Oberon's Dreams

by Aaron Pogue

  She frowned at him. “Here!” Her gaze drifted, and as it roamed, the anxiety drained from her expression. A wistful ease settled in its place.

  Corin risked a glance back at Kellen and hissed, “This is not a palace! This is a bower!”

  Kellen shook his head. “This is the court of Oberon. What else would you expect of the king of fairies?”

  Slowly, Kellen’s meaning sank in. There was no handiwork of man here. There were no walls or doors, though the glamour of a kingly castle hung over the place. Still, Corin saw the avenues among the elms, the corridors and sitting rooms laid out by hedge and creeping vine. He even saw a banquet hall, where willow branches twisted together overhead, and a single sprawling granite slab made a table for a host of hungry lords.

  He walked the halls of Oberon’s living palace and wondered what manner of king he would find upon its throne.

  Kellen interrupted Corin’s awe with a curt command. “Take her arm.”

  “What?”

  “Take Maurelle’s arm. You’re her plaything.”

  Corin and Avery responded in perfect time. “What?”

  Kellen rolled his eyes. “We can drop the act of prisoners now. It’s only making you conspicuous. But Corin should take Maurelle’s arm—”

  “I will be her escort,” Avery insisted.

  “No,” Maurelle answered, just as stern. “We two together would be recognized. The House of Violets is out of favor. But if you do not draw attention…”

  “I can hardly hide my face,” Avery said.

  “Turn it to Kellen,” Corin suggested, while he offered his arm to Maurelle. “Share a quiet conversation. It makes a good excuse for ducking, and if you look engaged, even those who recognize you are less likely to interrupt.”

  Avery stopped, stunned. For a long moment he favored Corin with an appraising gaze, but then he started walking again. “You have a gift, manling. I would fain know where you learned these things.”

  From the Nimble Fingers at Aepoli, Corin thought, but he kept that to himself. He leaned his head toward Maurelle. “Can you lead us to Oberon?”

  “In my sleep. In my fairest dreams.” She sighed, content. “It’s just this way.”

  Corin let her lead him while he discreetly strained to hear the conversation between Avery and Kellen. He’d feared another trade of jabs that he would have to interrupt, but instead he heard a heartfelt question from Avery.

  “What manner of man draws duty in the lowest of the dungeons? That whole floor was empty until we arrived.”

  Corin winced at the question, for he could guess the answer.

  And Kellen did nothing to soften the blow. “Heroes who deserve a spot of rest. And fools who cannot be trusted anywhere else. Most often, there is one of each.”

  They walked ten paces in gloomy silence, until Corin feared he would need to remind them of their ruse. But Kellen spoke again. “A fortnight gone, I was the useless fool.”

  “You have not been useless today,” Avery said. “You have given us our freedom. I…I regret the things I said before.”

  Kellen grunted. “I require no apology. What I do now, I do for the king. It seems you do as well. That is all I need to know.”

  Four more paces passed in silence. Then Maurelle squeaked a tiny, startled, “Oh!” and Corin moved on instinct. He tugged her off the path, slapping Kellen’s chest as he passed. By the sound of it, Avery was the first to understand, driving Kellen after Corin with a rustle and a grunt.

  They darted into one of the verdant sitting rooms, a wide, low grotto beneath the canopy, spotted here and there with trees and bushes bearing aromatic fruits. Corin darted from the entryway and down the hedge to peek back out upon the path. Avery joined him right away while the other two hovered nervously behind him.

  Through a narrow gap in the interwoven branches, Corin watched Lord Ephitel come storming down the palace corridor. He had a lieutenant at his elbow, and as he stomped along, Ephitel rattled off orders the lieutenant couldn’t hope to keep track of. Ephitel spoke of dwarves and regiments and writs of provender, but between every irritated order, he paused to curse the druids and the king.

  Corin grinned at that. The prince would add more names to that list when he learned what had happened in the dungeons, but for now he hadn’t spotted them. Corin watched Ephitel pass their quiet grotto, never slowing, too distracted by his irritation.

  “Fortune favors us again,” Corin said. “Now come, let us see the king.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was not far from there to Oberon’s throne. The king of Gesoelig held court within a clearing more than a hundred paces end to end. At its heart grew a single oak tree, its trunk reaching at least three stories high before the lowest branches broke away.

  The limbs of that mighty oak stretched out over the breadth of the palace, and its peak soared high into the sky. From underneath, Corin saw the strands of gossamer draped all across its boughs, glittering with dew that twisted sunlight and cast the distant image of a man-made palace. From where he stood, the tree alone seemed far more majestic than that illusion of marble and gold.

  And at the base of that elder oak, its roots rolled and crowded into a knot above the earth, taller than a man and folded lovingly around a throne carved into the tree itself. On the throne sat something like a man. Corin had expected the friendly, timeworn face he’d seen carved into the cliff. Instead, he saw a monster out of nightmares. Taller even than the elven lords and ladies, the king had the fur-clad legs of a goat. His bare chest boasted a thick mane of red-brown hair. It bristled in his beard as well, and covered his crown in thick curls. Around his brow he wore a wreath of lily blossoms, and from his temples jutted two great antlers.

  Courtiers by the hundreds surrounded him, a vast sea of beautiful creatures dressed in all the shades of a flower’s petals. Ripples ran among them, whorls and eddies as they spoke among themselves or paid their tributes to the king, but clearly they were here above all else just to be here. To see and to be seen in such proximity to the king.

  The king himself paid them no mind at all. He lounged within his living throne, staring out across the broad expanse beneath the oak tree’s limbs. From half a hundred paces distant, his eyes fixed on the four newly arrived, and he started to his feet.

  “What is this?” he boomed, a gleeful anger in his tone. “I see the son of Kellen Strong upon my threshold. And a pair of wilting Violets! And they have brought a manling. Bring them here to me!”

  At his words, two hundred courtiers turned at once toward the place where Corin stood. Lords in flowing robes and ladies with flowers in their hair surged forward like an ocean swell. They crashed around the newcomers and raised a frothy babble among themselves, asking senseless questions or conjecturing what might have brought a Kellen and a pair of Violets together.

  Corin rode the wave, anxious just to stay afloat, but nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He would scarce have been at home in the court at Aerome—or even at the Vestossis’ supper table—but he liked to think he could have found his way. This, though…this was not a stately gathering of posh buffoons.

  It wasn’t even what he’d come to expect of the elves—condescending lords and ladies sullying their dignity to interact with a mere manling. No, these were fairies from the stories of old. They were dreamlike chaos, animal frenzy playing at humanity. They giggled and hissed, they ogled and jeered as they chivied Corin and his three companions toward the throne of Oberon.

  Corin cast for a plan. He’d told Kellen to come warn the king, but he had not expected such a crowd. It would be dangerous to denounce Ephitel before this throng. He would need a private audience. But staring at the creature on the throne, Corin wasn’t certain he could handle that.

  Strong hands propelled him until at last, a dozen paces from the throne, the courtiers suddenly withdrew. The four companions stood alone, hemmed on one side by hundreds of courtiers and on the other by the beastly Oberon.

  The king surg
ed to his hoofed feet, towering twice as tall as a man. His eyes danced, manic, and his words came out wrapped within a giggle. “Kellen, son of Kellen. I was told that you were buried.”

  The yeoman fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the mossy turf. The ring of courtiers snickered, but Kellen paid them no mind. “Your Majesty, I have betrayed my command, but only out of loyalty to you.”

  “Ha! Ho! How so?” The king spoke in a lilting chant, but it ended with a snarl. “Your command is mine. I am your lord. You cannot obey by disobedience!”

  Corin stepped forward before Kellen could say anything more. “Please, King Oberon, we would have a private audience. It is of matters most severe and delicate.”

  “Ooh. That does sound painful. But I’ve never known a private audience. One does require ears to hear.”

  For a moment, Corin could only gape. This was wise king Oberon? This was their noble creator? He seemed more like a madman. But this strange beast was Corin’s only way home. If he would not allow a private hearing, let it be a public one.

  “I have come to beg your aid,” he said. “Only your magic might send me home.”

  “But who are you to speak to me?” Oberon asked, condescending. “Who are you to ask me anything?”

  “I am your humble servant,” Corin said. “And I bring you news well worth the boon I ask.”

  Oberon frowned. “What news is this?”

  “Grim news, Your Majesty. The lord protector betrays your trust. He plots rebellion in dark corners.”

  Astonished gasps and murmurs ran like ripples through the crowd, but Corin’s attention was all on Oberon. The king glanced up sharply at Corin’s pronouncement. The dark, animal eyes flashed surprise and fear, but not, Corin realized, at the news. It was at the courtiers’ reaction.

  Corin saw perfect understanding in the king’s eyes. Oberon thought as Corin had before: it would have been far better if these tidings were not shared out loud, but anything at all was better than silence.

  Still, Corin stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I apologize, Your Majesty, but we could not afford—”

  The king cut him off. Oberon tossed his mighty antlers, threw back his head, and brayed a laugh that sawed against the nerves. That silenced the courtiers. They watched the king as he danced a little jig, clip clip clop, then Oberon fell exhausted back onto his throne and looked on Corin with those wild eyes again.

  “What is this manling who brings such tales to my court? Is he a pet of yours, A. Violet? Or pretty M.? Do you bring him to entertain me with a farce?”

  Kellen staggered to his feet. “It is no farce, Your Majesty.”

  The king arched one bushy eyebrow, and that was enough to silence the meek warrior. Oberon spoke in a whisper that might have carried to the farthest corner of the hall. “No more words from you, Yeoman Kellen. We will have words, but the time is not yet come.”

  The warrior paled and shrank away, hiding behind Corin. Maurelle found the courage to step up in his place. She curtsied low, then cleared her throat. “He is no pet, my king. He is an emissary from your druids. Lord Ephitel tried hard to stop him coming here—”

  Oberon clapped his hands together with a boom that left her mute. His eyes glittered with fury, but he spoke with that same mad glee he had shown before. “Ooh, a complicated performance. See how well they set the stage? I’d no idea the House of Violets was now a troupe. How far you’ve fallen. And are you a trouper in their ranks, too, Kellen, telling tales since you no more troop for me?”

  Avery snarled. “My sister tells no tales. She has risked much for you, who did nothing to protect us. Do not—”

  This time Corin interrupted before the king could. He threw wide his cloak in a grand flare that just chanced to muffle Avery. Then Corin turned to bow toward the audience. He turned back and bowed to the king. “Aye, my lord, you have the right of it. We are a complicated band with a chilling tale to tell. Would you hear it?”

  Those eyes…one moment they danced with madness, and the next they cut like knives. They fixed on Corin now, even as the king feigned a wide, long yawn.

  “No,” he moaned. “No, I tire of your antics. I can’t believe you bring me tales I haven’t heard before.”

  There. It was an invitation. For all his wild appearances, the king was shrewd.

  And terrified.

  This was all a sham. Corin saw it in an instant. This whole court, perhaps Oberon’s whole persona, was a sham to buy him time. If he was weak and wild, Ephitel need not rush to overthrow him. The traitor could take his time. Corin could not guess how many months the ploy had bought, but it was spent now. Ephitel was moving.

  So Corin pressed his case. “Good king,” he cried, “you have heard wild tales and speculation. You have heard myths before, and silly rumors. But I bring you news! I bring you tidings of great change. The story of a revolution grim and gory.”

  Oberon hesitated, weighing his decision. Fear won out. Or caution. Either way, he shook his head. “I have no time for tragedies.”

  “But mine—” Corin tried.

  “No buts! No tragedies. No trials. Go away, and I will watch you slip the noose. I will see how you outrun the dogs. That will entertain me enough, I think.”

  Corin understood—or thought he understood—the hidden meaning. They were free to go. Oberon would see them off, unmolested by Ephitel. It was almost a generous offer.

  But Corin had nowhere to go. He needed Oberon to send him home. Wasn’t that why he had come here? Delaen had sent him…with instructions…

  He’d forgotten her instructions. Corin met the mad king’s eyes and said, “No tragedies, my liege, but may I tell a fantasy? It is a dream made real! I am not just a storyteller. I am a traveler. I am an anomaly.”

  “I’ve made my choice,” Oberon said, but Corin spoke over him.

  “I am a man out of time,” he said. “And I bring a tale you’ve been waiting for.”

  Silence fell within the strange cathedral. All the courtiers watched to see how their king might discipline the impudent manling. Avery looked curious, too. Maurelle and Kellen trembled. Corin only watched the king.

  Oberon leaned back, lounging in his throne. He feigned another yawn, then shrugged one shoulder.

  “Tell your tale, little man. If I do not enjoy it, I’ll feed your entrails to my dogs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Once upon a time,” Corin said, “there was a man named Corin Hugh. Corin was a peasant, born in Aepoli beneath the reign of Cosimo Vestossi, and in his time the name of Oberon was not known. In his time, Ephitel was thought a god among the manling nations.”

  A shock rolled through the listening crowd at that, but Oberon silenced them with a raised hand. “Tread with care, manling.”

  Corin swallowed hard, but he pressed on. He told the tale of how he’d found the ancient map, how he’d studied long-forgotten legends to find the final resting place of bright Gesoelig. And when he came to the end of the story, when he told Oberon how Ethan Blake had betrayed him, he bent the truth.

  “Blake was my second-in-command,” Corin said, “whom I’d long esteemed. Whom I even had suspected, but whom I never thought would strike me down so boldly. He gathered rumors and traded in promises. He cast away my loyal followers and belittled those who would have stood for me. He waged a private war against my trusted advisors, including the desert rose Iryana. I should have worked harder to protect her…”

  Corin trailed off, an unexpected lump hard in his throat. He whispered, “Iryana…”

  And above him, the monstrous king whispered, “Sweet Aemilia…”

  Corin’s head shot up. The king saw the parallel! Corin cleared his throat. “Aye, my lord. For all his noble blood, my second-in-command was the blackest of villains I have ever known. He found a hoard of dwarven powder and made a weapon of it. He struck a spark, and the explosion sent the ancient city up in flames. The traitors slipped away, but I was left marooned within the cave. And when the fires overt
ook me—”

  Oberon sprang forward in his seat. “Yes?”

  Corin shrugged. “I woke up in this world.”

  The king cheered and raised a great applause, and all the court followed his lead. Corin swept a gracious bow, but he was otherwise unmoved. He held his place and held his gaze upon the king.

  When the applause died down, Oberon, still chortling, cried out, “Well told! Well told! A well-imagined farce. I’ll hang a silver bracelet from your wrist as your reward.”

  Corin stood his ground. “That is not the favor I would ask.”

  “Ah! Indeed. For you were injured in the struggle with your treacherous lieutenant. I see the handiwork of my faithful druids on your hoof there, but I know better tricks than theirs.”

  He snapped his fingers, and a shock of perfect agony stabbed through Corin’s damaged ankle. Corin screamed, collapsing to the ground and wrapping himself tight around the pain. But before he’d even finished falling, the pain was gone. Inside the strange boot, Corin’s foot was whole again.

  Corin knelt there, gasping for his breath, and Oberon nodded beneficently. “Have this gift, and I will still offer you that bracelet—”

  “No!” Corin gasped. “I need more.”

  “What else could you want of me? Half my kingdom?”

  “None of it,” Corin said. “I want you to send me home.”

  The laughter fled from Oberon’s face. His brows came crashing down. “The tale-telling time is done.”

  Corin pressed closer, speaking just for Oberon. “It is no farce. I am not where I should be. Please send me home.”

  Oberon answered just as quietly. “You ask a sleeping man to change his dreams. What control have I?”

  “You are Oberon.” It was answer enough.

  The king straightened in his throne. His gaze flicked out to the audience and he gave them another chortle. “Let it not be said—never in my court—that a manling played at farces better than King Oberon. Let us all pretend your tale is true. Let us all pretend there was an honest thief named Corin Hugh. Let us all pretend the fires of a dead Gesoelig brought him to my kingdom. How could I even know that you are he?”