Castle Dreams (11 page)

“Rise and shine, everyone."

Oddly enough, the room suddenly took on a more comfortable aspect. Perhaps it had brightened a bit. Perhaps not.

He touched a framed astronomical chart on the far wall and swung it open like a door. Recessed in the wall behind it was a conventional-looking circular safe door, complete with handle and combination lock.
¹

[
^1.
Tierra del Fuego is not a nation. It is a group of islands owned partly by Argentina and Chile. The struggle for Tierra del Fuegan independence, however, goes on.]

He rubbed his fingers against his lapels, blew on them. Gingerly, he reached to lay sensitized fingertips on the combination spinner. But stopped just short.

“Open up in there."

The door popped open. He reached in, withdrew some papers wrapped in string. He went to a nearby writing desk and examined these documents briefly. Leaving them on the desk, he returned to the safe.

“Anyone been fooling around in here?"

“Not a soul, boss,” a small, comical voice came from the darkness inside the hole.

“Any supernatural intrusions?"

“Nope."

“Sure?"

“Sure, boss. Hey ... boss?"

He halted a motion to shut the door. “What?"

“When can I get sprung from this place?"

“Getting restless?"

“Kind of."

“Trouble is, I still need this safe safeguarded, so to speak. How long's it been?"

“Oh, going on a hundred fifty years, boss."

“That all? You're immortal, I'm not. When I shuffle off, you're free."

“Don't want to bring up an indelicate issue, boss, but how much longer you figure to be around?"

“You selling insurance?"

“Ballpark figure."

“Five hundred seems to be the upper limit in my family. Short-lived."

“Oh. Okay, thanks."

“By your reckoning, you'll be out in no time. Keep a stiff ... well, whatever."

“Whatever."

He closed the safe door and gave the tumblers a spin.

“Man, I need a drink."

The liquor cabinet in a near corner took the cue immediately. Hands—disembodied hands, it was to be hoped (the alternative being an altogether disconcerting possibility)—extruded from several cavities, busying themselves with bottles and glasses. A cork popped, liquid gurgled.

He went to the cabinet, took the glass of amber fluid and downed it in a gulp.

“Another, please."

Another was poured.

When finished he let out a rasping breath and set the emptied glass down.

A table set into a nook drew his attention now. Heaped on the table was a jumble of antiquated electronic components juxtaposed with gold candelabra and brass incense burners. He lit the candles, then fetched incense from a nearby shelf and charged the burners.

Soon the nook was aglow with candlelight and fragrant with exotic odors.

He took a seat and flipped a switch on one of the components. Somewhere within the thicket of tubes and wiring, a tinny speaker crackled and hissed.

He bent his head toward an upright microphone.

“This is Trent, calling Dad. Come in, Dad."

The speaker emitted little but static.

He repeated the invocation.

The speaker popped and crackled.

“Calling Cawdor,
²
former King of the Realms Perilous. This is Trent, your eldest son. I wish to speak with you."

[
^2.
Cawdor is the name of the castle in Shakespeare's
Macbeth
. Castles seem to be one of the author's abiding crotchets. (Satellite photos have shown that there are no castles in Tierra del Fuego).]

He reiterated several times before the speaker gave forth.

...Trent? Is th—?

“Dad! Dad, come in! This is Trent. Can you hear me?"

...— ell are you calling on? ... just barely make you...

“Dad, I want to talk with you. Can you grant me a visitation?"

...Say again?

“I want to talk with you. Can you grant me a visitation?"

The response was garbled.

“Please, Dad. I'm in a spot."

So spit it out.

“Not in the clear. Not over the ether, especially on this contraption."

Again, the answer was mostly unintelligible.

“Dad?"

Not much but sputtering in reply.

“Shit. Come in. Come in, Cawdor, King of the—"

Trent smacked the table. He fiddled with a knob or two.

“Damn it all to hell."

He sat back and ruminated for a moment.

Trent, dearest.

Trent spun around.

“Mom!"

You should have called me first, dear. You and your father still aren't on speaking terms, at least as far as Cawdor is concerned.

Trent snapped off the receiver. He rose and approached the table where the shade of his mother sat.

She was as beautiful as she had been in life: light brown hair, oval face, blue eyes, thin straight nose. Her features were blurred a bit, however; the effect was not unlike a photograph taken with a refraction filter. It was as if she were somewhere else, and this a mere transmitted simulacrum. And in fact this was so.

Trent walked off to pour himself another drink, then approached the table again. Passing the hearth, he waved a hand; flames sprang to life out of grayish logs.

He stopped short of the table. “I'm sorry. Can I offer you—?"

Nothing for me, dearest. Do sit down. That fire is nice and cheery.

“You're sure? Well, then."

Trent drew out a chair and sat. He sipped his whiskey.

His mother gave the room a glance.
What an interesting place you have here. I can't recall ever seeing it.

“My sanctum sanctorum. Little hideout I outfitted when I was a kid. Used to come here to sulk, brood, and plot."

You used to do a lot of sulking and brooding. You were a moody child.

“So I was. I admit it."

I can see a lot of boyhood paraphernalia about. I think I recognize those ice skates. Didn't we—?

“You used to love to take me skating. We'd go to Zadar and skate the canals."

I remember. Yes, I loved to skate. I could cut a fancy figure as a girl.

“In more ways than one.” He smiled.

She returned it.
Moody, but, as ever, charming.

“Your Prince Charming, my princess."

Dearest Trent. You were my favorite. So handsome.

“Too bad Dad didn't feel the same way."

He loved you, too, Trent.

Trent sipped again before saying, “Pardon me if I emit a little derisory laughter."

He did. But I'm not going to spend the time necessary to change your mind on a matter that you made your mind up about a long time ago.

“Can't change my mind about a fact."

Be that as it may.
She gave the room another glance.
Why are you here?

“It's the only place in the castle where I can spend any amount of time."

Father's banishing spell?

“Yes. Here my local protective devices seem to offset it, for the most part. But I can't stay here for a prolonged period either. Consequently, I've been forced to spend most of the last hundred years or so outside the castle entirely."
³

[
^3.
Despite all his references to exotic locales, the author has never been outside the continental United States (except for Canada, which counts as a foreign country, but not by much; unless you're talking about Quebec, which
is
a foreign country).]

Where?

“Earth, a lot. Other places."

Where do you live now?

“An uncharted aspect."

How uncomfortable it must be for you. I hear you're married.

“Yes. An Earth woman. A commoner, as I'm certain you've heard."

I'm sure she's a nice girl.

“Women rather resent that appellation now."

Nice?

“No, ‘girl.'”

They do? How old is she?

“Twenty-six."

Don't be silly.

“You think I'm robbing the cradle?"

That's not it, Trent. How old she is makes no difference as long as she's of marriageable age. It's just that there are problems associated with a mixed marriage.

Trent grinned crookedly. “Between ordinary mortals and demigods such as we, is that it?"

Don't be impious. We are powerful magicians, it's true, but hardly godlike. No, dear, I'm afraid our kind is all too venal and concupiscent.

“I agree. Compared to me, Sheila's a saint."

A nice name. As I said, I'm sure she's a wonderful girl for you—but, well, I hope you'll forgive my asking—was marriage absolutely necessary? I mean, a young man can be forgiven a few mistresses, after all —

“Mother, stifle it, please?"

Wherever did you pick up that vulgar cant? It sounds so coarse.

“I spent a long spell on Earth, among unsavory types. It rubs off."

We gave you the best education—She sighed. Never mind, never mind. It is not for the dead to tell the living how to conduct their affairs.

“Thank you."

But—
She shrugged.
If that is so, why do you seek our counsel?

“Frankly, for one reason. To get Dad to tell me how to lift the banishment spell. Inky died, as I'm sure you know—"

I didn't. Oh, dear.

“Eh?” Trent sat up sharply. “You don't know? But—"

Do you think omniscience is granted after death?

“Well, no, but...” Trent sat back. “Well, I assumed, wrongly it seems.” Trent regarded his mother. “You don't look particularly upset."

The world must turn, death must come.

Trent grunted. “Silly of me to think you wouldn't have a different perspective on the issue."

I'm looking forward to seeing him.

“Yes, of course. But, as I was saying, I would be his son's regent, and I need the spell of banishment abrogated."

Oh, Trent. Not again.

“What again?"

This wanting-to-be-king business.

“Mother, please. I've every right to be."

Cawdor didn't think you had the temperament.

“I've the mettle, all right."

The mettle, yes. Prudence, forbearance, nice judgment, no.

“Nonsense."

Trent, I'm afraid nothing's changed.

“I've changed. Really. Even other people say so."

I'm sure you have. But at this late date—Trent, why do you want the Siege Perilous?

“It's rightfully mine. I'm the eldest son, and by rights I should have taken the throne."

You and Incarnadine were fraternal twins. He was born first.

Trent's fist thumped against the table. “That's not true!"

Dear, don't raise your voice.

“I'm sorry, Mother, but that's been a sore point with me for eons.
I
was born first, and I can prove it."

How?

Trent rose and went to the writing desk. He grabbed the sheaf of documents and returned.

“I have the attending physician's signed and sworn statement that I was the first out of the womb."

Oh, come, dear.

“Look at it! See?"

Yes, dear. I'm sure it's all in order.

“Dr. Philius. Recognize the name?"

Oh, I remember Dr. Philius well. I saw him, in fact, not too long ago.

“But he's years d—Oh, right. Well, you believe him, don't you?"

Well, of course, Trent. Dr. Philius would have no reason to lie.

“Well?"

He's simply mistaken. A mother knows. Inky was first.

“You were out like a light. How could you know?"

I realize you were there, too, Trent, but do you really doubt my word?

“Read it for yourself, right there. Dr. Philius says he gave you something to knock you out."

That he did, but it didn't work. He was much too reliant on pills and potions.

“Be that as it may, Philius was aware of the bearing this might have on the future succession, and he took pains to note who was born first. It was me, and he duly swears a statement to that effect and affixes his signature."

Nevertheless, Trent, dearest, Inky was first. I know. I saw his birthmark. A small, hourglass-shaped port-wine splotch on the left thigh. It was right in front of my nose when Philius laid him, all red and angry and yelling, across my chest. I thought it was the most beautiful little splotch I'd ever seen.

Trent was silent for a moment as he sat down. “Your memory is fogged. Philius wouldn't have made such a goof."

There's no doubt in my mind, Trent.

“If you'll forgive, Mother, I trust Philius's memory over yours."

Of course you do. This succession business has been an obsession with you since you were a lad. You see, I happen to have a very good memory.

“No doubt. You remember seeing a birthmark, all right, and it was Incarnadine's, but you don't remember when you saw it. Which was after I was born. I don't have a birthmark."

No, dear, it was before I delivered you. As I said, a mother knows these things. A mother remembers.

“You were exhausted and drugged to a stupor. It says here the labor was unusually difficult."

It was, Trent, but I told you —

He raised a hand. “Enough. Please. You said you didn't want to waste time tussling with me over a matter that I've quite made up my mind about, and I'm afraid this one fits that bill to a T."

She chuckled.
That I can see. We'll tussle no more.

“All I ask is that you ask Dad to let me back into the castle."

Dear, your father is no longer part of this world, and neither am I. We inhabit quite a different realm, a cosmos greater than all the myriad worlds of the castle, vaster than all of Creation itself. You've no idea. The mundane doings on your plane of existence are of no concern to us. They are not within our proper sphere of concern. The living must be let alone to work out their own destinies. We cannot interfere.