That was enough for Ben. Wine glass in hand, Abernathy leading, he retired to the royal sleeping quarters, scorched and soaked and woozy. Tomorrow, he decided as he lay back within the coverings of his bed, would be a better day.
Coronation
Tomorrow might indeed have been a better day, but Ben Holiday never had a chance to find out.
He dreamed as he slept, dreams of truth and fantasy. He dreamed of Annie and of finding her alive again, his exhilaration at being with her and loving her blunted by a pervasive sense that she could not stay and he must lose her once more. He dreamed of Miles, bluff and cynical as he reminded Ben at every turn on a journey through a Chicago filled with Bonnie Blues that he had told him so. He dreamed of lawyers and courtrooms in which kobolds hissed from jury boxes and judges had the look of shaggy dogs. He dreamed of high rises and concrete parkways and soaring over all a dragon as black as night. He dreamed of demons and knights, of faces in the mist, and of castles that shone like the sun. He dreamed, and the world slipped away from him.
When he came awake again, it was morning. He lay within his sleeping quarters, a vast chamber of tapestries and silken hangings, of polished oak and heraldic stone sculptures. He lay within his bed, a great canopied sarcophagus of oak and iron that looked as if it might successfully double as a barge. He knew it was morning by the slant of the light through the high arched windows, though the light remained gray and hazy as the mist without screened away its color. It was quiet within his room and quiet in the rooms without. The castle was like a stone shell.
Yet there was warmth in that castle. Sterling Silver was a dungeon to look upon and it lacked the visual appeal of even the most spartan, avant-garde, chrome-and-steel Chicago high rise, but it had the feel of a home. It was warm to the touch, from the floors that he had walked upon to the walls that he had brushed against. The warmth was in the air, despite the mist and the gray; it flowed through her like a life-blood. She was what Questor Thews had called her. She was a living thing.
Waking up inside of her felt right. It felt secure and comforting, the way it was supposed to feel when one woke within one’s own home.
He stretched and glanced over to the nightstand on which he had placed his duffel and found Questor Thews sitting on a high-backed chair, looking at him.
“Good morrow, Ben Holiday,” the wizard greeted him.
“Good morning,” he replied. The good feelings evaporated in a rush as he remembered the wizard’s gloomy revelation of the night before — that he was a King without retainers, army, or treasury.
“You rested well, I trust?” Questor asked.
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Wonderful. You have a busy day before you.”
“I do?”
“Yes, High Lord.” Questor was beaming. “Today is your coronation. Today you shall be crowned King of Landover.”
Ben blinked. “Today?” He blinked again. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Wait a minute, Questor. What do you mean, today is the coronation? Wasn’t it just yesterday that you were telling me that the coronation would not take place for at least several days because you needed time to inform all those that needed informing?”
“Well, ah… yes, I did say that, I admit.” The wizard screwed up his owlish face like a guilty child. “The trouble is, it wasn’t yesterday that I said that.”
“It wasn’t yester…?”
“Because this isn’t tomorrow.”
Ben flushed and sat up quickly in the bed. “Just what in the hell are you talking about?”
Questor Thews smiled. “High Lord, you have been asleep for a week.”
Ben stared at him in silence. The wizard stared back. It was so quiet in the room that Ben could hear the sound of his own breathing in his ears.
“How could I have slept for a week?” he asked finally.