Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (spiritual books to read TXT) 📗

   There came faintly, from somewhere in the distance, the notes of some stringed instrument, one by one, as if being plucked out by a beginning player. The halting melody had a medieval sound to Simon.

   Where the hell was he?

   Simon opened his eyes. Then he lay for a moment without moving, staring at his surroundings in blank puzzlement. He was alone in the bedroom he had dreamed about, or a room that much resembled it. Stone walls were only partially concealed by paintings and rich tapestries. The single tall, narrow window pierced an outer wall at least four feet thick, the high ceiling was of vaulted stone. Simon recognized at once that he was in one of the many bedrooms of the castle; he was not sure if he had ever been in this particular room before, nor had he the faintest memory of how he had got here now.

   Or why… but no, of course, he and Marge had come here to give a performance. Hadn’t they?

   And then he’d found an old man, bound naked and unconscious on a medieval torture-rack…

   Simon sat bolt upright in the antique-looking bed, the motion making the bedsprings squeak. Where had reality stopped, where had dreams begun? He was awake now. If he couldn’t feel sure of that, he might as well give up on everything. Yes, he was awake.

   He thought that the last episode of reality before this had been himself struggling in the grip of some skillful, powerful attacker, an arm at his throat choking off his wind. The fantastic sight of the old man bound, then the attack, and then…

   Simon looked about him. He was sitting on a bed, with covers turned neatly down, in a well-appointed bedroom. All the furniture he thought was modern, though in an expensive style suggesting the antique. Faintly, from somewhere in the distance, the notes of the stringed instrument still sounded.

   On a chair beside the bed his clothing was disposed, half-carelessly, just as he would have left it before stretching out for a nap—except he would ordinarily have retained his undershorts. On the cool stone floor beside the chair sat his overnight bag, the one he remembered leaving in his car parked on the other side of the river.

   Simon raised exploring fingers to his neck. He could swallow and breathe without pain or difficulty. He could feel a slight soreness in his neck muscles when he pressed them. It seemed a very inadequate proof of having been choked into unconsciousness.

   There was a mirror on the dresser and Simon got off the bed and went to it and examined the image of his muscular body. There were no bruises or scratches evident, no sign that he had ever been attacked.

   Simon didn’t usually take his wristwatch off if he was just stretching out for a rest, but now it was lying on the dresser. It said six forty-seven. The last time he could remember looking at it, it had read a little after three, three twenty, maybe. That had been just before he’d left Margie in the secret passage.

   “My God, Marge,” Simon breathed aloud. He quickly looked about him, at the walls. This was not one of the rooms into which the secret passage opened. He really had left Margie in the tunnel, hadn’t he? He could remember doing so—just as clearly as he remembered, for example, an old man strapped on a rack.

   He turned back to the chair where his clothes were and began mechanically to dress. Think, try to think. He’d left Margie in the passage, according to plan. Then he’d passed through the dark tunnel again, turned aside at the descending branch limned with faint torchlight. And then that crazy scene in the—the dungeon, including the attack. Then the dream. Then this. Leaving the dream aside, no part of it seemed any more or less real than any other part.

   Six forty-eight. Outside the window it was still broad, warm daylight on a long June afternoon, or evening.

   Somehow, someone must have admitted him to this house, conducted him in some manner to this room.

   Still, in his memory, only the strange dream, more than half forgotten now, intervened between the attack on him in the dungeon, and this room. He had dreamed of embracing Vivian, and she had turned into the young girl from the antique shop.

   Simon was zipping up his pants when someone tapped at his room’s door. Feeling half alarmed and half relieved, he went to open the door a cautious crack, having to unlatch it first from the inside.

   Gregory was standing outside, in the stone-vaulted hallway that Simon’s memory told him he had last seen fifteen years ago. The dignified-looking man was dressed, or costumed, in a loose brown tunic, long hose to match, and vaguely pointed shoes or slippers that looked as if they might be made of felt.

   “Did you have a good rest, sir? Most of the other guests are here now. Miss Littlewood sent me to tell you that you’ll just about have time for a swim before cocktails, if you wish.”

   “Er—thank you.” As far as Simon could judge, who was no expert, Gregory’s costume looked authentic. He’d brought his own, of course, packed in his bag.  “Gregory, did you happen to notice what time it was

when I arrived?”

   Gregory blinked.  “Why, no sir, I really didn’t. I suppose it must have been about two hours ago.”

   “I suppose… oh, and Gregory?”

   The man had been in the act of turning away. “Sir?”

   “Any word from my assistant?” Simon congratulated himself on having phrased that rather cleverly.

   “Not to my knowledge, sir.” And for just a moment Simon had the impression that Gregory might be offering himself the same kind of congratulation.

   “Thank you. Tell Miss Littlewood I’ll be right down for a swim.”

   Simon closed the door, and turned round once more to face the enigmatic room. There was his