by Sean Russell
“It seems very slim evidence,” Hayes said. “Hardly enough to bring us down into this particular netherworld. What is it you’re not telling me?”
The silence was protracted this time.
“There was another letter,” Kehler admitted with such reticence that Hayes suddenly felt apprehensive. The distant sound of water measured Kehler’s reluctance.
“Yes . . .” Hayes softly prompted.
He heard his friend shift in the darkness, his clothing rasping against hard stone. “Atreche, the priest who refused Baumgere absolution, wrote a last missive to the church. Baumgere had been searching the cave, looking for what, the priest did not know, but he had employed two young orphans in this endeavor—brothers ten and twelve years. Beyond the section of the cave known as the Fairy Galleries . . .” Kehler stopped and drew a long breath, “one of these boys met a very untimely end.” He paused again. “The letter did not say how. The brothers were not from Castlebough, and so the boy was never missed. Baumgere kept it secret, somehow.” Kehler cleared his throat, trying to force the emotion from his voice. “The priest who refused Baumgere absolution, killed himself not far from one of the lower entrances to the cave, after performing last rites, it would seem.”
“For the dead child.”
“That is what I think.”
“But why did he self-murder?” Hayes could hear Kehler’s breathing in the darkness, short breaths. This was not a subject he liked to speak of.
“It is difficult to say, though he was responsible for putting the two boys into Baumgere’s care. It would seem likely that he felt culpable. Perhaps he knew that Baumgere planned to use the boys in a dangerous endeavor.”
“And this is where we are going, beyond the Fairy Galleries?”
“Yes.”
“I can see why you didn’t want to tell me this before. Why did Baumgere seek this knowledge?”
“The seeking after knowledge is, as you know, simply in man’s nature—some men far more than others. But if there was some reason beyond that, it might be found in the story of Baumgere’s hero—Tomas. He sought truth, and though he paid dearly for it, he also saw things no other had seen, and lived far beyond the years of men. That is enough reason to seek the knowledge of Teller.”
“And this knowledge is guarded by the ghost of a dead boy?”
Kehler did not answer.
“Sacrificed for what gain, I wonder?”
No response from the darkness, only the slow drip, drip of water, measuring the passing years in this sunless world.
Nineteen
The countess was not sure what had roused her. A sound? Had someone been whispering her name over and over? Almost a chant.
“A dream,” she told herself. Even so, she got out of bed, agitated. It had seemed so real. Elauralelauralel. . . . She pulled a robe over her sleeping gown and went out into the hallway. Had Marianne called her? Perhaps called out in her sleep? She went to the door of her companion’s sleeping chamber but decided that the voice had not been Marianne’s and passed by.
Certainly it had not come from this floor. She went down the stairs and into the entryway, where she stood completely bemused, not quite sure what she was doing there.
“I am still half asleep,” she muttered.
“Lady Chilton?”
This time there was no mistake. Someone had whispered her name. The handle of the door rattled.
It is Skye, she thought, and quickly drew the bolt, throwing open the door. On the threshold stood a small, round man, bowing awkwardly, his manner so sincere and so inept that she had to smile.
“He awaits you, m’lady,” the man said, keeping his voice low. “You mustn’t keep him waiting longer.”
“Who? Who awaits me?” she said, still utterly confused, though, strangely, she did not feel frightened. “Skye?”
The little man bobbed his head, smiling encouragingly. He gestured behind, and she realized a carriage stood in the darkened street.
“But I am not even dressed.”
“It does not matter. You must come as you are. Quickly,” the man said. He extended a hand and she felt herself reach out and take it.
“But who are you?” she said, allowing herself to be lead down the few stairs.
“Walky, m’lady,” he said, handing her up into the carriage. “There is a goose down for your comfort, m’lady. We’ve not far to go.”
I’m dreaming, the countess realized and felt some relief wash through her. She almost laughed.
“Wake up,” she said aloud, but still she remained in the carriage, moving through the streets of Castlebough. And it was cold! She reached over and pulled the goose down close around her. I do hope I wake soon, she thought. This is most unsettling. But then, if it was a dream in which she went to meet Skye, perhaps she should not try to wake, but keep this fantasy assignation.
Up they went through the town, the team laboring to pull the great carriage. It was a large coach she realized; large and quite old-fashioned. She could not remember Skye owning such a carriage.
It does not matter, she told herself, it is a dream. Certainly she felt as bemused as she did when dreaming. Nothing seemed quite real—not the little man who had come to her door, or the too-large coach, or even the moonlight which appeared too fair and bright.
Her thoughts seemed to drift, but when she pulled herself back to consciousness she still rode in the back of the carriage. Shaking her head did not clear it.
Should I not be frightened? Certainly she would be if she were awake, so that proved it was a dream. I will shut my eyes and wake up in my bed, she decided, and did exactly that, except that when she woke, she found the same small man leaning in the open door of the coach, shaking her gently.
“M’lady? We’ve arrived. Let me assist you.” He handed her down onto the cobbles. They were beneath the roof of a large coach entrance, though the door lamps were not lit.
“He awaits you inside, m’lady, if you please.”
“Who?”
“I thought you knew.”
“Skye.”
“Well, come along, and you will see.”
“But who are you?”
“Walky, m’lady.”
They went into the darkened house where, to her relief, a candle burned in a niche. Walky took it up and led her on. Down a wide hallway with old suits of armor standing guard, and weapons mounted on the walls. Martyrs and gargoyles were carved into the capitals of responds and looked down at her passing, alternately benevolent and ghoulish.
A dream, the countess told herself. Only a dream.
They passed through two massive doors into a rotunda.
“Here you are, m’lady. Wait but a moment.”
And he was gone, taking the candle with him. Yet there was light. She looked up and realized she stood beneath a dome of stained glass. Through the clear panes, she could see stars and moonlight, which fell in a broken pattern on the stone floor around her, like weak sunlight falling through the forest.
Columns stood in a circle, like the great boles of trees supporting the canopy of the forest above. A dozen feet behind, lay a dark wall.
The countess waited in the center of this room, where the light was brightest and where she could see if anyone or anything approached.
Silence. Only the sound of her own breathing, her heart.
Awake, she willed herself. I am becoming frightened. Awake!
And then she heard the noise of someone moving, clothing rustling, but no footsteps.
“Who’s there?” she snapped.
“Who indeed,” came a voice from behind.
She whirled around and there, just near a pillar and slightly back of it, she saw a dark form.
“Who are you?”
“A question many have asked, my dear, though few have had an answer.” The voice was music
al, soft; not malevolent but nor was it kind. Mocking—it seemed to be mocking her.
“What . . . what do you want of me?”
“That is why you are here—so that I might decide.” He came forth from the shadow, but still she could not make him out—as though the shadow moved with him. He began to walk slowly about her. “No, stay as you are,” he commanded as she moved to keep him in view.
The countess was not sure why, but she did as she was bid. Very slowly he went, as though she were a mare to be bought—and bred, she feared.
“It is dark,” she said. “I cannot see you.”
“But I can see you. Perfectly.”
Again she shook her head, trying to clear it, afraid that this fog that clouded her senses would bring her to grief. I am in danger, she told herself, but she did not feel it.
“Who are you, sir?”
“You don’t know?”
“No. My mind is . . . it is in a fog.”
“And would you have it cleared? You may be happier as you are.”
“I would like my mind to be clear.” She felt a stab of fear, and she drew a great breath, her senses returned. “Eldrich . . . !” she said.
“Lord Eldrich, Lady Chilton. You should respect your elders, at least.”
She began to turn and shrink away from him, and suddenly she no longer controlled her muscles, but stood firmly rooted.
“Are you happy now?” he asked, his voice still gently mocking.
“I am far from happy. You abduct me from my home, and bring me here, wearing my night clothes. What gentleman would act so?”
“No gentleman, I would imagine. But I am a mage, the last of my kind, Lady Chilton. And you . . . well, you are not what men think.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Perhaps you are not aware that it is the prerogative of a mage to speak in hints and riddles. Have you not read the histories?”
She did not answer, but stood, fighting to have command of her own muscles.
“Do not struggle, Lady Chilton. It is futile. Remove your robe,” he said.
“I will not!”
He laughed. “What is it they always say in novels? ‘I like a woman with spirit’?”
The countess realized that she was obeying his command. Her robe slipped to the floor from stiff fingers. Eldrich continued his circuit—he was beside her now.
He laughed again, as though genuinely amused. “I will tell you, Lady Chilton, you are the most amazing creation I have ever witnessed. I tip my hat to those responsible.”
“My parents would be so pleased,” she said, trying to control the anger she felt.
He laughed again. “Would they, indeed?” and this seemed to amuse him. “I am sorely tempted, Lady Chilton, even with what I know and as old as I am.”
“Tempted by what?” she said, not liking the sound of this.
“By you, my dear.”
“I will be the least cooperative partner you will ever have known.”
“Oh, hardly,” he said, clearly amused by this as well. “Some of the women I have known—” He took another step and came back into her line of vision, but still he was in shadow. “In days past people had more respect for mages.” He almost sang a string of syllables, and perhaps moved his hand, and suddenly the countess felt such a wave of desire that her knees almost gave way beneath her. Not just a wave of desire, but desire for this man. It was an ache beyond enduring . . . and then, just as quickly it was gone.
“The most unwilling partner I’ve ever known? I don’t think so.” A hand reached out and moved the hair away from her cheek, pushing it back over her shoulder so that he could see her profile.
“I’m cold,” she said quietly.
“Then come and sit by the fire,” Eldrich said, and he turned and walked away.
The countess found that she could move again. The thought of running was quickly put aside. Clearly one could not run from a mage. Beyond the pillars a large hearth stood against the wall, and here a fire had burned to embers. As Eldrich came near, it flickered to life again, and then suddenly burst into flame—glorious, hot flames. The countess pulled on her robe and went toward the fire, trying to control her fear. Always best to show no fear—it gave the other person the impression that they were in control.
The mage had taken a seat in a high-backed chair, facing partly away from the fire. Only a cushioned footstool remained. She stood looking at it for a moment, and then remembered that he had said he was no gentleman.
Cold to the bone, she took the seat expected, though not without some anger. I am almost sitting at his feet, she thought. And I’m sure he is enjoying it thoroughly.
They sat in silence for a long moment. The countess could almost make out his features, but not quite, for he was still in shadow.
“Have you decided what you will do with me?” she asked suddenly, unable to bear his silent brooding on her a moment longer.
“It is not so simple as you might think. What is your purpose? That is what I must discover.”
“My purpose? What in the world . . . ? I assure you that whatever my purpose might be, it has nothing to do with you, sir.”
The mage did not respond. Silence stretched on until the countess could not stand it. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Be still,” the mage said.
She realized that she sat with hands in her lap, like a schoolgirl, and she felt an anger burn up at this man before her.
“It is a great risk,” the mage said softly.
“Pardon me?”
Eldrich rose suddenly and walked away from the fire out into the darkness. She could see him silhouetted in the light falling from above, though none of it seemed to reach him. He made no sound as he went. Slowly he paced in a small circle, like a man deep in contemplation, and occasionally he would stop and raise his head. The countess was sure that he looked at her at those moments. And then he began to mutter, words she had never heard, and a cold light moved across the floor in a precise line, following him as he walked.
Suddenly she was standing in the center of the rotunda, up on the balls of her feet, reaching toward the dome. Around her a pattern of lines and curves seemed to glow like the embers of a fire. She watched as they dimmed and died away, her mind so clouded that she could not remember how she got there, or what had happened.
“A work of astonishing craft,” a musical voice said.
Suddenly she felt all her muscles relax, and she almost collapsed to the floor. The countess looked for the sound of the voice, and as her arms came about her in a natural gesture of protection, she realized she wore nothing at all.
“I cannot tell if they have underestimated me, or taken my measure exactly,” Eldrich said, apparently speaking to himself. “Who in the world did this? Certainly not Medwar. It is the greatest mystery.”
“If you have finished misusing me, perhaps I might have my clothes,” the countess said bitterly.
“Are you cold?”
She realized that she was not. In fact, she was astonishingly warm. She almost glowed with warmth.
“Have you no concern for my modesty?”
“None. It is a strange vanity, I find.”
The countess realized that her gown lay at her feet and she snatched it up. As she slid it over her head, she noticed that Eldrich stood, watching, and she tried to ignore him.
“Mr. Walky?” the mage said, and almost immediately footsteps echoed in the hall.
“Sir?”
“You may return her.”
The little man came toward the countess, his manner very deferential, as though he would make up for his master’s treatment of her.
The countess took a step and then stopped, turning to find the retreating form of Eldrich. “I do not think my friends will be much impressed with your manners when I tell the
m of our visit, Lord Eldrich.”
The figure stopped. “I rather doubt you will tell them, Lady Chilton. The pleasures of the evening to you.” He bowed deeply, and turned away.
“M’lady, you must come with me,” the small man said.
“But who are you?”
“Walky, m’lady. Please, I’m to take you home.”
* * *
* * *
“Are you not cold?”
Marianne found the countess seated by the large windows in the library. She was curled up in a chair, watching the morning light find its way into the small garden.
“Cold? No.” The countess looked over at her friend and saw great concern on her face.
“You look perfectly awful,” Marianne said disapprovingly. “I will tell you, Elaural, Skye is not worth this.” She waved a hand at her friend. “Have you not slept at all?”
“It is very odd, Marianne. I woke here, yet I have no memory of coming down at all.”
Marianne shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together in concern.
“And I think I had the most unsettling dreams, though I cannot quite recall them.” She turned back to the garden for a moment, as though searching into her memory. “No, they are gone, though I have been left with the . . . feelings. And even those I cannot put a name to.” She shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold.”
“Not at all. Is it cool in here? I do not feel it.”
“Perhaps you are coming down with a fever. The only time I recall walking in my sleep I was terribly fevered and delirious.”
The countess smiled. “Well, I am neither fevered nor delirious. I feel perfectly hale, in fact.” She stretched her arms over her head. “Is this unladylike?” she asked, her mood seeming to change.
“Entirely.” Marianne rang for a servant and took a seat near the countess. “Is Skye coming to hear the results of your interview with Mr. Flattery?”
