The Sea Peoples(69)

“And Hawberk’s daughter as the potential mother of a rival heir,” Deor said thoughtfully. “That’s less strange than most things in this place. Almost normal, if wicked.”

“He’ll be out to scrag ’em,” Toa put in matter-of-factly, and Thora nodded.

Deor did too. “And there’s definitely some link between Hildred Castaigne and John. I think it’s through the . . . monarch in the robes.”

Best not to say King in Yellow aloud, then, Pip noted; the others would have caught it too. It’s a pleasure to work with people who can keep up with you.

Deor went on in a meditative tone: “A God’s mind can contain worlds. What we see here is his dream, and it . . . seeps through, like a leaking cask of poison, wherever he gains a foothold. In a place, in the mind of a man, seeking to twist it to this form.”

“As in Baru Denpasar,” Pip said.

“And someone wants us to put a spoke in it?” Toa said shrewdly.

No flies on him, either! Pip thought fondly.

“Yes . . . or rather, I think that is the only way we can accomplish what we set out to do. If we weaken . . . him . . . here in his dream, we weaken him everywhere—and weaken the prison in which he has put Prince John.”

The streets grew more crowded as the four were walking back into the city, and they could get closer, though Toa trailed behind as guard. Deor and Thora and Pip looked at one another as they caught murmurs from Constance and Louis that included sweetheart and my own Constance. Which would have been unremarkable . . . except for the way Hildred looked at them.

There’s something crucial about this, Pip thought. But bloody hell, I do so wish we could just find John, grab him and go!





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


BETWEEN WAKING WORLD AND SHADOW

John had come to welcome the odd dreams where he was Hildred Castaigne; they were relief from pain, and from the sickening sweetness of the cat’s voice, and the bewilderment of the other man, poor bastard. Now . . .

Hildred stood before the steel safe in his bedroom, trying on the jeweled crown.

That has to be one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen, John thought.

The Crown of Montival—gold and silver, and filigree work, all made from things wrought from its own earth—was utter restraint by comparison. The Sword was the true symbol of the High Kingdom, in any case.

The diamonds flashed fire as Hildred turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about his head.

Camilla’s agonized scream and the awful words echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. The last lines in the first act . . .

His mind echoed Hildred’s . . . and the Boisean who shared his prison and these dreams. He hadn’t read this play, but both of them had, and dreaded it and longed for it at the same time. Hildred shook with the need and the fear, thinking:

I dare not think of what followed—dare not, even in the spring sunshine, here in my own room, surrounded with familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the servants in the hallway outside. For those poisoned words have dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bedsheet and is absorbed.

Trembling, Hildred took the diadem from his head and wiped his forehead. The thought of Hastur and of his own ambitions went through him, and the memory of Wilde as he had last left him, his face torn and bloody from the claws of that cat . . .

The devil’s creature, Hildred thought, and John’s mind flashed agreement.

“And what he said—ah, what he said,” Hildred murmured.

The alarm bell in the safe began to whirr harshly, and Hildred knew his time was up. But instead of putting the crown back he replaced it on his head and turned defiantly to the mirror.

My eyes, Hildred thought. So many expressions! Such depth!

The mirror reflected a face like the one he remembered before the accident, before he read The King in Yellow, but whiter, and so thin that it gave him a startled sense of foreignness.

Words hissed from between his clenched teeth: “The day has come! The day has come!”

While the alarm in the safe whirred and clamored, the diamonds sparkled and flamed above the thin, tormented face. A door opened behind him, but he ignored it. It was only when he saw two faces in the mirror that fear and rage flashed through him.

He wheeled and snatched up a long knife from the dressing table, and his cousin Louis sprang back, his face gone milk-pale.

“Hildred! For God’s sake, man!”

“Louis?” he said uncertainly, letting his hand fall limp beside him.

“It is I, Louis! Don’t you know me?”

He stood silent, a lock he could not have broken for his life’s sake holding his tongue, yielding the knife to his cousin’s shaking fingers.

“What is all this?” Louis inquired, in a carefully gentle voice. “Are you ill?”

“No,” he replied, so softly he probably was unheard. “But it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a living God.”

“Come, come, old fellow,” he cried. “Take off that stupid crown and toddle into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What’s all this theatrical tinsel anyway?”

Hildred cast his eyes down, anger and contempt filling him as Louis failed to recognize the crown for what it was.

Best to humor him. Yet the more proof that I deserve it, not him! he thought.