Castle Perilous

by John Dechancie

  “What did you say? You remember? What?”

  Your father’s father … or was it your father’s father’s father … he who spoke my name … he who enchained me.

  “What of him?”

  How long ago? That I do not remember.

  “Do you remember what you are?”

  No, not completely. I do not entirely know my nature. Much has been lost.

  He halted. The voice was a whisper now.

  “Why do you speak now? You have not done so in a hundred years.”

  That long? I did not know. Was it you to whom I spoke?

  “Does it matter?”

  No. It is sometimes difficult for me to ascertain individuality … and I do not care in any event.

  “You spoke to me. I ask again — why have you broken your silence?”

  I speak now because I sense an impending liberation.

  A spark of light above caught his eye, and he looked to the zenith. A falling star scratched a trail across the heavens. It glowed with a phosphorescent green light.

  “Ah.”

  What is it?

  When the star had descended, he looked down, his face troubled.

  “Nothing.” Presently, he said, “A moment ago you spoke of soaring, of destroying. Is that your nature?”

  I feel it must be.

  “You also spoke of the Spell Stone. What is it?”

  That which both holds me in bondage and denies me knowledge of my nature.

  “But what is it? Where is it?”

  I do not know.

  “I see.” The song of the wind rose up again, and he turned toward it. He felt drawn to the open spaces before him. But the shackles of obligation held him back. He chafed at them.

  He shook his head, turning to the window. On the other side of the sky a blue-white sun was setting. Here, the freedom of nothingness was comforting. But he knew he could not stay. He had many tasks before him.

  “Tell me this,” he said. “Do you remember your name?”

  No.

  “That is good.”

  After taking one last look at what lay about him, he strode toward the window and stepped inside it.

  Southern Barbican — Near The Keepgate House

  Two lords and a lady sat inside a tent at a table made of rude planking. A draft from the breach in the outer wall, very near, ruffled the cloth walls of the tent.

  At one end of the table stood an imposing mountain of a man, wearing battle dress executed in the style of the Eastern Empire, and the finery of it spoke of the highest rank. He wore a burnished helmet of bronze, set with blue stones and decorated with bars of white enamel. His long-sleeved tunic was of vermilion wool, bordered at hem and cuffs with gold embroidery. The massive breastplate shone like a golden sun, and a blue cape flowed over his shoulders and down his back like a cataract.

  The other men were dressed for battle as well, though in more utilitarian style: suits of mail under long sleeveless tunics, on which were emblazoned their respective coats-of-arms. The lady occupied one side of the table by herself. She wore a long cloak dyed a bright orange. Behind her stood a man in a long hooded gown.

  From outside came the gruff voices of soldiers, the rattle of wagons, the whickering of destriers.

  “You say we have begun undermining the inner palisade?”

  Prince Vorn turned to Lord Althair, who sat nearest him.

  “Last night, though work progresses slowly, by hand. We must use the bore sparingly, since its noise could give us away. Moreover, the spell that runs the engine does not work well below the earth. Bores are meant for walls above ground.”

  “Even in its proper element,” Lord Dax, seated to Althair’s right, remarked, “your bore did not excel. Three months to breach the outer wall.”

  Vorn turned a withering dark eye on him. “Three months to bite through stone that is more like metal than metal itself.”

  Dax lifted a silver flagon of wine to his lips, pausing to mutter, “True,” before drinking.

  Lord Althair, a thin-faced man with light brown eyes, scratched his long nose with a finger. “We started last night? I suspect they have already begun to countermine. Incarnadine has anticipated our every move. We have taken inordinate casualties.”

  “Most of which have been from among my best regiments,” Vorn said.

  “Your regiments make up the bulk of our combined forces, so it’s hardly surprising. That is why we three have formed an alliance with you. Without aid, we could never have begun to take Castle Perilous.”

  “Then why complain?”

  “I do not complain. I state facts.”

  “You would do well not to state the obvious.”

  Althair’s lips drew up into a pout.

  “To business, then,” Vorn said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “The Spell Stone. I should like to hear again what its function is and how we may go about locating it.”

  Lady Melydia of the House of Gan, a woman of delicate features and bold blue eyes that glowed with a curiously discordant intensity, inclined her head toward the man standing to her left. “Osmirik will tell you.”

  Osmirik reached up and drew back his hood. His hair was long and black, matching his beard. “If it please His Royal Highness …”

  “It would please me if you were brief this time.”

  “I shall endeavor to obey His Royal Highness.”

  Vorn snorted and leaned back.

  “The Spell Stone may be likened to the keystone of an arch,” Osmirik said, “without which the arch would collapse. It is the core of the castle’s strength. Find the Stone, abrogate its spell, and the castle shall undergo detransmogrification.”

  “Bandy no scholar’s jargon with me. Are you speaking of magical transformation here?”

  “Yes, sire, though of a higher order than usual. Once the spell is broken, the castle will revert to whatever it was before it was transformed.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I do not know, sire.”

  There was a moment of silence. Vorn glanced around the table, then looked at Osmirik. “Is that all?”

  “His Royal Highness requested brevity,” Althair said with a snicker.

  Vorn ignored him. To Osmirik, he said, “Continue.”

  “Sire?”

  “You have no idea what the castle would revert to?”

  “Most likely the Stone itself and a pile of rubble. Or it may be that Castle Perilous is a transmogrified conventional castle. There is no historical evidence to support this supposition, but it may be true nonetheless.”

  “We know,” Dax said, “that the castle has existed for the last three thousand years. The written record goes back no farther.”

  “However, there are legends, my lord,” Osmirik said.

  “Legends?” Vorn brought a meaty hand up to scratch his trimmed black beard. “What do they say?”

  “Legend has it,” Osmirik said, “that the ancient home of the Haplodites, of whose line Incarnadine is, was far to the south, in another part of the Western Pale. Indeed, there are ruins in that region such that, if one undertakes a comparative analysis of architectural styles —”

  “Which I hope we will not do this moment …”

  “No, sire.”

  “The upshot, scribe. The upshot.”

  “The upshot, sire, is that it may very well be that Castle Perilous is the only edifice ever to have existed on this site.”

  “In which case, once the spell is broken, the place becomes a pile of rocks. Is that it?”

  “Perhaps, sire. Perhaps not.”

  Vorn scowled. “Is it possible to get an answer from you that does not twist three ways at once?”

  “Of course, sire. However, when —”

  “Enough!” Vorn took a long drink from his gold chalice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why must there be a Spell Stone at all? Suppose the castle is real, in and of itself?”

  “Impossible,” Dax said. “Its sheer bulk alone …�
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  Vorn looked at Osmirik. “You agree?”

  “Yes, sire. It has long been taken for granted that Castle Perilous must be a magical construct. Human instrumentality alone could not account for its existence. The technique of construction by magic has long been known, but has been rarely practiced. Spells are tenuous things — most are, that is. People are loath to live in dwellings held up by a magician’s skill alone. As a result, the art has been lost over the years. Castle Perilous is doubtless a product of the craft at its highest level of advancement.”

  “I see.” Vorn turned his head to Lady Melydia. “My lady. Forgive me if I bring up an indelicate matter …”

  Melydia smiled mirthlessly. “You are forgiven. Your Highness. Since I was once betrothed to Incarnadine, you wish to know if I can confirm the Spell Stone’s existence. I cannot. Incarnadine never mentioned it. And though I stayed at Castle Perilous on many occasions as a Guest, I do not know where it is located.”

  “I, too, have been a Guest,” Althair said. “I even asked him about it once. He took great pains to avoid answering.”

  “It must be found,” Dax said.

  “Now,” Vorn said, “let me ask this. Why can we not simply find Incarnadine and induce him to tell us where it is?”

  “You could spend a lifetime trudging through that monstrosity,” Althair said dyspeptically.

  “Sire, the castle is also known as the House of 144,000 Aspects. It contains gateways to other worlds, other planes of existence. Incarnadine could slip through any one of them to elude us.”

  “May he not already have slipped away?” Vorn asked.

  “Yes, sire, that is very possible. However, it was my impression that the object of this campaign was not Lord Incarnadine’s capture —”

  “We are not interested in your impressions, scribe,” Melydia said.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Why not forget the Spell Stone,” Vorn went on, “and simply look for the treasure room?”

  “That, too, would be difficult to locate,” Osmirik answered. “But if His Royal Highness would permit me an opinion, I would agree that this would be the best —”

  “That is enough,” Melydia said.

  Vorn looked at Melydia, eyes a trifle suspicious. “Is there something …?”

  “A scholar’s daydreams, sire. He’ll propose a dozen different theories, then take the negative and argue each one into absurdity. It is naught but casuistry.”

  “I merely meant to add, my lady, that —”

  “You will be silent!”

  Vorn, on unsure ground, stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “I would be interested, Lady Melydia, in what he has to say.”

  Melydia sighed. She inserted an index finger between her cheek and the white cloth of her wimple, letting air in. “Forgive me,” she said, her hands going up to her pie-shaped orange hat to adjust it. “This man is a member of my household. I must put up with his convoluted gibberish and insubordination on a daily basis.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Yes, yes, by all means … go on.”

  Osmirik stiffened. “Thank you, my lady. There are other legends concerning Castle Perilous. One of them has to do with the jewel known as the Brain of Ramthonodox.”

  “Ah, yes, the jewel,” Vorn said, smiling. “It would likely be in the treasure room, would it not?”

  “I do not know, sire. I do know that the name Ramthonodox appears in certain ancient writings —”

  “Musty books he has his nose stuck in all day,” Melydia said.

  “Yes, my lady. In one particular volume, the Archegonion, or The Book of the Most Ancient of Days — a compendium of classical texts in fragmentary form — one reads of a day long past, when the earth and the men who dwelt in it were subject to the depredations of great demons. It was a time of fear and desolation, when men scratched out a miserable existence in a world of waste and ruin.”

  “Yes, yes,” Vorn said impatiently. “We have similar legends in the East. Go on.”

  “The name Ramthonodox appears at various points in the texts. Unfortunately, the references are not clear, due to difficulties in translation. The original Tryphosite codices have been lost. All we have is an early Zamathian translation. However, in marginalia added to copies of the Zamathian codex done about fifteen hundred years ago, we find —”

  Vorn struck the table with a mailed fist. “Get to the point!”

  “Yes, sire. There are also references to —”

  From inside the barbican there came a terrific sound like a clap of thunder. There were shouts and general commotion. Then, men screaming in agony.

  Silence at the table.

  “They have found our mine,” Dax said.

  Vorn nodded grimly. The three men rose and walked solemnly out of the tent.

  Melydia stood up slowly, turned and faced Osmirik, drawing up to him until the tip of her nose fairly met his.

  “You think the art of colossal transmogrification lost?”

  Her breath was hot on his face. “Not quite, my lady.”

  “True, it is not. I have it, and I will transmogrify you into a mountain of pig shit if you vomit forth any more of your bookish nonsense!”

  “My —”

  “Silence!”

  Osmirik’s body went slack. He took a deep breath.

  “I have warned you before, and I do so now again.” Melydia stepped back. “Take heed, scribe.”

  She turned and left.

  Osmirik’s face grew pensive. He paced the length of the tent for a while, then halted.

  “Library,” he said in a whisper. “The library …”

  Keep — East Wing — Family Residence

  The room was lovely in the daylight. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the furniture beautifully carved in a style she did not recognize. There were even curtains. She had had no trouble sleeping here. She had never slept in a canopied bed.

  She threw off the covers, sat up and dangled her feet over the side of the bed, feeling for her wooden-soled sandals. She had slept in her clothes — faded jeans, and a T-shirt with faded iron-on lettering that read IT’S HARD TO FLY LIKE AN EAGLE WHEN YOU WORK WITH TURKEYS, accompanied by a cartoon rendering of the sentiment. She needed to use the bathroom, and she wanted a shower. If they had bathrooms in this place. She rather doubted it. She got up and stretched. It occurred to her to look under the bed. Yup, there it was: the chamber pot. Yuck. Well, she could put it off for a little while longer. Not like yesterday, when she had to … No use dwelling on that.

  She went to the window. Here, unlike in other parts of the castle she had seen, the windows were glazed, lovely old leaded glass. Turning the wrought-iron handle, she swung one casement pane outward. She leaned out. She couldn’t tell exactly how far up the room was, but it was high. Below and beyond the outer walls a carpet of dense green forest spread out and upward, mounting to the foothills of snow-tipped peaks far in the distance. Not a sound. The air was cool and sweet-smelling.

  Someone opened the door to her room, and she jumped. Almost everything in this place made her jump. But this time it was only a middle-aged woman carrying bedding. She was dressed in a long gray undergown with sleeves full to the elbow. The sleeveless overgarment was white. She wore a white cloth cap tied around twists of gray hair to either side of the head. The woman’s face was pleasant, if a bit plain. Her complexion was ruddy, and she had few teeth. She looked friendly.

  “Good morning, mum,” the maid said, smiling.

  “Good morning.”

  “May I …?”

  “Um … yes. Yes, of course.”

  The woman came into the room and began stripping the bed.

  She stood watching for a moment before she said, “Uhh … I’m Linda Barclay.”

  The maid smiled again. “Pleased to meet you, mum. Rawenna’s my name. Sleep well, I trust?”

  “Yes. Yes! Marvelous. I —”

  The maid looked up from her work. “You were saying, mum?”

 
Linda shook her head. She crossed to the footboard of the bed and ran her hand over the carvings. “You know …”

  “Yes, mum?”

  “I found this room by accident. I really don’t know … I mean, I hope I wasn’t —”

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself, mum. Any room where you’ll be comfortable.”

  “But I’m not really sure I’m supposed to be here!”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t even know where I am. This place …”

  “You’re in the keep, mum. Forty-sixth floor, east wing.”

  “Yes, but where? This is a castle, I know, but where is it?”

  “Well, where are you from?”

  “I live in Santa Monica, California.”

  Rawenna stopped plumping the pillows long enough to think it over. She shook her head. “Sorry, mum, never heard of the place. I’m sure it’s nice, though.”

  Linda nodded, then sighed and took a seat on a low stool beside the armoire. She propped her head up on one hand, elbow on knee. “I’m probably going crazy.”

  “Such talk, and from a pretty young girl like you.”

  “This is probably a hospital, and you’re probably a nurse, and I’m hallucinating the rest.”

  “A nurse, mum? Me? Oh, I’m much too old.” She put a hand to her ample bosom. “Dried up long ago, I did. I’ve nursed a few whelp in my time, though. I certainly did.”

  “That’s not —” Linda giggled. “God, this is so nutty.” She watched the maid fit the bed with fresh sheets.

  When Rawenna was done, she tucked the sheets in, drew up the beautifully quilted bedspread and smoothed out the creases.

  “I don’t even know how I got here. Or why I’m here.”

  Rawenna stooped and slid out the chamber pot.

  “I didn’t use that.”

  She pushed it back under the bed.

  “I don’t know if I can. I guess I’ll have to.”

  “If you prefer to use the bath, mum, it’s just down the corridor.”

  Linda brightened. “You have a bathroom? With a toilet?”

  “A water closet, you mean? Yes, we do. Some of the Guests prefer it. Others … well, like me, they’re used to what they’re used to.”

  “Guests?”

  “Why, yes. The other Guests.”