All this afternoon he had stood by himself on the deck, staring straight ahead, and no one dared approach him, not even Carabella, so complete was the sphere of isolation in which he had enclosed himself. When after a time she did go to him, hesitantly, timidly, it was in silence. He smiled and drew her close, her hip against his thigh, her shoulder against the pit of his arm, but still he did not speak, for he had passed for the moment into a realm beyond words, where he was calm, where the eroded places of his spirit might begin to heal somewhat. He knew he could trust her not to intrude on that.
After a long while she glanced off to the west, and caught her breath sharply in surprise. But still she did not speak.
He said, as though from far away, “What is it you see, love?”
“A shape out there. A dragon shape, I think.”
He made no reply.
She said, “Can it be possible, Valentine? They told us there wouldn’t be any dragons in these waters at this time of year. But what is it I see, then?”
“You see a dragon.”
“They said there wouldn’t be any. But I’m sure of it. Something dark. Something large. Swimming in the same direction we’re going. Valentine, how can there be a dragon here?”
“Dragons are everywhere, Carabella.”
“Am I imagining it? Perhaps it’s only a shadow on the water—a drifting mass of seaweed, maybe—”
He shook his head. “You see a dragon. A king-dragon, one of the great ones.”
“You say that without even looking, Valentine.”
“Yes. But the dragon is there.”
“You sense it?”
“I sense it, yes. That great heavy dragon-presence. The strength of its mind. That powerful intelligence. I sensed it before you said anything.”
“You sense so many things, now,” she said.
“Too many,” said Valentine.
He continued to look northward. The vast soul of the dragon lay like a weight upon his. His sensitivity had grown during these months of stress; he was able now to send his mind forth with scarcely an effort, indeed could scarcely keep himself from doing so. Awake or asleep, he roved deep into the soul of the world. Distance no longer seemed to be a barrier. He sensed everything, even the harsh bitter thoughts of the Shapeshifters, even the slow throbbing emanations of the sea dragons.
Carabella said, “What does the dragon want? Is it going to attack us, Valentine?”
“I doubt it.”
“Can you be sure of that?”
“I’m not sure of anything, Carabella.”
He reached toward the great beast in the sea. He strived to touch its mind with his. For an instant there was something like contact—a sense of opening, a sense of joining. Then he was brushed aside as though by a mighty hand, but not disdainfully, not contemptuously. It was as though the dragon were saying, Not now, not here, not yet.
“You look so strange,” she said. “Will the dragon attack?”
“No. No.”
“You seem frightened.”
“Not frightened, no. I’m simply trying to understand. But I feel no danger. Only watchfulness—surveillance—that powerful mind, keeping watch over us—”
“Sending reports on us to the Shapeshifters, perhaps?”
“That may be, I suppose.”
“If the dragons and the Shapeshifters are in alliance against us—”
“So Deliamber suspects, on the evidence of someone who is no longer available for questioning. I think it may be more complex than that. I think we will be a long time understanding what it is that links the Shapeshifters and the sea dragons. But I tell you, I feel no danger.”
She was silent a moment, staring at him.
“You can actually read the dragon’s mind?”
“No. No. I feel the dragon’s mind. The presence of it. I can read nothing. The dragon is a mystery to me, Carabella. The harder I strive to reach it, the more easily it deflects me.”
“It’s turning. It’s beginning to swim away from us.”
“Yes. I can feel it closing its mind to me—pulling back, shutting me out.”
“What did it want, Valentine? What did it learn?”
“I wish I knew,” he said.
He clung tightly to the rail, drained, shaking. Carabella put her hand over his a moment, and squeezed it; and then she moved away and they were silent again.
He did not understand. He understood so very little. And he knew it was essential that he understand. He was the one through which this turmoil in the world might be resolved, and reunion accomplished: of that he was sure. He, only he, could bring the warring forces together into harmony. But how? How?
When, years ago, his brother’s death had unexpectedly made him a king, he had taken on that burden without a murmur, giving himself over fully to it though often the kingship felt to him like a chariot that was pulling him mercilessly along behind it. But at least he had had the training a king must have. Now, so it was beginning to seem, Majipoor was demanding of him that he become a god; and he had had no training at all for that.
He sensed the dragon still there, somewhere not far away. But he could make no real contact; and after a time he abandoned the attempt. He stood until dusk, peering to the north as though he expected to see the Isle of the Lady shining like a beacon in the darkness.
But the Isle was still some days’ journey away. They were only now passing the latitude of the great peninsula known as the Stoienzar. The sea-road from Tolaghai to the Isle cut sharply across the Inner Sea almost to Alhanroel—to the Stoienzar’s tip, practically—and then angled up the back face of the Rodamaunt Archipelago to Numinor port. Such a route took fullest advantage of the prevailing wind from the south, and of the strong Rodamaunt Current: it was far quicker to sail from Suvrael to the Isle than from the Isle to Suvrael.
That evening there was much discussion of the dragon. In winter these waters normally abounded with them, for the dragons that had survived the autumn hunting season customarily proceeded past the Stoienzar coast on their eastward journey back to the Great Sea. But this was not winter; and, as Valentine and the others had already had the opportunity to observe, the dragons had taken a strange route this year, veering northward past the western coast of the Isle toward some mysterious rendezvous in the polar seas. But these days, though, there were dragons everywhere in the sea, or so it seemed, and who knew why? Not I, Valentine thought. Certainly not I.
He sat quietly among his friends, saying little, gathering his strength, replenishing himself.
In the night, lying awake with Carabella at his side, he listened to the voices of Majipoor. He heard them crying with hunger in Khyntor and whimpering with fear in Pidruid; he heard the angry shouts of vigilante forces running through the cobbled streets of Velathys, and the barking outbursts of street-corner orators in Alaisor. He heard his name called out, fifty million times. He heard the Metamorphs in their humid jungle savoring the triumph that was sure to come, and he heard the dragons calling to one another in great solemn tones on the floor of the sea.
And also he felt the cool touch of his mother’s hand across his brow, and the Lady saying, “You will be with me soon, Valentine, and I will give you ease.” And then the King of Dreams was with him to declare, “This night will I traverse the world seeking your enemies, friend Coronal, and if I can bring them to their knees, why, that I mean to do;” Which gave him some repose, until the cries of dismay and pain began again, and then the singing of the sea-dragons, and then the whispering of the Shapeshifters; and so the night became morning, and he rose from his bed more weary than when he had entered it.