by Ari Berk
“The Ebony Throne? Are you now some saint to speak of relics? Those days have long since passed. The throne is now only an ancient ornament. Had a king been on that throne, lo these many years, why, we might never have been given leave to establish ourselves as we have, here in this great house, so comfortable in our familiar surroundings. Do you know what might have become of us? Have you considered that?”
“But Jonas, if one of our own sits in that chair, we need never fear dissolution. What once was may be again! If one of our living kin should take up that mantle, all those lost to us might be returned to the folds of their family. The Umber name might once more be—”
Jonas raised his hand and cut Maud short, staring at her hard. He looked into her eyes with that well-honed scrutiny that was the family’s particular gift. He was looking not at her, but into her, trying to discern if her motives were not perhaps more personal. The moment she felt the intrusion, she shut her mind to him and sat up straight in her chair with the bearing of a medieval abbess—stern, impenetrable, untouchable.
The contest of wills over, for the moment, Jonas looked back into the fire. “Maud, the Revolution has been fought and lost, the King of the Dead has been overthrown and all his dominions put down into the earth. We live our lives. We die. We remain dead, but we remain. All that endures of his kingdom is an empty chair and these endless disputations over useless titles. Even in Kingsport, a town named for him during the interregnum when he settled on that shore, they have forgotten him. Death is dead. May he rest in peace, I say. Let this larger matter rest as well. Bring the boy, if you insist, but let it remain a family affair. We have benefited from these events, in our way. We have our work. Now let it be. Leave the old politics where they lie and be content with our lot. Neither should our own hopes or griefs trouble this young man who has already known more sorrow than is warranted, even for an Undertaker.”
Maud stood staring at the flames on the hearth, lost in her thoughts.
The air around Jonas darkened and soured. “Maud!” snapped Jonas. “Did you hear me?”
“I have heard you.”
Maud knew Jonas already suspected her of bringing the boy for some purpose other than the tradition of the household. But the summons had gone out, the boy was on the threshold, even now. When Amos’s son entered Arvale, she knew that Jonas would try to work things in his own way, take the boy under his wing. Jonas would try to school Silas in the customary fashion, if he could. Perhaps to the good. She would need to watch carefully. While the role of Janus carried with it certain authority that might make Silas even more useful to her, she did not want to run the risk of someone else directing the boy’s actions too particularly.
“I leave you to welcome him, Maud. I will make what preparations I can and join you shortly. This is to be done properly or not at all,” Jonas said, resigned. He silently turned to leave the hall, but then called out to the waiting air, saying formally, “Let the doors be opened for Silas Umber, Undertaker of Lichport!”
LEDGER
The Black Stone, or Limbus, remains shrouded in obscurity. Legend attests that it once sat at the mouth of a cave located on the shores of Lake Avernus and was taken from that place to Rome during the reign of Claudius. It is held that wherever it lies, below it is made a passage to the vaults and caverns of shadow, those deep cabinets of stone where the forgetful dead must await the breaking of the world.
The Limbus Stone played a brief role in the reconsecration of the Via Appia just after the second Hadean Insurrection, and was then installed within the city walls at the threshold of the Temple of Mors. During the destruction of the temple, both the Limbus Stone and the Ebony Throne, or, as it was sometimes called, the Seat of Mors, were lost. However, by the early first century the stone and the chair had resurfaced and the Hadeo-Morsian rites continued under the auspices of the Umberii, that ancient family of goetic magisters, presently known as Undertakers. Wherever they settled, the Umberii rose to prominence as summoners and banishers of the dead. Whomever in the family showed the greatest aptitude would become Janus, or Watcher at the Threshold, and conveners of the fearful Door Doom. Rarely, one of the Umberii (now, Umber) of exceptional talent might assume the Hadean throne, or Seat of Mors, but this was a dark and terrible calling and most forsook it, despite its promise of true authority over the dead.
Both the Ebony Throne and the Limbus Stone disappeared again during the Plague Times. The stone reappeared in the Western Lands, in the town of Kingsport, during the Interregnum of the King of the Dead and sometime after the The Revolution, it was listed among the hallowed relics of the Umbers of Lichport at their estate called Arvale. The Ebony Throne was never found.
—FROM THE BOOK CONCERNING THE HALLOWS OF THE HOUSE, or, TREASURES OF THE HOUSE OF UMBER, 1912
THE DOOR TO ARVALE STOOD OPEN.
The threshold upon which the door stood was a massive slab of black basalt, worn almost smooth from the passage of time and footfall. As Silas walked over it, he could see faint remains of engraving, still discernible upon the black stone’s surface. Figures, perhaps, standing in a circle. Deep striations in the stone may have been lines of early writing. The stone extended beyond the doorway in both directions, at least six feet on each side of the door frame. Silas knelt and passed his hand over the stone. He felt a faint electric tingle spark across his palm and fingers, and then his ring grew uncomfortably warm. He realized he had to exert particular force, as though the ring and the stone opposed each other and could not be brought close together. Rising, Silas stood inside the doorway, unsure whether or not to enter. His hand now felt as though it were on fire, and he wanted nothing more than to step off the stone, but some other force held him back, something more than his apprehension. He closed his eyes and the solid ground fell away from him. He floated above a chasm of cold air and far, far below, a river hurtled madly along its course beneath a vault of rock. He was convinced that should he so much as breathe, he would tumble off the edge of the earth. Yet, a faint voice in him, stirring in his blood, whispered, You have already fallen into the abyss. Here are the mansions of darkness and of wonders. Come in! Come in! We’ve been waiting for you. Here is where you are meant to be and where you shall remain.
From inside the house, the voice that was in his mind a moment ago now rose to his ears as he stood in the doorway. “Do not stand so long on the Limbus Stone, Silas Umber. It’s not healthy. Enter this place and greet your kin!”
He lifted his foot over the threshold with difficulty, like it weighed a hundred pounds, but when he stepped into the house and his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the weight fell off him, the tightness in his shoulders lessened, and the burning in his hand vanished. For an instant, he felt the sensation of dizziness, as though he had stood up too quickly. But as he looked down, the deep blue gem of his ring flashed in his sight and his blurry thoughts quickly sharpened again.
From even his limited experience at the Undertaking, he knew that the dead often had their own agendas and while not always doing so deliberately, they could easily draw you into their world, forcing their perspective on you. Ancestral home or no, he knew he would need to be careful.
Before him stood a majestic hall. Massive beams and decorative carved bosses held the roof aloft. A long table ran almost the whole length of the chamber and at the far end stood an enormous hearth, a fire burning in its open mouth. Despite the fire, there was a chill rising through the flagstones and into Silas’s feet.
There was a shadow at the end of the table and as Silas stared at it, the darkness grew more discernible. Soon he could see a tall woman in a rich wool dress with gold embroidery about the neck and hem. She wore a wimple of white cloth that flowed about her like a nimbus. Silas walked to the far end of the room where she stood. Briefly looking at the hearth, he saw words carved deep into the stone of the mantle, but before he could try to translate them, the woman spoke, her voice soft and distant, as though carried by the wind from some far-off place.
“In Vita In Morte Familia Manes.”
“In Life . . . in Death—” Silas started to work out the translation.
“Family Remains,” said the woman, finishing the line, her voice closer now, more distinct and present. “Silas Umber, Undertaker of Lichport, welcome to this house. Welcome home.”
And behind them, at the other end of the hall, the massive doors shut again.
Silas looked back at the doors and his nerves went taut. I am locked in, entombed. I will never leave this house. Quickly, to calm himself, he looked back to the woman. She was still smiling, without the least hint of threat or malice. A log in the fire hissed and popped, throwing burning embers out into the room, where they died on the cold flagstones.
She looked at Silas with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to speak. Eager to break the silence that stood between them, he asked, “Are you a relative of mine?”
“I am, Silas. My name is Maud. And I am an Umber, like you. I think I am one of your great, great, great-aunts. I don’t how many ‘greats’ that would be, going back almost a millennium, but quite a few, I expect.”
She was trying to set him at ease.
Silas was not surprised by Maud’s confirmation of her age. He knew that sometimes older spirits could retain much autonomy. But they could also be more dangerous if the business of their lives remained unsettled. How many like her were at Arvale? he wondered.
“Are you my oldest relative here?” Silas looked about, and though he saw no one else, he could begin to feel the presence of others, in the air, below the stones, behind the walls. He was being watched, and listened to.
“No. Some are much, much older than I am. But now I wonder what you might mean by ‘oldest’? Many souls have occupied this place longer than I have. There are some very ancient folk, particularly toward the southern range of buildings, and in the catacombs. But it is unlikely you’ll see them, or that they’d reach out to you. Such spirits almost become parts of the very air, or they blend back into the land itself after forgetting their own names. But my mind is inherent, become a part of this house, in a sense. Thus, I have remained myself and endured, remembering both who I am and, very often, who I was. I take the long view, and so have been here for many ages, just as you see me now. Others have, over the years, changed.”
As Maud spoke, Silas could feel the weight of those closed doors, the strength of their hinges. No light escaped the door frame around them, and their solidity made him nervous, reminding him of the massive inscribed door once used by his uncle to trap the ghost of his son in the Camera Obscura. “Do you mean that you are all prisoners of this house? And now I am trapped here too?”
For the briefest instant, a shadow of intense sorrow fell across Maud’s face, but then she strode away from Silas, to the front of the hall, and pulled the great doors open.
“You see?” she called back loudly “I am thoroughly autonomous. A modern woman. These doors open and close all the time.”
She made a small, forced laugh as she swept her hands along the sides of her medieval attire, trying to look blasé. Silas noticed that she did not, in fact, pass over the stone to go outside. She merely stood by the open door. Was she lying? Could she leave the house at all? Silas ran up to the doors, and holding his breath, walked through them. Once outside the house, he breathed deeply before walking back inside to rejoin Maud. So, he thought, it’s possible to leave, at least for now. I am not like them.
Maud Umber closed the doors again. “Anyway, as much as anyone with such a large family may be considered ‘free,’ I believe I am. I can come and go as I please for the most part. As can you.”
Silas was sure he could sense the presence of a lie, but which part of what she said wasn’t true? As they walked back across the chamber to the hearth, Silas noticed that Maud came in and out of focus, rising and dimming in his gaze. It was Silas’s experience that this flashing effect, given off by some ghosts, usually meant they were troubled, torn, lacked resolution at their life’s end, or longed for something they had lost or wanted terribly and never had. What is she hiding? Silas wondered. Though the light continued its queer wavering over her form, Maud’s voice remained steady and unaffected. “Indeed, Silas, you are Janus of this house. What door could refuse you if you wished to pass?”
Silas put a hand to his chest where the pendant given to him by his father lay. “What exactly does that mean, ‘Janus of this house’? What will I be expected to do?”
“Nothing more than those who came before you,” said Maud, looking briefly away from him toward the fireplace. “It is no great secret, but you must allow things to unfold in the accustomed manner. This is a house built upon innumerable hierarchies. It is for others to guide you into the mysteries. We must abide by custom.”
All right, Silas thought, don’t tell me. But he suspected that because it was named for the god of the threshold, of beginnings and endings, that whatever the job entailed might be an elaboration on his work as Undertaker, and might involve the massive doors of the house and the dark stone upon which they stood.
“Then may I ask you a historical question?”
Maud nodded.
“Why isn’t the title ‘Undertaker’ used for it as well? Why use the name of an old Roman god? Why the change?”
“The position holds more than merely the name, I assure you. It is no secret that when the Lamb rose up, when that new god came to drive out the old gods, many hid themselves within some of the ancient families, granting them certain authorities in repayment for continuing the old ways. Thus, the Umbers have played host to the Janus for many centuries. Janus was the older title. Undertaker came later. It is, shall we say, a little less exalted and a little more colloquial.”
Fascinated, Silas asked, “So, was some part of the god ‘passed down’ from generation to generation?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Maud tensed and Silas could see the question made her hesitant. She looked about the hall as if fretful about being overheard. Silas pressed on.
“Is there only one god per family?
Maud’s body began to lighten and about the edges of her form, Silas could just discern the textures of the wall behind her, as if she were fraying.
“Usually.”
“But might a really old, big family play host to more than one god?”
“That is hard to say,” Maud said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “At times, in the history of this house and this family, it has seemed so, yes.”
“Are you saying we have . . . other forces at work within our lineage? We hold the door for the dead, I know that. We help them. What else?”
“These are not questions I can answer for you at present—”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you suggesting I was invited here not to be told such things?”
“Silas, those answers lie within you, not me.” Maud turned her head away. She was shaking. Her form wavered and blurred upon the air. Was it nervousness or excitement? She seemed to want to say more, but was holding back.
Silas thought he might get away with maybe one more question, but it was hard to control himself. “If I am Janus, Maud, what must I do? How long was my dad Janus? Is it very much like Undertaking? Does it only happen here? Is it connected with the Door Doom that I’ve read about? Did I become Janus when I passed the gates into Arvale? Will I—”
“You are not Janus yet,” an iron voice bellowed, reverberating against the stones of the walls. Silas, startled, stepped back at the sound.
From an archway in the dark paneled wall to the right of the hearth, a man emerged and filled up all the space in front of Silas. Appearing to be perhaps in his late sixties, the ghost was large and solidly built. He wore a long coat and had a cravat wrapped tightly about his thick throat. He spoke formally, as though this were a kind of state occasion.
“Silas, I am Jonas Umber. Be welcome in this house. It would be best if you let us answer your questions in our own way and in our own time. Learning
too much at once might be . . . awkward for everyone. Know that you are Janus Presumptive, and there will be some formalities necessary before you may wield that title.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Silas, taking another step back, a little awed and intimidated at the sudden appearance of his formidable ancestor. He swallowed his curiosity for the moment. As Undertaker in Lichport, he had some authority. At Arvale, he wasn’t sure who was in charge or what exactly was expected of him, so he would accept waiting to see how things fell out, for the time being.
Silas recognized the name of the man in front of him. “I sort of know you. You were once Undertaker of Lichport as I am now. I’ve read a bunch of your writing in the town’s death ledger. You are a very learned man. I’m really honored to meet you.”
Jonas looked at Maud, and the stony expression he wore as he entered the hall softened slightly. “He is at least a discerning reader, that much I grant you.”
Silas reached out to shake Jonas’s hand. The firelight caught Silas’s ring, and blue fire danced on his finger. Jonas stared at the ring intently, letting his arm fall absently to his side.
