the rohilla he wore at his collar, that ever-present little amulet of strands of gold twined about a bit of jade, and he rubbed the gem at its center again and again with fitful anxious energy.
Septach Melayn said, “Yes, this is Prestimion’s moment to be here. A pity that he chose to be late. But I suppose that he—” He halted, perplexed, and swayed a little as a powerful new wave of dizziness swept him. “What? My head, Irani—some kind of damned fuzzy-mindedness coming over me—”
“And me,” said Iram.
All around the room it was the same. The entire hall seemed engulfed in a dark cloud. The assembled lords were stumbling about as though asleep on their feet, befogged, hazy-brained, lost in that strange mist of uncomprehension. They spoke, if at all, in murky mumbles.
Then, as abruptly as it had come, the mist cleared. Septach Melayn blinked incredulously at the scene he now beheld.
Korsibar had moved to the rear of the hall and taken up a position on the steps of the grand seat next to the Pontifex’s own throne—the one that the Coronal used when he was present at functions of state in this room. He had seized the starburst crown from Hjathnis the Hjort and was holding the slender, shining royal diadem lightly in his hands, resting on his fingertips. Flanking him like a guard of honor and looking defiantly outward at the rest of the group were Farholt, Farquanor, Navigorn of Hoikmar, and Mandrykarn. The two heads of Sanibak-Thastimoon could be seen jutting up just behind Count Farquanor, very close beside the prince.
Lord Confalume appeared stunned at what had taken place. His face was very pale; his eyes seemed almost glassy. He had come a few uncertain steps toward his son, his jaws agape and his hands turned helplessly outward in a gesture of shock and astonishment. He stared at Korsibar, and at the empty cushion on which the crown had lately rested, and at his son once more. But for a moment no sound could escape his lips except a rasping croak.
Then he pointed a wavering hand in Korsibar’s direction and said to him in a hoarse rusty voice, “What are you doing?”
“The Pontifex is dead, Father. You are Pontifex now, and I am your Coronal.”
“You are—what?” Confalume said, with a gasp that was echoed by a host of others around the room.
He looked like a man who had been shattered by a single blow. He stood dumbstruck in front of his son, his head and shoulders slumped forward, his arms dangling limply at his sides. Where were the force and power of the mighty Lord Confalume now? Gone, all gone in one numbing instant; or so it would seem.
Korsibar held his arms out toward his father in a grand sweeping gesture.
“All hail his majesty Confalume Pontifex!” he cried. It was a cry loud enough to be heard at Castle Mount. “All hail! Confalume Pontifex!”
“All hail his majesty Confalume Pontifex!” the others shouted, or most of them, a very ragged chorus indeed, for the impact of the news was sinking in upon them at a varying rate.
Then Farholt bellowed in a voice that could bend stone walls, “And all hail the Coronal Lord Korsibar! Korsibar! Korsibar! Lord Korsibar!”
There was a moment of astounded silence.
And then: “Korsibar! Korsibar!” went up the cry, from all except a few for whom it was very plainly a difficult matter to give voice to the thing that Farholt wished them to proclaim. “Korsibar! Lord Korsibar!”
In a smooth solemn gesture Korsibar raised the starburst
crown high, held it forth to show it to all who stood before him, and serenely placed it on his own forehead. Whereupon he sat himself on the seat of the Coronal and coolly beckoned to his father to take the Pontifex’s throne adjoining him.
“Do you believe this?” Septach Melayn asked.
“We must, I think,” replied Count Iram. “Look over there.”
Others were pushing their way into the room now, a swarm of troops of the Coronal’s guard, who evidently had taken up positions outside during that time when the minds of everyone within had been embraced by that dark cloud. They were all of them armed. Some deployed themselves along both sides of Korsibar with the plain intention of defending him against any who might raise objection to the sudden coup d’etat; the rest formed two enfilades down the borders of the room. Two, at a gesture from Korsibar, gently took the astounded Confalume by the elbows and prodded him toward the Pontifical throne.
“Come, Father,” Korsibar said, speaking very tenderly. “Sit beside me for a while, and we will talk; and then we will perform the proper rituals and see old Prankipin into his grave. And then you will take up your new home in this place and I will go back to Castle Mount to assume the responsibilities that now are to be mine.”
The guards who were guiding Confalume toward the throne eased him up the three steps that led to it and sat him carefully down. He offered no resistance. He appeared to be without volition of his own, as though he were under some spell; and he had the look of a man who had aged twenty years in ten minutes.
Then came the sounds of a scuffle in the corridor outside, “feet out of my way!” a loud angry voice cried. “Let me in! Let me in!”
“Prestimion, at last,” Septach Melayn murmured.
A louder and even angrier voice could be heard next, stormily threatening mayhem and general destruction if the guards blocking the entrance to the hall did not step aside. It was that of Gialaurys.
Quickly Septach Melayn cut a path for himself to the door, deftly slipping between guardsmen who seemed unwilling to block his movements, or incapable of managing it. Prestimion, looking sweaty and disheveled, said as Septach Melayn approached him, “What’s been happening here? I was on my way toward this hall, and I fell into a sort of swoon—and Gialaurys also, both our minds clouded over—and when we returned to ourselves, the corridor was full of the Coronal’s men, who blocked me from going forward, so that I had to threaten them with all manner of vengeance—”
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