He had fought then for the throne, yes, fought desperately, but not so much because he simply wanted it, as Korsibar had, but because he was sure he deserved it, that he was needed for it, that he was the necessary and unique man of his era. No doubt many a dread tyrant and monstrous villain had felt the same way precisely about himself, in the long course of human history going back to the all but forgotten times of Old Earth. Well, so be it; Prestimion had faith in his own understanding of his own motives. And so, he knew, did all of Majipoor. He was beloved by all, and that was the confirmation of everything. He had served ably as Coronal; so would he serve now, now that he was Pontifex.
He looked toward Dekkeret, who was standing a little apart, plainly unwilling to intrude on his reflections. “Have you given thought yet to how you will begin?”
“New decrees and laws, you mean? Overturning ancient precedents, repealing existing protocols, standing the world on its head? I thought I might wait some little while before setting out on that course.”
Prestimion laughed. “A wise position, I think. The Coronal who governs wisest is the one who governs least. Lord Prankipin put the world back on its course by lessening the grip of government; Confalume followed that course, and so have I. The benefits can be seen on every side.—But no, no, I wasn’t speaking of legislative matters, only symbolic ones. Is it your intention to sequester yourself here at the Castle until you’ve fully settled into your tasks, or will you show yourself to the people?”
“If I hide here until I feel I’ve fully settled into my tasks, I may grow old and die before the world sees my face. But surely it’s too soon for a grand processional, Prestimion!”
“I would say that it is. Save the processional for the traditional fifth year, unless circumstances force it sooner. But once I became Coronal I lost little time in visiting the nearby cities, if nothing farther. Of course, I was ever a restless man: you are more content to see the same set of doors and windows several weeks running, I think. Still, there’s something to be said for a Coronal’s getting himself away from the Castle as often as is seemly. One gets a damned narrow view of the world from thirty miles up.”
“So I would think,” said Dekkeret. “Where did you go, in your first months?”
“In the very beginning, I simply slipped away with Septach Melayn and Gialaurys, saying nothing about it to anyone, going in the night to places like Banglecode or Greel or Bibiroon. We wore wigs and false whiskers, even, and kept our ears open, and learned much about the world that had been given us to govern. The Night Market of Bombifale—ah, now that was a time! We tasted foods no Coronal may ever have eaten before. We visited the dealers in sorcery-goods. It was there that I met Maundigand-Klimd, who had no difficulty seeing through my disguise.—Not that I recommend such subterfuges to you.”
“No. Such things as wigs and false whiskers are not my style, I suspect.”
“A little later I journeyed in a more formal way. I would take Teotas or Abrigant with me, Gialaurys, Navigorn, various members of my Council. And visit the cities of the Mount—Peritole, Strave, Minimool, down the Mount even to Gimkandale—never imposing myself on any one place for long, because of the expense it would involve for them, merely arriving and making a speech or two, listening to complaints, promising miracles, and moving along. It was in this phase of my reign that I came to Normork, you may recall.”
“How could I ever forget it?” said Dekkeret gravely.
“Finding Maundigand-Klimd on one trip, and you on another; and there was a third journey, a visit to Stee, where I met the Lady Varaile. Fortuitous meetings, all three, the merest of accidents, and yet how they transformed my reign, and my life! Whereas if you remain sequestered at the Castle—”
Dekkeret nodded. “Yes. I do take the point.”
“One more question, and then we should go in,” Prestimion said. “Maundigand-Klimd came to you, did he not, with his tale of perceiving a Barjazid as a Power of the Realm? What did you make of that story?”
“Why, very little, if anything.” Dekkeret indicated surprise that Prestimion would so much as mention anything so fantastic. “The three positions are filled, and let us hope no vacancies develop for many years to come.”
“You take his words very literally, I see.”
“The Su-Suheris made the very same comment. But how else am I to look upon words, other than as things with meanings? You seem to find it diverting to listen now and then to the murmurings of sorcerers, but to me they are all worthless idlers and parasites, even your cherished Maundigand-Klimd, and their prognostications are mere vapor to me. If a magus comes to me and says that in his dreams he has seen a Barjazid wearing the aura of a Power of the Realm, why should I search for hidden meanings and buried subtleties? I look first at the message itself. That particular message strikes me as foolishness. So I put it out of mind.”
“You do yourself an injustice by ignoring Maundigand-Klimd’s warning.”
A certain note of exasperation came into Dekkeret’s voice now. “We should not quarrel on this happy day, Prestimion. But—forgive me—what sense can there be in his prophecy? The Barjazids are all loathsome scoundrels, my friend Dinitak aside. The world would never embrace them as kings.”
“But Dinitak might, you think?”
“It would be very far-fetched. I grant you I could choose to name him as my successor, which would indeed make him a Power of the Realm, and if I did, I think he’d be a capable ruler, if perhaps somewhat stern. But I assure you most assuredly, Prestimion, that it’ll be many years before I begin fretting about finding a replacement for myself, and when I do I doubt very much that my choice would ever land on Dinitak. Two commoners in a row may be more than the system can stand. Dinitak has many virtues and is, I suppose, my closest friend, but he’s not, I think, generous enough of soul to be considered even in jest as a potential Coronal. He is a hard man, without much charity in him. Therefore—”
Prestimion held up one hand. “Enough! I beg you, Dekkeret, put aside the Power of the Realm part of this prophecy entirely. You’ve just ruled Dinitak out, and as for Khaymak Barjazid, I have as much trouble imagining him as Coronal as you would. Focus instead on Maundigand-Klimd’s warning that there will be difficulties in the early days of your reign, and that some Barjazid will be involved in them.”
“I’m prepared to deal with whatever arises. First let it arise, though.”
“You will remain alert, though?”
“Of course I will. It should go without saying. But I will not take up arms against phantoms, for all that you tell me about the wisdom of your magus. And I tell you, Prestimion, I will be reluctant to take up arms at all, no matter what troubles may arise, if there’s a peaceful solution available to me.—Shall we drop this discussion now, Prestimion? We have our farewell dinner to prepare ourselves for.”
“Yes. So we do.”
In any case, Prestimion saw, there was no point in continuing this. It was clear to him that what he was trying to do was about as fruitful as butting his head against the great wall of Normork. Butt all you pleased; the wall would never yield. Neither would Dekkeret.
Perhaps I am too sensitive on this, Prestimion thought, having had two doses of insurrection one upon another in the early years of my own reign. I am conditioned by my own unhappy experiences always to expect trouble; when it is absent, as it has been these many years since the death of Dantirya Sambail, I mistrust its absence. Dekkeret has a sunnier spirit: let him deal with Maundigand-Klimd’s gloomy prophecy as he pleases. Perhaps the Divine will indeed grant him a happy start to his reign despite everything. And dinner is waiting.