====================== Notes: Scanned by JASC If you correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the file name) to a slightly higher one e.g. from .9 to .95 or if major revisions, to v. 1.0/2.0 etc.. Current e-book version is .9 (most formatting errors have been corrected—but OCR errors still occur in the text, especially the first word in every chapter. Semi proofed; still needs a full proof, though) Comments, Questions, Requests (no promises): daytonascan4911@hotmail.com Notes: A good scan, should be quite readable. DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL COPY. THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR. -------------------------------------------- Book Information: Genre: Fantasy Author: Sean Russell Name: Beneath the Vaunted Hills Series: River Into Darkness 1 ====================== Beneath the Vaunted Hills River Into Darkness 1 By Sean Russell Prologue HE sat before a window that stood slightly ajar and read by starlight. There had been a time when he’d preferred the warm light of day, but in the decades since the passing of his centenary, he’d become more inclined toward the cool illumination of the stars or even the moon. He studied the stars, of course, and one could hardly do that by daylight, but even so, he found the pale light so much more restful. Or perhaps he had just seen enough of the world. Recently there had been a particular wandering star that he’d been observing nightly, using his improved telescope—an invention of Skye’s, ironically. This star had a strange halo about it and a fiery tail. Things even the ancients did not know. But more than anything he felt its passing. Felt it pull on all the heavenly bodies and, in turn, the effect this had elsewhere. Here, in the house of Eldrich, for instance. The mage marked his place with a feather and closed the ancient book with care, placing it on a small table. He rose and walked out onto the terrace, looking up at the heavens. Eldrich had been reading Lucklow’s treatise on augury—its practice and its perils. Especially its perils. The chapter on interpretation particularly fascinated him. Interpretation was the key, and it was the least certain aspect of the art. The wandering star, for instance. It meant something—he was utterly sure of that—but try as he might, he could not understand what. And there was no one else whom he might ask. “Do I feel lonely, being the last?” he asked the stars. He waited a moment and then decided that they could not reply. Only he knew… and would not say. From beyond the garden wall he heard a wolf raise up its voice, the howl reverberating in his own breast. His familiar, off in the hills and wood, hunting as it must. A spring night… still, awaiting the voices of the frogs and insects. Only the choral stars singing their ancient melodies. He looked up and found the wandering star. “Perhaps we have roamed long enough, ” he whispered. Augury tempted him. He could feel it. Perhaps this time he would have a vision that was absolutely clear, and his course of action would be obvious. Obvious beyond all doubt. “A fool’s hope,” he said aloud. Certainly he was too old for those. The world was in motion. There was no doubt of that. Everyone poised to play their part, to make their sacrifice, if that was what was required. After all these many years he could not have a mistake. Not the smallest error. Eldrich tilted back his head and gazed at the stars, wondering again if he had calculated correctly. If he could make an end of it soon. Chapter One It is, perhaps, less than true to say it all began in a brothel, but I found Samual Hayes hiding in such an establishment and this marked the turning point if not an actual beginning. How Samual Hayes had become misfortune’s whipping boy, I will never understand. The journal of Erasmus Flattery Hayes thought it particularly appropriate that the streets of the poor lacked public lighting of any kind. One passed out of the light of the better areas into near darkness, only dull candlelight filtering through dirty panes and casting faint shimmering rectangles on the cobbles. At night one often saw dark feet and legs passing through these rectangles of light, or if the passerby walked closer to the window, one would see a silhouetted head and shoulders floating oddly above the street. Hayes had sat in his window often enough to mark this strange anatomical parade passing by— incomplete men and women flitting into existence before each dull little window, then ceasing to be, then coming to meager life again. Paradise Street—he wondered if the man who named it had foreseen its future—lay near the boundary between the light and darkness, an area of perpetual twilight, perhaps. Almost a border town where few seemed to make their homes permanently. Most were on their way into darkness—a handful were moving toward the light. It was a place where a young man might end up if his family had sacrificed their fortune to foolishness and keeping up appearances, as was the case with Samual Hayes. For him Paradise Street was also a place to hide from one’s creditors, as astonishing as that seemed to him—a young man who, for most of his life, had never given money a second thought. He passed through a candlelit square of light and looked down at his hands. There he was, not gone yet. Still more or less substantial. Perhaps there was hope. “His High and Mightiness is still among us, I see,” came an old man’s voice out of the shadows. Hayes stiffened, but walked on, feeling his resolve harden as well. He would have thought his fall from grace into this world would have made him one of them, perhaps even engendered some sympathy, but for some few it made him an object of enormous disdain. How could anyone born to privilege have fallen so far as to land in Paradise Street? That is what they thought. Only a fool or a weakling could take such a fall. And there were moments when Hayes feared they were right. It made him all the more grateful for the kind treatment he received from some of his other neighbors. As he came up to his rooming house, he realized that there were perhaps a dozen people gathered in the shadows across the street, but they were uncommonly quiet. “Mr. Hayes!” said a woman who was one of the local busybod-ies. “There’s men taking your rooms apart. Look, sir.” She pointed up at his windows. Shadows were moving in his room, though Hayes knew he’d left no lamp burning. “Flames!” he heard himself say. He realized that everyone stood looking up, but no one made a move to interfere. Someone laid a hand on his arm as he went to run for his door. It was an old soldier who lived down the street. “Them’s navy men, Mr. Hayes,” he said with distaste. “Mark my words. Navy men, whether they wear their fine uniforms or no. You’d be best to give them a wide berth, sir. That’s my advice, for what it’s worth.” “Navy men?” Hayes’ rally to save his possessions was stopped short. “Agents of the Admiralty?” There was clearly some mistake. “And they aren’t the only ones, Mr. Hayes,” the woman said. “When they arrived, they surprised others already in your rooms. Those’ns jumped out the window. My Tom saw ‘em, didn’t you, Tom?” she said to a boy who clutched her hand. The boy nodded and took his fingers from his mouth. “They floated down, landin‘ soft as pigeons, if you please. Soft as birdies.” The woman looked back to Hayes, as though awaiting an explanation. “But who were they?” Hayes said, asking a question instead. “Robbers? I—I have so little to steal.” “If they were robbers, Mr. Hayes, they were uncommonly well-dressed ones. ‘Gentlemen,’ Tom said, and the old blacksmith saw them, too. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said as well. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Mr. Hayes, but there are men around asking after you— navy men. You’d best be on your way before someone turns you in for the few coins they’ll get. There are enough around that would do it, too, I’m sorry to say.” “I’ll talk to them. There’s some explanation, I’m sure…” The old soldier touched his arm again. “I’m sure you didn’t do whatever it was they think you done, sir, but you’d best go. When authorities come bustin‘ down your door, they don’t want to hear no explanations. The gaol is no place for the likes of you, Mr. Hayes. Find the most well-placed friend you have, sir, and go to him. That’s your best hope—that and a good barrister. Be off now, before some’un turns you in, as Mrs. Osbourn said. Good luck to you, Mr. Hayes.” A group of burly men appeared around the nearby corner and in the light from a window Hayes saw someone pointing toward him, and he was sure the men he was leading weren’t residents of Paradise Street. Hayes slipped back into the shadow, making his way along the fronts of the buildings, hugging the wall. He pulled up the collar of his frock coat quickly to hide the white of his shirt and neckcloth. Fifty feet farther he broke into a lope, as quiet as he could, passing ghostlike through the rectangles of stained light. He dodged down an alley, slowing now for lack of light, feeling his way, his heart pounding and his breath short, though he’d hardly run at all. Fear, he realized. / am running in fear from the authorities. This was how men disappeared into the darkness of the poor quarter. There were shouts behind him and the sound of men running, then suddenly slowing. A lantern swung into the alley at his back, but it was too far away for the light to touch him. In a hundred feet he came out into another street and turned left. His instinct was to head for the lighted streets—the safe streets—but the men chasing him were not cutthroats who kept to the dark, and in the streetlights he would be seen more easily. But still he found himself gravitating that way, mothlike. It was the habit of a lifetime; a desire to escape, to not disappear entirely. He continued to hear the men shouting. Hayes pushed himself on, fighting to catch his breath, not even sure if they were still following him—afraid to look back. He was heading toward Brinsley Park, and Spring Street—the beginning of the lighted boulevards. This is madness, he told himself. The darkness was his ally now. The place he thought constantly of escaping, and now it sheltered him. He should cling to it, wrap it around himself, for it was all that protected him. But if he stayed here, in the twilight quarter, someone would give him away—for he would never be anything but an outsider, here. Not safe in the darkness or the light. Better the light, then. Too many disappeared in the darkness. Hayes took the risk of pausing before he went out onto the lit street that bordered Brinsley Park. For a moment he stood listening to the sounds down the darkened alley he was about to leave. His pursuers were likely not far behind. Almost more than hear, Hayes sensed noise down the street, not on top of him but too close. Composing himself, he stepped out onto the lamplit street, monitoring his pace so that he would not stand out, yet making the best time he could. Couples walked at their leisure, especially on the street’s far side, which is where he wanted to be, as far from his tormentors as he could be. Weaving between carriages and tradesmen’s carts, Hayes strode quickly to the opposite side, realizing that this was a mistake—because of the size of the park there were no streets leading off from that side of the avenue for a distance equal to several blocks. More than anything, he needed to make as many turns as he could to confound his hunters, and now that wasn’t possible. They might think he’d scrambled over the iron fence into the park, keeping to darkness like any criminal would, but the fence was so high… He pressed on, fighting the urge to look back—a man who appeared to have pursuers would be noticed, no question of that. Men and women passed, arm in arm, chatting and laughing. A coach clattered by, a young man leaning out its window, toasting the passersby theatrically; his drunken companions laughed and as one of them tried to fill his glass, a crimson stream of wine splashed over the cobbles. “Hayes?” someone called. Hayes looked about wildly. Bloody blood and flames, someone was announcing his name to everyone on the avenue! “Samual Hayes?” the voice came again; from the carriage, he realized. “Driver! Heave to, man.” Slowing, the carriage veered toward the curb, frightening pedestrians, clearly not in perfect control. Hayes was not sure who had called to him, but he took one look back and made a dash for the still-moving carriage. As he approached, the driver set it off again, laughing inanely, for it was another young gentleman with the reins in hand. Hayes forced himself to sprint, and as the door swung open, he reached out and grabbed the carriage, feeling hands take hold of him and drag him in where he sprawled on the floor. Half a dozen men his own age looked down at him, grinning. “Why, Samual Hayes,” one of them said, “have a drink,” and proceeded to pour wine all over Hayes’ face. “Hume!” Hayes managed, almost choking. He pushed himself up, fending off the bottle. The young gentlemen were laughing madly. “Aye, have another drink, Hayes.” Hume began tilting another bottle toward Hayes, but he managed to push this one away, too. “Flames, Hume, but you came just in time. 1 was being chased by footpads.” “On Spring Street?” someone said, clearly certain he was joking. “You’d have been better off with the footpads, I’ll wager,” someone laughed. “We’re celebrating Hume’s impending demise. Marriage, that is.” Hayes struggled up into a crouch and stared out the rear window. He could see them now, a group of men at the run, but too far back to be distinguished. Too far back to catch them, that was certain. “Blood and flames,” Hume said, twisting around to look out. “You were serious.” “Let’s go back and give them what-for,” someone called out. “I’ve a rapier in here somewhere.” “No!” Hayes said quickly. “Drive on.” “Hah! Out of the frying pan into the fire, Hayesy. You’re with us now and our intent is far more wicked than any footpads. Driver,” the young man called “The brothel!” “The brothel!” “The brothel!” the others took up the cry, and the carriage careened off down the street, only the fragile common sense of horses keeping the gentlemen from disaster. The anemic light of coach lamps smeared across rain-oiled cobbles and lit the moving flanks of horses without having a noticeable affect on the overwhelming darkness. Avonel of an evening in early spring. Erasmus Flattery stepped down from the hired coach and, with barely a nod, shook some coins out of his pocket for the driver. This was the address, he was sure. A doorman held an umbrella for him, interrupting a drizzle so fine it seemed more like a cool, falling dew, or the actual substance of darkness dribbling down from the heavens. “Sir… ?” the doorman said expectantly, and Erasmus realized he was standing there as though unsure he would enter—like a young man who’d lost his nerve. In truth he had always avoided such places, though not on moral grounds. He was not a prude. But brothels were the haunts of foolish young men, and the old attempting to deny the truth of time. Either way it was a house of delusions, and, as such, repugnant to Erasmus. But then, Erasmus had come out of perverse curiosity. Only the Marchioness of Wicklow could ever have brought off such an event, for who could refuse an invitation from Avonel’s principal hostess? Only a prude or a man who had much to hide, clearly. Any woman who did not attend would unquestionably be admitting that her husband frequented such establishments and that therefore she could not bear to even enter the place herself. No, the Marchioness had weighed things out with a kind of ruthless precision and cruel irony that Erasmus thought had to be admired. Of course, as a bachelor, he was in no danger here. His wife would not be watching, wondering if any of the matron’s comely employees seemed to treat him with just a bit too much familiarity. So here gathered the cream of Avonel society, pretending to be engaged in something exciting, risque, and watching each other like predators. Erasmus thought that the Marchioness had gone a long way to expose the truth of Avonel society this evening. He, for one, was almost certain he could smell the sweat. Erasmus was escorted quickly up the short walk and into a well-lit lobby. Smiling young women relieved him of cloak and hat, gloves and cane. “Lady Wicklow’s party,” he said, and one young woman turned to the matron who approached and, still smiling, repeated his disclaimer. The matron was a cheerful looking woman whose age could not be disguised behind even the layers of makeup she had applied. Erasmus thought that if you took away the makeup, she would look far more like the competent wife of a particularly boring, country squire than the proprietress of such an establishment. She should have been serving tea and exaggerating the accomplishments of her children. “Mrs. Trocket at your service. And you are… ?” she asked as she curtsied, surprising Erasmus with a bright look of both intelligence and humor. “Erasmus Flattery, ma’am.” Her face changed as she heard the name, and though she held a list of guests, it was immediately forgotten. “Ah, Mr. Flattery. It is a great pleasure, I’m sure.” She motioned for him to escort her, clearly pleased to have a member of such an important family visit her establishment. The name, Erasmus thought, did occasionally prove useful—when it wasn’t a curse. “Well, you’ll find we’ve created a place of refined entertainments for the discerning gentlemen—and lady—for we do not cater to gentlemen alone. Not at all.” All of the “ladies” Erasmus could see were clearly in the employ of the able Mrs. Trocket, and they smiled at him less than coyly as he passed. One blew him a kiss. They wore gowns that one would not see in most Avonel homes, that was certain, and several seemed to have forgotten their gowns and wore only the most exotic En-tonne lingerie. He tried not to stare, but they really were the most fetching creatures. And they laughed with the gentlemen present, flirting in the most open manner. Erasmus thought suddenly that the place was a bit too warm. The air was redolent with the smell of perfumes which did not quite mask a musky odor that pervaded the rooms. Erasmus did not have to wonder what that scent was, his body reacted to it of its own accord, and likely would have had he never encountered it before. Love had its own scent. They passed into another room, not so different from the first, though perhaps not so well lit. Here musicians played, and the men had shed their coats or loosened neckcloths. The women seemed to have joined in the spirit, and were less encumbered by clothing as well. Some couples—or even threesomes—were dancing drunk-enly, pressed close while others were locked in more passionate embraces, too drunk or too aroused to care that they were in public. On either end of a divan a naval officer sprawled, like tumbledown bookends, insensible with drink. So much for their evening with the ladies, Erasmus thought, though it would not likely stop them from boasting, all the same. A woman put her hand on Erasmus’ arm as he passed, and she did it with such familiarity, meeting his eyes so calmly, that for a moment he thought he knew her, and he was sure he looked at her with the greatest surprise. Mrs. Trocket led him through the next door. They entered a hallway with large rooms to either side, and through the open doors he could see that several “refined entertainments” were underway. He glimpsed near-naked dancers through one set of doors, and heard singing from another. A farce, played out in elaborate and outrageous costumes, was in progress in yet another room. “We try to have something for everyone,” Mrs. Trocket said, noting his interest. “And things change often—nothing stale at Mrs. Trocket’s. Amusement with wit and charm, that is our goal. A bit too…” she used an Entonne word that did not have an exact Farr equivalent, though its meaning lay somewhere between “racy” and “fashionable.” “… for many of the worthies of Avonel. But for a young man such as yourself…” She smiled knowingly. Erasmus was thirty—not so young by the standards of Farr-land—and was, despite his name, no longer easy prey to flattery. Up a broad flight of stairs and finally into the most eccentric library Erasmus had ever seen. It belonged in an ancient abbey or college for studies in the arcane. The room was polished oak from the floor to the very top of the shelves—some two stories up—and was all nooks and alcoves and stairways and carrels. Balconies were suspended precariously overhead, backed by cliffs of books. Sliding ladders, at odd angles to everything else, ran up to bronze railings. BENEATH THE VAULTED HlLLS People stood on these ladders, surveying the crowd or holding forth to groups who gathered about their feet. Erasmus realized that Mrs. Trocket had left him alone. Perhaps she had even bid him farewell. The room was crowded with people, and there was such a hum of conversation that he thought of his beehives in far off Locfal. It was, to Erasmus’ eye, a typical gathering of the educated classes of Avonel, though to one well-versed in such things, it might have been a more fashionable group than was common. Erasmus did not much care for such distinctions. He noticed that everyone seemed a bit more animated than usual, as though they were trying to hide their discomfort, or perhaps they were merely thrilled to find themselves in such a place, for certainly none of the ladies had been in a brothel before. Many of the men looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Erasmus was sure it wasn’t because this was their first visit—but they had unquestionably never been here in the company of their wives. They were likely terrified that some young woman was going to recognize them, though Erasmus knew that the able Mrs. Trocket would have advised her young ladies beforehand. Still, it was good sport to watch the husbands shying like nervous foals. Scattered among the people attending the party were both servants and working girls and they talked and laughed with the guests and plied them with spirits and delicacies. The atmosphere here, in the center of the Marchioness’ circle, was less bawdy and brazen than Erasmus had seen in the other chambers. Passions were well under control where one’s reputation could actually suffer some damage. After all, the usual code—that one did not speak of who or what one saw in a brothel—would not be in effect this night. People would likely talk of nothing else for days. Erasmus began searching the room for familiar faces, and though there were many that he knew by sight, he couldn’t find anyone he thought might offer interesting conversation, and he saw several he knew for a fact had never said an intriguing thing in their lives. He thought the rather intense looking man across the room seemed vaguely familiar, and then realized that it was his own face in a looking glass, and this made him laugh. Well, he certainly won’t have anything to say that I haven’t heard before, Erasmus thought. He backed up against the wall of books, and thinking he would keep people at bay if he were engaged in some activity, he took a volume from the shelf and opened it. In two lines he realized that it was erotic fiction, and returned it to the shelf. What pleasure could such an activity provide if one could indulge it openly? All the books he could see were of the same variety, so he turned back to the gathering. “Isn’t it divinely wicked?” a young woman said to him, and he realized he was looking at a daughter of the Shackleton family, though his memory would not cooperate by supplying a name. She waved a glass of wine expansively, the look of drunken delight not varying measurably. “Only the marchioness would dare such an evening.” She looked at him suddenly, her manner inquisitive if a little unfocused. “Don’t I know you?” “Erasmus Flattery,” he said, and watched her expression change from drunken delight. “Really?” she managed, remaining fairly collected. “You’ve been to our home, I think.” Erasmus nodded. “I so wanted to ask if the rumors were true, but I was too shy, and my mother warned me to mind my manners. But tonight I’ve had enough wine… Is it true you served Eldrich?” He shook his head. “Vicious rumor. I once visited a school chum at Lord Eldrich’s home—he was a great-nephew or some such thing. But it was all very ordinary, and the legendary Eldrich never appeared. Not even to my school chum, if he’s to be believed.” “Too bad,” she said, her look of delight fading a little more. “Too many good stories end up that way. The truth is a bit of a bore, isn’t it?” Erasmus shrugged. “Well, that’s what I’ve found anyway,” she said resignedly, placed a hand on his chest rather clumsily, then backed away into the crowd, waving theatrically, as though she had lost all capacity for the unself-conscious gesture. Dora, Erasmus thought as he watched her disappear into the crowd. Dora Shackleton, although “Simpleton” might be more appropriate. Nearby a gathering of people swayed and bobbed, all trying to view the object of interest that lay at the very center of this movement. Drawn by what force Erasmus did not know—perhaps merely because the audience was almost entirely young ladies—he found himself looking over the heads of the watchers. Heads of lustrous swaying hair that fell to bare shoulders and beyond. “But you see she is completely relaxed,” a man was saying. “In fact, she will wake from this refreshed, as though she had slept the night through and experienced only the sweetest of dreams.” The man bent over a young woman seated in a chair. He sported both an ostentatious mustache and a monocle and looked too much like a player on the stage—the foreign count whom no one trusted, despite his charm. He laid a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, but she did not stir, and kept her eyes closed. Indeed, she seemed to be asleep sitting up. “But what will she do?” a woman asked, a little embarrassed by her question. “Or not do,” another added, and they all giggled at her boldness. “Clara will do nothing in her present state that she would find objectionable while awake. She is mesmerized, but her morals are perfectly awake, let me assure you.” “Can you cure illnesses, then?” someone asked. “Some make such a claim.” “Some illnesses, yes. I have had encouraging results treating nervous dyspepsia, insomnia, dropsy, and brain fevers, to name but a few. Consumption, I regret to say, it will not affect, though it will take away some discomfort from the consumptive patient. Irrational fears 1 have treated with great success. Recurrent nightmares I have solved utterly.” “Can people really remember back to their very childhood, Doctor? To their birth, even?” “I have seen long-lost memories surface, often, but I cannot claim perfect success. I treated the great Lord Skye, who as you know can remember nothing that took place before his childhood accident, but we were unable to recover his past. It is lost, I believe. Lost when he suffered his terrible injury.” “But his intellect was not affected… ?” “Only his speech, slightly. But otherwise we do not know. Perhaps if he had not suffered his tragedy, he would have shown even greater genius. But what is a memory? Can it be weighed or measured? If one is forgotten, does the brain weight less? How is it that we hold so many in our minds? And where are they kept?” He looked around at the gathering as though expecting answers, but when none were forthcoming, he continued. “There are those who E A N KUSSELL claim the mind and the brain are not one and the same, but clearly when the brain is injured, so also is the mind. Thus Skye lost his memories—as though they were destroyed when his brain was damaged. But in an undamaged brain I believe the memories are never truly lost, but only misplaced. Memories of every event and smell and taste and emotion, all there, like perfect novels in infinite numbers. The novels of our lives. It is one of the mysteries that empiricism has yet to explain.“ He turned to the sleeping woman. ”But let us see what Clara can remember. Perhaps she has some memories long forgotten. Clara? I want you to turn your mind to your childhood… Your very earliest memory.“ Erasmus drifted away. He had seen such displays before. Fascinating the first time or two, but largely quackery, he thought. This man had made more modest claims than most, who were milking the ignorant for their hard-earned coin with promises to cure all manner of illness and deformity, and much more. Which only made this man slightly less of a charlatan. But what is memory? Perhaps not an entirely foolish question, Erasmus thought, but he was more interested in knowing why one could not forget. Or how one could forget. For that he would hand over his own money, and gladly. A young woman offered him a glass of champagne. She was wearing nothing but lingerie of black lace, sheer black stockings, and an astonishing tumble of dark curls. “You look, sir, as though you might require some help erasing that troubled expression from your brow,” she said in a lovely warm voice. Erasmus was usually easy prey for a beautiful voice. “I cultivate looking troubled,” he answered. “It keeps people at a distance.” “Ah,” she said, stepping aside to let people pass and pressing herself softly against him. “Are you trying to keep me at a distance then?” “It’s very likely, I fear.” Erasmus glanced around the room. “I’m looking for friends, actually.” “Do they have names?” she asked, speaking near to his ear in a tone so intimate that Erasmus could hardly help but respond. Erasmus hesitated. “I believe so, though they’ve never told them to me.” This caused her to pause for a moment, then she laughed. “Ras! Short for rascal, I see,” came a voice from behind. Erasmus felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Barton, an old classmate from his Merton days. “Come out for an evening of wickedness, I see?” The man was beaming at him a bit foolishly, as though overcome with delight at finding Erasmus Flattery in a brothel, of all places. “I was invited by the marchioness,” Erasmus said, not quite sure why he was trying to explain his presence. “Oh, to be sure! As were we all.” Barton laughed. “But have you seen the contortionists? Well, I tell you, it will fire your imagination. Possibilities undreamed of!” He laughed again, and snatched a glass from a passing tray. Barton’s face was red, even his now completely bald pate was flushed. “You look a bit out of sorts, Ras,” he said sympathetically, and then suddenly looked a little self-conscious himself, as though afraid he’d been caught in the act of frivolity. “I hear you’re setting your stamp on the Society. Making quite a name for yourself,” he offered, perhaps searching for some topic that would put Erasmus at ease. It was not a good choice—Erasmus did not like to be patronized. He nodded distractedly, and the woman who still held his arm pressed against him again, calling for his attention. Barton smiled and drained his glass. “Well, mustn’t keep you from your friend,” he said, nodded to the woman on Erasmus’ arm and turned to go. “But, Barton…” but Barton was gone. The woman, pressing her arm into Erasmus, leaned close to his ear and made a rather outrageous suggestion. Erasmus disentangled himself. “Ah, ‘If it were not a phantom moon, and your affections, Lady, were but true.’ She looked at him, confused. “Denis,” Erasmus said. “The Prince Alexander.” And seeing that this information did not help, he added: “It’s a play, my dear.” She released him, her look of confusion not fading, and Erasmus set out into the fray. Tight little alleys opened up in the knots of people, and he pushed his way down these, awash in the scents and sounds, the colors and shapes. He jostled someone accidentally and a rather poorly dressed young man shot him a look. “Erasmus?” the young man said. “Farrelle’s ghost, Erasmus!” “Samual?” The young man put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it so loudly.” He looked truly frightened, shrinking down a little so as not to be noticed. “Hiding from a fiancee, are you?” Erasmus smiled. “No, nothing like that. Far worse, in fact.” Samual Hayes looked about him quickly. “I’m hiding from the law, Erasmus.” Erasmus almost laughed, thinking it a joke—Samual Hayes in trouble with the law!—but then he realized that the young man was completely serious. “Martyr’s blood, man, what have you been up to?” “Nothing,” Hayes said quickly, “I swear. Yet 1 am being pursued all the same.” “Mr. Flattery?” Erasmus turned to find a naval officer approaching, smiling. The navy men were always extremely amiable to him, not for anything Erasmus had done, but because a recent ancestor had been an admiral and something of a war hero. Odd how the accomplishments of one’s family seemed to somehow rub off on a man. “Captain Adelard James. We met once at the duke’s country home. At a dinner, this two years past…” “Of course. A pleasure to see you again, Captain. You were off to Farrow, wasn’t it?” The man looked pleased that Erasmus would remember. “That’s it exactly. Yes, we talked much about the island. Have you been back since we last spoke?” Erasmus shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.” He turned to introduce Hayes, but the young man had disappeared. They talked for a moment about nothing much in particular, and then parted. Erasmus stood wondering what in the world Hayes had been on about. Barton reappeared suddenly. “Finished with that little bit already?” he asked, speaking too loudly. “Well, never mind, there’s always more here, Ras. Do you know, I’ve just been told that the Countess of Chilton is in attendance? Can you believe it? I’m dying for a glimpse.” He raised a bushy eyebrow comically. “Come along, old man, and we’ll see if the rumors are true. See if a dart of pure desire strikes right to our very hearts.” I hey had taken an astonishing length of time to make their way to this room, searching as they went. Hoping for a glimpse of the woman said to be the most beautiful in the known world. Barton touched Erasmus’ arm suddenly, and he turned to look in the direction his friend was staring. There was someone there, no doubt, in the middle of the press of both men and women—like a queen bee surrounded by her attendants. And the similarity seemed very apt to Erasmus. It was as though they all hovered about, rubbing antennae, caught up in a collective orgy of adoration. He could not see the woman who was the focus of this adulation, but he could see the reactions of those around. They were transported, foolish with delight at finding themselves in the company of this woman. And it was not just the men. The women seemed hardly less affected. Erasmus felt it himself, and he still had not caught a glimpse of the countess. “Can you see her, Barton?” Erasmus asked, for Barton was a good half a foot taller and looked over virtually everyone’s head. “Almost,” he answered, not shifting his gaze away from the spectacle. Suddenly someone in the throng moved to one side and Erasmus thought he caught a glimpse of a beautiful smile. “Now, now, gentlemen. Not polite to stare. Actually, the countess has gone, and what you see there are merely the people who were so unbelievably fortunate as to actually have spoken with her.” “Sennet,” Barton said, turning to a dapper young man who looked on in vast amusement. “Do you know Erasmus Flattery?” “No, but certainly I know your brother, the duke. Your servant, sir. And I should add that I know you by reputation. I’m not an empiricist myself, but, even so, one cannot help but hear the name of Erasmus Flattery. Not these days.” Erasmus never knew how to respond graciously to praise, and as usual changed the subject. “Were you serious?” Erasmus asked. “Are these merely the people who spoke with the countess?” Sennet bobbed his head, his long, rather sharp nose performing a precise arc in the air. Erasmus thought the marquis—for this was undoubtedly the Marquis of Sennet—was the most oddly formed man. His chin seemed to have been drawn out too far, his forehead sloped back. Freckles of vastly differing sizes were scattered over his face, and yet all of this seemed to be offset by the most kindly eyes, large and filled with humor, with deep lines at their corners from much laughter, Erasmus suspected. “Yes,” Sennet said, his amusement apparently growing. “Isn’t it wonderfully absurd? It’s really a madness. A collective madness.” His look became just a bit more serious, as though something in this disturbed him. “I’ve never actually seen the countess myself,” Erasmus said, wondering if there was as much regret in his voice as he heard. “Is she as beautiful as everyone claims?” Sennet tilted his head to one side. “One would have to say yes, I think. It is very odd. I actually believe there are other women in Avonel just as beautiful—perhaps even in this room—but they do not have the effect of the Countess of Chilton. It is a force of personality… I don’t think I know a word to describe the effect, for she is more than enchanting.” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, you see, I am as besotted as everyone else. Though I shall not duel with others who do not declare her the most beautiful woman who has ever lived, which apparently happened this week past.” Erasmus thought this a good thing. He seemed to remember hearing that Sennet was a formidable swordsman, and had once won a duel with the master of Avonel’s principal fencing academy. A feat that had given him something of a reputation these past three years. “No, I make it something of a rule,” Sennet said. “Never risk your life over a woman who cannot remember your name. Sensible, don’t you think?” Erasmus’ answer died on his lips, for he saw Samual Hayes half-hidden behind a column, trying to catch his attention. Erasmus excused himself and made his way over to the young man. Young Samual was the only son of neighbors of the Flattery family. The Hayes family were kindly if not terribly competent people, who had lost their estate not too long ago from bad investments and profligate spending. Not an uncommon story, unfortunately. “I have to get out of here,” Hayes said as Erasmus came near. “It’s the navy men; they’re after me.” He paused, avoiding Erasmus’ eyes. “But I have no place to go.” Erasmus reached out and took Hayes’ arm. Better to find out what went on here. He owed it to the young man’s parents. “Come along, then. You can hide at my home—at least until you’ve told me what’s happened. Don’t look so frightened, Hayes; unless you’ve murdered the prince royal, it’s unlikely agents of the navy will try to rest you from me without a proper warrant, and I rather doubt the officers present this evening have one in their pockets. They have other things on their minds.“ Erasmus steered Hayes toward the door, wondering if he would miss anything that evening, but then decided that he had only come out of boredom. An unhealthy reason in the first place. The rescue of a family friend seemed infinitely preferable. Chapter Two IT was not a secret in Avonel that the Earl of Skye had a preference for a certain type of woman—petite, white-blonde, green-eyed, and young. An Entonne accent was desirable but not absolutely necessary. For a man of surpassing intellect, his tastes were hardly extraordinary. The woman who answered the door, however, was not only a complete stranger, but she had none of the characteristics that Skye expected. In truth, he thought her a rather unusual looking woman. Not more than twenty-three, he guessed, but he had seldom seen a woman so… faded. Her hair, her skin, they appeared to be drained of color. The hair was red, but of such a lifeless variety. If anyone were to return from death, Skye thought they would look like this—as though part of their life had been drained away. Yet her eyes had the gleam of youth and even standing there, holding the door, he sensed a vivacity about her. She curtsied with grace. “Lord Skye, it is an honor. Please, come in,” she said pleasantly. Whoever she was, she was no one’s maid servant. He hesitated on the doorstep. “This is the right address?” “You’ve come to visit Miss Finesworth?” He nodded and she beckoned him in. “You have me at something of a disadvantage, Miss… I do not know your name.” “I am a friend,” she said, and smiled as though she had been put up to this and found his reaction rather amusing. “Come up, sir,” she said, not offering to take his coat or cane, nor was there any servant to do so. It was turning into something of an odd assignation, Skye thought. Where was Miss Finesworth? She had assured him the house would be empty. At the stair head the young woman opened a door and preceded him into the room. “What in bloody blazes!” Skye stopped abruptly. There were three naval officers slumped so limply on chairs that Skye feared they were dead. “They are drugged,” the young woman said matter-of-factly. Skye felt an urge to bolt, but he stood, staring, almost dumbfounded, at the scene. “But why?” His voice came out in a whisper. “Why are they here?” “To arrest you, I’m afraid,” she said. “You see, the young woman you were to meet, Miss Finesworth, was to pretend to be an Entonne spy who had offered her allegiance to Farrland. She would claim that you had come here to give her plans for the cannon, so that Entonne could produce naval guns of their own.” She waved a hand at the unconscious officers. “These gentlemen were then to take you away. To gaol, Lord Skye.” “That’s… that’s preposterous. It’s…” She crossed to a table and slid a large roll of papers across the smooth surface. “You will recognize these, I think?” she asked, releasing the ribbons that bound them. She spread them quickly open and looked over at Skye. Not sure why, he went to look. He let out a long breath. “My drawings of the naval gun. The Admiralty had them.” “Yes, and sheets of specifications. Instructions for casting. Everything one would need to produce cannon.” Skye stepped back stunned to silence. “Who are you?” “A friend, Lord Skye. Someone who would not see you harmed.” She touched his arm gently. “You needn’t fear me. With- in IMJ S S E L L out my intervention you would be on your way to gaol this moment. You have made an enemy, Lord Skye. A formidable and somewhat ruthless enemy. Moncrief, I assume, but perhaps you know already.“ “Moncrief!? But he is my friend! I dine with him. I…” he blustered into silence. She stared at him with what appeared to be compassion. “I would be surprised to learn that Moncrief has any friends, Lord Skye. You threaten him in some way. You are a favorite of the King and have His Majesty’s ear. Perhaps too much for Moncrief’s liking.” Skye leaned on the table. “It is unbelievable. Moncrief would not dare attack me.” “Moncrief dared to attack Enttone, Lord Skye. What is a mere citizen to him? Even one as influential as yourself. After all, he has brought men down before. Powerful men.” “Why have you done this?” Skye asked, stepping away from the table, eyeing this peculiar looking woman. “You have many admirers, Lord Skye. We would not see you fall victim to… anyone. Trust me when I say this. We are your friends. It is best that you leave now. Tell no one you were here. Is your driver to be trusted?” Skye nodded. “Then you should be gone.” Skye nodded again, turning away without further urging. He was not sure what went on here, but escaping this place seemed imperative. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to the young woman. “If this all proves to be true, Miss, 1 will be in your debt.” She nodded. “So it would appear, Lord Skye. But for now…” She opened the door for him, and with a quick bow he went out, opening the door to the carriage himself, and sending his surprised driver on. He slumped back in his seat, a hand over his face. Had he just escaped ruin? It didn’t seem possible. Flames, but he should not wait in Avonel to find out. Chapter Three Memory is fiction, a narrative we write and rewrite to explain an ever-changing present, a story in which we are the hero, the victim, the wronged or the incomparable lover. And if memory is fiction, what then is history? Halden: Essays The ride to Erasmus’ home passed almost entirely in silence, as though Hayes were afraid the driver might overhear them. Erasmus thought that something dire must have happened to frighten the young man so. He looked positively haunted, and this was not helped by the fact that he was rather poorly dressed and smelled of wine—though he appeared perfectly sober. It came out that Hayes had visited the brothel only because he’d been rescued by friends who were on their way there. They were celebrating the coming marriage of one of their circle. An odd practice, Erasmus thought. Apparently the groom-to-be had been stripped naked and tied to a woman, who was also without clothing, and they would not be released until they had performed the act before the groom’s so-called friends. All rather difficult in that they had been tied in such a way as to make consummation almost impossible. Somewhat more entertaining than anything Erasmus had seen, but then his exploration of the brothel had been cut rather short. They arrived at Erasmus’ town home and were let in by his man servant, Stokes, who looked askance at this young vagabond Erasmus had brought home. After Stokes had found Hayes some clothing and let him clean up, they met in Erasmus’ study on the second floor. “I will tell you, Hayes, you look like you’ve survived the war.” “Do excuse me, Erasmus, I—I appreciate you taking me in like this.” “Yes, well, come and sit by the fire and warm yourself.” Erasmus motioned to his servant. “Brandy would seem to be in order. And coffee. Will that answer?” he asked Hayes, who nodded. Erasmus took the second chair. “I think you should tell me what’s happened, Hayes. There will be time for pleasantries later.” The young man nodded, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs as though to bring some feeling into them. He stared into the fire, martialing his thoughts. The young Samual that Erasmus remembered was barely detectable in the man seated before him. The good-natured, apple-cheeked child was gone, and in his place was someone leaner and harder. The bones of his face showed through, as though hardship had caused his skeleton to expand and strengthen. This young man looked like he could stand up to some adversity, which no doubt he already had. “1 don’t need to acquaint you with my recent family history, Erasmus. Suffice it to say that, since leaving Merton, I’ve been living in… one of the city’s more picturesque quarters.” Hayes shook his head as though he could not quite credit his memory. “I came home this night to find my rooms had been invaded by… well, my neighbors claimed they were navy men. And I was pursued by others and only managed to escape by pure luck.” He looked up at Erasmus. “1 really had no place to go. No friend good enough to burden with my troubles.” “Don’t worry, Samual, you’re both safe and welcome. There are one or two advantages to having a brother who’s a duke. You haven’t any notion of why these men were in your rooms, I take it?” Hayes shook his head. “None.” “And you’re sure they were men from the Admiralty? You saw uniforms?” “No, but the people in that quarter of the city have an uncanny ability to spot the representatives of the Crown no matter what their dress. If they say they were navy men, I would wager all 1 have they were right. Not that it would be much of a wager, I’m afraid.” Stokes appeared just then with coffee and brandies. Erasmus wanted to reassure Hayes that his life would not always be thus, but by the time Stokes left, the moment had passed. “Well, perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.” Erasmus stared at Hayes, who gazed fixedly down into his brandy. The silence was protracted and more than a little awkward. “It makes little sense to come to me, Samual, and then not trust me,” Erasmus said softly. Hayes shook his head and shifted his gaze to the fire. “1 have been racking my brain all evening trying to think of any reason, any reason at all, that the Admiralty would be interested in me. Interested enough to sack my rooms.” “And… ?” Hayes looked up at him. “I can think of only one thing, and even it makes almost no sense.” “Out with it, Samual.” “I had been doing some research for a gentleman. Someone who wanted utter discretion. It was paid work, you see,” he said, a little embarrassed. “No shame in that. Not to my mind, anyway.” Erasmus waited, his patience wearing thin, though he fought to hide it. “Well, the gentleman has some involvement with the Admiralty. That is the only explanation I can think of. But, for the life of me, I can’t imagine how the work I did could lead to naval officers searching my rooms.” Hayes rose from his chair and paced two steps across the hearth, clearly troubled. He stood looking down at his hands oddly, turning them over and over before the flames. “It is such a strange thing…” He hunched down before the fire. “Perhaps you should tell me about this work you’ve done, Hayes. I might notice something someone with less distance would miss.” Hayes nodded, still looking into the fire. “It is a story I want to tell you, Erasmus. You, in particular.” He glanced up. “But I would have to ask for complete secrecy in this matter.” Agents of the navy were involved, Erasmus reminded himself. “If your story bears upon the security of the nation in some way, Hayes, I cannot guarantee that I’ll be able to keep your confidence.” Hayes stood up quickly. “But it doesn’t, Erasmus. I swear it.” Erasmus considered. It was not that he didn’t want to offer Hayes some help, it was just that he didn’t want to become more involved than was necessary. “You said that you particularly wanted to tell me this tale…” Hayes nodded hopefully. “Yes, for you see, the story involves a mage, or at least I think it does. That is what I hope you can tell me.” Erasmus shifted in his chair, wary now. “I will tell you honestly, Hayes, that I have little special knowledge of mages, despite what people will persist in believing.” A tight smile of polite disbelief flickered across Hayes’ face. “Of course… I simply thought…” He stopped and looked away again. “If, as you say, the matter is innocent, I will honor your confidence. That is all I can promise.” Hayes nodded. “It all began about two years ago with a professor at Merton. You see, he called me and a classmate to his study one day and asked if we’d be interested in undertaking some research for a prominent gentleman—he would not tell us who it was, for the gentleman desired absolute discretion. We had to agree before we were told his name. Our professor did assure us that the gentleman in question was above reproach and it was all on the up and up. I agreed readily, for I would be paid, and my classmate, Kehler, agreed as well. “We were sent off to meet our prospective employer, completely in the dark as to what we would be doing, and 1 dare say we would have thought it something of a lark if we hadn’t known the man by reputation.” He glanced up at Erasmus, clearly still impressed by this mysterious gentleman. “I can’t say more than that he is a person of some standing. “We speculated a great deal about what our task might be, but I can tell you, Erasmus, we were not even near the mark. Do you know anything about a little village called Compton Heath?” Erasmus shrugged. “Just the name.” “And 1 should have said that’s really all there was to know— except for this one peculiar incident that the gentleman was interested in.” Hayes reached down and took a sip of his brandy. “I don’t know how he ever learned the story, but his fascination with it was obvious. As he told it, he could not sit still but paced across the room speaking as though he were explaining a great discovery. ”According to our employer, a stranger appeared one day in Compton Heath: a man dressed oddly, who spoke no tongue that any recognized. He seemed more than a little disoriented and distraught, as well as a bit fearful of the people, though from all accounts they treated him kindly. A doctor was called who determined that the man suffered nervous dyspepsia and required rest and quiet. “A priest, skilled in languages, was located and came to hear the man’s strange speech. The priest confessed that he could neither name the man’s language nor even from what region it might originate. Some theorized that the stranger had been shipwrecked and was the only survivor, and that he had come from a land in some unexplored part of the world where there was a rich civilization. The imagination being what it is, these people also believed the stranger was a man of importance in his own land—a prince or a wealthy adventurer. The problem with this theory, of course, was that the town of Compton Heath lay some twenty miles inland, and it seemed unlikely that this man would have traveled so far without first encountering other towns or homes and their people. “But then the stranger was not quite right in his mind, so it was not entirely out of the question that he had wandered so far. The local officials took the man under their wing, not quite sure what should be done. He became something of a local curiosity, and men of learning traveled from neighboring towns to see him for themselves and to hear his strange tongue. “But this situation did not last long. One evening a grand coach arrived, from where no one knew, and when it left the stranger was no longer domiciled in Compton Heath. The officials claimed the man had disappeared of his own free will, though few believed them. In fact, the town worthies were clearly frightened and did not like to speak of the matter at all. Afterward the rumor went about that a mage had sent for the stranger, though this can be neither proven nor disproven.” Erasmus was silent for a moment, and Hayes turned his attention to him, trying to read his reaction to the news of a mage’s involvement. 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At times his old self, or so I imagined, would come forth and he displayed real charm, and even some concern for others. Then, very unexpectedly he would lapse into tirades, for he believed himself a victim of terrible persecution. “The man took a liking to me, I think, and at a sign from my partner, Kehler, I took over our inquiry, Kehler being content to sit and listen. It was some time before I could steer him round to the topic of interest to us, but finally after some cajoling, he fell into a long silence, and then said, ‘Damn him, I shall not take it to the grave!’ I think he had been keeping the secret so long, and living in fear, that he could no longer bear it. ‘Let him take me now and be done with it,’ he kept repeating, as though some terrible fiend would learn of our conversation and come for him. Occasionally he would even fall to accusing us of being agents of this thing he feared but never named. “It was a long difficult process taking three days, and I don’t think I would ever have been allowed to press my questions as I did, for obviously the interview was a detriment to the old man’s already precarious state, but his daughter was clearly even more interested than I. She sat just out of the man’s sight and listened carefully to every word, hardly able to believe that her father was telling the story at last.” Hayes stopped to drink, his throat dry. “I learned a number of things from Ripke that our visit to Compton Heath had not uncovered. The stranger was certainly civilized, not a wild man as some claimed. He was modest regarding his body and submitted to the doctor’s examination only after it was demonstrated to him that he would not be harmed. His hands bore no calluses or signs of labor. He was clearly curious, even amused at times by things he saw. The workings of a clock caused him great merriment, apparently, and he obviously understood the ways of mechanical things. Given writing implements he not only wrote in a script no one had ever seen but produced a number of sketches of objects, the purpose of which could not be readily grasped.“ “Farrelle’s flames!” Erasmus blurted out. “Do these drawings and script exist?” Hayes shook his head sadly. “No, but I will come to that part of the story. The stranger began to learn Farr; quite rapidly I believe, and it soon became clear that he knew more about many things than his supposed teachers. He drew a fairly detailed anatomical drawing of the human body, and clearly had strongly held beliefs about how it functioned—Ripke was of the opinion that the man might well have been a physician in his own land. If what Ripke said was true, the stranger suggested things about the functions of the heart and lungs that are only just now being considered. For instance, Ripke is convinced that the stranger did not believe that air in the lungs cooled the heat of the blood but rather infused it somehow, and this enriched fluid was carried to the extremities of the body to nurture it, like fertilizer does a garden. Or so 1 understood him to say.” “This is what some medical men are proposing now,” Erasmus said, a bit surprised. Hayes nodded. “So it is.” Though he did not seem nearly as astonished as Erasmus. “Just as Ripke and the others began to realize what a miracle they might have on their hands, a large carriage arrived in Compton Heath late in the night.” Hayes took a long drink of his brandy, and seemed suddenly very sad. “Ripke was not present when the coach appeared, but as Compton Heath was a small village, he soon had word of it. He hurried to the house where the stranger was lodged and found a scene of terrible confusion. Horsemen held back the few onlookers from an ornate carriage that had pulled up in the lane, and when the doctor tried to enter the house to determine what went on, he was stopped by the horsemen, who would provide no explanation. He stood helplessly by as he saw the bewildered stranger bundled into the carriage, and as the door opened, in the darkened interior, he saw a man, or at least his silhouette, calmly waiting. “At this point in the telling, Doctor Ripke went into a spasm of cursing and cowering that finally sent us away for the rest of that day and part of the next. When we were allowed to return, only I was able to speak with the doctor. He would see no others. I found a haggard looking Ripke waiting, for he had been awake raving all night. But he was more lucid than at any other time during our visit, as though the fit of madness had run its course and left him too exhausted to continue with such mania. I took a seat with him before the fire—for though it was a warm day, he huddled next to the hearth as though it were the worst day of winter—and he suddenly reached out and took hold of my hand. You cannot imagine the look he gave me then, as though he pleaded with me for his own life. ‘Pursue this no further,’ he said, his voice all but gone from his night of raving. “When I asked why, he would not answer but curled up in his chair, drawing his ancient blanket up over his head, and from underneath I heard him muttering, and then crying pitifully. I could learn nothing more from him, and finally his daughter took pity on the man’s state and sent me away.” “But what of the writing and the sketches?” “They disappeared at the same time as the stranger.” “And no one could reproduce them?” Hayes shook his head. “Ripke tried, but each time he put pen to paper, he would be overcome by a strange fear. A fear so great that it drove what he had seen out of his memory. And his notes, taken at the time, could not be found. His daughter thought that he hoarded them in a wooden box which he kept locked and hidden away, but when he died, a few months after our interview, her husband opened the box and found nothing but pages of gibberish. Lines that connected in no way that conveyed meaning. The artistic equivalent of a madman’s ravings.” Erasmus felt a sudden chill himself, for he could almost see the poor doctor huddled up by his fire, slipping back into madness. “And who was it took the man away?” “I was hoping you would tell me, Erasmus. This doctor was filled with a terror that he could never escape. I might dismiss this as just the dementia of one old man, but several others who were present that night suffered similarly—two much worse, in fact. They self-murdered not long after. Was this the doings of a mage? That is my question? Could one place such a terror on a man? Would they do such a terrible thing, for surely this Ripke had done nothing that could offend a mage? Unless there was some part of the story he was not telling. A stranger appeared in his village, and the doctor endeavored to learn something of the man, and did nothing to cause him harm. That is all.” Hayes stared hard at Erasmus, clearly unsettled by what had happened to this poor doctor. “Could this have been the workings of a mage?” “1 fear it is entirely possible,” Erasmus said quietly. “I… yes, they could instill such a fear in a man, and it would not likely go away with time—not in the years that men live, at least. That this man Ripke lasted as long as he did with some apparent sanity is the miracle.” “You speak with some confidence, Erasmus,” Hayes said. Erasmus glanced at him, his annoyance not hidden, but Hayes did not look at all abashed. “Yes, well, I had an experience while 1 was in the house of El-drich that left me with some special knowledge.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together, staring into his past, Hayes was sure; and it was not a happy past either. “Perhaps it is an evening for stories,” Erasmus said softly, as though he spoke to himself. “I will tell you of this one incident that might give you some evidence of the mage’s indifference to our ideas of what is just.” Erasmus paused, as though reconsidering, but then pressed on. “The millennium was but four years off when I was taken to the house of Eldrich,” he began. “To this day I have only the vaguest idea of why this was done. Some feat I had performed as a child, I would suppose, though for the life of me I can’t remember what. “My father, the duke, must have made the arrangements, though he never bothered to explain his reasoning to me—a pattern that continued through the rest of his days. “There were three other boys in the house at the time. One was two years older, had been there longer and kept to himself; another was younger and had attached himself to a women servant. That left Percy and me. “Percy was three months older, several inches taller, and though quick of wit, he left it to me to lead in our friendship. His family were mildly successful shopkeepers, 1 understood, but even at that age I cared little for social distinctions. He was a good and true friend, and we stood by each other in a situation that, though never truly threatening, was less than hospitable and more than a little strange. “Percy had less idea of why he was there than 1 did, and the fact that his family had no influence at all makes me wonder if my own family’s prominence had anything at all to do with my being there. We knew that Eldrich was said to be a mage, and we were both terrified and fascinated by this. That is to say, by day we were fascinated, but once darkness fell, terror reigned. Most nights, after the lights were doused, we slipped into the same bed and clung to each other, almost paralyzed with fear, until we finally fell asleep. We were never sure what we were afraid of, though we speculated endlessly. “For months we didn’t see Eldrich himself, so we imagined that he was a hideous near-monster, or perhaps turned into one after nightfall. The one truly frightening thing we did see was Eldrich’s familiar, a great wolf that roamed the halls, often by night. This beast never actually threatened us in any way, though we did much to stay distant from it, but we did on occasion hear sniffing outside our door—and there were many more times when 1 suspect we imagined it. This put a fear into us that cannot be truly conveyed, for there is no one so accomplished at terror as a ten-year-old. “We were given a pleasant enough room to share and put in the charge of a tutor who was to see to our studies. He was a good-hearted old man who reeked of tobacco smoke and the fecund soil from the gardens in which he loved to dig. In the spring he also smelled of horse droppings. “Mr. Walky, as he was called, was a man of prodigious learning—or perhaps I should say he had been a man of prodigious learning in his day. By the time Percy and I came to him, his mind had begun to… ‘decay’ I think would be the right word. It was solid enough in places, and growing if not quite flourishing in others, but, overall it had begun to lose its foliage, and the trunk was sadly rotten at its center. “Walky often called us by the names of former students, and lost track of our lessons, his mind wandering off. Very occasionally he would tell us the most wondrous tales of the past, and sometimes even tales of the doings in the house of Eldrich. To children, these seemed more like stones than history—like ghost stories, some of them—and it was difficult for us to discern those that were real from those that were fanciful. “Had I been only a little older, I would have been wise enough to set these down in ink, but I was not yet perfectly proficient in my letters, and—to be honest—the thought never occurred to me. They seemed so much like tales from old books that I didn’t for a moment imagine that they would not be recorded elsewhere. But I realize now that they weren’t—at least not anywhere that could be found. “Percy and 1 had a great deal of time to ourselves—too much, really—and, 1 confess, we got up to some mischief occasionally. For this Mr. Walky would give us extra work and refused to tell us stories, though earning his temporary disapproval was far more injurious, for we had no other friend or ally in that strange world. “In all the months I lived in Eldrich’s house 1 never actually spoke with the master himself and, in fact, only saw him perhaps three times. The first I was sitting in a window seat staring out at the garden. It was a cool autumn day, windless and with an odd, thin cloud layer through which the disk of the sun was visible, though just. In the distance occasional holes in a more dense cloud layer would open and shafts of light that we then called ‘mage rays’ would illuminate some far-off patch of the countryside, the colors of fall appearing there like some promised treasure. “I was supposed to be reading a book, but as I had not the habits of mind that I later developed, 1 was staring out the window, daydreaming. At some point 1 realized there was a man standing in the garden, looking down into one of the fading flowerbeds. He was a tall gentleman dressed in black but for a white shirt. On his head he wore no wig and his dark hair, curly and loose, framed his pale face which, at that distance, was hard to distinguish. “1 had about two seconds of mild curiosity before I had a sudden realization: this was the legendary Eldrich! I knew it as though I had seen him a thousand times. This was the mage. My heart began to pound like mad, and I leaned forward to press my forehead to the glass so that 1 might have a better look. At that very moment the man looked up, perhaps attracted by the movement in the window. And I swear to you that I thought my heart had actually stopped. “The look this man fixed on me… ! I was sure he could read my thoughts, learn every bit of wickedness I had ever thought or done. I nearly fell out of the window seat i was so terrified. He had noticed me! And all those months I believed he was unaware of my existence, but now I knew this was not so. I could tell by the look. He knew me. Eldrich knew me! “I flew back to my room as though pursued by the foulest murderer, and burst through the door in such a near hysteria that I alarmed Percy even more than I had been frightened myself. “For a long moment I could not speak, but only gesticulated wildly, opening and closing my mouth to no avail; finally I managed, ‘Eldrich.’ And Percy, who thought I meant the mage was on his way to our room, went completely white with horror. He began to tremble uncontrollably and actually became so light-headed that he collapsed onto the bed, and his eyes threatened to roll back in their sockets. “ ‘What does he want with us?’ he whispered when he had recovered a little. ‘He wants nothing of you,’ I told him. ‘At least not that I know of. But he saw me! Saw me shirking my studies. Flames, what if he turns me into a goat? Or fixes me with a stutter?’ “It sounds ridiculous, now, but at the time I had never been so terrified. We both stared at the door as though it would burst open at any moment and the mage would be carried in on a blast of wind, and we would find out at last for what terrible purpose we had been sent to this place. “We stayed like that until a servant came to call us to supper—he must have wondered why, when he opened the door, we were clinging to each other, cowering as though we were about to be spitted, our eyes the size of saucers. Of course, Eldrich never appeared and we recovered from our fright after a few days, but we never laughed about it, nor teased each other. No, anything to do with the mage was not a laughing matter. And I will tell you honestly that I am not convinced that this fright was simply the natural result of two young boys living in strange circumstances. Can you imagine what kind of man would take amusement from so terrifying children?” Erasmus stopped, unsure if he would go on, but the memories kept flooding back. “While 1 was there, the older boy tried to run away, but reappeared the next day looking decidedly sullen, and could never be convinced to speak of the matter. This proved what we suspected: we were prisoners, and though it might have been more like boys at boarding school than prisoners in gaol, a stranger boarding school I had never heard tell of. “One of the things Walky taught us, once the weather grew fair, was the art of swimming. He scoffed at our protests that it would ruin our constitutions, and called us old wives. His own good health, he claimed, was due to regular physical labor and swimming. He even said that the mage himself swam, though we did not believe that Lord Eldrich would stoop to such a frivolous activity. “We not only learned the art of swimming, we grew to like it and while the weather remained warm, complained if a day went by without us being allowed into the water. Walky used this as a carrot for us. ‘Finish your maths, my young lions, and we shall go for a nice swim. Be about it now.’ “He often called us his ‘young lions,’ especially when he was pleased with us or when he was in a particularly agreeable mood. I did not know it at the time, but old half-mad Walky, as we thought of him, was a good friend to us, and concerned with our welfare. “Sometime later in my stay at Eldrich’s house, Walky’s grip on reality seemed to slip a little more. Occasionally he would forget what lesson he had begun and make odd requests of us. Once he asked me to name the three herbs used to purify water, which I had to tell him was not in my course of studies. Another day when he was particularly distracted—to the point of mumbling to himself—he demanded I recite the incantation for locating springs, and when he saw the look of incomprehension on my face, he began a strange rhythmic chant in a language neither Percy nor I had ever heard. After a moment of this strange behavior, Walky faltered in mid-word, looking at us in astonishment. Quite abruptly he fled the room. “We did not know what to say, and for a long moment sat there in stunned silence. But there was no doubt about what we had heard. It had been magic! We both felt the power of it. Walky had been performing an enchantment! ‘ ’Do you know what I think?‘ I said to Percy. ’Walky must have been a teacher of mages.‘ ‘He’d have to be a hundred years old—maybe more,’ Percy protested, always practical. ‘Nevertheless, that is what he is doing in Eldrich’s house.’ I was utterly sure of what 1 said. ‘Then he must be a mage himself,’ Percy said. ‘Maybe not. He might prepare the young ones before they go to study with the mage proper.’ “There was a long silence while we considered the ramifications of this insight, neither of us wanting to actually put into words what it meant. We did not look at each other, and the silence stretched on. I remember hearing the insects buzzing outside the open window. S ean Russell Are we to be mages, then‘’ Percv and filled with awe. ‘ erc V ‘,’ I said quickly. ‘It can’t S h,s vo,ce very small Chapter Four The final hour of darkness held the city close, not willing to release it until touched by the burning sun. The birds that lived in the eaves and openings of houses stirred and cooed their waking songs, like men and women sleepily readying themselves for their day’s toil. Anna’s carriage entered the courtyard through an arched opening and she heard the gates close behind her. By the main door, a lamp chased the darkness from that small corner of the courtyard, illuminating the wisteria vine climbing the posts of the entry porch. It’s done, she thought. For better or worse, it’s done. The door to the carriage opened, and she was handed down to the cobbles, where she stood a moment, not quite ready to go in. Banks appeared beneath the wisteria. “Anna?” “Coming,” she said, still not wanting to. A walk in the garden to clear her head and calm her was what she would prefer. She had never felt such elation and such anxiety at the same time. The two emotions seemed to be struggling within her, producing a nervousness that was entirely uncharacteristic. Banks took a step toward her, and rather than have him come and lead her inside, she relented and went toward the door, sweep- U ing past the concerned-looking young man so that he could not take her arm in his too-possessive manner. The house was warm, the air redolent with smoke and the smells of coffee. “Everyone is here?” she asked Banks. He nodded. “Yes, there have been no mishaps. Your part went well, I take it?” “Not as 1 expected, but well enough. We are in the library?” “The dining room, in fact.” She set out for the dining room where she found the others seated around the table, talking with animation despite the hour. “Anna,” Halsey said, standing, as did the others. Halsey was the oldest of the group, the leader by both seniority and acclamation. “We’ve just been speculating about Skye,” Kells said. “So tell us what happened.” She took the chair that Banks pulled out for her and collapsed in it, suddenly tired. The high back pressed into her skull, and she shut her eyes a moment. “All went much as we expected. Not as well as we might have liked, but not as badly as it could have-not nearly as badly.” The sound of a coffee cup arriving on the table before her brought her upright. “He… he was shocked, as you might imagine, but I think, on balance, the earl believed me. The unconscious sailors helped make my point. As the earl left, he owned that he was in our debt…” She lifted her cup and let what she’d said sink in. “Well,” Kells said, “that is hardly bad news, though it was the least we could expect from a gentleman. We did save him from gaol, after all. From utter ruin, in truth.” Kells nodded. He was always quick to judge. Quick to act. In some ways she felt closest to him for that. As usual, Halsey said nothing, weighing her words, considering every possible interpretation that might suggest disaster. “But what will Skye do now? Did he say?” Delisle was five years older than Anna, and asked most of the questions—even the obvious ones, which was good, she’d come to realize. Many things would never have been discussed openly without him. “I don’t know, and 1 didn’t ask. It was a delicate moment. As we agreed, the most important thing was that Skye realize and be- lieve we had saved him—for no reason other than our admiration of him. I think he did believe that. What of your own tasks?“ Delisle glanced quickly at Banks. “I wish we could say things went so well. We were almost apprehended in Samual Hayes’ rooms. A pack of navy men came up as we were there, and we had no exit but the window. I fear they are still wondering how we jumped from such a height and apparently sustained no injury. It was the worst luck, but once we were up the stairs, there was nowhere else to go.” “It never occurred to us that the Admiralty would send men to search Hayes’ rooms at the same time as they sprung their trap for Skye,” Banks said. “I still can’t imagine why they did it.” Halsey was shaking his head just a little, sitting back in his chair, a look of some disbelief on his face. He was not happy with what he heard. “You had no difficulties?” Anna asked the old man, her tone quiet and deferential. He had never been entirely in favor of this endeavor and now seemed to be having his worst fears confirmed. “Difficulties? No,” he said softly. “I have always managed what must be done, even when it is murder.” He shook his head again, clearly disturbed. “So, Skye did not offer to open any gates for you?” he asked, fixing Anna with a gaze. She wondered how a person made their look so hard. “He offered nothing, not that I expected he would. Not yet. But I still do not doubt that my vision was true. He will open a gate for us. I’m sure of it.” “Yes, but who will wait inside? You still do not know, I collect?” Halsey’s gaze didn’t soften, nor did it release her. Anna shook her head. Visions were not so easily explained, and augury was imperfectly understood, even by the ancients. Anna could recall her vision in detail if she closed her eyes, yet she still could not say who stood beyond the gate. A man who held a book and a white blossom, but as he turned toward her so that she might see his face, a light blinded her. Nothing more. Skye would open the gate to knowledge and power, that was the vision’s meaning. Who held the book, she was sure was irrelevant. “Let us not have the argument again,” Kells said. “It will not come out differently. Eldrich still plans to bring an end to the arts in our time. The years of caution are past. We cannot wait Eldrich out—not now. When the mage is gone, the arts will disappear with him.“ Yes, Anna thought. She had seen it. Eldrich disappearing down the corridors of a forest, leaving behind a world devoid of its former power, devoid of all magic. She shuddered at the memory. The forest had seemed so lifeless, though to most it would appear still green and growing. She could not imagine wanting to live in such a world. “But, Anna,” Banks said gently. “You’ve not seen what we recovered from Hayes’ rooms.” He slid a letter across the table. “There was much more—a journal, a sheaf of notes—but we were caught unawares and left it all behind in our panic.” Anna picked up the letter. “It is from this other young man Skye employed,” Delisle said. “Fenwick Kehler. We have wondered where he got to. It appears he has been researching in the Farrellite archive in Wooton!” My Dear Hayes: I had begun to despair of ever accomplishing my task here, no matter how hard I searched, but recently things have changed. You would not believe what I have found, sir! All that we ever dreamed and more! The archive is a mine of knowledge lost and forgotten, one must only find the vein one seeks. I will tell you much more when next we meet. I hope to be granted a few days’ leave come late spring and will travel to Avonel in all haste. I L - ¦• • • I hope this letter finds you well. Yours as always, F. W. Kehler “It says very little,” Anna said, surprised that Banks would think this so significant. “So one would think, but we saw Hayes’ journal. Pages and pages about the Stranger of Compton Heath. And much speculation about Baumgere! Assuming that Kehler is still in the employ of Skye, the letter says a great deal. One should realize that Kehler must write with extreme caution. After all, he is clearly delving into matters of which the priests would not approve—and they are likely not above monitoring the correspondence of their guest scholars. mo if read in the proper light, this letter says a great deal. Skye might open the gate, and the man standing inside could well be this oung scholar, Kehler. Who can guess what he has found in Woo- n? We know the priests have been hoarding knowledge for centuries, and not all of it of a religious nature.“ Anna shrugged. “Do we know what has happpened to Hayes? Do the Admiralty have him?” No one answered for a second. “We don’t know,” Kells said. “It is possible. Now that Skye has escaped their trap, it will not look good if they have taken this young man into custody. He is, after all, innocent of any crime. I don’t know what they’ll do with him. And who knows what the worthy gentlemen of the Admiralty will think if he tells them what he has been researching for Skye.” “We needn’t worry about the Admiralty,” Halsey said suddenly, his aged, gravelly voice sounding tired and somewhat sad. “For now we must watch for any sign of Eldrich’s hand in all of this. We wait and keep our distance.” “Certainly caution has served us well all the long years,” Anna heard herself say, “but those days are at an end. If we are too cautious now, we’ll sacrifice everything. The arts will be lost to us forever. And Eldrich will have triumphed.” “You will learn a terrible lesson, Anna, if you persist in underestimating him,” Halsey said, some frustration in his voice. “He is a mage. Even if Eldrich is the least skilled of mages, he is still more powerful than you can imagine. You do not begin to understand what he can do. It is entirely possible that Skye does his bidding, or that the men who attempted to ruin Skye did so on behalf of the mage, whether they were aware of it or not. And we have leaped to Skye’s rescue. We have revealed ourselves. Revealed ourselves after centuries of hiding. We have been reckless enough. Now we must wait. “It is one thing to say that the time for caution has passed and another to go running foolishly into the arms of Eldrich. I will not allow it. Imprudence now will be our ruin. Let us see what Skye will do. I don’t want to find that he has opened this much vaunted gate only to discover that the man who awaits us is no man at all—but a mage.” “Perhaps Anna should attempt to see again. After all, we have contacted Skye. We have passed a way-point—a significant one.” Delisle glanced a bit guiltily at Anna. “Things might be clearer, now.” Anna sat immobile. The thought of attempting augury again brought up something near to panic. She had gone down that path too often, at great cost, and more often than not there was nothing to show for it. Halsey had begun to protect her from it recently, protect her from the others who saw augury as the solution to all doubt, despite the fact that it never was. She waited for the old man to come to her rescue so that she would not have to start making excuses… start showing her fear. It draws the life out of me, she thought. Can’t you see that? Halsey did not look at her, but suddenly nodded his head, th smallest motion. “Can you bear it?” he asked looking up at her, the sadness he had nurtured all evening suddenly manifest, like the scream of a newborn. “Of course,” she heard herself say. There was no other answer. She was no less dedicated than the others who would do anything to keep Eldrich from accomplishing his purpose. But why is he doing it? she asked herself again. She did not know. The mages were selfish and willful. They needed no more reason than that. They are taking the magic with them… somewhere. She saw the image of Eldrich, disappearing down a corridor of the forest. Saw the world left behind. A world where augury would no longer be possible. A world where her talent had even less chance of blossoming than it did now. No chance, in fact. She pushed back from the table, not waiting for the others. Better to lead than follow. She was the one born to talent. She was the one who would lead one day, if all went as they hoped. She went out into the garden, into the starlight, listening to the night as she walked. Forcing her heart to be still, her mind to become calm. / cannot be afraid, she chanted over and over again. There was a difference between not showing fear and not being afraid, and simply not showing fear would not pass here. It could even bring her to… well, she did not like to think about that. They went to a small pool among the trees. Anna stopped here and breathed in the night, drew the darkness into her lungs, the starlight, the shadows. Still, they were so still. She listened for the songs of the stars—the choral stars. The stars appeared before her as she closed her eyes, wavering, and then holding steady. She began a whispered chant, bending quickly to make a mark in the earth, to draw a figure of pale light. When it held steady, she rose and stepped into the figure, not needing to open her eyes, for the lines burned in her mind, burned so that she could feel them. It is not pain, she told herself, though she longed to shut out the glowing lines, longed to scream. It is not pain. She repeated the lie, knowing it was the only way to survive. A burning heat searing her nerves like fire, like the coldest ice. ~“ain so terrible in its intensity that it did not seem human. Mankind could not feel such agony. Like birthing a child and then experiencing your own horrible death as the child howled. Anna screamed, opening her eyes suddenly. Staring down into the dark sky of the pool, where the stars hung like points of white hot fire. I’m looking into my own mind, she thought, and then stiffly tossed a pebble into the water. The stars wavered, swaying back and forth and she felt herself falling. But still she stared, waiting. Waiting. Opening herself to the emptiness, to the agony, but only for an instant. It was all she could bear. All anyone could bear. And then she shut her eyes, feeling the earth beneath her knees, hands taking hold of her. She had seen nothing. Nothing. Chapter Five This particular visitor always arrived unannounced and, somehow, unexpected. Considering the amount of time that Sir John dedicated to contemplating this gentleman, and the dread he felt whenever Bryce actually appeared, it was impressive that the man invariably seemed to arrive when Sir John’s guard was down. The maid thought it very peculiar, and Sir John was sure that his own reaction made her even more suspicious. There was, however, nothing he could do about it. These visits were not a matter he controlled or even had influence upon—and not many things transpired in Avonel that Sir John could not influence. It was understood that Sir John never kept this visitor waiting, no matter the hour or circumstances. He looked at the clock again in disbelief. Not even half-five-still dark, and only morning by the most liberal interpretation of the term. He bent over and stirred the coals of the fire, carefully arranging dry kindling. Mornings were cool, though that would soon change, but a fire was still a pleasure if not an absolute necessity. There was a crack from the cedar, and a thin thread of smoke streamed up. Flame erupted with a sigh. Sir John was still dressed in his nightclothes, and felt strangely vulnerable, not that he usually felt any less vulnerable when Mr. Bryce came to call, no matter what the circumstances. “Congratulations on your baronetcy, Sir John.” Bryce stood at the door to the drawing room. No apology for arriving at such an hour, not that Sir John expected any. “May I?” Bryce gestured toward a chair. “Please. Brandy? Wine? I have a fine claret from the southern slopes of Farrow.” Sir John insisted on pretending it was late at night rather than obscenely early in the morning. It made it all easier to deal with, somehow. “Claret, please.” Sir John poured them each a glass and took a seat by the fire. Bryce was, without a doubt, the most self-assured man Sir John had ever met—not arrogant or full of himself, but apparently without self-doubt. And the effect of this confidence on others was profound. Sir John was quite sure the King himself would defer to the man. The odd thing about it was that Sir John, who prided himself on his ability to understand his fellow man, could not quite explain how Bryce managed to convey this degree of confidence, nor what lay at its center. The truth was that Bryce was invariably extremely polite, even sensitive; things that Sir John did not associate with this kind of self-assurance. Power was what he thought of when he met a man with confidence, and Bryce was not typical of men who possessed power. Sir John thought Bryce almost inhumanly precise. His dress was impeccable, his speech exact and explicit, as though it conveyed his thought perfectly and without effort. Sir John had never spoken to a man who did not occasionally grope for a word, or use some term that was less than exact—except for Bryce. The man was meticulous in every way—disturbingly so. Sir John could not escape the feeling that he was dealing with someone who had passed beyond normal human functioning. Sir John could not imagine Bryce ever making a mistake, needing sleep. He was certain the man did not sweat. Bryce existed on some other plane and descended only occasionally to the muddled world of men, who must seem only slightly more organized and thoughful than beasts to him. Bryce sat regarding him for a moment, sipping his wine. “I suspect the seeds you’ve sown have begun to bear fruit, Sir John.” Beneath the Vaulted Mills As a political animal Sir John had spent many years learning to keep his feelings and reactions to himself, but he was under no illusion that he could hide such things from Bryce, so no doubt what Bryce saw was the flash of fear that Sir John had just experienced. “What has happened?” Sir John asked. Who had fallen? Mon-crief or Skye? “That is what I hope you will be able to tell me. 1 suggest you pay a visit to your friends in the Admiralty. Bring every little detail you gather to me. I will weigh them, Sir John. Do not presume to know what is significant yourself. Only 1 can decide that. Do you understand?” Sir John nodded. This little lecture was unnecessary, for he was well aware that he had not the slightest insight into the man’s intentions. At Bryce’s instructions, Sir John had nurtured this feud between Moncrief and the Earl of Skye—though feud was hardly the right word; Moncrief never let his vendettas become public. It was one of the reasons the man was so feared. He would go about knifing you in the back and all the while you would have not the slightest sign of what was about to befall you. But by any name, Sir John had encouraged Moncrief’s jealousy and loathing of Skye. Not a task he had taken on with great joy. Sir John might not understand all the discoveries Skye had made, but he had no doubt that the man was a genius, a genius and largely benign. Benign in a society where Moncrief was the most voracious of predators, but where predators were not in the least uncommon. “I will visit you again this night. That will give you ample time…” This was most definitely not a question, and a day would certainly not be anything like the time Sir John needed. “I… yes, that will be adequate.” “Good.” Bryce looked at Sir John and attempted something like a smile. Like all other human emotions, pleasure and joy seemed beneath him, and any attempt at imitating them was doomed to sad failure—though Sir John certainly never found any amusement in such attempts. “You do not look pleased, Sir John. Were my assurances that we intend no harm to Skye not enough?” “More than adequate, but I suppose I still worry. Setting Mon- crief against someone… I don’t know if there is any animal so vicious as the King’s Man.“ “Yes, it is a wonder… the way he walks through civilized society, as though he were actually part of it…” Bryce shrugged. He was not given to philosophizing about mankind. “You admire Skye.“ “Yes,” Sir John said quickly. “Yes, I do. But not for the reasons he is admired by everyone in the nation.” Bryce did not say anything, but waited patiently. “1 admire him for his convictions. It is no secret that Skye has had great misgivings about the use of his invention. The cannon is the deadliest weapon in the history of warfare, after all. Some say we have hardly begun to understand its uses. And look what has happened already. The battle off Cloud’s End was pressed too far, many think. It is said that the admiral of the Entonne fleet tried to surrender, but even so his ships were destroyed. They have taken poor Admiral Stewart to task for this, but it was policy. I have no doubt of it. The goal was to destroy the Entonne fleet to the last ship.” Sir John shook his head. “Barbaric, really. And so many seamen lost. It did not matter what flag they sailed under, they should have been allowed to surrender. It was nothing short of murder. “Lord Skye is not pleased with the way the Farr government has used this advantage he has given them, and I dare say he would be less willing to give them such a weapon again.” Bryce actually raised an eyebrow at these words. “A man of conscience,” he said, and Sir John nodded. Bryce seemed to consider this for a moment and then his focus returned, his gaze fixing on Sir John. “Well, you needn’t worry about this moral dilemma much longer. You see the Entonne now have the ability to produce cannon and gunpowder on their own. In fact, they have been engaged in this activity for some months.” Sir John sat forward in his chair. “How in the world… ? Was it Skye?” Bryce shrugged. “I don’t know how they discovered this. It was apparently not so difficult to manage, really, not once the cannon had been invented. Even the Admiralty must have realized their advantage would be brief. No doubt that played a part in their deci- sion to destroy the Entonne fleet—press their advantage while they still had it.“ The Entonne had the cannon? 1. “You look rather surprised, Sir John. It was inevitable. And will the world be different when Entonne has the cannon? No, it will be the same as it was for the last three hundred years: neither country having an advantage. Better to have balance.” “But my government should be informed.” Bryce’s manner seemed to indicate that he thought this a matter of little consequence. “If you think it’s important. I suppose it might profit you to be the first with the news. So you see? Do I not act with your best interests at heart? Was that not always our arrangement? Have you not been granted a baronetcy as a result of my efforts?” “Are you suggesting that I’m not worthy of this honor?” Sir John said, the words out of his mouth before he realized what he said. Bryce only smiled. “You are thrice worthy, my dear Sir John, but worth has little to do with the granting of titles, as you well know. You have long been worthy, but never influential—at least not influential enough.” “But whose purpose does this baronetcy suit, I often ask myself.” “My employer’s, Sir John, make no mistake of that. My employer’s. But will it not benefit you as well? Do you not have the joy of it? Does it not gratify you to be addressed as ‘Sir John’? Speak honestly.” “You know it does,” he said quietly, feeling a little overwhelmed. “And I know your fear, Sir John. You worry that you will be asked to compromise your principles. Or that my employer will demand something of you that will bring about your ruin or the ruin of your good name. Is this not so?” He did not wait for an answer, as though he didn’t require confirmation of another’s thoughts. “But rest assured; my employer does not wish you ill. You’re a good and loyal servant, Sir John. Why would he endanger one such as yourself? When one has a champion race horse, only a fool would demand it run to the hounds. My employer, Sir John, is the least foolish of men, let me assure you.” Sir John felt himself nod. One could not disbelieve Bryce. As with so many things, he was likely above lying. If he did not want Sir John to know something, he merely did not tell him. He had no qualms about that. There was always an insidious logic to any claim Bryce made. Sir John often wondered if he were not merely under the man’s influence, bespelled by his superior logic and overwhelming self-confidence. Was he losing sight of his own principles, or merely learning to see the world more clearly, tutored by this stranger who came to him at all hours? Bryce waited patiently, almost watching Sir John’s thought processes. “1 will find out what I can,” Sir John said. “My employer also needs to know where Skye is now.” Sir John nodded, not at all sure he could find him. Bryce showed no acknowledgment, but reached into his coat and removed an envelope. “There is a venture you will find interesting, Sir John. A short canal to join the Singe and the Trent Rivers, undertaken by reliable men. All the details are here.” He handed the envelope to Sir John, who took it quickly. Mr. Bryce actually smiled at him. “In a few months your debts will be discharged, Sir John. I think you can indulge in a man servant now. Next year you shall have a carriage, the year after a larger home. You have been following your budget assiduously, I trust?” “To the letter… or number in this case.” And I have not been out to gamble, not once. Bryce had been right; the desire had faded. Even though he had failed to master it for more decades than he cared to count, it had disappeared. And even more remarkable, his debt, which he had previously thought insurmountable, was nearly paid. Bryce did not even bother to smile politely at this weak jest. “It is a profitable arrangement, is it not?” Sir John nodded. Bryce rose. “I shall let you get on with your valuable work, Sir John. No, please, I will let myself out.” But who is his employer? Sir John asked himself. Sir John went to the window, though he hung back a little so that he would not be seen. Bryce emerged onto the street below, into the light of the still glowing streetlamps and the pale luminescence of approaching dawn. There was no carriage waiting, not even a hired hack. Mr. Bryce crossed the street with a determined air, like a man on his way to an appointment, and just as he stepped cou/rf /ie We Anovwi / watched? Chapter Six She hated confessions. She did not care to listen to other people bare their souls, and she cared even less to hear her own voice speaking in that pathetic, too-intimate tone. Yet here she was, standing before the fire, the portrait of her late husband staring down upon her sternly—though he had never, in real life, turned such a look upon her—and she was revealing things that embarrassed her deeply. Confessing things she would much rather keep to herself, and she did not know why. And to Marianne Edden, of all people! “1 thought he showed signs of interest,” Lady Chilton said, annoyed by the meek little voice that escaped her lips. Silence. A blessed moment of silence. Perhaps she had finished. May Farrelle help her retain some dignity. “1 am impressed. You seem to have found the one man in all of Farrland who is immune to your charms,” Marianne said dryly, rather unaffected by the countess’s plight. “But you rate genius rather too high, I think. I myself know several men of undeniable brilliance, and I must tell you that 1 think them the greatest bores in the nation. 1 would as soon hear a mother talk of her children than listen to these ‘men of brilliance.’ There is no one so self-absorbed as a man convinced of his own lofty intellect—a condition that far KUSSELL have idf^^^VH“”‘ St °P had the novelist’s eye for such’t for myself You “ a ” Ovefet And then the countess found herself speaking again. “The most humiliating part,” she said, unable to stop, “was that I attended the marchioness’ evening only in hopes that I might see him. I went to a brothel because 1 had dropped a hint that I would be there, and he did not even bother to show his face! A brothel! And what did I hear people discussing but his latest passion, and she’s hardly more than a child…” She put a hand on the mantle and leaned against it. There, it was out. Perhaps now she could stop. “Is that not like a man?! A beautiful and accomplished woman pursues him, and he chases after a doll. Now there is genius for you! A genius at making a perfect ass of himself!” The countess did not answer. Oh, it was good to hear Marianne offering her support, but it had little effect on how she was feeling. Shake yourself out of this, she thought. You of all people should not complain because you are not being madly pursued by a gentleman. The thought caused a different feeling of distress. There was a madness that whirled around her, and had for many years, and she could not control it except by staying out of society, which she could not do entirely. She could not hide herself away. The countess was a widow, it was true, but she was still young. Certainly she could not be condemned to living out her life alone, or worse, with a partner who was only vaguely satisfying. Men pursued her with a kind of ferocity that other woman almost never experienced; surely one of these countless men would be the match she sought. The wall against loneliness. “When will you show me these paintings he is so interested in?” Marianne asked. The countess felt a tiny shudder at the mention of the paintings. “I will have them removed from their cases for the gentleman who is to authenticate them. What was his name?” “Kent. Averil Kent.” “Yes. So you might see them this afternoon, if you like.” “This day I shall be otherwise engaged, but I should like to see them at some point. What is Skye’s fascination with them, do you think? Have you ever found out? He hardly seems the kind of man to be interested in things mystic.” The countess ran her hand along the mantlepiece and looked up at the portrait of her late husband—even with his disapproving look, she found more comfort in this painting than in the pieces by Pelier. “So one would think. I don’t really know what it is about Pelier that so fascinates him. He is not an open man, Skye.” She shook her head, thinking that she meant that he was not emotionally open, for about most subjects he would happily speak at length—but about his interest in the Peliers he was very close. She suspected that, about this one thing, he was embarrassed. “There is something more to his interest than mere art. Perhaps now that I have them in my possession, I will discover what it is that so intrigues him.” “Perhaps, though I fear you will not tell me,” Marianne said. “You are rather unfair, I must say. I share all my gossip with you, and it is not just gossip but gossip of the very first rank, and you… well, you are positively discreet.” She said the word with impressive disdain. “Hardly ladylike. You are only supposed to be discreet in the company of others—not with your dearest friends, of which I presume I am one.” “You most definitely are, Marianne, but I have so little to tell you. It is terribly unfair, I agree, but do I not introduce you to everyone you could ever want to meet? Do you not gather reams of material for your novels from the people you meet through me? There is some return, I think.” Marianne nodded a little reluctantly. “I suppose 1 cannot deny that entirely.” She looked up at the clock on the mantlepiece. “I fear I must be going. My public awaits me.” The two women said their good-byes, and the countess was left alone. She settled herself in the chair so recently vacated by Marianne and stared at a still life across the room. It was hardly a remarkable work, merely competent, but it soothed her all the same. The Peliers, on the other hand, she found unsettling, to say the least. There was something about them… Like looking at another’s dreams—or nightmares perhaps. Not that they were horrific, just disturbing and oddly unreal. They seemed more the result of delirium—the fever dream—than of a normal imagination. Why was Skye so fascinated by them? It was almost unseemly that an empiricist would be so captivated by a man like Pelier, who was said to paint “visions,” some of which later, it was claimed, came true. “Foolishness,” she said aloud. Yet Skye was hardly foolish. Oh, he was a little vain, and took too much pleasure from his great reputation, but he was not foolish—not yet at any rate. The countess was surprised not to have heard from the earl. She had sent him a note as soon as the paintings had arrived the previous afternoon and had expected a reply almost immediately. He might not be in thrall to the Countess of Chilton, as so many others were, but she expected the Peliers would bring him at a run. Very odd. Why does he not care for me she wondered? Why, when so many others are driven to foolishness? The mere thought disturbed her. Two men had dueled over her recently. She turned red with embarrassment and distress. Dueled over her, and she had never met either of them! Strangers… And one had been wounded fairly seriously. What if he’d been killed? Did they never think of her? How would she live with that? / will be driven to hiding myself away, she thought. But not yet. I need to be sure that there is not the least chance of interesting Skye. Not the least chance. Kent sat in the parlor, waiting as patiently as a man could to meet the most beautiful woman in Farrland, and very likely beyond. He sat in a chair across the room from a looking glass, staring at the poor, anxious wretch who looked back at him so guardedly. Take hold of yourself, man, he chided himself. It’s not as bad as you think. His head knew this to be true; after all, Kent was something of a favorite of the ladies of Avonel. Oh, he knew he was not an outstandingly handsome man, but he had his good qualities. He gazed at the man in the looking glass and willed him to appear more at his ease. That’s better, he thought. Yes, sit up as though you were vital and confident—no matter what the truth might be at the moment. No, he was not so difficult to look at. His brow was high and smooth, his eyebrows well formed. If he were looking at his ideal portrait, he would certainly repaint the nose if he had the chance, for it was a bit larger than he would like. And his chin could be bit more in proportion—not quite so strong. His eyes, of course, were very fine—a grayish blue that changed with the light. He’d worn a blue frock coat that brought out the color of his eyes. He had always known how to dress—had even become something of trend setter this last while. Yes, the man sitting across from him would do. Many a woman would be happy with less. Oh, taller. He would like to be a bit taller, but he wasn’t short by any means, and his form was perfectly acceptable. No, many a lovely woman had settled for men no easier to look at. Even the countess’ first husband was said to have been a rather ordinary man, in the physical sense. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside and he rose in anticipation, his mouth a bit dry, but the sound passed on and faded, leaving Kent feeling a disturbing sense of loss. He was so unsettled that he went to the mantlepiece to examine a miniature portrait, as though he would hide the fact that he had risen nervously in expectation, only to have no one arrive. But no one is watching, he told himself. Still, he felt he had looked foolish. He hardly registered the subject of the portrait; a man like many another. His mind was on the woman. Kent had seen the countess on more than one occasion—his recent success had brought him entrance to such circles—but he had never actually been introduced. Which meant that in many ways he was still on the outside. Yet, here he was, invited to the countess’ Avonel home, even if it was in a professional capacity. He dearly hoped that the countess would buy one of his paintings. It would set the rest of the aristocracy scrambling to follow suit, and would send the prices up. This thought produced a bit of anxiety. But not as much as the idea that the countess would take a disliking to him. That was his great fear. Not only would it likely ruin his career, but such a humiliation was not to be recovered from. He would be forced to leave the country. / do not expect her to fall into my arms at first sight, he told himself. I’m not such a fool as that. But if she could find my conversation pleasant, and be at least a little charmed by my wit… If I could enter her circle—even its outer rings—so that she would invite me to her home on occasion and acknowledge me at the theater, then I would feel at least that I am not a complete buffoon, Kent knew a little about the countess, as did almost everyone in Farrland. She was said to be very bright, easily bored, literate, artistic, aloof in her manner. The men who managed invitations to her famous salons were all of the first rank, known for their personal charm and sophistication. Mere physical beauty did not qualify one for invitations to the home of the countess—a woman renowned for physical beauty. Nor did a title seem to much impress her, for several of her favorites were not of particularly notable families. / am almost there, Kent told himself. Recently his paintings of nature had gained him entrance to the Empiricist Society—an achievement of which he was justifiably proud. And his landscapes would soon have him made a Fellow of the Royal Society for the Arts. Averil Kent, F.E.S., F.R.S.A. By accomplishments alone he was almost ready to step into the countess’ world. But accomplishments were not enough. The countess must meet him and judge him worthy. “My late husband, the Earl of Chilton,” a woman said in a voice so warm and full of color that it melted into Kent’s very heart. He turned to find the countess standing just inside the door. “Or perhaps you were more interested in the artist? Montpelier, I believe.” Kent bowed a bit awkwardly, unsettled by her sudden appearance. “It is a lovely little piece, Lady Chilton,” he managed. “Lord Chilton was a striking man.” “Do you think so?” she said, a very slightly mocking smile appearing on her lovely mouth. Kent nodded. What was it about her? Why did she drive men to utter foolishness? He fought the urge to stare. “1 never really thought of him as striking, not even as handsome. But he was kind beyond measure, and deft in politics, and fair, and considerate. And he seized life like no other. Though his life was cut short, 1 am sure Lord Chilton lived more than many whose spans tripled his own.” She looked over at the small painting in its silver frame with a look of great affection and some sadness. The countess held out her hand suddenly. “And you are Mr. Kent, I take it.” “Averil Kent, Lady Chilton. Your servant.” Kent touched his lips to the offered hand, and realized as he did so that he blushed, though the countess gave no indication that she noticed. She gestured to a chair and Kent gladly sat while tea was called for. It struck Kent that the countess did not possess the ideal feminine figure, for in truth she was too tall and slim. Almost willowy, he thought. Too girlish and not womanly enough, and this surprised him, for no one would hear the slightest suggestion that she was less than perfect. Her dark hair, nearly black, was perhaps perfect, for it was thick and fell in lustrous curls about her heart-shaped face. With his painter’s eye Kent quickly noted her features. Large blue eyes set too wide apart and slightly elongated, which was unusual and gave her face an exotic appearance. He realized that there was a mole hidden in her right eyebrow, though no one would likely notice. Her lips were full and complemented the shape of her eyes. Kent thought the structure of her face very fine. Unquestionably she was a beautiful woman but not really so striking as to cause the furor that she did. And if that were true, why was he responding as he did? He hadn’t felt so nervous since he had first begun to court. It was her voice, he realized. It was so rich with color—he could almost see it. A palette of the most vibrant hues. When she spoke, her voice penetrated into his very center and something there began to vibrate as though in harmonic empathy. When she spoke, he wanted to close his eyes and just feel the effect, as though he was being caressed. “My friend, the Marchioness of Wicklow, has a very fine landscape you did of the Whye Valley, Mr. Kent. I admire it greatly. Have you done others?” “Of the valley?” he said, almost unable to hear the words for the warmth of her tone. “No, landscapes.” “Ah. Yes,” he said trying to pull himself together. “The countryside has been my principal subject these past few years, though the natural world has also drawn my attention.” She smiled. Kent got the distinct impression that he was talking to a woman who was unhappy. Something about her features— slightly frozen—as though she were tired of keeping up the facade. “And this is what gained you entrance to the Empiricist Society?” Kent nodded. “I’m surprised Lady Chilton would know.” “You are thought to be an artist with a considerable future, Mr. Kent. And I am an admirer of the arts and a friend to the artist.” Kent felt a slight shiver as she said this, as though she had inferred that she admired him. Tea arrived, interrupting the conversation and giving Kent a chance to try to collect himself. He hoped his blush had disappeared, though his face felt warm yet. “I’m given to understand, Mr. Kent, that you are an expert on Pelier.” “I must say, in all modesty, Lady Chilton, that this is precisely true.” She laughed, which he found gratifying. “But I think you are being too humble, sir.” She gestured with her teacup to the doors behind Kent. “Would you be so kind as to give me your opinion of these pieces?” She rose, taking up her cup and saucer, and led Kent through the adjoining chamber and then into the room beyond. He thought she walked a little stiffly, as though undertaking some task she found distasteful. The paintings were not hanging but resting on a side table and leaning against the wall. Though Kent had a long-standing interest in Pelier and his work, he realized that focusing his mind on anything other than the countess at that moment would take an act of extreme will. For her part the countess stood back from the paintings, an odd look on her face. “As you will see, they are signed Pelier, but there seems to be some doubt as to the veracity of the claim.” Kent set down his cup and moved closer to look. The first was a typically ambiguous piece: three figures gathered about a marble crypt. If it had meaning, it was impenetrable, as was the case with many of Pelier’s works. They were reinterpreted regularly to fit events. The second was even odder. A man, dressed unconventionally, his back to the viewer, crossed a bridge over a stream, but the bridge changed its form from one end to the other, as though two different designs flowed together in the center. On one bank of the river it was morning, the light pouring down upon the flowering trees of a spring day. The other bank was neither spring nor morning, but depicted a fall afternoon. In the background Kent could see the ruin of an ancient cathedral, and then he realized that there was an old-fashioned carriage drawn up in the shade of the trees. It seemed to be waiting. “How very odd,” Kent said. “Do you see the way the river flows in two directions? As though the bridge were downstream from either side.” Kent shook his head and smiled: the wonderful ambiguity always made him do both of these things. “Do you have a lens?” he asked. The countess rang for a servant who quickly fetched a lens. Kent bent closer to the canvas, examining the signature, the technique, the brush strokes, the palette. The inscription on the tomb was not in any script that Kent knew, he realized, making it likely a Moravian painting. Pelier had almost unquestionably been a member of this secret society. It might be a message for fellow Moravians. But there was something about this painting… “I believe, Lady Chilton, that this one, at least, is a very skilled forgery. I am sorry to say it. Was it sold to you as a Pelier?” “It was a gift, Mr. Kent, and the kind soul who gave it me did not claim with certainty that it was genuine. What is it that makes you so certain that it is not a Pelier?” Kent gestured with a hand. “Do you see the white in the marble of the tomb, and here in the gentleman’s shirt? It was not made from lead, I’m sure. Pelier used only white made from lead. And the brush strokes, though a very close imitation, are not quite as I would expect. Pelier had a very light touch that is particularly difficult to imitate. The signature is astonishing. I should have believed it to be real if not for these other things.” Finally Kent pointed to the area of sky. “But this is the true error in the painting. I have often thought that Pelier’s handling of cloud and light in the sky was unparalleled. This is only competent. No doubt about it, Lady Chilton. A wonderful forgery, but a forgery all the same.” The countess shrugged and smiled. “Oh, well, it was a gift given in kindness and that is what matters. It is rather ironic that I have it at all. I pretended to admire these paintings at someone’s home— out of politeness, you see—and the next day they arrived at my door.” She stepped back and looked at the painting. “And they are forgeries, to boot.” “Oh, no, Lady Chilton. This first is a forgery. But the man crossing the bridge. This is a Pelier. I’m quite sure of it. Look at this tremendous sky! If he had painted nothing but skies, I would have counted him a master all the same. No, this one is quite genuine, and more than that, I have never heard tell of it. It happens, now and then—a real Pelier is found. It will set the art world abuzz—not to mention those who spend their time interpreting and reinterpreting Pelier’s work.“ “How exciting for all concerned,” she said, looking at the painting and wrinkling up her nose. “The countess is not an admirer, I collect?” “Oh, I suppose there is nothing wrong with Pelier, but…” She made a face. “Do you believe Pelier was a seer, Mr. Kent? Or was it all a terrible ruse?” Kent considered a moment. Somehow he felt his answer to this question was “the test.” His fate hung on his reply. “Well, I will say without hesitation that Pelier was no charlatan, which is to say that he believed that his paintings were inspired and prophetic, though he did not claim to know what they meant. Whether he was a seer… ? It depends on whose interpretation you read. I think there is little doubt that he predicted the great earthquake of 1378. If you look at the two paintings that deal with this incident— Have you seen them, Lady Chilton?” She shook her head. “One shows the ruin of the city of Brasa, so much like the actual ruin after the disaster that it cannot be mistaken. Thirteen doves fly overhead against the perfect clouds and sky. The number 78 can be seen on a fallen house, and there is a cherry tree in blossom, which would make the scene February—exactly when the tragedy occurred. A young girl runs naked down the street, obviously a victim of burns, as so many were. And a team of gray horses still in harness can be seen running wildly across the distant hillside, their carriage lost.” Kent met the countess’ eyes, wondering if she thought him a fool. “I think it is clearly a case of prophesy. I cannot explain it any other way.” “I see. And did Pelier really paint in a trance with his eyes closed?” “1 very much doubt that his eyes were closed, but he would not allow anyone in the room as he worked, so we will never know. Pelier did say that he did not know what the painting would be when he set brush to canvas and that he was ‘inspired’ as he liked to explain it. He made very few claims for himself, Lady Chilton, it was only those who gathered around him toward the end. They were responsible for his myth—these men and those who came after.” “It is a fascinating story,” she said looking at the paintings again. “I am a little sorry that only one is genuine,” she said, but Kent was sure she did not mean it. She still stood back unnaturally far, and everything in her manner spoke of great discomfort. These paintings unsettled her in some way. Kent looked back at the paintings. “But the other could easily be a copy—perhaps even a very faithful one. Many were made, and there is no precise catalogue of Pelier’s works. Once a canvas was complete, he did not much care for what happened to it. He was simply driven to make the painting. I tend to agree with those who believe there were some forty paintings that were never recorded. Sold for near to nothing or given away. Lost now these many years. A genuine Pelier, like this, turns up every decade or so, and there are any number that might merely be imitations made for gain, or actual copies done by his various devotees.” “You do not subscribe to the school that tries to find meaning in every element of his paintings, do you?” Kent shook his head. “No, I tend to think that is a bit off the mark, nor do I believe that an event must be found for every painting. Some, however, I think were genuine acts of prophesy, and although this runs against my beliefs, I can’t think of any other explanation.” Kent shrugged, a bit embarrassed. He had told the truth when it might have been better to have lied. But it was done now. “Well, Mr. Kent, I certainly agree that there is more to life than we perceive daily, that is certain. After all, there is still a mage alive in this very land, and one cannot deny all the acts of the mages, augury among them. That a man painted pictures that alluded to events in the future is not impossible, I think.” “1 agree entirely, Lady Chilton,” Kent said, his enthusiasm, and perhaps relief, obvious. “That is what I have long said…” “Lady Chilton?” Kent and the countess turned to find a maid standing in the door. “Pardon me, ma’am. There is a letter…” There was an odd second of hesitation. Kent thought he saw a hint of annoyance flit across the countess’ face, and then her manner changed. “Oh,” she said, then turned to Kent. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Kent?” “Certainly.” The countess swept out, leaving Kent to watch her go, more graceful than a dancer, he thought. He could hear quiet voices out- side, for the door had been left slightly ajar. Kent found himself gravitating toward the door, straining to hear, not really sure why. Perhaps the countess would say something about him, give him some hint as to how he had been judged. But the whispering fell silent, making him wonder if he’d been heard. That would finish your chances, Kent thought. Sit down, man! But he stayed where he was, straining to hear. A rustling of paper. “Castlebough,” the countess said. “Yias/e things ready. I will leave today if it is possible. The morning at the latest.” Kent stepped away from the door and pretended to examine another painting. “Not another forgery, I hope,” the countess said, but Kent could see her manner had changed. The letter had erased the discomfort caused by the Peliers, though she did not seem utterly sure and joyful, as though she had heard from a lover. In fact she still seemed rather sad. “No, not that I can tell,” Kent tried to smile but found the countess’ manner distressed him, as though he could hardly bear to see her unhappy—a complete stranger. “More tea?” the countess asked, clearly prepared to continue their visit in all politeness. “I think Lady Chilton has other matters more pressing. Please, don’t let me detain you.” She stopped, looking at him, her manner very solemn. “You are very kind, Mr. Kent. Yes, 1 am called away. Perhaps we might try this again? I was so looking forward to getting to know you a little better.” Kent was touched by the apparent sincerity in her voice. “Nothing would please me more. I will be away from Avonel briefly—a painting expedition—but when 1 return…” “Then we shall indeed meet again.” She seemed to have a thought. “Do you do portraits?” “I’m afraid I don’t, Lady Chilton.” “Unfortunate. But perhaps I could visit you in your studio? I would very much like to possess an Averil Kent and want to be certain not to get an imitation.” “It would be an honor, Lady Chilton,” Kent said, bowing his head. “Hardly,” she said, “but for some strange reason my influence in Avonel society is entirely out of proportion to my actual accomplishments. 1 might increase the demand for your work, Mr. Kent. Unless you are a man of independent means and disdain the making of money from your art?“ Kent met her eyes briefly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “Good. I despise dabblers. Real artists who must make their living by their own hand—these are the men and women who have made Farr art what it is. Not the Lord Dinseys and Sir Gerrard Bainbridges.” She paused and fixed him with a pensive look. “If we are to be friends, Mr. Kent,” she said, her rich voice dropping to a tone so intimate that Kent almost forgot himself. “I must tell you that I cannot bear to be treated like… Well, as though I am something other than human. Do you understand?” Her manner was most sincere, her last words almost a plea. Kent nodded, feeling suddenly a deep sense of loneliness from this, the most desired woman in all of Farrland. “Until we meet again, Mr. Kent,” she said, offering her hand. Kent touched his lips to her perfect skin, and found himself out on the street, walking in the wrong direction. The tiny glimpse he had of the woman behind the persona of the Countess of Chilton had left him utterly confused. Was she lonely? Could a woman in her position have a life that was less than perfect? Did she have doubts? Or dream of life being other than it was? What was it that called her away on a moment’s notice? He stopped on the street, looking around as though lost in a foreign city. After a second—as though recovering from a mental lapse—he realized where he was. “What are you thinking?” he said quietly. “You would be seen as a fool, certainly.” But he went off down the street wondering how many days it would take to reach Castlebough, and whether they might meet along the way, so that he would not have to wait so long to hear that voice again. Chapter Seven To call it an uneasy alliance would be something of an understatement, but the compact between Moncrief and Admiral Sir Joseph Brookes had survived a decade and continued to totter along as precariously as could any alliance between two men whose ambitions were not entirely mutually exclusive. Brookes was the older of the two by some fourteen or fifteen years, placing him in his middle sixties, though he appeared to be much older than that. Not that he was fragile or frail in any way, for he was a vital man, hale and strong yet, but he was gray and wrinkled from his years at sea as were few men who lived even to their eighth decade on the land. Like most navy men, Brookes was highly conscious of his appearance and groomed and dressed himself with a kind of self-awareness that was usually the prerogative of a dandy—yet he was not in the least vain. It was merely a habit required by the service—a point of pride that had almost nothing to do with narcissism. Despite its fragility, the alliance was founded on rather solid foundations. Sir Joseph Brookes had become Sea Lord largely, though not exclusively, through the efforts of Moncrief. Not that he lacked qualifications—that was certainly not the case. Brookes was an efficient and even somewhat imaginative leader. But one did not rise in the service of the King without well-placed patrons. In return for Moncrief’s continuing support, Sir Joseph put at the disposal of the Kings’s Man the intelligence-gathering organ of the Admiralty. Of course the palace had agents of its own, but they were forced to operate under the scrutiny of the government—a situation that Moncrief found… inconvenient. The Admiralty, however, was almost an independent principality—and the Sea Lord was the prince of this not so tiny nation within a nation. One of the reasons Sir Joseph had lasted as long as he had in the position was his political acumen. Like the sovereign of any small nation, he had developed an unparalleled deftness for balancing the needs of his own principality against those of his more powerful neighbor—in this case the King and government of Farr-land. He was a master at disguising his own plans as actions for the benefit of Farrland—and sometimes they even were. “We’ve found the woman,” was the first thing Brookes said as Moncrief entered. The King’s Man had taken one of the leather chairs in the Sea Lord’s office. He leaned on his cane and stared at Brookes, making his displeasure known, and though he felt some relief at this news, he did not allow it to show. “So we know who it was put her up to this betrayal?” “The hell of it is, we don’t.” Brookes was not a man to be easily intimidated. When one has faced both battles and storms at sea, even a King’s Man does not look so frightening—but all the same, he did not look comfortable. “She was discovered this morning floating in the harbor—drowned.” Even Moncrief could not keep his face entirely impassive at the news. “Surely Skye would never have done such a thing,” Moncrief said. “Was she in the employ of the Entonne all along, then? The plans for the cannon are missing, I take it?” Brookes nodded. “Yes, unfortunately, they are. Whether she was an Entonne agent…” He shrugged, maddeningly. The plans for the cannon were missing! It had to have been the Entonne. Farrelle’s flames! Had he and Brookes given away Farr-land’s military advantage in their attempt to bring down Skye? Moncrief felt a little ill, suddenly, and sat back in his chair leaning heavily on one arm. “I suppose I should hear what happened,” he said at last, his mouth dry. Brookes took a long breath. “It is a little difficult to be certain. Our people were in place in the house, just as we had arranged. The doorbell rang, and Mary went down to answer it, and that is all the officers can tell. They awoke some six hours later. Both Mary and the plans had disappeared. And that might have been the end of the story if we had not found Mary this morning, as I have said.“ “That is it? That’s all we know?” Brookes shook his head. “Almost. All we know for certain, at least, but there are a few other small details. Two of the men present swear they had neither food nor drink while they were in the house, nor for several hours before, yet they all seem to have fallen unconscious at precisely the same time.” Moncrief snorted. “Well, clearly, they’re lying. I’ll wager they were all drinking and are afraid to say it. Who admits dereliction of duty, after all?” “So one would assume,” the Sea Lord said, “but I spoke with the men myself, and I tend to believe they were telling the truth—or at least most of it.” Moncrief was surprised to hear that Brookes would actually speak with men involved in such an action. Best to keep oneself a step removed. That was always Moncrief’s policy. “But they were obviously drugged…” “So one would think. But how do we explain the men who took no refreshment?” “If they are not lying, then they must be mistaken,” Moncrief said. “Liars or fools—take your choice.” Brookes did not look convinced of this. “If you will indulge me for a moment, Lord Moncrief, I will bring in two witnesses to an event you might find edifying.” Moncrief was a little shocked at the suggestion. He did not want to get too closely involved—as Brookes clearly had. “If you think it absolutely necessary,” he said, making sure his reluctance was clear. Sir Joseph nodded, seemingly unaware or unconcerned. He tugged on a tasseled bellpull, and his secretary’s pockmarked, but rather dignified face appeared in the open door. “Sir?” “Send them in, will you.” The secretary made a motion that resembled a bow and disappeared. A moment later the door opened, and two individuals came reluctantly in with heads bowed and taking small, timid steps. One was a seaman, who held his straw hat in hand, and the other was a woman—a harlot, Moncrief was sure. “This is Abel Ransom, purser on His Majesty’s Ship Prince Kori. And Miss Eliza Blount—seamstress,” Brookes said. “Would you be so kind, Mr. Ransom, as to tell us what you saw last night.” The seaman nodded, his eyes only flitting up occasionally. Moncrief wondered if a man of so little rank had ever entered this office before—unless it was to scrub the floor. “If it please you, sir, I was on the dock by Halls and Hale, sail-makers, late this night past when a carriage drew up along the quay.” He glanced up apprehensively, as though he did not expect to be believed. For a moment he struggled, fear apparently having driven all memories from his head. “Well, go on, Ransom,” Brookes said, none too patiently. “Yes, sir. Two gentlemen and a lady disembarked from the carriage, sir. I couldn’t see them clear for the light was poorly, but one gentleman was older, sir. Older and a bit cranked, sir.” “Bent,” Brookes translated for Moncrief. “Yes, sir, bent and not so spry. He was speaking to the lady, though we could not hear what was said. We was in the shadow of the door… talking, you know. “The woman left the gentlemen, walking a bit stiffly toward the quay’s edge, but she didn’t stop, sir. I swear. She just walked right in. Didn’t jump, sir, but walked in as though she didn’t see the water. The two gentlemen went to the edge, sir, and watched for a few moments, doing nothing to help her, as though she were in no difficulty. And then they loaded themselves back in their carriage and set off.” He looked up, his apprehension changing to defensive-ness “We went to see what had happened, sir. But the tide was at full ebb, and she was not to be found. Drownt, I’ll wager.” Brookes looked over at Moncrief, raising his eyebrows. “And you did nothing to help?” Moncrief asked. The man glanced at the woman. “Well, sir, we didn’t realize she was in trouble, you see. The two gentlemen stood by so calmly, we didn’t know what to make of it. ‘Perhaps she can swim,’ thought I. These folk do the oddest things for sport, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. They’ll row a boat for pleasure, sir. And some are said to swim, though I’ve never seen it myself. It was all so peculiar that 1 just didn’t think clear.” “And you, Miss?” Sir Joseph said. “Do you agree with Mr. Ransom’s tale?” She nodded quickly, clearly hoping to not have to speak at all. Moncrief realized that under the makeup hid a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Older than some, perhaps but still too young. Having daughters himself, Moncrief was both appalled and filled with pity. “Speak up when you’re spoken to, girl,” Brookes said. “Yes, sir,” the girl managed, her voice coming out as a whisper. “Just as Abel tells it, sir. If it please you, sir.” “Very little pleases me,” Brookes said, though he was not really talking to the girl. “Have you any questions, Lord Moncrief?” “I suppose I need not ask who the woman in question was?” Moncrief said quietly to Brookes, who nodded. “Can they identify the men?” “Can you?” Sir Joseph asked the pair. “I’m sorry, sir. It was very dark.” “I’m sure,” Brookes said. “Have you anything more to ask?” he said to Moncrief. The King’s Man shook his head. “I will have them kept close by in case they can offer anything more,” Brookes said as the man and woman were led out. “But do you see what I mean? Is it not an odd story?” It was Moncrief’s turn to shrug. “The woman was threatened. It was either into the harbor or some terrible violence would be done her: a choice we might have made ourselves.” “Yes, I suppose, but both Ransom and the girl are sure there was no threat. Only quiet conversation. When the woman went into the harbor, they were completely taken off guard. No wonder they thought it innocent—some lark of the gentry, though no one was laughing, I will wager.” “So how do you explain it?” “I can’t explain it, but it was damnedly peculiar, don’t you think?” “To say the least.” Moncrief was not at all sure what to make of it. “But do you see, there is a pattern of a kind?” Sir Joseph said. “Two of the men waiting for Skye swear they touched neither food nor drink, yet they fell as insensible as their mates who had. Then this odd occurrence at the harbor. Now let me add something more. The officers sent to look into the rooms of one of these young men that Skye employed encountered others who arrived before them with the same intentions.” He paused for a second. “These gentle- men vacated the rooms by the only means available—they leaped from the window. This seemed peculiar enough, as the window was quite high, but they apparently landed without harm and disappeared into the darkness. The officers who were present assure me that they would have been badly hurt if they had performed this same leap—and naval officers see men fall from the rigging often enough to know.“ Brookes raised his bushy gray eyebrows—like great storm waves, Moncrief thought. Raised them as though what he had just said made some sense. “And your point, Sir Joseph?” “Men fell asleep as though drugged when they had ingested neither food nor drink. A woman walked calmly into the harbor and drowned. She did not cry out or plead for her life, but simply went into the water as though nothing would come of it. And finally, men jumped from a great height to escape our men, and landed so easily that they were able to run off. Landed so softly that the men who chased them out barely heard a sound. These things are all more than peculiar, they are… well, I fear they are not natural…” If anyone but Sir Joseph Brookes had made this statement, Moncrief would have laughed aloud, but the Sea Lord had an uncanny intuition and had been proven right too often for Moncrief to scoff, no matter how outrageous the proposal. “Do you think it’s Eldrich? Is that what you’re suggesting? Flames, Joseph, the mage has not left his estate in… decades. The rumors are that he is not long for this world.” “Yes, the rumors always abound where the mage is concerned. He makes very certain that no truth ever escapes from his own lands—unless it serves him. No, we cannot be sure the mage is anywhere near death, I think. Nor can I say with assurance that Eldrich was either involved or not involved, I only know that something happened in the city last night that was not quite as it should have been, and it all centered around Skye. Perhaps the King is not his only protector.” The two men sat brooding for a few moments, as though the idea was so far beyond their usual experience that they could not even begin to imagine what it might mean, or what they should do. And then Moncrief interrupted the silence. “What has become of Skye?” “We don’t know.” Moncrief shook his head. “I have done everything I can to insure that he doesn’t reach the King, or even send His Majesty a message, but this can’t be kept up forever. A few days at most… We must assume that Skye knows who was behind his attempted ruin?” “Not necessarily. Surely Mary suspected but had no proof, and the officers involved I trust utterly. No, we are safe from prosecution at least—how else we might suffer I cannot say. If the King were to believe Skye over us…” Sir Joseph rubbed one of his eyes gently and Moncrief realized that the man had not slept this last night. “But I have a feeling, Lord Moncrief, that Skye and the King are the least of our worries. Something else is afoot. Something very odd. If we assume that the men who jumped from the window on Paradise Street and the men who sent the woman to drown in the harbor were not the same gentlemen—for they would have had to have been in two places almost at once—then there would appear to be more than one man who has at least some knowledge of the arts. That leaves us with two possibilities. They are servants of the mage,” he paused, as though surprised by his own words, “or they are some group of whom we know nothing at all.” “The former seems much more likely to me.” “1 would have to agree, but let me tell you something else. The officers who went to search Samual Hayes’ rooms came back with a journal and a number of interesting letters. Most from his friend Kehler who has been studying at the Farrellite archive in Wooton. You will not believe what they’ve been up to. It seems Skye employed them to delve into this matter of the so-called Stranger of Compton Heath. Have you heard of this?” “Something, yes. Some kind of a lunatic who appeared in the town, and the locals made claim that he was from an unknown land. Wasn’t that it?” “More or less. But the odd thing is Hayes and Kehler came away convinced that the man was not mad at all. They also seem to believe that it was a mage who took the man away.” Moncrief was at a loss for words, and unsettled by how out of his depth he suddenly felt. Moncrief who controlled the government and much of the kingdom, besides. “Joseph, I haven’t even the beginning of a notion as to what goes on. Have you?” “I can’t claim that I do, Lord Moncrief, but no matter how absurd it might seem, it begins to look as if Skye has some interest and perhaps even some involvement in the arts. Whether it is Eldrich or some other, I cannot say. But it seems to me that we should know if the arts have come to life again around the Entide Sea.“ Moncrief also wanted to know what went on here, but if a mage were involved… “I question the wisdom of interfering with Eldrich. He will not look kindly on us meddling in his affairs. I don’t care how old or infirm Eldrich has become—he is still a mage.” Brookes nodded. “Yes, but I would never advocate interference. Observation is all 1 am suggesting. If there is some other who practices the arts, we should know his purpose—or at least be reassured that he means us no harm. If it turns out to be Eldrich, then we will break off our operation. If we are reasonably sure it is not Eldrich, then I would think it advisable to inform the mage.” “It is still a risk, but I agree, however reluctantly.” Moncrief stopped as he began to rise. “But, Brookes, we should be sure your best people are involved and that they understand how important it is for them to keep their distance. We must limit the risks as much as possible.” “Certainly, Lord Moncrief. Leave that to me.” Moncrief rose, but had a sudden realization—clearly the surprising turn the conversation had taken had reduced his capacity to reason. “How will you begin, Brookes? You lost track of Skye.” Brookes had risen to his feet as well. “Yes, but only temporarily, I think. If Skye reappears in Avonel, we will know, for we still have one of the earl’s servants in our pay. But I don’t think it will be so difficult to find Skye. He had these young men looking into the story of Baumgere, and I am all but sure that interest will give him away. I will wager that Lord Skye has retreated to the village of Castle-bough—a town conveniently near the Entonne border should he need to quit Farrland altogether. I’m sure he has only temporarily dropped from sight, for the earl is far too well known to be able to hide for long. We will soon know his whereabouts, and then we’ll see what goes on in our kingdom. Something very odd, I think. Something very odd indeed.” Chapter Eight The sound was rhythmic and syllabic but too low to be distinguished. Chanting, Erasmus was sure. He could almost make out the words, though they did not seem to be Farr. Anxiety began to grow in him. The day was clear and warm, but here, among the green hallways of the wood, it was cool, the sunlight filtered to muted greens. Smoke; he could smell the smoke. It seemed to burn his nostrils, but then there was a hiss, and it turned sweet and aromatic. Leaves had been tossed onto the fire. Luckwort leaves, but they did not calm him as they should. Knowing what came next, he wanted to shout, but try as he might, he could produce no sound. He pushed aside a branch, hurrying now, feeling the horror of what was about to happen drive him. But something was wrong; he seemed to be gliding so slowly, like a bird hanging on the wind, making little progress. And then the scream. He stopped, standing on the pathway between the trees and the angled trunks of falling light. More than anything he wanted to look away, close his eyes to it, but he could not. Not quite. And then the child appeared, engulfed in flame, mouth open in a silent scream of unimaginable agony. Every nerve shrieking in anguish. The child stumbled toward him, arms out as though begging for help, to be held. And then it stumbled, looking at him still, the recrimination clear. Why? Why did you do this to me? The burning child toppled forward, and the last thing Erasmus saw was its face. His face. He was burning. Not some other. He was aflame. Erasmus woke from the dream, covered in sweat. He stumbled up from the divan where he had fallen asleep and made his way to the doors looking down into his garden. He sucked in the cool air, almost sobbing. Alive. He was alive and unharmed. It had not been he who burned. Thank Farrelle. Not him. The dream was never easy to drive from his mind, and Erasmus was grateful that it came infrequently. He paced back and forth across his study, unable to sit, running his hand back through his hair over and over. “Blood and flames. Bloody blood and flames.” He often wondered what caused the dream to return, but, as always, he could not say. Perhaps nothing caused it. It just would not let him be. His penance. “We did not know,” he said aloud. “How could we?” He tried to think of something else: his conversation with Hayes, but Stokes arrived with Erasmus’ wash water. The servant wore an odd, pensive look that was not quite in character. “You look either troubled or ill this morning, Stokes. Now which would it be?” “Never ill, sir,” he said quickly. “Nor particularly troubled… but your young man has been up since I don’t know when, pacing, sir. Back and forth across the library. Across the main hall. He seemed to be considering leaving, sir, or so I thought.” “He’s here now, 1 hope?” “Oh, yes, sir. He’s had a pot of coffee all to himself and is vibrating like a harp string. He seems anxious to speak with you, sir. Keeps asking when you might be up.” “I’ll be down directly. Don’t let him leave before I’ve spoken with him.” Erasmus continued with his toilet, not letting Hayes’ impatience ruin his morning ritual. Stokes came back a few moments later to shave him, and lay out his clothes, and with the warmed steel scrap- ing across his face, Erasmus again considered the conversation of the night before. The tale of the Stranger would have seemed nothing more than folklore if it hadn’t been for Hayes’ encounter with this physician, Ripke. That had a ring of authenticity to it that Erasmus was not about to deny. And Erasmus’ intuition told him that the man who’d come in the carriage to collect the Stranger was no man—not in the sense that he understood the word. It was a mage, and Erasmus thought he might even be able to supply the mage’s name. If a mage was interested in this Stranger, then Erasmus was interested, too. So Hayes had better be prepared to reveal a little more—the name of the gentleman who had employed him would be a good start. As he went down the stairs, Erasmus wondered what the Admiralty’s part was in this affair. Unless they really did believe the Stranger was from an undiscovered land, for certainly most of the vast globe remained a mystery. Perhaps they’d learned something on a recent voyage… Hayes was sitting at a small table in the breakfast room, looking out into the garden. As Erasmus entered, he jumped up, obviously relieved to see him. There was a certain anxiety in the young man’s manner that did not disappear, however. “Ah, Erasmus. I can’t thank you enough for your help and generosity, but I’ve decided that I must get messages to both Kehler and our employer as soon as possible.” “Not before you’ve eaten, I hope.” Erasmus took a seat at the table and dropped a napkin into his lap, reaching for the coffee pot. “Sit down, Hayes. I’ve been thinking as well.” Hayes took his seat slowly, as though he were ready to run out the door without any further discussion. “The agents of the Admiralty might well be looking for you yet, so I’m not sure I like the idea of you racing around the city on your own. If they’ve come after you because of your link with this gentleman who employed you, they’re likely after him as well.” Hayes shook his head. “I’ve thought about that and decided it’s very unlikely. You see, my patron is beyond… well, not beyond the law, but certainly even agents of the Admiralty would not dare apprehend him without…” He hesitated. “Let me just say that the man is not unknown to the King.” Erasmus stopped with his cup in the air. “Are you telling me that it is Skye?” Erasmus could hardly credit this idea, but who else could Hayes mean? A man of great reputation and standing who had some involvement with the Admiralty. An intimate of the King, a man whose interests wouldn’t lead one to believe he would be interested in stories of mysterious strangers. An empiricist, obviously. Skye . It could be no other. Hayes hesitated, chagrin obvious on his rather tired countenance. “I’m not telling you… at least not intentionally,” he added quietly. Erasmus sat back in his chair and stared at his friend. If he had been told the man in question was his own brother, he would have been less shocked. “What possible interest could Skye have in such a tale?” he asked finally. Hayes shrugged, reaching down and picking up his spoon as though suddenly interested in silverware. “Erasmus, 1 hope you understand that the earl does not want his name connected with our inquiry—he was most adamant.” Erasmus nodded dumbly. “But why is he interested?” Hayes turned the spoon over and dropped it so that it rattled off the floor. Erasmus bent down quickly and retrieved it, reaching out and taking hold of Hayes’ wrist so that the young man would look at him. “Why?” he said quietly. Hayes shook his head. “I don’t know. It… I don’t know. We speculated endlessly about this, but you must know that one does not ask the Earl of Skye impertinent questions.” Erasmus nodded. The earl had a reputation for impatience with anyone who presumed too much of their friendship. “Well, I agree that a message should be taken to him directly. And this young man, Kehler… what’s become of him?” “He has continued in the employ of Lord Skye, though not here in Avonel. I’m not at liberty to say more.” “Do you intend to see him in person—Kehler, that is?” “No, I’ll have to write him.” “Well, eat, and we’ll pay a call on the Earl. I think, given the circumstances, we can risk doing so without warning him.” “You’ll come with me? But, Erasmus, he’ll know I’ve told you.” “Yes, well, that is a problem because I’m not sure you should appear at his door, not with the Admiralty looking for you.” Erasmus thought a moment. “We’ll approach it like this. You write a letter to the earl, and we’ll take a carriage to his home where I’ll deliver it. You can stay in the carriage unless the earl is there and wishes to speak with you. I’ll claim to be merely a loyal friend helping without explanation. Skye and I are both members of the Society and I’m known not to be one of the gossips. Will that answer?“ Hayes looked enormously relieved to have an ally and went immediately to write the note, not having touched his food. The ride to Skye’s town home was not so long, as it turned out he did not live far from Erasmus. Hayes stayed in the hired carriage, as planned, while Erasmus rang the bell. As he stood on the step, he turned around to survey the street. If Skye’s home was being kept under surveillance, it was being done with some discretion. An old woman stared down from a window across the way, but she didn’t have the look of an Admiralty agent to Erasmus’ mind—a busybody was more likely. The door opened and a man servant nodded respectfully as Erasmus handed him a calling card. “Erasmus Flattery. It is imperative that I speak with Lord Skye. I have a letter that I must deliver.” “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Flattery, but Lord Skye is not at home. I’ll certainly see that the letter is delivered safely, however.” He reached out a hand which Erasmus ignored. “I’ve been charged to place it in the hand of Lord Skye and no one else.” “I am sorry, sir, but that isn’t possible at the moment…” The servant looked up at the sound of the carriage door opening. “Mr. Hayes!” Hayes ran quickly up the steps. “Yes, is the earl not at home? I desperately need to speak with him.” The servant shook his head, apparently pleased to see Samual. “No, sir. Lord Skye set out early this morning and didn’t say where. It was most peculiar. You don’t know where he’d have gone, do you, Mr. Hayes?” “I’m afraid I don’t. You haven’t had men from the Admiralty about asking after your master, have you?” “Not a one, sir, though your colleague, Mr. Kehler, was by this morning. He left a letter as well.” Hayes shook his head in worry, looking at Erasmus as though unsure what to do. “Kehler didn’t say where he was staying, 1 don’t suppose?” “I’m afraid not, sir. Will you leave your letter with me, Mr. Hayes?” Hayes was about to say yes when Erasmus stepped in, pocketing the letter quickly. “No, but thank you. If Lord Skye does return, would you ask him to contact me?” The servant eyed Erasmus oddly, as though he were a little offended that Erasmus did not seem to trust him. “As you wish, sir.” Erasmus steered Hayes down the stairs and into the carriage. “Whatever led you to do that?” Hayes asked. “We don’t know when Skye might return or if he is even actually away. It would be better if he had my note at the soonest possible opportunity.” Erasmus nodded. “Perhaps, but did you not think that servant was more curious than was polite?” Hayes was brought up short by this. “But he knows me, and was likely concerned about his employer.” “Perhaps so, but it is the practice of the agents of the Admiralty to pay servants for information about their employers. I would rather err on the side of caution.” Erasmus tapped on the ceiling to have the driver move on. “It seems your colleague is in Avonel. What’s his name? Kehler?” Hayes nodded, thinking. “Yes, but where, that is the question. Under normal circumstances he would be my guest. As things stand, however, he could be rooming anywhere.” The little window between the driver and the carriage slid open. “I’m not sure where I’m to go, sir,” the man said. “Nor am I. Hold your course for a moment while we decide.” He turned back to Hayes. “I assume Kehler has some friends in the city? Besides yourself, that is?” “Emin, primarily, but he’s abroad till midsummer.” Hayes considered a moment. “We could try the Belch.” “Of course,” Erasmus said. “The old Gulch and Swallow.” They pressed on to the inn where Hayes thought they might find Kehler, a place well known to Erasmus, though he had not been there in years. The Gulch and Swallow Inn was called “House Hopeful” by many of its patrons for the simple reason that budding empiricists gathered there, both for organized discussion, and for discourse that could only be described as unruly. The truth was that, beyond their ou S ean Russell various interests, the patrons spent an inordinate amount of time gossiping about the doings of the Society for Empirical Studies and its fellows, for House Hopeful (also referred to as the “Belch and Swallow”) was filled with young men who longed to become fellows of that august Society. They spent uncounted hours discussing how one would best go about bringing one’s efforts to the notice of the Society, as well as dissecting the tactics of every successful candidate. Of course House Hopeful also provided a stage for the conquering hero, for who could resist returning to the “old neighborhood.” And no matter how gracious the newly appointed fellow was in victory, or how much he assured the others that their turn would come, there was always a little triumph there, and a bit of jealousy as well. Erasmus thought that these young men could speed their fellowship considerably by simply using the time spent in the Gulch and Swallow to further their original studies, not that he hadn’t squandered his own fair share of hours in this very establishment. Youth, it seemed, had an undeniable need of company. It was rather like misery in that regard. Neither of them spoke as they rode. The measured clip-clop of hooves on paving stones was hypnotic, lulling Erasmus into a contemplative state. The dream came back to him, but he pushed it out of his mind—much easier to do in broad daylight. They were not long in coming to their destination. Erasmus followed Hayes through the door and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. There was a faltering of the conversation as many of the young men present noted that one of the gods had descended to walk among them. Though perhaps Erasmus’ reputation was not yet so large as to strike awe into the hearts of young empiricists. He might have been considered a mere demigod. Hayes surveyed the young men present, acknowledging the occasional nod, and then he waved to someone, and crossed the room to him, Erasmus in his wake. “Pleasures of the day to you, Dandish. Have you seen Fenwick Kehler?” Dandish almost vaulted out of his chair, glancing nervously at Erasmus. “Yesterday. He was in here for an hour or more, asking after you, too, as I remember. He was talking to Ribbon most of the time.“ Realizing that Hayes didn’t intend to introduce him, the young man turned to Erasmus. ”Sanfield Dandish at your service, Mr. Flattery. I’m a great admirer of your work in horticulture and botany, sir.“ Erasmus offered the young man his hand and a tight smile, never comfortable with even genuine praise. “Kind of you,” he said. “You might try old Sam,” Dandish suggested. “He likely spoke with Kehler.” Hayes ordered ale and left Erasmus at a table while he spoke with the tapman. He was back in a trice. “Sam’s not sure where Kehler’s found lodging, but likely in this quarter. There are a number of rooming houses that cater to visiting students and scholars. I’m sure I’ll find him.” Hayes picked up his ale and sipped it, staring at Erasmus. “Look, Erasmus, it doesn’t seem that agents of the Admiralty are out in force searching for me. They haven’t been in here, apparently, and this is a spot they’d likely not miss. I see no need for you to spend your day searching out Kehler. Leave me to it, and I’ll bring you any news I might gather; that is, if you don’t mind having me as a guest another night. I still feel a little trepidation at the idea of returning to my rooms.” “You are thrice welcome, Hayes, but see if you can bring Kehler back with you. I’m curious to hear his story as well. I could have Stokes put another room to rights and put you both up, if you’d like.” Hayes brightened at the offer. “You’re too kind, Erasmus. I’ll see if I can find Kehler, and we’ll see what he’s discovered in the archives of Woo ton. I’m a little surprised that he’s in Avonel so early in the year. It makes me a bit suspicious. If I’m not at your home by eight, it will mean the Admiralty have me. I trust you’ll know what to do, for I certainly don’t.” “Leave it to me, Hayes, but stay alert and be careful who you give your name to.” Erasmus spent the afternoon puzzling over the story that Hayes had told him. It had brought unfamiliar emotions to the surface. He had even spoken of his time in the house of Eldrich, which he almost never did. No, it was all very odd. The worst of it was that S ean Russell Erasmus was certain he could feel the hand of the mage in the story of Compton Heath. The unseen hand. “He does not sleep,” Erasmus whispered to the window. “Not yet.” Erasmus was quite sure the rumors that Eldrich neared his end were not true—at least not in the way that others interpreted them. Eldrich, Erasmus was quite certain, would not pass through until he felt his time had come. But the idea that the mage was lying on his deathbed, aged and feeble, was simply not possible. Eldrich would likely remain hale and vital up until his last hours in this world. People simply did not understand mages—not these days, anyway. Erasmus went out onto a small balcony which looked down into his garden. Unlike most people of stature in Avonel, his home did not provide him a view of the sea. He found that the vast, open horizon begged too many questions and he felt that enough questions plagued him as it was. No, Erasmus much preferred his small garden. It gave rest to his soul in a way that the expanse of ocean never could. A garden whispered no questions. The onset of twilight released the spell over the shadows dwelling beneath the shrubs and trees so that they began to swell, flowing slowly out into the open. A distinct demarcation between light and shadow began to climb the foliage of an ancient oak, and the corner of the house cast a shadow in dark relief on the lawn. Soon all of reality would blend in darkness, and everything would lose definition. Erasmus would dream and lose definition himself. The world when Eldrich is gone, Erasmus thought. A commonplace world. A hard tap made him start, and his manservant, Stokes, appeared. He opened his mouth and then stopped, a bit surprised. “Would you not like a lamp, sir?” “Please,” Erasmus said, trying to calm his heart, feeling much as he had when a boy, expecting Eldrich to sweep in on a blast of wind. Stokes lit a lamp, and then lit another on Erasmus’ desk. The light seemed to have a calming effect—like oil on stormy seas. “Most unusual, sir. There is a Farrellite priest at our door asking to speak with you.” “Does he want money? Can you not tell him we are not of his faith?“ “It seems he has not come asking money, sir, but wishes to speak with you, though he’d not say why.“ Stokes looked a bit out of sorts. Though not a believer himself, Erasmus was, like most people in Farrland, respectful of the priests, if only as a concession to good manners. “I am half-inclined to send him away,” Erasmus said, thinking aloud. “Could he not take the time to send me a note telling me the purpose of his visit? These priests… !” He looked back out into his garden, which was slowly being consumed by darkness. “Oh, bring him up. 1 suppose I shall find out what he wants.” Stokes bobbed his head and went out, leaving the door slightly ajar so that his employer might hear the guest approaching. A moment later Stokes opened the door and let in a small man dressed in the robes of the Farrellite faith. “Deacon Rose, Mr. Flattery.” Erasmus extended both his hands as was expected, though he disliked doing it. He tried to remember where a deacon fit in the Farrellite hierarchy. Above a parish priest, he thought, though the old root of the word was servant—servant of the martyr in this case. Certainly not servant of the parishioners. “Mr. Flattery,” the man said softly, his manner very humble, which annoyed Erasmus even more—falsely humble, he was sure. The deacon grasped both of his hands and said a quick blessing in Old Farr. “Thank you for seeing me without prior notice, Mr. Flattery. I apologize. It is not a habit of mine to burst in upon people unannounced, I assure you.” “Don’t apologize, Deacon. Will you take wine or brandy? Coffee or tea?” Erasmus gestured toward two chairs. “Brandy would be very welcome, I must admit. 1 have been traveling for the last three days and only came to Avondel this morning.” “Well, then, you need a brandy, Deacon.” Erasmus was about to ask if the man had eaten, but stopped himself. He had never been too friendly with the priests of Farrelle, for he believed them to be a cynical, self-serving group that did much to slow progress in Farrland. The priest collected up his robes and sat, smiling at Erasmus in a way that was kindly but not too familiar. Deacon Rose was a small man, his shape well disguised by robes. His hair, both gray and black, was cut short in the common style of the priests and he wore the round, crimson skull cap that denoted his rank. Rose might not Russell have been a particularly handsome man, but he had a face that exuded a great deal of charm and humor, and his eyes suggested real kindness, although there was a trace of great determination there as well. Erasmus was about to begin the small talk that was expected on such occasions—comments on the weather, etc.—but decided that the unexpected visit was hardly polite and so went right to the heart of it. “What is it that I might do for you, Deacon Rose?” The priest gave an odd smile that was half a grimace, as though he was hurt by the lack of politeness, but such was the burden of bearing the one truth. “And well you may ask, Mr. Flattery. But let me assure you, to begin, that you need do nothing for me. I have come regarding a mutual friend for whom I have great regard and concern. It is for his sake entirely that I am here. “You see, after my arrival in Avonel earlier today, I went seeking this young man, and though I was not fortunate enough to find him, I was told in one establishment where the young gather that someone fitting his description and answering to his name had visited earlier, and, to my great surprise, 1 was not the first man who had come seeking him this day. Only an hour before the notable Erasmus Flattery had been asking after the same young man.” Stokes arrived with brandies and lit another lamp before leaving. Erasmus should not have been surprised that this visit had something to do with Hayes and his friend Kehler, but somehow he had been caught off guard. “Erasmus Flattery was a name I knew well because of my own interests, and this brought me here. You see, Fenwick Kehler is a student at my college and, I have to say, such a student as we see only once a decade, if that. Mr. Kehler has the makings of an exceptional historian, perhaps even a great one. That is why I’m so concerned.” Cynical though Erasmus believed the priests to be, this one seemed genuinely worried about his student. “The problem, Mr. Flattery, if I might come right to the point, is that young Kehler has been searching into the archives. I fear he has poked into matters the church considers to be private. Things that, strictly speaking, he was not to have had access to.” For a second the man looked embarrassed. He began rubbing his hands together slowly, and then turned the single ring that he wore. “Yes, know, many people think we are hiding things in Wooton, but that is not precisely true, or at least is not what they likely think.“ He looked up at Erasmus suddenly, and there was a keen intelligence in that look. ”Perhaps Mr. Kehler has spoken to you of this… ?“ Erasmus said nothing, but gazed coolly at the priest. “Of course, that is your affair and not really my business,” the priest hurried to add. “But let me only say that Mr. Kehler has looked into documents that would give him merely part of a story.” Erasmus almost interrupted to plead ignorance to the subject, but the priest began to speak again, turning his gaze out the window and continuing to toy with his ring. “The whole affair of Honare Baumgere is a grave embarrassment and something of a mystery to us. And all of this speculation…” He looked back at Erasmus. “It’s such utter foolishness. “But that is not my real concern. You see, Mr. Kehler’s making free with our archives has caused quite a stir. He was granted great trust, and did… well, did what he did, unfortunately, and now he is in grave danger of expulsion. Not the end of the world, you are no doubt thinking, but the worst of it is that our young Kehler is from a family of extremely modest means. He is entirely dependent upon the good graces of the Farrellite Church for his tuition and other expenses. Oh, he does some work in the library in return, but not enough to recompense, and now, you see, he has put his situation in grave danger. He has not the means to return to Merton, or even some lesser university. I fear that we are about to see the end of an exceptionally promising career, Mr. Flattery.” He shook his head. “I am not quite sure what to do, for you see he will not face up to the consequences of his actions. As soon as it was learned that he had broken his word to us, Mr. Kehler slipped out of the monastery and away. Now a man of his age and learning should have the mettle to own up to his wrongdoing and, at the very least, apologize. Yet he ran off like a child, to the disappointment of many who had done much to further his studies and who had esteemed and trusted him.” He reached out and touched Erasmus’ wrist. “That is why 1 have come to you. If he does not return and take responsibility for his actions, he will certainly be expelled, which would be a terrible loss to the world of scholarship, not to mention the effect it will have on his life. I’m sure he has great regard for you, Mr. Flattery. You are a fellow of the Society, as all young men wish to be these S ean Russell days. Can you not speak with him? 1 assure you there is no great mystery to be uncovered in the archives of Wooten. He is throwing his career away for nothing.“ He spread his hands. ”Nothing.“ The deacon looked up at him, anxiety overcoming his facade of peace and charm. Erasmus was affected by the man’s concern, though it was against his better judgment. “Let me explain, Deacon, it would be something of an exaggeration to say that Mr. Kehler and I were acquaintances. I suspect I would have less influence on him than you hope.” Deacon Rose looked a bit surprised. “I did not realize. I thought perhaps it was a relationship of long standing. In a way it would make sense that Mr. Kehler would cultivate your friendship. Did he ask you about mages, Mr. Flattery?” Erasmus was a little taken aback by this. “I really feel any conversations I’ve had with Mr. Kehler were private matters, Deacon. I’m sure you understand.” “Quite so. But even if you have not been long acquainted, you could do the young man a good turn. Could you not have a word with him, Mr. Flattery? I suspect he would respect your advice. Think of poor Kehler. What will become of him? He has no trade, no family connections. We are talking about a great career being cut short over mere stubbornness. And that is a tragedy. Youth, Mr. Flattery. Only a young man could be so impetuous. Only a young man could fail to see the consequences of his decision. The future, no doubt, seems infinitely bright to him, but we both know that much can happen in the course of a few short years. I fear he will live to regret this decision. Regret it most terribly.” Erasmus wondered what Kehler was up to in the Farrellite archives. He was still in the employ of Skye, and Skye was proving to have some very peculiar interests. Scholars had long believed that a great deal of Farr history was hidden in the archives of Wooton. Perhaps a great deal of information about the mages. “I’m not sure where Kehler has gotten to, but if he can be found, I’ll speak with him. I can promise no more than that. I have no faith that he will heed my council.” The priest reached out and took both Erasmus’ hands. “Thank you, Mr. Flattery. May Farrelle bless you for your good heart. And Kehler will thank you as well, one day.” He muttered another blessing in Old Farr. The priest sat back in his chair, taking up his brandy, and looking at Erasmus as though he were a particularly prized student. “As I said earlier, Mr. Flattery, we have a common interest: viticulture. Years ago, now, I held a position in the south countries, and at the abbey there we cultivated the vine—oh, and made wine as well— but my love was the vine and the grape. To work in the fields beneath the sun of high summer, to see the clusters swell upon the vine… I miss it terribly. I have a few vines growing at Wooton, but it is too far north—though I am finding some better results these last few years. Certainly you haven’t done all your work up in Locfal?” “Some of it, but I have a small holding on the island of Farrow.” The priest reacted as though Erasmus had mentioned the name of the man’s lost love—the loss that had sent him into the priesthood. “Oh, how fortunate you are, Mr. Flattery. I have traveled to Farrow only once, and for far too short a time, but there can be few places better suited to viticulture, I think. Have you seen the famous Ruin?” Erasmus nodded. “Is it not marvelous? Astonishing really. Life is filled with mysteries, Mr. Flattery, and I am glad of it. I’m much saddened by these young empiricists who wish to explain everything. Contemplating the mysteries is a worthy meditation, in my view. It teaches humility and fills us with proper awe for this world we have been blessed with. Don’t you agree?” Erasmus shrugged. “I thought it was the business of the church to explain mysteries.” The priest did not look at all ruffled, his amiable manner not changing in the least. In fact, he seemed almost pleased that Erasmus might dispute with him. “The Farrellite Church is not monolithic, Mr. Flattery. There are schools of thought—many of them—and though we agree on the central issues, there are many more on which there are differing views. This is very healthy, I think. “Perhaps I’m something of a mystic. I believe there are mysteries that were not meant to be comprehended by men. Not in this life at least. But these mysteries are there to fill us with awe. To intruct us in ways we cannot explain. They are like the best art in that regard. Their contemplation opens doors within our own thoughts. We see things we would not otherwise have seen. 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Some of these did not even have public names, and were referred to by their members simply as “the club.” Every club had a purpose, though it was not always the purpose inscribed in the association’s charter. For instance, the club that Sir John had come to this night was ostensibly a gaming club, but its actual purpose was to put certain of its members in such debt that they would, for the foreseeable future, owe their allegiance to the “club.” Sir John had once been so far in debt to this particular organization that he expected to do its bidding for the rest of his career—furthering the interests of its members at great cost to his own credibility as a minister of the government. That was before he met Bryce. Now he expended effort to further the interests of Bryce’s mysterious employer, though this had not brought him into conflict with his conscience nearly so regularly. Still, more than anything else, Sir John longed to be free. To owe allegiance to no man but his King, and to his country. That was why he had gone into government service in the first place: idealism. He shook his head. Hard to be- lieve he had once been idealistic when you saw how things had turned out. Sir John wondered if his news of the Entonne development of the cannon had leaked out yet. It could not be kept secret forever, that was certain. He was only afraid that the first the navy would hear of it would be when an Entonne man of war opened fire on a Farr ship. He could not allow that, but before it happened, he planned to make some political coin from his knowledge. It was, after all, a commodity like gold or grain; a value could be placed on it and it could be traded, and that was precisely what Sir John intended to do. “Sir John! How good to see you. We’ve not had the pleasure of your company in a good long while.” It was one of the senior members of the club. A man Sir John had once done many favors for. “No, not for some time,” Sir John said. “Feeling lucky tonight?” “Indeed I am.” Sir John felt so incredibly fortunate that he did not intend to gamble a single coin. The man touched his arm, smiling widely. “Well, you know your credit is always good here.” Sir John looked down, nodding. The man’s smile caused such a surge of anger and resentment. He knew what it really meant: We knew you’d be back. / am back, Sir John thought, but I am changed. Now I can resist. I don’t quite know how or why, but I can resist. He moved on through the rooms, nodding to a man here or there. Feeling a little let down by this encounter. They thought me so weak, so in thrall to my demons. The realization undermined his confidence a little. He remembered well his conversations with Bryce, as he had come to know the man. Bryce had once said, daring insult: “1 will tell you what it is, for it is no mystery to me. You believe you are a man blessed: intelligent, of good family, first of your class, healthy and vigorous, and handsome to the ladies. You believe so completely in your good fortune that you cannot accept your luck would desert you at the tables. How could it? And so you go back, to prove your good fortune is no accident, as though you cannot accept this failure. Your luck will win out—it must. And so you have lost a fortune, thrice over.” Bryce, almost a stranger then, had been so utterly right. Sir John had known it the moment Bryce had uttered the words. A man so blessed should not lose at something so trivial as cards or dice. Really. It was absurd. But he did, repeatedly. And then he had come to his agreement with Bryce—his deal with the devil. Bryce would clear his debt to the club, though not his other debts—those that had been accrued because gaming took all his money—Sir John would have to deal with those himself. And so it had happened. Bryce had accompanied him to the club one night, they had sat down at a table with the men who owned Sir John’s debt, and they had played at cards. And Sir John had won! He had won as he always believed he should. And then, when his debt was cleared, Bryce had stood up, and announced it was time to go. Sir John had never felt such frustration. Go!? But the look Bryce fixed on him told him that there was no arguing. When Bryce left the table, Sir John’s luck would go with him. He asked Bryce how he had done it—this was before he realized that one did not ask questions of Bryce—but the man would say nothing. Sir John was left with the impression that Bryce must be the sharpest of players, handling cards so deftly that no man could see what he was doing. Sir John did not care that he had won by cheating, for he always suspected he had been cheated anyway. But the most incredible thing was, after that night he had no urge to gamble. None whatsoever. He did not even come down to the club to socialize. The desire was gone. He no longer felt that he had to test himself—test his good fortune. In fact it seemed a foolish pastime now. He could barely understand how he had been trapped in such folly. He went into the largest room, searching among the faces, hoping to find the right gentlemen in attendance this evening. Few of the men at the tables looked up—intent on their cards. A wine tasting was underway in the next room, with a number of men from both the dragoons and the navy seriously engaged. One, the scion of the Palle family, raised a glass to him as he passed. Sir John smiled. Ten minutes later he found one of the men he looked for; the Marquis of Sennet. The marquis leaned back against a wall with his thumbs tucked into his waistband and, with a rather bored air, watched several men playing a game called skittles on a pocketless billiard table. “Lord Sennet,” Sir John said, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Lord? We are being formal tonight, aren’t we? Have you come back to lord it over certain gentlemen?” he asked, and Sir John laughed. “Tell me, Sir John, how did you do it? It has been the subject of endless speculation around these rooms for twelve months past.” “Well, I sacrificed a ram and painted pentagrams on my chest in its blood. I went to the ruin of the old abbey on the city’s edge and sold my soul to a dark spirit…” “The usual, then?” “Well, I sacrificed no virgins, not even symbolically.” “I see.” Sennet looked back to the game as everyone groaned. “1 have a bit of news that might interest you,” Sir John said, lowering his voice. “In fact, I’m sure it will.” Do you / “We should speak more privately.” “In the library?” Sir John nodded, setting off for the stairs. In this club one could usually rely on the library being vacant. It was not the literary set that came to gamble. Sir John cast a glance back at the gaming room, and all the men intent on their fortunes. It seemed a rather pathetic scene to him. He shook his head, not without some sense of moral superiority, he realized, and continued on. The library was indeed deserted. He found a copy of the day’s news and made himself comfortable by the cold hearth. A few moments later Sennet appeared, his curiosity well in check. He slouched into one of the chairs and stared at Sir John as though he did not believe for a moment that he could tell him anything of interest. “I have some news about the Entonne—not even a rumor yet.” “News of the Entonne is always intriguing.” “And I’m very interested in knowing what goes on with Skye. There have been some rumors…” “I might be able to help you there.” The one thing about Sennet was that he could be trusted to return an equal measure of information. It was one of the things Sir John liked about the man. “My friends in Entonne tell me that their countrymen are casting cannon, and producing gunpowder as we speak. In two months, perhaps fewer, they will have armed ships.” Sennet sat up in his chair, his look changing completely. Sir John almost smiled. It was hard to catch Sennet unawares. “You’ve told the King’s Man?” “Not yet.” “Martyr’s blood,” Sennet said, his agile mind running over all the implications of this news. “We all knew it would happen, but not so quickly.” He looked up at Sir John, clearly impressed. “You shan’t make Moncrief happy with such news—not one bit.” Sir John said nothing. No one in Farrland would be happy at this news—except, perhaps Skye. Sennet broke into a grin. “Well, you caught me looking at the wrong hand, Sir John. Well done. But then you’ve long been a better conjurer than most.” He tipped an imaginary hat to Sir John. “You must have the finest of friends in Entonne. Very well placed.” Sennet looked at him with a little admiration, his mind clearly trying to divine the names of these sources. “But your question—” His look became more serious. “I don’t know if you realize what a hornets’ nest you’ve broken open. Flames, but Moncrief is playing a dangerous game. “I am not sure what you’ve heard, but I have a friend in the Admiralty…” Sennet let the sentence die. “This night past Skye had gone to meet a woman. Though it was unknown to him, she was once an Entonne agent now likely in the employ of the Admiralty.” He tilted his head at Sir John, who did not catch the inference. What in the world was Sennet suggesting? And then it struck him. Moncrief’s jealousy had run out of control! “They were trying to entrap him,” he said, not needing confirmation. That would be Moncrief’s approach. Ruin Skye by destroying his reputation. It would not be so hard. Have a woman who was reputed to be an Entonne agent claim that Skye was bringing her the design of the ship’s gun, then have agents of the Admiralty apprehend them in the act. Treason. Even the King would not be able to save Skye from that. But Sir John, and now Sennet, knew that the Entonne already possessed the cannon! They needed nothing from Skye. If this got out, Moncrief’s plot against Skye would explode in his face. “What happened exactly, do you know?” Sir John asked. “Not in detail, but I’m sure you can guess. It went awry somehow. Moncrief actually visited the Sea Lord—went to the Admi- ralty building! They’re more than distressed. No one knows where Skye is at the moment, and I’m sure that Moncrief and the Sea Lord are living in terror that he will appear in the palace, lunching with the King. If it gets back to His Majesty that Moncrief and Brookes plotted against Skye… well, there will be no saving them.“ “Did Skye realize what was afoot and escape?” “I don’t know. Perhaps. But there is more. This morning a woman who fit the description of this former Entonne agent was found floating facedown in the harbor.” Sir John shook his head, realizing suddenly that he had underestimated Moncrief’s jealousy. The man was less balanced, and now more desperate, than he had suspected. Sennet smoothed his frock coat with exaggerated care. “I sense there is something else, Lord Sennet.” “1 don’t know what to make of it. I’m even a little embarrassed to tell you.” Bryce’s warning came back to him. Bring everything you learn back to me, and I will judge it. “Please, Lord Sennet, put aside your reticence. I will pass judgment on the information only, not on its source.” -‘ Sennet nodded. “Something very odd has happened. My friend in the Admiralty, even he is not certain what it is. But it seems there is some hint of… well, the arcane.” He looked up at Sir John, a bit defensive, but interested in his reaction, too. “Does that make any sense to you?” Sir John shrugged, suddenly feeling as though he had been set adrift. The arts? Is that what he was suggesting? “Perhaps. Can you say more?” “Not really. My friend was not very clear. You might delve into the death of this woman—the one found in the harbor.” He shook his head. “1 was told that Brookes and Moncrief both looked as though they had seen ghosts. And they interviewed some sailor and a trollop. My friend believed they knew something about the woman’s death. Bloody peculiar.” “So it seems.” Sir John shifted in his chair, anxious to leave. Anxious to relay what he’d learned to Bryce—to see the man’s reaction. “You had best be careful who you tell about the Entonne and their naval gun, Sir John,” Sennet said, sensing that his friend was about to leave. “Moncrief will not want that information to get out too soon, I shouldn’t think.” “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t, though there can’t be many who know about his plot against Skye and therefore could put two and two together.” He stared at Sennet, who shook his head. “I’m sure that’s true. Still… if Skye knows what was planned, then he will likely not keep it secret, though accusing Moncrief without evidence would be a mistake. Especially as it is well known the two men dislike each other. It might seem merely an attempt to slander the King’s Man, and that would be foolish. I can’t imagine Skye acting rashly.” “No.” Sir John had thought his own news of great value, but Sennet had repaid him with coin to spare, if for no other reason than he was now on his guard against Moncrief. He would likely have gone to Moncrief with his news of the Entonne and the cannon. And where would that have led? Sennet had discharged his debt, that was certain, but Sir John was willing to trade on his credit a little. “You don’t know where Skye has disappeared to?” Sennet shook his head. “It is a mystery. Is it idle curiosity or do you need to know?” “1 need to speak with him. I have information that he must have.” Sennet considered this request, gazing at Sir John as though weighing his ability to pay. “It has come to my attention recently that the Countess of Chilton has a certain regard for Lord Skye. She would not likely give him away intentionally, but…” “The countess? Really? I should have taken up empirical studies.” Sennet smiled politely. Sir John was willing to make one more withdrawal against his credit. “I have a last request. Have you ever had dealings with a man named Bryce or heard tell of him?” “Bryce? What is his given name?” “I—I don’t know,” Sir John admitted, a bit embarrassed. “He is a mystery to me. Tall man, dark, very sure of himself. Extremely fastidious. Precise in his speech. I cannot really tell you more.” “But aren’t you describing the stranger who sat at the gaming table with you the night of your phenomenal luck?” Sir John nodded. “But everyone believes he was a friend of yours. A…” He did not want to say “sharp.” “You really didn’t know him?” Sir John shook his head. A small lie, only. He barely knew Bryce. “Well, that is interesting. I don’t know if 1 can learn anything with so little to get me started. You can’t tell me anything more? Is he a gentleman of leisure, or does he follow some profession? What schools? I suppose you know nothing of his family?” “I can tell you nothing more. No, that is not precisely true. He has a head for figures, especially where money is concerned, and is a shrewd investor.” “Ah, there you go. If he is an investor, then he can be found.” “Well, that might or might not be true. I am not absolutely sure he invests himself… Though one would think he must.” Sennet took out the smallest pocket watch Sir John had ever seen. “I will do my best, Sir John.” “I will be in your debt,” Sir John said, meaning it more than figuratively. “Hardly.” Sennet turned to him, very serious suddenly. “Do be careful with what you know about the Entonne. I would not like to see Moncrief hush it up because it could potentially hurt him. Some innocent Farr sailors might die to learn what is already known. 1 suggest you find some other way to send that information to the King, and not through the Admiralty, that is certain.” “Moncrief is my superior. 1 can’t bypass him and go directly to the King myself.” He fixed a look of appeal on Sennet. “You could take this information to the King for me, and Moncrief would know nothing of its source. If anyone could manage that, you could.” Sennet nodded. “Very likely, but aren’t you afraid that you’ll lose credit for your discovery?” So, there would be a greater cost for this interchange than he’d anticipated. “It’s immaterial who receives the credit. Better Moncrief not know it came from me, and you’re absolutely right—the King must know immediately. Can you manage it?” Sennet nodded. “Leave it to me, and if there comes a time when it is propitious to do so, 1 will share the credit with you. Is that acceptable?” “More than acceptable,” Sir John said, feeling his peerage slip away. Then I will be about our business, Sir John. Good luck with I will send you word immedi- locating Skye. If I learn anything more, ately.“ Yes, no doubt you will. You’re about to receive all manner of honors for the information that I have given you. Sir John realized that he felt a little more amused than resentful. He had discovered what Bryce wanted to know, and that was what mattered, for good or ill. Sir John wandered down through the club in something of a daze, barely acknowledging the men who spoke to him. The thought that it was he who had started this entire affair—setting Moncrief up to be ridiculed by Skye—was finally making its significance felt. He had known that Moncrief would never let such an insult go unanswered. Had Bryce been out to bring down Moncrief all along? Was that his purpose? Astonishing. Who Bryce’s mysterious employer was suddenly took on more meaning. Moncrief had enemies, that was without doubt, but which one of them employed Mr. Bryce? But there was something else in his conversation with Sennet that stood out—for its strangeness if for nothing else. “There was some hint of the arcane. ” Was this why Bryce had cautioned him to relay everything he heard to him? Sir John shook his head. What was he caught up in? Sir John stepped out the front door of the club and was about to ask the doorman to find him a hack when the door of a large carriage opened and a man leaned out. “Sir John?” It was Bryce, waiting at the curb. Sir John stepped up into the carriage and settled into a seat, more than a little surprised. “What in the world brought you to be here at this hour?” Sir John asked. “You might call it a hunch,” Bryce said, smiling only slightly. “Have you found Skye? Do we know what happened?” “I have the name of someone who might know Lord Skye’s whereabouts, or so I hope. Whether she will help us or not remains to be seen. As to what happened, it seems that Moncrief, in a fit of jealousy, tried to entrap Skye.” He told Bryce what he had learned from Sennet, holding back only the last piece of information. Bryce merely nodded. “And that’s it? That’s what you learned?” “No, there is one more thing…” Sir John watched this mysterious man very carefully, though he didn’t expect to be able to read Bryce’s reaction—he never could. “My friend tells me that there was some hint of the arcane in this matter. Perhaps something to do with how the woman died.” To Sir John’s amazement, Bryce smiled. Not a smile of mockery or disbelief, but one of great satisfaction. As though he’d been told that the woman he desired most in the world was mad for him. “Well,” he said, and no more. “Does it have some significance?” Sir John asked, unable to stop himself. “That is for my employer to decide,” Bryce said, though he still looked pleased, and not annoyed as he always did when Sir John asked questions. This made Sir John suddenly bolder. “So you will bring down Moncrief. Is that what you’ve planned all along?” Bryce looked surprised. “Moncrief?” he said as though hearing the name for the first time. “Sir John, Moncrief is no concern of ours. None whatsoever.” And with those words he folded his arms and turned to look out the window. Chapter Ten IT was some time after dinner that Hayes returned to Erasmus’ home. He looked as though he’d run across the entire town on his own two legs, he was so red in the face and out of breath. Stokes led him into the study, his manner toward this young waif considerably softened. “Ah, Hayes. Without your friend Kehler, I see.” Erasmus paused. “Is something wrong?” It appeared that Hayes was more than just red in the face, he was unsettled. “Nothing ill has befallen your friend, I hope?” “No. Not that I’m aware of. But I just had the strangest encounter. As I came up to your door—I was just lifting the knocker— someone called out Kehler’s name. I turned around to find this little man hurrying across the street. He came to the bottom of the stair and realized I wasn’t Kehler at all. Then he mumbled an apology and scurried off. The strange thing was that he was a Farrellite priest and Kehler has been studying at their college in Wooton.” “Deacon Rose.” “You know him?” “Only since this afternoon. He came here looking for Kehler. He had been by the Belch and learned that I was in there asking after him. He came here hoping I would help him find your friend. It seems Kehler has been delving into things he was not meant to find, and this has the church in rather an uproar. This man Rose claimed that Kehler had betrayed their trust, and now was in danger of expulsion which would ruin his career, for he was dependent upon the church for his tuition.“ Hayes snorted. “I’ve never heard such rubbish. Kehler’s people aren’t wealthy, but they’re certainly able to pay his school fees. No, I don’t think the Farrellites are searching for Kehler for charitable reasons.” Hayes reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. “Kehler left this with a friend.” He started to offer it to Erasmus, appeared to change his mind, and then pushed it into Erasmus’ hand. Erasmus slipped the letter from the envelope—a single page written in an appalling hand. My dear Hayes: I’ve instructed Colghan not to trust this letter to anyone but you. I do hope it finds you. I tried to see you while I was in Avonel, but you’d fled your rooms and there were all kinds of rumors as to what had happened. I’ve been on the run as well; from my good teachers. It seems they have not properly appreciated my search for the truth. Well, be that as it may, I have found some things that would amaze you. I dare not say more in a letter, but hope to be able to tell all in person. I’ve chosen the road of honor, I’m sure you will understand. I am leaving you this one line of text which is a complete mystery to me. Can you find someone at Merton who might be able to read it? There followed a single line of characters which caused Erasmus to sit down abruptly. “Erasmus?” Hayes sounded worried. “Are you well? You’ve turned white as a ghost. Shall I call Stokes?” Erasmus looked up at Hayes who stared at him with great concern. “He found this text in the archives?” “So I would assume. Can you read it?” Erasmus shook his head. “No. No one can read it. No man at least. It is the writing of the mages… I saw it—in the house of Eldrich.” Erasmus raised the letter again, still unsettled and oddly UZ saddened. “Where is Kehler now, do you think?” he asked, his voice very soft, as though he had just learned of a friend’s death. Hayes did not answer, and Erasmus looked up. “I think it would be better if you told me, Hayes. I’m beginning to suspect that your friend Kehler has involved himself in matters he does not clearly understand. And we mustn’t forget that the Admiralty searched your rooms—perhaps they have some interest in this matter, as well.” Hayes took a seat, clearly struggling with promises he’d made to Skye and Kehler. “Kehler wrote that he’d taken the road of honor,” he said, his voice very subdued. “It is a reference to a priest. A man who died years ago. Honare Baumgere. Do you know to whom I refer?” Erasmus shook his head. “No, but the priest mentioned his name—almost in passing—as though he wanted to see my reaction to it.” Hayes raised his eyebrows. “Baumgere was someone Skye was interested in. I mentioned that in Compton Heath they sent for a priest learned in languages? That priest was Honare Baumgere.” Hayes took a long breath, and let it out slowly, his gaze fixed on some point well beyond the room. “Later—many years later— Baumgere excavated a… structure near the town of Castlebough in the Caledon Hills.” “I’ve heard something of that. Wasn’t it a crypt?” “That’s how it’s known, though there is no reason to believe it was really a crypt other than the fact that it vaguely resembles one. But it is a puzzling piece of architecture. Some say it is as unique as the Ruin on Farrow, for we don’t know who built it or when, or even its purpose.“ “And Skye has some interest in this? It connects to the Stranger in some way?” Hayes nodded stiffly. “Samual,” Erasmus waved the letter at him, “this is the script of the mages and though it might one day become a matter of academic interest, I can assure you that while Eldrich lives, it is still a jealously guarded secret. If the priests are keeping texts in this language in Wooton and Kehler has found them, then it is no wonder they are searching for him. Eldrich will be in a blind rage if he discovers the church has been hoarding texts dealing with the arts. “You see, when the Farrellites lost their war against the mages, they swore they would never practice the arts again, for they had used the mages’ own arts against them. All of the texts they had gathered were to have been surrendered to the mages. If they have held some back, or even discovered a text since that they’ve hidden, Eldrich will not be merciful. I can assure you of that. The worst of it is, your friend Kehler might end up suffering as much as the priests. Remember, mages are not known for being just or fair. I think it best that you tell me what you know and then we set out to locate Kehler. 1 only hope we can find him before he does something foolish. What say you, Hayes, will you trust me with the rest of your story?“ Hayes thought for a moment, his boyish face very serious, which mysteriously made him look even younger. Then he nodded quickly, pulling his waistcoat down. For a moment he was very still. “Baumgere was a scholar of some note,” he began, “who, for many years, was an archivist at Wooton. Sometime in his middle years he was struck by the urge for a more pastoral life and was granted the living of the church in Castlebough. Do you know Castlebough? It is not far from the famous Bluehawk Lake. I think it the most beautiful country. Right in the heart of the Caledon Hills. The village is not as well known now as it was—oh, fifty years ago—when it was the fashion to take the waters there, but people still travel to Castlebough for their health. “Baumgere had always been a scholar—had likely never given a sermon in all his days—but he was apparently a respected man within the church, and if that was what he wanted, then his superiors were happy to oblige. After a scant three years in Castlebough, Baumgere left the church, odd enough in itself, but then he discovered the buried ‘crypt’ near the castle. “He began to wander the hills, as though still searching for something. People would see him occasionally, in the company of his servant—a massive man who was both deaf and dumb. They were said to have excavated other locations in the area, but if they found anything, no one saw. “Baumgere purchased a manor house outside the town, proving he had a bit of money, though he had always claimed that he did not come from a moneyed background, not that he made many claims for himself, for he was a secretive man. “There are any number of rumors from this point in the story. The ones Kehler seems to believe—and he knows much more about this than I—have to do with writing on the crypt. It was said the edifice bore a significant script, though Baumgere had this writing eradicated as soon as it was discovered, which must have taken some labor. Apparently you can see where the work was done. No one knows why. “There is another odd fact… Baumgere apparently owned a painting of the crypt, by Pelier, no less—which means it was done over two hundred years before Baumgere discovered the crypt. Everything that Kehler could find indicated that the crypt was unknown in that time—still buried, in fact. “The painting is typical of Pelier’s oracular style, complete with symbols and portents. Unlike most of Pelier’s paintings, his interpreters did not have an explanation for this one. If it foretold some event in the future, no one seemed able to suggest what that might be. “The painting apparently showed the tomb with the writing still intact, and three individuals paying their respects or perhaps examining the tomb, it is difficult to say. There was supposed to be a gentleman, a somewhat grotesque man thought to be a servant, and a veiled lady dressed entirely in black. Oh, and there might or might not have been a dark figure hidden in the shadow of the door. In the background one can see the old keep that sits above Castle-bough, and Kehler believes that Baumgere used this to locate the crypt. “Apparently Skye had been looking for some time for the Peliers that Baumgere owned. He had spoken of them to Kehler almost at their first meeting, and this had influenced Kehler’s decision to attend Wooton. Many thought that Baumgere’s effects were taken by the church, including the Peliers and whatever writings the man might have left behind.” Hayes rose from his chair and went to the window, closing it to within an inch, for the night was growing a little chill. He leaned forward cautiously and looked down into the street. “Is he there?” Erasmus asked, almost whispering. Hayes shook his head. “I can’t tell.” He picked up his story, not relaxing his vigil. “I find it odd that the Farrellite Church appeared to take no interest in their former priest, but then I suppose he did nothing to interest the church—not until later on.” Hayes sat on the window ledge now, where the lamplight threw odd shadows on his face; creasing it with lines of worry. “It is said that when Baumgere was on his death bed, the priest who was his replacement came to administer last rites. But upon hearing Baumgere’s confession, he refused to perform the absolution, storming from the house in a passion and leaving the man to die the true death—an astonishing event in the history of the Farrellite Church, even if he was no longer a priest. So Baumgere passed through like any man who had not found the faith. And then, oddly, not long after, the priest who refused him the absolution was found hanged from a tree in the forest. Self-murder! A mortal sin according to the teachings of the Farrellite Church. And that is more or less the end of the tale. “Baumgere left no money to any individual nor to his church, and no one knew his story unless he confessed it on his deathbed, which is what everyone believes. Whether the priest who heard his confession ever passed the story along is not known.” Hayes stood up and smiled at Erasmus. “So you see, it is fertile ground for speculation.” “I should say so. Do we assume this script that Kehler sent you has some connection to Baumgere?” “It’s quite likely, but he didn’t say, as you saw.” Hayes turned to look down into the street again. Erasmus could just make out his reflection in the dark glass. “One can never be sure what Kehler is up to. His interests are… peculiar.” “Such as?” “Lost knowledge. Secret histories. Things he believes the church has long known but kept hidden from the lay public. One can never be sure with Kehler. He very much keeps his own counsel—rather like you, Erasmus. The story of the Compton Heath Stranger sent him off on a completely new direction. Before that, his interests had been very academic and rather respectable. Skye opened up a world of mystery for him. An area that academia ignored. You cannot imagine his excitement. He hoped to find something about the Stranger of Compton Heath in the archives. He thought Baumgere might have written something that would be found there.” Erasmus considered for a moment. There were pieces missing from this story—entire chapters, he was sure. “Is there some connection between the Stranger of Compton Heath and the structure that Baumgere found?” Hayes made an odd motion—almost a shrug. Almost a lie, Erasmus thought. “Anything is possible.” “I imagine Kehler must have a theory about Baumgere and what he searched for?” UO “Yes, I think he does.” The same reticence. Lying did not come easily to young Hayes—at least not lying to friends. Perhaps he felt he’d said too much already. “But you cannot say, I collect?” A long moment of hesitation, as he looked down into the street, or stared at his own reflection. “Perhaps if we find Kehler, he will tell you more. That is all 1 know. Oh, there is one more thing… Apparently Baumgere’s own gravestone has a line of characters inscribed on it that can’t be read. Perhaps Baumgere’s final word, or merely a black jest by the headstone carver; no one knows.” Erasmus nodded, staring hard at Hayes, who gazed down into the darkened street. The hollow clip-clop of a passing horse drifted up to them; a log in the fire shifted. “You are thinking that you should travel to Castlebough to aid your friend—and to warn him,” Erasmus said softly. “And I do not think your concern is misplaced. If the church has texts in the language of the mages…” Hayes glanced at him, his look of helplessness lifting a little. “It seems imperative that Kehler know what he has stirred up. 1 can arrange my affairs to leave by noon. What of you, Samual? Will you come with me?” For a moment Hayes only stared at Erasmus, and then he stood up, almost shaking himself, shaking off the lethargy and helplessness that was the legacy of Paradise Street. Then a thought came to him, and the light that had ignited inside him dimmed. “But Erasmus, I must tell you 1 haven’t…” Erasmus held up his hand. “Don’t even speak of it. We are talking about Kehler’s well-being here. He is potentially in danger from both the church and Eldrich. No, let us not quibble about money. My father, bless him, left me enough that I might live in complete idleness. Rescuing Kehler is far better use than 1 would otherwise put it to.” When Hayes finally took himself off to bed, he left the letter from Kehler behind. Erasmus took it up, and for a long time stared at the line of foreign script. Just the sight of this writing brought up old memories and the accompanying turmoil. Yet he could not put the letter down. For a moment he thought of throwing it in the fire, but the idea of it bursting into flame was unsettling. “He has escaped from memory,” Erasmus read aloud. Escaped from memory. Chapter Eleven i The Caledon Hills crowded up against the western border where they grew to near mountain status, before falling away to a high plateau just inside Entonne. Sparse population and rugged geography meant that only a few roads managed to find their way through the twisting valleys and gorges. The geology of the area was dominated by a thick stratum of whitestone that current thinking said was formed at the bottom of a shallow sea, millennia ago, though it now resided high above sea level. The pale stone had been worn and broken by the long ages and left irregular hills standing, sometimes quite rounded but often steep sided and angular. Rivers wound through valleys and plunged between high cliffs into gorges where the water roiled and foamed and then fell in precipitous drops into deep turquoise pools. An ancient forest spread its branches over most of the Caledon Hills and here one could find species of oak, beech, and walnut that were not common to any other area of Farrland. A particularly fragrant pine, called the Camden Pine, grew on the north sides of hills at higher altitudes, and the rose family had spread a few of its species—from bitter apples and hawthorns to flowering rosebushes— across the hillsides and valleys. Long known for the abundance of game, the hunting lodges of the aristocracy were scattered among the hills, and here and there a fertile valley provided a patch of farmland. Deep, clear lakes became the destination of travelers drawn to the lonely beauty, and in particularly picturesque locations towns catering to such travelers sprang up. Hayes looked out over the valley below and then toward the northern hills. They had stopped the carriage at this point, not just to rest the horses after the climb but because it was a well known viewing point, and the fact that they were not the first to find it did not reduce the pleasure. In the distance Hayes was sure he could see the remains of a large structure, though, when built of the same stone as the surrounding hills, it was sometimes difficult to tell—limestone had a tendency to break into blocks that looked surprisingly man-made. Erasmus was slowly sweeping a field glass across the scene. “Is that an old lodge there, on the hill to the right?” Hayes asked. Erasmus focused his glass and then shook his head. “A tower. Perhaps even a small castle.” It was the other thing the Caledon Hills were famous for; the ruins of castles and other defensive structures. In the long years of warfare that had plagued the nations around the Entide Sea, the hills had seen more than their share of battles, and castles had been built and torn down and built again for over a thousand years. No doubt there were several under construction at that very moment, though closer to the present border in the great passes between the high hills. It was difficult to move a large army any other way—in fact, it had so far proved impossible. Erasmus took a few steps to the right and leaned against a low stone wall so that he could look west along an arm of the valley. A small lake lay there, reflecting the colors of the late afternoon, the image of a cloud floating white and ghostlike in its center. “There,” Erasmus said. “That will be Castlebough, I think. Do you see?” He handed Hayes his glass. It took Hayes’ eye a second to adjust, but then he saw, at the lake’s end on top of an angular hill, a town huddled around the ruins of an old citadel. “True to its name, there is a castle, or at least the remains of one.” “A keep of the Knights of Glamoar,” Erasmus said, surprising Hayes by knowing anything of the history of such an obscure little village. “The place where this man Baumgere discovered a mysteri- ous crypt. And the place where our good Kehler is likely pursuing his obsessions, as you call them. Let us hope that we are here before the agents of the Admiralty, and that the agent of the church has not guessed where Kehler might be.“ Hayes swept the glass up the valley. A hawk hanging above the lake suddenly let go of its perch on the sky and plunged toward the water. He lost sight of it before it struck, as though it had vanished into the clear air. “Look! Erasmus! A wolf, by the lake.” He handed Erasmus the glass. “Halfway along the left shore. Do you see?” Erasmus swept the glass along the lake’s edge, then back. “No…” he said, his voice oddly tentative. “No. It seems to have gone.” He lowered the glass, his look utterly changed. As though he had seen something that had unsettled him. “We should be on our way.” Erasmus motioned Hayes to precede him toward the carriage, but when Hayes looked over his shoulder, he saw that Erasmus was looking back, his manner very grim. He must be reminded of the wolf he said prowled the home of Eldrich, Hayes thought, and felt a wave of pity for the child Erasmus. He could not imagine such a strange experience—so unlike his own rather carefree boyhood. They traveled on, Erasmus even less communicative. He sat very still, staring out the window by the hour, his chin supported on his hand, looking like a man bereaved. He didn’t know why, but somehow Hayes thought that Erasmus mourned for his lost childhood and for the terrible legacy of memory which haunted him still. Sir John stood on the edge of the road, which dropped several hundred feet into the gorge. He glanced down and then quickly up again. The sight of the roiling waters—white and impossibly porcelain green—caused all his muscles to tense. He stood there on the cliff edge like a stick man—unbending, awkward, utterly discomfited. In contrast, Bryce hovered on the cliff edge as though he had not noticed that a step to his right would send him into the sky, briefly, before drowning him in the river below. He might have been a bird for the amount of concern he displayed. A mere instant of loss of balance and either of them would see their life end. Bryce pointed suddenly. “There—do you see them?” Sir John squinted, leaning slightly and then pulling himself back abruptly. A field glass was what was needed here. But then perhaps he did see something move. Perhaps a yellow carnage. They had been told at the last inn that the countess was not far ahead of them, and at the pace they had been traveling, it was no wonder. Sir John half expected them to arrive before her. “I’m sure you’re right, though I’m surprised that the countess travels with such a small retinue. Two carriages only.” For a second Sir John thought he’d lost his balance, and stepped quickly back from the edge, his heart pounding. Bryce looked at him closely and then smiled—half from amusement, half from pity. “I think we should let them travel on for a bit. I’d rather not be seen.” He turned his head suddenly, his look intent. “Do you hear that?” Sir John listened, but could hear only the river, the sound of the breeze bending the trees, and the poor trees uttering their complaints. A raven called. The horses had pricked up their ears, suddenly excited. “Is someone coming?” “Yes. Let us wait and see who it is. If your Admiralty men are still chasing after Skye, I want to know.” Bryce bent down suddenly and retrieved a pinecone, throwing it over the precipice. Like a school boy he stood and watched it fall, veering to one side suddenly as it neared the water, caught by a current of wind gusting through the gorge. Then there was the smallest splash. Bryce stood for a moment as though watching the cone’s progress, and then he turned to look down the road just as a two-horse team appeared around the corner, pulling a trap. The only occupant of the carriage sat a bit taller in his seat as he approached, obviously peering at the two men on the road. And then, as he came closer, he raised his arm and waved. “Sir John?” he called as he pulled his team up. “Why, Kent, what a surprise. Where are you off to?” “Castlebough,” Kent said. “And yourself?” Sir John hesitated, not sure if Bryce would want their destination known, but then Bryce spoke up. “The same. You must be the illustrious Averil Kent… Percival Bryce, your servant, sir.” “And I am yours, Mr. Bryce,” Kent said. Sir John did not know Kent well, but even so, he thought the young man looked a bit un- comfortable, almost as though he had been caught doing something he’d rather others knew nothing about. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Kent tipped his hat. “Perhaps we’ll meet in Castlebough, then,” Kent said. “Pleasures of the day to you, gentlemen.” Sir John and Bryce followed Kent’s progress for a moment. “Odd to meet Kent here,” Sir John said as Kent disappeared around a bend. “He must be on one of his painting jaunts.” Bryce laughed. “He is pursuing the countess, Sir John. Could you not see it?” Sir John looked at his companion in surprise. “How can you be certain?” “Oh, it was written in his manner. In the tilt of his head. His slight embarrassment at meeting someone he knew. Did you not see the way he peered ahead so hopefully when he saw our carriage, and then the disappointment when he saw who it was—or who it was not, I should say. Do not doubt it. The poor man is here in pursuit of the Countess of Chilton, like any sad hound chasing a bitch in heat. I pity him; he is in for a bad time of it, I think. Let us hope he is not fool enough to end up in a duel over such a woman.” “Such a woman, indeed!” Sir John said. “Do you disparage her, then?” Bryce turned to him rather sharply. “I meant only that she is a woman who draws men to her even when she does not mean to, Sir John. Do I disparage her? No. On the contrary. I pity her. More even than poor Kent.” Bryce looked off down the valley. “I pity her utterly.” Chapter Twelve A man may either move westward through life, following the light, or eastward toward the gathering darkness. It is a kind of orientation of temperament that is set in our earliest years; an emotional compass. One either pursues one’s dreams or one’s memories, and it is an exceptional man who, once his compass has been set, can alter it even a point or two. Halden: Essays When Hayes came down to break his fast in the morning, he discovered that Erasmus had been gone over two hours. Hayes cursed himself for a lazy fool and considered going out after his companion, but then decided that this would invariably lead to Erasmus returning while Hayes was out, and so on, so he decided on food and staying in one place. Around the site of Castlebough were several hot springs, the waters of which were said to be healthful, and these almost more than anything accounted for the town’s survival. Certainly the terraced gardens and small pastures he had seen on the slope below the town did not provide commerce, and the few travelers who stopped there on their way elsewhere would not support anything but the smallest inn. But Castlebough boasted nine good-sized inns, and these catered almost exclusively to people coming to take the waters. To Hayes’ satisfaction Erasmus had chosen one of the better establishments, the Springs, and here he had found them each a room on the same floor. As Hayes had no worries about finances on this journey (Erasmus insisted on paying) he felt something like a gentleman of means again. He had never realized what a great sense of freedom one felt at being able to spend money without concern—not until he had been forced to count every penny. Imagine, he thought, going into an inn and having to ask the cost of a meal before ordering! It had never even occurred to him to do such a thing before, and though he had become used to it in time, at first he had found the experience rather humiliating. Well, I have been humbled enough to last a lifetime now, he thought. / shall never worry about growing arrogant or vain, that is certain. Now, if they could only find Kehler. Hayes wondered, not for the first time, what his friend was up to, for Kehler was secretive even with him, and Hayes was very likely his closest friend in the world. May we find him before he gets himself in too much trouble, Hayes thought, though he realized that, more than anything, he wanted to know what Kehler had discovered. His curiosity was burning. The dining room was not half-filled with people, all of whom appeared to be taking their leisure—not residents of Castlebough, that was certain. There were a few elderly people who might actually suffer infirmities, but most he saw were hardly old—in their thirties or forties—nor did they look to be suffering from any illness. If anything, they seemed to be on a holiday. He could hear some of them discussing plans for the day: a boat trip down the river which would actually take them through a cave; a sail on Blue Hawk Lake; an excursion to various ruins. Hayes felt a bit jealous of their leisure, supported as it obviously was by resources he did not have. “Ah, Hayes… You’ve finally managed to face the day,” Erasmus said as he found his companion. “Have you been here long?” “No, not at all. Just long enough to overhear the plans of our fellow guests, and to begin to feel a bit sorry for myself. You have come along just in time to save me from that particular emotional quagmire.” Erasmus pulled up a chair and ordered coffee. “Well, 1 have been out to look at our town and to check the other inns. None seem to have a Mr. Kehler in their care, nor anyone who fits his description, so I hope we have not come so far to find he has already been and gone.” “But he was two days ahead of us! I can’t imagine that he has already left.” Hayes was a bit distressed by the idea that he might have brought Erasmus Flattery so far, on an errand of mercy, and found it was only a fool’s errand, after all. “Well, I’m told there are any number of residences in Castle- bough that are owned by people from the lowlands. Some of these are let out by the week, and others are lent to family friends. You don’t know if Kehler has friends who might keep a home here?“ Hayes shook his head. Coffee arrived, and Erasmus took it up without cream or sugar. “Then I suggest we go have a look at this mysterious crypt, then perhaps at the house that Baumgere owned. I have been asking the staff for directions—not so uncommon it seems. Baumgere and his mysterious excavations have drawn any number of people before us, apparently. Kehler might find his mystery well picked over. 1 wonder what he hopes to discover?” Hayes shrugged. Erasmus fixed an odd look on his companion, and the younger man turned his attention to his food, realizing that Erasmus believed he was holding back information. It was always difficult to know where one stood with Erasmus, for the man seemed to have made up his own mind about which of society’s strictures he would obey and which he would blatantly ignore. “As soon as you’re ready,” Erasmus said, having bolted his coffee. He rose from his chair. “I’ll be in my room.” Forty minutes later the two gentlemen were walking up one of the steep streets of Castlebough. It was a typical town of its type, built of local stone, the main street jagging back and forth up the hillside with numerous alleys and stairways joining the levels. A spring somewhere high up had been tapped for the village water supply and this ran down among the houses on a circuitous route, appearing here and there and could often be heard whispering beneath the paving stones. Hayes thought it a picturesque little town, trim and neat, and no doubt kept in this state for the visitors. As they emerged above the last houses of the town proper, they found the old stair they had been directed to and headed up. The graveyard they wanted was on the hilltop behind the old castle, and though one could reach it by road, the stairway led to a shorter, if slightly more adventurous path. Conversation soon ceased as they saved their wind for the climb. The stair ended at a path that wound up into the wood, then suddenly set off up a steep gully. Here stones had been set as steps occasionally and in one place a rusted chain acted as a hand rail; they pulled themselves up on this with some effort. Eventually they found stairs again, then a ledge, a final staircase, and then they emerged on the top. Both Erasmus and Hayes threw themselves down on a stone bench to catch their breath. Before them spread a wondrous view, out over the town and down to the lake. To the north they could see the hills lifting up like seas toward an indistinct horizon that seemed impossibly distant and mysterious. If Hayes stared hard, he was certain that he could see another mountain beyond those he had thought were the farthest, and then others beyond that. In the west the high hills lifted up to a jagged meeting with the cold sky, and here there was still snow to be seen, bright and pure in the morning sun. “If Kehler proves not to be here, I will feel we’ve been amply rewarded just by this view,” Erasmus said, making Hayes feel a bit better, for he was worried that Kehler was gone, or worse—the priests had found him first. They sat for a moment more, not speaking, but absorbed by the scene. Then Erasmus got to his feet, and Hayes followed. Reluctantly they turned away. The castle had been greatly reduced by the villagers taking away cartload after cartload of stone to enlarge the town below, but even so there were still the remains of some high walls and towers. Hayes could see the blue sky through some of the openings, and tufts of dry grass and small yellow flowers sprouted from cracks and ledges. A vine of morning glories had taken hold on the west wall, and these were open now, nodding in the light breeze. Behind some wild berry bushes they found an old graveyard. The most magnificent hornbeam Hayes had ever seen presided over the site, its trunk nearly three feet thick and its branches twisted and gnarled as such trees tended to be. There were perhaps a dozen headstones half-obscured by brush and tall, golden grasses. Hayes bent over the stones and began to examine them closely. After a moment he called out, “Look! Baumgere’s grave, but only his name remains. The inscription has been obliterated.” He bent close, running his fingers over the few discernable lines. “Was this vandalism, do you think? Or could it have been erased for some other reason?” Erasmus shook his head, but offered no opinion. There were a few bits of what might once have been a design or parts of an in- SEAN KUSSELL scription left, and Erasmus looked long at these before taking out a pen and ink and copying them into a little note book. “And will you make sense of the remains, Mr. Flattery, where so many others have resorted to mere fantasy?” Both Hayes and Erasmus turned to find the source of this strange, high-pitched voice, and there, a dozen feet away, stood an outlandishly dressed man who could not have been four feet tall. They were both so surprised by the sight that they stared dumbly. “Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon, at your service,” the dwarf said, making a sweeping bow. “And you are the illustrious Erasmus Flattery, I take it?” “At your service, sir, and my particular friend, Mr. Samual Hayes.” “Your servant, sir,” Hayes said, offering a hand to the man who reached up his own small hand to meet it. Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon was impeccably dressed in expensive and elaborate clothing of bright colors, and carried at his side a short rapier in a beautifully tooled scabbard. His high boots bore enormous silver buckles and his shirt studs glittered with pale stones that Hayes believed were diamonds. He wore no wig and tied his fringe of gray hair in a tail with a bright blue ribbon. His pate was bald and colored by the sun, his eyes the blue of mountain lakes, and beneath a magnificent white mustache, his full mouth smiled as though he enjoyed the reaction of the men before him, for certainly they stared like country boys with their first view of a noble. “You know who I am,” Erasmus said. “Yes, forgive me. It is a small village, and the news quickly spread that Erasmus Flattery was domiciled among us. Your studies of the noble grape are well known to those of us who are dedicatees. There is, you see, quite a large vintners’ society here. Some of the most successful oenologists and viticulturists spend part of their year in Castlebough, and you might imagine what the talk is among them.” He smiled winningly, showing a gold-capped tooth. “I hope you will have time to come to our meeting, Mr. Flattery, and your companion as well. Are you a horticulturalist also, Mr. Hayes?” “I’m afraid not, though I admire a decent bottle of wine.” Hayes felt there was a hint of pity in the look this statement elicited. “Well, you might find it of interest all the same. We have converted more than a few gentlemen to our cause in the past. But, • Mr. Flattery, there is more of a connection between yourself and the village of Castlebough. The famed Admiral Vinzen Flattery kept a house here for a number of years, and came often with his wife to take the waters.“ “1 had no idea,” Erasmus said. “The admiral was not known to me, unfortunately, though still alive, I think, when I was born. I shall have to see this house.” “And I would be happy to show it to you. But I’ve come looking for you because I’d heard you had been asking questions about our mysterious Baumgere. I thought I should find you before those who would try to sell you copies of the inscription, or maps that lead to supposed treasure or what not. Not that you would be taken in by them, I’m sure, but they will waste a gentleman’s time. I once took an interest in Baumgere and his story and would be pleased to put my small knowledge at your disposal and act as your local guide, if you will permit me.” Hayes and Erasmus looked at each other, their decision clear. “We would be delighted,” Erasmus said. Suddenly something erupted out of the grass, causing Hayes to spin around. A massive wolfhound darted past him and came panting up to Clarendon, who was obviously its master. “This is Dusk, my particular friend,” he said. “Put out your hands and let him sniff you. I hope neither of you wish me harm, for he will attack if you do. He can sense things men cannot and will not be persuaded that a man who does not like me should be allowed to go happily about his business. Fortunately I am not widely disliked, or I fear poor Dusk might have met his end by sword before now. Ah, there, you see, he has found you worthy, and that is a judgment worth more than many a man’s, I will tell you.” He stroked the dog behind the ears, barely having to reach down to do so, for Dusk came almost to Clarendon’s shoulder. “As Castlebough is so small, Mr. Clarendon, perhaps you have heard of a friend of ours. We were hoping to meet him here. A young man named Fen wick Kehler?” “Kehler? No… I know no one of that name, but I will ask. And please, call me Randall.” The dwarf gestured toward some nearby trees. “Baumgere’s discovery lies back here. You are trying to discern the remains of the mysterious inscriptions… ?” “Did they really exist?” Erasmus asked. “Oh, indeed they did, though not for many years now. The in- scription erased during the time of Baumgere, as you have no doubt learned, though whether this was done by Baumgere is not known. The story, you see, has been… embroidered over the years, and the unfortunate truth is that the factual evidence—what is indisputably known—is very slim.“ He took a deep breath, and looked at the headstones, an air of sadness settling over him. ”That Baumgere chose Castlebough for his home has fueled the fire of speculation, for there are few regions around the Entide Sea as fertile for such theorizing as the Caledon Hills, with its uncommon history and many real mysteries. And perhaps the story of Father Baumgere did have its beginnings long ago, in some event that took place here in these hills. That is what many say.“ He motioned again to the trees. ”If you have the time, I will show you the mysterious ‘crypt,’ as it is called, and we can sit for a while and I will tell you what I can remember.“ Randall led them into the bower of silver-barked beeches, then down stone steps between lilac trees. The path circled around and then emerged in what almost seemed a small quarry. There before them, carved into the whitestone, stood the facade of a small structure. Four pillars stood proud from the stone, the heavy eaves of the roof facade appearing to rest on them. A doorway had been cut into the stone, and a bronze door hung from heavy pins. This door stood ajar and slightly askew, as though it had been forced open and damaged in the effort. Hayes was quite astonished by what he saw, for though it was not large, the tomb projected a sense of grandeur. “There was an inscription over the door, as well as on the lintel,” Randall said. “All gone now, as you can see.” He turned to the others. “You look surprised, Mr. Flattery?” Erasmus did not take his eyes from the structure. “It is not quite what I expected. It is… well, humble in its scale, yet grand in its design, as though merely a model for the real thing.” Randall turned back to the tomb, gazing at it for a moment. “That is precisely true. And what did the designer mean to convey by this contradiction? That the person buried here was more than others realized? That his or her true greatness was not recognized?” He stood a moment longer and then sat down on the stairs, his eyes still fixed on the facade. “I have sat here like this often, and therefore the building, if it can be called that, is extremely familiar to me, yet it seems more a mystery each time. Perhaps this is what happens when the truth of an object eludes you—it seems somehow to be resisting your efforts.“ He shook his head and smiled. ”But it is just a facade cut into the rock, empty inside, as you will see if you venture in. A chamber not twelve feet square carved into the bones of the cliff. No secret doors or hidden chambers. Perfectly solid rock. The body or ashes long ago moved elsewhere, or perhaps it was never meant to be a crypt at all. Who can say, for it is only known as such for its vague resemblance to such structures. It might have served some other purpose entirely.“ Randall looked at each of the others, and then down at the stone he tested with his hand. “As you no doubt remember from your days at school,” he began, “the Caledon Hills have not always been part of the Kingdom of Farrland. Once they were claimed by what is today En-tonne, and at other times they were autonomous or semi-autonomous. Seven hundred years ago this was the Duchy of Atreche, and only nominally under the control of Farrland. Early followers of Farrelle hid here from their persecutors, and more than one mage has chosen to make his home among these enchanted hills. Great feats of chivalry were performed here—in this very spot as well as a thousand others. And the hills have witnessed tragedies, too. It is a harsh land, really. Agriculture is difficult; whitestone offers no metals to be mined. Only the forester and the huntsman can live to profit here. But despite that, the hills have a beauty that I think incomparable, and many before me have thought the same, so they were drawn here to find a life, and often had to fight to preserve the lives they made. “The Order of Farrellite Knights, called the Knights of Glamoar, raised their great citadels here, eradicating the Tautistian Heresy which had taken root among people who had fled Entonne and Doom. And then the knights themselves were branded heretics, and fell finally to the army raised by the Bishop of Nearl during the great turmoil. “Many think the Knights of Glamoar left a treasure hidden among the hills, for certainly they had wealth enough, and this treasure some believe was the source of Baumgere’s wealth. And perhaps it was, but it is hard to imagine that Baumgere found the directions to this treasure among the Farrellite archives. Although it is said that a great deal of Farr history has been devoured by the church.” Dusk had wandered off, sniffing the ground and the air, OEAN KUSSELL and suddenly he came bounding back again, checking on his master and eyeing the strangers. “But what do we know of this man for certain?” Clarendon continued, sounding like a lecturer. “Baumgere did appear to come into at least a little wealth after he left the service of the church, and there is no obvious source for this. That is all true. 1 will show you his home on the edge of the village and you will see what I mean. It is not only large and ostentatious, but it is an architectural oddity as well. The home of a true eccentric. “Undoubtedly Baumgere had done something that made the local priest, who by the way was his friend and admirer, refuse him absolution. Now there are only certain varieties of sin that will see a man denied absolution, and they are well known: heresy, though what constitutes heresy changes over time; sacrilege, of course— robbing a grave, for instance is sacrilege. Murder, oddly, will not see you denied absolution, as long as you seek forgiveness from the church and repent of your sin. “But if you are a priest of the church, there are a number of other things that can damn you and leave you wandering in the netherworld. Treachery during the religious wars would have seen a man denied absolution. Betrayal of a mystery of the church will have the same result. And so will acquiring knowledge beyond one’s station—a parish priest cannot have certain knowledge possessed by a bishop, you see. “1 have long said that much of the speculation about the source of Baumgere’s wealth could be repudiated by merely considering the possibilities laid out for us by the refusal of absolution. If we eliminate betrayal of the church in time of war, we are left with heresy, sacrilege, betrayal of a mystery of the church, acquiring knowledge beyond one’s station.” “You seem quite sure that this denial of absolution related to Baumgere’s acquisition of wealth or to his discoveries, Randall,” Erasmus said. “Ah, that is true.” Clarendon smiled, as though pleased to find that Erasmus had not gained his reputation without reason. “But I set out only to tell you what was known to be utterly true, not to subject you to either my own opinions or the speculation of others. Forgive me, for you are obviously correct: these things are not necessarily connected as cause and effect. As difficult as it is, I will try to stay with what is known, although resisting the desire to specu- late in this particular instance is almost impossible.“ The small man ran his hand over the stone again, as though he searched for something th.;re. ”Father Joseph, the priest who refused Baumgere his absolution, self-murdered within a week of Baumgere’s death. Utter disillusionment? Loss of faith? Or perhaps melancholia that was in no way related to Baumgere and his secret—for certainly Baumgere had a secret. Of that even I am certain. But one must believe strongly in coincidence to accept that these two things were not related, just as one must believe strongly to deny a connection between Baumgere’s mysterious discovery and the denial of absolution; or Baumgere’s years in the Farrellite archives, his unexpected departure from the service of the church and his sudden wealth.“ Clarendon laughed. “You see, I cannot confine myself to the particulars! Do forgive me, gentlemen. I am doing my best.” He appeared to focus his will. “Baumgere was an interesting person. He never rose far within the hierarchy of the church though he was said to have been an excellent scholar—something admired by the Farrellites. But perhaps he was not a political animal, which one must be to rise in the church of the martyr—it is like government or the court in that regard. “Baumgere had few friends and kept his affairs to himself. I therefore suspect this was apocryphal, but a prominent citizen once claimed that Baumgere had answered his inquiry about the source of his wealth by saying, ‘Why is no one concerned with my true riches? My real wealth is in my knowledge,’ he said, ‘the years I spent immersed in the study of our history. These are the basis of real riches, and no one seems to be at all interested.’ “As I say, I don’t believe this story to be true but mention it only because it has become an integral part of the myth. Baumgere might not have been so rich as people thought.” “And the headstone, and the ruined inscription on the tomb: where do they fit in?” Hayes asked. “Ah. An excellent question, Mr. Hayes, for where things ‘fit in’ as you say is certainly the crux of the matter. There was an inscription on the headstone that did disappear, though whether this was an act of vandals or done for some other reason cannot actually be proven. The inscription on the crypt, however, was unquestionably eradicated—and almost certainly by Baumgere. “1 have only one thing to add to this particular instance—and I have shared it with very few. But, Mr. Flattery, 1 will make this DfcAN RUSSELL knowledge available to you, for it is possible you might have something to add to the matter.“ The small man stared at Erasmus as he spoke, then he stood. ”Come. Let me show you.“ Clarendon crossed to the tomb again. He put one knee on the ground and bent to point out something in the design carved there. “You see, this is a floral motif circling the column.” Hayes bent closer to look at what was a very common design—a vine and flowers in high relief. “This is said to be wisteria, and though it is clearly stylized, I have often wondered if the clumps of flowers are flowers at all but bunches of grapes. You are a botanist and horticulturist, Mr. Flattery, what would you say?” “That is the grape vine, Randall. You are absolutely correct.” Clarendon brightened. “Ah,” he said with some satisfaction. “Now,” he said rising and pointing to the lintel above the columns. “Look there. It is the only break in the pattern. What do you make of that, Mr. Flattery?” Hayes could see three flowers carved there, their stems intersecting. Erasmus leaned back and looked up. “The two outer flowers are almost certainly roses, but the other flower I cannot name. I have not seen it before.” “Exactly. One flower is unknown and the others are roses. Vale roses I am told by a man who has a great knowledge of roses.” Erasmus stepped back abruptly, suddenly quite guarded. Clarendon looked up at Erasmus. “I see you know what this symbol means, Mr. Flattery.” Erasmus shook his head, though it was not a strong denial. “Teller,” Clarendon said, and nothing more, but he stared at Erasmus who met his gaze. Hayes looked from one man to the other, wondering what in the world they meant. Teller? “Who was Teller?” Hayes heard himself ask. Clarendon did not take his eyes from Erasmus. “He was a man who once apprenticed to a mage: Lapin being the most likely candidate. But he did not complete his apprenticeship, for his mentor died.” Clarendon’s gaze seemed to become even more intent as he said this. “There is a possibility that Teller assisted the Farrellites in their war against the mages. We do not know what happened to him after that, though he may have lived for some good number of years. Some believe that Teller started a secret society dedicated to learning the arts of the mages—those he did not already possess. During the Winter War the mages destroyed what was left of Teller’s society—or so historians believe. The token of Teller, and later his society, consisted of three vale roses arranged as you see the blossoms here.“ “But there are only two roses here,” Erasmus said quickly. “That is true, Mr. Flattery, but I am content that it is Teller’s token all the same.” “But this crypt is certainly not five hundred years old,” Erasmus protested. “It is difficult to say. Authorities believe it might be much older, but it has been buried and not subject to the usual weathering, so it cannot be dated with certainty. It might have been built long after Teller’s death, and his ashes moved here.” “But if Teller’s society somehow survived beyond the Winter War, why would they do anything to call attention to themselves? It would have been foolish of them to build a tomb,” Erasmus protested. “The mages had tried to eradicate them once. Why do anything that might bring down the wrath of the mages? It makes no sense.“ Clarendon shrugged. “This tomb sat undisturbed and unknown until the time of Baumgere. It is only in the last century that Castle-bough has become of interest to the outside world. Perhaps it was not such a great risk. Or perhaps the world had changed enough that they did not think it would matter. But it is interesting, don’t you think?” He placed his back against one of the pillars. “But you began an apprenticeship with Eldrich, Mr. Flattery, and did not complete it… Perhaps you might shed some light on what happened so long ago to Teller?” Erasmus shook his head. “1 began no apprenticeship, 1 assure you…” Erasmus’ denial was interrupted by a wild barking and snarling. “Dusk!” Clarendon called, and immediately began to run in the direction of the noise. The barking came from inside the castle ruin. Hayes and Erasmus followed Clarendon, though he was slower due to age and size, but neither of them wanted to find the apparently enraged wolfhound before his master. After a moment of searching through the ruin, they rounded a S ean Russell corner to find Dusk staring up at a wall, snarling and taking the occasional leap, trying to scale the steep stone, and snapping his powerful jaws at some invisible foe. “What have you treed, Dusk?” Clarendon called, trying to catch his breath. “Come out of it now.” Hayes followed Clarendon, who took hold of his dog, and looking up found a man balanced in a niche in the wall looking quite terrified. “Kehler!” Hayes exclaimed, completely surprised. “Please, Hayes, call him off. I cannot hold myself here a second longer.” And indeed Hayes thought that this was true. Poor Kehler was red with exertion and his arms were beginning to tremble. “You may come down, sir,” Clarendon said, pulling back the still growling dog. “I have him.” Kehler hesitated, perhaps comparing the relative sizes of man and straining dog, but then his body decided for him and he slipped, falling awkwardly onto the soft grass below. Hayes helped him to rise, unable to hold back his laughter, and Kehler came up brushing at his clothing. “I hope you are not injured, sir?” Clarendon inquired, not letting go of Dusk. “No, only frightened half out of my wits. Martyr’s blood, but that is a fearsome beast,” Kehler said, eyeing the dog. “But he will not hurt you now, Mr. Kehler. Have no fear. He means only to protect me, and was unsure of your intentions.” He turned his attention to the still growling wolfhound. “Now, Dusk, that will be enough. This is a friend.” The dog and Kehler were properly introduced, though neither looked as though they would trust the other immediately. Kehler collapsed onto a grassy bank, looking up at the two men and the astonishing little man they accompanied. “I cannot tell you how surprised I am to find you here,” Kehler said. “Nor can we tell you how happy we are to find you,” Hayes answered. “Where are you staying? We tried all the inns.” This seemed to unsettle Kehler a little. “I’m not staying in the village. Have you been asking for me by name?” “And how else would we inquire about you?” Hayes asked. “By reputation? Your accomplishments aren’t yet so grand, I’m sorry to tell you.“ “And these gentlemen are not the only ones searching for you, Mr. Kehler,” Clarendon said, his manner very serious. “A Deacon Rose has been asking about town for you.” “Demon Rose!” Kehler said. “Farrelle’s flames! Do not give me away, please,” he pleaded, his face contorting in fear. Chapter Thirteen Memory is nothing more than a receptacle of our past; the future a fabric of dreams. And the much vaunted present, that which we are all to seize with a passion, is but the smallest measure of an instant, the single tick of a clock, a medium for translating the future into the past, dreams into memory. Marianne Edden: A Reflection on the Death of Michael Valpy The evenings were cooler in the highlands, and the countess stood at the closed door looking out over the balcony into the valley. Dusk seemed to alter the distances so that the farthest hills appeared not so much to be disappearing as slipping away. A moment more and they would be out of sight. A light flickered to life behind the countess, casting her reflection back off the glass. She almost stared, as though a stranger had appeared before her. An unhappy stranger. “And do you see him there?” came the voice of her companion. The countess shook her head. “I never thought I would see the day when the most desired woman in the kingdom would chase after a man like a lovesick girl. And even more astonishing, he would seem to be running. Are you certain that he likes women?” What had she been told? That all of his woman had looked the same—petite and very blonde. The countess was neither of these. She touched her forehead to the cool glass. Did he think of her as only a friend—the way she thought of several men who were mad for her? Did those poor souls feel as tortured as she? “Etaural?” “Excuse me, Marianne. Yes, he likes women. What is in doubt are his feelings for this particular woman.” “He must be playing at indifference. The oldest ploy. Introduce him to me, and I will soon have an answer for you.” The countess did not doubt that. Marianne Edden, she believed, was the most perceptive woman in Farrland. This insight into others had gained her great fame. No, that was not precisely true, and Marianne could not bear inaccuracy. It was her ability to put these perceptions into words that had gained her fame, for Marianne was the finest social novelist of her day. “Well, come away from the window and try to take your mind off the damn fool. I will even play at cards with you, if you like, as much as I detest the activity. Anything to not see you pining away like a lady in a bad novel. It is undignified.” The countess turned to her friend. “I thought you felt dignity was a foolish concern.” “Dignity? No. I am entirely in favor of dignity—it is this exaggerated pomposity of the aristocracy that I cannot bear. Pomposity is not dignity—it is not even dignified. It is an ass’ attempt to hide his own mediocrity. A dignified shopkeeper—there is someone worthy of respect. Someone who does not believe he has a special place in society, yet bears himself with self-possession and grace—and not without humor. A shopkeeper who believes that he fulfills his role in the world to the best of his ability. Who is honest and fair because he believes in honesty and fairness—not just when he thinks others are looking. A man who suffers the setbacks and humiliations of life without constant complaint. Dignity.” Marianne bent over and thrust a dry stick into the fire until its end began to smoke and glow. She used this to light a pipe, and then rose up in a great cloud of smoke, puffing like a beast of burden. This was the portrait of Marianne Edden that needed to be painted, the countess thought: all but obscured by a cloud of bittersweet-smelling smoke, as though she had risen from the flames like a demon… or a martyr, and cast her all-seeing eye on the weaknesses and foibles of the mortals scattered about her. The countess smiled for the first time that evening. “I’m sure I do not suffer setbacks and humiliations with quite the fortitude of your noble shopkeeper, but I shall try not to complain, as a woman in my position has no right to do, I’m sure.” Marianne settled her large frame into a chair, a look of distraction on her face. The countess always imagined that Marianne Edden was a woman who had mistakenly been raised as a farm boy—the mistake only discovered when she was twenty, and the attempts to correct what had been done only partially successful. To call Marianne masculine was not accurate. Oh, she was certainly not “ladylike,” as the term was used. One could not imagine Marianne suffering the vapors. Or suffering fools, something Farr women seemed to have been bred to do. Marianne had once paid some medical students to allow her to be present at the dissection of a corpse—saying that she needed to know more about the substance of man to write the truth about him—and not only had she failed to suffer as the more sensitive sex should, but she went around to people’s parlors appalling their guests with graphic descriptions of what she’d seen! “She is not your average… citizen,” the countess had once heard her described, which had made her laugh. Even for understated Farr society, that was an understatement. “What is it, precisely, that you see in this man?” Marianne asked, as though it were not a personal question at all. As though it were something that caused her great confusion and perhaps the countess could set her straight. The countess could not help but smile at this innocence. “Well, he is a genius…” “I’m a genius, and 1 don’t have the most beautiful man in the kingdom pursuing me. In fact, in my case intelligence appears to have the opposite effect. But go on. Clearly this faculty has more attraction for you than most.” “But he is guarded, as though there were things he must hide. He almost never makes an effort to impress with his wit and conversation, as others do. As though it is merely a game that he cannot be bothered with. As though he would not put his gifts to such use. When he speaks, he is very sincere, choosing his words with great care. And when he pronounces, for he is not known for making long speeches, everything he says is worth listening to with the utmost care. Although it is infrequent, I have seen Lord Skye refute the arguments of every man present with only a few well chosen words, and no one could gainsay him. As though his own thoughts were unassailable.” “A man not in love with the sound of his own voice seems very unnatural,” Marianne mused, as though the thought disturbed her. The countess was suddenly overwhelmed with her inability to say what she felt. She had not the powers of her companion and that was certain. “Should we not have some tea?” she asked suddenly. “Ale would be more to my liking,” Marianne said, looking at the countess with some distaste, obviously appalled by the idea of tea. It was dark, after all. “Then 1 shall call for ale,” the countess said. She rang for a servant, asking for both ale and tea, not quite ready to join Marianne in her passion for working man’s tastes. A bubbling mustache appeared on the satisfied face of the novelist as, a moment later, she lowered her glass. “You should try this, Elaural,” she said, using the countess’ given name, her love for things working class not allowing titles—at least not in certain circumstances. The countess smiled sweetly, she hoped. Marianne leaned forward to poke at the fire, her short hair swaying in the lamplight. She would have such pretty hair were she to let it grow, the countess found herself thinking. But she will not be admired for her appearance, but only for her mind—why it would be wrong to be admired for both, I cannot fathom. But in some way the countess admired the stand Marianne Edden had taken. It was courageous if a little eccentric. The countess believed it natural for men and women to admire each other. To flirt and court. Did not the very animals do the same? Natural. But then it was easy for her to be sanguine about such a thing—she had not been born with crooked teeth or a hideous nose. Men admired her—too much for her liking. But to be ignored… She couldn’t imagine how painful that might be. Will be, she reminded herself. Age would see to that. She would have the experience soon enough, and the thought disturbed her as it always did. “Will you consent to my seeing these portraits now?” Marianne asked suddenly. The countess felt a small shiver run through her. “If you like, though they are not portraits.” The Peliers were still in their cases, where she had purposely left them. The truth was that, as much as she wanted to be rid of these paintings, she feared that once they were gone she would never see Skye again. Reluctantly, the countess went to the wooden case in which the paintings had been transported. “Could you lend a hand? The frames are not light.” The two women lifted the first painting from the case and unwrapped it carefully, and then the second. They leaned them against the wall on a side table and shifted the light so they could be clearly seen. For a long moment they stood there, gazing at the paintings by lamplight which, the countess thought, made them, if anything, more eerie. “What is it about these paintings that disturbs you, Elaural?” Marianne asked softly. The countess shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered, not even attempting to deny the truth. “But are you drawn to them, as well?” The countess nodded, as much as she would have liked to have disagreed. Marianne turned her attention back to the paintings. “And this man of yours has an obsession with these?” the novelist said flatly. “I would not say that, but he believes they are significant in the larger mystery.” “This is the story you told me as we traveled? What was the man’s name?” “Baumgere.” “But one painting is a forgery, you say?” The countess nodded. “Though it might be an accurate forgery—an exact copy. That, at least, is what Mr. Kent believes.” Marianne leaned closer to look at the signature. “There is something peculiar about these paintings. I feel it myself. And this man.” She gestured to the figure crossing the bridge. He looks like a man going to the gallows. Look at his face. He knows his fate has been decided and continues only because there is no alternative. Something or someone awaits him, and he cannot turn back. Now here is a character to be pitied. This is the Stranger Skye spoke of?“ “That is what he believes. The spire in the background belonged to a church that burned years ago in the village of Compton Heath.” “But what became of the man?” The countess shook her head. “He was taken off in a carriage, though by whom, no one knows. The story has it that it was a mage—but then that makes for a better story, doesn’t it?” “Yes, it does,” Marianne said. “I wish you were not involved in this matter, Elaural. Skye… Skye has his own obsessions. You would be best to involve yourself no further. You don’t even know what he is seeking—or do you?“ The countess shook her head. She didn’t. Something more than he was telling her, that was certain. It was not just curiosity. It was an obsession. Where had the stranger come from, and what was it that this priest sought? Was that what drew Skye? Did he know what Baumgere was searching for? “What does the writing on the crypt say? Does Skye know?” “No. Apparently it cannot be read, or so Skye says.” “And 1 understand one may not gainsay the great Skye?” “You may, but at your peril.” “I will warn you only this one time, Elaural. I am famous for my intuition, and I do not have a good feeling about this matter. There, I’ve said my piece.” The slightest pause. “It would be different if this man was mad for you…” “I thought you’d said your piece?” “I have.” She turned away and went into the other room. A moment later the countess followed, shutting the door tightly between them and the Peliers. Marianne looked up, her face still somewhat grim, as though the paintings had left her feeling ill. “This crypt is nearby?” she said, forcing her voice to sound normal. The countess nodded. “Then we should at least see it while we’re here. I hope this genius of yours will contact us soon. It does seem a bit inconsiderate.” “He is not my genius, and I am sure there are reasons for what he is doing. I would like to see the structure myself—I do not know if it can be properly called a crypt. Apparently it is one of the sights around Castlebough.” “Well, we cannot miss the sights. We should have something for our trouble after traveling so far. Perhaps a ghost will rise from the crypt and answer all our questions.” The countess shook her head, trying to force the feelings caused by the paintings to subside. “I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should, Marianne. I think tomorrow it will be time for you to go back to your work. I am going to keep my word on this. You will be locked into a room with pen and paper every morning at Chapter Fourteen A memory is a dream turned to disappointment. Halden ‘ ’ I was something of a prodigy of the local Farrellite School, 1 but my father, who was more shrewd than his lot in life would indicate, took me out of the clutches of the priests.“ Clarendon lifted a glass of wine. ”He realized there was a possibility of making money from my talents, and money was the one thing that had always eluded the poor man.“ He paused to taste his wine. ”Do you find the finish bitter?“ he asked Erasmus. They had come down from the ruin late in the afternoon to Clarendon’s house. Kehler had insisted on coming later, after darkness fell, and had arrived looking more than a little apprehensive. He still would say nothing, and the others gave up asking, hoping he would come to it in his own time. Erasmus thought there was quite a contrast between the lad-next-door looks of Hayes and his sharp-featured friend. Kehler’s motions were all quick, and he held his head lowered at the neck in such a way as to leave the impression that he was ready, at an instant, to duck out of sight. The two were about the same age, but Kehler already showed gray at the temples and crow’s feet pressed into the corners of his eyes. But there was also something between these two young men, some commonality despite their divergent appearances. They were both a bit haunted, perhaps for vastly different reasons, but it was unmistakable. IJt Erasmus tasted the wine again, his focus entirely inward. “Bitter? Very slightly so, perhaps. I almost think I enjoy it. There is an odd aftertaste, like slightly burned apple.” Clarendon tasted his own wine again, inclined his head to one side, and closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes, 1 see what you mean. You must meet the others, Mr. Flattery, they will make you most welcome.” He looked up at a painting on the wall—a circus troupe under the light of torches and great lanterns, and then seemed to remember that he had been telling a story. “Originally I would perform arithmetical calculations in my head—problems posed by people who came to see the show, for we had joined a traveling show: General Albert W. Payne’s Traveling Company. Unfortunately the ‘General’ took most of the money, and my father squandered whnt was left on fine clothing, women, and drink. He was not a very original man, I’m afraid,” he said, as though apologizing. “Many feats were performed. I memorized enormous blocks of text in one reading and parroted them back without mistake, or merely glanced at a thirty digit number and then wrote it down. I once sat the final examinations in mathematics at Merton making not one error and halving the previous record for time. I was at that time three months shy of my tenth birthday. I gained quite a reputation, and made even more money for the owner of our traveling company. Not long after this my father died—choked on his own gorge while insensible with drink. There was a struggle between several of my relatives, people I hardly knew, and the General, to decide who would be my legal guardian. In the end, one of the women in the show, whom I had always called ‘aunt,’ produced a signed certificate of marriage proving that she and my father had been joined in sacred matrimony—when he was drunk beyond knowing, I’m sure. “It was something of a scandal, really, but finally my ‘aunt’ managed to outbid my dear family and the General, who only offered the judge money. Aunt Liz, who was a stunning young woman, managed to offer the judge something he did not already have, and perhaps had never possessed—the apparent adoration of a beautiful young woman, however briefly it lasted. “My life changed on that day. Aunt Liz and I left the company immediately. She had been a dancer and tumbler in the show, which was lewd in the extreme, and perhaps she had even worked in the tents when the show was over, I don’t know, but she was as shrewd a businesswoman as ever palmed a coin, 1 can tell you that. She took what money she had managed to save, which would indicate she really was working on the side, and hired tutors. A retired professor from Merton to teach me higher maths. An elocution instructor. My crooked working class accent was hammered straight, and 1 was also allowed to read as much as I wanted—and I wanted to read all the time. Very soon Aunt Liz had Farrland’s most respected scholars vying with each other to instruct me, for I have a flawless memory and an ability to perform calculations that would take other men hours or even days, though they might take me only a few moments.“ Hayes watched the small man’s face, utterly entranced by the story, &ut sensing a sadness in Clarendon as he exposed these memories. “Soon all the performances 1 did were in the private homes of Farrland’s wealthiest citizens, or in grand halls. Once, I was invited to be a guest of the Society, where they posed the most difficult questions of all, though I acquitted myself well. I began to feel like less of a spectacle, less of a freak, though the old feelings were not entirely gone. I was called The Petite Professor, or the Dwarf Savant. Professor Memory. All manner of appellations. And among all the educated people I even made a few real friends. And I also made money. Lizzy saw to that. She was my guardian goddess, and I loved her hopelessly.” He swiveled as though to look out the darkened window, raising a hand to his face, but turning the movement into a mere gesture, placing the hand beneath his chin. “When I was seventeen, my darling Lizzy fell victim to a cad. A Colonel Winslow Petry. They were too quickly married…” His voice trailed off. And then he resettled himself in his chair, straightening his small back. “And so I was forced to begin again. For the second time in my short life I had lost everything. Lizzy and the money, too. But fortunately I had a head for figures, and in one sense that’s all money is—numbers, marks on a page. I knew what to do to make it, even if it gave me little joy, and the lesson of my father taught me to preserve what I acquired. “Lizzy and her colonel went off, spending the money we had made. To this day I can’t think of it without the deepest sadness. She was the one person I had trusted utterly… After that I traveled continuously for six years. Through Doom and Entonne. To every corner of the lands around the Entide Sea. Everywhere I went, I moved in society. I learned to play the pianum, though I am not so skilled at that as I am at other things I have turned my hand to. I became a devotee of the arts and met many artists and writers. And it was through this that I was saved.“ He looked up at his guests, his face brightening a little. “I was so fortunate, after all my years of travel, to meet the Haywood family—do you know them?” “The porcelain people?” Hayes asked. “The very ones. I was invited to their home to give one of my demonstrations, and I almost did not leave. Such open-hearted people, such complete joy in my life, I had never encountered. 1 was captivated by them in a way that you cannot imagine. You see, they invited me into the fold, as it were, as they did a select few they took a genuine liking to. They rescued me… from cynicism, bitterness, resentment, all the ugly, unworthy things that had become lodged in my heart. And I cast all of these things out, like demons, and made myself anew. Through the Haywoods I learned that my gifts were to be treasured, and that I was no more a freak than a man who sits before a pianum and holds the audience in his hand, playing upon their emotions with his own given skill. I was gifted, perhaps supremely so. As for my small stature… well, in their home it did not matter.” “You see, I had never thought of myself as an intellectual, but only as someone who could perform tricks, tricks of the mind to be sure, but tricks all the same. In my own view I was no different from the performing animals in General Payne’s traveling show, or from the other freaks whose physical deformities were a source of fascination and horror to the general population. But the Haywoods made me realize that this was not true, that in fact I was the equal of a professor at Merton—even more so, for I disremember nothing and can perform calculations in my head that others can never equal. “Through them I actually taught for a year; higher mathematics at the University in Belgard. It will sound odd to you, but the Haywoods humanized me, for I was always an outsider in my own mind—a near-human. A dwarf; different in both mind and body.” He smiled almost beneficently. “And so you see before you a man, small in stature, yes, but large in mental abilities. A true man of parts, as they say. And through the good graces and efforts of the Haywoods, I was even able to develop my other sensibilities.” He raised his glass as though toasting his benefactors. “And that, more or less, is my story. I have made enough money that I no longer perform as 1 did, but devote myself to my interests and my many friends, for as you know people born with my particular physical characteristics often do not live a normal span of years, and I want to be sure to waste as little time as possible.” He drank from his glass. “And so here we all are, having lived our separate lives, followed our separate journeys, yet somehow we have all arrived here at this exact moment. If, like me, you have grown suspicious of coincidence, you might think that there is some reason for this. Why have we all come to this place tonight?” Hayes was not sure the question was rhetorical. He even found himself wondering the same thing. What were they all doing there? “But you have an interest in the mages, Randall,” Erasmus said, “and you know something of Teller, and this is truly arcane knowledge. Has this long been an interest?” Randall looked down at the table, and Hayes thought the man was trying to decide what he would tell Erasmus, for though it was obvious that the dwarf was an admirer, Erasmus was still a near stranger. “I came by this interest accidentally. You see, 1 discovered Cas-tlebough through a physician who attended me. He suggested I come here for the cure, which I did, and for me, at least, it worked. During that visit I fell in love with the village and the surrounding countryside. It is a healthful environment, I think. Clean air, salubrious water, exercise, and few of the aggravations of the city. “I come here in the spring and usually stay for the entire summer. In the winter I travel. This winter last I visited Farrow.” He stood suddenly in his place, but it was only to lean forward to fill Kehler’s glass. “I am naturally curious and thought to learn something of the history of my new home. And what a history it has! The citadel above saw some of the most terrible battles of the Wars of Heresy.” He shook his head, the sadness coming back. “And, of course, there was the mystery of Baumgere, which has intrigued the village for years. Unlike the inhabitants of Castlebough, however, I had an enormous advantage during my research. In my travels I have had occasion to meet men of great knowledge, and I have looked into private libraries to which few have been granted access. “It is astonishing the way knowledge is scattered around our JO world,“ he said suddenly. ”Some written in books of which only one copy remains extant. Much passed down by word of mouth, and very temporarily stored in the minds of the most unlikely people in the most out of the way places. And then there are the great libraries and the innumerable attics of the known world… The things people confide in their correspondence! So, yes, it began with an interest in this local legend—the crypt of Baumgere and the denial of absolution—and led me to this man named Teller, and then to the mages.“ Clarendon looked up at the others, his manner almost defensive. Hayes could see that Kehler was staring raptly at his host, listening to every word, and to all that was suggested but never stated. It was a wonder that Kehler managed to contain himself. “The society that Teller founded was almost certainly destroyed during the Winter War—about 1415—almost five centuries after Teller. Five centuries! What did they learn in that time?” He looked at each of his guests, as though sure they were keeping the answer to the question from him. “I do not know,” he said, dropping his gaze. “I do not know. But enough that the mages felt they must hunt them down and destroy them. Destroy them after they had managed to keep themselves secret for five hundred years.” “The mages had no need of hunting them down,” Erasmus said, surprising everyone. Clarendon looked up, his eyes suddenly alive with interest. Erasmus met no one’s eye, but stared at the empty chair across from him, as though he addressed someone seated there. “The Tell-erites—and I use this term for lack of any other; what the society called themselves is unknown, and the mages would not speak their name—the Tellerites were caught—trapped, I think—all together. Trapped and destroyed.” “How?” Kehler asked quietly. “I don’t know, though it seems likely they had gathered to perform an important ritual. I haven’t been able to learn more. I can’t even say where this happened nor, with any certainty, when, though Randall’s date of 1415 is probably very close.” “But what do you make of the crypt and the gravestone by the citadel?” Clarendon asked. Erasmus shook his head. “I don’t know. If some remnant of the society had survived the purge… well, I think it unlikely they would do anything to draw attention to themselves. Is that the tomb of Teller? 1 very much doubt it. What purpose it served is a mystery. As to the gravestones… well, you said yourself that it is only rumor that connects them to Baumgere.“ Kehler leaned forward in his chair, barely suppressing his excitement. “But where? Where were the Tellerites destroyed? Could it have been here, in Castlebough? Could that explain the grave?” “No,” Erasmus said. “I don’t know where it occurred, but I am more certain about where it did not, and I can say almost without doubt that it did not happen here. There is a very old song that originated among the Cary minstrels, and is as ambiguous as all their works.” Erasmus sat forward in his chair, and softly he began to sing in a thin, though expressive voice. “A shepherd, a maiden, an orphan often A night ‘neath a kint in fragrant spring Seven men came walking by torchlight and star And low by moonlight were heard to sing, A delro, a delro Ai kombi are. We have come to the gate, The gate of Faery. Five passed through the moonlight more ghostly than men Singing by starlight in tongues unknown Passed by the orphan, the maiden, the man Down into the labyrinth, to the mouth of stone. A delro, a delro Ai kombi are. We have come to the gate, The gate of Faery. The darkness ascended, devouring the sky And wind cried in fury and toppled the tower The heavens were scarred with letters of fire Shattering stone with words of power. A delro, a delro Ai kombi are The sun would not rise at its appointed hour And the stars wandered, lost, across the sea of the sky Five men slowly walking in sullen power Past orphan, and maiden, and the one devoured. A delro, a delro Ai kombi are, We have come to the gate, The gate to Faery. A delro, a delro Ai kombi are.“ V Erasmus sat back in his chair, staring unseeing at the others. No one spoke for a moment, and then a breeze moved the curtains, causing Hayes to start. He laughed nervously, the sound dying like a pinched-ofF flame. A moth came in from the night and fluttered wildly over the heat of a lamp, unable to resist the light. “But what could it mean?” Hayes asked. “The destruction of Teller,” Randall said firmly. Erasmus nodded. “And the language… ? It is the mage tongue?” Erasmus shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t know. The song is partly fancy, certainly. ‘We have come to the gate, the gate of Faery.’ But there is something there, as there usually is in the minstrels’ songs. A buried truth. Seven men passed in the moonlight. Five came behind, ‘more ghostly than men.’ Five mages. A great spell was cast, or a series of them. Five men returned ‘in sullen power,’ past the witnesses, one of whom was devoured—went mad, I think. Mad with fear. That is the story.” “But you know something more, Mr. Flattery, for you would hardly make such an assumption from so little evidence.” Randall fixed his gaze on Erasmus again, though this time Erasmus did not even look up to meet his eye. “You will not say.” Randall smiled kindly. It was not a question. A long silence. “Not now, perhaps,” the dwarf said, “but when you know me better…” Randall stood and filled Erasmus’ glass with wine, then did the same for the others. He raised his glass, and his guests stood as well. “To mysteries, gentlemen, for they keep me alive. To unexpected meetings, for they, too, are mysterious. And to coincidence, which I believe in not at all.” Chapter Fifteen Hayes sat in a chair in his room and watched Kehler pace back and forth across the small square of carpet. Occasionally he would go to the window and twitch the curtain aside just enough to peer down into the dimly lit courtyard. For a moment he would stare, perhaps searching for malevolent forms in the shadows, and then he would return to his pacing. “Deacon Rose is a lot more dangerous than you realize. Certainly more dangerous than Erasmus believes.” He stopped and made a visible effort to calm himself, taking long, slow breaths. “No, Deacon Rose is to be avoided at all costs.” He looked over at Hayes in a way that was uncharacteristically measuring. “But where is our much vaunted employer?” “I agree with Erasmus; I think Skye would come here,” Hayes said, trying to ignore the gaze that was cast upon him. “Though I can’t imagine the famous Lord Skye could be long in Castlebough without everyone knowing.” Kehler resumed his pacing, went two steps, and then stopped, looking at Hayes in some surprise. “What in Farrelle’s name were agents of the Admiralty doing in your rooms?” he said, going back to an earlier part of the conversation. “They can’t be interested in this matter we’ve been chasing… can they?” Hayes lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I wouldn’t think so. No, it must have something to do with the naval gun. Perhaps they’re afraid Entonne agents were trying to steal the plans from Skye. Would they not begin to look at all of his acquaintances, then? And here 1 am, in terrible financial distress, recently applying for a position in the foreign department. Do I not look like the perfect person for the Entonne to enlist? That is my guess, at least. I do hope Skye will exonerate me, I don’t much like living as a fugitive. Things have gotten so bad that I’m acutely aware of the nearness of the border. I’ve even made a plan for slipping across into Entonne if it becomes necessary.“ A short, sad laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. “I’m quite sure it won’t come to that, Hayes. You have Erasmus on your side, which means the Duke of Blackwater will stand behind you. And certainly Skye will vouch for you—for us. I’m one of the earl’s associates, too, don’t forget. At worst we’ll be exiles together.” This almost brought a smile to Hayes, but not quite. “Yes, well, that is some comfort, but at the moment I am rather adrift. I’m sure my landlord in Avonei will have sold off my few belongings by now, and here I am, entirely dependent on the good graces of Erasmus Flattery.” The sadness pulled at his face, pinching it so that his eyes almost glistened. “I have seldom had less hope for my future than I do now.” “I don’t think you need to worry overly about your future, Hayes,” Kehler said, a sudden smugness very poorly disguised. Hearing this, Hayes looked up at his friend with some hope. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about make me a devil’s offer?” “Nothing of the sort, my dear Hayes. Well, not too much of the sort.” The words might have been jocular, but Kehler’s manner had become very serious. “To be candid, Hayes, I am not completely satisfied with my relations with our employer. Perhaps it is the perennial grievance of assistants, but I feel I have done the lion’s share of the work and see Skye taking all the profit.” He stopped to think. “The truth is I don’t understand what it is that Skye hopes to learn or do with what I’ve found, but I suspect he will not put it to any use but his own.” He looked directly at Hayes. “I’ve made some discoveries in Wooton that will leave you a little breathless, I think.” “And I’m anxious to hear about them, but, Kehler, you undertook this matter for Lord Skye. Does that mean nothing to you?” “Indeed, it does. I delivered a letter to the earl’s home outlining several of my discoveries and have heard nothing from him. Hardly a fair return for my efforts. But I promised Lord Skye that I would deliver my information, and keep the earl’s confidence—by which 1 meant that I would not reveal his part in the matter. But what / do with my findings is another thing entirely. Now, what would you say if I told you that we could satisfy both our curiosity, make what 1 hope will be a major discovery, and net you a substantial sum of money into the bargain?“ “I would say, bully for Kehler, of course, but you must know— considerations of Skye aside—Erasmus seems to think that you’re involving yourself in matters that could well be dangerous. If the Farrellites have been hiding knowledge from the mages, Erasmus believes they will go to almost any length to keep it from Eldrich. Thus the priest is pursuing you, or so I assume. Perhaps you should tell me precisely what you have discovered.” “All in good time, Hayes. All in good time. Our first order of business is to slip away from all concerned—agents of the Admiralty, priests, friends, and well-wishers, all. I’ve collected the gear we’ll need.” Kehler gestured toward the door. “But where are we going?” “To complete what Baumgere began, but grew too old to finish. To make our names in the world. Come along while there is time, for I can assure you of this, Hayes—it is an opportunity which shall not call twice.” Chapter Sixteen There was something about Skye that Marianne Edden could not quite grasp. Possessing an intuitive faculty that she thought justifiably celebrated, it was difficult to accept that someone could so completely elude her. Skye shifted slightly in his chair, and she watched his every move, hoping somehow that this meditation on him would help. She had even placed her chair so that she could watch him unobtrusively. Her eye wandered for a second to the countess—compared to Skye Elaural was as easy to read as a child. She could hide nothing, not from her friend at least. But Skye… Marianne had never met him before, and she was not unaware that there were people who would consider this evening of historic importance. The meeting of two of the great minds of their time— one scientific, the other literary. It was lucky that none of these people were present; they would have been exceedingly disappointed. Skye sat staring at the Pelier paintings, only occasionally breaking away to attempt polite conversation. His mind was clearly not on his hostesses—and most pointedly not on the admiring countess. Alone in a room with the most brilliant novelist and the most celebrated beauty of his time, and he hardly seems aware of us, she thought, not entirely immodestly—it was not, after all, Marianne who went about proclaiming her brilliance, at least not usually. “Have you learned anything of the script?” the countess asked, her voice very small. She was obviously aware that Skye barely noticed her. He turned to her with a confused look, and then her question registered. “Oh…” He went back to the painting, his gaze not even lingering on the face that other men could hardly tear their eyes from. “Nothing useful. It has been suggested that it bears some similarity to the writing found on the Ruin of Farrow, which is an intriguing idea. There is also some evidence that it might be a very old Farr language, one not spoken for some centuries, though perhaps known to the mages far more recently. Unfortunately the two men who might be able to tell me the truth of this are not inclined to be helpful.” “Who might they be, pray?” the countess asked, obviously making an attempt to capture his attention, something she managed effortlessly with other men. The way Skye shifted in his chair… there was something not quite right here, Marianne was sure of it. “Well, Eldrich, obviously, and the other is Erasmus Flattery. Do you know the man? He is a brother to the Duke of Blackwater, I think.” “No,” the countess answered, clearly feeling a sense of failure. “No, I’m afraid not. But is this Erasmus Flattery not an empiricist? A colleague of yours in the Society?” Skye nodded, a slight grimace appearing. “Yes, though he seldom attends, and is not well known to any fellow at the Society. Something of an eccentric, this Flattery.” He paused uncomfortably, then went on. “He lived in the house of Eldrich when he was a boy. Did you know that?” “Well, I knew it was a rumor, but 1 have never given it much credit. Have you, Marianne?” “I confess that I have not formed an opinion on the matter of Erasmus Flattery’s boyhood.” The countess cast her a look of mild annoyance, but Marianne could not resist. The situation seemed so patently false and strained to her. Why did Elaural continue to humiliate herself with this man? “Well, it is quite true,” Skye said quickly. “Flattery spent some three years in the house of Eldrich, if you can imagine. But he will not speak of it, avoiding all questions with some energy. Too much energy, many people think.“ A long awkward pause followed, and Marianne braced herself mentally for what would follow. Did the countess not see what was happening here? Did her usual instincts abandon her in this man’s presence? Farrelle help her, Marianne thought, it must be love. Skye cleared his throat quietly. “The great irony is,” he began, trying to force a casual tone, “Erasmus Flattery might actually be in Castlebough—at least there is a rumor to that effect.” He stared ‘ hard at the paintings, careful not to look at either of the women. “It is an odd coincidence that Flattery is here at this time.” He glanced quickly at the countess, then back to the painting. “Imagine having spent time in the house of a mage and never saying a word of it. The man is keeping a small part of our most fascinating history to himself. It seems so odd that / have heard some suggest that Flattery is bespelled and cannot speak of it.” Skye snorted. “Apparently he also spent some time studying the Ruin on Farrow and says little of that either, though he has claimed that he discovered nothing new. I wonder if that is true.” He leaned forward to gaze at the inscription on the tomb. “Can he tell me what tongue this is? Can he, perhaps, read it?” “What makes you think the mages knew this language?” Marianne asked, hoping to deflect what was coming. The earl hesitated. “I have seen a note—written by one of the mages—Lucklow, to be precise. Not a very remarkable note really, considering its source, but beneath his signature letter L, there is a line of characters astonishingly similar to the characters we see here. I admit it is unlikely that Erasmus could answer my question, but who else might have such knowledge? No one that I’m aware of.“ “But what would that mean?” the countess said, sounding genuine for the first time that evening. The news had excited her interest. “How would Pelier have known such a script, if, as you suggest, it is the script of the mages? And why would one find the same script on Farrow? The discovery of the island is comparatively recent—in the last four hundred years.” Skye raised a finger, his face brightened at the countess’ interest. “Exactly. How would Pelier have been familiar with this writing? Either he was truly gifted with the sight and merely reproduced his vision, having no more idea what it meant than we do ourselves, or he somehow had knowledge that only the mages possessed. “It is well known that Pelier was a member of various arcane societies, though there has been so much speculation about this that the truth is certainly beyond retrieving now. Perhaps he belonged to some group that had knowledge of this script. There are rumors of such cabals: men who had some knowledge of the ways of the mages. 1 am convinced that at least one of these groups actually existed, though it was destroyed years ago.” “But why do you care?” Marianne asked, and she watched Skye’s face change, his manner suddenly suspicious, vaguely hostile. “It is the great mystery,” he said easily. “The fascination of every man in Farrland, and every woman, too, I dare say. The mages and their arts. Men who lived twice or thrice our span of years, and could perform feats that were far beyond our own meager powers. That is reason enough for such a fascination.” “But what of this Stranger and the priest, Baumgere? What have they to do with your great mystery?” Skye shrugged. “That is what I hope to learn, Miss Edden. Where did this Stranger come from?” “You don’t think it a hoax, then?” Marianne said, pushing Skye more than was polite. The great empiricist shrugged. “I cannot prove that either way, but if it was a hoax it was managed with astonishing cunning, for some very astute men were taken in.” “But was he from another land—a civilized nation yet undiscovered?” Marianne could almost sense Skye closing down, becoming more and more reluctant to answer her questions. “He was from some other place,” Skye said, clearly becoming uncomfortable. “But what does that mean, ‘some other place’?” Skye shrugged, guarded now. “Really, Marianne,” the countess interrupted, sounding a bit anxious. “You are being difficult this evening. We all have our interests. I venture that you are seldom required to justify your own.” Marianne bowed her head. “Do forgive me, Lord Skye,” she said smiling at the countess’ rebuke. “1 have been told that I have no tact at all, and apparently it is true.” “No need, Miss Edden,” Skye said solicitously, relaxing visibly now that her inquisition was over. “No need.” He said nothing ito S ean Russell more, and they turned their attention back to the paintings again, no one sure what to say to save the moment. “Do you really think there is some possibility that Erasmus Flattery can read this script?” the countess asked quietly. Skye shrugged. “It’s not impossible.” The countess took a deep breath. “Well, if you send him to me, I will find the truth for you,” she said. Skye turned to her, his eyes bright with… what? Smugness, Marianne realized. It was what he had hoped for all along. “Do you really think you could?” he asked. “Have no doubt of it,” the countess said, clearly happy to have his full attention finally. “Some men find me difficult to refuse.” Skye almost leaped to his feet. “Then I will find him within the hour. Write a note, and I will see it delivered to him this night.” He turned to Marianne in his joy, and realized she was not so enthusiastic as he. But this did not cause him to reconsider. Erasmus heard the note being slipped under his door, and after a moment rose from his bed to see what it was. Sleep after all, was not so easily found that night. There was enough starlight and moonlight in his room that he found the envelope easily—a rectangle of gray against the dark wooden door. For a moment he stood by the window trying to make out the hand by the poor light—was it from Clarendon? Hayes? Perhaps even Deacon Rose? Finding a candle, he lit it from the coals of his fire and slit the note with a pocket knife. My Dear Mr. Flattery: I have just been informed that you are also visiting Castlebough (the joys of small towns) and wonder if I might entice you to visit. 1 have long wanted to make your acquaintance, and will confess that I have a very small favor to ask. 1 look forward to our meeting. It was signed by the Countess of Chilton. “Indeed,” Erasmus said to the room. “What in the round world does the countess want with me?” Erasmus slumped into a chair. There was no question of him having suddenly become an object of interest to the smart set in Avonel. That was not possible. No, it was this “small favor” that had occasioned the sudden interest. And if that were the case, it had either to do with botany or the ways of the mages, and somehow Erasmus did not think it had anything to do with botany, though he was not sure why. Even so, one did not pass up an opportunity to meet the Countess of Chilton. It was the kind of thing that would intrigue people a decade hence. “You actu ally met the countess?” “Yes, but none of the rumors are true. We were nothing more than acquaintances.” Lost in thought, he sat by the window until his head suddenly rolled to one side, and he forced himself to take to his bed. K To report had been exaggerated. I V That was Erasmus’ first thought upon meeting the countess. She was, if anything, more lovely than he had imagined—and his imagination was usually unrivaled in this regard. He found he was hardly able to take his gaze away from those exquisite eyes, that perfect face. Certainly, he thought, no man can look at those beautiful lips without wondering what it would be like to kiss them. The morning sun cast elongated rectangles on the floor and turned the border of the countess’ tresses into a flaming nimbus about her heart-shaped face. / should have worn my blade, Erasmus thought, / am prepared to fight a duel for her already. It is no wonder that men are driven to foolishness around her. “It is very kind of you to come, Mr. Flattery. And on such short notice. 1 am honored.” “It was the summons I’m sure every man in Farrland dreams of, Lady Chilton. I would have come on a moment’s notice.” “Well, you are not letting down the family name, I see.” She smiled charmingly to let him know that she teased and motioned to a divan set in the light of the windows. Erasmus took his seat stiffly, and Lady Chilton sat at ease near him. “You are known to be a man of some genius, Mr. Flattery,” she said, perhaps not to be outdone, “so I will not patronize you. I was speaking truthfully when I said I had long wished to make your ac- DU quaintance, but as I wrote, there is a small favor I will ask, if you will allow it.“ “Lady Chilton, certainly any favor you ask will be too small. Please, do not hesitate.” Erasmus was glad that she did not indulge in an hour of aimless chitchat before coming to the point. Glad and a little disappointed. One did not want a visit to the countess to end any sooner than it must. She turned her attention to two paintings that Erasmus had not even registered, though he had walked right past them. He felt a certain disorientation looking at the paintings, though he could not say why. There seemed to be subtle breaking of the rules of perspective, and a hyperrealism, as though the painting were really part of a fever dream. And then he realized that the crypt in one painting was the same as he had seen above Castle-bough. These were the Peliers Skye had found! He turned back to the countess, his manner guarded. “It is the inscription on the tomb that I am interested in,” the countess said. “Lord Skye has put you up to this, I see,” he said, his voice colder than he meant it to be. The countess averted her gaze a little. “I rather put myself up to it,” she said softly. Erasmus stared at her, feeling sorry that he might have caused her discomfort. One could hardly look at this woman and want to cause her anything but pleasure. “But you are correct in your assumption,” she said. “How did you know?” “I… I had heard a rumor that Skye found the paintings once owned by Baumgere.” He inclined his head toward the paintings. “I see. And can you read this text? Skye believes it might have been a language used by the mages. He also wonders if it bears some passing resemblance to the writing on the Ruin of Farrow. 1 understand, Mr. Flattery, that you are an authority on the Ruin, among a great many other things.” She turned her gaze back to him, her look a mixture of defiance and guilt. The countess could see by his face and the stiffness of his posture that Erasmus Flattery was not pleased with this development, and she was not so happy herself to be using him so. There was something in his manner that also told her that Erasmus was hiding more than most realized. She wondered if Skye was right—Erasmus could read the writing. “It is a mystery to me,” he said firmly. The countess looked down at her fingers worrying the cushion’s edge. “Have I offended you, Mr. Flattery? It seemed an innocent enough request to me.” She looked up again, meeting his eyes fully, watching the effect this had. Yes, this man, at least, was not indifferent to her charms. “Offended me? No,” he said, though obviously she had unsettled him. “Does this have to do with your service to Eldrich? I understand that you mislike speaking of it.” “Not at all.” He hesitated, looking down for an instant, but he could not keep his eyes from hers. “Do not apologize, Lady Chilton. It is I who am sorry that I have no answer to your question.” “Oh.” She blew air through her lips in dismissal of his apology. She favored him with her most charming smile. “There are some who say that you were bespelled by Eldrich and cannot speak of those years…” He laughed. She had managed to save the moment. “I am not bespelled, Lady Chilton. My brief time in the house of Eldrich was so utterly without incident that I refuse to bore people with the tale. I was a boy. I was sent to the house of the mage where I lived for three years almost to the day. During that time I was under the guardianship of a tutor who was so ancient that at the end of three years he still occasionally got my name wrong. I studied the things every schoolboy studies. I stole sweet-tarts from the kitchen. I confess I missed my mother and family. And then I was sent home, and at no time was I offered an explanation—either then or since. Oh, and I forgot to say; I never met the mage himself. I did, however, see him, or so I believe, on more than one occasion, though never close to. A tall man with black hair and a stiff gait. And from this rather odd experience, people think I learned the secrets of the mages.” He shrugged and smiled a bit helplessly. “I see what you mean. Tea, Mr. Flattery?” She motioned for the servant to come in, realizing that Erasmus was more than relieved. He was hiding the real story, she was certain. She wondered what it would take to pry it out of him? She sent the servant off and poured the tea herself. Erasmus Flattery, she decided, was not a bad looking man. Oh, he was not fashionable, though certainly well enough dressed, but his entire manner was not what was currently acceptable in Avonel society. No, Erasmus Flattery committed the unforgivable sin of allowing his passion to show. He was a man of great intensity, and did nothing to hide it, unlike the fashionable gentlemen of Avonel who feigned boredom in almost any situation. Farrelle help them, they were so indifferent (except to her, it seemed). She found Erasmus’ manner rather refreshing. Erasmus exhibited none of the openness and naivete that characterized many empiricists and scholars. Instead he seemed guarded, like a man who had seen a great deal and not all of it pleasant. She had seen men who had been in battles who wore this same look. “1 understand there is a move afoot, Mr. Flattery, to allow ladies to attend some of the lectures at the Society,” she said, turning to small talk, though small talk of his own world. “There is, though I will tell you that I have little hope of its success. The old men are still very much in control there.” “Are these the gentlemen known affectionately as the ‘fossils’?” Erasmus laughed. “Very affectionately, 1 assure you!” He tasted his tea. “There is a plan to offer lectures to the public for some very small fee. Not on the Society premises or under its auspices, but most, if not all, of the lectures heard at the Society meetings might be offered. It would be a good thing, I think. The best we can manage until the old men step down.” “Well then, may the fossils soon pass on into the collections of the cosmic museum.” “Hear, hear.” “Tell me about this ruin on Farrow, Mr. Flattery. It is rather romantic, don’t you think? This great mystery sitting there all these centuries, its purpose unknown, its builders long passed from history. What on earth could it have been for?” Erasmus shrugged. “I don’t actually know, though 1 fear it might be something less than romantic. My best guess is it was a kind of calendar. Almost an instrument used to calibrate the movement of stars and planets, to gauge the exact moments of certain celestial events. The longest day of summer, the shortest of winter. It likely had ceremonial purposes as well, though what those were is anyone’s guess.” “But it is sitting there nearly intact, and has been for who knows how long, and yet all the other ruins on the island are buried beneath the earth, the walls fallen to foundations. How is that?” Erasmus sipped his tea. “The other ruins bear no resemblance to the Ruin of Farrow. They are of different stone, and not built in the same style. I think they predate the Farrow Ruin by some time. Perhaps centuries.” “Astonishing,” she said. “I must make a trip there. I don’t know why I haven’t.” Her own voice sounded so false to her that the countess could not believe that Erasmus was not offended by her manner. Look what I do here, she thought. This poor man has secrets he wants to keep, perhaps for good reason, and I have set out to charm them from him. A wave of self-revulsion swept over her. She thought of Skye jumping up from his chair like a boy when she assured him she could get the information he wanted from Erasmus Flattery. How little he cares for me that he would use me so, she thought, and felt a sadness near to tears. And now I will use this good man equally poorly. She looked over at Erasmus and felt that they were both victims in this. “I must ask—though please don’t let me pry—are you not haunted by what happened to you in your youth? If such a thing had happened to me, I’m sure I would think of nothing else. Your good father never offered an explanation?” “The duke was not in the habit of explaining himself to anyone.” Erasmus looked up, reacting to the sympathy on her face. “And yes, I do wonder.” He looked down into his cup for a moment. “I’m sure there was a reason. I mean there must have been. It seems very likely that I performed some feat in my youth that brought me to the attention of Eldrich. It has long been known that mages required some kind of native talent that allowed them to be trained in the arts—just as a singer must have a voice. Perhaps I showed some signs of this, but either was found wanting, or more likely, the mage held faith with the others of his kind, and trained no apprentice.” “But if he did not intend to train you, why on earth were you taken into his home?” Erasmus looked out the window. “Perhaps Eldrich was not absolutely sure that he would not take an apprentice. No one knows for certain why the mages have stopped the practice of training the next generation. It is a mystery that will likely never be solved. But Eldrich may have reconsidered. Or perhaps true talent, in the measure needed to become a mage, has become very rare.“ “Overwhelmed by reason, perhaps?” the countess said. Erasmus smiled. “Perhaps.” He met her eyes for a second then looked away, obviously unsettled by his own hopes, his feelings. The countess felt badly for him. She was, after all, attempting to raise those hopes—not too much, just enough to get what she wanted. What a truly awful woman I have become, she thought. “Tell me, Mr. Flattery, how have you enjoyed becoming the ‘illustrious Erasmus Flattery’? Has it given you great pleasure, I hope?” Suddenly, Erasmus sat very straight and met her eyes, his manner no longer congenial, or so eager to please. “The script, Lady Chilton,” he said more coolly than men commonly spoke to her, “is not the same as that found on the Ruin of Farrow, though a few characters have enough similarities that I would venture they are not so distantly related. I can’t tell you how Pelier could have written it, nor can I read it. Is that what you wanted to hear?” The countess felt herself shrink inside. “You do me disservice, sir,” she protested softly. “Do I, indeed? Then please accept my humble apology.” He set his cup on the table and looked as though he were about to rise. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “No. It is I who should apologize. I…” She searched for the right thing to say, but everything suddenly seemed false. “I should not have misused you so, Mr. Flattery. 1 hope you will forgive me. You see… I have found these last few years that… I am not always satisfied with my conduct…” She looked down at her hands which made small movements that seemed rather helpless at the moment. “The attention you receive, Lady Chilton,” Erasmus said softly, “it cannot be easy.” “It is not,” she said quickly. “Though it is no excuse for my behavior, and I have no right to complain. Some women have no suitors at all. Imagine the pain of that? No, I must not complain. But… I am really not so charming.” She smiled painfully. Look at the effect of this on him, she thought. Farrelle help me, I have tried to be honest for once, and I think I have melted his heart. “What is Skye’s interest in this?” he asked with some difficulty. “These are the Peliers Baumgere possessed?” After what she had just done, she felt that she had no choice but to answer. “1 believe they are, though I have been informed that one—the painting of the tomb—is not a Pelier. Skye believes it to be a close copy—including the inscription that you see on the tomb—of an original, but I am not sure why he thinks that.” Erasmus turned his attention back to the painting. She wondered what he was thinking at that moment, for his look was very dark and serious. “Is it not remarkable, Mr. Flattery, that Pelier would paint such a thing—and then this man Baumgere would dig up the very crypt depicted?” “Most remarkable, Lady Chilton.” Erasmus shook his head as though baffled, and then turned back to his hostess. “I’m sure I have taken enough of Lady Chilton’s time. It has been a great pleasure.” She was certain her mouth dropped open. Men never volunteered to leave her presence. More often than not she had trouble ridding herself of them. “It—it was very kind of you to come, Mr. Flattery, and I hope you will do so again.” They both rose at the same time. The countess could hardly remember such feelings of confusion. Look what she had been reduced to! Skye had her performing seductions for his own ends, and even if they were emotional seductions only, even so… She felt such a sense of emptiness at her center when she thought of what Skye had her do. You did offer, she reminded herself. But he did not protest, as a gentleman should. And here was this poor man, Flattery, who had never done her harm, nor any other that she knew of, and she had used him so badly. And insulted him in the bargain. Treated him as though he were a fool. She could almost feel his pain at this experience. Invited to tea with the Countess of Chilton for no reason but this information that he did not want to share. Terrible. Anger toward Skye boiled up in her. Helpless anger, for she knew she could never let it show before him. He did not care for her that much. He might simply walk away, and she would never see him again. Was this anger focused on him, or upon herself for her weakness? She accompanied Erasmus to the door, so lost in these thoughts that she could not even attempt polite conversation. The silence walked with them, like another; a ghost in their company that they could feel but not see. At the door they stopped, both wary. She thought they circled each other, unsure if they would fight or embrace. Erasmus bowed stiffly. “Lady Chilton.” “Mr. Flattery,” she said the last syllable disappearing from her lips unexpectedly. An awkward second, then Erasmus reached for the door, but she snatched his hand away and did not release it. “If you ask me not to repeat what you have told me, I will swear to keep it to myself.” She realized she stood close to him now, holding his hand in both of hers, almost clasping it to her. “It… it does not matter,” Erasmus said. She searched his eyes unself-consciously. “Then I will keep this secret, at least. I know you can read what was written on the painting. No. Do not deny it. I know. And 1 know there is more to your story of Eldrich. But that, too, I will not tell.” Erasmus held her hand tightly now, almost causing her pain. And he stared at her, his look unreadable. She thought he would either explode in fury or take her in his arms, she could not tell which. He managed to open the door a crack with his free hand. Then she stood on tiptoe and bussed his cheek before he went out the door, saying only her name as he took his leave. She watched him make his way to the gate, not looking back, and then he turned onto the street and was lost from sight. Still the countess did not close the door, but stayed drinking in great draughts of the cool highland air. “What has come over me?” she said aloud but could find no answer in the confusion of feelings that seemed to be whirling inside her. Why had she suddenly felt such guilt at the way she used this man? It was not the first time she had applied her charm for some specific end—nor was it the hundredth. Because now I know how it feels, she thought. “Poor man,” she whispered to the street, though she was not entirely sure which man she meant. Chapter Seventeen Erasmus sat at a table on the terrace on the warmest morning that had been seen yet that year. His mind was on his meeting with the countess, which troubled him more than he had expected. Had she not warned him that her interest was his knowledge? Why then did he feel such a sense of dejection and emptiness? Erasmus had also begun to wonder what had happened to Hayes. On his way out that morning he’d left the young man a note saying that he had been briefly called away and would find Hayes here at noon. They were to meet Kehler within the hour. Erasmus was hoping they would get some explanation for Kehler’s flight to this place—more than he had heard from Hayes, at any rate. What had Kehler learned in the archives of Wooton? Could he have made the same discovery as Baumgere? If so, were the priests pursuing Kehler to offer him money for his silence, as, apparently, some thought they had Baumgere? Erasmus took his timepiece from his pocket and cursed silently. Almost one! Was this Hayes’ idea of a reasonable hour to rise? Erasmus could not be more patient. Draining his coffee he jogged up the steps to Hayes’ room and pounded ungently on the door. Nothing. No sound of movement within. No voice calling out. Again he hammered on the door so that it shook on its hinges. Nothing. He went back down the steps two at a time, looking for the manager. In five minutes they returned with a key for the room, finding it empty, the bed made as though it had never been slept in, and most of Hayes’ belongings gone. “I do not care for this,” Erasmus muttered. “The young are impetuous, not to mention intemperate, Mr. Flattery,” the manager said soothingly. “I’m sure nothing dire has befallen your charge.” “You are, are you?” Erasmus said, annoyed by the man’s tone. “Ah…” A folded note was pinned to the wardrobe door. “There will be your explanation,” the manager said, as though proven right. Erasmus jerked the note free and opened it. My dear Erasmus: I have gone with Kehler to look into the cavern called the Mirror Lake Cave. He believes that it was here that Baumgere searched and failed. Perhaps it is mere optimism, but Kehler believes there is still a great discovery to be made there. I have been sworn to secrecy, but only a fool would go into such a place without alerting others. Do not come after us immediately, but if we are not returned five days hence, you might confidently mount a search. It is our intention to look beyond the Fairy Galleries. I will mark our way with the letter H. Apologies for this, but Kehler would take no others. Your servant, Samual Hayes “All is right with the world, 1 take it?” the manager asked. Erasmus glared at the fool of a man and then swept out the door without a word. Clarendon unrolled the survey across the table, placing weights on each corner. “There you are, Mr. Flattery,” Clarendon said, “just as I told you. Erasmus had never seen anything like it. He was looking at a “map” of a cave system, and it was truly labyrinthine. Passages crossed over and under each other, or even paralleled each other only feet apart. He tried to compare the plan view and side view and was soon confused. The complexity was staggering. “There must be miles of passages here,” Erasmus said, dismayed. “More than thirty, apparently, and likely even more that have not been explored or yet discovered. There might be a more current survey than this. I will find out.” Clarendon put his finger on a chamber. “Here are the Fairy Galleries, so called. 1 have not been in this section myself, though I know men who have. We can certainly speak with them, but perhaps we should wait the five days the letter suggests before we gather the men for a search.” “I don’t want to gather men for a search. I want no one to know of this at all—at least not until we are absolutely certain they are lost. No, I will take this map, or the more recent one if it exists, and go immediately to the cave entrance. If they have not emerged in a day or two, I will go in after them.” “Yourself, alone?” Erasmus nodded. “Well, I cannot allow that. It is more treacherous than this map might indicate. You must take me, at least, Mr. Flattery. You would be imprudent not to.” Erasmus began to protest, but Clarendon raised his hand, his mustache bobbing oddly; a sign of determination, Erasmus thought. “I am far more vital than you guess, and in a cave, where passages can often grow very tight, the smaller man can perform the greater deeds. And you forget—I have been in the caves before.” He paused to consider. “We should not go unprepared, that would be dangerous, Mr. Flattery. But preparations take time. Let us plan to leave the day after tomorrow.” He looked down at the survey, then raised his head and met Erasmus’ eye, a sly smile appearing. “Tonight there is little we can do and I have promised to deliver Erasmus Flattery to a gathering of devotees of the grape. Tomorrow I will put my staff to work on the preparations, and the next day we shall set out well rested. I will tell you honestly, Mr. Flattery, that we stand little chance of catching up with these young men even if we were only hours behind them. They are younger than we and have the fires of both youth and curiosity. We will not catch them up S ean Russell until they have slowed their pace, and that will be in the Fairy Galleries—two days’ hard push into the cave. They are young but hardly foolhardy, I think, so I do not worry that they will come to grief; at least it would be very unlikely. Be of good heart, sir, we will find them safe, I’m sure.“ Erasmus and Clarendon walked to the meeting, for Castlebough was small and the evening pleasant. This night the gathering was to take place at the home of a man who, like most of the Society’s fellows, did not reside year round in the town. As a result of all the comings and goings, the society had a constantly changing membership, and one never knew who might be present, though Clarendon assured him that several men Erasmus knew at least by reputation would be there. Erasmus had agreed to speak briefly about his own work, and to answer questions. The two men made their way through the streets and down stairways by the light of stars, the glow of the occasional street-lamp, and what illumination leaked from unshuttered windows. They were like two shadows moving, one elongated by a low source of light, the other made short by light from above. The house they went to was very pleasant, built in the general style of the town with much dark wood inside, all carefully polished. The gentlemen were welcoming and gracious to Erasmus, and if he did not feel he’d found his place in the world here with these men, he at least felt highly appreciated. Odd that so many people he had never met held him in such high esteem. Clarendon introduced him to the man who had surveyed the great cave, who had brought along the current survey at Clarendon’s request. Although the man had reached an age where he no longer went into the cave himself, he consoled himself by meticulously recording the advances of others. “1 once thought I should complete the picture, Mr. Flattery,” the man said. “Explore every last tunnel and chamber, but it was bigger than me, I fear. Nature’s energies far exceeded my own. Sometimes I look at the still-growing plan and think we must be near the end, but then remember that I thought the same thing twenty years ago when only half what we now know had been discovered. “Layel, the famous geologist, walked over miles of hillside around the cave, examining the drainage patterns and finding any number of sink holes, most of them choked closed, and he told me he would not be surprised if we eventually found ourselves linking to another system of caves as large again as this. Can you imagine? It would be one of the natural wonders of the world, I should think. As it stands now, there is much to admire inside. Stalactites and columns, curtains, and delicate crystal straws hollow in their cores and as thin as the stems of fine wineglasses. I know where there are ceilings covered in them, and they are astonishingly beautiful. And there are helectites as well—crystal straws, but twisted about as though gravity had changed as they formed, for they do not hang downward as the other formations do but contort into the most astounding shapes.” “Can one still become lost inside? Surely this map has eliminated that problem?” Erasmus asked. “1 wish that were so, Mr. Flattery, but I fear it is nothing like the truth. I sometimes think our efforts to chart the passages have done more harm than good in that matter. People who venture in armed with the survey are too confident, I think. They don’t realize the real dangers, for there are some very precipitous climbs and descents required to get into the less frequented regions. Those who seek to open up new areas are the most often injured. But you can become lost even in the more frequented areas. It is more confusing than you might imagine. And I venture there are still many undiscovered passages, even in the parts that are fairly well known.” He put his finger on the drawing. “You see this passage here? People walked by it for twenty years before it was discovered, for it is high up and difficult to see. I’m still not sure what caused anyone to notice it. But look! It opens up fully one quarter of the cave and eventually led us to find the third entrance: a tight little squeeze high up on a cliff. Twenty years that went undiscovered. Who knows how many such passages exist? No, if you go into the cave, Mr. Flattery, don’t assume this survey will keep you safe. Only common sense will do that, though I am certain you have no lack of that.” Erasmus continued to examine the survey. Every so often there were ancillary drawings with lines pointing to a passage. “What are these?” “Cross sections of the cave at that point.” The man looked at S ean Russell Randall. “It is a bit early yet to go far into the cave. It will likely be wet in places. Take good oiled cotton bags, Randall, and try to keep as much dry as you can. It is dangerous to go wet in the cave for long. I have seen men begin to lose their reason from this. They become lethargic and refuse to go on. I’m sure they would have died, too, had we not warmed them with our own heat.” “But surely the cave is not cold?” Erasmus said. “No, Mr. Flattery, not overly, though the water is quite chill, especially this time of year. But the cave is not what you would call warm either and a man soaked through, unless he is very hardy, soon loses the natural heat of his body. Take my advice and keep as dry as you can. But perhaps it will not be so bad, and Randall has been in before and knows what to expect. You will be in good hands. Have no fear.” The meeting proper was convened then, Clarendon taking up the speaker’s place at the front of a large room that had been fitted out with chairs for all the company. “As many of you have already heard,” the small man began, “the illustrious Erasmus Flattery, Fellow of the Empiricist Society, is among us this evening and has consented to speak on the subject of grafting to wild root stocks. I would venture to say that there is no greater authority on the subject. We are also fortunate to have visiting us Delford Simon, proprietor of Simon and Dean Wineries—a man well known to many of us, I’m sure. I would also welcome Deacon Rose of Wooton, a grower of great skill. Mr. Flattery, if you are ready…” Erasmus was so taken aback by the discovery that Deacon Rose was there that he did not start well. He found the priest seated in the middle of the audience, apparently in the company of two gentlemen not of the cloth. It took a few moments for Erasmus to get over his surprise and warm to his subject, but then he managed to gain the attention of his audience, and held it for the duration of his speech. Discussion followed, and Erasmus had seldom found such a knowledgeable audience, even within the Society itself. Two hours went quickly by, and then the meeting broke up for the evening’s real activity—the tasting of wines. Erasmus was just swirling a particularly fine claret around in his mouth when the Farrellite priest found him. “Well, Mr. Flattery, I did not imagine meeting you in Castle-bough. I assume we have come pursuing the same matter?” “You have come to take the waters as well?” Erasmus asked innocently. “I was referring to our mutual friend, young Mr. Kehler,” the priest said, his look of pious concern never slipping. “Why would you think he was in Castlebough, Deacon Rose?” The priest looked away for a moment, as though controlling his temper—not something Erasmus had seen in the man before. “Perhaps we might speak more privately, Mr. Flattery?” Erasmus took a second sip of his claret, considered a moment, and then nodded for the priest to lead the way. They went out into a walled garden awash in the fecund scents of early spring. “Have you spoken to Mr. Kehler?” Rose asked. “Is he here?” Erasmus looked at the man for a moment. “Since our last conversation, Deacon, I have learned that Mr. Kehler is not particularly destitute, as you suggested.” Erasmus was about to ask how long Rose had watched his town home waiting for Kehler to appear but held back, to see what the priest would say. Rose turned away stiffly, his eyes unfocused in the light streaming from the windows. “I will confess, Mr. Flattery, that I was less than forthcoming when last we spoke, but I assure you my concern for Mr. Kehler is quite genuine. He has taken something from our archives at Wooton that is of… great concern to us. I would even say that he is in some danger.” “From whom, Deacon?” The priest hesitated, then turned his intelligent gaze on Erasmus. “You do not trust me, Mr. Flattery.” “I do not, that is true. Until you are willing to tell me more, I don’t think that will change.” The priest stared down at the dark ground and nodded. “You were making inquiries this evening about the Cave of the Mirror Lake… I assume that Mr. Kehler is seeking something there?” Erasmus did not react—not even a shrug. “If I camp before the entrance, I assume I will be able to speak with Mr. Kehler, for speak with him is all I wish to do.” Erasmus did not offer to confirm this. The priest’s manner changed, becoming suddenly very earnest. “You will not help me, then? Even though the young man’s safety might depend on my intervention?” S ean Russell “I’m afraid I can’t,” Erasmus said quietly, suddenly afraid that the man might be speaking the truth. Who had invaded Hayes’ rooms and chased him through the streets? Could these men have been agents of the church? Or even of Eldrich himself? Could El-drich know about Kehler’s discovery? “Are you going into the cave after Kehler? Tell me that, at least.” “I’m sorry, Deacon, but I will tell you nothing until you give me reason to.” The man reached out and put his hand gently on Erasmus’ arm. “Let me accompany you, and then you can see yourself that I mean him no harm.” Rose looked out over the garden wall to the stars and the hills. “I will tell you my fear, Mr. Flattery; I fear that I am already too late.” He turned his gaze back to Erasmus. “When you spoke with Kehler, did he ask you about a man named Teller?” Erasmus must not have hidden his surprise well. “I see that he did. Perhaps he then told you what he found? If that is so, you realize why I must speak with him. It is true that I was not entirely candid with you on our first interview. 1 confess it, but certainly you can see that I could not be. You must see that? You lived in the house of Eldrich. I do not know what that might mean, but the mages and the church have long had an uneasy truce. We fear them, Mr. Flattery—even Eldrich in his waning years.” Rose stopped, clearly unsettled to be saying these things aloud to someone outside the church. “Let me assure you, Mr. Flattery, in case you still have commerce with the mage, what happened was not of our doing. As soon as we became aware, we moved quickly to… cleanse our house of the disease. We have kept our pact all these long years and will continue to do so at any cost.” The priest searched Erasmus’ face, perhaps looking for some sign of understanding, but Erasmus was not willing to accept the position of emissary to Eldrich, or to refuse it. Better to let the priest wonder. “Kehler came to you with questions that he hoped you might answer,” the priest went on. “Did he tell you what he hoped to do?” Erasmus did not answer, but the priest would not speak further. “No,” Erasmus said after a moment, “Kehler told me nothing, but I am hoping you will remedy that, Deacon. Why has he gone into the cave? What is he looking for?” Deacon Rose turned and looked back at the house, then out over the garden at the sky. “Something that might not even exist. Something that certainly should not exist.” “If you want my cooperation, Deacon, you will have to do better than that.” Rose continued to stare off at the stars, but he nodded vaguely. “Do you know, Mr. Flattery, that there is within the cave an area called the Fairy Galleries. It was named for its reputed resemblance to a mythical place—or perhaps the place was merely literary.” “‘The Journey of Tomas,’” Erasmus said, realizing suddenly what the priest was saying. “Yes. ‘The Journey of Tomas.’ It is an ancient lay, older than the Cary Minstrels’ rendering, that is certain. The story of a man lost in a great cave who emerges into the starlight finally, almost starved, but he recognizes no constellations. When the sun rises, he finds he is in another land, similar but not the same as his own, and peopled by a different race. He lived there some time, learning their ways and their tongue. But finally he began to miss his wife and wonder about his small children, so he ventured back into the cave again. What happened there is a story unto itself, but eventually he emerged. And what did he find? His children grown, his wife dead and in the grave for many years, though he had been gone only two years by his reckoning. No one knew him, and his world was changed. “After a brief time among his own people, he went back into the cave to seek the way back to Faery. There are different endings to the song: he finds his way back, he dies in the cave, or he almost dies when the people of Faery come and bear him through by their secret way. One may choose the ending one prefers—unlike life.” “What are you saying? That Kehler is seeking the way to Faery?” Erasmus laughed but this did not seem to affect the priest or his mood. “The song is just a song, no more. 1 am only saying that men go seeking the objects of their desire. Perhaps even the creations of that desire. But what they find is invariably different than they imagined or hoped. This strange propensity in mankind is what makes us children—it is also what makes us great. “What does Mr. Kehler seek? I am not absolutely certain, Mr. Flattery, though knowing him as I do, 1 would say he seeks knowledge. But what he will find, I fear, might be quite different.” s Clarendon laughed as he and Erasmus walked through the village, returning from the gathering of vinophiles. “‘The Ballad of Tomas.’ I do know it.” He chuckled again. “Though I think most could say the same. You see, when the cave was discovered, it was given an entirely different name, and then some local worthy—a mayor, I think—got the idea to rename it for the cave in the old song. There is a fairly large lake within it, you see, and other features that are similar enough, though most large caves would have many of these. It draws the tourists, for in the summer many of the town’s visitors tour the caves, the Cave of the Mirror Lake chief among them, for, you see, the plan worked.” Clarendon laughed again. “This priest, what is he up to, do you think?” “I wish I knew, Randall. 1 dearly wish I knew.” “Well, at least I think he spoke the truth when he said that men go seeking their desires and often find something quite unexpected. He failed to say, however, that these are among mankind’s greatest discoveries—both for good and ill.” Chapter Eighteen Kehler held aloft the lantern, illuminating the opening. “I think we should go in tonight, at least some way, in case we’re pursued.” “Do you think it’s wise to go on in darkness?” Hayes asked. “It’s always night in the underworld, Samual.” Hayes could hear his companion’s smile in the words. “Yes, of course, but…” He let the protest die. “All right, if you think it’s best.” They climbed back up the path among the firs and found their guide unloading the horses. “We can make a camp here,” the man said. “We thought we’d go in tonight,” Kehler said, not at all self-conscious. The man stopped what he was doing. “Tonight? You might be better rested in the morning.” He paused and looked at each of the gentlemen. “But suit yourselves.” He set one of their bags on the ground. “I would caution you to be most careful in your explorations, gentlemen. You cannot imagine the difficulties of carrying a man back to the surface again. There are some tight places in the cave, and getting an injured man through such can be near to impossible. I have had to do it myself and never want to be so employed again. I urge you, be mindful as you go.” Kehler and Hayes divided their effects into sturdy canvas packs of the type used by foot soldiers. “It seems an enormous amount of gear,” Hayes said hefting his pack. “We must have it, though. A spare lantern is a necessity, and lamp oil, and ropes. We must have food and a change of clothing, a compass, candles, and the survey. I have left everything out that I felt we could possibly do without. Feel fortunate that we do not have to carry water, for there is water enough in the cave.” Kehler took a last look at their bags. “We will leave some food and a few other things just inside the cave to await our return, but the rest I’m afraid we must shoulder. Let me just fill the lantern, and we shall be ready.” A moment later Kehler resealed the fuel tin and hoisted his pack to his back. “Into the netherworld, my friend.” He went to thank their guide, but the man was rolled in a blanket and already snoring. They descended along the path to the cave mouth. At this elevation and among such massive trees the underwood was very sparse, and the earth was often carpeted in mosses. Hayes felt as though they were leaving a soft, green world for one hard, gray, and lifeless, for very little lived out of sight of the sun. He could not help feeling that the darkness emanated from this opening into the earth, exhaled like a dark breath each night. He didn’t really want to go on, and hesitated at the very lip of the cave. Kehler looked over at him. “It will be the discovery of a lifetime,” he said simply. “And we shall write an account of it that will be seen by every reading man, woman, and child in all the nations around the Entide Sea. You will not want for money ever again, Hayes, I can assure you.” “It would come down to money,” Hayes said peevishly. “Lead on, Kehler, I’m dreadfully tired of hiding from my creditors.” Kehler gave him a hint of a concerned smile, and went resolutely into the mouth of the cave. The lantern illuminated a floor of dried mud, caked and flaking, and convoluted walls worn by years of water erosion, now broken here and there and not so smooth as they were. “You’re sure this cave is… solid,” Hayes said, his voice echoing in the small entrance chamber. “There are some areas of breakdown marked on the survey, but for the most part the cave is utterly solid and not to be worried about. I can’t believe you didn’t read the pamphlet, Hayes.“ “You read most of it to me,” he reminded his friend. Some enterprising individual in Castlebough had published a small pamphlet on the cave, and though its aim was to draw visitors out to see this natural wonder, there was some useful information as well. But even so, Hayes was not convinced that a survey and the information contained in some hack’s pamphlet could really be considered adequate preparation for their expedition. But Kehler absolutely refused to take a local guide other than the man who brought them to the entrance. Whatever it was he hoped to find, Kehler was to be certain that he shared it with no one but Hayes— and Hayes was not sure that he would have been included if Kehler had felt he could have undertaken the matter alone. But apparently even the driven Kehler was not willing to go into the bowels of the earth on his own. “You promised to tell me what you had learned once we were underground,” Hayes said as they made their way into a narrowing passage. “When we stop to rest,” Kehler said. “You will not be disappointed, Samual.” No, but I will likely be too far along to turn back if I am. The passage was high, disappearing from the lamplight at a dozen feet and varied in width as they went from three yards to places where the two could not walk abreast. The walls were uneven, appearing almost fluted in places, as though over the great expanse of geological time water had run here at different levels, and slowly eaten away at the softer whitestone so that the surfaces were uneven. The cave twisted unexpectedly, and then began to descend so that they were soon climbing down drops of four and five feet, like erratic stairs. They went on like this for an hour or more, Kehler leading the way and holding the lantern for Hayes. They were young and hale, and even Hayes soon forgot his fears and began to enjoy meeting the challenge. They heard no sound but their own breathing and the scrape of their feet over stone, the sound of the packs rubbing against the walls of the cave as they squeezed through some narrower part. And then Kehler stopped, holding up his hand, obviously listening. “Do you hear water running?” S ean Russell Hayes listened. “There is something… It must be water. Does your survey show it?” “Yes, but I did not think to come upon it so soon. We are making better time than I guessed,” Heartened by this, they pushed on, hurrying where the cave would allow it. At one point the passage narrowed at its bottom, forcing them to climb higher, bridging their arms and legs to either side and picking their footholds with care. An hour later they were able to take to the floor again, but they had been slowed appreciably by this section. The air changed, becoming suddenly damp and a bit refreshing, for they had been working hard and were both hot and sweating. In another twenty minutes they came to the lip of a drop, and there at the bottom lay a pool of water fed by a small falls. The water swirled in a swift whirlpool and then plunged down into the cave, sounding unnaturally loud in the hard world of stone. Kehler handed the lamp to Hayes and peeled off his pack, setting it down with a theatrical groan. “I think we can easily climb down, but we should lower the lantern and the packs separately.” He dug out one of their ropes, flaking it down onto the rock, and formed a loop at its midpoint. “When I get down, throw me the end, then tie the lantern to the loop. Feed it out to me, and I will endeavor to keep it clear of the rocks.” Carefully, but apparently without trepidation, Kehler climbed the thirteen or fourteen feet down to the edge of the pool. “All right,” he said, and Hayes threw him the other end. The lantern was lowered down without mishap, and then the packs, one at a time. Hayes followed his friend, though with less confidence. Kehler held the lantern high and gave his friend instructions as to the best footholds. In a moment they were both standing beside the small pool, their relieved laughter echoing with the water sounds. “Where does this go?” Hayes asked, waving a hand at the passage from which the water flowed. “It goes a few hundred yards, and then chokes off, I think. Only a hole big enough for the stream.” They both drank and then sat for a moment. The chamber they were in was almost perfectly circular, rising fairly evenly to a dome overhead. “It is remarkable, isn’t it?” Hayes said, surprised by his reaction to the place. Kehler agreed. “But we haven’t come anywhere near the true wonders of the cave. There are chambers decorated with stalactites and curtains and flowing moonstone. There is a falls almost a hundred feet high and even a small lake, or so the survey shows.” “How far have we descended?” “I don’t think we’ve gone down a hundred feet yet, which leaves quite a lot of cave below us, for we started about three thousand feet above Blue Hawk Lake which lies at the cave’s bottom. Unfortunately we will have to climb up again, for the entrances at the lake are under water until the dry summer months.” They sat quietly, watching the water swirl into the pool, a bit awed by what nature had carved around them. Kehler filled the lamp again, checking his watch. “We may have to kill the flame when we stop to sleep,” he said. “I’m not sure we have enough fuel to keep it alive for the entire time otherwise.” “But we have candles,” Hayes said. “Yes, though I hope we’ll not need them. A lamp is so much more convenient and casts much more light. Imagine trying to keep a candle alight and make good time in here?” There was a moment’s silence, and perhaps sensing that Hayes was again about to ask the purpose of their expedition, Kehler jumped up and hefted his pack into place. “Take the lantern and the lead, Hayes. I will follow blindly for a while.” They followed the course of the water, which ran swiftly down, its voice echoing in the dark tunnel. Where the passage narrowed, and there was no dry footing, they at first tried to keep their boots dry, climbing up and bridging again, but soon enough they had both slipped in one place or another and after that they simply plunged into the water, accepting the ruination of their footwear. In half an hour they came to a short drop where the water course deviated into a fissure in the floor which left only a little room on one side where they might pass. They went carefully by this opening, afraid to slip into it, both imagining being swept down into a dark, water-filled tunnel devoid of both light and air. “I did not care much for that!” Hayes said, slumping up against the cave wall once they were past. “Nor did I. Fortunately we have clear sailing now for a while.” Kehler filled their single water bottle here, and then they set off again. “In a little over an hour we should reach a splitting of the way,” Kehler said. “We can go either left or right, for both ways join again. After that, I think we will be an hour from the great junction where four passages meet. Can you go on till then? Are you game?” Hayes thought he was. Kehler took the lead now, pushing on as though driven to complete their journey that very night, though it looked more likely that they would require two days or even a bit more. It all depended on their ease of going. The passage was presently running along quite evenly, and they were making excellent time though that could quickly change. The next time they stopped, Hayes wanted to have a look at the survey. His memory of it was getting muddled already. Hayes was not quite certain how he had gotten drawn into this, aside from the obvious reasons: money and bloody curiosity. He felt like he had betrayed Erasmus, slipping away without a word, but Kehler had insisted. “It will be the discovery of our lifetime,” Kehler had said, his eyes almost shining with his excitement. “ And your name will be attached to it forever.” Kehler realized how much his pride had been damaged by his fall in society. Erasmus will never forgive me, he thought. / do not know exactly what Kehler expects to find, but with the similarities between his interests and Erasmus‘, I have little doubt that Erasmus will wish he were with us. And there was also Erasmus’ stated concern: that Kehler was pursuing matters that could be dangerous to him—matters that Hayes was pursuing as well. The roof of the passage had begun to dip, forcing Hayes and Kehler to crouch as they went. But soon their packs were dragging on the rock, and they were forced to their knees. Packs were shed with some difficulty, and they proceeded, pushing the packs ahead as they went. The ceiling continued to drop until they were slithering along on their bellies, though the width of their tunnel remained six or seven feet. “I hope it is not all like this,” Hayes said, “or we shall be in here forever.” Ahead of him Kehler cursed. “Yes, I would say our pace has slowed to the proverbial crawl. Flames! I shall have no knees left at this rate!” Hayes laughed, the sound echoing oddly in the darkness. They crawled on, saving their breath for their effort, though that did not stop an occasional curse. Hayes began to think of the tons of rock above him, and the tunnel seemed to press down, as though the roof of the cave were bending under the immeasurable weight. He struggled with a growing panic. What if the tunnel became smaller yet? What if they became trapped, unable to move? The thought caused him such anguish that he pushed it from his mind. Concentrate on moving forward, he encouraged himself. He fought to lift his pack over an edge that snagged it, shoved it on in frustration, and then crawled after. He was not getting much light from the lantern, and Kehler, who could see perfectly, no doubt, was getting farther and farther ahead. At this rate Hayes thought he would soon be in complete darkness. To make matters worse, he was certain the tunnel was narrowing. And he had to struggle with his panic again. He did not know how long they proceeded in this fashion, but it seemed hours. Hayes felt that his existence was shrinking as the tunnel became smaller. He was reduced to a crawling beast, fighting his fears, pushing his pack a foot, then dragging himself forward, pushing his pack… again and again. And then the light appeared to grow; he thrust his pack through a hole into an open area and light flooded in. Hayes squeezed through and lay catching his breath. Kehler was sitting with his back against the rock wall, and he tried to smile. “Do you know the hour? 1 have managed to smash my timepiece.” Hayes fished in a pocket and found his own watch unscathed, though he made note to place it securely in his pack. “Two minutes beyond midnight.” Kehler nodded. “Six hours we have been at it. Three perhaps in this last section. Our progress is less than 1 expected.” “Perhaps this walking upright has its drawbacks after all. I’m sure our distant relatives, the ape men, would have managed much better than we.” Kehler produced the water bottle, and they both drank deeply. The survey was spread out in the lamplight, and the two bent over it. “1 would venture that we have just passed through the section known as the ‘Slug’s Race Course,’ and I no longer wonder why it was so named. I wonder how far it is to this splitting of the ways?“ He tapped the drawing. ”Shall we go on, or call it a night?“ Hayes took a look around. He was feeling decidedly tired, but he was not certain that he could sleep. The claustrophobia of the last hours still touched him. “I think we should go on. We have almost emptied the water bottle, and it would be good to be nearer water in the morning.” Kehler nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go to the place where the four ways meet. From there it can’t be more than two hours to the resurgence.” They clambered on, relieved by the size of the passage, which was ten feet high and roughly round, though it quickly began to vary, and twist as it went. Their spirits rose, as often happens after an ordeal, and they talked as they went, buoyed by a sense of adventure. In the world above, people slumbered, secure in their homes and the routine of their lives, while here, far beneath the surface, Hayes and Kehler went seeking secrets long hidden. Hayes thought that he felt more alive at that moment than he had in several years. Sooner than expected, they found the Y in the tunnel and, for no particular reason, elected to take the left passage. In twenty minutes the passages joined again and they pressed on. A series of short drops, none more than ten feet, slowed them only a little, and an hour more brought them to the place where the four ways joined. Here they found a small alcove off the side of one passage and, calling it the “sleeping chamber,” threw down their packs. Hayes impressed Kehler by using the lantern as a stove. He removed the glass chimney and, using one of their tin cups and the lamp’s handle, managed if not to boil water at least to heat it. Taking a small package from his pack, he brewed something resembling tea and this they shared quietly by the lamplight. Kehler produced the survey again and hunched over it, examining it minutely. “If we take the southern passage, we will be forced to use ropes to negotiate some rather large drops, but there are no significant squeezes on this route. The northern way has a long crawl, perhaps longer than the one we have just survived.” “Let us go by the south, then, Kehler. I fear heights less than the tight spots.” Kehler looked over at him, his gaze resting on his friend with some concern. “I will tell you honestly, Hayes, that we have not really entered a tight passage yet. Some tunnels we might meet are just large enough to let a determined man pass and no more.“ Perhaps he saw the distress this caused, and he quickly added. ”But I am smaller than you and will do most of the real exploration. Your job will be to pull me out by my ankles should I get stuck.“ Hayes took the tea from his friend and sipped it. “You said you would tell me the story once we stopped.” Kehler laid his head back against the rock and closed his eyes. Hayes thought he would claim exhaustion and put the moment off again, but without opening his eyes Kehler began. “In my time at Wooton I managed to gain the trust of a number of the priests who worked in the archives, although 1 will confess that I planned to abuse that trust right from the beginning. Like many historians in Farrland, I was of the belief that the church hid much of our history in their records. If they had so cheated us, I was prepared to do the same to them. I make no more excuse than that. “The archives at Wooton house what is, perhaps, the most important collection in all Farrland. There are some documents there of astonishing age! Many of the priests who do their scholarly work there maintain exhausting hours, appearing to need no more than a few hours’ sleep each day. This is part of the surrender of their will to the church, 1 think. I came to see it as a form of self-abasement, really. But it meant that the archives were open at all hours. I began to work long hours myself and gained the trust of a number of the priests this way, for I think they were impressed by my monklike capacity for work. I was not one of them, but I was, at least, like them in habits. “I soon learned that there were rooms in the buildings that were not open to any but the most senior priests or scholars, and then only with consent from on high. The keys for most of the rooms were in the possession of the senior archivist, an ancient and kindly priest. I gained his trust by offering my services to him, for he did not get around as he once did. Through this action, I managed to gain occasional access to his keys. The poor man, he trusted me far too much, and I do regret this one betrayal, for I’m sure he has been retired in shame for what happened. “I traced his keys one at a time, and then filed duplicates out of brass. It was a laborious process, I can tell you, and it did not always produce results, but eventually I had keys for most of the locked chambers. The first I entered documented the struggle of the IO church to influence government, and was astonishing enough, I’m sure, but it was not what interested me. I was a while finding what I looked for and, in fact, began to despair of ever discovering what I sought. “And then fortune found me. I could only gain access to the rooms at certain times of the night, when those few priests who were in the archives were engaged elsewhere, and during vespers. I was expected to attend though occasionally I did not and was seldom missed, but everyone else attended, leaving the archives protected only by their ancient locks. Kehler opened his eyes and fixed them on his friend. “I will tell you truthfully, Hayes, there is an archive at Wooton that deals almost exclusively with the Farrellite Church’s struggle against the mages. It is an astonishing history! I hadn’t time to read it all, of course, or even a hundredth part of it, but even so—the things I found! It was Althons, the mage King, who preserved the vestiges of the Farrellite Church after the war between the church and the mages. And the church leaders did not know why! It was as though the mages had some use for the church, perhaps far in the future, but would say nothing of it. The church fathers suspected that augury had led to this decision. The mages had seen something in one of their visions that had led them to spare the church, and the priests had no idea what it might be. “But the information I sought was more elusive and took me months of subterfuge to find. All the while I expected discovery and expulsion—at the very least! And then one day I found a letter from Baumgere himself—a letter to the senior bishop of the Farrellite Church, no less. Although it was written with all apparent deference, and was clearly a response to a letter from the senior bishop, it contained a threat that was only very slightly veiled. ‘I should not want to contemplate the reaction of the mages,’ Baumgere wrote, ‘were they to learn that you concealed their enemy all these years.’” Kehler leaned forward and blew out the flame, plunging the chamber into a darkness such as Hayes had never known. There was not a trace of light. No shadow or area darker than another. Uniform blackness, and then odd visions, shades of color, seemed to appear before his eyes, though they were not light but only the eye’s reaction to its absence. He heard his own breath indrawn. And then Kehler’s voice came out of the blackness. “I had learned about Teller by then, though at first I didn’t make the connection. It was not until I found a record of an inquisition within the church carried out with utter secrecy that I began to realize what had happened. A hundred and sixty years ago the Far-rellites found that the society the mages believed they had destroyed was still alive, and living like a parasite within the bosom of the church! The society of Teller had somehow survived. And where better to take refuge than within the defeated church? The church that no longer posed a threat to the mages; that did not dare to pose a threat! A priest speaking out from the pulpit against the mages would have been summarily excommunicated for endangering the church. And this was almost without question what Baumgere was referring to. He must have learned of it in his studies. “Of course, by Baumgere’s time, the society of Teller had been rooted out, though I was not able to learn what their fate had been. But still, the mages were not known to be just, and the fathers of the church were, with good reason, terrified that the mages might one day learn the truth. What if this had been their sole function, the reason the mages had allowed the church to survive? To destroy the vestiges of Teller’s society? Would the mages have no more use for them if they were to find out? And Baumgere blackmailed them with this information—blackmailed his own church, though for what gain was unclear. No wonder he was denied absolution! “So hearing Erasmus and Clarendon speak of Teller did not surprise me.” Kehler paused a moment. “The priest came to the Caledon Hills seeking something, and he was clearly not doing so at the behest of his church. People would see him out roaming the hills with his deaf-mute servant, silent, as always, about his business. In any number of places there were excavations attributed to Baumgere. Then, when I had begun to lose hope, I found some of Baumgere’s papers. Nothing like I’d hoped—no journal containing all the answers to my questions—but a few odd things that were likely deemed of no importance by whomever had filed Baumgere’s papers away in this forgotten room. A deed to his home. A map of the vicinity to the west of Blue Hawk Lake marked here and there with intriguing circles and lines. A meticulous catalogue of everything he read. In a crate, I even found some of Baumgere’s books— all of which were entered in the catalogue. And something that seemed very odd at the time—a number of cave surveys, all annotated in his wispy hand. It seemed from what he wrote that he had S ean Russell been engaged in carefully eliminating every section of each cave, though by what criteria could not be ascertained. On each survey there was a date and a brief entry; usually something like, ‘nothing here’ or ‘not this one’, but this cave—the Cavern of the Mirror Lake—this one he did not complete his work in. Something stopped him. Stopped him just when his hopes were rising, for on one section of the cave were written the words: ‘Here, the way by darkness into light.’“ “And that means something to you?” Hayes said, surprised at the weight Kehler seemed to attribute to the inscription. “I confess, at the time it meant nothing. But as 1 studied Baum-gere’s effects, these few scraps that proved the man had passed through this world, I was provided an answer. Among the books that Baumgere owned, I found that several contained the same lyric, and each was much underlined and written over, which was very anomalous, for he had not written in his books in any other place. It was an old lyric called the ‘Ballad of Tomas’ that interested him. You’ve likely heard it sung…” Kehler then proceeded to sing, off key, a line or two. “Remarkably, I actually do recognize it, which is saying a great deal as you entirely missed the tune, like a blind carpenter after a nail.” “Well, I make no claims as a singer. But the line, ‘the way, by darkness, into light,’ is from the ballad.” “I’m waiting for you to enlighten me,” Hayes said. “Well, clearly Baumgere had a romantic or poetical nature and a particular affection for that lyric. The way by darkness into light was the tunnel that Tomas used to reach Faery. The one tunnel in a vast cave. So you see, he used this line to mark the spot where he believed lay whatever it was he looked for. It is also a metaphor, obviously. Perhaps, given his religion, he would have interpreted it to mean the way to eternal life through death. Or the way to knowledge through struggle.” “Well,” Hayes said, “I’m glad we have come down here on such concrete evidence. ‘The way by darkness into light.’ Why didn’t you just say so earlier? No more explanation would have been necessary. I would have plunged into darkness ready to do battle with all the creatures of the underworld, both real and metaphorical. Farrel-le’s flames, Kehler! Is that why we’re crawling along on our bellies through utter darkness? Because Baumgere wrote that particularly edifying line on a cave survey?“ “There is more, Hayes, if you’ll just bear with me.” “Well, I’m glad to hear that, but just for your information, I’m fixing you with a devastatingly skeptical look at this moment.” “I can actually feel it.” Kehler paused only to draw breath. “I kept searching and began to take greater risks, going to the rooms when it was not really safe to do so. But by this time I was obsessed. I felt I was so close to such astonishing secrets. I kept digging, just as Baumgere had. And then I heard from Skye, a rather cryptic note, for he was concerned that my correspondence might be monitored. I gathered, though, that he had found the Peliers which was news indeed. I assumed they were in the possession of the church. I spoke to one of the monks who was a resident expert on art and, fortunately, a man without a trace of suspicion in his rather narrow character. To my surprise I learned that there were Peliers in Wooton, stored away with a great deal of other art that is not on daily display. “1 managed to get access to these storage rooms as well, and was more than surprised by what I found, for there, carefully covered and leaning against a wall in a stack of other art, I found one of the Peliers that Skye described, and two other paintings as well. “But if Skye had it, how could it have been found in Wooton as well?” “An interesting question. I assume one or the other is a copy. Be that as it may, I found the painting of the crypt that you saw above Castlebough, the same painting that was owned by Baumgere, and a second painting of a man in priestly robes standing in a grape arbor. But his hair was too long, and he held a book that at first 1 thought was scripture, but upon closer examination turned out to be a book of the arcane, for it had upon it strange symbols and writing that 1 could not read—a book of the arts. “Flames, Kehler! Pelier knew that Teller’s people hid within the church?!” Hayes exclaimed increduously. “I don’t think you can say that he knew, but he had a vision that this was so. Perhaps he predicted it. Either way the church was forewarned, for Pelier lived before the discovery of the Tellerites within the church. The third painting was even more obscure… It shows a gate pushed open, leading into what might be a courtyard or perhaps a garden. Inside stands a man, smiling oddly, almost U gloating, and like the figure in the other painting, he holds a book inscribed with arcane symbols and a strange script. He also holds a leafed stem bearing a pair of small white blossoms. The background is difficult to discern, but the odd thing about this painting is that the man bears an uncanny resemblance to Erasmus.“ “You aren’t serious?! Erasmus Flattery?” “None other.” “Martyr’s balls, Kehler! Erasmus? Does the church know this? Do they realize it is Erasmus?” “I would think they must, now. Deacon Rose will not have missed that when he visited Erasmus, and 1 am almost certain he will have known of the painting.” “But what does it mean?” Hayes asked, still trying to grasp the idea that someone had painted his friend, Erasmus, hundreds of years before he was born! “I am not sure. As I said, the figure bears a striking resemblance to Erasmus—too near for it to be coincidence, I’m sure. I think it means that Erasmus knows more of the mages than he claims, or at least so I would surmise. So you see, it began with Baumgere being called to Compton Heath to listen to the Stranger’s peculiar tongue. 1 don’t know how he came across the Pelier that showed the stranger crossing the bridge, but he did, and from there a growing interest in the work of the artist would explain how he came across the Pelier that showed the crypt in Castlebough—and then the last painting that shows Erasmus.” “But that can have meant nothing to him. Erasmus was not even born when Baumgere was alive.” “No, that’s true, but there is writing on the book that Erasmus held, and I haven’t even the slightest idea of what it might mean. But then we’re forgetting something… We don’t know that Baumgere knew anything about this last Pelier.” “But this still does not explain why we are here. What is it we hope to find?” Kehler did not answer for a long moment, and Hayes was about to repeat his question when his friend finally spoke. “We are here because Baumgere searched for something in this cave. Something that had some connection to Teller and the remains of his society that was destroyed by the church. If you ask me to theorize, I will tell you this. I think the crypt Baumgere uncovered might have been the burying place of Teller himself, laid to rest by his followers, who then concealed the place. 1 think the painting of Erasmus indicates hidden knowledge—that is what Baumgere was looking for. Why he believed it to be here is not clear, but you must remember that Baumgere was a very accomplished scholar. He would not have been searching here if he did not have reason. I think he was seeking knowledge of the arts—knowledge that was hidden long ago, by the followers of Teller.“ “But why was Erasmus the subject of a painting? What has he to do with this?” Hayes could hear Kehler shake his head. “I don’t know, Hayes. 1 don’t know. Unless Erasmus was meant to find this knowledge… and somehow it has fallen to us. Or perhaps it meant that Erasmus would be the guardian of the arts, in some way. I can’t say. All I know is that Baumgere believed what he sought was here.” They fell silent in the darkness. From somewhere Hayes could hear the slow drip of water punctuating the silence. Hayes’ mind was racing to take in the story—a terribly incomplete story. What was Kehler keeping back? Something, Hayes was sure. Kehler would hardly have made such an expedition because of an obscure line of poetry scribbled on a survey. He was too thorough a scholar for that. “It seems very slim evidence,” Hayes said. “Hardly enough to bring us down into this particular netherworld. What is it you’re not telling me?” The silence was protracted this time. “There was another letter,” Kehler admitted with such reticence that Hayes suddenly felt apprehensive. The distant sound of water measured Kehler’s reluctance. “Yes…” Hayes softly prompted. He heard his friend shift in the darkness, his clothing rasping against hard stone. “Atreche, the priest who refused Baumgere absolution wrote a last missive to the church. Baumgere had been searching the cave, looking for what, the priest did not know, but he had employed two young orphans in this endeavor—brothers ten and twelve years. Beyond the section of the cave known as the Fairy Galleries…” Kehler stopped and drew a long breath, “one of these boys met a very untimely end.” He paused again. “The letter did not say how. The brothers were not from Castlebough, and so the boy was never missed. Baumgere kept it secret, somehow.” Kehler cleared his throat, trying to force the emotion from his voice. RUSSELL “The priest who refused Baumgere absolution, killed himself not far from one of the lower entrances to the cave, after performing last rites, it would seem.” “For the dead child.” “That is what I think.” “But why did he self-murder?” Hayes could hear Kehler’s breathing in the darkness, short breaths. This was not a subject he liked to speak of. “It is difficult to say, though he was responsible for putting the two boys into Baumgere’s care. It would seem likely that he felt culpable. Perhaps he knew that Baumgere planned to use the boys in a dangerous endeavor.” “And this is where we are going, beyond the Fairy Galleries?” “Yes.” “I can see why you didn’t want to tell me this before. Why did Baumgere seek this knowledge?” “The seeking after knowledge is, as you know, simply in man’s nature—some men far more than others. But if there was some reason beyond that, it might be found in the story of Baumgere’s hero—Tomas. He sought truth, and though he paid dearly for it, he also saw things no other had seen, and lived far beyond the years of men. That is enough reason to seek the knowledge of Teller.” “And this knowledge is guarded by the ghost of a dead boy?” Kehler did not answer. “Sacrificed for what gain, I wonder?” No response from the darkness, only the slow drip, drip of water measuring the passing years in this sunless world. Chapter Nineteen The countess was not sure what had aroused her. A sound? Had someone been whispering her name over and over. Almost a chant. “A dream,” she told herself. Even so, she got out of bed, agitated. It had seemed so real. Elauralelauralel… She pulled a robe over her sleeping gown and went out into the hallway. Had Marianne called her? Perhaps called out in her sleep? She went to the door of her companion’s sleeping chamber but decided that the voice had not been Marianne’s and passed by. Certainly it had not come from this floor. She went down the stairs and into the entryway, where she stood completely bemused, not quite sure what she was doing there. “I am still half asleep,” she muttered. “Lady Chilton?” This time there was no mistake. Someone had whispered her name. The handle of the door rattled. It is Skye, she thought, and quickly drew the bolt, throwing open the door. On the threshold stood a small, round man, bowing awkwardly, his manner so sincere and so inept that she had to smile. “He awaits you, m’lady,” the man said, keeping his voice low. “You mustn’t keep him waiting longer.” S ean Russell “Who? Who awaits me?” she said, still utterly confused, though, strangely, she did not feel frightened. “Skye?” The little man bobbed his head, smiling encouragingly. He gestured behind, and she realized a carriage stood in the darkened street. “But 1 am not even dressed.” “It does not matter. You must come as you are. Quickly,” the man said. He extended a hand and she felt herself reach out and take it. “But who are you?” she said, allowing herself to be lead down the few stairs. “Walky, m’lady,” he said, handing her up into the carriage. “There is a goose down for your comfort, m’lady. We’ve not far to it I’m dreaming, the countess realized and felt some relief wash through her. She almost laughed. “Wake up,” she said aloud, but still she remained in the carriage, moving through the streets of Castlebough. And it was cold! She reached over and pulled the goose down close around her. / do hope I wake soon, she thought. This is most unsettling. But then, if it was a dream in which she went to meet Skye, perhaps she should not try to wake, but keep this fantasy assignation. Up they went through the town, the team laboring to pull the great carriage. It was a large coach she realized; large and quite old-fashioned. She could not remember Skye owning such a carriage. It does not matter, she told herself, it is a dream. Certainly she felt as bemused as she did when dreaming. Nothing seemed quite real—not the little man who had come to her door, or the too-large coach, or even the moonlight which appeared too fair and bright. Her thoughts seemed to drift, but when she pulled herself back to consciousness she still rode in the back of the carriage. Shaking her head did not clear it. Should I not be frightened? Certainly she would be if she were awake, so that proved it was a dream. / will shut my eyes and wake up in my bed, she decided, and did exactly that, except that when she woke, she found the same small man leaning in the open door of the coach, shaking her gently. “M’lady? We’ve arrived. Let me assist you.” He handed her down onto the cobbles. They were beneath the roof of a large coach entrance, though the door lamps were not lit. “He awaits you inside, m’lady, if you please.” “Who?” “I thought you knew.” “Skye.” “Well, come along, and you will see.” “But who are you?” “Walky, m’lady.” They went into the darkened house where, to her relief, a candle burned in a niche. Walky took it up and led her on. Down a wide hallway with old suits of armor standing guard, and weapons mounted on the walls. Martyrs and gargoyles were carved into the capitals of responds and looked down at her passing, alternately benevolent and ghoulish. A dream, the countess told herself. Only a dream. They passed through two massive doors into a rotunda. “Here you are, m’lady. Wait but a moment.” And he was gone, taking the candle with him. Yet there was light. She looked up and realized she stood beneath a dome of stained glass. Through the clear panes, she could see stars and moonlight, which fell in a broken pattern on the stone floor around her, like weak sunlight falling through the forest. Columns stood in a circle, like the great boles of trees supporting the canopy of the forest above. A dozen feet behind, lay a dark wall. The countess waited in the center of this room, where the light was brightest and where she could see if anyone or anything approached. Silence. Only the sound of her own breathing, her heart. Awake, she willed herself. / am becoming frightened. Awake! And then she heard the noise of someone moving, clothing rustling, but no footsteps. “Who’s there?” she snapped. “Who indeed,” came a voice from behind. She whirled around and there, just near a pillar and slightly back of it, she saw a dark form. “Who are you?” “A question many have asked, my dear, though few have had an answer.” The voice was musical, soft; not malevolent but nor was it kind. Mocking—it seemed to be mocking her. “What… what do you want of me?” “That is why you are here—so that 1 might decide.” He came forth from the shadow, but still she could not make him out—as though the shadow moved with him. He began to walk slowly about her. “No, stay as you are,” he commanded as she moved to keep him in view. The countess was not sure why, but she did as she was bid. Very slowly he went, as though she were a mare to be bought—and bred, she feared. “It is dark,” she said. “I cannot see you.” “But I can see you. Perfectly.” Again she shook her head, trying to clear it, afraid that this fog that clouded her senses would bring her to grief. / am in danger, she told herself, but she did not feel it. “Who are you, sir?” “You don’t know?” “No. My mind is… it is in a fog.” “And would you have it cleared? You may be happier as you are.” “1 would like my mind to be clear.” She felt a stab of fear, and she drew a great breath, her senses returned. “Eldrich… I” she said. “Lord Eldrich, Lady Chilton. You should respect your elders, at least.” She began to turn and shrink away from him, and suddenly she no longer controlled her muscles, but stood firmly rooted. “Are you happy now?” he asked, his voice still gently mocking. “1 am far from happy. You abduct me from my home, and bring me here, wearing my night clothes. What gentleman would act so?” “No gentleman, I would imagine. But I am a mage, the last of my kind, Lady Chilton. And you… well, you are not what men think.” “And what is that supposed to mean?” “Perhaps you are not aware that it is the prerogative of a mage to speak in hints and riddles. Have you not read the histories?” She did not answer, but stood, fighting to have command of her own muscles. “Do not struggle, Lady Chilton. It is futile. Remove your robe,” he said. “I will not!” He laughed. “What is it they always say in novels? ‘1 like a woman with spirit’?” The countess realized that she was obeying his command. Her robe slipped to the floor from stiff fingers. Eldrich continued his circuit—he was beside her now. He laughed again, as though genuinely amused. “I will tell you, Lady Chilton, you are the most amazing creation I have ever witnessed. I tip my hat to those responsible.” “My parents would be so pleased,” she said, trying to control the anger she felt. He laughed again. “Would they, indeed?” and this seemed to amuse him. “I am sorely tempted, Lady Chilton, even with what 1 know and as old as I am.” “Tempted by what?” she said, not liking the sound of this. “By you, my dear.” “I will be the least cooperative partner you will ever have known.” “Oh, hardly,” he said, clearly amused by this as well. “Some of the women I have known—” He took another step and came back into her line of vision, but still he was in shadow. “In days past people had more respect for mages.” He almost sang a string of syllables, and perhaps moved his hand, and suddenly the countess felt such a wave of desire that her knees almost gave way beneath her. Not just a wave of desire, but desire for this man. It was an ache beyond enduring… and then, just as quickly it was gone. “The most unwilling partner I’ve ever known? 1 don’t think so.” A hand reached out and moved the hair away from her cheek, pushing it back over her shoulder so that he could see her profile. “I’m cold,” she said quietly. “Then come and sit by the fire,” Eldrich said, and he turned and walked away. The countess found that she could move again. The thought of running was quickly put aside. Clearly one could not run from a mage. Beyond the pillars a large hearth stood against the wall, and here a fire had burned to embers. As Eldrich came near, it flickered to life again, and then suddenly burst into flame—glorious, hot flames. The countess pulled on her robe and went toward the fire, trying to control her fear. Always best to show no fear—it gave the other person the impression that they were in control. The mage had taken a seat in a high-backed chair, facing partly S ean Russell away from the fire. Only a cushioned footstool remained. She stood looking at it for a moment, and then remembered that he had said he was no gentleman. Cold to the bone, she took the seat expected, though not without some anger. / am almost sitting at his feet, she thought. And I’m sure he is enjoying it thoroughly. They sat in silence for a long moment. The countess could almost make out his features, but not quite, for he was still in shadow. “Have you decided what you will do with me?” she asked suddenly, unable to bear his silent brooding on her a moment longer. “It is not so simple as you might think. What is your purpose? That is what I must discover.” “My purpose? What in the world… ? I assure you that whatever my purpose might be, it has nothing to do with you, sir.” The mage did not respond. Silence stretched on until the countess could not stand it. She opened her mouth to speak. “Be still,” the mage said. She realized that she sat with hands in her lap, like a schoolgirl, and she felt an anger burn up at this man before her. “It is a great risk,” the mage said softly. “Pardon me?” Eldrich rose suddenly and walked away from the fire out into the darkness. She could see him silhouetted in the light falling from above, though none of it seemed to reach him. He made no sound as he went. Slowly he paced in a small circle, like a man deep in contemplation, and occasionally he would stop and raise his head. The countess was sure that he looked at her at those moments. And then he began to mutter, words she had never heard, and a cold light moved across the floor in a precise line, following him as he walked. Suddenly she was standing in the center of the rotunda, up on the balls of her feet, reaching toward the dome. Around her a pattern of lines and curves seemed to glow like the embers of a fire. She watched as they dimmed and died away, her mind so clouded that she could not remember how she got there, or what had happened. “A work of astonishing craft,” a musical voice said. Suddenly she felt all her muscles relax, and she almost collapsed to the floor. The countess looked for the sound of the voice, and as her arms came about her in a natural gesture of protection, she realized she wore nothing at all. “I cannot tell if they have underestimated me, or taken my measure exactly,” Eldrich said, apparently speaking to himself. “Who in the world did this? Certainly not Medwar. It is the greatest mystery.” “If you have finished misusing me, perhaps I might have my clothes,” the countess said bitterly. “Are you cold?” She realized that she was not. In fact, she was astonishingly warm. She almost glowed with warmth. “Have you no concern for my modesty?” “None. It is a strange vanity, I find.” The countess realized that her gown lay at her feet and she snatched it up. As she slid it over her head, she noticed that Eldrich stood, watching, and she tried to ignore him. “Mr. Walky?” the mage said, and almost immediately footsteps echoed in the hall. “Sir?” “You may return her.” The little man came toward the countess, his manner very deferential, as though he would make up for his master’s treatment of her. The countess took a step and then stopped, turning to find the retreating form of Eldrich. “I do not think my friends will be much impressed with your manners when I tell them of our visit, Lord Eldrich.” The figure stopped. “I rather doubt you will tell them, Lady Chil-ton. The pleasures of the evening to you.” He bowed deeply, and turned away. “M’lady, you must come with me,” the small man said. “But who are you?” “Walky, m’lady. Please, I’m to take you home.” ((A re you not cold?“ ^‘t Marianne found the countess seated by the large windows in the library. She was curled up in a chair, watching the morning light find its way into the small garden. “Cold? No.” The countess looked over at her friend and saw great concern on her face. “You look perfectly awful,” Marianne said disapprovingly. “I will tell you, Elaural, Skye is not worth this.” She waved a hand at her friend. “Have you not slept at all?” “It is very odd, Marianne. I woke here, yet I have no memory of coming down at all.” Marianne shook her head, her lips pressed tightly togs •-.her in concern. “And I think I had the most unsettling dreams, though 1 cannot quite recall them.” She turned back to the garden for a moment, as though searching into her memory. “No. they are gone, though I have been left with the… feelings. And even those I cannot put a name to.” She shivered involuntarily. “You are cold.” “Not at all. Is it cool in here? I do not feel it.” “Perhaps you are coming down with a fever. The only time I recall walking in my sleep I was terribly fevered and delirious.” The countess smiled. “Well, I am neither fevered nor delirious. I feel perfectly hale, in fact.” She stretched her arms over her head. “Is this unladylike?” she asked, her mood seeming to change. “Entirely.” Marianne rang for a servant and took a seat near the countess. “Is Skye coming to hear the results of your interview with Mr. Flattery?” “I would think.” “But what did you learn? You are being a bit secretive about this.” “I learned only that Mr. Flattery agrees with Lord Skye. He thinks the writing on the Pelier is a script and language known to the mages. It also bears some resemblance to the writing on the Ruin of Farrow. He claims to know no more.” “And do you believe him?” The countess shrugged. “Now Elaural, I cannot imagine that he would keep anything from you if you exercised your charm on him.” “Then perhaps he really can’t read it.” Marianne looked away. “I hope you will not perform such a service for Lord Skye again. I was rather shocked that he would ask it.” “I offered, Marianne.” “Well, he should have refused.” “For a woman who has rejected so many of our social values, I think you are rather old-fashioned occasionally.” Marianne shook her head in denial. “Oh, it is not this thing of gentlemen should or should not do this or that. But to ask you to be duplicitous… 1 will tell you, I thought it rather reprehensible.” “Well, I was not nearly so cunning. I was completely forthcoming wi/h Mr. Flattery. 1 told him what I wanted of him and even that it was Skye had put me up to it. So you see, there was very little duplicity involved.” Marianne looked at her oddly. “Where is all this going, Elaural?” she said softly. “Whatever do you mean?” the countess asked, though she was afraid she knew very well what was meant. Chapter Twenty Captain James looked into his brandy snifter, then back to his cards. “I think I shall have to resign,” he said to his companion. “Resign? And not give me a chance to retrieve my losses? Is that sporting?” Wilkes was a little inebriated, slurring his words noticeably, though he showed very little sign of his state beyond that. “There is always tomorrow, Wilkes.” “So they say, though I’ve known men who’ve proved that wrong, not that they lived to brag about it.” James smiled. “Not an accomplishment that I personally aspire to.” He tossed his cards down on the table and pulled out his timepiece. It was almost midnight, not late, really, though these past few years it had begun to seem so. Wilkes sloshed more brandy into their snifters, and though his hand was not perfectly steady, his concentration was such that he did not spill a drop. “The King’s health,” he said, raising his glass. “We’ve already drunk His Majesty’s health twice this night.” “Well then, to our health. Damn the King.” “Ah, there’s a toast for you.” Wilkes replaced his glass heavily on the table. “Can you imagine having such a woman pursuing you and choosing to sleep alone?” Wilkes said, shaking his head in disgust. ‘“Tis not fair.” It was the litany of the evening. Skye had gone off to the house in which he stayed, not even visiting the Countess of Chilton. James wondered if it was possible that the information from the countess’ maid was not accurate. Wilkes had applied some of his abundant charm and a handful of coins to the problem and managed to learn much from the countess’ servant. Most astonishing of all was that the countess was in love with the Earl of Skye who seemed hardly aware of her. James shook his head. Savants, he thought. They live too much in the rarified world of the intellect. Poor bastards. “I will relieve Lieutenant Darby tonight,” James said. “I cannot sleep.” “Are you sure? ‘Tis my watch.” “I’m sure.” He stretched. “The excitement of taking all your money will not let me sleep. I must plan what I will do with such a fortune.” “Well, that’s all right, then,” Wilkes said, pulling a chair over and putting his feet up, clearly ready for leisure. “I’ll relieve you at eight bells. You know where to find me if I’m needed. I’ll tell you, if I were the earl, you’d know where to find me—in the sleeping chamber of a certain lady, make no mistake.” He thought a moment. “How in Farrelle’s name can he be considered such a great genius?” “The laws of motion, the invention of the cannon, various arithmetical discoveries that I don’t understand, the alloying of metals, improvements to the telescope. He even invented a better water closet. And that is only a partial list of his accomplishments. Perhaps the earl simply does not fancy the countess. He has certainly been with other women, by all accounts.” “Well, I think he’s the greatest fool of a genius who ever lived!” Wilkes pronounced. “And I think this is all a fool’s errand we’re on. The man is a loyal subject of the King. There is no doubt of it. We should be at sea, James. Not stuck in this fool’s town where the rich come with their pissing little complaints. Flames, but I hate this duty.” James shrugged and broke into a grin. “It is for the betterment of your character, Wilkes. And to keep you from trouble while you are landbound.” He rose suddenly. “1 must be off. Poor Darby will be asleep at the wheel by now. Till eight bells, then.” He pulled on his great coat, checking the pocket for his gloves, for it was cool in the hills yet. Darby was standing in the shadows of a small common across from the house where Skye stayed. “All’s well, sir,” the lieutenant reported. “No lights, no one has come or gone. Where’s Wilkes? I thought he had the next watch?” “We’ve traded.” James looked at the house across the street. “There has been a light in that window all evening?” “Yes, sir, though there is no sign of movement within. A night light, I think.” James nodded. “All right, lieutenant. You’re relieved.” “Pleasures of the evening to you, sir.” “And to you, Darby.” James took up his place in the shadow, leaning against the tree. He was mostly screened from the street by shrubbery, but he still worried about being seen. It was a small town, and it would soon get around if anyone realized that Lord Skye’s house was being watched. But they could not let a room or even a house that afforded a view of the earl’s home, so this was all they could do: stand in the dark and hope not to be seen. There was little doubt in James’ mind that they would eventually arouse suspicions in such a town—where everyone was interested in everyone else’s business, for there was hardly another form of amusement. James rocked from foot to foot, wishing that he could sit down at least. He would begin to pace soon, he could not help it. He was as impatient with this duty as Wilkes, though he did more to hide it. Unlike his friend, he had more information about what had gone on. Better Wilkes did not know. Sailors, even officers, were a superstitious lot, and any mention of mages would have driven Wilkes to the bottle with greater frequency than he visited it now. No, better to keep quiet about the admiral’s real concerns. Let this have nothing to do with Eldrich, James prayed silently, or the arts in any way. He stared up at the windows and sighed unintentionally. The truth was that he would have preferred to be as innocent of the truth as Wilkes and Darby. Unfortunately he had been one of the first to speak with Abel Ransom and the harlot. The worst of it was he believed they were telling the truth, and so did the Sea Lord. Something damned odd was going on, that was certain. “And what does the great Skye do that so interests you?” a woman’s voice came from behind. James whirled around. “What’s that?” He could just make out the form of a woman standing in the shadows. “I asked what the great Skye does that so interests you?” she said again, a little laughter in her voice. She did not seem the least uncomfortable standing here in the darkness with a strange man. “I am merely taking the air, ma’am.” “As was your friend before you, and the gentleman before that. But that was you, wasn’t it? Let me see, that would mean that Wilkes is in his cups and you have replaced him. Very dedicated of you, Captain James. The Admiralty will no doubt be grateful.” “I seem to be at a disadvantage, ma’am, for you know my name and business, but I do not know yours.” She took a step in his direction, enabling him to just make out her long coat and hat. She was dressed as a lady and certainly spoke like one. “It is 1 who am at a disadvantage, sir, alone with you in the darkness. I’m sure if I cried out, no one would hear.” James did not quite know what to answer and she laughed at his awkwardness. “You may call me Miss Fielding, Captain James, if you wish.” “Miss Fielding. What is it you want here?” “Well, that is difficult to explain. I suppose the truth is that I wish answers to a few simple questions, but then you might take that wrongly.” He thought he heard her whisper, and in the shadow she seemed to be moving her hands, as though she wound a ball of invisible yarn. “But I do think it would be a good idea if you were to come away from that tree. You’re rather too close to the road and can be seen.” “I’m standing in complete darkness. No one can see me, I assure you.” “Well, that is not entirely true. I can see you perfectly. But indulge me, come back into the park a little farther. I give you my word that I will not harm you.” James heard himself snort. It was an old trick; send a woman to lure a man back into an alley and then—But this woman was a lady, not the usual sort to indulge in such behavior. What in the world was she doing here? Watching Skye as he was? The thought that she might be a servant of Eldrich occurred to him, and he froze in place. No, impossible, she was a barely more than a girl. Some admirer of Skye was more likely. “I am happy here, 1 think,” he said. This answer did not please her, and she fell silent, perhaps wondering what she could say to convince him. “Were you among the gentlemen who invaded the rooms of Samual Hayes in Paradise Street?” “I don’t know to what you refer,” he said evenly, deciding that this situation was not at all to his liking. She could not be so at ease and be alone. He glanced quickly back to the street, but it remained empty. “In fact, you do. It is very difficult to lie to me, Captain James.” She paused and he thought he heard her sigh. “What is said of the men who were surprised there?” “What is it you want of me, Miss?” James countered. He could almost feel her gaze on him in the darkness, as though she contemplated him. “I am not actually sure. You see, I fear you have information that might endanger me and what I do. I would rather that did not happen. What to do with you is what concerns me now.” She stepped forward suddenly, into the moonlight, and James saw that she was young, but faded, somehow, as though she had survived trials that had aged her terribly. He felt an unexpected wave of pity for her. “Come away from the street, please. I do not have large, pugilistic men hidden in the shrubbery. If anything, I should be afraid of you. But I am willing to trust you if you will do the same.” “What is Skye to you?” James asked. She sighed, looking off down the street and then toward the house. “It is a tale too long to be told now. Let me say that my purpose is not in conflict with your own. Please,” she reached out and took his arm. “I’m afraid, Miss Fielding, that I cannot cooperate,” he took hold of her wrist. “But you will answer my questions, or you will find yourself in a situation not to your liking. What is Skye to you, and why do you care about the men found in Paradise Street?” James heard her mumble something and reach out toward his face with her free hand. His vision clouded oddly, and he wavered. The park went suddenly dark and he felt himself falling. Someone caught him, someone soft who smelled of perfume. ((It was necessary,“ the woman said. ”As you know there are limits to what I can do in a given situation.“ James felt a cool hand on his forehead. “1 think it was a mistake,” a masculine voice said. “We should do nothing more that might draw any attention. We have taken too many chances as it is. Far too many.” i ¦ There were several people in the room, James thought. Mostly nen. He could smell tobacco from their clothing and wine on their breath. “What will we do with him now?” It was a third voice, another man. This one spoke very slowly. There was no answer immediately, and James did not like the sound of that. “Captain James?” the woman who had called herself Miss Fielding said. “You are conscious—it is obvious.” “I cannot see.” “You are in a darkened room, Captain James, but you are unharmed. There are four of you watching Skye, is that correct?” “Yes,” he answered though he had not meant to. Certainly this kind woman meant him no harm. There was no reason to keep secrets from her. “Do you know why you have been assigned this duty? Was it the Sea Lord sent you?” “Yes, Sir Joseph. He thinks that someone practices the arts openly once again.” A protracted silence. James heard the scraping of feet on wood as people shifted slightly. “And who does he think this practitioner of the arts might be?” “Eldrich,” James said. “Though he has not ruled out… other possibilities.” “Meaning?” “There is another mage of whom nothing is known.” Someone cursed under their breath. “Who has set out to ruin Skye?” the old man asked. “Certainly Brookes did not do this on his own.” “Moncrief,” James said without hesitation. “Moncrief hates Skye.” “And your only reason for being here is to watch Lord Skye?” “No… We are on the lookout for others.” “Who? Speak up, man.” “Two young men named Kehler and Hayes… and Erasmus Flattery.” No sound again. Someone cleared his throat. “What has led Sir Joseph to believe the arts are involved?” Miss Fielding asked. “I—I was not present, but it is said that the officers who searched for Samual Hayes surprised some others there before them, and these men leaped from the window, apparently coming to no harm.” “And who were these people?” the one with the old voice asked. “No one knows.” “Well, we have that to be thankful for,” a younger man said. “Is there anything else that has made the Sea Lord suspicious?” “A sailor and his girl saw two gentlemen bring a woman to the harbor. Without coercion or a word of protest she leaped into the water and drowned.” James heard the sounds of people shifting again. It occurred to him that he should not be answering questions as he was, but they seemed so kind, so trustworthy. “It is worse than I’d hoped,” the old man said, his voice trembling with fear or anger. “Far worse. Anthing we do now to disguise our involvement can only make matters worse.” James heard the woman draw in a sharp breath. Fear. He could sense fear in this room. “What do we do with this one?” “He is a danger to us,” the old man said, his voice slow and devoid of warmth. “It’s too late to do anything about that. This goes up to the Sea Lord and Moncrief. Too late to put a stop to it with the likes of Captain James. No, send him back to his duty, that is all we can do.” “We could put him to work for us, at least,” Miss Fielding said. “No,” the old man said. “It is out of the question. Eldrich would see our marks upon him in an instant. Even this is too much. If Eldrich finds him, he will know immediately.” “It is too late to worry about that. We must trust the vision now. But I was not intending to use those arts upon him. No, leave the good captain to me. Better he watches these others than we do it ourselves.” She touched him; he was certain it must be her. A light hand on his head. “We are gathering here—all the players— and each will have a part. That is what our visions have taught us. Everyone will have a purpose. Perhaps even this poor sailor. Perhaps even these two boys who follow Skye so blindly.” Chapter Twenty-one Kehler climbed slowly down the drop, trying to stay clear of the spray from the falls, while Hayes leaned out as far as he dared, holding the lantern to try to give his companion light. “It is not so difficult—if one could but see,” Kehler called up. They were in a large passage, almost round and fifty feet in diameter, that sloped down noticeably. Occasionally the floor almost leveled and then dropped a few feet, though never more than seven or eight and usually less. Hayes leaned out a little farther, holding the lantern in a rapidly-tiring arm, and fought to ignore the muscles’ complaints. He was stiff and sore as he could not remember being in years. His knees were tender from the long crawl, and his arms and shoulders ached so badly that it hurt terribly to carry his pack. Yet he did not really seem to mind. The cave was so incredible, so unlike anything he had ever seen, that he barely complained, and when he did, it was with a bit of laughter. Suddenly there was a scraping of boots on stone, and Kehler shot down, landing and rolling backward. “Are you hurt?” Hayes asked as his friend came to rest on his back. “Oh, hardly,” Kehler said with apparent disgust. “Ass over tea kettle, I think that particular drill is called. Very gymnastic, didn’t you think?“ He rolled over and pushed himself up stiffly, pulling off his pack and letting it fall to the rock. Bending over the stream of running water, he washed his now red face. “Send me down the lantern,” he said, “and your pack as well.” A moment later Hayes was standing beside his companion and they both hoisted their packs. “1 don’t think it can be far now, though I am not so sure that the distances on our survey are really in proportion to reality. 1 think these passages were measured by men with vastly differing strides, that is what I believe.” They set off again, climbing down beside the falling stream, which followed its own meandering channel more or less in the center of the passage. Here and there they were forced to cross over to find dry rock on which to walk, and invariably this led to one of them soaking a boot yet again. They hardly cared now. Their clothing was soiled and torn, the leather of their boots scuffed and soaked through, and they were both in need of a bath, but it did not matter. It would not have been an adventure otherwise. “One cannot adventure from one’s easy chair,” Kehler had said, and they had laughed, saying of the less difficult sections, “a veritable easy chair, that.” “I think the passage is opening a bit,” Hayes offered, and in a few minutes he was proven right. Suddenly they stepped out into a vast chamber, larger than any they had so far seen. Before them lay the dark waters of a lake. The lantern lit the far reaches of the cavern only dimly, but even so Hayes could see great stalactites and columns and formations called curtains, as well as moonstone, the flowing white substance from which the decorations in whitestone caves were formed. The hollow sound of water tumbling into the lake seemed unnaturally loud and clear. Even though Hayes knew they were far from being the first to discover this place, it still seemed a deep wonder, hidden away, here, far beneath the surface of the world. A lake, at once familiar and strangely alien. “The chamber of the mirror,” Kehler said, taking up the lantern and going to the water’s edge. Hayes joined him, and they both stared down at their murky reflections in the dark water. Two unkempt young men, their faces ruddy from exertion and adventure. “I can’t believe you forgot the shaving kit,” Kehler said. “Or the servants to tend our clothes and groom our wigs. Yours looks a bit shabby, 1 will tell you.” As if to reinforce the strangeness of the place, Hayes realized there was a bright blue skiff perched awkwardly on the rocks thirty feet away. “Where in the world did that come from?” Kehler laughed. “I thought that might surprise you. I’m relieved it’s here. Some enterprising individuals brought it down here in pieces and built it in place, if you can believe it. In fact, there are two of them, one at the lake’s far end, or so I hope. It is understood that we will take this to the far end, then use the other to return it, thus always keeping a skiff at either extreme of the lake.” Hayes lowered his pack to the cavern’s floor and sat down on it, having realized that it was much softer than even the most malleable rock. “Do we go by boat, then?” “Only a short way, and then I’m afraid it’s back to our poor battered limbs—all four of them in places.” “Well, I thought it had become a bit easy. Don’t want to grow soft, do we?” They sat staring at the scene in wonder, pointing out the formations that caught their eye. Hayes trimmed the lantern wick and turned it up as high as he could, casting light out over the lake, though it did not reach the far shore. “Pelier didn’t paint this, I take it?” Hayes asked, and received a shake of the head in reply. He had begun to wonder if Kehler was right in his assertion that what lay ahead to be discovered would bring them fame and, even better, fortune. It seemed entirely possible that he was merely helping Kehler pursue his obsession, though he had to admit that so far it had been an experience well worth the effort, although he shuddered when he thought of the claustrophobia of the crawl. Occasionally he felt some anxiety when he remembered that he would have to pass back through that terrible passage. “Do you still feel as confident of finding what we seek, now that you’ve seen the complexity of this cavern?” Kehler nodded his head. “We must find it,” he said quietly. Then he stood up quickly. “Well, help me with this skiff, and we will see if it still floats. I can’t imagine who would leave it high and dry like this. The seams are bound to be open, at least a little.” They shifted the tiny craft down the rocks, careful not to scrape or bang it, for the boat was so lightly constructed that it would not stand misuse. “I hardly think a boat this small will float the two of us,” Hayes said, “it is barely as long as I am tall.” They loaded their two packs in, released the oars from their ties and stepped gingerly aboard. When they took their places on the seats at either end, the boat sank in the water until only a few inches of freeboard remained. Hayes shipped the oars, careful not to make any movement that would unbalance them. “I hope a wind doesn’t come up. Our ship will hardly stand any kind of sea.” He dug the oars into the still water and turned the cockleshell boat out into the subterranean lake. With Kehler in the bow holding the lantern aloft, and occasionally bailing, Hayes rowed fisherman style, facing the direction they traveled, and gazed in wonder at the cave. The decorations were astounding and some of the columns and curtains were on a grand scale—thirty and forty feet tall from floor to ceiling—rising up like fantastic castles of ice. The dome of the chamber itself was lost in the darkness, though from the slope of the ceiling at the edges Hayes guessed it to be sixty feet. Kehler waved the lantern at one of the largest columns. “Imagine how long it took for that to form. Thousand of years, certainly. Long before men came to Farrland, this great column might have already spanned from floor to ceiling.” “How old does that make the cavern, I wonder?” Hayes answered. They rowed on, their eyes feasting on the wonders of the chamber of the mirror: moonstone, like glacial milk, flowing over the surface of the parent rock, almost translucent, glistening in the lamplight. “Surely it was worth all of our efforts and the ruin of our clothing to see this,” Kehler said. “Yes. I wish I were an artist, for I haven’t the skill with words to describe it.” A small stream appeared from a side passage and added its water to the mirror. The lake opened up so that, for a time, they could see no shoreline, and small headlands began to appear, like the great capes of the world seen from afar. When the shore appeared again, they noted several passages of differing sizes in the walls, and, in S ean Russell one place, a ribbon of water fell from an opening in the ceiling. They rowed once around this in astonishment before continuing on. Hayes could not believe the length of the chamber, but when they came to what they thought was the end, it proved to be only a narrowing. From either side a small peninsula jutted out, creating a pass no more than a dozen feet in breadth. On one headland a rock incisor was topped by a white column perhaps three feet across its base with a fine tracery of flowing drape running down from the sloping ceiling. “Magical,” Kehler whispered. “1 feel like we have entered the kingdom of men who dwell beneath the mountain. A race that have chiseled and inscribed and sculpted for millennia, though now they are gone and their dark world lies abandoned.” They quickly crossed this final arm of the lake, which was more like a small bay, and found the second boat pulled up onto a shelf of stone. The stream disappeared into a passage here, and the sound of water falling could be heard. They managed to land without tipping, and Kehler immediately began dragging the boat up behind them. “We have to return that to the lake’s end,” Hayes reminded him His friend stood up, his manner suddenly serious. “I have been thinking that we should leave this skiff here. Do you remember that Clarendon said Demon Rose was asking after me in Castlebough? And the guide who brought us here will certainly not keep our presence a secret, especially if he is offered a few coins. I don’t want to suddenly find we have company on our quest.” “But is that safe?” Hayes asked, looking back out over the dark water. “What if we are injured or lost.” “With a little luck we’ll be back before anyone becomes concerned. The Farrellites are not pleased with me, Samual. 1 can’t imagine that Rose is going to come down here after me, but the church has long been skilled at using others. I don’t think that it is a great risk to keep this boat here for the next day or two. The cave is not visited often until the lower entrances open in summer when the water level is lower. Anyone else venturing in here now would be after us, I fear.” Hayes nodded. He was tempted to admit that he had left a note for Erasmus, but decided against it. Kehler would likely be furious, afraid somehow that Erasmus would reveal this knowledge to Deacon Rose, though clearly that was unlikely. “Let’s eat a bite and then go on. At our present speed we might be at our destination yet this day. Is it past noon?” Hayes found his watch. “Good guess. Twenty past.” They made a silent dinner on the shore of the lake. Hayes felt a little guilty that he had betrayed Kehler’s trust by telling Erasmus, and at the same time he was annoyed that Kehler would not return one boat to the far shore. If some misfortune befell them, reaching them would be difficult in the extreme. After their silent meal they took to the new passage, leaving the chamber of the mirror with great regret, and followed the underground river that drained the lake. The flow of water was strong here and had cut a deep channel in a soft vein of rock. The going was comparatively easy, and they made good time, saving their breath for their efforts. Hayes wondered what Kehler was thinking. Was his mind completely focused on their goal, or was he really worried about the priest who apparently pursued him? Hayes could not shake the feeling that Kehler had not yet told him the whole story, as though afraid that he might not continue if he knew the truth. And Hayes was not sure that his friend wasn’t right in this. What were they searching for? Kehler’s belief that it was lost knowledge was, at best, a guess. Whenever Hayes asked himself this question, he thought of a small boy, trapped in a tiny hole in the stone, impossibly far from any comfort—and that small boy was somehow Hayes. The passage proceeded to drop and twist its way down, like a bowel, Hayes thought. After an hour the sound of falling water grew to the point where they would have needed to shout to be heard, had they talked. Finally they were forced to wade into the rushing water, though the stream had widened and was barely two feet deep. They moved slowly, placing their feet with care, and finally came to the lip of a falls. A small dike of rocks, like jagged teeth, raked the water as it plunged out of sight. Warily they moved to the very edge, holding the lantern out so that they could look down. A chaos of white water disappeared down a large well, twenty feet across, but they could see no bottom. Hayes felt the pull of the water’s movement, , drawn mysteriously to the darkness. S ean Russell The way, by darkness, into light. ‘’How far is it?“ Hayes asked, stepping back, a little breathless. “To the bottom? I forget what 1 read. A hundred and fifty feet? Something on that order. Farther than one would want to fall, that is certain.” “But where do we go?” Kehler pointed out over the falls, and up the right-hand wall Hayes could see only a dark shadow on the stone. “That is a passage?” Kehler nodded. “But how do we get there?” Hayes looked down again, a sudden feeling that the motion of frigid, coursing water flowed through him. “It is not so hard as it looks, apparently. There is supposed to be good footing, and as they always say, the trick is not to look down. We will use the rope. I will try it first, if you like.” “No,” Hayes said quickly. “You have gone first too often. I will take my turn.” He felt a chill run through him as he spoke, a sudden weakening of both his will and his limbs. He glanced down again, wondering how many men had stared into their own, freshly-dug grave. Kehler balanced the lantern on a high shelf, so that both of his hands were free, and then tied the rope around his waist, making a loop of one end and throwing this over a tooth of rock at the fall’s edge. The other end was made fast around Hayes’ middle, then Kehler fed the rope out slowly, snugging it around his own waist in the way of mountaineers. “Have you climbed at all?” Kehler asked. Hayes shook his head, looking out at the route he must take. “Nor have I, but 1 have a friend who is something of a fanatic about it. He told me that the trick is to keep your body away from the rock wall. You must maintain your weight over your feet. Do you see what I mean? If you lean into the cliff like this, you force your feet out and they can slip much more easily. Are you ready?” “No. But I shall not become so with time. Weight out over my feet,” he repeated, and went to the edge. His leather soles would be impossibly slippery, he realized, and elected to remove his boots and go on in stocking feet. Balancing on the corner of the falls, Hayes looked down for the briefest second and felt his balance waver. Automatically he grabbed the wall for balance. “Flames,” he heard himself whisper. “Easy on, Hayes,” Kehler said. Gathering his resolve, Hayes stared out at the rock and tried to pick his route to the opening. He stepped out onto a foothold and found to his relief that it was quite large and the wall was not as vertical as it looked. The sound of the falls changed as he moved, and he could hear the frightening cascade falling into the dark well beneath him. He tried not to think about what a slip would mean. Another step onto a smaller foothold. “Keep your weight out, Hayes,” Kehler reminded him, and he tried to comply, though he felt that he was leaning out dangerously far and feared the weight of his pack might suddenly drag him back. He searched for another place to move his foot, and for handholds, reaching out and testing the rock, which all seemed sound, if a bit too smooth. He took a larger step this time, up and out to his left, pulling on a good handhold. And there he stood, looking for a way to go on. A small platform a foot or so square was not far off, but he certainly could not reach it in one step, and perhaps not even in two. “Can you see the route?” Kehler called over the sound of the falls. Hayes shook his head. “There are no handholds and the footholds seem too small—barely toeholds, in fact.” He felt panic begin to grow in him, and he glanced back. He seemed already to have come impossibly far. The safety of the lip of the falls seemed too far away, he was not sure he could get back without falling. Hayes felt his leg begin to quiver, perched as he was on such a tiny hold, the muscles rigid. Suddenly the rock all looked impossibly smooth and slippery. The sound of tumbling water seemed to grow louder, reverberating inside his chest, as though making him part of it. “Hayes? Either come back or go on, but don’t stand there! Your leg is trembling, I can see it. Come back and let me try.” “Martyr’s blood, there is nowhere for me to go.” Hayes looked back but could not see the footholds he had used to get this far. His fingers began to cramp where he clung to the stone, and he realized that in a few seconds he would fall. S ean Russell “Take hold of yourself, Hayes!” Kehler said, his voice rising. Hayes saw Kehler sit down in the rushing water and brace his feet against the rock, readying himself for the coming fall. / cannot fall, Hayes said to himself. If I fall, even if the rope holds me, I don’t know how I will ever get back up again. I must not fall! He looked desperately at the small platform that seemed so far away. There were two impossibly small toeholds between where he was and the comparative safety of the platform, but he could see nowhere for his hands. If he could only land on the toeholds lightly and pass on, perhaps… “Give me slack, Kehler,” he called out, and felt the rope release its pressure. Realizing that his shaking legs were about to fail, Hayes focused on the possible holds, forced his legs to be still, and then stepped quickly onward. One toehold came under foot, and he brought his other foot onto it, feeling the tiny ledge with only three of his toes. His hands found no purchase and he could use them only for balance. He moved again, setting his left foot on a hold equally precarious. He brought his other foot inside this, and passed on, almost leaping onto the platform. It seemed a dance floor when he stood there. Impossibly large. He felt he could perform a jig there without fear of falling. “Well done!” Kehler called out. Hayes stood, catching his breath, nodding to acknowledge his friend’s support, unable to speak. He glanced up at the opening. Ten feet to go, but the way looked comparatively easy—almost a staircase. “Are you all right there?” Kehler called. “Yes… Yes. I’ll go on in a moment. The way looks easier now.” He felt himself smile with relief. A moment of rest and relative security helped him immeasurably, and his confidence was somewhat restored by what he had done. He caught his breath, and then examined the rock before him. “I’m ready to go on,” Hayes alerted his friend, and then went deliberately out, picking his footing carefully, feeling the cold rock beneath his stocking feet. Three or four minutes of intense concentration, thinking of nothing but where to place his feet and hands, and how to move, and he pulled himself up into the passageway. The light was not good here, but he felt around and found a place for his pack. Kehler sent the lantern over, and to his dismay discovered that he now had very poor light for climbing. After a moment of standing and shivering, he found a candle in his pack which he could not light with a flint, and so the lantern was sent out over the falls again, swinging on the rope. Kehler lit his candle and sent the lantern back yet again. They managed to bash it into the rock as it came near to Hayes, but miraculously the glass chimney did not shatter. Holding the stub of the candle in his mouth so that the flame wavered six inches before his face, Kehler stepped out onto the stone. Hayes had tied himself to a horn of rock and kept a tight rein on his companion, but even so he worried. He was not sure that he could hold Kehler should he fall. Fortunately, Kehler seemed more confident than Hayes had, no doubt helped by seeing that the climb could be done, but he was shivering visibly from having sat down in the icy waters. Even at a distance Hayes could see his hands shaking as he tried to grip the rock. “Keep the rope snug,” Kehler called out suddenly, his words distorted by the candle in his mouth. He had come to the place where Hayes had nearly lost his nerve altogether. Here he paused, too, though perhaps more to draw on his physical reserves. He shifted his weight to one side and accidently stubbed out the candle against the rock. “Martyr’s blood!” he swore around the candle, then spit it out, letting it fall into the void below. “Can you see at all?” Hayes called out over the chaos of the waterfall. “Barely, and if I stand here and let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I shall certainly fall. I’m trembling like a leaf in the wind as it is.” A silence ensued in which Hayes could feel the fear growing. “Hayes? Can you tie the rope off? I can’t go on without light. You’ll have to tie the rope off and hold the light out so I can see. Can you do that?” Hayes did not like the sound of that. If he tied the rope as it was, Kehler would create slack when he moved on. If he did fall, he would hit the end of this slack and almost certainly part the rope. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea, Kehler. Can’t you see at all?” S ean Russell “No. I must have light, and quickly. My legs are shaking so violently that I’m sure to fall at any moment. Please, Hayes, do as I ask!” Reluctantly Hayes tied the rope over the horn of rock, but kept his own line about his waist so that he could lean out as far as possible with the light in his hand. He swept up the light and crawled to the very lip of the passage. Taking hold of the rope in his free hand, he leaned out over the abyss and stretched the lantern out precariously. The sound of water was suddenly very loud. “Flames!” he heard himself say. “Bloody blood and flames.” Feeling utterly helpless, he watched his friend who stood shaking on the rock. Hayes was almost certain that Kehler would fall, when suddenly he reached out with a hand, and then swung his foot onto a toehold. Just as he positioned his weight over his foot he slipped, and for a second clung to the rock with his hands, flailing for a foothold, and then, mercifully, he was back on the rock, gasping like a consumptive, though it was from fear. Hayes could hear him muttering, cursing under his breath. “Keep your body away from the rock, Kehler, or that will happen again.” He saw his companion nod, then push himself out a bit, though still not far enough, Hayes thought. Kehler took a second to collect himself and then moved on, with exaggerated care this time. Another step, and then he was on the platform. ‘“Tis child’s play from there,” Hayes called out. “A regular easy chair of a climb, I would call it.” Kehler could not even manage a smile in response. His face was drawn and white, his whole manner grim, though more determined now. A moment more and he joined a relieved Hayes in the mouth of the passage. “Are you shaking from fright or cold?” “Both, 1 confess,” Kehler said. “I must find some dry clothes immediately. Hayes had to help his friend into dry clothes, for his hands were not functioning properly, and he also made Kehler take his coat which was warm from his own body’s heat. Using his previous trick, he made something resembling tea over the lantern flame and this seemed to help. Even so it was a good hour before Kehler was warmed sufficiently. They ate there, on their balcony overlooking the falls, and drank a second cup of the warmed tea. “I think we must go on,” Kehler said. He had stopped trembling and regained some of the color in his face, though he hardly looked well. Hayes was sure that Kehler needed a night’s sleep in a warm bed, and then a day’s rest. But nothing even remotely like that was possible here. They could either go on or go back: those were their choices. Hayes helped his friend shoulder his pack, and then raised his own. Taking the lantern, he set off, keeping his pace moderate. The passage they were in now suffered from a low ceiling, and in places they had to crouch, but it was ten feet wide and Hayes was relieved when it did not seem inclined to shrink any more. “We are going up,” Hayes said suddenly. After descending since entering the cave, they were suddenly ascending. “Yes, this part of the cave drains down this passage when the water is high, and down into several other passages the rest of the year. It is almost a separate sytem. As far as anyone knows, this is the only link between the two sections of the cave, and another entrance has yet to be found. We are into the remote parts of the cave now. Few venture beyond the falls, for that traverse we just managed stops all but the brave and the foolish.” “We are the latter, I take it?” “Well, I certainly was not feeling terribly brave, hanging out there over the falls. I could think of nothing but falling into that pit, and being swept down into the deep channels below the mountain. I think I shall have nightmares of it for the rest of my days.” A trickle of water ran in this passage, and occasionally they would find small pools of perfectly clear water. In one place they were forced to climb up a fifteen-foot face, but this hardly slowed them after what they had just managed. “I should think that any fear you have of Deacon Rose sending his minions after you should be put to rest now. They would have to walk across the lake of the mirror and brave the traverse above the falls. I think we can safely say we are beyond their reach now.” Kehler nodded, but he did not respond. Obviously he was not as confident as his friend, which surprised him a little. Chapter Twenty-two Erasmus awoke to a sound, not sure what it was. A scratching at the door and sniffing. The dream, he thought. The wolf at the door. He rolled over and closed his eyes, bringing up a mental picture of the countess: something to drive the feelings of the dream away. A soft knock. Erasmus sat up. A knock again. Who in this round world? he thought, but got quickly out of bed. Perhaps it was someone with word of Hayes and Kehler. Blood and flames, he hoped they had not met with misadventure. He threw on a robe and unbolted the door, opening it a crack. There in the dim hallway stood a small, round man, unfamiliar at first, but there was something about him… “Martyr’s blood! Mr. Walky?” “Ah, you’ve not forgotten me, my young lion,” the man whispered. “Now, let me in, if you please.” Erasmus threw open the door, and Walky entered the room, almost an apparition in the starlight. “I have never been more surprised by a visitor in my life,” Erasmus began, both overjoyed to see the man, and apprehensive. Why, after all these years, would Eldrich’s servant appear? Perhaps the question was written clearly on his face. “I have come to fetch you,” Walky said, a bit of apology in his voice. “Ah.” Erasmus felt something like dread growing in him. “What does he want, Mr. Walky?” he asked, his mouth quickly drying. The little man shrugged. “Only the mage knows,” he said, and tried to smile reassuringly. “Dress quickly, he has not grown in patience since your last meeting.” Erasmus nodded and began to pull on clothes. A carriage awaited them in the street, drawn up in the shadow of a building. After traveling a block in silence, Erasmus spoke. “You are well, I hope?” though it was not the question he wanted to ask. “Yes, of course. How could I not be?” The old man, who must be very old now, hardly seemed to have aged. His hair, what little there was of it, had been white those twenty years ago, and in the poor light his face did not appear more creased. Twenty years… “Do you still teach the young gentlemen?” Erasmus asked, trying to think of some way of hinting toward the events of the past, perhaps to see if Walky shied away from the subject. “There have been no young gentlemen since your day, sir. I tend the garden now, and do the mage’s bidding.” The slow clatter of iron-shod wheels and horses’ hooves echoed among the houses—the hard sounds unable to penetrate stone. “I don’t think he means you harm, sir,” Walky said suddenly, his manner reassuring. “No? No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” The carriage rattled on, climbing slowly up the switchback road. Erasmus shut his eyes for a moment and saw his last meeting with Eldrich, and Percy. Exerting all his considerable will, he tried to force the image from his mind. Percy… “We are almost there, sir,” Walky said, pulling Erasmus from his thoughts. “Mr. Flattery? I know you have grown and become a man among men… But to the earl, the greatest man in Farrland does not impress him overly. It would be best to remember that. He has no tolerance for pride among men.” Good old Walky. Even after all these years he was concerned S ean Russell for his charges. Had this concern only manifested itself a little more effectively all those years ago… They pulled up under the roof of a carriage entrance, and a silent footman lowered the step. “Where are we?” “You don’t know? This is the house of the priest, Baumgere. He is waiting here.” Walky led Erasmus into the old mansion, and as they passed through the dimly lit entrance way, Erasmus realized another man emerged just behind them, led out to the waiting carriage. It could not have been, Erasmus thought. It must have been a trick of starlight, for he thought he had seen a head of silver hair— like Skye—but it could not have been. They made their way down hallways lit only occasionally by candles and finally into a rotunda, beneath a dome of stained glass, Erasmus thought, for a pattern seemed to fall upon the floor, like the imprint of wet leaves on a walkway. When he looked down again, he realized that Walky had retreated back through the door. The room was almost entirely dark, and Erasmus felt his apprehension grow. “You have nothing to fear,” came the voice that he would never forget—musical yet entirely lacking in human warmth. Not the voice of a man at all. “Lord Eldrich?” “Yes, come forward, man. If I’d meant you harm I would have done it long ago.” But you did, Erasmus thought. He stepped forward, his hand out before him like a blind man. A fire flared up across the room, causing him to step back. He thought he heard a chuckle in the darkness. Remembering Walky’s warning, he went forward quickly. He found Lord Eldrich sprawled in a chair near the hearth. Erasmus had forgotten how tall the mage was. He had also forgotten the man’s presence. There was not a lord who could equal it. Eldrich was a man who knew his place, utterly. There was no mistake. Nor was there any mistaking what Eldrich thought of others: mere men, hardly worth his time. “Sit down, Erasmus,” Eldrich said, his voice almost soft, though still devoid of warmth. “So this is what became of you…” He fixed a disinterested gaze on his former charge. Erasmus could just make out the man, his dark hair framing a thin face, always terribly white as though he did not care for the sun. Thin lips, and a sharp nose - almost raptorlike, Erasmus thought. A hunting falcon, with all-seeing eyes and no remorse. “It has been how long?” “About twenty years, sir.” “Really. Time… it speaks to me so little. Servants die. I hear rumors that there is a new King. Friends… they’ve been gone these many years now.” He shook his head a little sadly, a little confused, as though not sure how these things had come to pass. “And you have grown to manhood, and some prominence, I understand. Walky takes great pride in your accomplishments.” He smiled, though it was not a smile of affection—more of amusement, Erasmus thought. Eldrich appeared to regard him for a moment, his gaze not hostile though neither was it friendly. “What is it that 1 might do for you, Lord Eldrich?” Erasmus asked, suddenly losing his patience, annoyed that this man would treat him so. Eldrich’s smile was derisive. “You play your part, Erasmus, do not be concerned. I want to know if you have been contacted by certain people that are of interest to me.” “Which people?” “Well, that is difficult to answer, for I do not know their names. You see, they have gone to great lengths to be sure that I do not know of their existence—but they have not been entirely successful. And now they are growing positively bold. Desperate even. So much so that I expect they have approached you. The only one I can describe is a woman—slim, hair of reddish-blonde, but faded. ‘Drained’ was the word one used to describe her. She uses divers names.” “I have no knowledge of such a woman.” Erasmus was surprised to find Eldrich at all interested in the affairs of men. The mage shifted in his chair, turning his head sharply, looking into the darkness. Thought overlain by sadness. That was what Erasmus saw, if one even dared to imagine what a mage felt. What they might think was an utter mystery. “Yo’u had seen this text on the Pelier before meeting the countess, I collect?” Erasmus was surprised. Did Eldrich keep such close track of him? Had he done so all these years? “A friend, Samual Hayes, had S ean Russell shown it to me. A friend of his had unearthed it in the Farrellite archives in Wooton and sent it on to him.“ This seemed to focus Eldrich’s attention. “You know these young men.” Erasmus nodded. “And they are here, in Castlebough?” “Yes. Or rather they were. They appear to have gone down into one of the caves, searching for what I cannot say.” “The Mirror Lake Cave.” “Yes.” Eldrich rose from his chair and paced out into the dappled darkness of the rotunda, pausing as though forgetting where he went or why. He turned back to Erasmus. “Have the priests come seeking this young man? What is his name?” “Kehler. There is a priest here—a Deacon Rose—who is pursuing him. The priest told me that Kehler is in some danger, though he would not say more. He also told me that if I were ever to see you, sir, to assure you that the Farrellites have kept faith with the mages. He seemed very concerned that this be understood.” “And well he should be,” Eldrich said, and then walked another three paces, a hand to his brow, Erasmus thought, though it was hard to tell in the poor light. The mage stopped in the rotunda center and looked up at the dome overhead, standing a moment with his arms thrown oddly out, and then he came back and stood by the fire. “You have been busy these past years, Erasmus. No doubt you have heard of Teller in your researches?” “I—I have.” “Do you know what became of the society the man thrust upon the world?” “1 believe it was destroyed. Five mages conspired to trap them and put an end to their efforts.” “An end was put to more than their efforts,” Eldrich said emphatically, “though it was not an easy thing, for the followers of Teller had grown cunning and knew how to avoid coming to the attention of the mages. And the years have not made them less skilled in this matter, that is certain. But they think I am near to my end, my powers waning, and that is making them rash. They also sense what is coming, and they grow desperate.” “Are you saying that the Tellerites still exist?” “Do you not listen when 1 speak?” Eldrich said, his temper flaring. He walked away again, out into the center of the rotunda. After a moment of pacing he turned and gazed intently at Erasmus. <