The Book of the Unknown: Tales of the Thirty-six by Jonathon Keats Read Free Book Online Page A

concerned Beit’s native land, where—whether by chance or design—the king had found a mountain suitable for his castle in the sky. Chaim watched as His Majesty summoned the local noble, and offered, by way of compensation for the land, the peasants of the region as serfs, to be property of his family in perpetuity. Ever since the flood, the noble had needed free labor more than pretty scenery. He agreed.
    Late that night, Chaim found Beit in her rooms, asleep atop a bed so high he had to climb a ladder. He drew back the lace canopy and gazed at her, softer and stiller than the litter of pillows surrounding her. He grasped her hand, sending a wisp of expectation across her lips. She opened her eyes. Wide.
    — Who invited you up here?
    — I have to talk to you.
    — Now?
    — It’s about the king.
    — I already know everything.
    — You know he’s selling your family into slavery?
    — I don’t have family here, silly. I’m practically royalty. Is this your idea of gossip?
    — Everyone in your village has been given to the local noble, in exchange for a mountain where His Majesty is going to build his alpine castle.
    — You’re boring me, Chaim. Please go away.
    Beit turned her head and shut her eyes. But the sleep that embraced her wasn’t gentle anymore. She was assaulted by nightmares. Folks she’d known before filed by in tattered work-clothes. She called to them, but they didn’t answer. She saw that they’d neither eyes nor ears. Then she heard what she was saying: Are you my family?
    When Leah woke her, Beit was sure that what Chaim had told her was true. She needed to see him immediately, not so much to ask him questions as to say that she felt what he did. But she couldn’t slip away. The maids had her by the braids and the seamstress was lacing her in a gown, for the day of the pageant had come.
     
    Revelers arrived from every town and village in the kingdom. Nobles and merchants and peasants shared the streets, and even exchanged greetings, all distinctions flattened in the shadow of His Majesty’s palace.
    The pageant was the monarch’s annual tribute to his own benevolence, funded by a nonproductivity tax he assessed against sleep. All day long, his subjects tirelessly ate mutton cooked on iron spits and drank wine by the bucket, while he addressed them from a pedestal up on his castle’s grand balcony.
    That year, after observing them awhile from the overhead perspective he found so agreeable, he decided to give them an unexpected treat. He had Beit brought to the balcony to relate, in front of everybody, her latest dream. Beit was legendary by then, the country’s first celebrity, and, while the king had to shout to get attention, her small voice silenced the whole city. She blinked her turquoise eyes. And found, effortlessly, Chaim’s gaze.
    — Are you sure Your Majesty wants to know what I’ve foreseen?
    — Of course I do. Why else would I call for you?
    — I dreamed . . .
    — Dreamed what?
    — Dreamed that Your Majesty secretly sold my whole village into slavery just to build another showy castle.
    — You don’t know what you’re talking about. You never have visions like that.
    — In my dream, you stole my family’s freedom, made them serfs of the local noble, and I have a premonition, Your Majesty, that you’ll do it to other people as well.
    — It’s a lie, Beit. Your dreams deceive you.
    — Everybody knows they always come true.
    — You’re a fool. Would you stake your life on this?
    — Yes.
    The king’s subjects no longer stood by idly, gnawing on His Majesty’s spit-fired offal. Peasants were shouting, as nobles shuffled behind castle walls for royal protection until the masses were oppressed again. The king could barely be heard over the din. He cursed Beit. He begged his subjects to trust him. He bade them see for themselves that she was wrong, demanded that the peasants send a delegation to her town. He offered them horses, the swifter to be done with this