Robert Silverberg - Sorcerers of Majipoor

It seemed unreal that she could be here in this remote place. Surely it must be the work of sorcerers, this apparition that stood before him now. But no, she was real, he felt no doubt of that. Dressed in little more than rags, she was. Her hair unkempt. Devoid of all jewelry, all cosmetic adornment. Her face drawn and weary. She looked now more like a scullery-maid than the daughter of one king and the sister of another, but the regal grace of her, the fiery eyes, those lips, the finely molded features, all told him that this was the undeniable Thismet. Here. Against all probability, here in Gloyn.

“I should tell you, my lord, that I come into your presence armed,” she said. She drew back her tattered sleeve, revealing the little scabbard that was attached to her arm. Unclipping it, she tossed it casually across to Svor. “That was only to defend myself while I traveled, my lord. I am not here to do you harm. There are no other weapons on me.” She smiled, in a sly inviting way that sent shivers through him. “I am willing to be searched, if you wish it.”

But something other than her flirtatiousness had caught his attention. “Twice now you have called me ‘my lord.’ What do you mean by that phrase, Thismet?”

“Why, what everyone means by it, my lord. The same that is meant by this.” And she raised both her hands in the starburst gesture, smiling all the while and staring directly into Prestimion’s eyes.

He said slowly, after a bit, “You repudiate your brother’s claim, do you, Thismet?”

“That I do most sincerely, my lord.”

“Call me Prestimion, as before.”

“Prestimion, then. As before.” Her eyes flashed. It was like staring into lightning. “But I recognize you as Coronal Lord of Majipoor. Those clownish men at the Castle—those fools and villains—I have no allegiance to them any longer.”

“Come closer,” Prestimion said.

Svor, who was watching from a discreet distance, said, “Perhaps it would be a good idea to search her first, my lord.”

“You think?” Prestimion smiled. “Another dagger hidden on her somewhere, is that it?”

“Come and search me, then, Prestimion!” Thismet said, her eyes bright as beacons. “Who knows? I may have a second dagger hidden here”—and she placed her hand between her breasts—“or here.” With her hand against the base of her belly, fingers splayed out wide. “Come look, my lord! See whether I’m still armed!”

“You have weapons enough on you, I think,” said Prestimion, “and those are indeed the places where you carry them. And I do believe I’m in great peril from them.” He grinned and said, “Since I have your leave to do it, Thismet, I think I will conduct a little search for them, yes.”

“My lord—” said Svor.

“Peace,” Prestimion said to him. And to Thismet. “But first tell me truly why you’re here.”

“Why, to forge an alliance with you,” she said, blunt and outspoken now, not an atom of coquettishness in her tone. “There was a time when I wanted Korsibar to be king in your place, not because I thought you were unworthy of it, but only because I was hungry to see my brother on the throne. That was a great error, and it shames me now to think of the role I played in bringing it about. He is still my brother and I still have a sister’s love for him; but he should never have been king. I’ll proclaim that gladly before all the world. Standing by your side, Prestimion, I’ll hail you as Coronal Lord.”

He thought he understood her now.

“And what role do you see for yourself,” he asked carefully, “when I am on the Confalume Throne?”

“I have been a Coronal’s daughter and a Coronal’s sister,” she said. “No one in all our history could have said such a thing before me. I would set myself apart even further from all others by becoming a Coronal’s consort as well.”

From Svor came a gasp. Prestimion himself was taken aback by her straightforwardness. There was no coy diplomacy here, only the directness of ultimate will.

“I see,” he said. “An alliance of the most literal sort.” And saw in the eye of his mind not the weary travelworn Thismet who stood before him now, but the radiant glorious Thismet of the Castle, dressed in some fine gown of thin white satin with glittering bands of gold about her throat, and then, still in his mind’s eye, the light of tall tapers came shining through that gown from behind her and laid bare to him the supple curves of breast and belly and thigh. Such a torrent of passion came crashing through his soul in that instant that for a moment Prestimion thought he was below the Mavestoi Dam once again and the reservoir was pouring down upon him a second time.

Then he glanced toward Svor. Saw the warning look; the troubled frown. Svor, the man of ladies, so knowing in all the ways of desire, telling him, no doubt, to beware the sorceries of this woman’s body, which might well be more powerful than the most potent spell known to the high magus Gominik Halvor or any of his colleagues in the realm of magic.

Yes. Very likely. But still—still—

Then Thismet said, into the continuing silence, “My lord, if I might have an hour to myself, and a basin of warm water, and my clean clothes brought to me from the floater that lies wrecked in the valley beyond this one—”

“Of course. To be done at once. Go into my tent, Thismet.”

“We already have sent for the baggage from the floater,” Svor said. “And also for the Lady Melithyrrh, who waits there with it.”

Prestimion nodded. “Good.” And to the aide-de-camp Nilgir Sumanand, who was nearby, he said, “See to it that the Lady Thismet is given all that she needs to refresh herself. She’s had a long and difficult journey here.” Svor said, when the others had gone inside, “What will you do, Prestimion?”

“What do you think I’ll do? What would you do yourself, in my place?”

“I understand,” said Svor. “Who would resist?” A thin rueful smile. Soffly, he went on, “I won’t conceal from you, my friend, that I’m in love with her myself. Long have been. As has everyone else at the Castle, I suppose. But I’ll content myself, like the good subordinate I am, with the Lady Melithyrrh.”

“One could do worse,” said Prestimion.

“Indeed.” Svor glanced toward the tent. “You trust yourself alone with her?”

“I think so. Yes. I don’t really expect her to try to murder me.”

“Very likely not. But she is dangerous, Prestimion.”

“Perhaps so. It’s a risk I’ll take.”

“And if all goes well, will you actually make her your consort, do you think?”

Prestimion smiled and clapped Svor on the shoulder. “One thing at a time, Svor, one thing at a time! But it would make good political sense, wouldn’t it? The triumphant Lord Prestimion taking the daughter of the Pontifex Confalume as his bride, to close the breach in the commonwealth that foolish Korsibar has opened? I like that idea. Good political sense, yes. But also—the lady, purely for her own sake—”

“As you said just now, Prestimion, one could do worse.”

“One could indeed.”

He told Svor then that he wanted some time alone; and Svor withdrew.

Drawing his cloak about him, Prestimion paced by himself undisturbed through the camp, revolving in his mind this strange new turn of events.

Thismet!

How odd, how unexpected. She was using him, of course, for some manner of revenge against Korsibar; no doubt Korsibar had disappointed her in something, or perhaps had tried to force her into a marriage that was not to her liking, or in any event had created enough displeasure in her to send her racing across the world to the arms of his great enemy. Well, so be it. It was surely possible for them to come to terms, for their mutual benefit. They understood each other, Thismet and he. She would use him, and he would use her. There was no better match for him to make, and all the world knew it.