The Skrayling Tree (45 page)

As dreamers, we both experience dreams and we create
them. The experience brings us wisdom, which is why such dreams are coveted by dreamthieves. But they place equal value on
creative dreams. These can be more volatile and hard to negotiate, let alone control. In the so-called Ghost Worlds, where
everything is malleable, one learns to value the power of supernatural logic.

Ulric and I were to know only one more unusual adventure together, but there is no question that our relationship had altered.
Our love, our understanding of the value of our public work, was deeper, yet there was an uneasy, rarely mentioned memory.
Ulric had, indeed, killed me as I tried to help him in my assumed shape of White Buffalo. And he did almost destroy the Skrayling
Tree as a result. These thoughts continue to burden him.

He has other dreams. We do not live in a linear multiverse. We do not tell a simple history with a beginning, middle and end.
We weave instead a tapestry. We depend upon repetition but not upon imitation, which is mere corruption, confirming nothing.
Each strand must be new, though the pattern might be familiar.

Gunnar’s expedition to America left little to show for itself, unless the destruction of Kakatanawa was an achievement. But
a few legends were made and others confirmed. As for Gaynor, we would meet him again in a final adventure.

The strange mathematics of the multiverse, which orders the weft and woof of the great tapestries, is the means by which we
order Chaos. But the strict formality of the design demands an adherence to ritual similarly found, for instance, in the Egyptian
Book of the
Dead. Every word uttered, every step on the destined path must be exact, or that destiny will change. The choreography for
such actions is the special skill of Prince Lobkowitz and Lord Sepiriz.

As for Elric of Melniboné, he lived out his dream of a thousand years. How that dream ended and its effect on the von Bek
family is the last story still to be told.

Oona, Countess of Bek,

Sporting Club Square,

London, S.W.

M
ICHAEL
M
OORCOCK
is a vanguard author, editor, journalist, critic, and rock musician. As the editor of the controversial magazine
New Worlds,
he fostered authors who would go on to win accolades as prestigious as the Booker Prize. A member of the Science Fiction
and Fantasy Hall of Fame, Moorcock has won the Guardian Fiction Prize, the Nebula Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the
British Fantasy Award, among others. He received a platinum disc for
Warrior on the Edge of Time,
his band Hawkwind’s bestselling Eternal Champion concept album. His song “Black Blade” is one of several produced with Blue
Oyster Cult. Mr. Moorcock lives in Texas.

F
rom white sheets, in a huge ivory gown trimmed with silver lace, her hair enclosed in a cap of plain linen, her pale hands
decorated by nothing but two matching rings of pearls and platinum, Queen Gloriana pushed back bleached silk bed-curtains,
rose and crossed to the window. On snowy lawns albino peacocks paced between carved yew hedges which this morning were like
marble. A few flakes still fell to cover the darker tracks of the birds, but the milky sky grew lighter as she watched and
there was even a trace of the faintest blue. She turned to where her little maid of honour, Mary Perrott, stood beside the
breakfast tray with its heavy burden of silver. “You’re very pretty this morning, Mary. Good colour. Womanly. But tired, I
think.”

In affirmation, Lady Mary yawned. “The festivities…”

“I fear I left the masque a little early. Did your father like it? And your brothers and sisters? Was it
enjoyable to them? The entertainers? Were they amusing?” She asked many questions so that none might be answered.

“It was a perfect night, Your Majesty.”

Seating herself at the delicate table, Gloriana lifted covers to choose kidneys and sweetbreads. “Cold weather. Are you eating
enough, Mary?”

As her mistress began to devour the food, Mary Perrott seemed to quiver slightly, and Gloriana, detecting this, waved a fork.
“Return to your bed for an hour or two. I’ll not need you. But first place another log on the fire and bring me the ermine
robe. That dress is a new one, eh? Red velvet suits you. Though the bodice seems too tight.”

Lady Mary blushed as she leaned over the fire. “I had intended to alter it, madam.” For a moment she left the chamber, to
return with the ermine, placing it across her mistress’s broad shoulders. “Thank you, madam. Two hours?”

Gloriana smiled, finished the kidneys and started quickly on her herrings, before they should grow cold. “Visit no swain and
let none visit you, Mary, but sleep. Thus you’ll be able to fulfil all your duties.”

“I will, madam.” A curtsey and Lady Mary slipped from the Queen’s austere room.

Gloriana found that the herrings were not to her liking and rose from them suddenly. She walked to the mirror on the wall
beside the door, grateful for unanticipated privacy. She investigated her long, perfect face, her delicate bones. Her large
green-blue eyes contained an expression of faint, objective curiosity. The cap gave a starkness to her features. She
removed it, releasing her auburn hair, which curled immediately against her cheeks and on her shoulders; she unlaced her gown,
threw off her ermine, so that she was naked, soft and glowing. She stood a full six inches over six feet, yet her figure was
ideally proportioned, her flesh unblemished for all that, like some lover’s oak, she had been carved, in her time, with a
dozen initials or more; struck, since girlhood, with almost every sort of whip and weapon, tortured with fire, scored, bruised,
scratched—first by her father himself or by those who, serving her father, sought either to educate or to punish her; secondly
by lovers whom she had hoped might rouse her to that single important experience still denied her. She stroked her flanks,
not from any narcissism but abstractedly, wondering how such sensitive flesh as this could be so thoroughly stimulated and
yet refuse to reward her with the release it had afforded the majority of those she lent it to. A little sigh and the robe
was re-donned, the fur drawn around her, in time to call “Enter” when a knock came and in walked her closest friend, her private
secretary, her confidante, Una, Countess of Scaith. The Countess wore a grey brocade marlotte, its high collar completely
enclosing her neck and emphasising, with its short puffed sleeves, her heart-shaped face, flaring to reveal her gown’s hooped
skirt, dark red and gold. Una’s grey eyes, intelligent and warm, looked into Gloriana’s—a brief question already answered—before
they embraced.

“By Hermes, let there be no further doctors like those that were sent to me!” The Queen laughed.
“They pricked me all night with their little instruments and bored me so, Una, that I fell solidly to sleep. They were gone
when I awoke. Will you send them some gift from me? For their trouble.”

The Countess of Scaith nodded, being careful to share her friend’s deliberate mood. She left the bedchamber and entered an
adjoining room, unlocking a small writing desk and taking from it a notebook, calling back: “The Italians? How many?”

“Three boys and two girls.”

“Gifts of equal value?”

“It seems fair.”

Una returned. “Tom Ffynne is just come home. The
Tristram and Isolde
docked at Charing Cross not three hours since and he’s eager to see you.”

“Alone?”

“Or with the Lord Montfallcon. Perhaps at eleven, when your Privy Council meets… ?”

“Discover from him something of the nature of his anxiety. I should not like to offend the loyal admiral.”

“He has no loyalties but to you,” agreed Una. “These old men of your father’s place a higher value on you than do the young
ones, I think, for they remember…”

“Aye.” Gloriana became distant. She misliked memories of her father or comparisons, for she had loved the monster increasingly
as he grew older and sicklier and, at the end, had learned to sympathise with him, knowing that he had been too weakened by
the burden she herself was barely strong enough to shoulder. “Appointments, today?”

“You wished an audience for Doctor Dee. That is
arranged to follow the meeting of the Privy Council. Then there is nothing until after you have dined (at twelve until two)
with the ambassador from Cathay and the ambassador from Bengahl.”

“They dispute some border?”

“Lord Montfallcon has a paper and a solution. He’ll tell you of that this morning.”

“After we’ve dined?”

“Your children and their governesses. Until four. At five, a ceremony in the Audience Chamber.”

“The foreign dignitaries, eh?”

“The usual presents and assurances, for New Year’s Day. At six, the mayor and aldermen—presents and assurances. At seven,
you agreed to consider the case of the new buildings by Greyfriars. At eight, supper: the Lords Kansas and Washington.”

“Ah, my romantic Virginians! I look forward to supper.”

“After supper only one thing. Sir Tancred Belforest requests an audience.”

“Some new scheme of chivalrous daring?”

“I think this is a private matter.”

“Excellent.” Gloriana laughed as she entered her dressing room, ringing the bell for her maids. “It will make me happy to
grant at least one boon to the poor Champion; he yearns eternally to please me, but all he knows is battle and gymnastics.
Have you any inkling of his desire?”

“I would say he asks your permission to marry Mary Perrott.”

“Oh, gladly, gladly. I love them both. And I’d grant any boon to distract his noble concentration!” The
maids of honour entered. Pretty girls, every one had been a lover of the Queen and had been employed as a result, for she
could not dismiss any who had tried to please her and who did not wish to be free. “So the day is relatively light.”

“Depending on Tom Ffynne’s news. He could bring reports of wars—in the West Indies.”

“We are not concerned with the West Indies. Save for Panama, they do not come under our protection, thank the gods. Unless
they should attack Virginia—but which of their nations is powerful enough?”

“With Iberian help?”

“Oh, with Iberian help, aye. But I think the West Indians mistrust Iberia now, so many of their peoples have been sent to
the slaughter. No, for danger, we must needs look closer to home, dearest Una.” She leant to kiss her secretary as maids tugged
at her stays to produce the conventional peasecod-bellied figure demanded of her station. She grunted as the wind left her.
“Ugh!”

“I’ll go to tell Sir Tancred he is blessed.”

Una departed while Gloriana continued to suffer the somewhat comforting constrictions of her costume as she fitted, tight
and tidy, like some man-o’war, for her day’s duties: stomacher and farthingale, a starched wired ruff, stockings of silk and
tall-heeled shoes, embroidered petticoat, gown of golden velvet set with jewels of a dozen kinds and little stitched flowers,
cloak of dark red velvet trimmed with ermine, hair bound with pearl strands and topped by a coronet, face powdered, gloves
on hands, rings on gloves, mace and sceptre held to left and right, until
she was ready to glide about her business, surrounded, a frigate by gulls, by her little pages and maids (some of whom took
up her train), on her way to the Privy Chamber where her Councillors awaited her. She sailed down corridors hung with silken
flags, with tapestries and paintings; corridors decorated with glowing panels showing scenes of Albion’s glories and vicissitudes,
beasts, heroes, pastoral scenes, scenes of exotic Oriental, African or Virginian landscapes. And she passed courtiers, who
bowed to her, or curtseyed to her, who complimented her, and with some she must share a “Good morning” or an enquiry as to
health; she passed squires and ladies-in-waiting, equerries, stewards, butlers, footmen, servants of every description. Her
feet trod on carpets, mosaics, tiles, polished wood, some silver, a little gold, marble and lead. She took a corner, gracefully,
through the First, Second and Third Audience Chambers, her skirt’s hoop swaying, where courtiers and petitioners awaited her
favour and Gentlemen Pensioners, her personal guard, Lord Rhoone’s men, in scarlet and dark green, saluted her with their
pikes while footmen pushed open the doors of the Audience Room, which she crossed without pause to enter the Privy Chamber,
where her Councillors rose, bowed, waited until she seated herself in her chair at the head of the long table before resuming
their own positions, these twelve gentlemen in gowns of rich materials, with golden chains upon their chests. Through the
splendid window at Gloriana’s back came light filtered by the thousand colours in the huge stained scene of Emperor and Tribute:
Gloriana’s father pictured as
King Arthur, with London as New Troy (legend’s citadel of that Mystical Golden Age Britannia, founded by Gloriana’s ancestor,
Prince Brutus, seven thousand years before), with representatives of all the nations of the world bringing gifts to lay upon
the ninety-nine steps of the Emperor’s throne where maidens, Wisdom, Truth, Beauty and Mercy, flanked a radiant crown. Privately
Gloriana considered the window to be in poor taste, but respect for tradition and her father’s memory demanded she retain
it. Six to a side of the dark table, with silver-chased inkhorns, goose quills, sand-shakers and paper in order before them,
her Privy Councillors sat, twelve familiar faces, according to their rank. On her immediate right, Lord Perion Montfallcon,
in his blacks and greys, and his great grey leonine head half-bowed, as if he slumbered, her Lord Chancellor and Principal
Secretary; on her immediate left, pensive, aquiline, with a long, square-cut white beard, in brown cap and cloak, a belted
doublet and a golden chain made up of six-pointed stars, sat Doctor John Dee, her councillor of Philosophy. Next to Lord Montfallcon
Sir Orlando Hawes, the blackamoor, thin and pinched, in plain dark blue, with a parsimonious collar of lighter blue lace,
a chain of silver, small black eyes upon his papers, her Lord High Treasurer; opposite him, stiff as stone, controlling the
pain of gout, a ruddy-faced and stern old man, Albion’s most famous navigator, Lisuarte Armstrong, Fourth Baron of Ingleborough,
Lord Admiral of Albion, in purple velvet and white lace, his chain heavy, like an anchor’s, on his neck, his eyes blue as
the palest northern oceans. Next on
the right was Gorius, Lord Ransley, Lord High Steward of Albion, in ruff and cuffs of pale gold, quilted doublet of deepest
russet, his chain of office embellished with rubies; then Sir Amadis Cornfield, Keeper of the Royal Purse. In white and blue
striped silk, turned back at neck and wrist to display a crimson lining, over which was laid a large loose collar and broad
cuffs, his linen, and in his silver chain, thin and delicate, made to match the silver buttons of his coat, he was a handsome,
sardonic, wide-mouthed, dark-haired gallant, taking his duties seriously. He appeared to be studying some aspect of the window
he had not noticed before. Facing Sir Amadis was Sir Vivien Rich, plump and hairy, in country-woven clothes making him resemble
some yeoman farmer, the Vice Chamberlain to the Queen. Seated almost primly beside Sir Amadis was Master Florestan Wallis,
the famous scholar, all in black, sporting no chain, but a small badge on his breast, his thin, straight hair covering his
shoulders, his strong lips pursed; he was Secretary for the High Tongue of Albion, the language of official proclamations
and ceremony, and he was a writer of small plays performed at Court. The next pair: Perigot Fowler, Master of the Horse, in
dark browns, and Isador Palfreyman, Secretary for War, in blood-red. Both bearded, almost twins. Lastly on the right Auberon
Orme, Master of the Great Wardrobe, in somewhat unseasonal lilac and Lincoln green, with a huge ruff from both these colours,
emphasising the length of his nose, the smallness of his mouth, the suggestion of crimson in the whites of the eyes; and,
on the left,
Marcilius Gallimari, a dark, amused Neapolitan, his doublet slashed, puffed and gallooned to reveal almost as many colours
as those of the window; his hair was waved and there was a diamond in one ear, an emerald in the other; he had a thin, pointed
beard and just the trace of a moustache, this talented Master of the Revels.