Lord Valentine's Castle

by Robert Silverberg

  “I doubt it mightily. Barjazid still wears the Coronal’s countenance. He still holds the seals of power. Down here, if the ministers of the Pontifex say you are the Coronal, the citizens will hail you as Coronal. If they had said you were Lady of the Isle, they probably would hail you as Lady of the Isle. I think it will be different outside.”

  “I want no bloodshed, Deliamber.”

  “No one does. But blood will flow before you mount the Confalume Throne once more. There’s no avoiding it, Valentine.”

  Gloomily Valentine said, “I would almost rather abandon power to the Barjazid than plunge this land into some convulsion of violence. Peace is what I love, Deliamber.”

  “And peace is what there will be,” said the little wizard. “But the road to peace is not always peaceful. See, there—your army is gathering already, Valentine!”

  Valentine saw, not far ahead, a knot of people, some familiar, some unknown to him. All those who had gone into the Labyrinth with him were there, the band he had accumulated in his journey across the world, Skandars, Lisamon Hultin, Vinorkis, Khun, Shanamir, Lorivade and the bodyguard of the Lady, and the rest. But also there were several hundred in the colors of the Pontifex, already assembled, the first detachment of—what? Not troops; the Pontifex had no troops. A civilian militia, then? Lord Valentine’s army, at any rate.

  “My army,” Valentine said. The word had a bitter taste. “Armies are something out of Lord Stiamot’s time, Deliamber. How many thousands of years has it been since there has been war on Majipoor?”

  “Things have been quiet a long while,” the Vroon said. “But nevertheless there are small armies in existence. The bodyguards of the Lady, the servitors of the Pontifex—and what about the knights of the Coronal, eh? What do you call them, if not an army? Carrying weapons, drilling on the fields of Castle Mount—what are they, Valentine? Lords and ladies amusing themselves in games?”

  “So I thought, Deliamber, when I was one of them.”

  “Time to think otherwise, my lord. The knights of the Coronal form the nucleus of a military force, and only an innocent would believe anything else. As you will discover quite inescapably, Valentine, when you come closer to Castle Mount.”

  “Can Dominin Barjazid bring my own knights out in battle against me?” Valentine asked in horror.

  The Vroon gave him a long cool stare. “The man you call Dominin Barjazid is, at the moment, Lord Valentine the Coronal, to whom the knights of Castle Mount are bound by oath. Or have you forgotten that? With luck and craft you may be able to convince them that their oath is to the soul and spirit of Lord Valentine, and not to his face and beard. But some will remain loyal to the man they think is you, and they will lift swords against you in his name.”

  The thought was sickening. Since the restoration of his memory Valentine had thought more than once of the companions of his earlier life, those noble men and women with whom he had grown up, with whom he had learned the princely arts in happier days, whose love and friendship had been central to his life until the day the usurper had shattered that life. That bold huntsman Elidath of Morvole, and the fair-haired and agile Stasilaine, and Tunigorn, who was so quick with the bow, and so many more—only names to him now, shadowy figures out of a distant past, and yet in a moment those shadows could be given life and color and vigor. Would they now come forth against him in war? His friends, his beloved companions of long ago—if he had to do battle with them for Majipoor’s sake, so be it, but the prospect was dismaying.

  He shook his head. “Perhaps we can avoid that. Come,” he said. “The time for leaving this place is at hand.”

  Near the gateway known as the Mouth of Waters Valentine held a jubilant reunion with his followers and met the officers that had been provided for him by the ministers of the Pontifex. They seemed a capable crew, perceptibly quickened in spirit by this chance to leave the dreary depths of the Labyrinth. Their leader was a short, tight-coiled man named Ermanar, with close-cropped reddish hair and a short sharp-pointed beard, who in his size and movements and straightforwardness might well have been brother to Sleet. Valentine liked him at once. Ermanar made the starburst at Valentine in a quick, perfunctory way, smiled warmly, and said, “I will be at your side, my lord, until the Castle is yours again.”

  “May the journey north be an easy one,” Valentine said.

  “Have you chosen a route?”

  “By riverboat up the Glayge would be swiftest, would it not?”

  Ermanar nodded. “At any other time of year, yes. But the autumn rains have come, and they have been unusually heavy.” He drew forth a small map of central Alhanroel, showing the districts from the Labyrinth to Castle Mount in glowing red on some bit of dark fabric. “See, my lord, the Glayge descending from the Mount, and pouring into Lake Roghoiz, and its remnant emerging here to continue on to the Mouth of Waters before us? Just now the river is swollen and dangerous from Pendiwane to the lake—that is, for hundreds of miles. I propose a land route at least as far as Pendiwane. There we can arrange shipping for ourselves nearly to the source of the Glayge.”

  “It sounds wise. Do you know the roads?”

  “Fairly well, my lord.” He poked his finger at the map. “Much depends on whether the plain of the Glayge is flooded as badly as reports have it. I would prefer to move through the Glayge Valley, in this fashion, simply skirting the northern side of Lake Roghoiz, never getting too far from the river as we proceed.”

  “And if the valley’s flooded?”

  “Then there are roads farther north we can use. But the land there is dry, unpleasant, almost a desert. We would have trouble finding provisions. And we would swing much too close to this place for my comfort.”

  He tapped the map at a point just northwest of Lake Roghoiz.

  “Velalisier?” Valentine said. “The ruins? Why do you look so troubled, Ermanar?”

  “An unhealthy place, my lord, a place of foul luck. Spirits wander there. Unavenged crimes stain the air. The stories told of Velalisier are not to my liking.”

  “Floods to one side of us, haunted ruins to the other, eh?” Valentine smiled. “Why not go south of the river entirely, then?”

  “South? No, my lord. You recall the desert through which you came on your journey from Treymone? It’s worse down there, much worse; not a drop of water, nothing to eat but stones and sand. I’d rather march straight through the middle of Velalisier than attempt the southern desert.”

  “Then we have no choice, do we? The Glayge Valley route it is, then, and let’s hope the flooding isn’t too bad. When do we leave?”

  “When do you wish to leave?” Ermanar asked.

  “Two hours ago,” said Valentine.

  2

  In early afternoon the forces of Lord Valentine came forth from the Labyrinth through the Mouth of Waters. This gateway was broad and splendidly ornamented, as was fitting for the chief entrance to the Pontifical city, through which Powers traditionally passed. A horde of Labyrinth-dwellers assembled to watch Valentine and his companions ride out.

  It was good to see the sun again. It was good to breathe fresh true air once more—and not dry cruel desert air, but the mild sweet soft air of the lower Glayge Valley. Valentine rode in the first of a long procession of floater-cars. He ordered the windows swung open wide. “Like young wine!” he cried, breathing deep. “Ermanar, how can you bear living in the Labyrinth, knowing there’s this just outside?”

  “I was born in the Labyrinth,” said the officer quietly. “My people have served the Pontifex for fifty generations. We are accustomed to the conditions.”

  “Do you find the fresh air offensive, then?”

  “Offensive?” Ermanar looked startled. “No, no, hardly offensive! I appreciate its qualities, my lord. It seems merely—how shall I say it?—it seems unnecessary to me.”

  “Not to me,” Valentine said, laughing. “And look how green everything looks, how fresh, how new!”

  “The autumn rains,” said Ermanar. “They brin
g life to this valley.”

  “Rather too much life this year, I understand,” Carabella said. “Do you know yet how bad the flooding is?”

  “I have sent scouts forward,” Ermanar replied. “We’ll soon have word.”

  Onward the caravan rolled, through a placid and gentle countryside just north of the river. The Glayge did not look particularly unruly here, Valentine thought—a quiet meandering stream, silvery in the late sunlight. But of course this was not the true river, only a sort of canal, built thousands of years ago to link Lake Roghoiz and the Labyrinth. The Glayge itself, he remembered, was far more impressive, swift and wide, a noble river, though hardly more than a rivulet by comparison with the titanic Zimr on the other continent. His other time at the Labyrinth, Valentine had ridden the Glayge by summer, and a dry summer at that, and it had seemed calm enough; but this was a different season, and Valentine wanted no more taste of rivers in flood, for his memories of the roaring Steiche were still keen. If they had to go north a bit, that was all right; even if they had to go through the Velalisier ruins, it would not be so bad, though the superstitious Ermanar might need comforting.

  That night Valentine felt the first direct counterthrust of the usurper. As he lay sleeping there came upon him a sending of the King, baleful and stark.

  He felt first a warmth in his brain, a quickly gathering heat that became a raging conflagration and pressed with furious intensity against the throbbing walls of his skull. He felt a needle of brilliant light probing his soul. He felt the pounding of agonizing pulsations behind his forehead. And with these sensations came something even more painful, a spreading sense of guilt and shame pervading his spirit, an awareness of failure, of defeat, accusations of having betrayed and cheated the people he had been chosen to govern.

  Valentine accepted the sending until he could take no more. At last he cried out and woke, bathed in sweat, shivering, shaken, as bruised by a dream as he had ever been.

  “My lord?” Carabella whispered.

  He sat up, covered his face with his hands. For a moment, he was unable to speak. Carabella cradled him against her, stroking his head.

  “Sending,” he managed to say at last. “Of the King.”

  “It’s gone, love, it’s over—it’s all over.” She rocked back and forth, embracing him, and gradually the terror and panic ebbed from him. He looked up.

  “The worst,” he said. “Worse than that one in Pidruid, our first night.”

  “Can I do anything for you?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Valentine shook his head. “They’ve found me,” he whispered. “The King has a reading on me, and he’ll never leave me alone now.”

  “It was only a nightmare, Valentine—”

  “No. No. A sending of the King. The first of many.”

  “I’ll get Deliamber,” she said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Stay here, Carabella. Don’t leave me.”

  “It’s all right now. You can’t have a sending while you’re awake.”

  “Don’t leave me,” he murmured.

  But she soothed him and coaxed him into lying down again; and then she went for the wizard, who looked grave and troubled, and touched Valentine to put him into a sleep without dreams.

  The next night he feared to sleep at all. But sleep finally came, and with it a sending again, more terrifying than the last. Images danced in his mind—bubbles of light with hideous faces, and blobs of color that mocked and jeered and accused, and darting slivers of hot radiance that held a stabbing impact. And then Metamorphs, fluid, eerie, circling around him, waving long thin fingers at him, laughing in shrill hollow tones, calling him coward, weakling, fool, babe. And loathsome oily voices singing in distorted echoes the little children’s song:

  The old King of Dreams

  Has a heart made of stone.

  He’s never asleep

  He’s never alone.

  Laughter, discordant music, whispers just beyond the threshold of his hearing—skeletons in long rows, dancing—the dead Skandar brothers, ghastly and mutilated, calling his name—

  Valentine forced himself to wake, and paced, haggard and drained, for hours in the cramped floater.

  And a night later came a third sending, worse than the other two.

  “Am I never to sleep again?” he demanded.

  Deliamber visited him with the hierarch Lorivade as he sat slumped, white-faced, exhausted. “I have heard of your troubles,” Lorivade said. “Has the Lady not shown you how to defend yourself with your circlet?”

  Valentine looked at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

  “One Power may not assail another, my lord.” She touched the silver band at his forehead. “This will ward off attack, if you use it properly.”

  “And how is that?”

  “As you prepare yourself for sleep,” she said, “weave about yourself a wall of force. Project your identity; fill the air around you with your spirit. No sending can harm you then.”

  “Will you train me?”

  “I will try, my lord.”

  In his sapped and wearied condition it was all he could do to project a shadow of strength, let alone the full potency of a Coronal; and even though Lorivade drilled him for an hour in the exercise of using the circlet, the fourth sending came to him that night. But it was weaker than the others, and he was able to escape its worst effects, and sleep of a restful kind finally embraced him. By day he felt nearly restored to himself; and he drilled with the circlet for hours.

  Other sendings came to him on the nights that followed—faint, probing ones, testing for some opening in his armor. With growing confidence Valentine warded them off. He felt the strain of constant vigilance, and it weakened him; and there were few nights when he did not sense the tendrils of the King of Dreams attempting to steal into his sleeping soul; but he maintained his guard and went unharmed.

  For five days more they made their way north along the lower Glayge, and on the sixth Ermanar’s scouts returned with news of the territories ahead.

  “The flooding is not as severe as we had heard,” Ermanar said.

  Valentine nodded. “Excellent. We’ll continue on to the lake, then, and take ship there?”

  “There are hostile forces between us and the lake.”

  “The Coronal’s?”

  “One would assume so, my lord. The scouts said only that they ascended Lumanzar Ridge, which gives a view of the lake and the surrounding plain, and saw troops camped there, and a considerable force of mollitors.”

  “War at last!” Lisamon Hultin cried. She sounded far from displeased.

  “No,” Valentine said somberly. “This is too early. We are thousands of miles from Castle Mount. We can hardly begin battling so far south. Besides, it’s still my hope to avoid warfare altogether—or at least to delay it until the last.”

  “What will you do, my lord?”

  “Proceed north through the Glayge Valley, as we’ve been doing, but begin moving northwest if there’s any movement toward us by that army. I mean to go around them, if I can, and sail up the river behind them, leaving them sitting down at Roghoiz still waiting for us to appear.”

  Ermanar blinked. “Go around?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, the Barjazid has put them there to guard the approach to the lake. They won’t follow us very far inland.”

  “But inland—”

  “Yes, I know.” Valentine let his hand rest lightly on Ermanar’s shoulder and said softly, with all the warmth and sympathy at his command, “Forgive me, friend, but I think we may have to detour as far from the river as Velalisier.”

  “Those ruins frighten me, my lord, and I am not the only one.”

  “Indeed. But we have a powerful wizard in our company, and many brave folk. What can a ghost or two do against the likes of Lisamon Hultin, or Khun of Kianimot, or Sleet, or Carabella? Or Zalzan Kavol? We’ll just let the Skandar roar at them a bit, and they’ll run all the way to Stoien!”

  “My lord, yo
ur word is law. But since I was a boy I have heard dark tales of Velalisier.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “Naturally not.”

  “Do you know anyone who has?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Can you say, then, that you have knowledge, certain knowledge, of the perils of the place?”

  Ermanar toyed with the coils of his beard. “No, my lord.”

  “But ahead of us lies an army of our enemy, and a horde of ugly mollitors of war, eh? We have no idea what ghosts can do to us, but we’re quite sure of the troubles warfare can bring. I say sidestep the fighting, and take our chances with the ghosts.”

  “I would prefer it the other way round,” said Ermanar, managing a smile. “But I will be at your side, my lord, even if you ask me to go on foot through Velalisier on a night of no moon. You may rely on that.”

  “I will,” said Valentine. “And we will come forth from Velalisier unharmed by its phantoms, Ermanar. You may rely on that.”

  For the time being they continued on the road they had been traveling, keeping the Glayge to their right. The land gradually rose as they moved north—not yet the great surge that marked the foothills of Castle Mount, Valentine knew, but only a minor step-stage, an outer ripple of that vast upthrusting of the planet’s skin. Soon the river lay a hundred feet below in the valley, a narrow bright thread bordered by thick wild brush. And now the road wound by switchbacks up the side of a long tilted block of terrain that Ermanar said was Lumanzar Ridge, from the summit of which one could see for an extraordinary distance.

  With Deliamber, Sleet, and Ermanar, Valentine went to the rim of the ridge to take stock of the situation. Below, the land swept away in natural terraced contours, level after level descending the ridge to the broad huge plain in which Lake Roghoiz was the centerpiece.

  The lake looked enormous, almost an ocean. Valentine remembered it as large, as well it should be, for the Glayge drained the entire southwestern slope of Castle Mount and fed virtually all its waters into this lake; but the size he remembered was nothing like this. Now he knew why the towns at the lake’s margin all were built high on pilings: those towns now were no longer at the lake’s margin, but deep within its bounds, and the water must be lapping at the lower stories of the stilt-bottomed buildings. “It is much swollen,” he said to Ermanar.