by Sean Russell
The mage also knew the folly of making all one’s decisions based on augury—even in the hands of a master, it was, at best, an inexact art. No, one must focus on the so-called “real world,” the here and now. But even so, he could not resist the occasional attempt to see into the future, though lately these attempts were more than occasional.
Everything is so clouded, he worried. Nothing is clear.
He knew that events were building to a crisis, but the closer this point came, the less certain were the signs. But perhaps one more attempt. . . .
He had collected a double-handful of white cherry blossoms, and crouched before the pond, waiting for a cloud to reveal the moon. Starlight would do, if it were pure, but if there was a moon, one had to use it. He heard the sounds of his familiar in the copse nearby. It watched him, a little apprehensive though it did not understand what he was about to do.
Instinct, Eldrich thought. It is a creature of almost pure instinct.
He looked up at the sky. The moon illuminated a cloud so regular in shape that it looked like a white, translucent stone worn smooth by the endless flow of years. The night resonated inside of him: the movement of the stars and planets. The mage could feel the earth hurtling through the cosmos. He could actually feel it.
For a second he shut his eyes, and experienced himself falling, tumbling through the darkness among the stars.
He looked down into the pond and watched the reflection of the moon emerge from behind its pebble cloud, and at that precise instant he cast the cherry blossoms into the air and watched them fall upon the water. They rippled the surface, creating patterns, and Eldrich focused on them, opening himself to the cosmos for a split second, letting the great void flow into him through this pattern on the water. And a second was all he could bear.
He shut his eyes, reeling back from the water’s edge, staggering. He felt his wolf pass near him, felt its uneasiness. He staggered a step or two and dropped to his knees, trying to grasp the kernel of knowledge, nurture it.
A woman riding an armored steed, her hair flowing back, a sword raised. But the steed was a massive wolf, its fur tipped with silver, its eyes impossibly light, like the cloud illuminated by the moon. His vision changed, and he saw a skeleton aflame and heard a long, horrifying scream. And then he gazed into a long tunnel of utter darkness, and saw a single point of light. A spinning star, blue-white and cold as winter.
And then it, too, was gone, and he was spent utterly, gasping, on hands and knees. The world spinning around, hurtling through the cosmos, though no man seemed aware of it. No man.
* * *
* * *
An hour later Eldrich was still not himself. He sprawled in a chair by the fire, eating a bowl of soup. Practicing the arts always left him warm, except for augury, and that invariably left him shaking and devoid of body heat, as though he had fallen into a winter river. It sapped his strength for some time, leaving him tired and lethargic.
It is the cold, dark void among the stars, he told himself. It enters into one, and is not easily driven out.
“Lord Eldrich?” his servant said, concern in his voice. He had been saying something, and the mage had not answered.
“Yes, Walky, I’m listening. There is something stationed before the cave. . . .”
“A great wolfhound, sir.”
“Indeed. . . .” This news actually focused his mind for a few seconds. “And is it natural, do you think?”
“I don’t know, sir. It has only been reported to me. All I can answer for certain, sir, is that it is there.”
“It can’t be Erasmus’” he mused aloud. “Can it?” he asked the old man who stood so solicitously nearby.
Walky shook his head, clearly troubled. “I wouldn’t think so, Lord Eldrich. I . . . I hope it isn’t.”
“Yes. I hope it isn’t as well.” Silence. He stirred his soup absent-mindedly, watching the vegetables surface, then drown in the broth.
“The problem is that it seems it will not allow anyone to enter the cave.”
“Ah. I am . . . rather tired this evening. My mind. . . . Has anyone tried to kill it?”
Walky shook his head.
“So whoever reported it believed it unnatural?” Eldrich looked back down into his bowl. “Well, I will deal with it, then.”
He stared down into his bowl again and suddenly thrust thumb and forefinger in, bringing them out dripping, but holding a piece of meat. Setting the bowl aside he rose wearily and went to the window, pulling it open. He stood there, facing the night, and made an odd sound, somewhere between the call of an owl and a whistle, though low and long. And then he waited, seemingly with infinite patience.
Walky stayed where he was, not moving, which he believed was the wisest course. He was not exactly afraid of Eldrich’s familiar, but the beast was unpredictable, as unpredictable as its master, and Walky was never sure that either of them would continue to treat him as a valued servant simply because they had done so for many decades. He simply wasn’t sure.
Perhaps a quarter of the hour passed before Walky heard the sounds of the wolf as it came over the wall and into the garden. It was panting a little as though it had been on the hunt when the summons came. Unlike Walky, it never looked particularly concerned when it had kept its master waiting. There was a bond between mage and wolf that Walky could not fathom—something far more than man and . . . “pet” hardly seemed the right word.
Eldrich stroked the beast behind its ears somewhat roughly, and spoke low in the tongue of the mages. Walky could not quite hear the words. The wolf took the morsel in a gulp, hardly noticing, it seemed. A moment more of this show of affection, and then the wolf bounded away, leaving its master watching, his hand still raised as though not finished with its stroking.
Eldrich lowered his hand to the windowsill, and supported himself, still fatigued from his efforts. It was certainly not his place to say, but Walky believed the mage indulged in this practice too often. The servant was certain that there were more questions resulting from augury than answers. No, it was all right to See now and again, every few years or even once in a year, but very few weeks went by that the mage did not practice the art in some form. And what did it bring him? Too many possibilities, too many by half.
No, it was not worth the effort.
Walky looked at the mage, still standing before the open window leaning on the frame like an elderly man. It was a sign of desperation, Walky knew. This task Eldrich had been left. . . . Walky feared it was almost beyond him. All the centuries of augury had missed the most important truths, and now there was only one mage left to deal with the situation. The last mage of all, or so he hoped.
Eldrich cleared his throat and Walky put aside his musings, attentive to his master’s needs.
“I am sorry about Erasmus, Walky.”
The little man felt a wave of sadness settle over him, like leaves upon the earth. “I know you are, sir.”
Thirty-Two
The countess shaded herself with a parasol and sat in the stern of the boat, smiling somewhat enigmatically. Kent was trying to smile as well, but the soft look of remembered pleasure on the countess’ face made it difficult. He could hardly take his eyes from her all the same, and occasionally he would notice that a look of anxiety would transform her beautiful face, as completely as a cloud would turn the blue waters of the lake to gray. He wondered what matter pressed on her so, and despite his own pain at what he had seen through the window, he felt a desire to comfort her.
As he looked at her sitting so primly in the stern seat, dressed impeccably as always, he could not erase the memory of her in the act of love. It almost seemed to him that this had been some other woman, abandoning herself to pleasure. His jealousy toward Erasmus—and the fact that Erasmus had experienced this side of her nature—was driving him a little mad. He dipped his oars and drove the boat on a little more briskly.
Mari
anne sat in the bow puffing on a pipe, reading from time to time from her work in progress, and then disparaging what she had written. She was taking one of her periodic breaks to contemplate—though whether she was thinking about her book, meditating upon her own genius, or considering the beauty of the scene, Kent could not tell.
He dipped the oars and moved the boat again, hardly aware of the beauty of the hills behind the countess.
“Mr. Kent? Do you think my depiction of Frederick’s response is realistic? I am asking you to speak as a man.”
“How else could I speak, Miss Edden?”
She blew out a smoke-filled laugh. “As an artist, for certainly the artist has a way of seeing the world that transcends their own situation. Good artists, anyway.”
Kent tried to remember what she had just read. The character, Frederick, was hopelessly in love with a woman who thought him her dearest friend in the world—though she had given her heart elsewhere, and very unwisely, too. It was not an original situation, but Marianne’s description of the man’s feelings was so exact, so unusual. Before he could answer, the novelist prompted him by reading from her manuscript.
“‘While in her presence he felt as though he had been cast loose from his world. All the ties that bound him were severed, and he could no longer even imagine what his place had been. Suddenly he could not speak to children without feelings of terrible awkwardness and inadequacy, as though afraid all the while that he was making an absolute fool of himself. As though the judgment of children mattered. And this in a man who had lunched amicably with the King and had courtly flirtations with some of the most notable beauties in the capital. He floated in the sea of faces, adrift, adrift, adrift—and no one reached out a hand to him.’”
Kent nodded, unable to escape the thought that Marianne was not only describing him but trying to tell him something as well. Perhaps it was only his own reaction to his present predicament that made him feel so, but he blushed all the same.
The countess, mercifully, did not seem to notice, or at least pretended not to.
“I don’t know, Marianne,” the countess said. “I think Frederick far too strong a character to react this way. I simply can’t believe it.”
“But that is the point,” the novelist protested. “The most successful, most assured people can suffer this same undoing. I have seen it. Certainly you have seen it. And perhaps those around Frederick who don’t know him well do not notice—though he feels even children can see through him. Which is my point entirely. It is all internal and ‘real,’ if we can even use the term, only to him. Objective ‘reality’ hardly figures in our perception of the real at all. In this sense, the world of a novel is as real as this world we inhabit. If you believe it—it is real.”
Kent looked off at the distant shore. He had long trained his mind in the habit of examining his surroundings, puzzling over how one would paint this or that. Today he was fascinated by the apparent haze of green surrounding certain trees, though this was only the forming leaves breaking free of their buds. Yet, from this distance it appeared that a rarefied green cloud hung in the branches.
Despite this attempt to fall back on old habits, Kent did feel cut loose from the stable grounds of his own life. That is what comes of hopes and desires and absurd expectations, he told himself. Why in the round world did I ever imagine that this woman would be interested in me?
But another part of him kept asking, Erasmus? She had taken up with Erasmus Flattery? Not some wealthy noble at all, but a man of substance. A man who could not even bother to dress in fashion. Even Kent qualified on at least one of these counts. Why not him? Was he not talented? Did he not have a certain charm and wit? Kent believed that he could be as handsome as Erasmus, even if he did not have the presence, for it was true that Erasmus commanded not just respect but attention, without seeming to make any effort.
“You are staring at the shore with an intensity that makes me think you are ready to quit the sea, Mr. Kent,” the countess said.
“Oh, not at all, Lady Chilton. I apologize. It is a terrible habit of mine. I see something that catches my eye, the play of light, the shadow and light behind a hill, the color of the birch tree branches, and immediately I find myself trying to decide how I would capture that on canvas.”
“Do you know what I think, Mr. Kent?” Marianne said, causing Kent to crane his neck around in her direction. “I think that if you ever applied your abundant talent to painting people so insightfully, you would be the foremost portraitist of our day. Wouldn’t you think, Elaural?”
The countess’ face revealed nothing, though Kent felt as though the boat had begun to sink around him and him alone. “I think that Mr. Kent would be successful at whatever he chose to do with his art, but what he does now is perfectly suited to him. But really, Marianne, can we not speak of anything but art? I, who have no talent whatsoever, am beginning to feel a bit inferior. Have you no gossip for a poor unaccomplished person such as myself?”
“Well, let me see. Erasmus Flattery and that astonishing Mr. Clarendon have gone down into this great cave everyone speaks of, which I’m told is not a little dangerous at this time of year because of the spring flooding raising the water inside. No one is quite sure why—unless you know, my dear?” she asked playfully.
“Mr. Flattery does not confide in me, I assure you,” the countess said quickly.
“Someone has let the house of this man Baumgere, and no one seems to know who it is. There are even rumors that it is the crown prince, here to take the waters. Lord Skye was seen yesterday in the company of the Waldmans’ very blond daughter. What was her name?”
“Miss Trollop, I think.”
This made Marianne laugh. “And what else have I learned? These navy men who are about are said to be trying to catch an Entonne spy, though the one officer seems to be more interested in this same Miss . . . what was her name again?”
“My, she does get around, doesn’t she?”
“I do love small towns. Imagine what they’re saying about us,” she said with some delight. “Think, Mr. Kent, in the minds of the people of Castlebough you might be involved in a love triangle with the Countess of Chilton and that strange novelist. What was her name again?”
“Busybody,” the countess offered.
“There, you see—the perfect name for a woman trapped by her own desires.”
“Who is in Baumgere’s house, do you think?” Kent asked suddenly.
“Someone who might be interested in the works of Averil Kent, perhaps?” Marianne teased.
“No, seriously.”
“Well, I don’t know. I have seen the man they say is his servant, but he is no one to me.”
“Well, if you know all the doings of Castlebough,” Kent said, “why is Sir John Dalrymple here, and who is the man he is with? Bryce, I believe he calls himself.”
“Ah, now that is a question. The town seems split on the matter. Sir John is either here to assist the navy men in capturing a spy, or he is here begging money from this man Bryce, to whom he defers, even when he means to give the impression that he does not. Who this man Bryce is, is another matter. A wealthy merchant, I have heard. A smuggler, which I think more likely. A dealer in fine jewels—also a possibility, but not nearly so interesting. Or a rogue who has made his fortune marrying wealthy women, and then pushing them off balconies. And I must say he is terribly attractive, don’t you think, Elaural?”
“I don’t know to whom you refer, my dear.”
“Ah, too much time looking at stars,” Marianne said wistfully. “But Mr. Kent; it was a surprise to find you in Castlebough, especially after you had visited the countess so recently.”
“Mr. Kent often travels to paint, Marianne. Now please—stick to the gossip.”
“What else have I heard?” she mused. “Another group have gone down into this cave everyone seems to be visiting—though this group had
in its numbers a young woman. They apparently were prepared to be gone several days.”
“A woman went into the same cave as Erasmus?” The countess leaned to one side so that she could see Marianne past Kent, and the jealousy in her voice stung him. The painter felt, suddenly, as though he were not even there.
Marianne blew out a long stream of smoke that curled around Kent, causing him to choke. “That is what I’ve heard. What’s in this cave, do you think?”
“I . . .” The countess paused, looking terribly troubled. “Erasmus told me, and you absolutely mustn’t repeat this, that he was going into the cave to look for two young friends who he feared did not understand the danger of what they did. He expected to be gone three or four days.”
“Well, it is all very odd,” Marianne said. “Why should we not repeat this? If Mr. Flattery has friends in trouble in the cave, should we not alert the town? Should not a rescue attempt be mounted?”
“I only know that he asked me to say nothing. He was not certain that these young men were in difficulty, but only went to be sure they were safe. It all seems a bit odd now, and it is quite a coincidence that these others have gone into the same cave. It is not safe at this time of year, you say?”
“That is what the locals claim. It is often visited during the summer, for it is a natural wonder, after all, but the local people stay out of it in winter and spring, for the water levels rise and fall without warning, and the lower entrances, which are on the shore of the lake are under water. I hope all and sundry are safe in there. Who were these foolish young men?”
The countess shrugged. “I don’t know. Friends of Erasmus’ . . . Kayes and Heller, I think he named them.” She looked to Kent, who shook his head. He didn’t know either.
“If he is not out in a day or two,” Kent offered solicitously, “I will talk to the local people about mounting a search.”
The countess tried to smile at him, but looked away, and Kent felt it was a rather pathetic offer he had made, but it was all he could think of. Hardly enough to have her throw herself into his arms with gratitude.
