“You look well this morning, father. Did you have a good rest?”
“Oh, yes, very good. And you, Varaile?”
“It would have been nice to sleep a little longer, but of course I couldn’t do that. We were up very late last night: another banquet, it was, the Duke of Chorg here from Bibiroon, and he’s a great connoisseur of wines. And since Prestimion’s family is famous for its wine, naturally it was necessary to have a whole case of rarities shipped up from Muldemar for the banquet, and the duke, wouldn’t you know, wanted to have a sip from every single bottle—”
“Prestimion?” said Simbilon Khayf, smiling vaguely.
“My husband. Lord Prestimion, the Coronal. You know that I’m the Coronal’s wife, don’t you, father?”
Simbilon Khayf blinked. “You’ve married old Confalume, have you? Why would you have wanted to do that? Isn’t it strange, being married to a man older than your father?”
“But I’m not,” she said, laughing despite the gravity of the situation. “Father, Confalume isn’t Coronal any longer. He’s gone on to become Pontifex. There’s a new Coronal now.”
“Yes, of course: Lord Korsibar. How silly of me! How could I have forgotten that it was Korsibar who became Coronal after Confalume?—So you’ve married Korsibar, have you?”
She stared at him, puzzled and saddened. His damaged mind wandered in the strangest ways. “Korsibar? No, father. Wherever did you get that name from? There isn’t any Lord Korsibar. I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.”
“But I was sure that—”
“No, father.”
“Then who—”
“Prestimion, father. Prestimion. He’s the Coronal now, the successor to Lord Confalume. And I’m his wife.”
“Ah. Lord Prestimion. Very interesting. The new Coronal’s name is Prestimion, not Korsibar. What could I have been thinking of? You’re his wife, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“How many children do you and this Lord Prestimion have, then?”
Varaile said, reddening a little, “We haven’t really been married all that long, father. We don’t have any children yet.”
“Well, you will. Everybody has children. I had one myself, I think.”
“Yes. You did. You’re speaking with her right now.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes. The one who married the Coronal. What’s his name, this Coronal you married?”
“Prestimion, father.”
“Prestimion. Yes. I knew a Prestimion once. Smallish man, blond hair, very quick with a bow and arrow. A clever sort. I wonder what ever became of him.”
“He became Coronal, father,” said Varaile patiently. “I married him.”
“Married the Coronal? Is that what you said: you married the Coronal? How very unusual! And what a step upward in the world for us, my dear. No one in our family has ever married a Coronal before, isn’t that so?”
“I’m sure that I’m the first,” Varaile said. It was about this time, each visit, when her eyes would begin welling with tears and she would have to turn briefly away, for it was bewildering and upsetting to Simbilon Khayf to see her cry. That happened now. She flicked her fingers across her face and turned back to him, smiling valiantly.
In recent weeks it had become quite clear to her that she had never actually loved her father in the days when his mind was intact: had not, in fact, even liked him very much.
She had accepted the nature of their life together without ever questioning any aspect of it: his hunger for money and glory, his embarrassing social pretensions, his arrogance, his many foolishnesses of dress and speech, his enormous wealth. A prank of the Divine had made her his daughter; another, her mother’s early death, had made her the mistress of Simbilon Khayf’s household when she was still just a girl; and Varaile had accepted all that and had simply gone about the responsibilities that had fallen to her, repressing whatever rebellious thoughts might surface in her mind. Life as Simbilon Khayf’s daughter had often been a trying business for her, but it was her life, and she had seen no alternative to it.
Well, now the horrid little man who had happened to be her father was a shattered thing, an empty vessel. He too had been the victim of a prank of the Divine. It would be easy enough for her to turn her back on him and forget that he had ever existed; he would never know the difference. But no, no, she could not do that. All her life she had looked after the needs of Simbilon Khayf, not because she particularly wanted to, but because she had to. Now that he was in ruins and her own life had been immensely transformed for the better by yet another of the Divine’s little jokes, she looked after him still, not because it was in any way necessary, but because she wanted to.
He sat there smiling uncomprehendingly as she told him of yesterday’s Castle events: the meeting in the morning with Kazmai Noor, the Castle architect, to discuss the preliminary plans for the historical museum that Prestimion wanted to build, and then her lunch with the Duchess of Chorg and the Princess of Hektiroon, and in the afternoon a visit to a children’s hospital downslope at Halanx and the dedication of a playground in nearby Low Morpin. Simbilon Khayf listened, ever smiling, saying now and then, “Oh, that’s very nice. Nice indeed.”
Then she drew some papers forth and said, “I also had a few matters of private business to deal with yesterday. You know, father, that I’ve been signing all the family enterprises over to the employees, because someone has to run those companies and neither you nor I would be capable of doing that now, and in any case it would never do for the Coronal’s wife to engage in commerce. We transferred seven more of them yesterday.”
“Oh, very nice,” said Simbilon Khayf, smiling.
“I have their names here, if you’re interested, though I don’t think that you are. Migdal Velorn was at the Castle—you know who he is, father? The president of your bank in Amblemorn?—and I signed all the papers he brought me. They involved Velathyntu Mills, and the shipping company in Alaisor, and two banks, and—well, there were seven. We have just eleven companies left, now, and I hope to be rid of them in another few weeks.”
“Indeed. How good of you to take such care of things.”
His constant smile was unnerving. These visits were never easy. Was there anything else she needed to tell him today? Probably not. What difference did it make, anyway? She rose to leave. “I’ll be going now, father. Prestimion sends his love.”
“Prestimion?”
“My husband.”
“Oh, you’re married now, Varaile? How very nice. Do you have any children?”
On a fine golden morning toward the end of summer Prestimion went downslope to his family estates in Muldemar to attend the great annual festival of the new wine. Every year at that time, by ancient tradition, the newly made wines of the previous autumn’s vintage were brought out for their first tasting, and a lively day-long celebration was held in Muldemar city, capped by a grand banquet at Muldemar House, the residence of the Prince of Muldemar.
Prestimion had presided over a dozen or so of these events in his time as prince. Then, for two years running, there had been the distraction of the civil war to keep him from being present. Now he was Coronal and Abrigant had succeeded him at Muldemar. But last year there had been no banquet either, because he and Abrigant had been off in the east country chasing after Dantirya Sambail at the customary time of the festival. So this would be Abrigant’s first festival since becoming Prince of Muldemar; and he would regard it as a high honor if Prestimion were to attend. The Coronal did not ordinarily attend the Muldemar festival. But no member of Prestimion’s family had ever gone on to become Coronal before, either. Prestimion felt obligated to be there. It would mean an absence of three or four days from the Castle altogether.