River Into Darkness

by Sean Russell

  “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 Castlebough, 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 deathbed, 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?”

  “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 I 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. I 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 I 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 I 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.

  Eleven

  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 mysterious 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 carriage. 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 uncomfortable, 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 Joh
n 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.”

  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.