Castle Dreams (7 page)

There was not much else, however. His name still eluded him. He had no memories to speak of. Only, now, a vague sense that much had gone on before.

Well, that was more than he had possessed on his arrival here....

Again, the persistence of time. Perhaps time did have a meaning here. Things were changing, albeit imperceptibly. Conditions were ... improving. No. That was exaggeration. It was enough that things were changing, and perhaps changing in an important way.

But on the other hand...

Did he have two hands? He looked at them. Yes.

But on the other hand, not much about this place had changed. It was barely a place at all. There was a nothingness about it that was disquieting, that defeated him. There was too much nothingness here. In fact, there was almost no “here” in which to contain a nothingness. There was absolutely nothing to distinguish any one point on this plane from any other...

Until now.

He stopped. Far ahead, something rose above the horizon. It wasn't much of anything but a line, a spike, a rise of something that had no characteristics save that it was perpendicular to the line of the horizon. It seemed very far away.

A goal! He had a goal! He strode forward eagerly.

Unlike the horizon, this new feature of the universe got closer the more one walked toward it. As he neared, it got bigger, and he began to notice that it was thicker at its base. It was a tall, thin pyramid—an obelisk, and there was something at the top, an irregular shape, but he still could not distinguish it.

He hurried toward it.

He arrived at the column's base and found that he could barely see the top. It was almost lost in the darkness. Yet he could make out a shape.

It looked like a man up there. Yes, very definitely, though the features were indiscernible. The man seemed to be sitting atop the obelisk, seated in a wing chair. The chair rested on a capital that crowned the shaft.

He stared up at the figure. It did not move. He continued watching. Before long he could have sworn that he detected movement, perhaps a slight shifting of the figure. But no more than that. Whatever or whoever it was preferred not to move.

But as time (yes!) passed he began to see that there was more to the figure, and became convinced that the small platform at the apex of the obelisk held more than just the figure and the seat. The figure ... yes, it was a man, a man dressed in a long gown and a pointed cap ... was bent over a small writing desk or lectern. He was writing, slowly and methodically, with a quill in a large ledger, his attention to detail fastidious, the tip of the quill processing equinoctially, in slow circles.
¹

[
^1.
The precession of the equinoxes is the earlier occurrence of the equinoxes in each successive sidereal year because of a slow retrograde motion of the equinoctial points along the ecliptic, caused by the wobble inherent in the Earth's rotation, much like that of a spinning top.]

Time passed.

Below, the one who looked up waited. He stood completely still, eyes on the figure above. Waiting. Waiting.

 

A further duration ran its course. At some point in a moving stream of time that was now well-established, a few moments later or several hours later—no one could say—the man on high laid the quill aside and settled within the wings of his high-backed chair.

Something had changed in the interim. The obelisk was not so much an obelisk as a high bench—a very high bench, such as that from which a judge might deliberate.

The man in the gown and pointed cap looked down. The face was vague in shadows, but a flowing beard could be discerned, its color perhaps a silver-gray. The eyes, under a dark lowered brow, were pools of deeper shadow.

He spoke. He said, “Ah.” His voice was deep and resonant.

The man below said nothing.

The Judge (for after all, he must have a name) glanced at the open book. “I was just working on your entry. Good. You have come. Your time has come. Rather, the end of your time. There now must be a reckoning."

More time passed, enough so that the man below felt he must answer.

“Where am I?"

The Judge smiled faintly. “Where, indeed. If this is a place, it is a place between places. Less a place than a transition between places. Between different states of being, shall we say. The notion of physical location is moot. This is not so much a place as it is a way station. A short stop on the journey."

“On the journey to where?"

“That is what must be determined."

“If you can't tell me where I am,” the man below said, “then tell me who I am."

“
That
also must be determined. Identity is not a constant thing. It shifts. It flows. It must be stabilized. It needs bolstering now and then. Reinforcing. It is not a given."

The man below stared at the ground for a moment. Then he looked up again. “What am I doing here? Why was I brought to this place?"

“You are full of questions,” the Judge said. He smiled again and nodded. “Good. You must regard what is happening to you as a process, a situation in a state of becoming. You must ask questions, you must learn. You must forget what you know, or what you think you know, and you must learn it again, afresh. With the relearning might come something new. New knowledge. Sharper insight. A change of perspective. And all that will come, in time. You must learn, as well, to be patient."

“I want to know,” the man below said. “I want to learn."

“Good, good. You will learn. And you will know."

The Judge leaned back and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Ah,” he said wearily. “This is not the easiest of jobs."

“Who are you?” the man looking up asked.

“It is my job to see you through this process of learning. To guide you, but not to teach. You must teach yourself. I will be with you in spirit along the way. It is also my appointed task to choose a proper path for you. There are many paths to knowledge. Many means to the ultimate goal. One way must be chosen that is right for you, that is more conducive to self-instruction than any other."

“Where am I to go?” was the question.

“Do not ask where,” came the answer. “As I told you, location is of little importance. More significant is the process itself. Forget for now the question of where in space and time the process unfolds. For your purposes, there is no space, save for that space in which you are to fulfill your destiny. There is no time, save for the duration needed for that destiny to be fulfilled."

“Is it all written?” asked the man. “Is it all set down in that book?"

The Judge nodded, leaning forward again, looking over the edge of the towering bench. “I am writing it. It is being written even as we speak."

“Then I have no will, no volition."

“On the contrary! You have every means at your disposal to change the circumstances in which you will find yourself. You will have the wherewithal to resist, to fight, to scheme, to meddle, or to refuse. All is possible. All this you will do."

“But if my fate is sealed..."

“In eternity, your fate is set. But you live in time, and you have the means and the opportunity to affect the outcome of all that you engage in. You will choose your fate. You will cause it to be fixed in eternity. You will be the only cause of your own predetermined fate. You will write your story. And I ... I will set it down. Here.” The Judge touched the pages of the open ledger.

The man did not answer for a long while. The silence of the Plane droned on.

“I find all that ... very interesting."

“No doubt,” the Judge said. He sat back again. “There is not much more to say. Words, at this point, would be of little value."

“You have not said many,” the man below said. “Nor have you told me very much."

“That is true. For many reasons. And you will know the reason in time, as you shall know many things."

The Judge straightened in his chair.

“It is time to begin."

“Begin what?"

The horizon, the man suddenly noticed, was barely visible now, a faint ring of grayness that had slowly faded as the conversation progressed. The darkness that was not a sky above seemed to grow darker still. Shadows fell upon one another across the length and breadth of the Plane. Silence deepened.

“What is happening?"

“Nothing,” the Judge said. “This temporary existence is at an end. Chaos returns, darkness falls."

“Will something take its place?"

“Perhaps. Perhaps not."

“What is written in the book about it?"

“Only what you create and I set down."

“But what does the book say?"

“If I read, it would be meaningless to you."

The darkness folded in like a shroud. The horizon became the barest ghost of itself, a thin separation of the blackness above and the blackness below. Then it vanished and there was naught but the absence of light.

“This is meaningless,” he said in the last moment before he ceased to exist.

“What is?” came the last thing he heard.

 

 

 

 

CHAMBER OF THE PRIVY COUNCIL

 

They were all elderly men, all sitting around an immense oak table.

Dressed in fine robes and bedecked with heavy gold chains from which hung ornate gold medallions—signifying their respective offices and posts—they sat, hatted or hooded, in wary silence, eyes shifting, each taking his neighbor's measure.

Mental wheels turned, spinning out plots and counterplots, assessing possible allies, gauging potential enemies. On the surface, there were a few bland smiles. The majority wore poker faces. Most went about their machinations calmly, coolly; one or two looked nervous.

One stroked his white beard, face forward, eyes sidling left. The man next to him met his gaze, raised an eyebrow. The first man looked away.

Someone coughed discreetly into a bony fist.

Points of candlelight glinted in dark oak paneling, richly stained and finished. It was a subdued room. A room of power. The chairs were of black crushed leather, the candlesticks of gold. The bare tabletop shone with a waxen luster.

Now and then, eyes drifted to the large empty chair at the end of the table farthest from the door.

Someone else coughed. More looks were exchanged—silent offers and counteroffers; implied claims; tacit demurrals.

Presently one of them began, “Well, I should think—"

He was interrupted by the sound of the chamber doors creaking open. A page entered and stood to one side, at attention.

“His Royal Highness, Trent, Prince of the Realms Perilous!"

Trent strode in, green cape billowing.

All rose.

“Good day, my lords."

Greetings in turn were murmured around the Council table.

All eyes were on him as he walked around the table. All took note of the resplendent finery: the silks, the ermines, the chased sword hilt in its jewel-encrusted scabbard, the sparkling gems on almost every finger. The hat was black with green trim, an enormous white plume sprouting from it.

Trent reached his place at the head of the table.

“Be seated, good my lords."

They waited till he took his seat. Then they sat. The page retreated, the doors of the chamber closed. A hushed quiet fell.

Trent looked energetically confident and completely self-sufficient. His gaze was a withering beam that swept the table. His head swiveled only slightly. He looked from side to side, back and forth, once, twice, thrice, raking the solemn array of powerful men.

Then he smiled.

“It seems we have a problem."

A minister to Trent's left rose. He bowed. “Your Royal Highness. I think I speak for all my colleagues in expressing our sincerest condolences in this, your family's hour of grief. Rest assured that we all share the pain of this most devastating and inconsolable loss, the loss not only of your dear brother, but of our liege lord and king."

Trent nodded. “Thank you, Lord Burrel. And on behalf of my family, let me say that I feel secure in the knowledge that the day-to-day handling of the affairs of state will be in competent hands during this difficult period of change and transition. You have our every confidence and faith."

Burrel bowed again. “Your Highness, my colleagues and I are ever your humble and obedient servants."

“Fine,” Trent said. “Now let's get to business. We have a boy king. A boy king wants a regent. I'm here to present the case for my taking on the job."

Burrel slowly sat as a collective exhalation went up from the table. They had all known it was coming.

Another minister rose. “Sir, if I may be permitted to speak—?"

“Please, Lord Tragg."

“I think it safe to say that Council will entertain any proposition or proposal that His Highness might wish to advance, and will, in due course, render its decision. But I beg His Highness to bear in mind that many and various considerations will be weighed in the balance before any settlement might be reached on so critical a matter as this. Such a process takes time."

Trent shook his head. “No, Lord Tragg, the Realms cannot wait. We need a king, a ruler. We have one in the person of a twelve-year-old boy, a fine boy who will one day, no doubt, make a splendid king, given the proper education and training. My lords, I fully expect that Brandon will in due course take the throne and reign, and, if he's any son of his father, there is every chance that he'll rule with a will. But that day is distant. What do we do in the meantime? There are one hundred forty-four thousand worlds to be looked after. There are a thousand worlds to govern directly, thousands more we have a hand in ruling, either through our proxies, puppets, and dupes, or through other covert means. How is all this to be done in the interim?"

“Your Highness,” Tragg said, “we have not yet come to a decision. The king is not yet three hours dead—that is to say, it has been less than that time since his body was discovered. Surely you don't think we can—"