Lord Valentine's Castle

With a twitch of his cheek, Heitluig said, 'Surely you know you are at a Free City.'

'I know that. But what of that?'

'The tradition is ancient, and perhaps forgotten by others. But we of the Free Cities hold that we are not required to provide goods for the government, beyond the legally specified taxes. The cost of provisions for an army the size of yours—'

' — will be borne entirely by the imperial treasury,' said Valentine crisply. 'We are asking nothing from Bibiroon that will cost Bibiroon as much as a five-weight piece.'

'And the imperial treasury marches with you?'

Valentine let a flicker of anger show. 'The imperial treasury resides at Castle Mount, as it has since Lord Stiamot’s day, and when I have reached it and have hurled down the usurper I’ll make full payment for what we purchase here. Or is the credit of the Coronal no longer acceptable in Bibiroon?'

'The credit of the Coronal still is, yes,' said Heitluig carefully. 'But there are doubts, my lord. We are thrifty people here, and great shame would come upon us if it developed that we had extended credit to — to one who made false claim upon us.'

Valentine struggled for patience.

'You call me ‘my lord,’ and yet you talk of doubts.'

'I am uncertain, yes. I admit that.'

'Heitluig, come off and talk alone with me a moment.'

'Eh?'

'Come off ten steps! Do you think I’ll slit your throat the moment you leave your bodyguard? I want to whisper something to you that you might not want me to say in front of others.'

The duke, looking baffled and uneasy, nodded grudgingly and let Valentine lead him away. In a low voice Valentine said, 'When you came to Castle Mount for my coronation, Heitluig, you sat at the table of the kin of the Pontifex, and you drank four or five flasks of Muldemar wine, do you remember? And when you were properly sozzled you stood up to dance, and tripped over the leg of your cousin Elzandir, and went sprawling on your face, and would have fought Elzandir on the spot if I had not put my arm around you and drawn you aside. Eh? Does any of that strike an echo in you? And would I know any of that if I were some upstart out of Zimroel trying to seize Lord Valentine’s Castle?'

Heitluig’s face was scarlet. 'My lord—'

'Now you say it with some conviction!' Valentine clasped the duke warmly by the shoulder. 'All right, Heitluig. Give me your aid, and when you come to the Castle to celebrate my restoration, you’ll have five flasks more of good Muldemar. And I hope you’ll be more temperate than the last time.'

'My lord, how can I serve you?'

'I told you. We need fruit and fresh meat, and we’ll settle the bill when I’m Coronal again.'

'So be it. But will you be Coronal?'

'What do you mean?'

'The army that waits above is not a small one, my lord. Lord Valentine — I mean, he who claims to be Lord Valentine — is summoning citizens by the hundreds of thousands to the defense of the Castle.'

Valentine frowned. 'And where is this army assembling?'

'Between Ertsud Grand and Bombifale. He’s drawing on all the Guardian Cities and every city above them. Rivers of blood will run down the Mount, my lord.'

Valentine turned away and closed his eyes a moment. Pain and dismay lashed his spirit. It was inevitable, it was not in the least surprising, it was entirely as he had expected from the start. Dominin Barjazid would allow him to march freely through the lower slopes, then would make a fierce defense in the upper reaches, using against him his own royal bodyguard, the knights of high birth with whom he had been reared. In the front lines against him — Stasilaine, Tunigorn, Mirigant his cousin, Elidath, Divvis his brother’s son—

For an instant Valentine’s resolve wavered once more. Was it worth the turmoil, the bloodshed, the agony of his people, to make himself Coronal a second time? Perhaps it had been the will of the Divine that he be cast down. If he thwarted that will, perhaps, he would accomplish only some terrible cataclysm on the plains above Ertsud Grand, and leave scars on the souls of all people, that would fill his nights with dark accusing dreams of lacerating guilt and make his name accursed forever.

He could turn back now, he could resign from the confrontation with the forces of the Barjazid, he could accept the verdict of destiny, he could — No.

This was a struggle he had fought and won within himself before, and he would not fight it again. A false Coronal, mean and petty and dangerous, held the highest seat of the land, and ruled rashly and illegitimately. This must not be allowed to remain the case. Nothing else mattered.

'My lord?' Heitluig said.

Valentine looked back at the duke. 'The idea of war makes me ache, Heitluig.'

'There is no one who relishes it, my lord.'

'Yet a time comes when war must happen, lest even worse things befall. I think we are at such a time now.'

'So it seems.'

'Do you accept me as Coronal, Heitluig?'

'No pretender would have known of my drunkenness at the coronation, I think.'

'And will you fight beside me above Ertsud Grand?'

Heitluig regarded him steadily. 'Of course, my lord. How many troops of Bibiroon will you require?'

'Say, five thousand. I want no enormous army up there — merely a loyal and brave one.'

'Five thousand warriors are yours, my lord. More if you ask for them.'

'Five thousand will do, Heitluig, and I thank you for your faith in me. Now let’s see about the fresh fruit and meat!'

—9—

THE STAY AT BIBIROON was brief, just long enough for Heitluig to gather his forces and supply Valentine with the necessary provisions, and then it was on upward, upward, upward. Valentine rode in the vanguard, with his dear friends of Pidruid close at his side. It delighted him to see the look of awe and wonder in their eyes, to see Shanamir’s face aglow with excitement, to hear Carabella’s little indrawn gasp of ecstasy, to notice even gruff Zalzan Kavol muttering and rumbling in astonishment, as the splendors of Castle Mount unrolled before them.

And he — how radiant he felt at the thought of coming home!

The higher they went, the sweeter and more pure became the air, for they were drawing ever closer to the great engines that sustained the eternal springtime of the Mount. Soon the outlying districts belonging to the Guardian Cities were in view.

'So much—' Shanamir murmured in a thickened voice. 'So grand a sight—'

Here the Mount was a great gray shield of granite that rolled heavenward in a gentle but inexorable sweep, disappearing into the white billow of clouds that cloaked the upper slopes. The sky was a dazzling electric blue, deeper in tone than in Majipoor’s lowlands. Valentine remembered that sky, how he had loved it, how he had loathed going down into the ordinary world of ordinary colors beyond the Mount. His breast tightened at the sight of it now. Every hill and ridge seemed outlined with a sparkling halo of mysterious brightness. The dust itself, blowing along the edge of the highway, appeared to glitter and shine. Satellite towns and lesser cities could be seen dotting the distant landscape, shimmering like places of awesome magic, and, high above, several of the major urban centers now came in view. Ertsud Grand lay straight ahead, its huge black towers just visible on the horizon, and to the east was a darkness that probably was the city of Minimool; Hoikmar, famed for its quiet canals and byways, could barely be perceived at the extreme westernmost edge of the landscape.

Valentine blinked away the unexpected and troublesome moistness that suddenly was welling in his eyes. He tapped Carabella’s pocket-harp and said, 'Sing to me.'

She smiled and took up the little harp. 'We sang this in Til-omon, where Castle Mount was only a storybook place, a romantic dream—'

There is a land in the far-off east
That we shall never see,
Where marvels sprout on mighty peaks,
Bright cities three by three.
On Castle Mount where Powers dwell,
And heroes sport all day —

She halted, strummed a quick fretful discord, put down the harp. She turned her face from him.

'What is it, love?' Valentine asked.

Carabella shook her head.

'Nothing. I forget the words.'

'Carabella?'

'It’s nothing, I said!'

'Please—'

She looked toward him, biting at her lip, her eyes tear-flooded. 'It’s so wondrous here, Valentine,' she whispered. 'And so strange— so frightening—'

'Wondrous, yes. Frightening, no.'