by Sean Russell
Erasmus met no one’s eye, but stared at the empty chair across from him, as though he addressed someone seated there. “The Tellerites—and I use this term for lack of any other; what the society called themselves is unknown, and the mages would not speak their name—the Tellerites were caught—trapped, I think—all together. Trapped and destroyed.”
“How?” Kehler asked quietly.
“I don’t know, though it seems likely they had gathered to perform an important ritual. I haven’t been able to learn more. I can’t even say where this happened nor, with any certainty, when, though Randall’s date of 1415 is probably very close.”
“But what do you make of the crypt and the gravestone by the citadel?” Clarendon asked.
Erasmus shook his head. “I don’t know. If some remnant of the society had survived the purge . . . well, I think it unlikely they would do anything to draw attention to themselves. Is that the tomb of Teller? I very much doubt it. What purpose it served is a mystery. As to the gravestones . . . well, you said yourself that it is only rumor that connects them to Baumgere.”
Kehler leaned forward in his chair, barely suppressing his excitement. “But where? Where were the Tellerites destroyed? Could it have been here, in Castlebough? Could that explain the grave?”
“No,” Erasmus said. “I don’t know where it occurred, but I am more certain about where it did not, and I can say almost without doubt that it did not happen here. There is a very old song that originated among the Cary minstrels, and is as ambiguous as all their works.” Erasmus sat forward in his chair, and softly he began to sing in a thin, though expressive voice.
“A shepherd, a maiden, an orphan of ten
A night ’neath a kint in fragrant spring
Seven men came walking by torchlight and star
And low by moonlight were heard to sing,
A delro, a delro
Ai kombi aré.
We have come to the gate,
The gate of Faery.
Five passed through the moonlight more ghostly than men
Singing by starlight in tongues unknown
Passed by the orphan, the maiden, the man
Down into the labyrinth, to the mouth of stone.
A delro, a delro
Ai kombi aré.
We have come to the gate,
The gate of Faery.
The darkness ascended, devouring the sky
And wind cried in fury and toppled the tower
The heavens were scarred with letters of fire
Shattering stone with words of power.
A delro, a delro
Ai kombi aré
The sun would not rise at its appointed hour
And the stars wandered, lost, across the sea of the sky
Five men slowly walking in sullen power
Past orphan, and maiden, and the one devoured.
A delro, a delro
Ai kombi aré,
We have come to the gate,
The gate to Faery.
A delro, a delro
Ai kombi aré.”
Erasmus sat back in his chair, staring unseeing at the others. No one spoke for a moment, and then a breeze moved the curtains, causing Hayes to start. He laughed nervously, the sound dying like a pinched-off flame. A moth came in from the night and fluttered wildly over the heat of a lamp, unable to resist the light.
“But what could it mean?” Hayes asked.
“The destruction of Teller,” Randall said firmly.
Erasmus nodded.
“And the language . . . ? It is the mage tongue?”
Erasmus shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t know. The song is partly fancy, certainly. ‘We have come to the gate, the gate of Faery.’ But there is something there, as there usually is in the minstrels’ songs. A buried truth. Seven men passed in the moonlight. Five came behind, ‘more ghostly than men.’ Five mages. A great spell was cast, or a series of them. Five men returned ‘in sullen power,’ past the witnesses, one of whom was devoured—went mad, I think. Mad with fear. That is the story.”
“But you know something more, Mr. Flattery, for you would hardly make such an assumption from so little evidence.” Randall fixed his gaze on Erasmus again, though this time Erasmus did not even look up to meet his eye.
“You will not say.” Randall smiled kindly. It was not a question. A long silence. “Not now, perhaps,” the dwarf said, “but when you know me better. . . .” Randall stood and filled Erasmus’ glass with wine, then did the same for the others. He raised his glass, and his guests stood as well. “To mysteries, gentlemen, for they keep me alive. To unexpected meetings, for they, too, are mysterious. And to coincidence, which I believe in not at all.”
Fifteen
Hayes sat in a chair in his room and watched Kehler pace back and forth across the small square of carpet. Occasionally he would go to the window and twitch the curtain aside just enough to peer down into the dimly lit courtyard. For a moment he would stare, perhaps searching for malevolent forms in the shadows, and then he would return to his pacing.
“Deacon Rose is a lot more dangerous than you realize. Certainly more dangerous than Erasmus believes.” He stopped and made a visible effort to calm himself, taking long, slow breaths. “No, Deacon Rose is to be avoided at all costs.” He looked over at Hayes in a way that was uncharacteristically measuring. “But where is our much vaunted employer?”
“I agree with Erasmus; I think Skye would come here,” Hayes said, trying to ignore the gaze that was cast upon him. “Though I can’t imagine the famous Lord Skye could be long in Castlebough without everyone knowing.”
Kehler resumed his pacing, went two steps, and then stopped, looking at Hayes in some surprise. “What in Farrelle’s name were agents of the Admiralty doing in your rooms?” he said, going back to an earlier part of the conversation. “They can’t be interested in this matter we’ve been chasing . . . can they?”
Hayes lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I wouldn’t think so. No, it must have something to do with the naval gun. Perhaps they’re afraid Entonne agents were trying to steal the plans from Skye. Would they not begin to look at all of his acquaintances, then? And here I am, in terrible financial distress, recently applying for a position in the foreign department. Do I not look like the perfect person for the Entonne to enlist? That is my guess, at least. I do hope Skye will exonerate me, I don’t much like living as a fugitive. Things have gotten so bad that I’m acutely aware of the nearness of the border. I’ve even made a plan for slipping across into Entonne if it becomes necessary.” A short, sad laugh escaped him, and he shook his head.
“I’m quite sure it won’t come to that, Hayes. You have Erasmus on your side, which means the Duke of Blackwater will stand behind you. And certainly Skye will vouch for you—for us. I’m one of the earl’s associates, too, don’t forget. At worst we’ll be exiles together.”
This almost brought a smile to Hayes, but not quite. “Yes, well, that is some comfort, but at the moment I am rather adrift. I’m sure my landlord in Avonel will have sold off my few belongings by now, and here I am, entirely dependent on the good graces of Erasmus Flattery.” The sadness pulled at his face, pinching it so that his eyes almost glistened. “I have seldom had less hope for my future than I do now.”
“I don’t think you need to worry overly about your future, Hayes,” Kehler said, a sudden smugness very poorly disguised.
Hearing this, Hayes looked up at his friend with some hope. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about make me a devil’s offer?”
“Nothing of the sort, my dear Hayes. Well, not too much of the sort.” The words might have been jocular, but Kehler’s manner had become very serious. “To be candid, Hayes, I am not completely satisfied with my relations with our employer. Perhaps it is the perennial grievance of assistants, but I
feel I have done the lion’s share of the work and see Skye taking all the profit.” He stopped to think. “The truth is I don’t understand what it is that Skye hopes to learn or do with what I’ve found, but I suspect he will not put it to any use but his own.” He looked directly at Hayes. “I’ve made some discoveries in Wooton that will leave you a little breathless, I think.”
“And I’m anxious to hear about them, but, Kehler, you undertook this matter for Lord Skye. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Indeed, it does. I delivered a letter to the earl’s home outlining several of my discoveries and have heard nothing from him. Hardly a fair return for my efforts. But I promised Lord Skye that I would deliver my information, and keep the earl’s confidence—by which I meant that I would not reveal his part in the matter. But what I do with my findings is another thing entirely. Now, what would you say if I told you that we could satisfy both our curiosity, make what I hope will be a major discovery, and net you a substantial sum of money into the bargain?”
“I would say, bully for Kehler, of course, but you must know—considerations of Skye aside—Erasmus seems to think that you’re involving yourself in matters that could well be dangerous. If the Farrellites have been hiding knowledge from the mages, Erasmus believes they will go to almost any length to keep it from Eldrich. Thus the priest is pursuing you, or so I assume. Perhaps you should tell me precisely what you have discovered.”
“All in good time, Hayes. All in good time. Our first order of business is to slip away from all concerned—agents of the Admiralty, priests, friends, and well-wishers, all. I’ve collected the gear we’ll need.” Kehler gestured toward the door.
“But where are we going?”
“To complete what Baumgere began, but grew too old to finish. To make our names in the world. Come along while there is time, for I can assure you of this, Hayes—it is an opportunity which shall not call twice.”
Sixteen
There was something about Skye that Marianne Edden could not quite grasp. Possessing an intuitive faculty that she thought justifiably celebrated, it was difficult to accept that someone could so completely elude her. Skye shifted slightly in his chair, and she watched his every move, hoping somehow that this meditation on him would help. She had even placed her chair so that she could watch him unobtrusively.
Her eye wandered for a second to the countess—who, compared to Skye Elaural, was as easy to read as a child. She could hide nothing, not from her friend at least. But Skye. . . .
Marianne had never met him before, and she was not unaware that there were people who would consider this evening of historic importance. The meeting of two of the great minds of their time—one scientific, the other literary. It was lucky that none of these people were present; they would have been exceedingly disappointed.
Skye sat staring at the Pelier paintings, only occasionally breaking away to attempt polite conversation. His mind was clearly not on his hostesses—and most pointedly not on the admiring countess.
Alone in a room with the most brilliant novelist and the most celebrated beauty of his time, and he hardly seems aware of us, she thought, not entirely immodestly—it was not, after all, Marianne who went about proclaiming her brilliance, at least not usually.
“Have you learned anything of the script?” the countess asked, her voice very small. She was obviously aware that Skye barely noticed her.
He turned to her with a confused look, and then her question registered. “Oh. . . .” He went back to the painting, his gaze not even lingering on the face that other men could hardly tear their eyes from. “Nothing useful. It has been suggested that it bears some similarity to the writing found on the Ruin of Farrow, which is an intriguing idea. There is also some evidence that it might be a very old Farr language, one not spoken for some centuries, though perhaps known to the mages far more recently. Unfortunately the two men who might be able to tell me the truth of this are not inclined to be helpful.”
“Who might they be, pray?” the countess asked, obviously making an attempt to capture his attention, something she managed effortlessly with other men.
The way Skye shifted in his chair . . . there was something not quite right here, Marianne was sure of it.
“Well, Eldrich, obviously, and the other is Erasmus Flattery. Do you know the man? He is a brother to the Duke of Blackwater, I think.”
“No,” the countess answered, clearly feeling a sense of failure. “No, I’m afraid not. But is this Erasmus Flattery not an empiricist? A colleague of yours in the Society?”
Skye nodded, a slight grimace appearing. “Yes, though he seldom attends, and is not well known to any fellow at the Society. Something of an eccentric, this Flattery.” He paused uncomfortably, then went on. “He lived in the house of Eldrich when he was a boy. Did you know that?”
“Well, I knew it was a rumor, but I have never given it much credit. Have you, Marianne?”
“I confess that I have not formed an opinion on the matter of Erasmus Flattery’s boyhood.”
The countess cast her a look of mild annoyance, but Marianne could not resist. The situation seemed so patently false and strained to her. Why did Elaural continue to humiliate herself with this man?
“Well, it is quite true,” Skye said quickly. “Flattery spent some three years in the house of Eldrich, if you can imagine. But he will not speak of it, avoiding all questions with some energy. Too much energy, many people think.” A long awkward pause followed, and Marianne braced herself mentally for what would follow. Did the countess not see what was happening here? Did her usual instincts abandon her in this man’s presence? Farrelle help her, Marianne thought, it must be love.
Skye cleared his throat quietly. “The great irony is,” he began, trying to force a casual tone, “Erasmus Flattery might actually be in Castlebough—at least there is a rumor to that effect.” He stared hard at the paintings, careful not to look at either of the women. “It is an odd coincidence that Flattery is here at this time.” He glanced quickly at the countess, then back to the painting. “Imagine having spent time in the house of a mage and never saying a word of it. The man is keeping a small part of our most fascinating history to himself. It seems so odd that I have heard some suggest that Flattery is bespelled and cannot speak of it.” Skye snorted. “Apparently he also spent some time studying the Ruin on Farrow and says little of that either, though he has claimed that he discovered nothing new. I wonder if that is true.” He leaned forward to gaze at the inscription on the tomb. “Can he tell me what tongue this is? Can he, perhaps, read it?”
“What makes you think the mages knew this language?” Marianne asked, hoping to deflect what was coming.
The earl hesitated. “I have seen a note—written by one of the mages—Lucklow, to be precise. Not a very remarkable note really, considering its source, but beneath his signature letter L, there is a line of characters astonishingly similar to the characters we see here. I admit it is unlikely that Erasmus could answer my question, but who else might have such knowledge? No one that I’m aware of.”
“But what would that mean?” the countess said, sounding genuine for the first time that evening. The news had excited her interest. “How would Pelier have known such a script, if, as you suggest, it is the script of the mages? And why would one find the same script on Farrow? The discovery of the island is comparatively recent—in the last four hundred years.”
Skye raised a finger, his face brightened at the countess’ interest. “Exactly. How would Pelier have been familiar with this writing? Either he was truly gifted with the sight and merely reproduced his vision, having no more idea what it meant than we do ourselves, or he somehow had knowledge that only the mages possessed.
“It is well known that Pelier was a member of various arcane societies, though there has been so much speculation about this that the truth is certainly beyond retrieving now. Perhaps he belonged to s
ome group that had knowledge of this script. There are rumors of such cabals: men who had some knowledge of the ways of the mages. I am convinced that at least one of these groups actually existed, though it was destroyed years ago.”
“But why do you care?” Marianne asked, and she watched Skye’s face change, his manner suddenly suspicious, vaguely hostile.
“It is the great mystery,” he said easily. “The fascination of every man in Farrland, and every woman, too, I dare say. The mages and their arts. Men who lived twice or thrice our span of years, and could perform feats that were far beyond our own meager powers. That is reason enough for such a fascination.”
“But what of this Stranger and the priest, Baumgere? What have they to do with your great mystery?”
Skye shrugged. “That is what I hope to learn, Miss Edden. Where did this Stranger come from?”
“You don’t think it a hoax, then?” Marianne said, pushing Skye more than was polite.
The great empiricist shrugged. “I cannot prove that either way, but if it was a hoax it was managed with astonishing cunning, for some very astute men were taken in.”
“But was he from another land—a civilized nation yet undiscovered?” Marianne could almost sense Skye closing down, becoming more and more reluctant to answer her questions.
“He was from some other place,” Skye said, clearly becoming uncomfortable.
“But what does that mean, ‘some other place’?”
Skye shrugged, guarded now.
“Really, Marianne,” the countess interrupted, sounding a bit anxious. “You are being difficult this evening. We all have our interests. I venture that you are seldom required to justify your own.”
Marianne bowed her head. “Do forgive me, Lord Skye,” she said smiling at the countess’ rebuke. “I have been told that I have no tact at all, and apparently it is true.”
“No need, Miss Edden,” Skye said solicitously, relaxing visibly now that her inquisition was over. “No need.” He said nothing more, and they turned their attention back to the paintings again, no one sure what to say to save the moment.
