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

The dream and its several characters refused to fade completely. Besides, he realized, he was actually stalling, hoping to catch one more good look at Vivian before she changed out of her bikini.

   Saul smiled vaguely. “Our grandfather, of course, as Wallis was saying. The old gentlemen was largely responsible for the position in which I find myself today.” He looked round him with an odd, doubtful expression, as if he might still be reserving judgment on the desirability of all that he had inherited.

   “Your dominion.” Two servant girls hurried by, one of them the antique-shop twin. She looked at Simon and quickly away again, and there was something private and frightened in the look. The dream throbbed in his mind.

   “Oh yes,” said Saul. His eyes flicked as if with surprise. “And Vivian’s.”

   Vivian and Gregory were nowhere to be seen. Simon caught just a glimpse of the retreating backs of Arnaud and thin Sylvia, heading off into the castle’s other wing.

   Saul was gazing at the portrait again. “It’s been in storage for a long time, of course, along with a lot of other stuff that survived the fire. He died twenty years ago. What with other deaths in the family, and various complications, it’s taken the courts and lawyers that much time to straighten everything out. Unbelievable, isn’t it?” And Hildy at her husband’s side nodded solemnly.

   “Yes,” agreed Simon slowly. He must have seen the portrait long before it showed up in his dream. He must have seen it, somehow, on one of his childhood visits here—when it had been in storage.

   From his point of view, everything wasn’t straightened out even yet.

TEN

   “My name is Talisman,” the wounded man repeated calmly. He stood on the trail in the thickening dusk, gazing steadily at Marge, ignoring the blood staining his shirt, and the other blood, some of which must have been his also, that was spattered over the leaves and branches round him. “What is your name?” he asked again. “Who are you?”

   “Margie Hilbert.” There was something soothing in the man’s steadfast gaze, so soothing that Marge could almost begin to relax. As she spoke, she straightened up slowly out of her strained crouch. Her breathing and her pulse were easing back toward an approximation of their normal rates. In the surrounding darkness the ordinary noises of insects were returning, filling in the hush that had followed the mad clamor of the fight.  “I’m here with the magician,” Marge added. Then she blinked, shook her head, and tried to become practical. “You’re badly hurt.”

   If so, the dark-clothed man seemed quite successfully to be ignoring the fact. “Who do you say that you are with?” The question came with sharp emphasis on the first word.

   “The magician.”

   “The… you are with him?” The man’s voice held urgency and disbelief.

   “Yes. Simon—Simon the Great. We’re supposed to be putting on a show here this evening. But then I saw…” It was hopeless, thought Marge. Where could she start?

   “Ah. A show.” Her questioner relaxed somewhat. Now he moved closer, until he loomed tall at her side. His eyes were dark, yet she could see them very plainly in the gathering night. She felt unable to do more than wait, in mental and physical exhaustion, for whatever might happen next.

   “Yes,” the tall man said at last. “I believe you. Stage magic.” His wound did not seem to be bothering him at all. In the darkness Marge couldn’t see whether it was still bleeding or not.  “Stage magic,” he repeated. “And yet I sense great power near you, connected with you. It dwells in, flows from, one you have touched recently… this stage conjurer that you speak of. Is he up there now?” Talisman motioned with his unwounded arm toward the top of the bluff.

   The thought of Simon still up there in the castle, in danger from God knew what, was enough to restore some of Margie’s energy.  “Yes, at least he was there a few minutes ago. I don’t know what’s going on, but— ” She paused for a deep breath.  “You see, there’s a kind of a tunnel up there. A secret passage. And I was in it, looking around, and I found this old man trapped, tied up—”

   “An old man? Very old?”

   “I don’t know. Yes. He’s in a—well, it’s a dungeon. He was strapped down on this device. Then another man—” Marge paused, looking around her. “There was another man here, a black man. He chased me down here from the castle, along with the—the animal.”

   “We shall perhaps hear from the black man and the animal again. Or from their associates. But meanwhile I think we have a few minutes to ourselves; let us use them wisely. It is important that I see this old man you speak of. Is he truly in a dungeon?” It seemed that Talisman would be only mildly surprised if it were so.

   “He is. I saw him. But we have to go somewhere and get help.”

   Talisman looked around at the dark woods, the leaden, rolling sky, as if he were keenly interested in the weather, or listening carefully for some particular sound. “Getting help, Marge, at this stage, would be even more difficult than you imagine.”

   “At this stage? Stage of what?”

   “I shall explain when there is time. First lead me to the dungeon.” The words were delivered with a commanding gesture.

   Long ago Marge had learned, or decided, that there were some people who could be argued with and others who couldn’t. She realized already that this man was definitely in the second category. She could run away from him (or could she?) and spend the rest of the night probably stumbling exhaustedly around the countryside; she didn’t think she had the strength left to get herself across the river. And she didn’t want to waste what little she had left in argument.

   “Trust me, Margie Hilbert.”

   Somewhat