Prestimion knelt and pressed his forehead reverently against the side of the altar. Dekkeret, after a moment, did the same.
“I met him once when I was a boy: did I ever tell you that?” Dekkeret said, when they had risen. “I was nine. It was in Bombifale. We were there because my father was showing samples of his goods—agricultural machinery, I think, is what he was dealing in then—to the manager of Admiral Gonivaul’s estate, and Lord Confalume was Gonivaul’s guest at the same time. I saw them go out riding together in Gonivaul’s big floater. They went right past me in the road, and I waved, and Confalume smiled and waved back. Just the sight of him made me tremble. He seemed so strong, Prestimion, so radiant—practically godlike. That smile of his: the warmth, the power of it. It’s a moment I’ll never forget. And then, that afternoon, I went with my father to Bombifale Palace, and the Coronal was holding court, and once again he smiled at me—”
He broke off his story and looked toward the still, shrouded figure lying there atop the altar. It was not easy to accept the fact that a monarch of so much force and grandeur could have vanished from the world between one moment and the next, leaving only this husk behind.
Prestimion said, “He may have been the greatest of them all. Flawed, yes. His vanity, his love of luxury, his weakness for wizards and soothsayers. But what trifling faults those were, and how wonderful his accomplishments! Guiding the world for sixty years—the heroic power of him—as you say, almost godlike. History will be very kind to him. Let’s hope we’re remembered half as warmly as he will be, Dekkeret.”
“Yes. I pray that we are.”
Prestimion began to move toward the exit of the great hall. But as he reached the door he halted and once more indicated the two thrones, the entire length of the room away, with a quick taut nod, and then looked back at the alcove where the dead Pontifex lay. “The single worst moment of his reign took place over there, right in front of those thrones, when Korsibar grabbed the starburst crown.” Dekkeret followed
Prestimion’s pointing arm. “I was looking straight at Confalume, just then. He seemed numb. Staggered by it—broken, shattered. They had to take him by the elbows and lead him up the steps and seat him on the Pontifical throne, with his son sitting up there beside him. There. Those very thrones.”
All so long ago, Dekkeret thought. Ancient history, buried and forgotten by all the world. Except Prestimion, it seemed.
Who was caught up now in the grip of his own tale. “I had an audience with Confalume a day or two later, and he still appeared to be dazed by the thing that Korsibar had done. He seemed old—weak—beaten. I was furious at having been done out of the throne, and that he had acquiesced in the theft; yet, seeing him in that state, I could only feel compassion for him. I asked him to call out the troops against the usurper, and I thought he was going to weep, because I was asking him to launch a war against his own son. He would not do it, of course. He told me that he agreed that I was the one who should have been Coronal, but that now he had no other path but to accept Korsibar’s coup. He begged me for mercy! Mercy, Dekkeret! And out of pity for him I went away without pressing him further.” There was a sudden startling look of torment in Prestimion’s eyes. “To see that great man in ruins, like that, Dekkeret—that this was mighty Confalume with whom I was speaking, now only the pathetic shadow of a king—”
So he will not let go of it, Dekkeret thought: the usurpation and all its consequences still resonated in Prestimion’s spirit down to this very moment.
“What an awful thing that must have been to witness,” he said, since he felt he must say something, as they emerged into the vestibule.
“It was an agony for me. And for Confalume also, I would think.—Well, eventually my sorcerers carved all memory of Korsibar’s little bit of mischief from his mind, and from everyone else’s as well, and he returned to being his old self and lived on happily for many years thereafter. But I still carry the memory of it in my soul. If only I could have forgotten it too!”
“There are certain painful memories that don’t want to fade, is what you told me only a minute ago.”
“True enough.”
Dekkeret realized in dismay that a painful memory of his own had unexpectedly begun to stir in him. He tried to push it back down into the place from which it had come. But it would not be pushed.
Prestimion, seeming more cheerful now, opened another door. A giant Skandar guard stood just within. Prestimion waved him aside. “Beyond here,” he said, in an easier tone, “the private dwelling of the Pontifex begins. It goes on and on: dozens of rooms, three score of them, at least. I still haven’t been all the way through the whole place. Confalume’s collections are here, do you see?—all his toys of magic, his paintings and statues, the prehistoric artifacts, the ancient coins, the stuffed birds and mounted bugs. The man scooped up every manner of thing with both hands throughout his life, and here it all is. He’s left everything to the nation. We’ll give him an entire wing in the new Archive building at the Castle. Look—here, do you see this, Dekkeret—?”
Dekkeret, who was barely paying attention, said, “I also have an unpleasant memory that refuses to fade.”
“And what is that?” Prestimion asked. He seemed disconcerted by the interruption.
“You were there when it happened. That day in Normork when the madman tried to assassinate you, and my cousin Sithelle was killed instead—?”
“Ah. Yes,” said Prestimion, sounding a little vague, as though he had not given the incident a moment’s thought in twenty years. “That lovely girl. Yes. Of course.”
It all came rushing back yet again. “I carried her through the streets, bleeding all over me, dead in my arms. The worst moment of my life, bar none. The blood. That pale face, those staring eyes. And later in the day they brought me before you, because I had saved your life, and you rewarded me with a knight-initiate’s post, and everything began for me in that moment. I was just eighteen. But I’ve never fully been able to break free of the pain of Sithelle’s death. Not really. It was only after she was dead that I realized how much I loved her.” Dekkeret hesitated. He was not sure, even after having gone this far, that he wanted to share this with Prestimion, for all that the older man had been his guide and mentor these nearly twenty years. But then the words came surging forth as if by their own volition: “Do you know, Prestimion, I think that it’s on account of Sithelle that I took up with Fulkari? I think I was drawn to her at the outset, and am held by her still, because when I look at her I see Sithelle.”
Prestimion still did not appear to comprehend the depth of his feelings. To him this was just so much conversation. “You think so, do you? How interesting, that the resemblance should be so strong.” He did not sound interested in the slightest. “But of course I’m in no position to know. I saw your cousin only that once, and for just an instant. It was a long time ago—everything was happening so quickly—”
“Yes. How could you possibly remember? But if there were some way of standing them next to each other, I know you’d think that they must be sisters. To me, Fulkari looks more like Sithelle than she does her own actual sister. And so—the root of my obsession with her—”
“Obsession?” Prestimion blinked in surprise. “Wait, there! I thought you were in love with her, Dekkeret. Obsession is something else again, something not quite as pretty and pure. Or are you telling me that you think the two terms are synonymous?”
“They can be, yes. Yes. And in this case I know that they are.” There was no turning back from this, now. “I swear it, Prestimion, the thing that drew me to Fulkari was her resemblance to Sithelle, and nothing else. I knew nothing about her. I had never spoken a word with her. But I saw her, and I thought, There she is, restored to me, and it was like a trap closing on me. A trap that I had set for myself.”