Dreaming, he stood at the brink of the world.
The western coast of Zimroel lay somewhere out there before him, inconceivably far away, lost from view beyond the curve of the horizon. As he stared outward he tried without success to fathom the immensity of the span that lay between him and the other shore. But no mind could encompass it. He saw only water, a soft pink here at the sandy shore, then a pale green, then turquoise and rich deep blue farther on, and beyond that only a realm of unchanging azure gray that blended imperceptibly with the sky.
It was impossible for him to believe that there could be any end to that tremendous ocean, although he knew in some rational corner of his mind that there had to be—far away, so far that the ship had never been built that could survive the journey. The continent of Zimroel was out there somewhere in front of him, and beyond that lay the Inner Sea, which had seemed so huge to him when he had journeyed from Alaisor to Piliplok long ago, but which was only a puddle compared with this one; and far off in the east on the opposite shore of the Inner Sea was Alhanroel, with its thousand cities and its Labyrinth and its Castle; and here he stood at Alhanroel’s other edge, looking off toward Zimroel and unable to comprehend the distance between here and there.
“Prestimion?” a soft voice called.
Thismet, it was.
He turned and saw her coming out of that narrow gateway in the black cliff, running toward him across the sand, smiling, extending her arms to him. She was dressed as she had been that day in his tent in the quiet Vale of Gloyn, just before the final battle of the civil war, when she had come to him to confess her error in pushing her brother toward his taking of the crown, and to offer herself to him as his bride: a sheer white gown, was all, and nothing beneath it but her sleek and beautiful self. A dazzling sun-halo glistened about her. “We could swim to Zimroel, Prestimion,” she said. “Would you like to? Come. Come.” And the gown was gone, and in the bright light of morning her slender dusky-skinned body gleamed in its miraculous nakedness like burnished bronze. He stared at her taut, trim form in a transport of delight, his gaze sweeping downward in wonder to take in the slim shoulders and the high, rounded little breasts and the flat belly that flared outward so startlingly at her hips and the lean, sinewy legs below; and then, with trembling hands, he reached for her.
She folded his hand into hers. But instead of coming to him she pulled him toward her, pulled with a strength that he could not have resisted had he wanted to, and led him onward into the sea. The water, enveloping him easily, was warm and soothing. Surely the womb itself could not have been more comforting than this. With swift, strong strokes they swam eastward, Thismet just a little way ahead of him, her black lustrous hair glinting in the new day’s light; and for hours they went on that way, heading ever toward the continent on the far shore, she turning now and then to smile and wave and beckon him on.
He felt no fatigue whatever. He knew he could swim for days like this. For weeks. Months.
But then, after a while, he looked toward Thismet and became aware that he could not see her anywhere, and indeed realized that it was some time since he had, that he could not actually remember when she had last been there ahead of him. “Thismet?” he called. “Thismet, where are you?” But there was no answer, only the gentle lapping of the waves, and after a time he knew himself to be entirely alone in the vastness of that great ocean.
In the morning Prestimion said nothing to anyone, simply washed his face by a limpid little stream that ran alongside their campsite and dressed and found some cold meat from last night’s meal for his breakfast; and a little while afterward they broke camp and began their long trek back to the Castle, no one speaking of the dreams that had come in the night, or of the failure of the quest for Dantirya Sambail.
3
It was only mid-morning, but already at least ten assassins with drawn swords had come bursting into the Coronal’s official suite so far that day, and Septach Melayn had dispatched them all with his usual efficiency. Usually they arrived in groups of two or three, but the most recent bunch had been a foursome. That had been half an hour ago. He had given them a very fine lesson in swordsmanship indeed.
Now, slumped in a gloomy slouch behind Prestimion’s desk with the latest thick stack of governmental documents in front of him awaiting his signature, he felt a most powerful urge to get up and wipe out a few more. It was not just a matter of keeping his reflexes sharp, though that was important enough, but of preserving his sanity. Septach Melayn had sworn long ago that he would serve Prestimion in all tasks that were required of him, yes. But he hadn’t bargained on being cooped up here in Prestimion’s office at the Castle for weeks on end, handling all the dreary tasks that a Coronal was required to deal with, while the real Coronal was off roaming about in the mysterious east country, not merely hunting for Dantirya Sambail but also encountering excitements of all kinds along the way, a whole great host of strange monsters and marvels.
Let someone else be regent the next time Prestimion feels like going on a trip, Septach Melayn thought. Gialaurys, or Navigorn, or Duke Miaule of Hither Miaule, or anyone else at all—Akbalik, Maundigand-Klimd, even that new boy Dekkeret. Anyone. Just not me, he thought. I have had more than a sufficiency of this. I am a man for action, not desks and papers. You have been unfair to me, Prestimion.
He turned to the top document on the stack.
Resolution No. 278, Year 1 Pont. Confalume Cor. Lord Prestimion. Inasmuch as the municipal council of the City of Low Morpin has demonstrated conclusively that a need exists for renovation of the municipal sewage line that runs from Havilbove Way in central Low Morpin to the boundary of the Siminave district in the adjacent city of Frangior, and the municipal council of Frangior is in agreement that the aforesaid renovations are not objectionable to it, be it herewith resolved that—
Yes. Be it resolved. Whatever they were resolving, let it herewith be resolved: the dumping of both cities’ sewage into the central plaza of Sipermit, for all Septach Melayn cared at this point. What business was it of his? Why should it even be the Coronal’s affair, for that matter? His eyes were beginning to glaze with boredom and fatigue. Quickly he scrawled his signature on the resolution without reading the rest of it and shoved it aside.
Next: Resolution No. 1279, Year 1 Pont. Confalume—
He could bear it no longer. Half an hour of this at a time was all he could take. His soul rebelled.
“What?” he bellowed, looking up. “More murderers? Ha! Is there no respect for high office in the world any more?”
There were five of them this time, lean sharp-nosed men with the sun-darkened skin of southerners. Septach Melayn leaped to his feet. His rapier, which remained just beside him at the desk at all times, was in his hand and already in motion. “Look at you,” he said, with a disdainful edge to his voice. “Those dirty boots! Those ragged leather jerkins! Spots of grease all over them! Don’t you know how to dress when you come calling at the Castle?” They had arrayed themselves in a semicircle from one side of the big room to the other. I will start at the end closest to the window, thought Septach Melayn, and work my way across.
And then he stopped thinking and became pure motion, a mere machine of death, dancing on the tips of his toes in perfect balance, his long right arm extending, thrusting, withdrawing, extending again, parrying, thrusting, withdrawing. His blade moved with the speed of light.
Let them keep pace with him if they could. They would be the first who had ever managed it.
“Ha!” he cried. “Yes!” So, so, so: with a little grunting sound of delight he skewered the scar-faced one by the window through the throat, then whirled neatly and put the tip of his blade deep into the belly of the one next to him with the red bandanna, who was kind enough to topple heavily athwart the third, the stunningly ugly one, thus forcing him to turn his back on Septach Melayn just sufficiently long for Septach Melayn to take him in the heart from the side. “Ah! There! So!” One, two, three. This was mere dancing; this was good simple play. The two surviving killers now attempted to charge Septach Melayn at the same time, but he was much too fast for them: a hard lunge to the right carried his blade all the way through the midsection of the first, and by lowering his left shoulder and flexing his left knee he was able to dodge under the thrust that came from the other attacker while simultaneously pulling his sword from the body of the first, and then with a triumphant cry of “Ha! Ha!” he pivoted sharply and—