Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [1]
Light materialized that was solid, as opposed to the feeble sunbeams that entered through the tall window. Taking the form of small yellow fingers that were detached from hands, it set about dressing him. He preferred light to the hands of human servitors. The feathery touch of commandeered glow would not pinch him, or forget to do up a button, or scratch against his neck. It would never choose the wrong undergarments or lose track of a valuable pin or necklace. And light would never try to stick a poisoned dagger into his back, twisting it fiercely, slicing through nerve and muscle until rich red Hymneth blood gushed forth over the polished tile of the floor, staining the bedposts and ruining the invaluable rugs fashioned from the flayed coats of rare, dead animals.
So what if the digits of congealed yellow light reminded his attendants not of agile, proficient fingers but coveys of sallow, diseased worms writhing and twisting as they coiled and probed about his person? Servants’ flights of torpid imagination did not concern him.
While the silken undergarments caressed his body, the luxurious outer raiment transformed him into a figure of magnificence fit to do sartorial battle with the emperor birds-of-paradise. The horned helmet of chased steel and the red-and-purple cloak contributed mightily to the plenary image of irresistible power and majesty. Seven feet tall fully dressed, he was ready to go out among his people and seek the balm of their benison.
The pair of griffins who lived out their lives chained to the outside of his bedroom door snapped to attention as he emerged, their topaz cat eyes flashing. He paused a moment to pet first one, then the other. Watchdogs of his slumber, they would rip to pieces anyone he did not escort or beckon into the inner sanctum in person. They could not be bribed or frightened away, and it would take a small army to overpower them. As he departed, they settled back down on their haunches, seemingly returning to rest but in reality preternaturally alert and awake as always.
Peregriff was waiting for him in the antechamber, seated at his desk. After a quick glance at the two pig-sized black clouds that trailed behind the sorcerer, he rose from behind his scrolls and papers.
“Good morning, Lord.”
“No it is not.” Hymneth halted on the other side of the desk. “I have not been sleeping well.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Lord.” Behind the ruddy cheeks and neatly trimmed white beard, the eyes of the old soldier were blue damascened steel. Nearly six and a half feet tall and two hundred and twenty pounds of still solid muscle, Peregriff could take up the saber and deal with a dozen men half his age. Only Hymneth he feared, knowing that the Possessed could take his life with a few well-chosen words and the flick of one chain-mailed wrist. So the ex-general served, and made himself be content.
“Strange dreams, Peregriff. Indistinct oddities and peculiar perturbations.”
“Perhaps a sleeping potion, Lord?”
Hymneth shook his head peevishily. “I’ve tried that. This particular dream is not amenable to the usual elixirs. Something convoluted is going on.” Straightening, he took a deep breath and, as he exhaled, the air in the room shuddered. “I’m going out today. See to the preparations.”
The soldier of soldiers nodded once. “Immediately, Lord.” He turned to comply.
“Oh, and Peregriff?”
“Yes, Lord?”
“How do you sleep lately?”
The soldier considered carefully before replying. “Reasonably well, Lord.”
“I prefer that you did not. My misery might benefit from company.”
“Certainly, Lord. I will begin by not sleeping well tonight.”
Behind the helmet, Hymneth smiled contentedly. “Good. I can always count on you to make me feel better, Peregriff.”
“That is my service, Lord.” The soldier departed to make ready his master’s means for going out among his people.
Hymneth took pleasure in a leisurely descent from the heights of the fortress, using the stairs. Sometimes he would descend on a pillar of fire, or a chute of polished silver.