Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

All eyes were on Dekkeret. But Dekkeret had his own destinies to consider. He said little during the meeting. It behooved him to remain quiet during this ambiguous period. A Coronal-designate is a very different thing from a Coronal.

When it was over, he retreated to his private apartments. He had a pleasant suite, by no means the grandest of its kind; but it had been good enough for Prestimion when he was the Coronal-designate, and Dekkeret found it more than satisfactory. The rooms were large and well arranged, and the view, through great curving multi-faceted windows, the work of cunning craftsmen from Stee, was a spectacular one into the abyss called the Morpin Plunge that bordered this wing of the Castle.

He met briefly with his personal staff: Dalip Amrit, the tactful onetime schoolmaster from Normork who was his private secretary, and bustling, hyperefficient Singobinda Mukund, the master of the household, a ruddy-faced Ni-moyan, and Countess Auranga of Bibiroon, who served as his official hostess in the absence of any consort. They brought him up to date on the events of his absence from the Castle. Then he sent them away, and slipped gratefully into the great bathing-tub of black Khyntor marble for a long quiet soak before dinner.

It was his thought to eat alone and get to sleep early. But he had scarcely donned his dressing gown after his bath when Dalip Amrit came to him with word that the Lady Varaile requested his presence at dinner that evening in the royal residence at Lord Thraym’s Tower, if he had no other plans.

One did not treat invitations from the Coronal’s consort casually. Dekkeret changed into formal costume, a long-waisted golden doublet and close-fitting violet hose trimmed with velvet stripes, and arrived punctually at the royal dining-hall.

He was, it seemed, the only guest. That surprised him just a little; he would have expected Septach Melayn, perhaps, or Prince Teotas and the Lady Fiorinda, or some other members of the inner court. But Varaile alone awaited him, so simply dressed in a long green tunic and a wide-sleeved yellow overblouse that he felt abashed by his own formality.

She presented her cheek for a kiss. They had always been close friends, he and the Lady Varaile. She was no more than a year or two older than he was, and, like him, had been snatched up suddenly out of a commoner’s life to make her home among the lords and ladies of the Castle. But she had been born to wealth and privilege, the daughter of the infinitely rich merchant banker Simbilon Khayf of the great city of Stee, whereas he was only the son of a hapless itinerant salesman; and so Dekkeret had always looked up to Varaile as someone who moved easily and comfortably among the aristocracy of the Mount, while he had had to master the knack of it slowly and with great difficulty, as one might learn some advanced kind of mathematics.

Over bowls of golden-brown Sippulgar dates and warm milk laced with the red brandy of Narabal she asked him pleasantly about his visit to Normork. She spoke fondly of his mother, whom she liked greatly; and she told him a few quick bits of Castle gossip that had reached her ears while he was away, lively if insignificant tales of tangled intrigues involving certain men and women of the court old enough to have known better. It was as if nothing in any way unusual had taken place in the world lately.

Then she said, as a course of pale-fleshed quaalfish simmered in sweet wine was set before them, “You know, of course, that Prestimion has gone to the Labyrinth?”

“Septach Melayn told me this afternoon. Will the Coronal be gone long?”

“As long as is necessary, I would think.” Varaile turned her huge, dark, glowing eyes on him with sudden unexpected intensity. “ This time he’ll return to the Castle when he’s done. But the next time he goes there—”

“Yes. I know, lady.”

“You have no reason to look so stricken. For you it will mean the call to greatness, Dekkeret. But for me—for Lord Prestimion—for our children—”

She stared at him reproachfully. That struck him as unwarranted: did she think him so insensitive that he would not understand her predicament? But for love of her he kept his voice gentle. “Yet in truth, Varaile, the death of the Pontifex means the same thing for us all: change. Huge and incomprehensible change. You and yours go to the Labyrinth; I don a crown and take my seat on the Confalume Throne. Do you think I’m any less apprehensive than you are about what is to come?”

She softened a little. “We should not quarrel, Dekkeret.”

“Are we quarreling, lady?”

She left the question unanswered. “The strain of these anxieties has made us both edgy. I wanted only a friendly visit. We are friends, are we not?”

“You know that we are.”

He reached for the wine-flask to refresh their glasses. She reached for it at the same moment; their hands collided, the flask toppled. Dekkeret caught it just before it overturned. They both laughed at the clumsiness that this present unrest was creating in them, and their laughter broke, for the moment, the tensions that had sprung up between them.

She was right, Dekkeret knew. She was facing the tremendous sacrifice of giving up her familiar and beautiful surroundings in order to live in a distant and disagreeable place. He, though, would move on to the post that would bring him fame and glory, the one for which he had been preparing himself for ten years or more. What comparison was there, really, in their situations? He told himself to be more gentle with her.

“We should talk of other things,” she said. “Have you spoken with the Lady Fulkari since your return to the Castle?”

Dekkeret found it an unfortunate change of subject. Tautly he said, “Not yet. Is there some special reason why I should?”

Varaile seemed flustered. “Why, only that—she is very eager to see you. And I thought that you—having been gone more than a week—”

“Would be just as eager to see her,” Dekkeret finished, when it became apparent that Varaile either could not or would not. “Well, yes, I am. Of course I am. But not the first thing. I need a little time to collect myself. If you hadn’t summoned me tonight, I’d have spent the evening in solitude, resting from my trip, pondering the future, contemplating the responsibilies to come.”

“I beg your pardon for calling you away from your contemplations, then,” she said, and there was no mistaking the acidity in her tone. “I was very specific in saying that you were to come to me only if you had no other plans for tonight. I thought perhaps that you might prefer to be with Fulkari. But even an evening of quiet solitary meditation is a plan, Dekkeret. You certainly could have refused.”

“I certainly could not,” he said. “Not an invitation from you. And so here I am. Fulkari didn’t send for me, and you did. Not that I understand why, Varaile. For what purpose, exactly, did you ask me here this evening? Simply to lament the possibility that you’ll have to go to the Labyrinth?”

“I think that we’re quarreling again,” said Varaile lightly.

He would have taken her hand in his, if he dared such familiarities with the Coronal’s wife. Taking care to keep his tone temperate and mild, he said, “This is a difficult time for us both, and the stress is taking its toll. Let me ask you a second time: why am I here? Was it only because you wanted someone’s company tonight? You could have invited Teotas and Fiorinda, then, or Gialaurys, or Maundigand-Klimd, even. But you sent for me, even though you thought I might be spending the evening with Fulkari.”

She said, “I asked for you because I think of you as a friend, someone who understands the emotions I feel as the possibility of a change in the government begins to unfold, someone who—as you yourself pointed out—may be experiencing similar feelings himself. But also it was a way of finding out whether you were going to be with Fulkari tonight.”