Robert Silverberg - The King of Dreams

She had done as much as she could without him throughout the weeks of his absence at the Labyrinth for the funeral of the old Pontifex and the ceremonies that marked Prestimion’s succession to the imperial throne. During that time Keltryn had sought out members of Septach Melayn’s class in swordsmanship and made them drill with her, one on one.

Some, who had never reconciled themselves to the anomalous presence of a woman in the class, simply laughed her off. But a few, perhaps for no other reason than that they saw it as an opportunity to spend some time in the company of an attractive young woman, were willing enough to humor her in that request. Polliex, the Earl of Estotilaup’s handsome son, was one of that group. He was tremendously good-looking—indeed, the handsomest boy Keltryn had ever known—and only too aware of that fact himself. He interpreted Keltryn’s invitation to practice at rapier and singlesticks with him as a portent of conquest.

But Keltryn, at the moment, was not looking to become anybody’s conquest, and Polliex’s flawlessly contoured face was irrelevant anyway when hidden behind a fencer’s mask. After several sessions with him at which he insisted on asking her, more than once in the face of her polite refusal, to join him for a weekend in riding the mirror-slides and enjoying other amusements at the pleasure-city of High Morpin, just downslope from the Castle, she canceled further drills with Polliex and turned instead to Toraman Kanna, of Syrinx, the prince’s son.

He was a striking-looking young man too, slim and sinuous, with olive-hued skin and long dark hair. In fact he had an almost feminine beauty about him, so much so that it was generally assumed he was one of Septach Melayn’s playmates. Perhaps he was; but Keltryn quickly found out that he found women attractive too, or, at at any rate found her to be. “You should hold your weapon like this,” Toraman Kanna said, standing behind her and lifting her arm. And then, after he had corrected her position, he let his hand slide up the side of her fencing jacket and rest lightly on her right breast. Just as easily, she pushed it aside. Possibly he thought it was his princely prerogative to touch her like that. They did not drill together a second time.

Audhari of Stoienzar provided her with no such complications. The big freckle-faced boy seemed hearty and normal enough, but what concerned him when he was with her in the gymnasium was fencing, not flirtation. Keltryn had already discovered that he was the most proficient fencer in the class. Now, meeting with him day after day, she concentrated on learning from him how to master Septach Melayn’s trick of dividing each moment into its component parts and then subdividing those, until time itself was slowed and one could step between the partitions that kept each moment from the next, thus making oneself easily capable of matching and often of anticipating the actions of one’s opponent. It was not an easy science to master. But Audhari, because he was not the awesomely perfect swordsman that Septach Melayn was, was able by the very flaws in his technique to give Keltryn access to his considerable knowledge of the method.

By the time Septach Melayn returned from the Labyrinth, she was nearly as good as Audhari, and superior to all the rest in the class. Septach Melayn noticed that at once, the first time the group met; and when she approached him, somewhat timidly, to ask for private instruction, he agreed without hesitation.

They met for an hour, every third day. He was patient with her, kindly, tolerant of the mistakes that she inevitably made. “Here,” he said. “This way. Look high and thrust low, or vice versa. I can read your intentions. You signal too much with your eyes.” Their blades met. His slipped easily past hers and touched her lightly on the clavicle. If this were in earnest she would have been slain five times a minute. Never once did she break through his own guard. But she did not expect to. He was the complete master. No one would ever touch him. “Here!” he cried. “Watch! Watch! Watch! Hup!”

She worked at stopping time, tried to turn his smooth movements into a series of discontinuous leaps so that she could enter the interval between one segment of time and its successor and finally touch the tip of her blade to him, and almost managed to do it. But even so he always eluded her, and then he had that wonderful knack of seeming to come back at her from two sides at once in the counterthrust, and she had no way of defending against that.

She loved drilling with him. She loved him, in a way that had nothing to do with sex. She was seventeen and he was—what? Fifty? Fifty-five? Old, anyway, very old, though still dashing and elegant and extremely handsome. But he was not at all interested in women, so everyone said. Not in that way, anyhow, though he seemed to like women as friends, and was often seen in the company of them. That was fine with Keltryn. All she wanted from men, at this point in her life, was friendship, nothing more. And Septach Melayn was a wonderful friend to have.

He was charming and funny, a playful, buoyant man. He was wise: had not Lord Prestimion chosen him to be High Counsellor of the Realm? He was said to be a connoisseur of wines, he knew much about music and poetry and painting, and no one at the Castle, not even the Coronal, had a finer wardrobe. And of course he was the best swordsman in the world. Even those to whom swordsmanship was a meaningless pastime admired him for that: you had to admire someone who was better than everyone else at something, regardless of what the something was.

Also Septach Melayn was kind and good, liked by all, as modest as his great attainments permitted him to be, famously devoted to his friend the Coronal. He was altogether a paragon, the happiest and most enviable of men. But as she got to know him better, Keltryn began to wonder whether there might not be a core of sadness somewhere within him that he worked hard to keep concealed. Doubtless he hated growing old, he who was such a masterly athlete and so beautiful to behold. Perhaps he was secretly lonely. And maybe he wished that there was someone, somewhere among the fifteen billion people of this giant planet, who could give him an even match on the dueling-grounds.

In the third week of their private lessons Septach Melayn removed his mask suddenly, after she had carried out an especially well handled series of interchanges, and said, peering down at her from his great height, “That was quite fine, milady. I’ve never seen anyone come along quite as fast as you have. A pity that we’ll have to bring these lessons to a halt very soon.”

He could not have hurt her more if he had slashed her across the throat with the edge of his rapier.

“We will?” she said, horrified.

“The Pontifex will be arriving at the Castle shortly for Lord Dekkeret’s coronation ceremony, and after that the real changes of the new regime will begin. Lord Dekkeret will want his own High Counsellor. I think he plans to appoint Prestimion’s brother Teotas. As for me, I’ve been asked to continue in Prestimion’s service, this time as High Spokesman to the Pontifex. Which means, of course, that I’ll be leaving the Castle and taking up residence at the Labyrinth.”

Keltryn gasped. “The Labyrinth—oh, how terrible, Septach Melayn!”

With a graceful shrug he said, “Ah, not so bad as it’s credited with being, I think. There are decent tailors there, and some estimable restaurants. And Prestimion doesn’t plan to be one of those reclusive Pontifexes who hides himself away at the bottom of the whole thing and doesn’t come out into daylight for the rest of his life. The court will do a good deal of traveling, he tells me. I imagine he’ll be shuttling up and down the Glayge as often as any Pontifex ever has, and going farther afield, too. But if I’m down there with him, and you’re up here, milady—”