Labyrinth Gate

by Kate Elliott

  “Ah,” said the earl. His eye lit for an uncomfortable moment on Maretha. “And perhaps you named your daughter after the esteemed saint?”

  Professor Farr appeared, for a moment, flustered.

  “I believe,” put in Maretha quickly, “that it was my mother’s choice of name.”

  “I see,” said the earl. “Professor Farr. I have read a number of your monographs. I am here today because of my interest in your work on the Pariam, or as you call it, the Pariamne civilization.”

  “Indeed!” The professor flushed slightly. “Indeed, my lord, I must inform you that amongst my colleagues my work on Pariamne is dismissed as erroneous, ridiculous, and completely unfounded in fact.”

  “And by some as fraud,” said the earl. He lifted a hand to forestall Maretha’s comment. “But I must assure you that I am not one of your detractors. Quite the contrary. I have conducted researches in my own branch of—ah—expertise, and it is quite clear to me that Pariamne not only existed but flourished on this island some millennia ago.”

  Maretha recognized instantly her father’s change of expression. Whatever confusion he might have felt concerning the earl before vanished now. He had found a partisan. She managed to stop herself from frowning.

  “Of course,” cried the professor. “The evidence is overwhelming. The two settlements, which I can by no means yet classify as cities, that I have had opportunity to study in the Midlands were obviously not of Latanic origin, although that of course is one of the main points disputed by my colleagues. But there are a number of structural and architectural differences, and beyond them the indisputable evidence of the fragments of writing and the frescos.”

  “But isn’t that exactly the evidence that is most disputed?” said the earl.

  “Only because they do not understand its importance! The frescos are the key. They are the depiction of the great rituals that fueled the civilization. You have read of course my monograph regarding the fragments from the throne room of the site near Eppot-Staw, which I have tentatively restored and interpreted.”

  “Indeed,” said the earl, a cold flatness in his voice that caught Maretha’s attention, “that particular paper has been of great assistance in my own investigations.”

  “Then you know that I propose that at the heart of the primary ritual event of the Pariamne year was a sacrifice—”

  “Of course,” said the earl evenly. The chill in his voice made Maretha shiver, as if the window were not sealed against drafts. “At the center of every ritual is a sacrifice.”

  “But the frescos at Eppot-Staw and at Mantion are too fragmentary to prove my theories. I have been working to decipher the writing, but as you know if you have read my monograph on the use of symbols, that although one sees a certain correlation between the Gates and various of the writing and symbolic gestures at the sites, I do not have the key to link them definitively. I must have more writing.”

  “Where will you find it?”

  “This past year I have studied exclusively the problem of the site of Pariamne itself—a word incidentally which I believe derives from the root Topo Rhuam—a root I interpret as holding several symbolic meanings: including a reference to the Consort of the Queen of Pariamne, but primarily which I translate as ‘the labyrinth of the Queen’s sacrifice.’”

  “Yes,” said the earl. “I have read your latest monograph. You even claim in it to have deduced through your research the location of Topo Rhuam itself. And if you could find and catalog Topo Rhuam, all your theories would be proven.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed the professor. “All those legends of the ancient treasure of the labyrinth have been dismissed as nonsense by those who only read the fables of the princess Sais and the fall of the city. Even the church simply equates the Queen of the Underworld with the Daughter of the Queen of Heaven, with the Mistress of Sin. But they do not recognize the historical perspective, the actual existence of the Queen of the Underworld as a pre-catholic deity in her own right, existing as the primary deity, with her consort, the Hunter, of the Pariamne civilization, which by all our moral lights today would seem a very violent and brutal one—something which the frescos bear out, incidentally. And there is every reason to believe that the tales of the princess Sais and her sealing of the labyrinth gate before the destruction of the city and her death represent some lingering remnants of actual events of those days. Of course, the common understanding of ‘treasure’ is usually in our devalued times merely one of gold or some moveable wealth—scientifically speaking, the key to both the writing and to the true and perhaps complete and earliest version of the great ritual frescos would be at Topo Rhuam—”

  “Father,” began Maretha.

  The earl lifted one hand, and Maretha was silent. “Why,” he asked, “if you believe that you know the location of Topo Rhuam, why don’t you travel there, hire laborers, and uncover both it and its treasures?” He was very still, waiting.

  “Father,” began Maretha again. “Surely it is inappropriate—”

  “My dear,” the professor said, interrupting her with one of his rare decisive looks, “we are clearly in the company of friends here, and Monsieur Mukerji is already aware of the state of our finances.”

  “Ah,” said the earl. Had he been a more expressive man, Maretha thought, he would have leaned forward now, revealing both eagerness and satisfaction. “You cannot afford such an expedition.”

  “I fear that I have to support a daughter and a niece, although neither of them are accustomed to luxury, and indeed help greatly in the economic running of the household. But my previous expeditions have been—” The professor halted suddenly. “Maretha, my dear,” he said, a trifle more gently, “it is an open secret that we are destitute—that we can ill-afford this house and Molly to keep it and a secretary for myself, and that you and Charity must do all the rest. Are you ashamed of that? There is no sin in being poor in one’s search for the truth, only in being rich in falsehood.”

  Maretha said nothing.

  “In fact,” said the earl, “you have spent your entire inheritance, and your daughter’s inheritance from her mother, on your work, and since your recent theories have met with disdain and ridicule from the members of both the Royal Geological and the Royal Historical Societies, you have been unable to obtain any funding at all.”

  Maretha stared at her hands, brown from working in the garden. She had not the discipline of Charity, who bathed hers every night in milk and linden oil to keep them white and who also steadfastly refused to work outdoors at all, for the sake of her complexion.

  “That is true,” said Professor Farr.

  “Very well,” said the earl. “I am offering you that funding. For an expedition to Topo Rhuam.”

  For a long moment Maretha was convinced she had not heard him correctly. Then she looked up, and saw the dawning joy on her father’s face.

  “My lord!” he exclaimed. “If your interest extends so far—” He stopped, too overwhelmed to continue.

  “There must be a price.” Maretha turned to look at the earl.

  “Don’t you believe that I might simply be a generous benefactor?” he said, mocking her. “Of course there is a price. I must go with the expedition. I will not interfere with your work, Professor Farr, but neither will you interfere with my investigations.”

  “Of course,” said the Professor. “Of course. That is eminently reasonable, my lord. And a full share in the credit for the discoveries we make will be yours as well, as you know.”

  “That’s all?” asked Maretha flatly.

  “Why, no, Miss Farr. That isn’t all.” He examined her again, that chill amusement back in his eyes and in his demeanor. “There is one other stipulation.” Now he stood. “Professor Farr. I wish to marry your daughter. When the appropriate papers sealing the engagement and the date of the wedding, to take place before we leave Heffield, are signed, I will settle on you the funds necessary to mount your expedition.”

  Maretha was too stunned to do an
ything but look at her father. But meeting his gaze, she saw not outrage or any intent to deny, but instead appeal. “Mother in Heaven,” she breathed, soundless but to herself.

  “My daughter is of age, my lord,” said the professor slowly. “She must say yes or no to your proposal of her own will.” He looked at her.

  “Father!”

  “Perhaps,” said Monsieur Mukerji quickly, “you would like to talk it over with Miss Farr in your study, Professor. I will gladly remain here with his lordship.”

  Maretha cast him a grateful glance as she left the room, forcing her father to follow her out. She turned on the professor as soon as they reached the privacy of his study.

  “You can’t expect me to marry him, Father!”

  “But Maretha.” His expression was one of gentle confusion. “Any father would wish such an eligible connection for his only daughter. A title. Wealth. And he is well educated as well, will enter into your interests.”

  “Holy Lady. Perhaps I can enter into his as well, and we can slaughter infants together. He is a sorcerer, Father. You know his reputation.”

  “Need I remind you of my reputation, my dear? Shall we listen to the common run of gossip, which has not even the sense to accept my many years of research? I hope we are above such talk, and can approach life from a rational and orderly perspective.”

  “But, Father—”

  He turned, pointedly, to gaze with that vague fondness he occasionally displayed at the portrait of his young wife that hung over his desk. The action alone silenced her. “Your mother would have wanted you to have this opportunity. She would know how important it is to my work, Maretha. Have you not the same care for me? I know you will do what is right, my dear.”

  She could only stare at her father’s profile, absent-minded but obstinate. For the first time she recognized truly how selfish her father’s single-minded obsession with Pariamne had made him since her mother’s death; recognized that her unqualified love and support had only fueled his self-absorption. Finally she turned away from the damning portrait and without a word returned to the library. Her father did not follow her. Monsieur Mukerji, with a quick, comprehensive glance at her face, left the room.

  Maretha sat down in a chair, unable to support this illumination of her father’s character. Instead, she stared at the wall opposite, the tapestry of Saint Maretha—at the final scene, her martyrdom at the hands of the worshippers of the Daughter of Darkness, eldest child of the Queen of Heaven—and shuddered. So selfish had he become that he was willing without a second thought to sacrifice his only surviving child.

  The earl remained silent.

  “Surely,” said Maretha at last in a low voice, still not looking at the earl, “surely with your wealth and your title you could easily marry a young woman whose fortune and background are far better than mine.”

  “Surely?” he mocked. “When you yourself acknowledge the—ah—potency of my reputation. Be assured that I have tested the waters, that I would prefer a gentlewoman whose noble lineage matched my own, rather than a gentlewoman whose birth is merely respectable. But for some reason, the parents of these eligible young females seem to believe that any wife I take will come to a very painful and tragic end. My wealth and title are of no good to her, or to her parents, if she is dead, are they?”

  She lifted her head to glare at him, a better response than admitting her fear. “Then surely you can buy some girl off the streets, if that is all you have in mind for your wife.”

  “But isn’t that what I’ve done?” he asked. “It is self-evident that the Countess of Elen must be a woman of good birth.”

  “And my father is destitute enough, and desperate enough, to agree to it.”

  “Exactly. And you are too dutiful a daughter to refuse. I am very thorough in my research.”

  Since there was nothing to say, she did not reply.

  Into their silence, the door opened. Charity walked in, halted, looking prettily confused. “I beg your pardon,” she said in her light voice. “I had no idea you were still in here, Maretha.” Her eyes remained fixed on the earl.

  “My lord,” said Maretha. “May I present my cousin, Miss Charity Farr. Charity, may I present the Earl of Elen.”

  Charity curtsied with elegance. The earl inclined his head slightly.

  “I won’t interrupt another moment, my lord,” said Charity, and swept out.

  “There,” said Maretha, succumbing to bitterness. “She is a dutiful niece, of equally respectable birth, destitute, a beauty in the bargain, and preserving herself in that state, as you can see, for the best marriage she can possibly make. She would be eager to marry you.”

  “Tempting,” he said, “but Miss Charity Farr lacks a vital qualification which, despite your lack of—ah—eagerness, you possess.”

  “I can’t imagine what it might be.”

  “Then I won’t enlighten you. Well, Miss Farr, what is your answer?”

  She had to look away, at first. Despair and anger mingled equally within her. She forced herself to face him, finally, because she would have despised herself if she did not. “You must know,” she said, her voice tight, “what my answer has to be. You judged the price correctly. But never believe that under any other circumstances I would ever choose to marry you.”

  He smiled. “I have always found it expedient to determine my circumstances, Miss Farr, rather than to endure them. But in any case, I grant you fully the right to hate me. After all, it will only enhance my reputation. My secretary will arrive tomorrow morning with the preliminary agreements.” He picked up his gloves.

  “But why?” she asked, spurred on by his movement to leave. “Why do you want to marry?”

  “Society will say,” he paused, pulling on his gloves, “that I need an heir. That is the usual reason given. Now I bid you good-day, Miss Farr.”

  She scarcely noted him leaving the room. An heir. It was, indeed, the obvious reason for his sudden decision to marry.

  At this moment, the thought of what she would have to do, with him, to produce a child, was so horrifying that she succumbed to an urge she had not felt since the age of ten, the day her mother and two younger siblings had died and left her bereft, with an absent father.

  She flung herself over the pillows of the sofa, and wept.

  Chapter 6:

  The Mage

  “NO,” SAID SANJAY. “I don’t think you would like to meet him. But I also don’t think he’s necessarily—what is the phrase—as black as he’s painted.” He shook his head. “Don’t ask me to explain that.”

  “So, Julian,” said Aunt Laetitia. “The wicked earl, whom Monsieur grants to be wicked, but not perhaps as wicked as he ought to be, has stolen your bride from beneath your nose. You shall have to settle for the beautiful but impoverished niece.”

  “Please do,” said Kate.

  “Please don’t abet her,” said Julian to Kate. “Although I will admit I am as astonished as any of you. When did you say it happened?”

  “The final papers were signed today. And the wedding itself set for six weeks from Sonsday. Oh, and—where is Chryse? Still at lessons?”

  “Her last pupil today is the Countess of Gosson’s youngest.”

  “My, Lady Trent,” said Kate. “You do move in exalted circles.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see if she’s finished yet.” Julian rose. “The rest of you can finish your tea.” He left the room before anyone could respond.

  “It is a peculiar business,” said Aunt Laetitia. “Very peculiar.” She took another slice of cake from the tray. “Tell me again where this expedition is going.”

  “That is the one piece of information Professor Farr has not told anyone, except perhaps his daughter,” said Sanjay. “But I’ve looked over his maps and his notes, and I can make a guess.”

  Kate grinned. “But the question is, will you?”

  “No,” Sanjay replied. “I feel it is only right to show a certain measure of loyalty to my empl
oyer. However, be assured that you will be the first to know once the professor allows the location to become public knowledge.”

  “Will he?” asked Lady Trent. “Despite Julian’s claim that the professor’s work is considered nonsense by his esteemed colleagues, I frankly imagine that an announcement of an expedition to the lost city of Pariam would create quite a stir, and perhaps interfere with the professor’s plans.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Sanjay. “I suspect it isn’t the professor we need fear disturbing. I suspect it is the earl.”

  Upstairs, Chryse turned her head as the door into the music room opened quietly and nodded to Julian as he came inside, but did not stop playing until she came to the end of the piece.

  “Is your pupil gone already?” he asked.

  “This hour or more,” she said. “I was playing for myself, really.”

  “I hadn’t realized you knew Bach.” He walked forward to look down at the manuscript paper on the fortepiano.

  Chryse was caught speechless for a moment. “Why, yes,” she said finally, standing up and moving to one side. “I transcribed that particular set of pieces from memory. They’re good for the younger students.”

  “May I?” When she nodded, curious, he seated himself, flipping the tails of his coat out over the back of the bench with a practiced gesture, and played a few bars. “Of course not everyone has heard of her,” he said. “This is the Notebook she wrote for her husband, isn’t it? She is growing in stature now, of course, and being recognized for the fine composer she was. She was never appreciated in her own time.”

  “No, no,” said Chryse. “I suppose—ah—she’s been neglected, until—ah—Mendelssohn—” She hesitated.

  “Yes, Fanny Mendelstochter.” He stopped playing and turned to look up at her. “Imagine finding the manuscript of the Saint Miriam’s Passion used as butcher’s wrapping paper.”

  Chryse laughed suddenly. “It strikes me, Lord Vole,” she said, “that you are particularly interested in finding things—Professor Farr’s studies in old cities, the origin of the name of Bishop’s River, and now, old manuscripts.”