by Sean Russell
“Why?” Erasmus said suddenly. “Why do you suddenly wish to make amends for what you did to Randall?”
“Because it is a long and dangerous journey out of the cave alone,” Clarendon growled.
“No more dangerous than traversing above the falls alone with no one to hold the rope,” the priest answered. “Because I’m now convinced that you are not followers of Teller. Because if any discovery is made, I hope to be able to convince you of its danger, should it become known. If we find your young friends, there will be four of you and but one of me. If my powers of persuasion are not up to the task, you will override me and do what you will. I am only asking to be heard. That is little enough for showing you the way on, for I can guarantee that you will not find it without me.”
“We should search on,” Clarendon said. “I’m not ready to admit we cannot find the way.”
“By all means,” Rose agreed. “I will await your decision.” He sat down, his limbs sprawling like a man entirely exhausted, and no longer caring about appearances.
“Have you food left?” Erasmus asked the priest as they passed him to return to the Fairy Galleries.
“Very kind of you to ask, Mr. Flattery. I have a little and am used to fasting anyway. What I need is sleep.” The priest rolled onto his side on the cold rock and shut his eyes. Erasmus thought he would be asleep in seconds. He was almost that exhausted himself.
They left the priest, warmed only by the small flame of his candle, and went back up the passage carrying their lantern and the survey.
When they were sure they had passed beyond the priest’s hearing, Clarendon turned to Erasmus. “I will never trust that man. I am suspicious of him even now. It is foolish even to leave him alone with our packs.”
Erasmus nodded. “I agree with you, Randall. I’m not quite sure what Rose is up to, but he can’t be trusted. Yet what has he gained by coming to us? Do you think he is after the contents of our packs? He intends to go on without us somehow? Perhaps one of us should wait here in the darkness to see what he will do.”
Clarendon shook his head. “But he knows we don’t trust him. He might even imagine that we would do such a thing. No, there is something else. Could the way on be in this passage and we have missed it?”
“We searched every crevice. . . .” Erasmus stopped in his tracks.
“Mr. Flattery?”
“What if it is through the pool?”
“What are you saying?”
“Imagine the pool extending beneath the wall, and then the passage opening up again beyond. Do you see what I mean? The pool could merely be a low spot in the passage where water accumulates.”
Clarendon spun around and bolted down the passage. Because the tunnel was small, Erasmus was soon left behind, following the dull glow of the lantern, stumbling in the growing darkness. Once he hit his head so hard that he fell to his knees clutching his scalp in pain.
He heard Clarendon cursing beyond him, and tried to hurry on, but he was leary now of doing himself further injury. Light began to grow before him, and in a moment he found Clarendon crouched down in the pool reaching frantically under the wall. The priest was nowhere to be seen.
“I saw him, Mr. Flattery. The blackguard was disappearing under the wall as I came. I was not swift enough. May he drown for his lies and his false heart.”
Erasmus waded in beside his friend and reached in under the wall as far as he could. The passage was narrow and completely water-filled as far as he could tell.
“I will chance it,” Erasmus said quickly. “But we must think about how we will take our lantern through. How could he have light beyond?”
Clarendon pointed back at their gear, which was spread across the cave floor. “He had a lantern still and has taken a tin of our lamp oil.”
Erasmus lumbered, dripping, from the pool, and to his dismay discovered that many things had been taken. From one of the packs a large section of canvas had been jaggedly cut.
“Here. He has wrapped everything in clothing and canvas and hopes that will be proof against water for as long as he is submerged. We will do the same.” He found two candles and lit them, then blew out the flame in the lantern.
As soon as they felt the lantern had cooled sufficiently, they wrapped it as best they could and took up the bundles they would carry on with them. Erasmus tied one end of their rope about his wrist with a knot that he could easily release and went into the pool where he knelt in the cold water.
“As soon as I have found air, I will pull the rope through. Hold fast to the end. If all is clear, I will tug it sharply three times.” He took three deep breaths and forced himself into the tunnel beneath the wall. The idea of being submerged was not particularly unsettling to Erasmus, but he was worried about how far he might have to go before he found air again. If Rose could make it, then Erasmus was certain he would manage—though he feared finding Rose drowned in the tunnel. The priest obviously didn’t lack courage, but he’d already proven himself a poor swimmer.
Clarendon was more of a concern, but then Erasmus had seldom met a man with greater tenacity. If Rose and Erasmus could go through, then so would Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon—have no doubt of it.
The dark waters seemed to cling to him as Erasmus clawed at the rock, pulling himself along as quickly as possible toward the air he hoped was near. Air . . . The urge to breathe began to take hold of him. If he went much farther and did not emerge, he might have gone too far to return.
Suddenly his survival seemed to depend on turning back immediately.
Go on, he told himself. The priest did it, and he could not swim.
And then as he reached forward to grab the rock, his hand broke the surface. A few seconds more and he sat upright in a pale, glowing pool, light coming from the candles on the other side. Rose was nowhere to be seen.
Erasmus scrambled out of the freezing water, shaking. The knots on the roll of canvas defied his cold fingers for a moment, but then he got them opened and pulled out his clothes and the lantern, only dampened from their brief submersion. He pulled on his shirt and breeches, drying his hand before striking the flint and lighting the lantern.
In a few moments he had hauled their remaining pack through the siphon, and then he stood knee-deep in the pool waiting for Clarendon, ready to offer assistance.
The water began to surge around him and in only a few seconds he had Clarendon by the hand and pulled him out into the air and light.
“Flames . . .!” the little man sputtered, trying to catch his breath. “I thought I should never come to the end of it. Farrelle preserve us, but that is my own version of the netherworld: dark and airless and unbearably close.” He shivered uncontrollably.
Afraid of what the priest might be up to, they went quickly on, following wet footprints on the rock.
In less than half of an hour they came upon a section of cavern where innumerable openings gaped to one side. Here they found two packs, all but empty.
“I don’t think we are far behind now,” Clarendon said. “It is only a question of which tunnel they’ve entered.”
Erasmus bent down and put his hand to the rock before the nearest opening, then reached inside. “I’m not sure if this is damp, but it is the most obvious choice.” He bent down and peered into it, listening for sounds of a man crawling. “Flames, it is tight.”
“And that is where I prove my worth, Mr. Flattery.” Clarendon was still not dry from his encounter with the pool. His fringe of white hair was plastered to his scalp and his clothing still damp. But despite this his determination did not seem diminished.
“Let me go ahead,” he insisted. “I fear for our young friends. I will take one end of the rope, and if this is the right passage I will signal you to follow. Just as we did at the siphon.”
A moment later the man’s small feet were disappearing into the opening, and Erasmus was left i
n candlelight, wondering what they had found. Worrying about Kehler and Hayes and Clarendon. And this treacherous priest.
* * *
* * *
Hayes was drawing carefully on the slightly mushy paper. Despite being meticulously protected in oilcloth, their writing supplies were damp, to say the least. Each line of ink spread out as it was laid down so that it looked like the efforts of a child, and any attempts at precision or elegance were futile.
In the hours since they had wakened, Hayes had come to realize that the inscriptions on the walls were much more complicated and diverse than he had originally thought. The walls were not simply covered in text, but also boasted diagrams, art, what might be a chart of the heavens, stylized figures, even a map. There were characters that Kehler was convinced were numbers arrayed in complex formulae. On the wall opposite the font, seven large intersecting circles were cut into the stone and surrounded by stars. Hayes was almost convinced that the lines scribed on the central circle depicted the Entide Sea, though Kehler was less convinced.
“Perhaps these represent our globe, but each view is a partial rotation beyond the last. Seven views of our world,” Hayes had offered, but it was mere speculation, though in such a place one could not contain the desire to speculate, and they did so endlessly.
He stood by the font looking at the sculpture above. The avian masks of the man and woman looked less exotic and more macabre as time went on. The font and raised floor still felt like an altar to him, and he had a strange foreboding that the rituals that might be performed here would be dark and strange.
They had been so overwhelmed by exhaustion and by the magnitude of their discovery when they arrived that they had not noticed two urns that stood to either side of the font. These were made of white marble and sculpted to resemble blossoms—like the one the woman held, although the urns were much larger.
“What do you make of these?” he asked Kehler, who was sitting on the top step leading to the terrace.
He looked up from his work, a slightly dazed look on his face. His pen paused in midair. “What’s that?”
“These urns. What do you make of them? Do you see, they were made to resemble the blossom held by this lady.”
Kehler put the end of his pen to his front teeth. “You’re right, I think.” He rose stiffly and stood by his friend. “The top almost looks like it might have been made to lift off,” he said, reaching forward. He jerked his hand back abruptly. “Flames! What was that?” Kehler looked over at his friend, his eyes wide. “Do as I did,” he said.
“But what happened?”
“Nothing too serious, apparently; but try.”
Hayes put his hand gingerly forward, and then he, too, jerked it back. “What in this round . . . ?”
Kehler shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t quite pain, nor was it really heat. More like a tingling and numbness, but it was unbearable. I don’t think I could possibly hold my hand there.” He reached out again.
Hayes snatched his hand away. “I’m not sure that’s wise. It is certainly not natural, whatever it is. I’m not certain we should toy with it.” He looked up suddenly. “Did you hear a noise?”
They both stood perfectly still, straining to hear.
“I hear nothing,” Kehler said. “What did it sound like?”
“Footsteps, I think—or scuffling, as though someone walked or crawled.” He shook his head. “I’m sure it was just imagination.”
* * *
* * *
The rope fed out slowly, water squeezing from the strands as it ran through Erasmus’ hands. Occasionally it would stop altogether, worrying Erasmus, but he was afraid to shout into the tunnel for fear of alerting Rose, who might not realize his pursuers were so close.
Randall might have an indomitable spirit, but Erasmus feared that he would be no match for Rose physically. He hoped Rose was in such a rush to find Hayes and Kehler that he wouldn’t wait to see if they followed, otherwise poor Randall could be in trouble. Erasmus had even begun to wonder if the priest would use violence. Clarendon had been right in the end; Rose was utterly deceitful.
“Hurry, Randall,” he whispered. “Hurry.”
May we catch the priest before he can perform his knavery.
The rope began to move again, like a languid snake. Erasmus realized that this rope would have to be carefully dried or rot would set in, for it still remained for them to make their way out and cross again above the falls.
Suddenly two feet of rope slipped quickly through his hands, and he dropped it lest he blister. But then it lay limp for a moment, Erasmus’ concern growing. And then it began to run quickly as though it were being taken in, hand over hand. Three distinct tugs followed, and Erasmus sighed. In his mind he had an image of Rose waiting at the tunnel’s end, and overpowering poor Randall, and then luring Erasmus to follow.
Erasmus had stiffened up considerably while he waited, and he got down on his belly to slither into the opening with some discomfort. His still-damp clothing seemed to stick to the rock and the effort it took to drag himself forward was enormous.
Randall had taken their lantern, so Erasmus carried a candle, which made this hand ineffective at pulling him forward. He soon had hot wax pouring on his fingers and after ten minutes dropped the candle and accidentally snuffed it out. He lay in complete darkness in the tightest passage he had yet encountered.
Large enough for Randall, he thought, but what of me? Perhaps I cannot make my way through.
He forced himself to go on, against growing panic, as though he were making a terrible mistake. The entire endeavor suddenly seemed a terrible mistake. But then a hint of light came down the tunnel ahead, or more accurately a hint of gray. The passage almost materialized.
“Mr. Flattery?” came Clarendon’s voice.
“Randall? Am I almost through?”
“Very nearly, Mr. Flattery, though it is a bit tight right at the end. I assume if the others managed, you will as well. But hurry. I fear we might be too late.”
Erasmus forced himself to push on, heartened by the thought of light and space, and a moment later he twisted himself through the constriction at the tunnel’s end.
The passage was still small but seemed like a ballroom to Erasmus. He sat for a moment, taking long breaths, each one seeming to increase his sense of relief. Clarendon stood impatiently by, fidgeting.
“All right, Randall. Let’s go on and see if our friends are here.”
As quickly as they could, they set off along the passage, crawling on battered knees and blistered hands. To their relief the passage opened up, and Clarendon helped Erasmus to his feet.
“Do you hear a tinkling sound?” Clarendon asked.
“Running water, I’m almost certain.”
A pale light seemed to illuminate the tunnel beyond the reach of their lantern’s flame, though it was so faint they could not be sure. But as they went forward, the light grew. Not the light of lanterns or candles, but a pure white light—more like the light of the moon than the sun. Supporting each other, they increased their pace and a moment later came to a natural stair, its rounded steps ascending a low slope.
Erasmus looked up. “A doorway,” he said, and the two of them stopped to stare in wonder.
“And there is Teller’s symbol,” Erasmus said, pointing to the three blossoms raised in relief on the keystone.
“I . . . I’m not so certain, Mr. Flattery. These blossoms are all the same, I think. There are no roses.”
Erasmus went forward, up onto the man-made steps, and then he nodded his agreement.
They went up and through the door, dousing their lantern, and found themselves in a long, high ceilinged hallway bathed in what appeared to be starlight or moonlight. And then they heard laughter.
Thirty-Nine
Halsey sat working by the light of a poor lamp, bent close to the page so that he
could see. His pen scratched across the paper rhythmically, and behind him a log moved in the fire, followed by a crescendo of sparks. There were no other sounds; both the house and the town were asleep.
Then, distinctly, someone cleared his throat. Halsey raised his head, registered what he’d heard, and then whirled around. A tall man stood by the hearth, hanging a poker back on its hook.
“Who are you?”
“I thought such an authority on the arcane would need not ask.”
Halsey raised a hand to his face, so slowly it seemed almost to have moved without his knowledge. He felt a strange disconnection with his limbs, with the world. A nightmare unfolded before him. “Eldrich . . .” He whispered the name as though he named a fiend.
“Ah, you are an authority, I see,” the man said mockingly. Eldrich shifted his position, though he made no movement that would imply fear or even concern for his situation.
“I warn you,” Halsey said. “I am not without resources,” but he could hardly catch his breath, and still felt as though gravity did not quite hold him.
A smile flickered on the mage’s face. “I stand forewarned. You don’t mind if I sit?” he asked, sitting.
Despite the strong sense of unreality, Halsey could not help himself—he stared at the man in utter fascination. He was in the presence of a mage. Certainly it meant the end of everything he had hoped to accomplish in his life—but even so he was utterly fascinated.
