John DeChancie
Castle Murders
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves,
― Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time ―
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
The Eidolons of the King: Preface to the Castle Edition
Ordinarily an introduction or prolegomenon is expected to shed some light on the material it prefaces or introduces, enough so that the reader may find his way through an unfamiliar literary landscape. In the present case, however, this prefatory note to the work now known as The Eidolons of the King: Tales of Castle Perilous can serve only to delimit areas of shadow that shroud the work in mystery.
Particularly obscure is the question of its origin and authorship. To say that its provenance is mysterious is to put it mildly. To put the matter simply: the original paperbound volumes of the books of The Eidolons ― cheap pulp paper, hastily glued bindings, garish covers and all ― were found one day in the castle library, having been shelved among finely wrought leatherbound tomes of bardic sagas and epic poetry. No one knows who put them there.
Would that this were the only mystery! The deeper and more fundamental question, of course, is: Who wrote these books and how did their author come by his intimate knowledge of Castle Perilous? to say nothing of his apparent clairvoyance in producing these accounts of the storm of recent events that have raged round it.
Castle Perilous! At its very mention the heart skips a beat. For the benefit of the reader and especially for those castle Guests who seek a general orientation within these pages, it might do well to pause here and describe what the name evokes for we who make the castle our home.
For the castle itself is a mystery. Its very existence maintained from second to second by a transmutational spell laid long ago on a great demon, Castle Perilous is a magical construction. Its huge bulk ― far more than what mortal hands could amass piling stone upon stone ― bestrides a citadel commanding the bleak Plains of Baranthe in the Western Pale. The castle is a world in itself; but far more than that, it contains countless worlds.
Some explication is needed. As would any structure of its size, Perilous has innumerable doors and windows; but the anomaly is that some of these are portals to other worlds. Pass through any of the castle's "aspects," as they are called, and you cross into a strange new cosmos. There are exactly 144,000 aspects in the castle. Any resident or Guest of the castle can describe the sensation of wonder engendered when, after traversing gloomy hallways, one goes through an archway or alcove and steps out onto a vast savannah where herds of animals graze ― or into a deep forest limned in cathedral light ― or onto a desolate plain whereon sits a domed city under an alien sun.
But let us return to the controversy surrounding the authorship of The Eidolons.
Who is the man whose name is emblazoned (immodestly so, if I might add) across the covers of these "paperbacks"? Where does he live? As the language of these works is contemporary (if quasi-grammatical) English with lapses into pseudo-Elizabethan cant, one might well conclude that the author hails from the castle aspect known as Earth. But, truth be told, a thorough search of the appropriate reference volumes has failed to produce any mention of either the author or his works. Moreover, no trace can be found of the publisher whose name and address is printed on the verso of the title page! (There are attendant minor mysteries, of which we should make passing mention. The author's surname, for instance. What nationality is it? English, via Anglo-Norman? French? Anglicized Italian? The name is very possibly a pseudonym. And who are the individuals whose fawning endorsements are bruited on and about the cover? Presumably approving critics or admiring colleagues of the author, and we would be forced to conclude one or the other or both, were it not for the fact that no trace can be found of these people either. Phantoms all! Then there is the matter of the cover "art." What sort of deranged soul could…? But let us set these relatively trivial matters aside.)
What, then, are we to make of all this? The only conjecture to acquire any currency has it that The Eidolons originated in a world that is a variant of Earth and one in which the castle is a fiction, not the reality we know. Here we tread disputed ground, for some hold that there are more than 144,000 universes. In fact, there may be an infinite number of them, of which the assortment provided by the castle is only a random and constantly shifting sample. Be that as it may, the conjecture that these books were generated in some backwater universe does not explain how they came to the castle, nor how they were written. Indeed, it makes the issue all the more obscure, for how could a stranger to the castle, a stranger even to the universe in which the castle exists, have produced these highly romanticized but essentially accurate accounts, even to describing the intimate thoughts and sometimes inexplicable actions of the master of Castle Perilous, Incarnadine, King by the grace of the gods and Lord of the Western Pale?
We can dismiss out of hand the notion that His Majesty penned The Eidolons, for he has categorically denied it.
Who then? A Guest? If so, why the secrecy? What is he (or she) hiding?
I have no answers to these questions, but, as Royal Librarian, I can here offer a somewhat different explanation for the origin of The Eidolons.
The castle's library is an enigma in itself. Not a day goes by when the library staff is not surprised by finding some new wonder on its shelves, books that were not even suspected to exist. Marvelous books, strange books ― even dangerous books. (One such describes the construction of a weapon so terrible that I cannot bring myself to describe its intended effects. Another provides schematics for an infernal device which, from what can be made of it, is intended for the express purpose of trapping a god. Which deity is to be bagged is not specified. Needless to say, these and other dismaying oddities have been sequestered in the Closed Stacks, where, if I have anything to say in the matter, they will remain indefinitely.) Where do these books come from? Not even Lord Incarnadine can say. He himself has added very few books to the collection. Thus, I am not beyond imagining that the library itself has magically generated The Eidolons. How? I know not. Why has it chosen to do so in such a peculiar idiom? I cannot fathom it. But the works exist, and that is enough for me. Their significance and importance cannot be questioned.
You hold in your hand a new edition of The Eidolons, painstakingly set in movable type from the originals, printed on vellum stock, and bound in fine-grained leather with gilt lettering and filigree. The text is faithfully reproduced without editorial emendation or gloss.
Read The Eidolons and wonder, taking with a grain of salt its melodramatic excesses. Written in an uneven style by turns breezy, serviceable, and sesquipedalian, these tales hew close to all the conventions of the popular romance, and are consequently guilty of the faults and foibles that go along with such fare. But minor narrative flaws can be ignored, as can the occasional textual solecism. (In the first volume, "portfolio" is used where "folio" is meant. A typo, or the result of the author's ignorance? We will charitably opt for the former, as "folio" does appear elsewhere.) It is the story, after all, that is of prime interest.
Above all, read the castle tales and enjoy them. The magic casements open; the perilous seas and all of Creation lie before you….
― Osmirik, Royal Scribe and Librarian
Foreword to the Fifth Volume
Enigma upon enigma!