Castle Dreams

by John Dechancie

  “Can't change my mind about a fact."

  Be that as it may. She gave the room another glance. Why are you here?

  “It's the only place in the castle where I can spend any amount of time."

  Father's banishing spell?

  “Yes. Here my local protective devices seem to offset it, for the most part. But I can't stay here for a prolonged period either. Consequently, I've been forced to spend most of the last hundred years or so outside the castle entirely."3

  [3. Despite all his references to exotic locales, the author has never been outside the continental United States (except for Canada, which counts as a foreign country, but not by much; unless you're talking about Quebec, which is a foreign country).]

  Where?

  “Earth, a lot. Other places."

  Where do you live now?

  “An uncharted aspect."

  How uncomfortable it must be for you. I hear you're married.

  “Yes. An Earth woman. A commoner, as I'm certain you've heard."

  I'm sure she's a nice girl.

  “Women rather resent that appellation now."

  Nice?

  “No, ‘girl.’”

  They do? How old is she?

  “Twenty-six."

  Don't be silly.

  “You think I'm robbing the cradle?"

  That's not it, Trent. How old she is makes no difference as long as she's of marriageable age. It's just that there are problems associated with a mixed marriage.

  Trent grinned crookedly. “Between ordinary mortals and demigods such as we, is that it?"

  Don't be impious. We are powerful magicians, it's true, but hardly godlike. No, dear, I'm afraid our kind is all too venal and concupiscent.

  “I agree. Compared to me, Sheila's a saint."

  A nice name. As I said, I'm sure she's a wonderful girl for you—but, well, I hope you'll forgive my asking—was marriage absolutely necessary? I mean, a young man can be forgiven a few mistresses, after all —

  “Mother, stifle it, please?"

  Wherever did you pick up that vulgar cant? It sounds so coarse.

  “I spent a long spell on Earth, among unsavory types. It rubs off."

  We gave you the best education—She sighed. Never mind, never mind. It is not for the dead to tell the living how to conduct their affairs.

  “Thank you."

  But—She shrugged. If that is so, why do you seek our counsel?

  “Frankly, for one reason. To get Dad to tell me how to lift the banishment spell. Inky died, as I'm sure you know—"

  I didn't. Oh, dear.

  “Eh?” Trent sat up sharply. “You don't know? But—"

  Do you think omniscience is granted after death?

  “Well, no, but...” Trent sat back. “Well, I assumed, wrongly it seems.” Trent regarded his mother. “You don't look particularly upset."

  The world must turn, death must come.

  Trent grunted. “Silly of me to think you wouldn't have a different perspective on the issue."

  I'm looking forward to seeing him.

  “Yes, of course. But, as I was saying, I would be his son's regent, and I need the spell of banishment abrogated."

  Oh, Trent. Not again.

  “What again?"

  This wanting-to-be-king business.

  “Mother, please. I've every right to be."

  Cawdor didn't think you had the temperament.

  “I've the mettle, all right."

  The mettle, yes. Prudence, forbearance, nice judgment, no.

  “Nonsense."

  Trent, I'm afraid nothing's changed.

  “I've changed. Really. Even other people say so."

  I'm sure you have. But at this late date—Trent, why do you want the Siege Perilous?

  “It's rightfully mine. I'm the eldest son, and by rights I should have taken the throne."

  You and Incarnadine were fraternal twins. He was born first.

  Trent's fist thumped against the table. “That's not true!"

  Dear, don't raise your voice.

  “I'm sorry, Mother, but that's been a sore point with me for eons. I was born first, and I can prove it."

  How?

  Trent rose and went to the writing desk. He grabbed the sheaf of documents and returned.

  “I have the attending physician's signed and sworn statement that I was the first out of the womb."

  Oh, come, dear.

  “Look at it! See?"

  Yes, dear. I'm sure it's all in order.

  “Dr. Philius. Recognize the name?"

  Oh, I remember Dr. Philius well. I saw him, in fact, not too long ago.

  “But he's years d—Oh, right. Well, you believe him, don't you?"

  Well, of course, Trent. Dr. Philius would have no reason to lie.

  “Well?"

  He's simply mistaken. A mother knows. Inky was first.

  “You were out like a light. How could you know?"

  I realize you were there, too, Trent, but do you really doubt my word?

  “Read it for yourself, right there. Dr. Philius says he gave you something to knock you out."

  That he did, but it didn't work. He was much too reliant on pills and potions.

  “Be that as it may, Philius was aware of the bearing this might have on the future succession, and he took pains to note who was born first. It was me, and he duly swears a statement to that effect and affixes his signature."

  Nevertheless, Trent, dearest, Inky was first. I know. I saw his birthmark. A small, hourglass-shaped port-wine splotch on the left thigh. It was right in front of my nose when Philius laid him, all red and angry and yelling, across my chest. I thought it was the most beautiful little splotch I'd ever seen.

  Trent was silent for a moment as he sat down. “Your memory is fogged. Philius wouldn't have made such a goof."

  There's no doubt in my mind, Trent.

  “If you'll forgive, Mother, I trust Philius's memory over yours."

  Of course you do. This succession business has been an obsession with you since you were a lad. You see, I happen to have a very good memory.

  “No doubt. You remember seeing a birthmark, all right, and it was Incarnadine's, but you don't remember when you saw it. Which was after I was born. I don't have a birthmark."

  No, dear, it was before I delivered you. As I said, a mother knows these things. A mother remembers.

  “You were exhausted and drugged to a stupor. It says here the labor was unusually difficult."

  It was, Trent, but I told you —

  He raised a hand. “Enough. Please. You said you didn't want to waste time tussling with me over a matter that I've quite made up my mind about, and I'm afraid this one fits that bill to a T."

  She chuckled. That I can see. We'll tussle no more.

  “All I ask is that you ask Dad to let me back into the castle."

  Dear, your father is no longer part of this world, and neither am I. We inhabit quite a different realm, a cosmos greater than all the myriad worlds of the castle, vaster than all of Creation itself. You've no idea. The mundane doings on your plane of existence are of no concern to us. They are not within our proper sphere of concern. The living must be let alone to work out their own destinies. We cannot interfere.

  “But it's Dad's doing that I can't live in the castle. Whatever wrong I did, surely I can be forgiven after so long a time."

  Your father forgives you, Trent, for the trouble you caused. Though you may scoff at the notion, he loves you and has always loved you. That is not the issue.

  “Then what the devil is the issue?"

  Please don't use strong language with me.

  “Apologies. Mother, really, I just don't understand."

  She heaved her shoulders. Yes, Trent, I know you don't. But you will, one day. You've a head on your shoulders and you'll eventually see that your father had nothing but your best interests at heart.

  “No doubt,” Trent said dryly. He finished his whisky and set the gl
ass back down. “Well."

  Well, indeed. We've had a charming little sit-down, a nice little chat. But I must go.

  “Goodbye, Mother."

  Goodbye, Trent, darling. Trent, if it had been up to me, I would have ignored precedent and named you heir apparent. It means so much to you. But it wasn't up to me. A woman's lot —

  “Yes, unluckily for me. All the more reason why I should boost women's rights."

  Oh, it's not that women have no rights. In fact—Her hand rose to dismiss the matter. I'm forgetting my own dictum. I shall say no more, save this: I feel that the conflicting elements of your soul will someday work out their differences, and balances will be redressed—or, should I say, imbalances will be corrected.

  “I'm all for it."

  So, I will leave you. Farewell, Trent, my son. Believe me when I say you were my favorite.

  He smiled and nodded. “I do, Mother. Farewell."

  Her smiling image slowly faded. Before she disappeared completely, her small hand rose and slowly waved.

  He sat alone and watched flames lick heat from the gray logs.

  MINE

  In a subbasement of the administration building they found a tunnel that led into the mine.

  There was a huge metal door at the end of the tunnel and it looked impregnable.

  “More magic?” Sativa asked.

  “Sure. Always worth a try, but remember what I said about repeating spells. It wears them out. There should be enough left of the first one. I gave it all I had."

  “That's a vanadium steel door with a tamper-proof lock. Can't be picked or probed."

  “Oh, I dunno. Seems rather straightforward to me."

  She grunted. “The only thing straightforward is—” Her jaw suddenly dropped.

  Grinning, Gene swung the heavy door open. “Spell's working pretty good. If you hit it right, everything happens for you."

  Sativa was thunderstruck. “But that's impossible. The combination to that lock is thousands of digits long. You couldn't possibly..."

  “It opened by itself."

  “How?"

  “Uh, quantum tunneling. Little electrons just suddenly deciding to cross a resistor, all in the proper sequence."

  “But the chances of that happening by accident are—"

  “Vanishingly small. I know. But that's what a facilitation spell does, see. It makes the remotely possible very probable. As long as there's a chance that it could happen, it will happen. But as I said, you gotta do it just right. It doesn't always work."

  Sativa shut her mouth and said no more.

  They entered and Gene shut the thick door behind them. They now found themselves in a crossing tunnel and Gene motioned to the left, as stacked equipment lay in the shadows to the other side.1

  [1. The author has never been in a mine, either, but read several books about mining. There is not far from his residence an abandoned coal mine, which belches smoke and flame occasionally. This might also be a classical reference.]

  The walls of the tunnel were metal, which led Gene to surmise that this was not the mine proper, but a passageway to the main shaft. He was proved right when they encountered a room like a hub, where several corridors converged, spokelike. At the center was a circular pillar into which was set a pair of wide doors looking not unlike those of a freight elevator.

  “The glory-hole,” Gene said.

  “You mean the main shaft? Probably not. It may go all the way down to the haulage floor, but it's a lift, a way of moving equipment from level to level. The mining techniques here are sophisticated. Don't assume this is some open-cut operation."

  “Don't know a thing about mining, really. Was just guessing."

  “Guess away,” Sativa said. “Meanwhile, we don't have a chance of getting into this lift."

  “Maybe."

  “The spell is still working?"

  “Should be, but...” Gene thought it over. “Maybe I should goose it a little."

  “You're the magician. Use your own judgment."

  “Usually with me it's all judgment fled, and all that."

  “I'm sorry."

  “Never mind. Yeah, I think I'll kick it up a notch."

  Gene rubbed his palms against his thighs, then shook his arms vigorously. He stepped his right foot back and assumed an odd stance, positioning his arms dramatically.

  He gave Sativa a look. “Helps if you strike the proper wizardly pose."

  “You look ridiculous."

  “Thank you."

  She was instantly regretful. “Forgive me.” She laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

  He nuzzled her hand, then went out of character to pull her close. They embraced and kissed.

  When their lips parted, she smiled. “My wizard."

  “Princess."

  He let her go and she stepped back. He again assumed a melodramatically occult stance, somewhat akin to the manner of Bela Lugosi in his declining years.

  He recited: “There once was a man from Khartoum, who took a lesbian up to his room..."2

  [2. No, he's never been to Khartoum, either. In fact, he mostly sits home and reads a lot. Last year, in researching a novel, he read six books on the subject of golf. Imagine that.]

  Sativa laughed.

  The curved elevator doors rolled aside with a hiss.

  “Hey, that didn't take much goosing,” he said.

  The lift was empty. They entered.

  “Something's bothering me,” Sativa said as the doors closed.

  “Yes?"

  “Number of things, really. One, why doesn't the security system recognize us as intruders? Why hasn't it challenged us?"

  “It's being fooled by the spell. Doesn't even know we're here, probably."

  “I don't understand, but I'll take your word for it."

  “What other thing is bothering you?"

  “This is supposed to be a test facility. An abandoned one. But it looks too elaborate."

  “Couldn't be a working mine with that administration building stripped."

  “I suppose not. Unless the operation was being run clandestinely, from some other location. Underground or shielded."

  “I don't get the sense of a working operation here."

  Sativa sighed. “Neither do I, really. But I'm getting a strange feeling."

  Gene looked at the control panel. It was lettered in strange script, but he got the gist. He punched the tab for a deep sublevel.

  Machinery whined softly. The elevator lurched, then began to descend.

  Sativa surveyed the space in which they stood.

  “Roomy,” she said. “Must have lots of heavy equipment here."

  “If it's a test facility, maybe not. Just a means of getting drills and stuff from floor to floor, as you said."

  “I suppose they load the stuff in from the level above the one we entered on."

  “On the surface? I guess."

  “Didn't see anything up there."

  “Maybe another level. We're inside a mountain. Maybe a tunnel opens out somewhere else."

  “Yes,” Sativa said. “I saw a dried lake bed on the other side of this mountain. Good landing field. I didn't use it because it looked too obvious. But if you were delivering heavy equipment from orbit, that's where you would land."

  The lift went down slowly but smoothly. At last it whined again, slowing until it dropped. A tone sounded and a glowing numeral appeared on a screen set into the panel.

  “Here we are,” Gene said. “Notions, lingerie."

  “You're so very strange."

  “Thank you kindly, princess. Which way?"

  The tunnel ran to darkness in either direction.

  “To the left,” she said. “For no good reason."

  “Good enough reason by me. Wait a minute.” Gene studied the control panel.

  “What do you want?"

  “Want the doors to stay open. The spell might wear off, and..."

  “A grounded lift might tip them off."

  Gene s
cratched his stubbly chin. “You're right, of course. Wasn't thinking. But we'll be stuck down here if I can't get my mojo working."

  “Your—"

  “Talisman. No, we'll send it up."

  “It's automatic."

  “Right."

  The closing of the doors left them in the faint greenish glow of the luminous strips on her pressure suit. There was enough light, however, by which to navigate the capacious, smooth-floored tunnel.

  Sativa said, “Again, I'm puzzled by the extent of this operation. How many sublevels?"

  “Seven marked on the panel, at least, but there were unmarked buttons."

  “That's going fairly deep."

  “And there could be some deeper."

  “When do you think your magic spell will wear off?"

  “Well, hard to say. We have maybe an hour."

  “They we'd best get lost somewhere down here. Find a spot to hide, and stay there."

  “There's a problem of food and water."

  “Of course. We'll have to hold out as long as we can, then come back up when they give up looking."

  “Are they likely to give up?"

  She shook her head. “No. They know we're ... Excuse me, they know I'm here. They won't stop till they've caught me."

  “Then let's hope someone stashed some emergency rations in this hole. Mines are supposed to have that sort of stuff. Bottled water at least."

  “There is that chance."

  “Then that means we have a chance. Come on."

  They walked into the semidarkness. Huge bracing trusses loomed overhead, looking secure enough to hold up the roof of a cathedral.

  “You're right,” he said, “it doesn't look like a quickie strip mine."

  “It doesn't seem like a mine at all."

  “What else could it be?"

  “I don't know."

  “What's this stuff?"

  The stuff was piled crates lining the tunnel on both sides. The crates were made of some shiny white composite material.

  Sativa knelt to inspect one of them. “They've got locks. Think you can handle it?"

  “What, that thing?” He gave the crate a kick and the lid popped open.

  Inside were futuristic firearms—rifles, or the equivalent. Sativa got one out and tore it free of its cloth wrapping. It was a formidable thing with a wire stock and a scope. She tossed it to him.

  “Guns. Who—?"

  “The Irregular Forces,” she said. “This is one of their weapons caches."