River Into Darkness

by Sean Russell

  “No, Randall,” Erasmus said, “you have put yourself forward to explore all the tightest places. Let me lead the way across the falls. Don’t forget, I can swim.”

  “Well, that is up to you, but when you see this falls, Mr. Flattery, you’ll realize that even such skill in the water as you possess will be of no use.”

  They carried on for some time, and finally the roar of the falls drowned out all other sounds, and then they were at its lip, staring down into the darkness.

  “There is no hope for swimming there,” Clarendon said. “Do you still intend to go first?”

  Erasmus nodded, gazing out at the rock face he would have to cross. “Where is the route, do you know?”

  Clarendon pointed out the path that had been described to him, explaining as best he could how he thought it could be negotiated successfully.

  “Deacon Rose,” Clarendon said, “it is you who will have to hold the rope, for I am not large enough for this service. I will instruct you.”

  “I have traveled in the mountains, Mr. Clarendon, and have held the rope for many a man. Do not be concerned, Mr. Flattery. I shall not let you down, nor will the greater powers, I am sure, for I will pray as you go.”

  A rope was produced, and Erasmus prepared to start. Both Clarendon and Rose advised him to climb in stockinged feet, for boots would be too slippery on this rock, which was wet from constant spray.

  When Rose gave him the signal, Erasmus stepped out over the roaring falls, glancing down once, and then focusing his attention on the route he would take across the stone. Rock dug painfully into his feet, soft from a lifetime of wearing boots, and his hands were already battered from the climbing and crawling that they had done. But he tried to put the pain out of his mind—the climb would require his entire focus. Clarendon called to him encouragingly over the sound of the falls, and gave instructions that Erasmus did his best to follow.

  He knew that what Clarendon said was true; if he had been only a few feet off the ground, this would have been child’s play, but with an almost certain, horrible death only a slip away, suddenly it was as difficult a climb as he could imagine. Rose held him steadfastly on the rope, but ropes often parted, and there was the story of the man falling and dragging his partner with him.

  “You are past halfway, Mr. Flattery,” Clarendon called. “Not much farther, now. Reach up with your left hand—is that a hold there? Do you see? Good. Now I would try to move so that your right hand is where your left hand is now. You’re doing well.”

  Erasmus glanced ahead. It did not look so simple from here, at least not when one was out over a yawning gorge.

  “Do you see what looks like a small platform ahead? You cannot stop to rest before this, for the holds and steps between are not large. Do you see?”

  Erasmus was not sure that he did. All the holds that had seemed so large when he had stood looking from the top of the falls, appeared, upon closer inspection, to be very small indeed.

  “Do not hesitate too long, Mr. Flattery. Better to do it before you begin to tire.”

  It was likely good advice, Erasmus thought, for already he was feeling his muscles knot—from being too tense, he was sure. He took a long breath and stepped out, moving as quickly as he dared. Then he was on the platform and forced himself on without stopping, as though the safety of the other side called to him. A moment later he was crouched in the mouth of the passage, catching his breath, which he was sure had been taken by fear and not exertion.

  “It was not so bad,” he called back. “Not with a strong man on the rope and another to give instructions. Who will be next?”

  “Mr. Clarendon; and we will safety him from both sides,” Rose said. “No, Mr. Clarendon, I insist. I will come last, for I have had the most experience in climbing, I think, and you can both take the rope from the far side. Can we send the packs and one lantern across first?”

  This was done, and a few moments later Clarendon prepared to go. He would benefit from light from both behind and ahead now, as well as men holding his rope from either side. Rose tied the smaller man into the center of the rope and took up his position, sitting in the flow of the water, his feet braced against a rock.

  Erasmus had done as Clarendon said, and found a spire of rock inside the new passage. He threw a loop over it and tied himself onto the tail so that he could sit just in the opening and take the rope around his waist.

  Thus protected from either end of the rope, Clarendon set his stocking feet out on the path just navigated by Erasmus.

  It was Erasmus’ turn to call out encouragement and instruction. He concentrated on Clarendon and his efforts almost as much as Clarendon did himself, and because of this did not notice Rose moving across the falls.

  “Erasmus?” Rose called out suddenly. “Hold fast!”

  The priest had moved to the far wall, and with no more warning, he gave the rope a yank and pulled a flailing Clarendon off the rock. Erasmus was dragged forward almost a foot before the rope around his waist came taut. And there hung Clarendon, out over the terrible void, his feet dangling in the rushing water, the spray thick around him, and he cursed the priest without respite.

  Erasmus tried to pull in on the rope and succeeded in raising Clarendon up a little, but Rose held the end tight and Erasmus was afraid the rope might break.

  “Now who will be forced to tell the truth?” Rose called, more than a little triumphant.

  “Rose!” Erasmus shouted. “You gave your word. You swore an oath.”

  “I swore I would not harm Kehler and his companion, but I said nothing of Clarendon. I think your friend is a follower of Teller, Mr. Flattery, and a danger to us both. Eldrich is his sworn enemy, and that means that you, too, are his rival. Is it not so, Mr. Clarendon?”

  The man dangling over the falls, said nothing but began to twist about as though he could free himself.

  “Well, I will have the truth, whether you will cooperate or no, Mr. Clarendon, for I have ways of dealing with your kind.”

  Erasmus thought the priest began to mumble, but the sound of the falls swept any words away. Clarendon had taken hold of Erasmus’ side of the rope and begun to pull himself toward the rock. But the priest was too strong for the little man. Erasmus could see Clarendon’s face was white with rage and fear.

  Raising one hand, the priest closed his eyes, continuing to mumble as he made odd geometric gestures in the air. And as he did so, suddenly Clarendon produced a knife and cut the rope connecting him to the priest.

  Clarendon swung hard into the rock below Erasmus, and as quickly as he could, Erasmus began to pull in on the rope.

  “Randall? Randall, are you hurt?” Erasmus was surprised at how light the man felt.

  “Mr. Flattery!” Rose shouted over the sound of water. “Do not go on with that man. He is your enemy. You cannot trust him.”

  Randall scrambled over the edge of the precipice, so enraged that he did not seem at all frightened. He was on his feet in an instant, shaking his fist at the priest.

  “Cannot trust me!? Farrelle’s blood, but I have never met a more deceitful man. And I have met all manner of men. Come near to me again, priest, and I will see that you never lie again.”

  Without warning Randall turned, lifted the priest’s pack, and flung it into the abyss. The little man shouldered his own pack and snatched up the lantern.

  “Come,” he said to Erasmus, “I will not assist his crossing. Let him stay where he is, or plunge into the netherworld where he belongs.”

  Without waiting for Erasmus, Clarendon went stomping up the tunnel, carrying the light with him. Erasmus stayed for a moment, staring at the priest, who stood there meeting his gaze, holding up a lantern. Despite being soaked from head to foot, the priest still retained his pride. Certainly he did not look repentant. He stood at the top of the falls like a proud man falsely accused.

  “You are
in danger, Mr. Flattery,” he said evenly, shaking his head a bit sadly.

  “Mr. Flattery!” Clarendon called.

  Digging quickly into his bag, Erasmus found a bundle of candles and some food. He tied these together and tossed them to the priest.

  “Make your way to the surface,” Erasmus called, and then turned and went after Clarendon. Every step he took into the tunnel he could feel the priest standing behind him—could feel the reproach in his silence.

  Thirty-Five

  I went to hear Asquith play, and I don’t know by what magic this was accomplished, but I cried inconsolably for my lost childhood, and for the harsh and dread-filled place the world had become.

  —The Countess of Chilton

  Kent could hardly believe what he was doing. He brushed at his frock coat, which was spotted with loose dirt and dead leaves. Lifting his glass, he pointed it toward the lit window and through the foliage could just make out figures moving—or so he thought.

  He looked around quickly, listening for any sound. By starlight he had scrambled up a steep embankment and now stood in the farthest reaches of someone’s garden. He did not have quite the view of the countess’ house that he had hoped, but it was much safer than what he had done the night he saw her with Erasmus.

  Flames—if he’d been caught! He would have been forced to move abroad and change his name. What a fool he was acting. And this—sneaking into someone’s garden with his field glass—was almost as bad. Claiming to be looking at stars would hardly be believed—there were a hundred more accessible places in Castlebough that were not someone’s private domain.

  He focused back on the windows of the countess’ house. Perhaps that was someone sitting by the fire—but whom? Kent looked around a little desperately. This would never do. He needed either a better vantage—difficult because the house of the countess backed onto a slope—or he would have to return to his place below the windows. And if he did that, it was only a matter of time until he was discovered.

  But what was she doing? Had Erasmus returned? Was she visited by Lord Skye, and had that fool realized that the most beautiful woman in Farrland was mad for him? He shook his head. If he could only trade places with Skye for one evening.

  Almost desperate, Kent decided to abandon all caution and return to the window.

  This is insanity, he thought. Utter insanity.

  Having made the decision, Kent decided not to go down the embankment again. Instead he went quickly toward the house and the street. There were lights in the windows, but the chances of anyone being in the garden at this hour were probably slim—it was not a warm summer evening, after all.

  Emboldened by the passion that gripped him, Kent marched up through the garden, past the house and out the gate. In a moment he was at the corner of the countess’ street, and here he stopped in the shadow of a tree that hung over a garden wall. Before the countess’ house, a coach and four stood at the curb, and a small man was handing the countess up into the large carriage.

  Instinctively, Kent stepped back around the corner as the carriage passed by, the night too dark for Kent to see into the coach.

  The street, Kent knew, snaked back and forth up the hillside, and after a moment of watching to be sure what the coach would do, Kent went quickly across the street and up a narrow stair between the houses. The faint starlight barely penetrated here, and Kent stumbled more than once, striking his shins cruelly on stone.

  At the stairhead he stopped, staying to the shadow, and waited for the coach to pass. When he was sure it would continue up and not stop at a house, he went on, taking the next stair. Here he fell again and lost his glass, wasting several moments searching in utter darkness. When he emerged on the street, the carriage had already passed and he sprang across the paving stones and onto the next stair.

  If the stairs had only been uniform in height and depth, but there were landings that sloped up and every stair was a different size, forcing Kent to feel his way up like a blind man. Again the carriage had passed when he reached the street, and this time it was even farther ahead.

  Kent was almost certain he would not catch it now, for he was struggling to breathe as it was. As quickly as he could, he plunged into the shadow of the next stair, and here was helped by lights in the windows. He sprinted up the steps, his breath coming in terrible gasps.

  He met the carriage this time, and waited for it to pass before setting his feet to the next flight.

  On he went, upward, the carriage gaining each time it passed, and then finally it did not appear on the street at all. Kent stood in the middle of the thoroughfare looking both ways, wondering what could have happened. He was certain he had not fallen so far behind. Had it stopped back around the corner where he could not see it?

  Thinking there was no other explanation, Kent hurried down the street. But at the corner he found no coach, nor was there a gateway large enough to allow it to enter.

  Where am I? he wondered, trying to recall the lay of the town, and how many flights he’d raced up. “There must be another road here,” he said, thinking aloud. “A carriage cannot simply disappear.”

  He set off down the slope and in a moment discovered a small lane running out of the town, following the contour of the hillside. It was too dark to see if there were marks of the coach’s passage in the soft earth, but he could not imagine where else the coach could have gone, and began to trot along the lane.

  To his right, through the trees lining the lane, Kent caught glimpses of the lake shimmering far below. To his left lay a wood, broken occasionally by small glades. The town had not escaped its confines to take root here, despite the likely vistas, and tall grass grew down the center of the lane indicating how little use it saw.

  After half of a long hour Kent was beginning to wonder if the carriage had actually come this way, and contemplated turning back, but then a familiar odor assailed his nostrils telling him that horses had passed this way, and recently too. The painter pressed on with renewed energy.

  A few moments more and he passed through an open gate, and the lane suddenly sloped down toward a level bench. At the bottom of the hill he could see a large home illuminated by the stars. Near to the entrance a carriage stood, its lamps burning dully.

  He slowed his pace and tried to keep to the grass to muffle the sound of his approach. Whose home this was Kent did not know. There hardly seemed to be an entertainment in progress—the house was all but unlit, and only one carriage waited.

  Remembering what he had seen the last time he’d spied on the countess, Kent went forward torn between dread and excitement. Erasmus was supposed to be in the cave, so she could not be visiting him.

  Kent was not sure how he would respond if he were to discover the countess had another lover—that she bestowed her favors so liberally and yet treated him no differently than she treated her friend Marianne.

  Staying to the shadows as much as possible, Kent stayed high on the slope along the edge of the wood. Once he was convinced there was no movement in the lit windows, Kent decided to circle the house at a distance.

  Certainly if the countess came here at such an hour, it must be for an assignation. What other explanation could there be? He felt a flash of anger toward her.

  This is why men she can’t even remember meeting fight duels over her, Kent thought. Look at me. Look at what I do. But still, he carried on, despite the fear that dueling with strangers would come next.

  Kent slipped around the side of the house, keeping to the shadows wherever possible. The grounds had obviously not been tended in years. The hedges were overgrown, flowerbeds choked with weeds, lawns gone to seed, and fallen branches and leaves lay rotting everywhere.

  As the far side of the house came into view, Kent saw the dull orange of a flame—an oil lamp burning inside a ground floor window, or perhaps a fire in a hearth. A little farther along he realized that the light came f
rom inside a row of leaded-glass doors. Here there were people, he was almost certain, though there was much furniture and it was difficult to make out the shapes in such poor light.

  Slipping partway down the hill, Kent stood in the shadow of a bush, peering down over an open section of lawn with his field glass. Something moved inside; a man, he was almost certain.

  “Mr. Kent?”

  The painter whirled around, raising his glass like a cudgel—but the man before him was familiar, even in the poor light.

  “Sir John?”

  “Yes,” the man whispered. “Keep your voice down and come back from the house. I fear you will give us away if you stay here.”

  Kent hesitated, embarrassment was rapidly replacing fright. What in the round world was Sir John Dalyrimple doing here? Was he spying on the countess as well? Not knowing what else to do, Kent followed Sir John until they were some distance from the house and hidden by the corner of a garden wall.

  Here, in the pale light, they crouched down, looking out only occasionally to see that they were alone.

  “I would ask what you do here, Mr. Kent,” Sir John whispered, “but fear you will say it is not my business, and rightly so. But perhaps the fact that we are here, watching this same house, might indicate common purpose, or so I hope.”

  Kent tried to read the man’s face but the light was so poor. He could not even begin to guess why Sir John was here, other than for the same reason as Kent.

  “I am here out of concern for a friend,” Kent said.

  Sir John nodded as though this made sense somehow. “Well, you are more noble than I, Mr. Kent, for I am here out of concern for myself. You followed the woman who arrived in the coach?”

  Kent nodded.

  “Who is she, pray?”