Oberon's Dreams (19 page)

“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.”

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 overtook 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?”

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. Some
thing
. 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.”