by Sean Russell
“And it gives you some pleasure to remind me that I am merely mortal and will suffer the same indignities that befall us all?”
“It might give me some small pleasure, I suppose, but that is not why I brought it up. I have been confronted recently with a dilemma, but I think I have found a solution. Would you not like to stay much as you are now far into your old age?”
“What are you saying? You can give me such a gift?”
He paused, and then nodded slowly, watching her face.
She looked at the man sitting before her and thought that he did not truly look like an evil man, yet she felt terribly threatened by him all the same. What he felt for her was not tender, she was sure of that. He did not care for her or anyone else. Eldrich was not a man as other men were. “I assume you will require something in return?”
He nodded again, but did not offer further explanation.
“And what might this be, pray tell?”
“Most would say that long life, youth, and vigor could not have too high a price,” he said.
“I have read stories of people who made bargains with devils, Lord Eldrich. They never had happy endings.”
He actually laughed, as though he found the comparison flattering. “Life never has a happy ending, Lady Chilton—old age, infirmity, death. One can only aspire to a rich life, and a fullness of years. But I am offering more: a chance to prolong your youth in all its parts. Your beauty and vigor and all your mental faculties. All of them. Youth, Lady Chilton—or at worst, middle age—until you have passed your centenary. Passed it by half a lifetime as men measure such things.
Some part of her brain believed she was being mocked or made to look the fool, but another part of her was not so certain. Youth—not eternal, but for many years. Oddly, tears welled up, and she struggled to keep them back as a flood of emotion swept through her.
She knew now that there was something more here—something more between them. She remembered their first meeting and the things he had intimated. The idea of becoming part of his world was too frightening, too alien.
“I think I shall have . . .” She pushed her emotions down. “. . . Have to decline your generous offer.”
Eldrich did not answer but only stared so that she looked away, casting her gaze out the window into the darkness. The carriage had slowed to negotiate one of the road’s many tight turns, and suddenly it stopped. She heard voices—the driver apparently speaking to someone on the road.
Eldrich opened the door and stepped out, lowering the stairs and holding out a hand to her in a manner that was less than polite. For a second she demurred, but then remembered that he had said he was not a gentleman, and she reached out and took the offered hand.
She climbed out, unaware of anything but the touch of his skin—infinitely soft, like the skin of a child. And warm, so unlike his manner.
Warm hands, cold heart, she remembered her mother saying.
“Why do we stop?” she asked, a bit short of breath.
“There seems to be someone on the road. Walky? What is it?”
“A woman, sir. She seems to be wandering, lost.”
They rounded the team and, there, in the light of the coach lamp, found an elderly woman standing by the small man the countess had met before. Clearly the woman was confused, staring around her as though she could not understand how she had come to this place. Her motions were exaggerated and not perfectly controlled.
“My dear!” the countess said, going immediately to the woman who was clearly not a peasant. “Has there been an accident? What’s happened to you?” The countess took the woman’s hand, cold as snow. “Tell me, madame, what’s happened? From where have you come?” There was no smell of drink on the poor woman’s breath but she was not steady on her feet.
She stared at the countess curiously as though she recognized her. “I . . . I don’t know. Where are we? What place?”
“The Caledon Hills, my dear. Near Castlebough. Is that where you’ve come from?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
The woman sagged suddenly, clutching the countess’ hands, and the countess tried to bear her up.
“Oh, Mr. Walky, can you lay down your coat?”
Walky quickly did so, and they lowered the woman to the ground where she lay, still confused, but conscious.
“Can you tell me your name, dear?” the countess asked.
“Name . . . ? Oh, yes. It’s . . .” The poor woman squinted, trying to force the words up from her memory, but then she shook her head, and tears glistened in her eyes.
“Lord Eldrich,” the countess said, “is there nothing you can do for her?”
“I don’t think she wants my assistance,” he said firmly.
The woman touched the countess’ hair. “And who are you, child?” she whispered.
“The Countess of Chilton, my dear. If we help you, can you get into the carriage?”
“But you can’t be,” the woman said, her look even more confused. “I am the countess. There can’t be two?” The old woman began to cry in earnest now. Pitiful tiny sobs. “You can’t be me. . . .”
The countess felt herself draw away, staring down at the wrinkled old woman in some horror.
“You will be surprised how quickly youth is spent,” Eldrich said. “How everything you take for granted crumbles and fades. And here you meet your future, Lady Chilton. Not eighty years, and not even your memories to bring you comfort. Stay with her for a while. Contemplate the choice you are making.”
“I’ve seen enough,” the countess said, starting to rise, but the old woman clutched at her clothing, holding her still. And the countess felt as though a vision of death had its cold hands upon her, dragging her down toward the earth. She pulled sharply away from the whimpering woman, feeling both guilt and revulsion—but revulsion was the stronger.
It is an apparition only, the countess told herself. An apparition and nothing more.
She turned to Eldrich, but the mage was gone, leaving her standing there in the coach light, confronted by her future. The common future.
For a long moment she could not tear her eyes away from the poor woman, who still held out her hands to her, begging her help. A wave of nausea passed over her, and she felt the world spinning, endlessly spinning. She turned quickly away, stumbling into the carriage.
Hanging her head, she closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing, her tears. The animal fear of death had come over her, and she knew that she was ready to fight to the last breath to stay alive.
Look what he has done to me, she thought. He has stripped away my honor, my dignity. Reduced me to a beast, growling at threats in the darkness, prepared to do whatever is necessary to preserve my precious self.
The vision of the ancient woman appeared in her mind.
Farrelle’s blood, she thought, preserve me from becoming that.
What a monster he is. What a terrible monster.
The coach lurched into motion again and as it rolled the first few feet the countess stiffened, afraid she would hear the terrible whimpering. Blessedly, she heard nothing.
“Perhaps,” Eldrich said softly, “we should begin this conversation anew. I require your cooperation, Lady Chilton, and in exchange I am able to offer something that no other living man might offer. What say you now?”
Forty-Four
Anna and Banks bent together over their translation of the wall text, hoping to uncover some hint that might indicate a way out of the crypt into which they’d been sealed. Occasionally they consulted with Erasmus, who seemed to be remembering more of his boyhood lessons by the hour. Only Deacon Rose continued to claim that he could offer nothing, though clearly the Tellerites did not believe him. If the priest could not help, he certainly kept his eye on all progress, and his actions were creating a palpable tension.
The others examined ever
y inch of the chamber that could be reached, searching for a seam in the stone or any other sign of an exit. Hayes and Kehler worked together, starting in the long hallway. The walls seemed flawless to them, the rock carved and finished to a consistent texture, as though it had been meticulously shaped by hand, though from what Anna had said, there was some doubt that craftsmen had worked here at all.
“I am beginning to think this is futile,” Hayes said, lowering himself to the floor to rest for a moment. His stomach growled, for the most recent “meal” had been so absurdly inadequate that Kehler had actually laughed when he first saw it, though the laugh had died rather abruptly and he’d been left with a dark look in his eyes.
Small amounts of food seemed to waken the appetite, and Hayes began to have some pain from his stomach and even a burning in his esophagus. A headache had come to reside in his temples, and he had to be careful to rise slowly or his head would swim.
“Perhaps it is futile,” Kehler said, responding to Hayes, “but have we something better to do?” He pushed his back to the wall, bracing his legs out. “I put my hope more in the efforts of Anna and Banks. Perhaps there will be something written here that will help us.” Kehler looked around the chamber. “I can’t believe that our route in here was the only entrance.”
“Nor can I,” Hayes said, his tone a little defeated. “I think that our passage was left open so that the chamber could be discovered one day. So that the accomplishments of Landor and the others would be remembered. In some ways I think of this shrine as an act of colossal vanity. Can you imagine building a shrine to yourself?”
“Look at all the great houses and palaces in Farrland, Hayes. What are they but monuments to their owners, many of whom accomplished next to nothing?” Kehler fell to thinking. “And,” he pushed himself up, “how many of these homes had passages built in them to allow escape in uncertain times?” He paused. “There must be a way out. I cannot believe otherwise. And we must find it before we’re too weak to make use of it.”
Two hours later they came to the end of the hallway and were in such despair that they could not look at one another. It was finally sinking in that they might die here, and their failure to find anything that might facilitate their escape only made that worse.
“Shall we go over it again?” Hayes asked, no great hope in his voice.
Kehler shrugged. “Do you think there’s any chance we’ll find something we’ve missed?”
Hayes looked out into the chamber where the others had gathered in the middle of the floor. “No. I’m afraid we’ll find nothing more. Let’s go see what the others have turned up.”
The gathering in the chamber’s center was a somber one. Hayes and Kehler sat down among their fellow inmates, and listened to the terrible silence for a few moments. No one seemed at all hopeful, and only the priest seemed at peace with their situation.
“Is there nothing useful in the text, then?” Kehler asked quietly.
Banks shook his head. “Nothing, though it is certainly a fascinating document, if one can call it that. Of course there are sections we cannot translate, but it seems a good part of it is a history. A history of the mages’ arrival in Farrland from Darr.”
“But do you believe this, Banks?” Kehler asked. “Do you believe the mages came from some other land that cannot be reached by mundane means?”
Banks glanced at Anna, a bit guiltily. When she did not react, he nodded. “I do, yes. But there is other evidence. You yourself were interested in the Stranger of Compton Heath, Kehler, and certainly that man was not from our own world—not even some unexplored part of it, I’m sure. And a mage took him away, for the mages have greater interest in these matters than anyone else.”
“You know it was a mage?”
“Have no doubt of it,” Anna said firmly. “It was a mage. Eldrich, I would say.”
“And what became of the stranger?” Hayes asked.
Anna shrugged.
“More importantly,” Erasmus took up the argument, “how did he get here, and why did he not simply return?”
Banks motioned with his hand as though about to speak, and then paused, perhaps finding his explanation inadequate. “There is no agreement on this matter, but I believe it is possible that there are times when the worlds touch and natural portals occur. I cannot explain how this happens, but it seems to me that at times individuals have come through these openings: the Stranger of Compton Heath; ‘Mad Nell,’ as she was known; a boy found nearly frozen to death in Doorn. There are any number of others. They were all confused, more surprised to find themselves here than we were to discover them.”
“And do you agree, Miss Fielding?” Erasmus said.
Her mouth turned down. “Recently I have been forced to admit that this explanation is very likely true.”
“You have met a stranger,” Clarendon said quickly.
She pressed her lips together, barely shrugging, and looked down to her hand, which traced a circle on the stone floor.
“Well, if we are not to get out this day,” Rose said, his manner composed, as always, showing no trace of despair, “then who will be next to tell their story?” He looked evenly at Anna and Banks.
“No,” she said putting her hand on Bank’s arm. “We will not reveal our secrets to you until we are sure there is no escape.”
The priest nodded, casting his eyes down deferentially. “Who then?” he asked quietly.
“Why don’t you tell everyone how you trapped my brothers and burned them for the crime of causing harm to no one?” Anna said.
“I was not alive when this occurred, Miss Fielding. I can, however, tell you another story—equally sad—but I think somehow you will want to hear it.” Rose looked around at each person in turn. “I can tell you how the mages trapped the Followers of Teller and destroyed them.”
“You know this story?” Anna said, looking up sharply. “The true story?”
Rose nodded once. He put his hands on the floor behind him and tilted his head to look up at the ceiling for a moment. And then he began. “After the terrible conflict that has come to be known as the Winter War,” he said, his voice faltering. He stopped and worked some moisture into his mouth. “In the year 1415, a final great battle took place, though it was not between nations, and few ever heard of it. The field of this battle was somewhere near the ruin of Tremont Abbey—some say the abbey itself was the site.” The priest looked around at the others. “The followers of Teller, who had hidden themselves for uncounted years, centuries in fact, made a grave error. They underestimated the patience of the mages.”
Anna hung her head so that her face was hidden by her hair, and she became utterly still. Hayes wondered what went through her mind. Beside her Banks looked like a man at a reading of his own funeral rites. Color drained from his face, which seemed drawn and rigid.
“No one knows how the mages learned of their rivals’ plans, or even of their existence, for the followers of Teller hid themselves not only by normal means, but by means arcane as well. They believed that augury would not detect them.” He leaned forward now, sitting cross-legged and putting his fingertips together. “But perhaps the story had its beginning an age earlier, in the tenth century. It is true, as is often speculated, that Teller’s master died before Teller had completed his apprenticeship. The war between the Church of Farrelle and the mages was nearing its height then. Teller offended the mages somehow. One contemporary who actually met Teller claimed that he had delved into Lapin’s books after he died. He even stole some of the texts to have for his own, hoping to make himself a mage without sanction from the other mages.” He closed his eyes and drew a long breath. “For some reason Teller believed the mages would not allow him to complete his transformation to a mage. No one knows exactly why, but he fled them, and eventually came for a time to serve the church in the long struggle.” He paused, thinking, the way he held his fingertips together
reminding Hayes of making a church of his hands when he was a child. The priest stared into this structure as though it were an aid to meditation.
“Teller was only a reluctant ally, I think. Not caring for the word of Farrelle, but for a while he helped immeasurably. No one knew more of the mages and their ways than Teller. The mages did not expect to be countered by sophisticated arcane means, and though Teller was no mage himself, he was endlessly inventive. A genius, many thought. But when it became apparent that the church would not win, Teller vanished. The mages questioned the seniors of my church at length, but their renegade had slipped away.
“But miraculously the church was allowed to continue, much reduced in its power, but even that was something to be thankful for. In a rite that horrified the fathers of the church, they swore never again to employ the arts of the mages, and never to have commerce with a renegade servant of a mage. The penalty for ignoring this would be complete destruction of the church.
“Afterward, members of the church realized that much of what Teller had been doing during his time with the church was preparing his escape. Preparing his escape and hiding the texts and knowledge he had stolen from Lapin. Somehow Teller eluded the mages, which must indicate both great talent and skill in the arts. The Society of Teller was created. More clandestine than any secret society, for one whisper of their existence would see them destroyed. And there was something more, some other crime that Teller had committed: he had stolen a secret herb from Lapin. King’s blood, as we have read here. And this, above all things, was a crime that could not be forgiven.
“There is no document that I know of that tells the story of those years, though perhaps Mr. Banks and Miss Fielding know more. Certainly Teller shared his knowledge with his followers, and increased his own, for he had escaped with a number of books. But it seems likely that those who came immediately after him had less of the talent needed to truly master the arts, for they couldn’t recruit just anyone, no matter how talented. The society dwindled in power, if not numbers—each successive generation less skilled than the last. For centuries this dwindling of power went on, while the few who even knew of Teller thought his knowledge had been lost.
