The family: Incarnadine's legal wife, Zafra, unveiled and in white, and her two children, Brandon and Belicia. (Zafra was not Queen, though Incarnadine had championed her cause in chancery court. The case had been pending for twelve years. Zafra was a commoner and—well, there was no end of legal bones of contention here. Still, the marriage was licit, and Brandon was heir apparent.)
And of course, the castle Guests. There were many, including a few of questionable humanity. Costumes ran the gamut from medieval to futuristic.
The castle staff: cooks, chambermaids, footmen, valets, scullery maids, the lot.
The castle tradespeople: smiths and cordwainers and seamstresses and such.
The professionals: librarians, solicitors, physicians, and scribes.
And functionaries and bureaucrats and those sorts.
The odd unclassifiable.
They were all there. The chapel was stuffed from nave to apse, with standing-room-only in the transepts.
And of course, the priests. Seventy acolytes assisted twelve High Priests as they all sang and chanted, knelt and invoked, recited and mumbled. Clouds of incense reached the roof timbers, and galaxies of candles blazed.
It was a very elaborate affair. Very nice. The corpse looked so natural. You could hardly believe he was dead. Nice job the undertaker did, wasn't it? The music was beautiful (Is this the last movement?).
Suddenly, amidst all this pageantry, the corpse sat bolt upright.
First came a shocked silence. The orchestra played on for a few more measures—the chorus cut out first, then the choirmaster craned his head around and fell off the podium.
There began some screaming. Women, mostly. Some fainted. A few men screamed and fainted. One of the High Priests fell over backwards, knocked over two smoking braziers, causing a minor fire.
The corpse—the king—rubbed his eyes. He looked down at himself and the casket he was sitting in. Then he stared around: at the priests, at the congregation, up at the choir loft, and back to the congregation.
And he said, with considerable pique, “Ye gods! Can't a fellow take a little nap around here?"
GAMING HALL
Dalton and lord peter were at it again, at odds over a charming little endgame, one worthy of Russian chess masters. Lord Peter had castled early; Dalton had fortified himself with a Sicilian defense. It was a defensive game; and, as a pitching duel in baseball, it was academically interesting—very admirable, but not a lot of fun.
Linda was settled in a wing chair, doing cross-stitch and absently watching flames blazing in the fireplace. Seated in the chair opposite was Melanie McDaniel, stringing her guitar.
Snowclaw sat at a card table working a crossword puzzle. He had recently learned to read English and had become literate in an astonishingly short time. Deena sat at the same table with a fresh deck, trying to remember some card tricks she once knew.
“Damn!"
Lord Peter had just lost his queen.
“Sorry, old boy,” Dalton consoled.
Lord Peter sighed. “Should have seen that one coming across the drawbridge."
Otherwise, the mood was subdued.
There were more Guests in the Gaming Hall. In a far corner, a few of the younger men were engaged in a fantasy role-playing game. Something about oubliettes and mythical saurians.
“Is it winter out?” Linda suddenly asked.
Melanie was busy with tightening a string. “Huh?"
“The castle's so big sometimes you're not even aware of what season it is."
“I dunno. Why do you need to know? You can find any season you want inside the castle."
“I know, but ... that's different. Somehow. It feels like winter. Does it feel like winter to you?"
“I went out into the desert today, and it was hot. That's all I know."
“You like deserts, don't you?"
“Yeah, I do. I lived in Phoenix when I was little. There was a lot of desert down there, then."
“I like forest aspects best. Trees, brooks, toadstools, fresh air."
“All that's nice. I don't know what it is I like about the desert. All I know is that it's quiet and still and hot. And I like it. And I like cactuses. Cacti."
“'Cactuses’ is okay,” Linda said. “They're sharp and prickly, though. Don't much care for them.” Linda did a few stitches, then stopped. “I still think it's winter out. Maybe I'll go up into one of the turrets and look."
“They're too high for me. I get dizzy."
“You afraid of heights?"
“Sort of,” Melanie said. “You going to go look and see what season it is?"
Linda thought about it. “Maybe. Tomorrow."
“I'll go with you if you want."
“Okay. I'll let you know."
Melanie plucked the new string, then started tuning it.
Holding out a fan-spread deck to Snowclaw, Deena Williams said, “Pick a card."
“Huh?"
“Pick a card, and I'll show you a trick."
“What do you mean, a trick?"
“I'll tell you what card you picked."
“I don't need anyone to tell me what card I picked if I pick a card."
“No, you don't understand. I'll tell you what card you picked without looking at the card."
“You mean you want me to tell you what card it is?"
“No! I'll tell you what card it is."
“But I already know what card it is."
“No, no! Snowy, listen. I'll tell you what card it is without you tellin’ me or me lookin’ at the card. Get it?"
“How can you do that?"
“Well, I'll show you."
“Yeah, but it'd have to be some kind of trick."
Deena rolled her eyes. “That's the point, you big goofy thing. It's a card trick."
“Yeah, it would have to be. So, what good is it?"
“Whaddya mean?"
“If it's a trick, then you really can't tell me what card I picked."
“Yes, I can!"
“But you said it's a trick. That means you sneak a look at it or figure it out some way with numbers or something or do tricky stuff with your hands, hiding it, and sort of like that. Right?"
Deena was mystified. “Well, for Pete's sake, that's what card tricks are all about."
“Like I said, what good is it? You can't really know what card I picked without doing any of that stuff. Can you?"
Deena slumped. She bent over and bumped her forehead against the tabletop. “I don't believe I'm havin’ this conversation."
“I don't see your problem. Hey, do you know an eight-letter word for a stupid person?"
“Yeah. ‘Snowclaw.’”
“Hey. Lighten up."
“Confound it!"
Lord Peter had just lost his last knight.
“You must have some arcane strategy in mind,” Dalton said. “I can't figure why you gave that up."
“Damn your eyes, I didn't bloody well give it up intentionally, and you bloody well know it!"
“Sorry. Temper, temper."
“Oh, bugger off."
After a strained silence, Lord Peter added, “Sorry, old chap. Lost it, there. Please forgive."
“Think nothing of it, my lord."
“I think I shall concede,” Lord Peter said, assessing the board. “Yes, yes. All's lost. You've got me boxed in good and tight. The game's yours."
“Sorry, old bean."
“Tut, tut. Good game, damn good.” Lord Peter let out a breath and sat back. Then he yawned. “Pardon me. Past my bedtime. Been having a devil of a time sleeping lately."
“Oh? Any reason you can think of?"
“Been having strange dreams."
“What sort?"
“Don't know. Can't remember them. Never remember dreams."
“How do you know they're strange?"
“They wake me up."
“Try a glass of warm milk."
“Hate milk."
“Well, go see Mirabilis."
“Well, you're out of luck, my friend."
“It's nothing, really. Hardly life-threatening."
“Well, you need your rest. You should try a pill, at least."
“No, I shall down three drams of Scotch whisky before bed tonight. I should think that will fix it right up."
“There you go. The old remedies are best."
“Now, that's the first sensible thing you've said all week."
Melanie had finished tuning, and was now idly strumming a chord.
“Play something,” Linda suggested.
“Oh, not really in the mood. You ever going to tell me about your love life?"
“I don't have one. Except in my dreams."
“Dreams, yeah."
Gene Ferraro came striding in.
“Evening, folks."
“Hi, Gene!” Melanie said brightly. “What've you been doing lately?"
“Not a whole hell of a lot."
Gene took a seat at the card table and commandeered the deck, which Deena had given up on.
Linda asked, “Find any interesting aspects lately?"
“Nope."
“Have any good adventures?"
Gene searched his memory. “Nnnnnope."
Melanie sighed. “This is the point where someone usually says, ‘Are we having fun yet?’”
“I'm having a good time,” Snowclaw said simply. “I need a word or a phrase that means ‘perilous aspect.’ Ten letters."
“Can't help,” Linda said. “I'm terrible at crossword puzzles."
Shuffling the deck, Gene looked around at his fellow Guests.
“Well, folks. Anyone for bridge?"
KING'S CHAMBERS
Incarnadine, Lord of the Western Pale and King of the Realms Perilous, woke up with a start.
“Huh?"
He sprang to a sitting position and looked wildly around the room. It took a moment to focus.
Yes. His bedchamber, in the castle. He was home. Everything was all right. He was safe.
“Gods. What a monster of a dream."
He threw off the covers and arose from the royal bed. Naked, he stalked across the room and went into the privy, closing the door.
Water pipes gurgled.
At length he emerged in a red woolen dressing gown. He went to a dressing table and poured himself a drink from an earthen pitcher. He sipped. Scowling, he poured the rest of the tepid water back into the pitcher.
He moved to the liquor cabinet and examined the offerings. Finally selecting a bottle of rye, he served himself a stiff drink and spritzed a tiny bit of soda into it.
He tossed the whole thing off in one go. Grimacing, he put the glass down.
He considered going back to bed, but reconsidered.
He turned on a lamp. The red leather chair next to the bookshelf looked comfortable. He eased into it, picked up the current book he was reading, a murder mystery, and lifted his slippered feet onto the footstool.
Settling back, he took a deep breath. He opened the book to the spot the bookmark marked and began reading.
After a moment he lowered the book and frowned pensively. He tried to remember the dream, but couldn't.
He shook his head.
“I have got to stop eating those damned submarine sandwiches so late at night."
FINAL EXAM
This test will count as 60% of your final grade. Read each question carefully. Extra points will be awarded for cogent reasoning, elegant prose style, political correctness, and neatness. When you are finished, close your test booklet and sit quietly until everyone is done. Do not gloat at sluggards. Do not pare your nails. You may begin.
Write a 500-word essay on any three of the following:
Question No. 1
Does that author cheat who ends a story with “...and it was all a dream"? Discuss what “cheat” could mean in this context. Is an author's desperate need for cash any excuse?
Question No. 2
Trace the roots of the literature of the fantastic to its ancient origins. Is it true that an appreciable percentage of the aficionados of this sort of literature, down through the ages, have had a weight problem and tended to favor the wearing of bib overalls?
Question No. 3
Give a brief summary of the history of Tierra del Fuego, outlining its political, economic, cultural, and social development, and tell why this tiny, brave nation is important to the growth of genre fantasy in the latter third of the 20th century.
Question No. 4
Of what significance, if any, is the nonsense phrase “Tekeli-li,” and what could the author possibly have had in mind? Explain “mind” in this context.
Question No. 5
Why must I be a teenager in love?
Question No. 6
Briefly outline the historical development of castles in western Europe. What, if anything, do they have to do with cannoli? By the way, is “cannoli” singular or plural? Are the vanilla kind better than the chocolate?
Question No. 7
Tell why you like reading stories about dragons and castles and fairies and that sort of thing. Have you ever read, say, A la recherché du temps perdu by Marcel Proust? Compare and contrast this book with any genre fantasy novel and explain why a writer would spend 30 pages describing how he rolls over in bed (no kidding). Why do the French think so highly of Jerry Lewis?
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1992 by John DeChancie
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-2313-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Castle Dreams Page 17
