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CHAPTER XII

In the morning they found the dining hall furniture rearranged. Gone was the long table where they had eaten and held their discussions. Now there was a dais at one end, and upon it two thrones, the one on their left larger than the other. Tapestries covered the walls—still predominately black and gold, but currents of red and blue had emerged there as well.

Bess was the first to arrive. One of the servants blocked her way as she tried to get a closer look at the thrones. He carried a halberd and looked like a dark Beefeater. Bess stayed near the door, waiting for reinforcements.

Randy came next, then Peter, then Rosey, who led a hangdog Amlodd by the arm.

"Have you tried asking the guard what's going on?" Randy asked Bess.

"Do you think he'd answer?"

"Only one way to find out."

Bess asked him, "What happened to the dining hall?"

"The dining hall is shifted," said the servant. He sounded something like Alexander Scourby. "Go down the corridor towards the gate, and left at the turning."

"What's happened here? Where's our people?"

"If you mean King Sean and Queen Diane, they are indisposed, but will see you later. Breakfast will be served in the new hall. One of the servants will conduct you, if you wish."

"We'll find it," said Bess, and the Beefeater bowed. They all turned and went the directed way. "What do you suppose this means?"

"The castle keeps revising itself," said Peter. "At first it was mostly undifferentiated space, like a stage in Shakespeare's day. But it's becoming a real, working castle."

"And what's this business about 'King Sean' and 'Queen Diane'?"

"Sounds like a palace coup to me," said Randy. "I'd say Sean found a power vacuum, and like a good bit of putty, rushed to stop it up."

"He can't do that,"said Bess" Doesn't he know he's putting us all in jeopardy? We've got to do everything we can to keep the story from happening. Your lives depend on it, for God's sake!"

"You're determined to prevent the re-creation, then?" asked Randy. "Even you, who love the play so?"

"My first obligation is to survive, and help us all to survive. The play'll have to take care of itself."

"It may be doing just that," said Peter.

They found the new dining hall, which looked quite a lot like the old one. The familiar table was in place and each of them now had a chair. As they sat, servants appeared as usual and began to set out food. The food had evolved into identifiable items—bread and porridge and smoked fish—and wasn't half bad. Peter emptied a flagon of wine immediately.

"Don't Sean and Diane realize how all of you end up in this play?" Bess demanded. "Let Sean be Oberon or Falstaff. Why does he have to be the king of Denmark?"

"What the hell does it matter?" asked Amlodd, who sat eating nothing, staring blankly ahead.

"Some of us still want to live," said Bess. "Though I'm beginning to think we're a minority."

"If we're voting on it, I vote to live," said Randy.

"Me too," said Howie, as he came through the door.

"Howie!" said Peter. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm better than fine."

"Has there been news about Eric?"

"I was with him all night."

Everyone turned and stared at him, except for Amlodd.

"Those servants who took me away last night, they led me to the battlements," said Howie, standing with one foot on a chair. "Eric met me there and we talked a lot of things out."

"Tell the whole story, from beginning to end, omitting no detail however insignificant," said Randy.

"The personal stuff is none of your business. But he told me about this universe, too. Because he's in this superior body, he understands things we don't."

"If you consider monsters superior," said Peter, more loudly than he probably intended.

"You're judging him by stereotypes," said Howie. "Just because he doesn't look like us, doesn't mean he's evil."

"There's a little matter of killing a man."

"Will you let me tell my story?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

"All right. Everything we thought about this being an alternate universe is correct. There are . . . beings in the cosmos—intelligences who don't grow old and don't die, and they navigate the universes. Eric has become one of them. He is the god of this universe."

"Not an option!" yelled Peter. He banged his flagon on the table and spilled wine.

"Will you let me talk? This world was remodeled for Hamlet. It is the will of its god that we live out the play."

"I don't believe it," said Peter. "Eric doesn't give a rip about Hamlet. Whoever set this up, it wasn't Eric."

"As I was saying," said Howie, "it is the will of the god of this world that we should live out the play."

"And die, all but you?" asked Bess.

"No. That's the best part. We can change the end. Look, the original Hamlet—our friend Amlodd over there—he survived, right? He can do the same thing here!"

"Interesting concept," said Randy.

"Wait a minute . . ." said Bess. "The whole point of the story is Hamlet's revenge. If he survives, Sean has to die."

"I trust there aren't any monarchists here," said Howie. "You've got to break some eggs, as the man said."

"Your son has killed one of us already," said Peter. "Now you want to kill another."

"Not us. I don't think any of us could hack it. But there's one person here who's killed before."

All of them turned to stare at Amlodd.

"Leave be," said Amlodd. "I'm no warrior now. I'm nothing."

Howie walked down to Amlodd's end of the table and sat on the chair on his free side.

"You want to be a warrior again, don't you?"

"With this body? With these spidery muscles and sappy nerves? I've become a thrall. I must learn to bow and grovel, and serve true men."

"What if there's another way?"

"What way?" For the first time, Amlodd turned to face Howie.

"Did you ever hear it said that when you kill a man, his strength goes into you?"

"Some men believe so. Mostly ones who've never killed anyone."

"That's true in our world. But this world is different. Listen—my son explained it. This universe is still being built. In this universe we can make the rules. If we believe it, we make it so."

Amlodd stared at him. "You mean, if I were to kill a man here, and truly believe I'd take his strength, I'd get it?"

"Exactly."

"This isn't you, Howie," said Peter. "You're a humanitarian. You don't believe in murder."

"You're still thinking in terms of the old world. This is the new world. The old rules don't apply here."

"I can't believe this. You're telling me everything's up for grabs? Incest? Matricide? Cannibalism?"

"We'll have to see. It all depends. It's about love, Nilsson. That's what you Christians believe, isn't it? I love my son. He's all I have in my life. I have to take him as he is, and love him on his own terms. In this place, where he calls the shots, I don't get to shove my beliefs down his throat. I have to be flexible; learn new ways."

"So you're the Virgin Howie of this dispensation? Will we have to revere you?"

Howie's face showed no reaction, neither humor nor anger nor embarrassment. "We'll have to see," he said.

"Give us a break, Howie," said Bess. "Peter hasn't won me to his religion; I'm not about to go for yours."

"Eric's no Jesus, and no Jehovah either," said Howie. "He doesn't stand to one side and let people do whatever they want, and judge them after they're dead. Eric's a hands-on god. There'll be no ignoring him."

"Great. Our god is a juvenile delinquent," said Randy, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

"He's not my God," said Peter.

"Your God's not in this universe," said Howie.

"I don't believe that. And even if it were true, it wouldn't make any difference. I'd stand by Him even if there were no way to Heaven from here."

"Spoken like a Norseman," said Amlodd, glumly.

"Then remember it. Eric—the troll—will want your worship. Your gods aren't my God, but they're better than Eric. Don't be taken in."

"Every land has its own gods," said Amlodd. "Where they rule, they must be honored."

"And Eric rules here," said Howie.

"That, I think, remains to be seen," said Randy, his feet up on the table now.

His feet came down when he heard the trumpets. They all got to their feet involuntarily as a troop of Beefeaters entered the hall, conducting Sean and Diane, who had dressed themselves like Arthur and Guinevere in Camelot.

The procession made its way toward the head of the table. Strong hands suddenly grasped each of them by the arms and moved them to new seats. The final arrangement went like this: Sean at the head, with Diane on his left. Next down from her was Peter, then Randy and Rosemary.

On his right sat Bess, then Amlodd, then Howie. Then the Beefeaters marched off, except for about four guards, who kept watch near Sean.

"All right, Sean, what's with the pomp and circumstance and the seating arrangement?" asked Bess.

"Informality might work in the twenty-first century," said Sean, "but it's inappropriate for our present situation."

"I don't recall anyone consulting us about it."

"That's one of the advantages of monarchy," said Sean. "Things get done without a lot of fuss and red tape."

"You can't just set yourself up as king," said Peter.

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong . . . and because it's dangerous."

Sean leaned forward. "How dangerous?"

"There are people in this group who want to break the play," said Bess. "One way to do that is to kill the king at the beginning."

"Is someone plotting my death?" asked Sean. "Who is it? Tell me." The old geniality was gone from his face. It was a face none of them had ever seen before.

"Do we have treason already?" he asked. "Who is for me? Who is against me? Let's have it out, so we'll know where we stand!"

"If you're gonna play king, then I'm against you," said Rosey.

"If it's a question of killing, I'm against that," said Peter. He poured himself another drink.

"If anybody kills you, Sean, you've only got yourself to blame," said Randy.

"Treason! I'm surrounded by traitors!" cried Sean. His face had gone red.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE!" shouted Bess, standing. "Have we forgotten who we are? We're a bunch of amateur actors! Part-time players! We do shows in a converted church with a mildew problem! We don't have enough money to get the furnace replaced! We're not the nobles of Denmark and Sean is not the king!

"The only way we've got to keep alive is to remember who we are! If we lose touch with reality, this story will suck us in and we'll end in blood up to our ankles! Can't you people get that through your heads? It's only a story!"

"Bess, it's hopeless," said Randy. "Only a story? You think a story is a puff of breath; a piece of paper you can throw in the fire? Don't believe it. There's nothing more powerful than a story in any universe, except perhaps for the High One Himself.

"Your scholars think they've got stories tamed because they can trace them down centuries and cultures and retellings. They follow the Hamlet saga back to the story of Brutus in Rome, and they think they've pinned it to a card like a moth. Once they've tied a story to a legend, they think they've proved it couldn't actually happen in history. They don't see the simple truth—that anything that survives so much time and change must be eternal indeed—and that eternal forces can bend your precious real world to their own shape.

"You think you can fight being 'sucked in' by this story? You might as well throw yourself off a cliff and fight being sucked in by gravity. You might as well fight being sucked in by time itself."

"We still have freedom," said Bess.

"Your freedom will ensure the tragedy."

"It's your death too, you know."

"Would that it were so. Sadly, I cannot die."

He drew Bess to her feet, folded her in his arms and gave her a Rudolph Valentino kiss. "From one fairy to another," he said.

And Randy vanished before their eyes.

There was stunned silence except for repeated screams from Diane. Rosey ran to her and put her arms around her.

"What the hell was that about?" asked Howie.

"He is an Old One," said Amlodd. "I always thought so, though the feeling was faint. Probably that came of my senses being so dull in this body."

"What do you mean, old?"

"One of the Old Ones. The folk who live under the hills. The ones who lead travelers astray and snatch children."

"Elves?" asked Bess.

"I'd not use that word if I thought one was listening," said Amlodd. "And they're always listening."

"This is too weird," said Diane, who had stopped screaming but was hyperventilating. She grabbed a cup of wine and drained it. Sweat stood out on her forehead.

"I don't think I want any breakfast," said Rosey.

Nobody wanted breakfast. They wandered off one by one.

Diane answered the knock at the bedchamber door. It was Peter.

"I thought you were Sean," she said.

"He isn't here?" Peter looked nervous. His face was red.

"No. I'm not sure where to tell you to look for him. He goes out like this. Maybe he does king business. Maybe he drinks or screws the servant girls. I don't know."

"Are you all right? You seemed pretty shaken up at breakfast."

"I don't know, Peter," she said, turning back into the room. Peter followed her, hesitantly. "Everything's so confusing. Do people really want to kill us?"

"I don't know about anybody wanting to kill you. . . ."

"But Sean?"

"He's got this king thing in his head. Kings are natural targets. That's the way it is, I'm afraid."

"Even among friends?"

"I think . . . when a man says 'I'm the king,' he's saying, 'I don't want to be your friend anymore.' "

There was a small table with a flagon and a cup on it, and Diane went to it and poured herself a drink. "It's all so horrible. I miss my daughters, I miss my job—hell, I even miss my ex-husband. You want a drink?" Her face showed that she regretted saying it, but by then Peter was helping himself.

"I'll go now and try to catch Sean later," he said when he was finished. He turned to the door.

"Wait. Don't go. Please."

"I really don't think—"

"I'm not coming on to you, Peter. I know that's hard to believe from me—ha—but I'm not. Don't take it personally, of course."

"We can talk another time. I don't want people to get the . . . the wrong idea."

"No, wait. You—you know God, don't you? I mean, you don't just know about God, you really believe you know Him personally?"

"Well, yes."

"I never thought about God much. I went to church when I was a kid—my mom made me go—but I always thought, hey, how can you know for sure? So why bother about it, you know?

"But here we are. I mean, here we are—in this place, where there's a ghost, and a monster, and the castle keeps changing, and the servants will get you anything you want. What am I supposed to make out of it? There's no point asking if there's another world—we know there's at least one, and we're in it. So maybe the God thing's true too. What do you think? Wait, I know what you think already."

"What do you want, Diane? Do you want me to introduce you to Jesus?"

"I don't know. What do I have to do? I have to give up drinking and men, right?"

"No, not really. It's a gift; you just accept it. But if it's real, you do change. You never completely stop being a sinner though. Look at me, drinking again. I'm ashamed and sorry, but it doesn't mean I'm lost."

"Ha. Can you see me, sitting in a church, singing hymns? That would be a hoot. You think they'd accept me in church?"

"If it was a decent church, yes. With open arms. There's good churches and bad churches, of course. Some churches forget what they're there for."

"What are they there for?"

"To offer good news for free. I remember the church I grew up in. If you asked them what they were there for, they'd have told you it was to bring salvation to the world. But they were so busy driving their children away they didn't have much time for that. The offer stands though, and it's yours for the taking."

"And then everything's wonderful, right? All your burdens roll away, like in the songs?"

"Those songs are musical junk food. It's sins that get rolled away. The problems stick around. Most of the time they get worse. Believe me. The promise is that you'll get a special kind of help with the problems, not that they'll disappear."

"Sounds like bait-and-switch to me."

"You've got to check out the original promises, in the Bible. Not what people say about them."

"Where do I get a Bible? Have you got one?"

"Yes. I asked the servants for one the first night. It's a period Bible, of course—big as an overnight case and the print's hard to read, but I'll go get it."

"No. I want one of my own. I'll ring for a servant and order one."

"You've got a bell pull?"

"Why not?"

"No reason, I guess. It just seems kind of pointless, when they come whenever you call."

"I don't like to think about that. It's kind of creepy, you know? I like the bell pull better. Then I can pretend they aren't always nearby."

"Like God?"

"Yeah, I suppose." Diane sat on the bed and drained her cup. "I mean, what is it with God? Always watching. Keeping a record of all your sins, so He can find a good excuse to throw you in Hell. Who needs that?"

Peter sat in a chair by the wall that neither of them had noticed before. "Is that how you see God?" he asked.

"You know how I lost my virginity? I lost it to my mother's boyfriend, when I was fifteen. He was a married man, and a member of the church. He used to tell Mom he wanted to help me with my prayers, and then he'd come in my room and use me. He told me I was a temptation out of Hell to him; that I'd seduced him with my eyes. Sometimes he'd pray with me after he'd done it to me. He said I had to pray God to forgive me for being a seductive little succubus. Those were the words he used—'seductive little succubus.' He died of cancer a few years ago. I hope it hurt him a lot. And I hope he's burning in Hell now."

"I'd say there's a good chance of it. From what you tell me, he was an evil man."

"But according to you, God forgave him if he said he was sorry."

"It's more than just saying the right words. It means a kind of dying."

"Well, he can't die enough to suit me." She sat quietly for a moment. "Why do you think my mom did it?"

"Did what?"

"Let him be alone with me? She must have known. Nobody prays that long."

"I don't know, Diane. We all have needs. We try to get them met, and sometimes we lie to ourselves to hold on to whatever seems to be meeting them. For me it was the bottle. I didn't get free until I realized the bottle wasn't really satisfying, and that I couldn't meet my own needs no matter what I did. That was when I died. It killed my pride. It hurt. A lot. But it was the only way to peace."

"Peace. God, I don't even know what peace is," said Diane with a sob. "I've never known a moment of peace in my pardon-my-French life."

"Do you want me to pray with you?" Peter asked. "I know that must sound creepy to you, but I'll stay right here in this chair. I won't ask you to pray to become a Christian, if you don't want to. We can just pray that God will give you peace, and let Him answer it however He sees fit. If you'll open the door just a crack for Him, He'll start to come in."

"I want you to sit beside me. I want to pray with you and for it to be a clean thing. Is that okay?"

Peter breathed deeply. "Okay," he said. "If that's what you want."

He sat beside Diane and folded his hands. Immediately she began to sob, her shoulders convulsing, and despite himself he put his arm around her.

He began to pray. He prayed fervently, his head bowed, his eyes closed.

The opening door and the scream startled him, but he only had a confused view of Amlodd towering over him, sword raised, before the blade fell and struck off the light for him.

"Dead for a ducat, dead!" cried Amlodd.

Diane stood screaming, hands on either side of her face, like Munch's painting. She stood and screamed for several minutes while Amlodd stood staring. He said, "It's not Sean. It's not Sean," over and over again.

Faces appeared at the door. Bess came in and shouted at Amlodd. "You've killed Peter, you goddam psychopath!"

Amlodd struck her backhanded across the face. "Be silent, woman! I have to think!"

Bess picked herself up and threw herself on him. "Give me that sword, you idiot!" she yelled.

"No man disarms me, and surely no woman," Amlodd answered. He pried her off and slammed her against the wall, then set the point to her throat. The people at the door rushed forward, then hesitated.

They saw blood in Amlodd's face for a moment. Then he went pale.

"Great honor I'd get of killing a woman," he said. He lowered the sword, pushed through the door and fled. He turned back in the corridor and said, "Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better."

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Framed

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CHAPTER XII

In the morning they found the dining hall furniture rearranged. Gone was the long table where they had eaten and held their discussions. Now there was a dais at one end, and upon it two thrones, the one on their left larger than the other. Tapestries covered the walls—still predominately black and gold, but currents of red and blue had emerged there as well.

Bess was the first to arrive. One of the servants blocked her way as she tried to get a closer look at the thrones. He carried a halberd and looked like a dark Beefeater. Bess stayed near the door, waiting for reinforcements.

Randy came next, then Peter, then Rosey, who led a hangdog Amlodd by the arm.

"Have you tried asking the guard what's going on?" Randy asked Bess.

"Do you think he'd answer?"

"Only one way to find out."

Bess asked him, "What happened to the dining hall?"

"The dining hall is shifted," said the servant. He sounded something like Alexander Scourby. "Go down the corridor towards the gate, and left at the turning."

"What's happened here? Where's our people?"

"If you mean King Sean and Queen Diane, they are indisposed, but will see you later. Breakfast will be served in the new hall. One of the servants will conduct you, if you wish."

"We'll find it," said Bess, and the Beefeater bowed. They all turned and went the directed way. "What do you suppose this means?"

"The castle keeps revising itself," said Peter. "At first it was mostly undifferentiated space, like a stage in Shakespeare's day. But it's becoming a real, working castle."

"And what's this business about 'King Sean' and 'Queen Diane'?"

"Sounds like a palace coup to me," said Randy. "I'd say Sean found a power vacuum, and like a good bit of putty, rushed to stop it up."

"He can't do that,"said Bess" Doesn't he know he's putting us all in jeopardy? We've got to do everything we can to keep the story from happening. Your lives depend on it, for God's sake!"

"You're determined to prevent the re-creation, then?" asked Randy. "Even you, who love the play so?"

"My first obligation is to survive, and help us all to survive. The play'll have to take care of itself."

"It may be doing just that," said Peter.

They found the new dining hall, which looked quite a lot like the old one. The familiar table was in place and each of them now had a chair. As they sat, servants appeared as usual and began to set out food. The food had evolved into identifiable items—bread and porridge and smoked fish—and wasn't half bad. Peter emptied a flagon of wine immediately.

"Don't Sean and Diane realize how all of you end up in this play?" Bess demanded. "Let Sean be Oberon or Falstaff. Why does he have to be the king of Denmark?"

"What the hell does it matter?" asked Amlodd, who sat eating nothing, staring blankly ahead.

"Some of us still want to live," said Bess. "Though I'm beginning to think we're a minority."

"If we're voting on it, I vote to live," said Randy.

"Me too," said Howie, as he came through the door.

"Howie!" said Peter. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm better than fine."

"Has there been news about Eric?"

"I was with him all night."

Everyone turned and stared at him, except for Amlodd.

"Those servants who took me away last night, they led me to the battlements," said Howie, standing with one foot on a chair. "Eric met me there and we talked a lot of things out."

"Tell the whole story, from beginning to end, omitting no detail however insignificant," said Randy.

"The personal stuff is none of your business. But he told me about this universe, too. Because he's in this superior body, he understands things we don't."

"If you consider monsters superior," said Peter, more loudly than he probably intended.

"You're judging him by stereotypes," said Howie. "Just because he doesn't look like us, doesn't mean he's evil."

"There's a little matter of killing a man."

"Will you let me tell my story?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

"All right. Everything we thought about this being an alternate universe is correct. There are . . . beings in the cosmos—intelligences who don't grow old and don't die, and they navigate the universes. Eric has become one of them. He is the god of this universe."

"Not an option!" yelled Peter. He banged his flagon on the table and spilled wine.

"Will you let me talk? This world was remodeled for Hamlet. It is the will of its god that we live out the play."

"I don't believe it," said Peter. "Eric doesn't give a rip about Hamlet. Whoever set this up, it wasn't Eric."

"As I was saying," said Howie, "it is the will of the god of this world that we should live out the play."

"And die, all but you?" asked Bess.

"No. That's the best part. We can change the end. Look, the original Hamlet—our friend Amlodd over there—he survived, right? He can do the same thing here!"

"Interesting concept," said Randy.

"Wait a minute . . ." said Bess. "The whole point of the story is Hamlet's revenge. If he survives, Sean has to die."

"I trust there aren't any monarchists here," said Howie. "You've got to break some eggs, as the man said."

"Your son has killed one of us already," said Peter. "Now you want to kill another."

"Not us. I don't think any of us could hack it. But there's one person here who's killed before."

All of them turned to stare at Amlodd.

"Leave be," said Amlodd. "I'm no warrior now. I'm nothing."

Howie walked down to Amlodd's end of the table and sat on the chair on his free side.

"You want to be a warrior again, don't you?"

"With this body? With these spidery muscles and sappy nerves? I've become a thrall. I must learn to bow and grovel, and serve true men."

"What if there's another way?"

"What way?" For the first time, Amlodd turned to face Howie.

"Did you ever hear it said that when you kill a man, his strength goes into you?"

"Some men believe so. Mostly ones who've never killed anyone."

"That's true in our world. But this world is different. Listen—my son explained it. This universe is still being built. In this universe we can make the rules. If we believe it, we make it so."

Amlodd stared at him. "You mean, if I were to kill a man here, and truly believe I'd take his strength, I'd get it?"

"Exactly."

"This isn't you, Howie," said Peter. "You're a humanitarian. You don't believe in murder."

"You're still thinking in terms of the old world. This is the new world. The old rules don't apply here."

"I can't believe this. You're telling me everything's up for grabs? Incest? Matricide? Cannibalism?"

"We'll have to see. It all depends. It's about love, Nilsson. That's what you Christians believe, isn't it? I love my son. He's all I have in my life. I have to take him as he is, and love him on his own terms. In this place, where he calls the shots, I don't get to shove my beliefs down his throat. I have to be flexible; learn new ways."

"So you're the Virgin Howie of this dispensation? Will we have to revere you?"

Howie's face showed no reaction, neither humor nor anger nor embarrassment. "We'll have to see," he said.

"Give us a break, Howie," said Bess. "Peter hasn't won me to his religion; I'm not about to go for yours."

"Eric's no Jesus, and no Jehovah either," said Howie. "He doesn't stand to one side and let people do whatever they want, and judge them after they're dead. Eric's a hands-on god. There'll be no ignoring him."

"Great. Our god is a juvenile delinquent," said Randy, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

"He's not my God," said Peter.

"Your God's not in this universe," said Howie.

"I don't believe that. And even if it were true, it wouldn't make any difference. I'd stand by Him even if there were no way to Heaven from here."

"Spoken like a Norseman," said Amlodd, glumly.

"Then remember it. Eric—the troll—will want your worship. Your gods aren't my God, but they're better than Eric. Don't be taken in."

"Every land has its own gods," said Amlodd. "Where they rule, they must be honored."

"And Eric rules here," said Howie.

"That, I think, remains to be seen," said Randy, his feet up on the table now.

His feet came down when he heard the trumpets. They all got to their feet involuntarily as a troop of Beefeaters entered the hall, conducting Sean and Diane, who had dressed themselves like Arthur and Guinevere in Camelot.

The procession made its way toward the head of the table. Strong hands suddenly grasped each of them by the arms and moved them to new seats. The final arrangement went like this: Sean at the head, with Diane on his left. Next down from her was Peter, then Randy and Rosemary.

On his right sat Bess, then Amlodd, then Howie. Then the Beefeaters marched off, except for about four guards, who kept watch near Sean.

"All right, Sean, what's with the pomp and circumstance and the seating arrangement?" asked Bess.

"Informality might work in the twenty-first century," said Sean, "but it's inappropriate for our present situation."

"I don't recall anyone consulting us about it."

"That's one of the advantages of monarchy," said Sean. "Things get done without a lot of fuss and red tape."

"You can't just set yourself up as king," said Peter.

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong . . . and because it's dangerous."

Sean leaned forward. "How dangerous?"

"There are people in this group who want to break the play," said Bess. "One way to do that is to kill the king at the beginning."

"Is someone plotting my death?" asked Sean. "Who is it? Tell me." The old geniality was gone from his face. It was a face none of them had ever seen before.

"Do we have treason already?" he asked. "Who is for me? Who is against me? Let's have it out, so we'll know where we stand!"

"If you're gonna play king, then I'm against you," said Rosey.

"If it's a question of killing, I'm against that," said Peter. He poured himself another drink.

"If anybody kills you, Sean, you've only got yourself to blame," said Randy.

"Treason! I'm surrounded by traitors!" cried Sean. His face had gone red.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE!" shouted Bess, standing. "Have we forgotten who we are? We're a bunch of amateur actors! Part-time players! We do shows in a converted church with a mildew problem! We don't have enough money to get the furnace replaced! We're not the nobles of Denmark and Sean is not the king!

"The only way we've got to keep alive is to remember who we are! If we lose touch with reality, this story will suck us in and we'll end in blood up to our ankles! Can't you people get that through your heads? It's only a story!"

"Bess, it's hopeless," said Randy. "Only a story? You think a story is a puff of breath; a piece of paper you can throw in the fire? Don't believe it. There's nothing more powerful than a story in any universe, except perhaps for the High One Himself.

"Your scholars think they've got stories tamed because they can trace them down centuries and cultures and retellings. They follow the Hamlet saga back to the story of Brutus in Rome, and they think they've pinned it to a card like a moth. Once they've tied a story to a legend, they think they've proved it couldn't actually happen in history. They don't see the simple truth—that anything that survives so much time and change must be eternal indeed—and that eternal forces can bend your precious real world to their own shape.

"You think you can fight being 'sucked in' by this story? You might as well throw yourself off a cliff and fight being sucked in by gravity. You might as well fight being sucked in by time itself."

"We still have freedom," said Bess.

"Your freedom will ensure the tragedy."

"It's your death too, you know."

"Would that it were so. Sadly, I cannot die."

He drew Bess to her feet, folded her in his arms and gave her a Rudolph Valentino kiss. "From one fairy to another," he said.

And Randy vanished before their eyes.

There was stunned silence except for repeated screams from Diane. Rosey ran to her and put her arms around her.

"What the hell was that about?" asked Howie.

"He is an Old One," said Amlodd. "I always thought so, though the feeling was faint. Probably that came of my senses being so dull in this body."

"What do you mean, old?"

"One of the Old Ones. The folk who live under the hills. The ones who lead travelers astray and snatch children."

"Elves?" asked Bess.

"I'd not use that word if I thought one was listening," said Amlodd. "And they're always listening."

"This is too weird," said Diane, who had stopped screaming but was hyperventilating. She grabbed a cup of wine and drained it. Sweat stood out on her forehead.

"I don't think I want any breakfast," said Rosey.

Nobody wanted breakfast. They wandered off one by one.

Diane answered the knock at the bedchamber door. It was Peter.

"I thought you were Sean," she said.

"He isn't here?" Peter looked nervous. His face was red.

"No. I'm not sure where to tell you to look for him. He goes out like this. Maybe he does king business. Maybe he drinks or screws the servant girls. I don't know."

"Are you all right? You seemed pretty shaken up at breakfast."

"I don't know, Peter," she said, turning back into the room. Peter followed her, hesitantly. "Everything's so confusing. Do people really want to kill us?"

"I don't know about anybody wanting to kill you. . . ."

"But Sean?"

"He's got this king thing in his head. Kings are natural targets. That's the way it is, I'm afraid."

"Even among friends?"

"I think . . . when a man says 'I'm the king,' he's saying, 'I don't want to be your friend anymore.' "

There was a small table with a flagon and a cup on it, and Diane went to it and poured herself a drink. "It's all so horrible. I miss my daughters, I miss my job—hell, I even miss my ex-husband. You want a drink?" Her face showed that she regretted saying it, but by then Peter was helping himself.

"I'll go now and try to catch Sean later," he said when he was finished. He turned to the door.

"Wait. Don't go. Please."

"I really don't think—"

"I'm not coming on to you, Peter. I know that's hard to believe from me—ha—but I'm not. Don't take it personally, of course."

"We can talk another time. I don't want people to get the . . . the wrong idea."

"No, wait. You—you know God, don't you? I mean, you don't just know about God, you really believe you know Him personally?"

"Well, yes."

"I never thought about God much. I went to church when I was a kid—my mom made me go—but I always thought, hey, how can you know for sure? So why bother about it, you know?

"But here we are. I mean, here we are—in this place, where there's a ghost, and a monster, and the castle keeps changing, and the servants will get you anything you want. What am I supposed to make out of it? There's no point asking if there's another world—we know there's at least one, and we're in it. So maybe the God thing's true too. What do you think? Wait, I know what you think already."

"What do you want, Diane? Do you want me to introduce you to Jesus?"

"I don't know. What do I have to do? I have to give up drinking and men, right?"

"No, not really. It's a gift; you just accept it. But if it's real, you do change. You never completely stop being a sinner though. Look at me, drinking again. I'm ashamed and sorry, but it doesn't mean I'm lost."

"Ha. Can you see me, sitting in a church, singing hymns? That would be a hoot. You think they'd accept me in church?"

"If it was a decent church, yes. With open arms. There's good churches and bad churches, of course. Some churches forget what they're there for."

"What are they there for?"

"To offer good news for free. I remember the church I grew up in. If you asked them what they were there for, they'd have told you it was to bring salvation to the world. But they were so busy driving their children away they didn't have much time for that. The offer stands though, and it's yours for the taking."

"And then everything's wonderful, right? All your burdens roll away, like in the songs?"

"Those songs are musical junk food. It's sins that get rolled away. The problems stick around. Most of the time they get worse. Believe me. The promise is that you'll get a special kind of help with the problems, not that they'll disappear."

"Sounds like bait-and-switch to me."

"You've got to check out the original promises, in the Bible. Not what people say about them."

"Where do I get a Bible? Have you got one?"

"Yes. I asked the servants for one the first night. It's a period Bible, of course—big as an overnight case and the print's hard to read, but I'll go get it."

"No. I want one of my own. I'll ring for a servant and order one."

"You've got a bell pull?"

"Why not?"

"No reason, I guess. It just seems kind of pointless, when they come whenever you call."

"I don't like to think about that. It's kind of creepy, you know? I like the bell pull better. Then I can pretend they aren't always nearby."

"Like God?"

"Yeah, I suppose." Diane sat on the bed and drained her cup. "I mean, what is it with God? Always watching. Keeping a record of all your sins, so He can find a good excuse to throw you in Hell. Who needs that?"

Peter sat in a chair by the wall that neither of them had noticed before. "Is that how you see God?" he asked.

"You know how I lost my virginity? I lost it to my mother's boyfriend, when I was fifteen. He was a married man, and a member of the church. He used to tell Mom he wanted to help me with my prayers, and then he'd come in my room and use me. He told me I was a temptation out of Hell to him; that I'd seduced him with my eyes. Sometimes he'd pray with me after he'd done it to me. He said I had to pray God to forgive me for being a seductive little succubus. Those were the words he used—'seductive little succubus.' He died of cancer a few years ago. I hope it hurt him a lot. And I hope he's burning in Hell now."

"I'd say there's a good chance of it. From what you tell me, he was an evil man."

"But according to you, God forgave him if he said he was sorry."

"It's more than just saying the right words. It means a kind of dying."

"Well, he can't die enough to suit me." She sat quietly for a moment. "Why do you think my mom did it?"

"Did what?"

"Let him be alone with me? She must have known. Nobody prays that long."

"I don't know, Diane. We all have needs. We try to get them met, and sometimes we lie to ourselves to hold on to whatever seems to be meeting them. For me it was the bottle. I didn't get free until I realized the bottle wasn't really satisfying, and that I couldn't meet my own needs no matter what I did. That was when I died. It killed my pride. It hurt. A lot. But it was the only way to peace."

"Peace. God, I don't even know what peace is," said Diane with a sob. "I've never known a moment of peace in my pardon-my-French life."

"Do you want me to pray with you?" Peter asked. "I know that must sound creepy to you, but I'll stay right here in this chair. I won't ask you to pray to become a Christian, if you don't want to. We can just pray that God will give you peace, and let Him answer it however He sees fit. If you'll open the door just a crack for Him, He'll start to come in."

"I want you to sit beside me. I want to pray with you and for it to be a clean thing. Is that okay?"

Peter breathed deeply. "Okay," he said. "If that's what you want."

He sat beside Diane and folded his hands. Immediately she began to sob, her shoulders convulsing, and despite himself he put his arm around her.

He began to pray. He prayed fervently, his head bowed, his eyes closed.

The opening door and the scream startled him, but he only had a confused view of Amlodd towering over him, sword raised, before the blade fell and struck off the light for him.

"Dead for a ducat, dead!" cried Amlodd.

Diane stood screaming, hands on either side of her face, like Munch's painting. She stood and screamed for several minutes while Amlodd stood staring. He said, "It's not Sean. It's not Sean," over and over again.

Faces appeared at the door. Bess came in and shouted at Amlodd. "You've killed Peter, you goddam psychopath!"

Amlodd struck her backhanded across the face. "Be silent, woman! I have to think!"

Bess picked herself up and threw herself on him. "Give me that sword, you idiot!" she yelled.

"No man disarms me, and surely no woman," Amlodd answered. He pried her off and slammed her against the wall, then set the point to her throat. The people at the door rushed forward, then hesitated.

They saw blood in Amlodd's face for a moment. Then he went pale.

"Great honor I'd get of killing a woman," he said. He lowered the sword, pushed through the door and fled. He turned back in the corridor and said, "Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better."

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Framed