River Into Darkness

by Sean Russell

  “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.

  “I 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 speculate in this particular instance is almost impossible.” The small man ran his hand over the stone again, as though he searched for something there. “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.

  “I have only one thing to add to this particular instance—and I have shared it with very few. But, Mr. Flattery, I will make this 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 Castlebough 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. “I began no apprenticeship, I 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 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.

  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 women had looked the same—petite and very blond. 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?

  “Elaural?”

  “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 I 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 I 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.