Oberon's Dreams

by Aaron Pogue

  Corin floundered. “I…well…you have heard the tale I told. Could anyone but Corin Hugh have said it as plainly?”

  “Anyone among his crew,” Oberon replied. “They were all there. And what if Corin got away? What if you are one of his villains? What wretched kind of king would I be to send you back?”

  Corin licked his lips, baffled. “I…I could find someone to vouch for me?”

  “Someone? No. Something. The legendary thief Corin Hugh would have no trouble stealing the whistle from a summer breeze or the wickedness from a cat’s dark heart.”

  “You would have me steal something?”

  Oberon laughed, and the court laughed with him, though Corin could tell from the tenor they were just as confused as he was. All together, they played along with Oberon.

  The mad king’s laugh subsided. “No. You told the story wrong. The Corin Hugh you’ve told me of would not have come to Gesoelig helpless as a babe. He would have lifted the cutlass from his wretched first mate’s belt. Show me the sword, and I will send you home.”

  Corin gaped. He shouted, “No! That never happened!”

  “It should have,” Oberon said, but he shook his head and corrected himself. “It shall have.” He shook his head again. “It will.” At that he nodded, beaming.

  Corin whispered fiercely, “I didn’t take the sword. Please. Help me!”

  But Oberon turned his head away and rolled his shoulders. “Without the sword, you are nothing but a liar. I grow bored of farces.”

  “Please! Your Majesty!” Corin begged, but Oberon flapped a hand in weary dismissal.

  “Take them away and bring me no more mummers evermore.”

  The wave crashed in again as it had before, a hundred courtiers surging forward to close around Corin and his three companions. It was an undertow, a riptide Corin couldn’t swim against, and in a moment he was hurled up on the shore, outside the living cavern of Oberon’s court. He tried to dive back in, but the outer edge of courtiers closed up, solid as a wall, and no matter how he tried, Corin could not get around them.

  “Save your strength,” Maurelle told him sadly. “I’ve wasted weeks outside the edges, and I never found a crack. When you are cast outside the court, you stay outside.”

  Corin sank down on his knees, weak and weary. “But I need his aid.”

  She shrugged. “Then you had better find that sword.”

  “No, you don’t understand! I don’t have the sword. There is no sword. I don’t know where to find it!”

  Yeoman Kellen bit his lip, then after a long moment he let out an explosive sigh. “I do. I know where. And this will not be fun.”

  Corin rubbed his eyes. “You’re not listening. There is no sword.”

  “Of course there is,” Kellen said. “In your story—”

  “That was masterfully done,” Avery said. “I’ve spun a fancy thread from time to time, but never such a parable as that.”

  “Precisely,” Kellen said. “With you for Oberon, and Ethan Blake for Ephitel—”

  Maurelle clapped her hands together, delighted. “Don’t forget he mentioned us! The advisors Blake dismissed? That makes me Iryana! Avery, you can be Sleepy Jim—”

  “I think he meant the advisors to be Oberon’s druids,” Avery said.

  “It could be both,” Maurelle insisted. “I could be Iryana.”

  “It’s not a made-up story!” Corin shouted. “It is my life. Those people are real people, and Ethan Blake still wears his cutlass on his belt while he drags Iryana and Sleepy Jim away in chains.” Corin stopped himself, panting. Maurelle gave a frightened squeak. Avery stepped closer, peering into Corin’s eyes. “You really believe this?”

  “I do,” Corin said. “And the druids do as well. It was they who sent me to ask Oberon for help.”

  “They knew it was not a metaphor?”

  “Of course they did. I had to change some details to make that work for Oberon.”

  “Ah,” Avery said.

  “And that,” Kellen said, “is how I know there is a sword.”

  All eyes turned to him. He grimaced and loosened his sword within its scabbard. “Oberon only heard the parable. And he is not a fool. He doesn’t want the sword of Ethan Blake. He wants you to get Ephitel’s.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A shocked silence reigned until Maurelle creased her pretty brow and said, “But…Ephitel doesn’t carry a sword.”

  All three men answered her as one. “He does.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve seen him oft at court, and I have never seen him with a sword. He keeps a silver-chased baton for formal functions, a riding crop for fetes, and a Dehtzwood bow when he goes off to war. It has a green case of hardened leather and a quiver to match.”

  All three men stared, dumbfounded.

  Avery found his voice first. “Remarkable.”

  She shrugged. “I do pay attention to the things that matter.”

  “I do, too,” Corin said. “And I saw the sword he wore upon his hip when he went to see Aemilia yesterday. It looked fit for a king.”

  “He wore it still when he arrested you,” Avery said.

  “It’s true,” Kellen said. “I noted it as well, but the lady isn’t wrong. Despite this evidence, the lord protector never wears a sword.”

  Corin shook his head. “A man might make an exception for that blade.”

  “What blade was this?” Avery asked. “I only saw that he was armed.”

  “A relic, by the look of it,” Corin said, remembering it fondly. “Daemescin blue the blade, traced with whorls and serpents. A Rikkeborh guard, if I had to guess, but with a Castelan crosspiece chased in silver, and a ruby in the pommel—”

  “Larger than your thumbnail,” Avery finished for him.

  “So you did see it?”

  Avery shook his head. “I know this sword by legend, if not by sight.”

  Corin frowned. “You have legends?”

  “Doesn’t everyone? This sword is more than most. It belonged once to a warrior.”

  “Aeraculanon,” Kellen cut in, eyes bright with sudden understanding. “Proofs! The prince is wearing Aeraculanon’s sword?”

  Fear closed tight around Corin’s heart. “No! That cannot be. My people have this legend, too. You cannot be telling me that Ephitel owns the sword Godslayer!”

  Kellen shrugged. “It doesn’t have a name.”

  “Though that’s a good one,” Avery said. “Aeraculanon forged that blade to slay the pagan lord of war. I had heard some rumors Ephitel owned the blade, but no one really thought it true.”

  “But when could he have gotten it?” Corin asked.

  “From Aeraculanon?” Kellen guessed. “They served together in the Hivernan War.”

  Corin frowned. “How long ago was that?”

  “Six hundred years?” Kellen looked to Avery for confirmation. “Seven hundred? Something near to that. My father earned his name holding the Pyren Pass while Ephitel and his regiment laid siege to Maedred.”

  “And Ephitel has owned it all this time?” Corin asked. “Why wouldn’t he have shown it long before?”

  “You have seen the blade,” Avery said. “Would you wear that where it might be lost or stolen? As you said, it is a relic.”

  “And yet he wears it now.”

  “Wore it.” Avery frowned. “He had it when he took us to the dungeons, but not when he stormed out of the palace.”

  Kellen chuckled. “Would you wear a legendary sword of god slaying to go before King Oberon? Especially if you had real plans in motion?”

  Corin groaned. “But that explains the timing. It is more than a trophy. Ephitel means to wage war with Oberon. It could begin at any moment, so he wears the sword in readiness.”

  “Age of reason,” Avery cursed. “This is more than just your fever dream. This may be real.”

  “It’s real,” Corin said. “And for all his silly rhymes, Oberon is wise enough to see it.”

  “That’s why he bade you fetch
the sword!” Kellen shouted.

  “Aye,” Corin said. He dragged a hand across his brow. “But I would have no part in this. I am not meant to wage a war. I just want to go home.”

  Kellen clapped him on the back. “You have been at war since the moment I met you.”

  Avery nodded. “I would follow you into the fray.”

  “But—”

  “For glory,” Maurelle said. She wiped a tear from her eye. “For Iryana.”

  Corin looked around the circle, considering each in turn. He sighed. “I would love to get my hands on that sword.”

  “Excellent!” Avery said. “Now…how?”

  “He didn’t have the sword when he went before Oberon,” Corin said. “Would he have trusted his lieutenant to hold it for him?”

  “Ephitel trusts no one,” Kellen said.

  “Then he has stashed it somewhere.”

  Kellen nodded. “He has an estate here in the city.”

  Corin tried to judge how much time had passed while they were locked within the cells. He shook his head. “It would have to be close.”

  “Just across the bridge.”

  “Perfect,” Corin said, sarcastic. “I suppose it’s well secured?”

  Avery nodded. “I have never seen anything like it.”

  “We won’t stand much chance in a fair fight,” Corin said. “How do you suggest we take it from him?”

  “Quickly,” Avery said. “You heard him at the palace. He said he was late to a meeting with the dwarves. Their nearest chapter house is halfway across the city in the opposite direction.”

  “Still, he might have stopped for Godslayer.”

  “Not a chance. For two reasons: dwarves prize punctuality, and no one—lord or king—has ever gone armed into a dwarven chapter house.”

  “That’s promising,” Corin said. “But how do you know Ephitel went to them? Couldn’t the meeting have been here in the palace? Or at his…what?”

  All three stood staring at Corin as though he were mad. He raised an eyebrow. “I am a man out of time! Just tell me what I’m missing.”

  Maurelle said, “Dwarves do not leave their chapter houses.”

  “They are not allowed,” Kellen said. “By Oberon’s decree.”

  Avery nodded. “For their safety, as much as anything. The dwarves who do not live in distant mines travel under high security and only between chapter houses.”

  Corin shrugged. “See how easy that was? Next time, just explain it to me.”

  For a long moment, he stood thinking. Robbing Ephitel did have a certain appeal. That sword made a worthy target, too, even before he’d known it might be Godslayer. But now he had a chance to steal a legendary artifact from Ephitel, king of gods, with the aid of Avery of Jesalich, king of thieves. In his own time, Corin would have leaped at any part of that adventure, and here it was his only way of getting home. He had to do it. For Iryana, and for glory.

  “Very well,” he said. “Show me the way.”

  A wide, slow river brought fresh water to Gesoelig. It rolled between the city’s many hills and curved protectively around the fertile spit of land that held the palace. Like everything else about the place, the bridge that crossed the river looked a mighty structure crafted of stone from any distance, but approaching from the palace side, Corin saw it as a living thing. The texture was rough and knotty, like ancient bark, though its main surface was worn smooth from years of traffic. Corin puzzled over it as he walked, and he was nearly to the other side before he figured it out. Then he spun in place, horrified, and stared back more than a mile to the palace. “Impossible!”

  Kellen drew his sword. Avery searched their trail with darting eyes. Maurelle just cocked her head and asked, “What?”

  “It’s a root,” Corin said.

  Kellen sheathed his sword, Avery grumbled something and turned back toward Ephitel’s estate, but Maurelle beamed. “Oberon always wanted Hurope to have a world tree. It is nothing like the real thing yet, but give it time. It will be marvelous someday.”

  It will be buried in a mountain, Corin thought. Or can I stop that happening? What did happen to this place? It was as much as he’d considered the question in all the time he’d been here. Time. That was the key. There was never any time—not to plan, not to explain, not to ask questions. He was always running.

  And now was no different. He had no wish to try his skill at pickpocketing against an armed Lord Ephitel. He had to get the sword while the prince was otherwise engaged. Perhaps when that was done he’d find the time to ask a question or two about the nature of reality. For now, he turned his back on the incredible tree, offered Maurelle his arm, and hurried down the busy street in pursuit of Avery.

  As he went, he thought about the palace. About the strange gardened courtyard and Kellen’s earlier comment. What else would you expect of the king of fairies? He thought of the strange behavior of the courtiers and the mad monster on the throne. He ducked his head toward Maurelle.

  “Why is he like that?”

  “Who?”

  “The king. Why does his palace look like a palace from the outside, and like a park from within? Why do the courtiers…” He shook his head, unable to describe them. “Why aren’t you like that? Or Kellen? Or Ephitel?”

  Sadness touched her eyes so they drooped at the outer corners, and her lip trembled. “We are not allowed. That is one of the rules of this world. If we want to play here, we must play by its rules. And it has so many rules. Only those at court can ever truly let their hair down.”

  Corin stared at her. “You want to be more like that?”

  She gave a solemn nod. “Cause and effect can be so tiring. I miss the dance.”

  Corin turned away, continuing down into the city. But as he went, he shook his head. “I like you better like this.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, bumping his shoulder playfully. “You’re just a manling.”

  Their easy path grew more difficult once they reached the city streets. Perhaps the night had thinned the crowds a bit, but they’d returned with sunrise. Corin struggled to find a path for Maurelle. Avery’s black clothes and Kellen’s uniform were easy enough to spot, but Corin and Maurelle fell farther and farther behind until he feared he might lose them completely.

  He asked Maurelle, “Do you know the way?” but she couldn’t hear him.

  “Hmm?”

  He leaned close and still he had to shout. “Do you know the way to Ephitel’s estate? Your brother has left us.”

  When she caught his meaning, she laughed. She stretched on tiptoes to point to a plaza some short way ahead, then jerked her thumb to the right. Corin judged it north, by the position of the sun, and he understood her meaning. North off the plaza, and presumably close by. Corin showed her his gratitude with a smile, then pressed doggedly on.

  They reached the intersection—another grand piazza half a mile on each side and lined everywhere with expensive storefronts and gaudy townhouses. Everywhere except the north edge. There the plaza was bounded by a tall, wrought-iron gate with spear points done in silver. A tended hedge grew behind the gate, and a graveled drive bisected it, extending from the plaza down a tree-lined avenue toward a distant mansion.

  Corin stopped and stared. “Is this another glamour?”

  Maurelle wrinkled her nose. “Not in the least. Ephitel likes his precious things. He’s very nearly as bad as a manling.”

  Whether from disdain of things or out of fear of the tyrant, no one went very close to that end of the plaza. Everywhere else this city’s streets were packed cheek by jowl, but Ephitel’s front gate commanded twenty paces of respectful, empty space. Most in the crowd wouldn’t even look that way. In fact, Corin slowly realized, no one did. Even Maurelle had turned away to stare toward some merchant’s wares. Corin frowned, trying to guess whether this was some sort of elven magic, when Avery spoke in his ear. “Very subtle. You might just as well stroll right up to the gate and offer them your card.”

  Corin turned
to Avery, trying not to show embarrassed haste. “I did not expect you to wander off.”

  “I did not suspect you could get lost. But come. Kellen has found us a handy vantage point.”

  Corin caught Maurelle’s hand and followed close on Avery’s heels this time. They pressed toward the northeast corner of the plaza, then into a bustling wine merchant’s shop. Avery nodded toward a proprietor in a wine-stained apron, pointing him out to Corin. As soon as the man was engaged with a customer, Avery slipped along a side wall and out a rear exit.

  Corin and Maurelle darted after, unseen, and emerged into a quiet little garden bounded on three sides by the high marbled walls of the plaza’s storefronts. The north side, though, held only a small cottage—probably the winemaker’s—and an alley that led past the cottage. Corin followed Avery down the narrow path and came out on a shady lane. On the right, trees and underbrush grew wild right down to the river’s edge. On the left, Ephitel’s wrought-iron gate stretched straight as an arrow to the north horizon.

  Kellen stood waiting in the shade and silence. The other three ran up to him, then Corin spun to look back the way they’d come. He turned again. “By all the gods, Kellen, how did you find this place?”

  Avery laughed. “I asked the same thing. I guess all the guardsmen know it, or somewhere like it. It pays to spy upon your master.”

  “A prudent soldier is not caught unawares,” Kellen said, a little irritated. “That is not the same as spying.”

  “Bless your heart, Kellen,” Avery said. “But you are naive at times.”

  “Pay him no mind,” Corin said. “You have done well. We can learn much from here.”

  “Indeed we can,” Kellen said. “And you are not going to like any of it.”

  Corin cocked his head, confused by Kellen’s certainty, but instead of explaining, the yeoman beckoned to them and set off quickly down the fence. He went perhaps a hundred paces, then showed them to a gap in the hedge. Corin moved up first, anxious to see what so troubled the young soldier.