The High House

by James Stoddard

  “It breached the cellar door?” Carter asked.

  “No, but perhaps it seeps between the cracks in the bricks into other parts of Evenmere. There have been no sightings in the Inner Chambers, but thin streams have been reported in other corridors. And where it passes it leaves only Emptiness. That door must be closed.”

  “I need the Lightning Sword, if ever I am to regain the Master Keys. I intend to seek it at Arkalen.”

  “I can’t tell you your affairs, but Lord Anderson has been gone ten years. The sword may be lost.”

  “Lost? Not lost,” Enoch said. “Such devices have a way of turning up. It couldn’t remain lost long.”

  “I’ve been to Arkalen,” Glis said. “A fay country, terrible and splendid. And a great sea. If the sword lies at the bottom of that brine, it is lost indeed. And I can scarcely afford to send men with you; we are stretched thin.”

  “Then Duskin and I will go alone. Force of numbers would be of little use, anyway. We are not going to war, but on a quest.”

  “I little like this,” Glis said. “From the beginning the Bobby has kept you off-balance, forcing you to defend the library, forcing you to come here, now forcing you to seek the sword. And the more time passes, the more he learns of the Master Keys. You may return home to find ashes.”

  Carter sighed. “You’re right. But he hasn’t had it all his way, else he would have subverted or destroyed me by now. I have grown as well. We will leave as soon as my leg is fully healed.”

  * * *

  The day of their departure was as cloudy and rainswept as any other, and there was no one to bid them farewell. Having positioned his soldiers, Glis had moved on to other matters, and Enoch, needing to wind more clocks, had left two days before. The old Hebrew had hugged their necks, traces of tears swimming around his eyes. “Take care of one another,” he said. “You are the last of your father’s line, and it shouldn’t perish from the earth.”

  They had spent nearly a week in the Clock Tower together, time Carter had found profitable, for he had marked the ways of his brother. If he had not witnessed, through the spy-hole, the exchange between Duskin and Lady Murmur, he would have doubted him; as it was he let his misgivings rest, and so learned the joy of his sibling, who was too direct for dishonesty, and too serious for gentle teasing. His upbringing must have been harsh under cold Murmur, without Lord Anderson’s tender humor. Yet he was bright and quick, though restless as a ship seeking its course.

  They studied the maps carefully, and found a path leading into Arkalen through districts Enoch called barren. When all was ready, they left the Towers by the same door Glis had entered, which led into wide, open corridors, with neither rooms nor doors on either side, as if it had once been a banquet hall. The floorboards shone as if recently burnished; light drifted down wide skylights; altogether it was a cheery place, though the echoes of their boots made them anxious and they spoke only in whispers. The morning passed while they traversed the passage.

  During the afternoon they followed a winding path up and down stairs, across bare chambers, and through endless corridors, traveling through a country #(for so Carter thought of it) of deep oak, heavy and ponderous. These floors, too, were polished to a high finish, and the light across their surface made them gleam like a chocolate sea, the wood patterns giving the illusion of gaping faces. The map named the area Kitinthim, and there was a richness about its wooden beams and carved gryphons that drew the men, so that they spoke of refurnishing the halls and making them habitable once more.

  They spent the night within a barren chamber, once a drawing room, beside a fireplace of black obsidian, which to their surprise still had wood stacked in its firebox. With the sunset, Kitinthim lay brooding and ancient, the shadows of its shadows lost in the high-beamed ceiling, their fire the only light visible across the myriad halls. The gryphons poked their cruel beaks from the mantel and the arches; crickets rattled in the corners; a monstrous loneliness shrouded the empty rooms, yet neither Carter nor Duskin were afraid, but rather awed. They found a table and brought it before the hearth, brushed the dust from it, and made an altogether merry meal in a room that dwarfed them, ignoring the descending gloom and the sculpted monstrosities peering from the shadows. They spoke of things they had both done within the High House, each in their own time, of playing in the closets and stairwells, rummaging across the lawns, pretending to be Rollory at the Battle of Pennywash. The hot tea had left them content, their soft laughter echoed around them, and Carter thought it a fine adventure, to sit together in the warm dark, so far from humanity. He discovered their upbringing had been similar, for Duskin, too, had been raised alone, his only companions Brittle, Chant, and Enoch, and if Carter had lost his mother, Duskin’s father had been absent much of his youth.

  “But I never knew where he went,” Duskin said. “He never spoke of it, and avoided all questions.”

  “In his letters he mentioned the Sea No Man Can Sail,” Carter said. “I think he went there to think of Mother.”

  “So that’s why we seek him at Arkalen?”

  Carter sighed. “So the dinosaur in the attic said. It’s a place to start.”

  They unrolled their bedrolls before the dining-room fire. Lying there, listening to the soft cackling of the flames, Carter felt an odd contentment.

  “What are you thinking?” Duskin asked.

  “Oh, many things, strange things. I love these halls, the crannies and endless passages. The secret panels. The promise of adventure. I think there is something wonderful in all the desolate places. It’s like being a child again, walking outside at night, with the wind stirring the trees, and the sudden fear that something would leap out before I reached the house. But beyond the fear there was a question, a mystery of what inhabits a land when no man is there. What do the trees do when they are alone? And the stones? And this is another desolate place. Think of it, year upon year, and perhaps we are the first ones to walk its halls in many lifetimes. Have you been outside the main portion of the house much?”

  Duskin ran his hand over his blond hair. “Mother used to take me to Westwing, which is part of the White Circle. She has relatives there. That was only after Father disappeared. He never even told me about the house; I learned of its special properties from her.”

  Carter nodded. “It was much the same for me. Father didn’t want us to venture away from the Inner Chambers.” Carter gestured at the blackness around them. “Do you love such lonely places?”

  Duskin’s eyes looked golden in the firelight. “I hadn’t really considered it. Not in the way you mean. I love the familiar part of Evenmere, where we grew up, but out here everything is too vast. As a child I always feared becoming lost and never finding my way home.”

  The thunder rumbled overhead, the first for a long time. As its last echoes died away, the rain followed, pattering upon the windows.

  “The Bobby said the storm wouldn’t cease until he gave the word,” Duskin said. “He said when he appointed me Master I could control the elements as well.”

  “Quite a promise.”

  “It didn’t tempt me. I recognize a lie. He would make me Master only as long as it suited him. He uses everything he touches. Carter, why did you ask me to accompany you?”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Yes, but that could have been a ruse to gain your confidence. Surely you’ve thought of it.”

  “I have. But, for what reason? The Bobby wishes me dead or controlled. I was in your hands. What would be the purpose of such a deception?”

  Duskin shrugged.

  “Besides,” Carter said. “I want to trust you. Enoch was right; Ashton Anderson’s sons shouldn’t be foes.”

  Duskin stared at the flames for a time, then said, “You know, Father used to speak of you often. As a child I always wished you had stayed at Evenmere, so I could have had a brother. My mother never knew, but I used to sleep with your picture beneath my pillow, especially on the nights Father was away. I wish we could have grown
up together.”

  “So do I.”

  They fell asleep gazing at the fire.

  * * *

  All the next day they traveled the halls of Kitinthim, but the passages became increasingly debased, the banisters no longer polished, dust thick upon the threadworn furnishings, table legs and broken chairs scattered in the corridors. Only the floor retained its lustre. As the decay increased around them their spirits sank. Motes swirled thick within the sparse sunbeams through the smudged picture windows.

  For several hours they walked in silence, constantly referring to their maps, for the way was winding. Kitinthim was built like a funnel at its northernmost edge, all the rooms and passages narrowing to a single, large door, which they hoped to reach by the shortest route before twilight. Beyond lay the country of Ril, and beyond that, across the White Circle, Arkalen.

  By midday they had made good progress, but toward late afternoon they became lost, and had to retrace their steps, which cost them an hour. When they finally found their way they were frustrated and weary, and the light through the windowpanes was fading. They pressed onward, knowing they neared their objective, and soon began to hear the sound of a torpid stream.

  At last, with night nearly upon them, they discovered a wide corridor into which all the other passages converged. Signs of care appeared once more; the oak-paneled walls glistened, spotless chrome-yellow carpets covered the floor; all trace of dust was gone.

  The passage was not long, and the heavy noise of the stream grew steadily louder. As the shadows massed thick with nightfall, and they approached a doorway twenty-feet tall, a horror crept upon Carter, for the source of the flow was a dark mass, too wide to be hurdled, barring their way, drifting with the lassitude of sludge. Duskin, thinking it water, would have waded across, but Carter restrained him and lit the lamp.

  In the gaslight, the stream that whispered across the rugs was utterly black, and where it flowed the objects it touched were swallowed in its murk. It discharged from a widening rift in the left wall, coursed into the channel it had cut into the floor, and exited through a gap in the wall to the right.

  “What is it?” Duskin asked.

  “A Darkness the Bobby released from the cellar,” Carter said. “Is it coincidence it blocks our way? We can’t cross, and this is the only way out of Kitinthim without going a great distance around.”

  Disheartened, they retreated from the passage, wishing to distance themselves from it. They found a hearth but no wood, and resigned themselves to a cold meal and a dreary evening. They rested only fitfully, and arose to a bleak dawn. By Carter’s map, their closest route was to the south, and they set out at once, chewing bits of dried fruit as they went.

  The passages, no different in appearance from those seen on previous days, led them without incident or deviation down their long lengths. As the morning wore on, their tempers improved, for it seemed the detour would not detain them as long as they had thought. This proved false hope, however, as they soon found their way blocked by debris. Part of the upper floor had collapsed along the corridor, dumping tons of masonry, and after some scrutiny, they soon realized they could not pass. This led them back to their maps, where they quickly located another passage perpendicular to their own, which promised a return to their course.

  It proved to be an unlit way with few intersecting doors, and after forty minutes tramping down its length, having found no way back to their original corridor, they began to suspect a cartographer’s error. Slightly farther on, they discovered this passage had also suffered damage—a solid mass obstructed its center, leaving questionable tunnels open to either side. They tried the right, but it was wholly blocked five feet from the opening, while the left way appeared unobstructed as far as they could see. With noon approaching, Carter slunk down with his back against a wall. “I intend to have lunch before I brave it.”

  “You look pale,” Duskin said. “Are you ill?”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s … closed places make me nervous.”

  Duskin sat down beside him and took a sip from his canteen. “Have you always been that way?”

  “Yes. Well, no, I don’t think so, though I’m not certain. The Bobby caught me in the yard once, when I was twelve, just before father sent me away. He threw me into the well. It goes back to that, I suppose. I have too many foolish fears to be Steward of the house. Closed places, drowning. Even darkness still frightens me.”

  “Because of the well?”

  “No. Because …” He suddenly grew very still, and his voice was low when he spoke again. “I don’t think of it much. The Bobby took me … to a room. He called it the Room of Horrors. Father and Brittle rescued me from it.”

  “You are white as a specter,” Duskin said. “What did you see? No, I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No, I … It’s all right. I don’t remember much. Faces. Terrors. Darkness. More darkness than even here. Sometimes I have dreams.” He looked around at the gloom and gave a violent shiver. “There’s no point in talking of it. It was long ago.”

  “We could go back, find another route.”

  “It would take a week to reach the next one; it’s at the exact opposite end of Kitinthim. And it might be blocked as well. The tunnel probably extends less than fifty feet, at any rate. We’ll scoot right through.”

  They ate the rest of the meal in silence, Carter feeling vaguely silly, wondering if his half brother thought less of him for his confession.

  The roof of the tunnel was tall enough for a man to walk upright, though there was only a foot between the debris and the wall. The lantern revealed rusted nails, splintered boards, and silken spiders fleeing from the light.

  “I can go first,” Duskin said.

  “No,” Carter said, feeling suddenly stubborn. He pushed his way through the cobwebs. Immediately it seemed the whole world closed around him; his stomach tightened involuntarily, and he could scarcely breathe. He closed his eyes momentarily, willing himself to remain calm.

  Half-stooped to protect his head from low boards, he stepped farther in. His breath returned to him, allowing him to better observe his surroundings, the half-shattered stone gargoyle, the bits of masonry and plaster, the mahogany boards, once beautiful, scratched and splintered by the fall. He was able to move freely enough, and the way looked open as far as his light could penetrate. The air was hot, stuffy, and smelled of molding plaster, and trickles of perspiration ran down his neck. He pushed forward.

  The farther they went the lower the ceiling became, until both men were bent over, almost on their haunches. The rubble became a greater obstacle then, with less space to maneuver, and their pace slowed almost to a standstill. When half an hour had passed, with the sweat burning Carter’s eyes and the dust irritating his lungs, he began to doubt the possibility of an exit, as if they were burrowing deeper and deeper into the vitals of the house. He forced such thoughts away, lest anxiety give way to total fear.

  A section of cornerstone barred their path; Carter could pass only by moving to the side and squirming by. For a moment he was caught between the rock on either side, blinded by perspiration, and panic welled within him. He clawed his way forward desperately, scraping his elbow and cheek against the stones, and reached a wider space beyond. His lantern toppled and went out, casting them into darkness. It was almost more than he could bear. With shaking hands, he groped till he found the lamp, drew the match, and relit it, feeling all the while that only light could keep the roof from crashing down upon them.

  Duskin’s begrimed face popped out from between the crack. For an instant they stared eye to eye, the same thought evident in both their faces, that neither wished to go on, that neither wished to go back. Carter turned and pressed forward.

  The next barricade was a post wedged between floor and debris, too wide to be circumvented. Together they pushed against it, and it moved more easily than they had supposed. Dirt and wood hailed upon them, and Carter scrambled past, fearing a cave-in. Both men mad
e it beyond the deluge, but the post suddenly tipped farther down, and sand poured in, followed by heavier stones. While they scrambled out of the way, the passage behind filled with wreckage. The whole rubbish heap groaned above like a tree in a violent wind.

  Carter saw his own astonishment mirrored in Duskin’s face. “What idiots!” he hissed. Before they had only thought of getting through, or failing that, retreating to find another way. Carter suddenly saw their foolishness in seeking such an unlikely path. But they had believed it would be but a few feet and then out.

  As is often the way when men face a horror, they did not speak of it, but pressed forward. Carter forced himself to move with deliberation, to resist the urge to push frantically ahead, yet his heart pounded in his chest, while the way before them narrowed even more, until they could not remain on their knees, but were forced to crawl.

  This was the worst of it for Carter, squirming forward, unable to even raise his head without bumping the ceiling, crawling between rocks and wood that pinched him cruelly, fighting panic, wanting to weep, wanting air, holding on only because he knew he must. His scraped knees and elbows hurt; his left cheek and forehead were bleeding; he could not keep the burning sweat from his eyes. Time wore on interminably and always there was the tunnel before him, like the mouth of a well. He cursed his own stupidity, blaming himself for leading Duskin into danger. He wondered, when the tunnel ran out, as he thought it surely must, whether he would be able to back his way to the cave-in, so they could attempt to dig themselves out. He wondered if any oxygen reached through the rubble.

  He crawled through a particularly narrow way, while a protruding nail tore at his shirt and scratched his back, halting him. He tugged, the cloth ripped, the nail bit deep, then came free, making him groan. He crawled between the boards. Beyond, the tunnel widened slightly, though it became no taller. He pushed ahead and his hands struck stone. Brushing the perspiration from his eyes he saw solid masonry before him, and no exit to either side. He stared in despair, speechless, and pressed his hands helplessly against the rock.