Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

“And indeed I did. But what other kind of life could I have chosen to have?”

“You could have been whatever you pleased. You had the finest of princely educations, boy.”

“A fine education, yes! And for what purpose, Father? I can name a hundred Pontifexes from Dvorn to Vildivar, all in the proper order, and then name fifty more. I’ve studied the codes of the law, the Decretals and the Synods and the Balances and all the rest of that I can draw you maps of Zimroel and Alhanroel and put all the cities in their proper locations. I know the pathways of the stars and I can quote you inspiring passages from all the best epic poets from Furvain to Auliasi. What of it? What good does any of it do me? Should I have written poetry myself? Should I have been a clerk? A philosopher, perhaps?”

The Coronal’s eyelids fluttered and closed for a moment, and he pressed the tips of his fingers to his temples. Then he opened his eyes and stared balefully at his son, a hooded, rigorously patient look.

“The Balances, you say. You’ve studied the Balances. If that’s so, then you understand the inner rhythms of our governmental structure and you know why you’ve been given swords and saddles and fine mounts instead of high public responsibilities. We have no hereditary monarchy here. You picked the wrong father, boy: for you alone, of all the princes of Castle Mount, there can never be any place in the government.”

“Not even a seat on the Council?”

“Not even that. One thing leads to another, they would say: put you on the Council and soon you’d want to act as Regent when I’m away from the Castle, or you would propose yourself as High Counsellor, or you’d even aspire to be made Coronal yourself when my turn arrives to move on to the Labyrinth. I would constantly be forced to defend myself against accusations of—”

“Father?”

“—no end of whispering and innuendo, or outright insurrection, even, if—”

“Father, please.”

Confalume halted in mid-flow, blinking. “Yes?”

“I do understand all these things. I resigned myself long ago to the realities of my situation. Prestimion will be Coronal, not me: so be it I never expected to be Coronal, never. Nor wanted it, nor hoped for it. But let me bring you back to the point where this wrangling discussion started, if I may. I asked you whether you really believed I was so stupid that the only thing on my mind was the desire to escape the boredom of this miserable hole by getting on a mount and waving my sword around in some tournament, without a scrap of thought given to custom or tradition or propriety.”

The Coronal made no immediate response. His eyes now grew dull with inattention; his face, which had become very grim, seemed to go entirely blank.

At length he said, keeping his voice very low, “Do you resent it that Prestimion is going to become Coronal, Korsibar?”

“Do I envy him, do you mean? Yes. He’ll be a king, and who would not envy the man who is to be king? But as for resenting that he will be Coronal in my place—no. No. That place was never mine to occupy. I know that. There are nine billion men on this planet, and I am the only one of whom it was known, from the moment of his birth, that he could never become Coronal.”

“And does that make you bitter?”

“Why do you keep asking me these things, Father? I understand the law. I yield my nonexistent claim on the throne gladly, unhesitatingly, unconditionally, to Prestimion. All I meant to assert before is that I believe that there’s more substance to me than I’m generally given credit for having, and I wish I could be allowed more responsibilities in the government. Or to be more accurate, be allowed some responsibilities at all.”

Lord Confalume said, “What’s your opinion of Prestimion, actually?”

Now it was Korsibar’s turn to pause awhile before speaking.

“A clever man indeed,” he said cautiously. “Intelligent. Ambitious.”

“Ambitious, yes. But capable?”

“He must be. You’ve chosen him to succeed you.”

“I know what my opinion of Prestimion is. I want to know yours.”

“I admire him. His mind is quick, and for a small man he’s remarkably strong, and exceedingly agile besides. Good with a sword, better even with a bow.”

“But do you like him?”

“No.”

“Honestly put, at any rate. Do you think he’ll make a good Coronal?”

“I hope so.”

“We all hope so, Korsibar. Do you think so?”

Another pause. After that moment of deep fatigue, Lord Confalume’s eyes had regained their usual brightness; they searched Korsibar’s mercilessly.

“Yes. Yes, I think he probably will.”

“Probably, you say.”

“I’m no soothsayer, Father. I can only guess at what is to come.”

“Indeed. —The Procurator, you know, thinks that you’re Prestimion’s sworn enemy.”

A muscle throbbed in Korsibar’s cheek. “Is that what he’s told you?”

“Not in so many words. I refer to his comment of a little while ago, upstairs, about your opposing the games because holding them was Prestimion’s idea.”

“Dantirya Sambail is a dangerous troublemaker, Father.”

“Agreed. But also a very shrewd man. Are you Prestimion’s sworn enemy?”

“If I were, Father, would I tell you? But no. No. I’ve been frank with you about Prestimion. I think he’s a calculating and manipulative man, a cunning opportunist who can argue on either side of an issue with equal skill, and who has maneuvered himself up out of no position at all and now is about to attain the second highest rank on Majipoor. I find it hard to like men of that sort. But that isn’t to say that he doesn’t deserve the second highest rank on Majipoor. He understands the art of governing better than most. Certainly better than I. Prestimion will become Coronal, and so be it, and I will bow my knee to him like everyone else. —This is an ugly conversation, Father. Are these the things you called me here to talk about?”

“Yes.”

“And the conjuring you were doing when I came in? What was that?”

The Coronal’s hands moved flutteringly among the devices on his desk. “An attempt, merely, to determine how much longer the Pontifex is likely to live.”

Korsibar smiled. “Are you really so adept a sorcerer now, Father?”

“Adept? No, that’s not a claim I’d make. But, like many others, I’ve made a study of the art. I keep measuring my skills against events as they unfold, to see whether I’ve actually mastered any knack of foretelling the future.”

“And have you? You have the true oracular skill, do you think?” Korsibar thought of the reports of him that the sorcerers were said to have brought to his father, that strange prediction: He will shake the world. Perhaps it was the Coronal himself who had cast that rune, and now was staring at some singular destiny for his son that Korsibar himself had no way of seeing. “Can we put it to the test?” he asked, happy to see the subject of discussion changing. “Tell me your results, and we’ll see what comes to pass. What is the date that you arrived at for the end of Prankipin’s lingering?”

“Not any precise one. I’m not that good: perhaps no one is. But it will come, I calculate, within the next nineteen days. Let us keep count, you and I, Korsibar.”

“Nineteen days, or even less. And then finally all the waiting will be over, and we can have the ceremonies and Prestimion will be Coronal and you will be Pontifex, and we can all get out of this vile cistern of a place and back to the sweet air of Castle Mount. —All but you, Father,” Korsibar added in a softer voice.

“All but me, yes. The Labyrinth will be my home now.”

“And how do you feel about that, may I ask?”