“No, Fulkari. That’s not how it was at all.” Dekkeret was speaking more forcefully now. “When I told you I loved you, it was you I was telling it to—Fulkari of Sipermit. When I held you in my arms, it was Fulkari of Sipermit that I was holding. Sithelle and I never were lovers. We probably never would have been, even if she had lived. When I asked you to marry me, it was you I was asking, not Sithelle’s ghost.”
“Then why all this talk of apologies?”
“Because the thing I can’t deny is that I was drawn to you originally for the wrong reason, no matter what happened later. That instant attraction I felt, before we had ever spoken a word to each other—it was because some foolish part of me was whispering that you were Sithelle reborn, that a second chance was being given to me. I knew even then that it was idiotic. But I was caught—trapped by my own ridiculous fantasy. So I pursued you. Not because you were you, not at first, but because you looked so much like Sithelle. The woman I fell in love with, though, was you. The woman I asked to marry me: you. You, Fulkari.”
“And when Fulkari refused you, was that like losing Sithelle a second time?” she asked. Her tone was one of mere curiosity, only. It surprised her how quickly the anger was beginning to fade.
“No. No. It wasn’t like that at all,” said Dekkeret. “Sithelle was like a sister to me: I never would have married her. When you refused me—and I knew you would; you had already given me a million indications that you would—it tore me apart, because I knew I was losing you. And I saw how my original crazy notion of using you as a replacement for Sithelle had led me step by step into falling in love with a real living woman who didn’t happen to want to be my wife. I wasted three years of our lives, Fulkari. That’s what I’m sorry about. The thing that drew me to you in the first place was a fantasy, a will-o’-the-wisp, but I was caught by it as though by a metal trap; and it held me long enough for me to fall in love with the true Fulkari, who wasn’t able to return my love, and so—a waste, Fulkari, all a waste—”
“That isn’t so, Dekkeret.” She spoke firmly, and met his gaze evenly, calmly. Every trace of anger was gone from her now. A new assurance had come over her.
“You don’t think so?”
“Maybe it was a waste for you. But not for me. What I felt for you was real. It still is.” Fulkari paused only a moment, then plunged boldly onward. What was there to lose? “I love you, Dekkeret. And not because you remind me of anyone else.”
He seemed astonished. “You love me still?”
“When did I ever tell you I had stopped?”
“You seemed furious, just a moment or two back, when I was telling you that what first led me to pursue you was the image of Sithelle that I still carried in my mind.”
“What woman would be pleased to hear such a thing? But why should I allow it to continue to matter? Sithelle’s long gone. And so is the boy who may or may not have been in love with her—even he wasn’t sure—a long time ago. But you and I are still here.”
“For whatever that might be worth,” said Dekkeret.
“Perhaps it could be worth a great deal indeed,” said Fulkari.—“Tell me something, Dekkeret: just how difficult would it really be, do you think, to be the Coronal’s wife?”
14
“My lord?” Teotas said, peering through the open doorway.
He stood at the threshold of the threshold of the Coronal’s official suite, that great room whose giant curving window revealed the breathtaking abyss of open space that abutted this side of the Castle.
Dekkeret, when Teotas had asked him for this meeting, had proposed that Teotas come to him in the chamber in the Methirasp Long Hall that he seemed to be using as his main office these days. But Teotas had felt uncomfortable with that. It was irregular. This was the room that he associated with the grandeur and might of the Coronal Lord. Again and again during the reign of his brother Prestimion had he met here with the Coronal in some time of crisis. What he wanted to discuss with Lord Dekkeret now was a matter of the highest concern, and it was in this room, only in this room, that he wanted to discuss it. One did not ordinarily make demands upon Coronals. But Dekkeret had yielded gracefully to his request.
“Come in, Teotas,” Dekkeret said. “Sit down.”
“My lord,” Teotas said a second time, and offered the starburst salute.
The Coronal was seated behind the splendid ancient desk, a single polished slab of red palisander wood with a natural grain resembling the starburst emblem that Coronals since Lord Dizimaule’s day had used—a span of five hundred years or more. For Teotas there was something of a shock in seeing Lord Dekkeret actually sitting at that desk that Lord Prestimion had occupied for so many years. But he needed that shock.
It was important for him to remind himself at every opportunity that presented itself that the great imperial shift had occurred once more, that Prestimion had gone off to the Labyrinth to become Pontifex, that this beautiful desk, which had been Lord Confalume’s before it was Prestimion’s, and Lord Prankipin’s before it was Confalume’s, was Lord Dekkeret’s now.
Dekkeret fitted it welclass="underline" better, in truth, than Prestimion had. The desk had always seemed too huge for the small-framed Prestimion, but the much bigger Dekkeret was a more appropriate match for the desk’s majestic dimensions. He was dressed in the traditional royal way, robes of green and gold with ermine trim, and he radiated such strength and confidence now that Teotas, weary unto exhaustion and close to the limits of his strength, felt suddenly aged and feeble in the presence of this man who was only a few years younger than he was himself.
“So,” Dekkeret said. “Here we are.”
“Here we are, yes.”
“You look tired, Teotas. Dinitak tells me that you’ve been sleeping badly of late.”
“I’d rather have it that I wasn’t sleeping at all. When I give myself over to sleep it brings me the most terrible dreams—dreams so frightful I can barely believe that my mind is capable of inventing such things.”
“Give me an example.”
Teotas shook his head. “No point in trying. I’d have difficulty describing it. Not much remains in my mind after I awaken except a sense that I’ve been through a terrifying experience. I see strange hideous landscapes, monsters, demons. But I won’t try to portray them. What seems so terrifying to the dreamer himself has no power over anyone else.—And in any event I haven’t come here to talk about my dreams, my lord. There’s the matter of my pending appointment as High Counsellor.”
“What about it?” Dekkeret asked, in so cool and casual a way that Teotas could see that he had been anticipating some discussion of that very topic. “I remind you, Teotas, I’ve had no formal acceptance of the post from you.”
“Nor will you,” Teotas said. “I’ve come to you to ask you to withdraw my name from consideration.”
Quite clearly Dekkeret had anticipated that. The Coronal’s voice was still very calm as he said, “I would not have chosen you, Teotas, if I didn’t think that you were the man most suited for the post.”
“I’m cognizant of that. It’s a matter of the deepest regret to me that I can’t accept this great honor. But I can’t.”
“May I have a reason?”
“Must I provide one, my lord?”
“Not ‘must,’ no. But I do think some explanation would be appropriate.”
“My lord—”
Teotas could not go on, for fear of what he might say. He felt a stirring, deep within himself, of the famous temper that once had been so widely feared. Why would Dekkeret not simply release him from the offer and let him be? But the heat of his fury had been much diminished by time and the weariness that comes with despair. He was able now to find nothing more within himself than a crackle of annoyance, and that quickly passed, leaving him drained and desolate and numb.