Lord Valentine's Castle

by Robert Silverberg

  “My lord?”

  A woman’s voice, cutting through his concentration just as he was slipping into trance.

  The interruption was jarring and painful. Valentine spun around, ablaze with unaccustomed fury, so shaken by surprise that it was a moment before he could recognize the woman as Carabella, and she drew back from him, gasping, momentarily afraid.

  “My lord—” she said in a tiny voice. “I didn’t know—”

  He struggled to control himself. “What is it?”

  “We—we have found a way to open a door.”

  Valentine closed his eyes and felt his rigid body going slack with relief. He smiled and drew her to him, and held her a moment, trembling as tension discharged itself in him. Then he said, “Take me there!”

  Carabella led him down corridors rich with antique draperies and thick well-worn carpets. She moved with a sureness of direction surprising in one who had never walked these halls before. They came to a part of the imperial chambers that Valentine did not remember, a service access somewhere beyond the throne-room, a simple and humble place. Sleet, riding on Zalzan Kavol’s shoulders, had the upper half of his body poked deep within some transom, and was reaching down to perform delicate manipulations on the inner side of a plain door. Carabella said, “We’ve opened three doors this way and now Sleet’s infiltrating the fourth. In another moment—”

  Sleet pulled his head out and looked around, dusty, grimy, wondrously pleased with himself.

  “It’s open, my lord.”

  “Well done!”

  “We’ll go in and get him,” Zalzan Kavol growled. “Do you want him in three pieces or five, my lord?”

  “No,” Valentine said. “I’ll go in. Alone.”

  “You, my lord?” Zalzan Kavol asked in an incredulous tone.

  “Alone?” said Carabella.

  Sleet, looking outraged, cried, “My lord, I forbid you—” and stopped, bewildered by the sacrilege of his own words.

  Mildly Valentine said, “Have no fears for me. This is something I must do without help. Sleet, step aside. Zalzan Kavol—Carabella—stand back. I order you not to enter until you’re summoned.”

  They stared at one another in confusion. Carabella began to say something, faltered, closed her mouth. Sleet’s scar throbbed and blazed. Zalzan Kavol made odd rumbling sounds and swung his four arms impotently.

  Valentine pulled open the door and strode through.

  He was in a vestibule of some kind, perhaps a kitchen passageway, nothing a Coronal was likely to be familiar with. He walked warily through it and emerged into a richly brocaded hall, which after a moment’s disorientation he recognized as the robing-room; beyond it was the Dekkeret Chapel, and that led to the judgment-hall of Lord Prestimion, a grand vaulted chamber with splendid windows of frosted glass and magnificent chandeliers manufactured by the finest craftsmen of Ni-moya. And beyond that was the throne-room, with the Confalume Throne of supreme grandeur dominating everything. Somewhere in that suite Valentine would find Dominin Barjazid.

  He moved forward into the robing-room. It was empty, and looked as though no one had made use of it for months. The stone archway of the Dekkeret Chapel was uncurtained; Valentine peered through it, saw no one there, and continued through the short curving passage, decorated with brilliant mosaic ornaments in green and gold, that connected with the judgment-hall.

  He drew in his breath deeply and laid hands on the judgment-hall door and flung it open.

  At first he thought that that vast space also was empty. Only one of the great chandeliers was lit, and that one at the far end, casting but a dim glow. Valentine looked to left and right, down the rows of polished wooden benches, past the curtained alcoves in which dukes and princes were permitted to conceal themselves while judgment was passed upon them, toward the high seat of the Coronal—

  And saw a figure in imperial robes standing in the shadows at the council-table below the high seat.

  15

  Of all the strangenesses of his time of exile, this was the most strange of all, to stand less than a hundred feet from one who wore what once had been his own visage. Twice before, Valentine had seen the false Coronal, on that day of festival in Pidruid, and he had felt soiled and drained of energy when he had looked upon him, without knowing why. But that was before he had regained his memory. Now, in the dimness, he beheld a tall, strong man, fierce-eyed, black-bearded, the Lord Valentine of old, princely in bearing, not at all cowering or gibbering or terrified, confronting him with cold calm menace. Was that how I looked? Valentine wondered. So bleak, so icy, so forbidding? He supposed that during all these months when Dominin Barjazid had been in possession of his body, the darkness of the usurper’s soul had leaked out through the face, and changed the Coronal’s cast of features to this morbid hateful expression. Valentine had grown used to his own amiable, sunny new face, and now, seeing the one he had worn so many years, he felt no wish to have it back.

  Dominin Barjazid said, “I made you pretty, didn’t I?”

  “And made yourself less so,” said Valentine cordially. “Why do you scowl, Dominin? That face was better known for its smile.”

  “You smiled too much, Valentine. You were too easy, too mild, too light of soul to rule.”

  “Is that how you saw me?”

  “I and many others. I understand you’ve become a wandering juggler these days.”

  Valentine nodded. “I needed a trade, after you took away the one I had. Juggling suited me.”

  “It would have,” Barjazid said. His voice echoed in the long empty chamber. “You were always best at giving amusement to others. I invite you to return to juggling, Valentine. The seals of power are mine.”

  “The seals are yours, but not the power. Your guards have deserted you. The Castle is secure against you. Come, give yourself up, Dominin, and we will return you to your father’s land.”

  “What of the weather-machines, Valentine?”

  “Those have been turned back on.”

  “A lie! A silly lie!” Barjazid whirled and threw open one of the tall arching windows. A blast of frigid air rushed in so swiftly that Valentine, at the other end of the room, could feel it almost at once. “The machines are guarded by the people I most trust,” said Barjazid. “Not your people, but my own, that I brought from Suvrael. They will keep them off until the order comes from me to turn them on, and if all of Castle Mount turns black and perishes before that order comes, so be it, Valentine. So be it! Will you let that happen?”

  “It will not happen.”

  “It will,” said Barjazid, “if you remain in the Castle. Go. I grant you safe conduct down the Mount, and free passage to Zimroel. Juggle in the western towns, as you did a year ago, and forget this foolishness of claiming the throne. I am Lord Valentine the Coronal.”

  “Dominin—”

  “Lord Valentine is my name! And you are the wandering juggler Valentine of Zimroel! Go, take up your trade.”

  Lightly Valentine said, “It’s a powerful temptation, Dominin. I enjoyed performing, perhaps more than anything I’ve done in my life. Nevertheless, destiny requires me to carry the burdens of government, regardless of my private wishes. Come, now.” He took a step toward Barjazid, another, another. “Come with me, out to the antechamber, so we can show the knights of the Castle that this rebellion is over and the world returns to its true pattern.”

  “Stay back!”

  “I mean no harm to you, Dominin. In a way I feel grateful to you, for some extraordinary experiences, things that would surely never have befallen me but for—”

  “Back! Not another step!”

  Valentine continued to advance. “And grateful, too, for ridding me of that annoying little limp, which interfered with some of the pleasures of—”

  “Not—another—step—”

  Barely a dozen feet separated them now. Beside Dominin Barjazid was a table laden with the paraphernalia of the judgment-hall: three heavy brazen candlesticks, an imperial orb, and nex
t to it a scepter. Uttering a strangled cry of rage, Barjazid seized a candlestick with both hands and hurled it savagely at Valentine’s head. But Valentine stepped deftly aside and with a neat snap of his hand caught the massive metal implement as it went by. Barjazid hurled another. Valentine caught that too.

  “One more,” Valentine said. “Let me show you how it’s done!”

  Barjazid’s face was mottled with fury; he choked, he hissed, he snorted in anger. The third candlestick flew toward Valentine. Valentine already had the first two in motion, spinning easily end over end from hand to hand, and it was no task at all for him to snatch the third and fit it into sequence, forming a gleaming cascade in the air before him. Blithely he juggled them, laughing, tossing them ever higher, and how good it felt to be juggling again, to be using the old skills after so long, hand and eye, hand and eye.

  “See?” he said. “Like this. We can teach you, Dominin. You only need to learn to relax. Here, throw me the scepter as well, and the orb. I can do five, and maybe even more than that. A pity the audience is so small, but—”

  Still juggling, he walked toward Barjazid, who backed away, eyes wide, chin flecked with spittle.

  And abruptly Valentine was rocked and swayed by a sending of some sort, a waking dream that hit him with the force of a blow. He halted, stunned, and the candlesticks tumbled clangorously to the dark wooden floor. There came a second blow, dizzying him, and a third. Valentine struggled to keep from falling. The game he had been playing with Barjazid was ended now, and some new encounter had begun that Valentine did not comprehend at all.

  He rushed forward, meaning to seize his adversary before the force struck him again.

  Barjazid retreated, holding his trembling hands before his face. Was this onslaught coming from him, or did he have an ally hidden in the room? Valentine recoiled as that inexorable unseen power thrust against his mind once more, even more numbingly. He shook. He pressed his hands to his temples and tried to collect his senses. Catch Barjazid, he told himself, get him down, sit on him, yell for assistance—

  He sprang forward, lunged, seized the false Coronal’s arm. Barjazid yelled and pulled free. Advancing, Valentine sought to corner him, and nearly did, but abruptly, with a wild shriek of fear and frustration, Dominin Barjazid darted past him and went scrambling across the room. He dived into one of the curtained alcoves on the far side, crying, “Help me! Father, help me!”

  Valentine followed and ripped away the curtain.

  And stood back in astonishment. Concealed in the alcove was a powerfully built, fleshy old man, dark-eyed, glowering, wearing on his forehead a glittering golden circlet, and grasping in one hand some device of ivory and gold, some thing of straps and hasps and levers. Simonan Barjazid he was, the King of Dreams, the terrifying old haunter out of Suvrael, skulking here in the judgment-hall of the Coronal! It was he who had sent the mind-numbing dream-commands that nearly had felled Valentine; and he struggled now to send another, but was prevented by the distraction of his own son, who clung hysterically to him, begging for help.

  Valentine knew this was more than he could handle alone.

  “Sleet!” he called. “Carabella! Zalzan Kavol!”

  Dominin Barjazid sobbed and moaned. The King of Dreams kicked at him as if he were some bothersome dog nipping at his heels. Valentine edged cautiously into the alcove, hoping to snatch that dread dream-machine from old Simonan Barjazid before he could work more damage with it.

  And as Valentine reached for it, something more astounding yet occurred. The outlines of Simonan Barjazid’s face and body began to waver, to blur—

  To change—

  To turn into something monstrously strange, to become angular and slender, with eyes that sloped inward and a nose that was a mere bump and lips that could scarcely be seen—

  A Metamorph.

  Not the King of Dreams at all, but a counterfeit, a masquerade King, a Shapeshifter, a Piurivar, a Metamorph—

  Dominin Barjazid screamed in horror and let go of the bizarre figure, recoiling and throwing himself down, quivering and whimpering, against the wall. The Metamorph glared at Valentine in what surely was unalloyed hatred and hurled the dream-device at him with ferocious violence. Valentine could only partly shield himself; the machine caught him in the chest and knocked him awry, and in that moment the Metamorph rushed past him, dashed frantically to the far side of the room, and in a wild scramble leaped over the sill of the window that Dominin Barjazid had opened, flinging himself out into the night.

  16

  Pale, shaken, Valentine turned and saw the room full of people: Sleet, Zalzan Kavol, Deliamber, Carabella, Tunigorn, and he could not tell how many others, hastily pressing in through the narrow vestibule. He pointed toward Dominin Barjazid, who lay huddled in a pitiful state of shock and collapse.

  “Tunigorn, I give you charge of him. Take him to a secure place and see that no harm comes to him.”

  “The Pinitor Court, my lord, is safest. And a dozen picked men will guard him every instant.”

  Valentine nodded. “Good. I don’t want him left alone. And get a doctor to him; he’s had a monstrous fright, and I think it’s done him harm.” He looked toward Sleet. “Friend, are you carrying a wine-flask? I’ve had some strange moments here myself.” Sleet reached a flask to him. Valentine’s hand quivered, and he nearly spilled the wine before he got it to his lips.

  Calmer now, he walked to the window through which the Metamorph had leaped. Lanterns gleamed somewhere far below. It was a fall of a hundred feet, or more, and in the courtyard there he saw figures surrounding something that lay covered with a cloak. Valentine turned away.

  “A Metamorph,” he said in bewilderment. “Was it only a dream? I saw the King of Dreams standing there—and then it was a Metamorph—and then it rushed to the window—”

  Carabella touched his arm. “My lord, will you rest now? The Castle is won.”

  “A Metamorph,” Valentine said again, with wonder in his voice. “What could it have—”

  “There were Metamorphs also in the hall of the weather-machines,” said Tunigorn.

  “What?” Valentine stared. “What did you say?”

  “My lord, Elidath has just come up from the vaults with a strange story.” Tunigorn gestured; and out of the crowd at the back of the room stepped Elidath himself, looking battle-weary, his cloak stained and his doublet torn.

  “My lord?”

  “The weather-machines—”

  “They are unharmed, and the air and warmth go forth again, my lord.”

  Valentine let out a long sigh. “Well done! And there were Shapeshifters, you say?”

  “The hall was guarded by troops in the uniform of the Coronal’s own guard,” said Elidath. “We challenged them, we ordered them to yield, and they would not, even to me. Whereupon we fought them, and we—slew them, my lord—”

  “There was no other way?”

  “No other way,” Elidath said. “We slew them, and as they died they—changed—”

  “Every one?”

  “All were Metamorphs, yes.”

  Valentine shivered. Strangeness upon strangeness in this nightmare revolution! He felt exhaustion rushing upon him. The engines of life turned again; the Castle was his, and the false Coronal a prisoner; the world was redeemed, order restored, the threat of tyranny averted. And yet—and yet—there was this new mystery, and he was so terribly tired—

  “My lord,” said Carabella, “come with me.”

  “Yes,” he said hollowly. “Yes, I’ll rest a little while.” He smiled faintly. “See me to the couch in the robing-room, will you, my love? I think I will rest, an hour or so. When was it that I last slept—do you recall?”

  Carabella slipped her arm through his. “It seems like days, doesn’t it?”

  “Weeks. Months. Just an hour—don’t let me sleep more than that—”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  He sank to the couch like one who had been drugged, Carabella drew a cove
rlet over him and darkened the room, and he curled up, letting his weary body go limp. But through his mind darted luminous images: Dominin Barjazid clinging to that old man’s knees, and the King of Dreams angrily trying to shake him off, all the while waving that strange machine about, and then the shifting of shapes, the eerie Piurivar face glaring at him—Dominin Barjazid’s terrifying cry—the Metamorph rushing toward the open window—again and again, again and again, scenes beyond comprehension acting themselves out in Valentine’s tormented mind—

  And sleep came over him gently, slipping up on him as he lay wrestling with the demons of the judgment-hall.

  He slept the hour he had asked, and something more than that, for when he woke it was because the bright golden light of morning was in his eyes. He sat up, blinking and stretching. His body ached. A dream, he thought, a wild and bewildering dream of—no, no dream. No dream.

  “My lord, are you rested?”

  Carabella, Sleet, Deliamber. Watching him. Standing guard over his slumber.

  Valentine smiled. “I’m rested, yes. And the night is gone. What has been happening?”

  “Little enough,” said Carabella, “except that the air grows warm again, and the Castle rejoices, and word is spreading down the Mount of the change that has come upon the world.”

  “The Metamorph who sprang from the window—was it killed?”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Sleet.

  “It wore the robes and regalia of the King of Dreams, and carried one of his devices. How was that, do you think?”

  Deliamber said, “I can make guesses, my lord. I have spoken with Dominin Barjazid—he is the next thing to a madman now, and will be a long time healing, if ever—and he told me certain things. Last year, my lord, his father the King of Dreams fell gravely ill and was thought close to death. This was while you still held the throne.”

  “I recall nothing of that.”