City of Lost Dreams: A Novel

by Magnus Flyte

  “Your emperor, too.”

  “Oh, we all bow before Caesar.” Elizabeth curled her lip. “Please. May I look at it?” Sarah moved forward to see better and stumbled over something hard, at her knees. Something that hadn’t existed in whatever time she had been following, but most definitely did in the twenty-first century. Sarah pitched face forward onto the floor. Something had cut into her knee and the smell of her own blood momentarily overwhelmed her. When she looked up, Elizabeth Weston and the man had vanished.

  A crowd of figures appeared, jostling her, running past her, through her. Smothering her with their emotions, their desires, their fears and dreams. Everything twisted, twisted. Like chains.

  She needed to move back further in time. Elizabeth Weston and Edward Kelley came after Philippine’s era. She needed to focus. Music. Where was the music? Sarah fought through the layers until she found the gentle sounds of the lute again. She tried to tie her mind to the sound of the music. Water. Splashing water. Laughter. She groped up another flight of stairs, down a short hallway, and into a wood-paneled room decorated with a frieze of bathing scenes. In the middle of the floor sat a child, idly plucking at a lute.

  Not a child. A dwarf. Not Nico. This was a woman, red faced and sleepy eyed. At one end of the room, Sarah could hear voices coming from behind a small door. The little woman plucked a string and then the instrument fell lax in her hands. Her head fell forward. She snored. Sarah opened the door.

  She was in a bathroom. A literal bath room, with a large, rectangular tub lined with tin-plated copper sheeting taking up most of the floor. The entire room was painted with murals of sea creatures: fish of all kinds, crabs, frogs, toads, and snakes. Incense burned from two large copper pots.

  A middle-aged man and woman sat across from each other, on painted benches in the water. The man was naked except for a pair of brief swimming trunks. The woman wore a backless, apronlike garment. They both wore caps on their heads. The man reached over and fiddled with a tap decorated with a lion’s head. Water gushed out. Ferdinand. And . . . was this Philippine? Their faces were serene, blissful.

  Sarah realized that these people were definitely on some kind of drug themselves. She could feel it wafting off their bodies. It was different from Westonia, gentler. Kinder.

  Sarah decided to join them in the tub, curious if she would actually be able to feel the water. Yes, and it was hot and scented. Every part of her body felt soothed.

  “You must hide the book,” said the woman.

  Hide it? Sarah thought. Why hide a book of cures? Particularly if they contained a recipe for what had to be the best bath salts ever.

  “I will hide it,” agreed Ferdinand.

  “Bury it. Not here.”

  “I am designing a mausoleum for it,” Ferdinand said softly. “A mausoleum disguised as a star. A star disguised as a palace.”

  “Good. No one knows?”

  “Secrets are hard to keep in this world.”

  “And in the next, perhaps.”

  “Philippine.” Ferdinand smiled and stretched himself sensuously. “This is wonderful. What a feeling. Tell me you are not tempted to experiment further with the secrets of this book?”

  “I am content to cure the sicknesses that come to all of us. The headache, the sore, the wound, the pains of childbirth, the fever, the spirit that is perturbed. The secrets in your book are powerful and wild. I cannot be responsible for what they unleash,” Philippine replied. “We must not go deeper than this. That is why you must bury the book deep enough that others will not be tempted. These things are not for us to know.”

  They weren’t talking about Philippine’s recipe book. They were talking about the Fleece.

  They had the Fleece. Philippine was rising from the bath.

  “Where are you going?” asked Ferdinand.

  “There’s a stable boy with Saint Anthony’s fire. The poor lad is in agony.”

  “He can wait. Come back.”

  Philippine was wrapping herself in a robe, donning her slippers. Sarah had to follow her. Sarah must see, she must learn. Philippine was leaving the room. Sarah ran after her, and then straight into Gottfried von Hohenlohe.

  Straight into him, and with a lurch that sent a thousand jolts through her skin, straight through him.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Sarah gasped as she plunged through Gottfried’s energy field, zapped by a sharp electrical current. She staggered for a moment, and when she regained her footing she turned back. Gottfried had been replaced by two young boys. One of them, the leaner one, carried a crossbow that was nearly as big as he was. The leaner boy’s energy was . . . strange. It was pulsing and clicking, almost like a clock, or a bomb. The two ran down the steps and Sarah, pulled by some magnetic force she couldn’t name, followed them into the garden.

  “Gottfried,” the plumper boy said. This must be Heinrich. She could see his sullen expression in this child. He pointed. “Look. Mama’s cat.”

  But the boy Gottfried had fallen to the ground; the pulsing energy of his body had exploded and he was convulsing, his young body twisting and turning in unnatural ways, his eyes rolling back until they were all whites. Sarah looked at Heinrich to see what he would do.

  He picked up the crossbow, took aim, and shot the cat.

  The two boys vanished, only to be replaced by versions of themselves, seated at a chessboard in the garden. Their bodies flickered. They were little boys, wiry teens, young boys again, then in their twenties. Always playing chess, always facing each other across the board. Always the same hot rivalry, the same crackling tension.

  “Heinrich,” said Gottfried. “Your move.”

  The boys were intense, and the men more so. Gottfried was confident, but unhappy. Heinrich was angry. Angry and jealous.

  “This may be our last game here,” said Gottfried. He looked exactly like himself now. This had to be recent.

  “Not necessarily,” said Heinrich.

  Gottfried made a move on the chessboard. Heinrich smiled and moved his own piece.

  “I have beaten you at last, brother,” he said.

  “Your skills have improved.” Gottfried leaned back in his chair. “I did not expect such a bold move from you.”

  “It’s called the ‘shower of gold.’”

  Sarah’s mind raced—where had she just heard about this chess move? From Nico. The move he claimed someone made on Herr Dorfmeister’s chessboard.

  “There is a woman named Bettina Müller,” Heinrich was saying now, “a scientist. She works at the university. I’ve made friends with her assistant. This woman—Frau Doktor Müller—is involved in very important medical research. My company does not say what this is, but they are willing to pay a great deal to make sure she does not sell this research to foreign investors. This research will help our company, help Austria. This woman must be stopped. I need your help.”

  So it was Gottfried, Sarah thought with a chill. Gottfried, loden-wearing Austrian patriot horseman, not to mention sexual maestro, who had stolen Bettina’s laptop?

  Shower of gold. Shower of gold? Surely it wasn’t Gottfried who had—

  She needed to get out of here. Before Gottfried returned.

  Sarah shut her eyes. Philippine. She had to find Philippine.

  “Come to the grotto. Come see what Philippine has made.”

  Sarah opened her eyes. It was Ferdinand and Philippine again, surrounded by guests. A party. Musicians. They were drunk, laughing. It was nighttime and the guests held candles. They waved them around, making circles of light, and hooting. Sarah followed the crowd to the grotto, where a young man, elegantly dressed, sat manacled in a chair. The straps were made of leather and attached to metal locks. The man was laughing and struggling and the guests circled him, some taunting, some encouraging.

  “It is a riddle!” Ferdinand cried. “Solve it and the chair will set you free!”

  “You have to break the glass,” Philippine said. “But the glass is inside the locks.”

&n
bsp; “I cannot . . .” the man gasped, and he rocked the chair.

  “What is the riddle?” asked one of the guests.

  “What can the blind man not do?” Philippine smiled. Sarah took a step back. Philippine seemed to be looking straight at her.

  “The blind man can’t see!” the young man in the chair cried. But nothing happened. The guests began calling out suggestions. Sarah took a step toward Philippine.

  Help me, she whispered. I don’t have much time.

  • • •

  “Philippine?”

  It was Ferdinand. Standing next to her, looking straight at her. Her body felt . . . strange. Filled with energy but somehow unfamiliar, as if she . . .

  Ferdinand took her hand. She could see him take it; she could see her arm rising; but she could only feel a slight electrical charge, a faint warmth.

  She was holding the hand of Archduke Ferdinand, sovereign of Further Austria, who died in 1595.

  Ferdinand led her toward the building that housed his collection of curiosities. Sarah could see her own jeans-clad legs and short leather boots, but she could also see, overlapping her present-day self, another self, someone wearing a fine dress of embroidered silk.

  She hadn’t just found Philippine. She was Philippine.

  “I have something to show you, my princess,” said Ferdinand.

  It was the strangest sensation. They had overlapped, somehow. Like magnets.

  “I’m no princess,” said Philippine. Sarah had said these words, too, almost five hundred years in the future. She had said them to Pols.

  “You gave up much when you married me,” Sarah found herself saying now, as Philippine. “You endured your father’s wrath and the scorn of your friends, and you missed the chance for an alliance which would have brought you even more power.”

  “I do not seek power.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  Ferdinand held Sarah’s gaze for a moment, and Sarah could feel how strong the bond was between him and Philippine. The things they had both given up for love and the differences between them—where they came from, what they wanted—only served to intensify their connection.

  Ferdinand led her up the stairs and into the long hallway of the Kunstkammer. Gottfried had been right, it was nearly the same in his time as it had been in Ferdinand’s. No rug, no lights, fewer things on display. It seemed the oliphant hadn’t been acquired yet; perhaps the elephant was still alive. Ferdinand led Philippine (and Sarah with her) over to a small table. On it was an alabaster and marble toy castle, checkered and cantilevered like an Escher painting.

  “It is a safe place, my darling. Watch.”

  His hands moved over the castle, pressing first one thing and then another. At last, the drawbridge of the castle opened, revealing an empty compartment.

  “An amusing contraption, to hold such a serious thing,” said Philippine gravely. “This is not a cure for the rash. This is different. This is . . .”

  “Immortality,” said Ferdinand.

  Philippine reached into her pocket and removed a small vial.

  “This is why the Fleece must be hidden,” she said sharply to Ferdinand. “Do you understand what immortality means? Do you? Eternal life. Do you understand the temptation and the curse?”

  “I do.”

  “You think you can withstand it? You think immortality can be hidden in a box? I tell you it cannot. I would rather these stones be immortal.”

  Philippine raised the vial and smashed it against the floor.

  Ferdinand’s face was white. But he took Philippine’s hand and kissed it.

  “You are right,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Philippine withdrew a second vial.

  “This is the antidote,” she said. “I will put this in your castle within a castle. But I will not practice from that book anymore. You must take the Fleece away from here. You must bury it deep. It must be hidden until the end of time.”

  Time, thought Sarah. She didn’t have much time. Gottfried would be coming back. Sarah could feel herself inside Philippine, feel the woman’s blood all around her. And then, Philippine’s voice inside her head.

  “What do you seek here?”

  Philippine’s voice was infinitely gentle.

  “I seek a cure for someone I love,” Sarah answered.

  “The need is great?”

  “Yes.”

  “The need is always great.”

  “This is different.”

  “It always is.”

  “Please help me.”

  “We will help each other. You must go now. He is coming.”

  • • •

  Sarah was standing in the same place, the same room, but she was completely alone. All the phantoms had disappeared, and she could feel that she was firmly back in the present, and the present alone. The drug had worn off, abruptly this time. The lights of the gallery had gone out. The clicking had stopped. The objects in the room were barely visible in the fading light coming in from a high row of small windows. She looked down.

  She was holding a small vial.

  She was holding the antidote to eternal life.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Max. Max, wake up.”

  “Is it morning?”

  “It is almost evening,” said the little man. “You slept all day. We have work to do. Wake up.”

  “The folio?” Max muttered.

  “Fascinating. In Ferdinand’s own hand, with later notations by Edward Kelley.”

  “Kelley?”

  “Kelley had access to all of Rudolf’s manuscripts. How it came to end up in your family library is another story.”

  “So what’s it all about?”

  “The notations are instructions. And in some cases, spells. To be used in one location only, the Star Summer Palace.”

  “To do what?”

  “Precisely. It has always been a mysterious building. No one was ever clear precisely what went on there. Or why Ferdinand designed it the way he did. They thought he was building a folly, or a love nest. But now I think the entire structure was designed for a specific purpose.”

  “Well?”

  Before Nico could answer, Jose came barreling through the door, hair wild.

  “It’s Pollina,” he said. “She send me text not to disturb her so I don’t but finally I worried and—” A strangled cry came from his throat. “She’s gone.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Sarah?” Gottfried. It was Gottfried walking down the hallway. Present-day Gottfried. The Gottfried who had stolen Bettina’s laptop. The Gottfried who . . .

  Sarah shoved the vial deep into her pocket. She needed to think about why Philippine had given this to her, instead of something that would help Pols, but right now she needed to get out of being in a secluded sixteenth-century castle with a potentially homicidal maniac. Where was her purse? Not that a Swiss Army knife would be much help if Gottfried was intent on killing her. She looked out the window, and judged the distance to the ground.

  “I’m so sorry I was delayed,” said Gottfried. “And I have bad news for you, I’m afraid. I was finally able to find the key to the library, but when I went in to get the book from its case, I found this.” He showed her a card.

  Removed for curatorial purposes.

  “Heinrich must have lent it to some museum,” he said. “I am surprised. Usually we let nothing out of our sight. Ah, well, but we will have a nice dinner anyway.”

  “Thank you for looking.” Sarah’s mind was racing. “I really do appreciate it. But while you were gone, I had a phone call. A work crisis. I need to get back to . . . to Boston. As soon as possible. I’m afraid I can’t stay the night.”

  “Very well.” Gottfried took her arm. “I will drive you to the airport and you can explain to me what a crisis in musicology consists of.” He reached into his pocket.

  A harsh blast of hot, white light hit Sarah’s face like a bomb going off. It strobed as she closed her eyes and threw her arm across her face. She
heard a thud, and a grunt, and then she was grabbed around the neck and forced into something—onto it—and she was shouting but she was blind, and someone was binding her, gripping her, and she could hear more grunting and thrashing and her wrists were locked into place and she felt metal across her waist and legs. She was manacled to a chair.

  She could see spots. She could see black spots, and then colored whorls, and then she could dimly make out Gottfried on the ground in front of her. He was having a seizure, shuddering and convulsing. And standing over him was another man.

  Heinrich.

  She was strapped to a chair. Bound. She tried to kick her legs as hard as she could, but the straps held. Straps that fitted into metal locks.

  “It’s very effective, isn’t it?” said Heinrich. “Ferdinand’s little party game. He would make his guests sit in it, then lock them down and not let them loose until they had answered a riddle.”

  “What the fuck?” Sarah said. “Look at your brother! Help him!”

  “I am well aware that my brother is having an epileptic fit. There are many causes of epilepsy, but they say in his case it is a defect on chromosome 20. The telomeres bind to themselves and form a ring. So his number 20 is an O, not an I. An old Hapsburg gene that has resurfaced. The price of all that inbreeding to keep the family close.”

  “Fascinating,” snapped Sarah. “To repeat my earlier question: what the fuck?”

  “Oh.” Heinrich pursed his lips as Gottfried’s convulsions ceased and he lay still, apparently unconscious. “I am afraid that you know too much for me to let you go. But thank you for the rat.”

  Thank God, Sarah thought. Thank God we switched the rats. “Bettina Müller is working on a cure for defects in chromosome 20,” Sarah said. “Is that why you want the rat, to cure your brother? Because maybe I can help.”

  Heinrich laughed a small, tight laugh. “My brother’s epilepsy has been useful. I see no need to cure it, especially since only an hour ago he threatened me. Told me to leave you alone. Gottfried’s seizures are very easy to trigger these days, you know. All it takes is a burst of light. Sets off an electrical storm in the brain. Isn’t it interesting, how it really does all come down to energy imbalances? Soon all scientists will sound like New Age hippies.”