by Sean Russell
“But as will happen in any art, there was a renewal, a golden age, when men of successive generations were born with talent. The arts were greatly restored among the followers of Teller, and they grew in confidence. Finally, during the Winter War, the decision was made to perform a rite—I cannot tell you its exact nature—but it was believed that it would give them power. Perhaps it was the ritual performed to make a true mage—that is what some think. And they went to Tremont Abbey. There is an ancient lay. . . .”
“Mr. Flattery knows it,” Clarendon said quickly.
Rose recited the words of the song that Erasmus had sung at Clarendon’s home.
“A delro, a delro. Ai kombi aré,” Banks repeated.
“Meaning what?” Kehler asked.
“‘We are here, we are here. At the world gate,’” Anna answered, “or as we would render it: ‘At the gate of the world.’ It could also be translated: ‘We are here at the beginning of the world,’ but in this case I think it means ‘gate.’”
“But what happened at the abbey?” Kehler asked, impatient for the story.
“To the few who know the story, it has long been said that only the five mages know for certain, but I will tell you now that this is not so. There was a young priest of Farrelle on a pilgrimage to pray in the holy places. He had stopped at the ruin of the abbey for the night when the followers of Teller came, singing their song of power, if we are to believe the ancient lay. They passed down into the cellars of the abbey, leaving him wondering what they did. But there was something forbidding about these men, so he stayed where he was, hidden in the ruin.
“The five came by moonlight, ‘more ghostly than men,’ but they did not ignore a pilgrim monk; in fact, they seemed to know he would be there. ‘The witness of the Holy See,’ they greeted him, and took him with them, down in the cellars. Brother Stephen was his name, and he is the only man who saw what befell the followers of Teller.
“‘Before they descended into the cellars of the ruined abbey,’ he later wrote, ‘they drew a pattern upon the stone of the nave with the ashes of my fire, and then, with a candle, spread wax over this same pattern. A vial of starlight, or so they called it, was used to mark a second pattern within the first, and this glowed ghostly light on the floor. At a word, the outer pattern took fire and burned in thin, unbroken lines as fire should not. Many words were spoken in a foul tongue, and spells were woven and enchantments cast. Not till the mages were satisfied with their monstrous work did they descend the stair. Down we went, into the bowels of the old abbey. Down a passage unknown to men, and a secret stair that wound its way into the earth like a serpent hiding from the light. Down . . . until we came at last to an opening in the solid wall.
“‘There the seven who had gone before performed a rite of terrible splendor. So involved were they in their wicked pursuit that they did not see the five who came; the five and the one who watched. Seven columns stood in a half circle around a font, above the base of which sculptures of a man and a woman had been cut from the rock. Lines glowed like starlight and moonlight on the floor, and the men cried out in inhuman voices in strange tongues.’ Brother Stephen claims to have stopped up his ears, but it did not matter. He heard every dreadful word. ‘From the font emerged a column of fire, and the man chief among them spoke to it in words of power and it obeyed him.
“‘But then the mages began to chant, nearly silently, and around them dazzling patterns appeared in the air. Their voices grew until we could no longer hear the song of the seven. Suddenly the mages burst into the chamber, casting before them the white down of birds, which caught flame where it fell. With silver daggers they slew the seven to a man, slew them singing a horrible dirge. And the flame exploded around them, sweeping out across the floor, and the ceiling opened up to the vast dome of the sky, and we seemed to spin among the stars in the heavens.’ Brother Stephen claims that he passed from consciousness then, believing that he was dying, and praying to Farrelle for his doomed soul.
“But he did not die. ‘When I awoke, I lay in the sweet grass of a meadow beneath a warm sun. A spring bubbled a few feet away, and as I sat up in this fair setting, I realized I was not alone. One mage remained. “Drink from the spring,” he said, “before you follow the path that will lead you back. And then travel to the seat of your Order and tell them what you have seen this night. Take them this warning.” And he left then. Left me in this place which I think today is the fairest place I have ever seen. And so I drank from the spring, and by and by I followed the path beneath an arch of stone, out of the wood.’”
Rose looked around at the others. “Brother Stephen did as he was instructed, recounting the story as he understood it, and writing it down in the secret annals of the church. I confess to have read it many times, and apologize, for this has been a truncated, paraphrased version. But the center of the story is true to the original. Ah, there was one brief corollary: Brother Stephen returned to the abbey years later and could find neither secret passage nor stair. Nor could he find the beautiful meadow he described as the ‘fairest place on earth.’ Could not find it though he claimed it was but a short walk from the abbey. Some do not believe his story at all, but the song came from the others: ‘the orphan, the maiden, the man,’ and so I believe it, for it is too close to the story of Brother Stephen who was, by all accounts, of sensible disposition, and in all his later years blessed in every way; ‘from drinking the water of the spring in that fair bower.’” Rose stretched his legs before him.
“That is the story as it is known to the church. Even the mages believed the followers of Teller destroyed. At least for many years they believed that. It seems they never suspected the hidden meaning of Teller’s sign: three vale roses. One for each secret company he left behind, each unknown to the others. Or so I have come to believe.” He looked at Anna, who still hung her head, and even Banks would not confirm or deny the man’s speculation.
Suddenly Anna rose to her feet, and stepping deftly among the seated men, walked off across the chamber, her head up now, her manner stiff but filled with rage and dignity. Banks watched her with great distress, and then he rose and followed, without looking at the others.
“Perhaps, Deacon Rose, you did not choose the most appropriate tale to tell in these circumstances,” Clarendon said, fixing the man with a hard look.
“In truth, Mr. Clarendon, I think that Miss Fielding wanted to hear that story. It is a piece of their history that has likely never been clear to them, for the other groups were never known to them until after their destruction.”
“Perhaps, but she is like a child whose entire family has been destroyed, even those distant relatives she has never met. And now she, too, is trapped and doomed to die. I think it was cruel, Deacon Rose, cruel and unnecessary, but I’m sure it gave you great pleasure at least.” Clarendon pushed himself quickly up, and walked off, disappearing into the crypt.
Erasmus thought that the priest did not look so concerned with the idea that he would die in this place as everyone else. “You are quite happy to die here as long as the followers of Teller die with you, aren’t you, Deacon?” Erasmus said.
“You do me injustice, Mr. Flattery. I believe that I shall live beyond this life. That I shall be reborn in a better world. A world without poverty and sickness and strife, where only the virtuous live. Believing this, why would I be unhappy?”
Kehler got up and went to the corner of the large chamber, and began examining the wall with great deliberation. Hayes went to help him, and a moment later Erasmus rose and disappeared down the hallway. The priest was left alone, seemingly unaffected by his rejection by the entire group.
* * *
* * *
Erasmus set foot on the bottom stair, wondering if he did the right thing. Should he interrupt Banks and Anna? Clearly Banks had gone to comfort her, and Erasmus was sure that the young man held her in affection. Perhaps it was not his place to interfere.
“Ah, Mr. Flattery.” It was Banks coming from the stairwell. “Anna would like to speak with you, if you . . . would be so kind.” He tried to smile as he spoke, keeping all signs of emotion from his voice, but Erasmus heard it all the same. The poor young man felt some pain at her asking for Erasmus. Pain that he tried not to show.
Erasmus nodded, not knowing what to say, and turned to ascend the stair, before realizing Banks had not quite finished.
“I think you have something more to say, Mr. Banks?” Erasmus said.
The young man struggled for a few seconds. “Do you think there is any chance we will get out of here?” he asked, though Erasmus knew this was not what Banks wanted to say at all.
Erasmus shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Banks, but if we give up, we will certainly never escape. I don’t want to die here, that is certain.”
“But perhaps you won’t, Mr. Flattery.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘The last guardian of the gate.’ Perhaps you will live on to fulfill your purpose.”
Erasmus felt something indescribable inside—as though his heart paused to listen to something utterly horrifying. “You cannot be serious.”
“It is not impossible. We are dealing here with an art so deftly managed that we cannot even begin to guess what it could do. No, Mr. Flattery, I’m afraid it is entirely possible.” He nodded toward the opening. “She is at the top of the stairs.”
Erasmus ascended slowly, wondering if Banks had meant what he said, or if it were merely jealousy driving him to cruelty. He hoped it was the latter.
He found Anna at the stairhead, sitting with her legs drawn up and her chin on her knees. She stared off at nothing.
“You keep returning to this place,” Erasmus said.
She shrugged, but offered no explanation. “Erasmus . . . may I call you Erasmus?”
“Certainly.”
“I have been thinking and I’m convinced that Rose will not let us escape, even if we do find a way out. At least he will try to prevent Banks and me from getting away. I’m not sure about the rest of you.”
Erasmus looked off at the same point in the distance that had so drawn her attention, and wondered if they saw the same things. “I’m not sure about the rest of us either, but it’s possible he would prefer to see us all buried with what we’ve learned. If we discover anything at all that might help us escape, we must keep it from Rose. I’m not sure how we’d do it, but we would have to slip away without him.” He pushed a hand into his hair. “Not an easy task, for I fear there are several among us who are not skilled at subterfuge.”
“Poor liars, you say? Well, you cannot possibly mean Banks and me, for we have spent our lives hiding the truth. . . . Though look where that got us.” She turned her head so that her check rested on her knees and she looked sideways at Erasmus. “It maddens me the way the priest seems so unaffected by our situation. I cannot believe that he has no fear of death—I do not care what his beliefs are. Men fear death. It is in their nature.”
Erasmus nodded, still staring off at some point in the impossible distance, some point beyond the cave. He thought of the countess. Was she worried for him? Would she mourn when he was finally given up for dead?
And what of Rose? Why was he so . . . ? It was an odd epiphany, yet in this place it seemed completely natural. There was a very obvious reason for Rose’s equanimity.
“Perhaps Rose is more devious than we realized. He didn’t choose to tell that particular story just to cause you distress and to gloat about the triumph over the Tellerites. There was something more, I felt it even as he was talking. ‘Why this story now?’” He turned and looked at Anna. “He believes he is to be the witness for the Holy See. That is why he shows no fear. Rose believes he plays the role of Brother Stephen.”
Anna sat up straight against the rock, and closed her eyes. She was so still that Erasmus thought she forgot to breathe, but then she let out a long sigh and took in a quick breath. “I should have realized,” she said, still not moving. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I seem to be missing everything. Eldrich lured us down here like fools. And then this priest follows us. ‘Everyone has their part.’ I believe that is true. Rose’s part must be to witness for the church.”
“But I don’t understand why,” Erasmus said, leaning back, trying to find a position that was comfortable.
Anna shook her head, her eyes still closed, as though she were afraid to open them, afraid of what she might see. “Why didn’t the mages destroy the church? It is a question we have long asked. The usual answers are not even close to the truth, I suspect. There was something, some reason to let the church survive. It is almost as if the church had some hold over the mages, though I cannot imagine what that could be.”
“Nor can I. But you’re right. There is no explanation that I find adequate. It seems most likely to me that the mages found some use for the church. They would never have let it survive otherwise.”
A silence settled around them, but it was not terribly awkward. The silence of people pursuing their own thoughts. The silence that existed between people who were not familiar enough with each other to know what the other was thinking.
“I saw you on the nance, examining the urns,” Erasmus said. “Is there any hope that we could reach the seed? Would that help us?”
“It could, yes. The seed is necessary to the arts of the mages. If we could find some way to get at it, we could take it, you and I, and we might find that some secrets of the chamber would be revealed. The chamber is sensitive to our presence—Hayes and Kehler said there was no light when they first looked in. When I performed the proper rites, light appeared in the crypt.” She waved a hand around them. “And now we have light here as well—ever since Banks and I ascended. I believe that someone who is on the path, someone with talent who had taken the seed, might gain control of some of the chamber’s functions.”
“But we haven’t the knowledge, unless you are keeping much from me.”
She shook her head. “You are likely right, though how will we ever know unless we try? But every time I go near the urns, the priest comes and stands by, watching me. He must guess what’s hidden there, even if he will not set foot on the nance.” She rubbed her hands over her face and pressed her fingers to her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t know why I am suggesting this, I don’t know enough. It is very unlikely that I could break the spell. It is more than unlikely,” Anna said, any small hope that she had expressed earlier abandoning her. And Erasmus felt it, too. He stifled an urge to beat on the walls as though he could demand to be set free.
They sat in silence for some time, pursuing their separate thoughts. Erasmus found himself wondering what this woman felt about him. She had pressed herself close to him before. They had kissed—only once—but it had been a kiss full of promise, Erasmus thought. Now he found himself wishing that she would touch him again. He wanted to reach out and put his arms around her, but something stopped him. The countess came to mind, and he felt a twinge of guilt.
But I am likely going to die here, he thought. Should I deprive myself comfort? Is that not foolish?
He realized suddenly that Anna was gazing at him, her eyes moving slowly over his face. “You have the eyes of a poet,” she said, a small smile appearing, as though she were a bit self-conscious.
“Haunted, a bit mad, suicidal?” Erasmus asked.
“No. A bit sad and very thoughtful. And focused inward, not upon yourself, but not focused on the world around you.”
“Distracted, you mean?”
She laughed. “You will not take a compliment, will you?”
“Ah, it was a compliment.”
“Well, there is more implied in what I said, you see.
I was telling you that you had beautiful eyes.” She looked at him, the playfulness disappearing from her face.
Erasmus leaned forward slowly, and they met halfway, kissing tentatively. A smile lit Anna’s face—a bit smug, Erasmus thought, and then she moved closer to him.
She whispered something to him in another language.
“What’s that?”
“‘My heart lifts like a water lily rising from the depths.’ It is far more beautiful in Darian.”
“There is love poetry in Darian?”
“Oh, yes. The mages had a book of lore and history and poems. It was called Owl Songs, though we have only fragments of it now. So much has been lost over the years of secrecy.”
“Lost how?”
“Too much has always been trusted to the minds of my brothers and sisters—for the written word can give one away. But over centuries people die unexpectedly, and knowledge is lost before it is passed on. So our powers dwindle, and what we learn anew does not compensate.”
“And the seed? Did Rose not say that Teller had seed? What became of it?”
She shook her head, close beside his own. “We had so little, and the secrets of cultivation were lost, or the seed, which is treacherous, betrayed us. It has been gone now for many years. We have failed in our endeavor. There was some hope that you might be our new Teller, Erasmus—that you might renew us—but you are here, trapped like the rest of us.” She pushed herself closer to him, seeking contact.
“I was nothing but a lure set out to tempt you.” He closed his eyes, seeing poor Percy staggering toward him, his terrified face enveloped in flame. It occurred to him that this was what the church did to heretics. “I had no other purpose.”
I have always felt cut adrift, he thought. As though my purpose was kept secret from me. All the years I sought to understand why Eldrich had taken me into his house, I never suspected the truth.
