“Not a thing!” Roan shouted back, into a sudden, embarrassing silence. He was saved by the appearance of a leggy supermodel wearing a tiny red minidress and a puffy coiffure.
A head taller than anyone else in the room, the blonde woman cut between them and strode toward one of the doorways. The crowd parted before her.
“My hat,” Bergold said, watching her go by, “who’s dreaming her?”
“Wishful thinking,” Roan said, with a grin. “Probably province-wide.” The girl turned her head, gave him an appraising up-and-down glance, and winked. Roan felt his face flush, but he was flattered.
Bergold touched Roan’s sleeve, and pointed to the front of the room. By the dais, a knot of historians huddled, muttering to one another. They no longer resembled the cats the guards had mentioned. Instead, several of them wore camel faces. The lean, drooping snouts added to their expressions of sour discontent.
The two friends elbowed their way over to join them. Most of the men in the crowd stood aside to allow Bergold, in his female guise, to undulate past, and a few leered after him.
“Bergold,” one of the historians said, in terse greeting. “Roan.”
“Hello, son,” his father said in surprise, turning around and embracing Roan. Thomasen’s face changed from the visage of a camel to a human face rather resembling his son’s. “This is a pleasure. When did you return?”
“Just a short time ago,” Roan said. “Bergold met me on the way in.”
“Well, well,” Thomasen said, pleased, putting an arm around his son. “Your mother will be delighted you’re back safely. Come back with me after court and see her.”
“I’m not delighted to see him,” snapped another of the senior historians. It was Datchell, one of Roan’s oldest tormentors. “It’s the freak back again, I see.” He eyed Roan up and down with open distaste. The long camel’s lips moved as if he might spit. Roan held himself ready to jump out of the way. “I thought you’d done us a favor by disappearing. Why don’t you go and discontinue yourself, you abomination against sane dreams?”
“Datchell!” Bergold exclaimed.
“Shame,” said Micah, the senior historian, pounding his long cane on the ground. “The boy can’t help himself.”
Roan’s heart sank. No matter how hard he fought not to be stung by such abuse, he always failed. Datchell and others like him always managed to play upon his childhood shame of being constant in an ever-changing world. He was an adult now, Roan reminded himself. His sanity was undoubted, his command over his surroundings above average for any Dreamlander, not far short of that wielded by the king himself. He held a responsible job and was well liked. One man’s opinion did not matter, must not matter. Long practice let him keep his carefully bland expression.
“Greetings, Datchell,” he said, bowing very slightly, enough to be polite, but not enough to look subservient. Datchell had already turned away, looking disgusted. Some of the other historians offered Roan sympathetic looks.
“Don’t start the same argument all over again, Datchell,” said one fatherly historian, coming up to put an arm around Roan’s shoulders. “You mustn’t repeat yourself.” Datchell didn’t reply. His back showed rigid indignation.
“Tsk!” Micah said to Roan, with a shake of his head. “There are people who simply can’t stomach a new idea. Calls himself a member of the intellectual elite, does he?”
“Never mind him,” Thomasen said, blandly. “He hates giving reports.” He nudged Roan with a playful wrist. “By the way, son, the lass has been asking after you.”
Roan felt his breath catch on a warm feeling in his chest as he glanced to the right of the king’s seat, at the small throne with the white, marble pedestal as a footrest. It was still empty. He sighed, half with relief. Living as near the Dreamland court as he always had, it was ridiculous for him to feel as shy as he did about the princess Leonora. She had known him all her life. When she was born, he had been six years old. The two of them had made mud pies on the edge of the moat—when there was a moat. He’d helped her pull out her first wiggly tooth. They’d shared secrets, and chased butterflies, and he’d taught her how to make obnoxious whistles out of field grass. When there were minor threats, such as those times she provoked other children in the palace into chasing her, it was to him that she ran, and his pleasure as her devoted defender was to see off the attackers. He had always treated her as a beloved little sister.
But things had changed a few years ago, the month she had turned fifteen. Three days after her birthday, an angry red dragon had attacked the castle. Leonora had been trapped on the roof. The whole court was in an uproar, everyone getting in each other’s way to rescue their beloved princess.
Young Roan had managed to thread his way through the chaos and reach her before anyone else. Before he could think what he was doing, he had run straight at the fierce monster, shouting at it to get away from Leonora. It turned away from its intended victim to attack him, and he repelled it with an outpouring of powerful influence that surprised him completely. The dragon was thrown backwards in the sky and exploded in a shower of sparks. Roan couldn’t think what had possessed him to attack, alone, bare-headed and empty-handed, until he started to carry the shaking princess down the stairs. She clutched him, but when he wrapped his arms around her, she stopped trembling. He realized at that moment Leonora was no longer a child, but a young woman, one who was precious to him in an entirely new way. Moreover, he knew she loved him, too. But she was the king’s heir, the symbol of the future of the Dreamland, and the most beautiful woman in the land. He had been mortified at his audacity, but helplessly in love, and was so to this day.
He was constantly torn between his new knowledge and the long history they had shared as childhood friends. In the great scheme of things, Leonora functioned as that absolute to which everyone in the Dreamland aspired. She was admirable. She was beautiful as a sunrise, remote as the stars, competent, charming, compassionate—Roan’s thoughts ran on pleasantly through all the complimentary words he could think of that began with the letter c. She ought to be consorting with dukes, presidents and angels, not the boy-next-door-to-the-castle. The king’s thoughts must have run along similar lines. He appeared to look favorably upon Roan’s friendship with the princess, but whenever the topic of marriage came up, as it increasingly did over the last few years, he had sent the young man on endless remarkable and frustrating errands. Roan thought these tasks might be intended to test his fitness for the princess’s hand, but then, they might be delaying tactics, a father’s protective maneuvers to keep his daughter from forming an inappropriate liaison. When Leonora appeared in court or on state occasions with her father, she was on a pedestal, too far above for anyone to touch her.
Roan performed his tasks as well as he was able, never shirked an assignment, no matter how dangerous, and he always came back to Mnemosyne. He didn’t know if the latter dismayed the king or pleased him. The princess had always appeared to be pleased.
Leonora seemed to be amused by both her father’s obduracy and her suitor’s willingness to go along with the king’s whims. Roan sometimes wondered if she wasn’t putting him to some kind of test, too. Roan gave the small throne a final wry look. He hoped he’d know when, if, he passed. He caught Thomasen looking at him with a familiar, fond paternal smile. Reluctantly, he pulled his thoughts back to the present, away from past and future.
“Tell me, what’s all today’s fuss about?” Roan asked, moving closer to his father. The historians had gone back to muttering and spitting among themselves. Thomasen blew through his lips, a suggestion of the camel returning to his face.
“Pah! The usual doo-dah about improbable nonsense,” Thomasen said. “Rumor has it Carodil has the king’s ear, leaving the rest of us doing an elaborate kind of mime, so far as His Majesty’s concerned. I say the king keeps things well in balance. He’s just hearing the other side for a change, but for historians they’re remarkably reluctant to understand that facet of perspective.”
“No one likes having his ideas ignored,” Roan said, tilting his head humorously.
“Mmh!”
They were interrupted by a blare of trumpets. The herald, a stout man resplendent in seafoam green silk velvet and a remarkable hat that wound around and around his head like a snail shell, stalked out before the trumpeters.
“My lords and ladies, all rise! By gracious whim of their Creative Eminences, the Sleepers, His Ephemeral Majesty, Byron, King of Dreams!”
As everyone was already standing, little attention was paid to the herald’s command, but everyone turned to face the dais.
Chapter 3
“Silence in the courtroom!” the parrots screamed. They were quelled by a sharp look from the herald. The white silk curtains at the front of the room were swept aside, and the king entered. He wore flowing, white silk robes and a turban with a huge, shining green cabochon on the feathered aigrette at the front. No matter what face he wore, the King of the Dreamland was kingly. The bones of his jaw, cheek, and brow showed the underlying strength of a noble countenance. Beneath distinct, dark brows shone deep blue eyes that moved to meet those of everyone in the room. King Byron smiled at old friends, faithful courtiers, and beloved servants of the court. The bright gaze settled momentarily on Roan, and the brows rose in pleased surprise. Roan, feeling honored by such a friendly reception, bowed deeply. Perhaps the king had been giving some favorable consideration to his suit for Leonora’s hand. By the time Roan straightened up with the question in his eyes, the king’s attention had shifted to the next man, leaving Roan wondering. Perhaps, since his news was good, Roan would request a brief personal interview later, to see how his fortunes stood.
King Byron settled himself, sitting upright as he could on piled cushions in a throne that had changed from marble to elaborately carved gold.
“I am happy to see everyone here,” he said. “Everyone is well, I trust?”
In answer, there were affirmative murmurs and bows. The herald cleared his throat again and bellowed. “My lords and ladies, Her Benevolent Majesty, the Queen!”
Attended by a host of noblewomen and doctors, the queen made her way to her throne, and sat down in it delicately. Rumor had had it for many years that Queen Harmonia suffered from a mysterious malady, but not even the most ardent gossips could wrench details from her medical advisors. Roan himself never saw anything wrong with her. She seemed well enough to enjoy most balls and entertainments, and was a firm supporter of the fine arts.
“My lords and ladies, Her Most Admirable Highness, Princess Leonora.” There was a more musical blare from the trumpets. From between the silk curtains issued a parade of pages and ladies in waiting. A hum of anticipation arose from the crowd as Drea, the princess’s old nurse, came out. She clucked, putting out a hand to offer assistance to her charge, but a soft protest made her withdraw it. Leonora emerged, straight and tall and slender, shaking her head at Drea. Roan caught the quickly hidden expression of rueful but loving amusement in the princess’s eyes. The old woman would never believe that Leonora had grown up. Yet, grown up she had.
Leonora looked around the crowd anxiously as she settled onto her small, cushioned throne. She propped tiny feet in white satin slippers with curled toes on her pedestal. As her gaze fell on Roan, she smiled and appeared to relax. He felt his breath catch in his chest, and his cheeks grew warm. Roan did love her, and was rewarded in knowing that she loved him, too. Bergold nudged him hard in the ribs.
“There, and you were worried,” Bergold said, teasingly. He wore an indulgent smile that pushed out his rouged cheeks.
“Shh!” Roan brushed his elbow away, but he wasn’t really annoyed. The herald stood forward imperiously.
“Silence for the King!” he bellowed, deflating to half his diameter with each shout. The roar of voices dropped to a sullen mutter, and all attention turned to the throne.
“My lords and ladies,” King Byron said, his resonant voice filling every corner of the great room, “We have asked you here today for the annual reports. We look forward to hearing from each and every one of you.”
The voices rose into excited chattering like the parrots over their heads. Byron raised his hands for silence.
“One at a time,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “My dear Herald, call our first minister.”
“Master Kaulb, the Royal Treasurer!”
Kaulb, a bent old man wearing a neat but worn set of robes, tottered forward. Roan knew him as a most frugal man, a worthy warden of the kingdom’s wealth.
“Well, Your Majesty,” Kaulb began, unfurling a scroll that he took from his sleeve. It unrolled for yards, bounding out of his hands and into the crowd. “The following is a list of the goods and treasures which have been entrusted to my keeping for the period of the last year. . . .”
Roan shifted from foot to foot as the treasurer went through his endless list. The old man’s voice drew him into a swaying trance. Only the occasional glances at the princess kept him from falling asleep on his feet. She was also bored, but sitting with a perfectly straight spine. If she could stand it, so could he.
“And that is all,” Kaulb said, at last. There was thunderous applause from the assembly as he stepped down. King Byron perked up, shifting his turban back on his head where it had slipped slightly over one eye while he nodded.
“Most complete,” the king said, approvingly. “Next, sir Herald?”
“Carodil, Minister of Science!” the green-clad man bellowed.
The Science party was at the far side of the hall from the historians, a cluster of blue-and-white-robed men and women, most of them young. Science had more apprentices than all the other ministries put together. Carodil was a tall, slim woman of middle years. At present, she had a dainty, round face with a milk-white complexion that contrasted with her sharp, dark eyes and dark hair. She offered a shallow bow from where she stood.
“I defer to the next minister, Your Majesty,” Carodil said, offering a shallow bow. “My report is of some length and some moment. I would not want to make anyone else wait their minor reports for me to finish. Perhaps I should go last.”
“Some length is some moments,” Bergold whispered to Roan. “What a pretentious speech!”
“Very well,” the king said, flicking his fingers toward the herald. “Call the next minister.”
The herald described a magnificent and deferential bow, contrasting deliberately with Carodil’s arrogant dip, and the muttering began again. It stilled only faintly when Galman, the Royal Zoologist, strode forward. He was a big, hearty man, with a booming voice. Without waiting for his robes to stop flapping around his ankles, he threw up his hands.
“Good news, Your Majesty, friends! I’ve just received word from the town of Ephemer that a pegasus has been sighted in Wocabaht!” Joyful hubbub broke out.
“Ooh! What kind?” Princess Leonora demanded, leaning forward on her dainty throne.
“A white one, Your Highness, with gray ticking on the wings and tail,” the zoologist proclaimed, with a courteous bow to her.
“Ahhh.” The sigh of satisfaction ran throughout the throne room. Of all the remnants from the Collective Unconscious, mystical creatures aroused the most excitement. Even Roan, well traveled though he was, had yet to see most of the fabled beasts that still occasionally turned up in the Dreamland.
“It was first seen grazing the tops of a couple of apple trees in the witness’s orchard near the town of Sona,” the zoologist continued, excitedly. “It flew off toward the mountains. As soon as the man found he could not follow it on foot, he went immediately to fetch the local officials. A small party has been dispatched to see if they can pick up its trail.”
“They won’t find it,” Datchell said, shaking his camel’s head. “They were lucky to see it once in a lifetime. Why, I recall the last time I heard reports of dinosaurs, and that was thirty years ago. The footprints stopped at the edge of a swamp. Not a trace!”
“I saw one of those Neanderthals, once,” sai
d Telsander, a Continuity minister, staring at the ornate ceiling with slitted eyes. “A female, she was, wearing shaggy hides and necklaces. Thought I caught a brief glimpse of a male caveman, too. He was sitting on the side of the path beyond her. They both vanished. Hum! It’s always astonishing how these things hang on. Cave people have been listed in the historical records for over ten thousand years. They are Real.”
“I saw a caveman some years ago,” Roan raised his voice.
“Did you, now!” Telsander said, whipping a small book and a pencil out of a pocket in his robe. “I wonder if it was the same one. Being only a race memory, the fellow wouldn’t have aged. Give me a description, as detailed as you like.” He licked the end of the pencil, and held it poised. Roan took a deep breath.
“Hush!” Thomasen said, deflating them both. “You can find the details of his observation in the Akashic Records. I want to hear more about the pegasus.”
His mellow voice carried far enough for the zoologist to hear. Galman turned toward the historians with a slight bow.
“No more to tell,” he said, apologetically. “I agree that it’s doubtful our witnesses will see anything more of them. It’s impossible to hold onto the older memories for long.”
“Mmph!” Carodil snorted, with a significant look toward her entourage, who looked secretly smug. Roan gave her a curious glance.
“Call Micah, Historian Prime!” the herald announced magnificently.
The historians made way as their senior walked forward with his head down, shifting his face from that of a camel to something more human.
“Your Esteemed Majesty,” he said, raising a pleasant, wrinkled face to the king. Roan felt his heart sink with dismay. The man’s lecture voice was just as Roan remembered it: a monotonous drone that made him tired just to hear it. With any luck, History’s report would be short. “I am pleased to report that data are being kept correctly up to date, with no verifiable errors being entered into the permanent record. As this is the beginning of the spring season, we close one volume in which all observations are noted down, and begin the next. This new year makes eighty thousand six hundred and fifty-seven that we have recorded in the archives of the Dreamland since its beginning in one form or another. We are proud of our diligence,” Micah had to raise his voice over derisive cries of “ho-hum!” and other catcalls, “but Your Majesty, since we are supposed to keep track of all events of importance happening anywhere in the Dreamland, it would be helpful if we could get more assistants.”
Waking in Dreamland Page 3
