Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

“Hush,” Prestimion said softly, without turning. “You know what I think of visions and oracles and thaumaturgy and all the rest of that. Be quiet and let me think, Dekkeret. I pray you, man, just let me think.” A King of Dreams. A King of Dreams. A King of Dreams. And finally he said, “The first step, I think, is to speak with Dinitak. Send him to me, Dekkeret. The powers you want to entrust to him are greater even than our own, do you realize that? You say we can trust him, and very likely you’re right, but I can’t act just on your say-so. I suspect that I need to find out just how holy he is. What if he’s too holy, eh? What if he thinks that even you and I are miserable sinners who need to be brought in check? What would we be loosing on the world, in that case? Send him to me for a little chat.”

“Now, you mean?” Dekkeret asked.

“Now.”

“The plan is this,” Dekkeret told Fulkari, two hours later. “We are to call it simply a grand processional. It won’t be labeled in any way as a military expedition. But it’ll be a grand processional that looks a lot like a military expedition. The Coronal will be accompanied not only by his own guardsmen, but by a contingent of Pontifical troops—a substantial number of Pontifical troops. Which gives the whole enterprise something of the aspect of a peacekeeping mission, since a grand processional would normally involve Castle personnel only, and the forces of the Pontifex would have no role in it. The message we’ll be sending, then, is this: ‘Here is your new Coronal, and hail him as your king. But if anyone among you has treasonous thoughts of insurrection, you are warned that there is an army standing here behind him that will bring you to your senses.’ ”

“Was this Prestimion’s idea, or yours?”

“Mine. Based on his suggestion long ago that one good way I could investigate the situation in Zimroel at first hand was to go there under the guise of making a grand processional. I managed to convince him just now that we’d do best by holding back the option of actual warfare to be our last resort, one that we can always call upon if I get the wrong sort of reception when I’m over there.”

“Zimroel!” Fulkari said, shaking her head in wonder. “That’s a place I never dreamed I’d see.” There was no mistaking the sheen of excitement in her eyes. It was as though she had not heard him mention the prospect of becoming embroiled in warfare at all. “We’ll go to Ni-moya, of course. And Dulorn? They say that Dulorn looks like something out of a fairy tale, an entire city built out of white crystal. What about Pidruid? Til-omon?—Oh, Dekkeret, when do we sail?”

“Not for some while, I’m afraid.”

“But if it’s such an urgent situation—”

“Even so. Alaisor’s where the ships bound for Zimroel embark, so we’ll need to go back up there first. The fleet will have to be assembled, the imperial troops mustered. That’ll take time, all the rest of the summer, perhaps. Meanwhile the official proclamations of a processional have to be drawn up and shipped to every city of Zimroel that I’ll be visiting, so that they’ll be on notice to receive me with the splendor that Coronals are customarily received when they come to town.” He smiled. “Oh, one more thing: you and I have to get married, also. Toward the end of this week, is probably the best time. Prestimion himself has agreed to perform—”

“ Married? Oh, Dekkeret—!” There was mingled delight and perplexity in her tone. But it was the perplexity that predominated. Her lower lip trembled a little. “Here, in Stoien? We aren’t going to have a Castle wedding? You know I’ll do it wherever you want. But why such short notice, though?”

He took her hands between his. “They tend to be very conventional people over in Zimroel, I understand. It simply won’t look right to them if the Coronal shows up on his first grand processional accompanied by—by a—”

“A concubine? Is that the word you want?” Fulkari stepped back and laughed. “Dekkeret, you sound exactly like Dinitak now! Improper! Unseemly! Shameful!”

“Let’s say ‘awkward,’ then. The situation in Zimroel’s so delicate that I can’t risk any sort of political embarrassment when I’m over there. But if the answer’s no, Fulkari, you’d better tell me now.”

“The answer’s yes, Dekkeret,” she replied unhesitatingly. “Yes, yes, yes! You knew that.” Then the jubilant gleam went from her eyes and she looked away from him, and in quite a different tone she went on, “But still—I always thought—the way these things are done, you know, at the Castle, in Lord Apsimar’s Chapel, where Coronals are supposed to get married, and then the reception afterward in the courtyard by Vildivar Close—”

Dekkeret understood. This was Lord Makhario’s many-times-great-granddaughter speaking, Lady Fulkari of Sipermit, to whom the ways of the Castle aristocracy were second nature. Fearing now that she would be inexplicably cheated of the grand and glorious wedding ceremony that she had assumed would be hers ever since the moment of their betrothal.

Gently he said, “We can get married again at the Castle later on. The full business, I promise you, Fulkari, the total grand event, with your sister as your bridesmaid and Dinitak my best man, and the whole court watching, and a second honeymoon in High Morpin at the lodge the Coronal keeps there for his private holidays. But we’ll have our first honeymoon in Ni-moya. And a wedding performed by the Pontifex himself, right here and now, before he sets off back to the Labyrinth.—What do you say?”

“Well, of course, we can’t have the Coronal Lord of Majipoor making the grand processional in the company of some little tart, can we? By all means, let’s make it official, then. I’ll marry you wherever, whenever you want, whatever you think is best.” There was that lovely sparkle of delight and mischief in her eyes again. “But afterward, my lord, when we are home at the Castle again—satin and velvet, and Lord Apsimar’s Chapel, and the courtyard by Vildivar Close—”

It was a simple ceremony, almost perfunctory, absurdly so for so solemn a rite of state as a Coronal’s wedding: held in Prestimion’s suite, the Pontifex presiding, Varaile and Dinitak as witnesses, Septach Melayn and Gialaurys looking on.

The whole thing took no more than five minutes. Prestimion did wear his scarlet-and-black robes of office, and the starburst crown was on Dekkeret’s brow, but otherwise it could just as well have been the wedding of a shopkeeper and his pretty young clerk at the office of the municipal Justiciar. All those who were present understood the reasons for this haste. A proper royal wedding would follow in the fullness of time, yes—once the challenge of the Five Lords of Zimroel had been met. But for now the basic proprieties would be satisfied. Lord Dekkeret and the Lady Fulkari would go off to Zimroel with wedding bands on their fingers, and let no one in the western continent breathe a word about the wickedness of Castle morality.

The wedding feast, at any rate, was a properly luxurious affair, with wines of five colors, and plate upon plate of Stoienzar oysters and smoked meats and the pungent pickled fruits that they doted on here in the tropical lands. Septach Melayn sang the ancient wedding anthem in a creditable if reedy tenor, and Fulkari, a little tipsy, gave Prestimion so unexpectedly passionate a kiss that the Pontifex’s eyes went wide and the Lady Varaile clapped her hands in mock admiration; and at the appropriate moment Dekkeret gathered up his bride and carried her off to their suite on the floor below, making such a lively show of boyish eagerness that one might readily think this would be the first night that she and he had ever spent together.