by Sean Russell
Someone approached.
Kent went out onto the shadowy road, gazing into the darkness and listening. Was that the sound of a horse? He stood, staring down, concentrating his senses and finally was sure he heard the sounds of horses—several of them, to the east.
He stared off into the night, relief washing through him. If luck was with him, he would be in Castlebough this night, and on the road again before midday.
Around the shoulder of the hillside a dark shadow appeared against the low stars, the sound suddenly clear: a large carriage drawn by a team, Kent was almost certain. And how quickly they came.
Then he realized that he had seen no coach lamps. He froze in place, confused, and then he rushed back into the shadow. Tearing the horse’s reins free, he began dragging his mount up into the trees. It stumbled and tried to pull away, but Kent resisted, coaxing it along, blind in the dark. Up they went, diagonally now, on some kind of foot track—likely a path to a lookout point. He could not see the track but felt it underfoot, and the horse came along more easily.
When his breath failed him, Kent stopped and bent double—not enough wind left to even curse. The sound of horses pounding along the road came up, slightly muffled, through the trees.
And then it died.
Kent did curse then, in a whisper.
Do they know I’m here, or do they stop only to water their team?
He stroked his mount, jiggling its bit as a distraction. Make no sound, he willed it. Make no sound.
And then the horses moved again, the sound of hooves, slow, like tumbling rock. Kent realized they had delayed only to negotiate the washout.
“Flames,” he swore. It must be Eldrich. Who else could see such a thing in the dark? But why was the mage returning to Castlebough? Racing back to the city he’d just left? There was no explaining the doings of a mage.
Was the countess with him? That was Kent’s only question. Certainly she must be. There might be a chance that he could rescue her yet.
“What is it?” came a half-familiar voice, muffled by its journey through the trees.
“The road is washed away,” came another voice.
“Shall I climb down?” The first voice drifted up to him again, teasing him with tones he thought he should know.
It couldn’t be Eldrich, could it? The ramifications of this stopped him cold.
“It might be best, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Kent heard the click of a carriage door, and then the complaining of springs as the horses edged forward. A pause, then a surge as the carriage rolled up out of the trench.
“That will do, Mr. Bryce.”
Again the door sound, and then the carriage set off, far too quickly on this dark night.
Bryce? The man who had accompanied Sir John? He felt a wave of relief. The man was clearly an agent of the mage. But why was he returning to the town his master had so recently abandoned? Kent could not imagine, but clearly Eldrich and the countess still traveled on.
Kent edged back down the trail, hoping his mount did not stumble and crush him. At the spring he let the gelding drink once more, and then set out, lame mount and all, along the dark river that bore the countess away.
Four
The ruin was still smoldering when Bryce arrived, the stone hot to the touch. Out of the coals, cranial walls rose up, window openings gaping, glass melted into frozen pools, dripping from the sills. Bryce could sense the death here—the death of the house. Perhaps more.
The roof had collapsed, leaving only a few beams, blackened and burned to half-thickness, which angled down from the stone walls like the tines of a rusted rake. He turned over a roof tile with his foot and a gasp of caustic smoke escaped, stinging his eyes.
In what he guessed to be the center of the room, he probed into the ashes with a stick, dredging up a heavy object blackened by the fire but unmistakable. A dagger.
“He will not be pleased,” Bryce said to himself. “Not in the least pleased.”
There was other evidence of the arts as well, not all of it perceptible by the usual means. But beyond the house there was nothing.
“Flames, it was a powerful drawing,” he said. He turned over more tiles with his branch, and was rewarded with more smoke, which seared his nostrils and lungs.
Crouching at arm’s length, he plumbed the ashes and turned up something else. A charred object that stopped him. “Blood and flames. . . .” The bone slipped back into the ash, like a corpse into a pallid sea.
Bryce stood suddenly, looking around at the ruined house, horrified by what had been done. “The mage must know. Immediately he must know! He sacrificed himself—and there can be only one reason for that.”
Five
The five who escaped the cave had been transported to the sanitarium and put under the care of the physician and his staff. Not that they were badly injured—exhaustion and need of nourishment being the most dire of their physical hurts. Even Clarendon’s damaged knee did not appear so serious in the light of day.
Erasmus stood before the mirror staring at the gaunt figure who looked back, apparently distressed by what he saw. The figure in the glass had somewhat sunken eyes and a slight hollow to the cheeks that even the freshly trimmed beard did not hide. But what struck him most was the cast of his face—a man who had learned a terrible truth.
“There are truths men never recover from,” Beaumont had once said.
A mage tried to murder me, Erasmus thought, and turned away, unable to bear the stranger’s look.
Erasmus lay down on his bed, thinking that he might just let sleep take him once more—if only he could dream something sweet. Instead, each time he slept, he tumbled back into the nightmare of the cave: hopelessly lost; starving; cold to the soul; water rising relentlessly.
But the weariness was greater than his fear of nightmares, and his eyelids fluttered closed.
* * *
* * *
“Erasmus?”
Erasmus opened his eyes to the muted light of late evening. For a moment he wondered what chamber this was, and then realized he was not in the cave at all.
“Erasmus?”
A man sat on a chair in the center of the room.
Erasmus propped himself up on an elbow, squinting at this apparition in the shadows. “Who is that?”
His eyes adjusted to the light, revealing a precise, dark-eyed gentleman. A stranger, yet there was something vaguely familiar. . . .
“Do I know you, sir?” Erasmus asked, dropping his feet to the floor and perching on the bed’s edge, his head swimming.
The man still said nothing, but stared at him for a moment.
“You don’t remember?”
The voice: bitter . . . older. Erasmus found himself standing, as though drawn up by a will other than his own.
“Percy? Flames! Is it you? Percy . . . ?”
The man’s gaze faltered, blinking.
“But I thought . . .” Erasmus stumbled to silence, his throat constricted. The room spun and he fell back to the bed.
“You thought I had burned?” the other said softly.
Erasmus could not bear the man’s gaze, and looked down. “Yes,” he whispered. “I thought you dead.”
Erasmus stared at his unmoving shadow and heard every accusation contained in that silence.
He looked up suddenly. “All these years I thought you dead. I thought . . . I cannot tell you what joy it gives me to see you alive. Alive and whole.”
Percy did not answer, but stared at Erasmus as though he had been paid the gravest insult.
Erasmus nodded. “Yes,” he almost whispered. “I know what you must think. But I was only a child. How could I have known what would result?”
“So, unsure of the dangers, you pushed me forward to perform the ritual, not daring it yourself.”
Erasmus look
ed back to his dark outline on the floor. “It was an act of cowardice. Yes. But the act of a child, all the same. I am sorry for your sufferings, Percy. No day goes by without my thinking of it—regretting it.” He looked up. “But you are whole, thank all gods. Eldrich made you whole again.”
Percy’s face hardened, masklike, eyes narrowing. “Whole? No, I am not whole. And I am tied to the mage. Tied to him until the end, while you have walked free, inconvenienced only by your paltry guilt. But I am his servant, Erasmus. Healed, to all appearances, but his servant still. You cannot know what that means. You can’t begin to know.”
Erasmus stared at the man, and felt the rage and contempt hurled at him. All he could say in defense was that he had been a child, a mere boy—but that would not gain him pardon here. Not before the sufferings of this man, whose judgment had been passed long ago, and likely renewed every day for all these many years. No, Erasmus had been condemned in absentia, and there was nothing for it but to hear the sentence.
“It is long done, Percy, and my regrets cannot undo it. So what is it you will have of me now? My continued suffering, heightened by your lack of forgiveness? Or is there some act of contrition? Is that what you have come to ask?”
The man who had been his dearest friend and ally in childhood laughed bitterly. “Forgiveness? I have been tutored by a mage, Erasmus. It is a word without meaning to me, a human weakness which was burned away long ago. No, there is nothing you can do for me. The mage, however, is not done with you yet, Erasmus Flattery.” For a second the mask became almost human as he said this, and the voice was tinged with a certain pleasure.
He lifted a foot and set the ankle on his knee. “Begin with the story of how you came to be here in Castlebough. Leave nothing out. You know how exacting the mage can be.”
Erasmus shook his spinning head, hoping that he dreamed, but something told him he did not. This was Percy, returned after all these years. Returned with the accusations Erasmus had hurled at himself during this same span of time. Justice; very rare in the world of the mage.
Realizing that there was nothing else to be done, Erasmus told his tale, beginning with meeting Hayes in the brothel, and the bizarre story he’d told of Skye, the Stranger, and a mage.
During the entire explanation Percy’s countenance did not alter. Even the failing light could not soften the bitterness and disdain.
What has he suffered? Erasmus wondered. Did not the mage heal him? Look! Is there the slightest scar or burn? No, he is a handsome man, of great bearing and presence. Yet he hates me still.
The light in the room faded as the story was told—faded like hope—and when he came to the end, his inquisitor was nothing but an indistinguishable shadow in the room’s center.
For a long moment Percy was quiet, and Erasmus could not see his face to judge the impact of his tale. “One would think, by your story, that you’d given up the ways of a coward,” he said coldly. “What of this girl? You saw no sign of her after the drowned man?”
“None. But unless she could swim, it seems very likely she, too, was drowned and carried away by the stream.”
Percy shook his head. “She did not drown. No, she is living yet. And Eldrich will not be pleased to hear of your part in this.”
“Me? What have I to do with it?”
“Was it not you who managed the escape from the chamber? You were never meant to escape, Erasmus. You cannot begin to realize the harm you’ve done.”
Erasmus could hardly credit what he’d heard. “Did Eldrich expect us to sit meekly in the cave and starve?” he said incredulously. “Even a mage must know more of human nature than that!”
Percy rose from his chair and went to the window where he looked out into the twilit valley. Erasmus could barely make him out—Percy’s inhuman precision blurred to indistinct silhouette.
“What is it you want of me?” Erasmus asked again, guilt no longer bridling his impatience.
No answer. A silhouette as still as sculpture.
“Find this girl, and Eldrich will lift the sentence that has been passed against you.”
“What? What sentence?”
“You trespassed in a sacred place, Erasmus. For that you were to have paid with your lives. And then you aided the girl’s escape. All of you have earned Eldrich’s displeasure.”
Erasmus had turned on the bed so that he could watch his dark friend, and now he almost writhed where he sat. “What is it you’re saying? Was I not to tempt the Tellerites out into the open? Was it not intended that I lead them down into the cave so that Eldrich could destroy them? Was this not my purpose all along? And yet, for doing Eldrich’s unspoken bidding, my life is forfeit for violating the chamber? And then I am also charged with managing our escape?”
“When you stand before a mage, Erasmus, an appeal to logic is futile. They do not care much for the niceties of human regulation. You violated the chamber. There can be no ‘mitigating circumstances.’ You aided the escape of Eldrich’s enemy. One should never interfere in the affairs of a mage, especially not one bent on revenge. If you and your companions can find the girl, you will escape Eldrich’s judgment against you. Tell that to your friends.”
“The priest as well?”
“The priest especially. The church . . . Eldrich will deal with the church.” A protracted pause. “This girl took king’s blood from the chamber. It must be surrendered to Lord Eldrich. Do not even touch it—especially you, Erasmus.”
Percy turned toward Erasmus, but he was still only a dark mass before the window. “Find her,” Percy said softly. He tossed a roll of paper on the bed. “And when you have her, this will allow you to alert the mage.”
He swept out of the room, and Erasmus realized he no longer saw the erect, forceful man, but someone bent and broken. Someone scarred by fire and loathing.
For some time he sat, unmoving, then he went to the open window and looked out over the valley. The lake glittered in starlight.
So his nightmare had come true. Percy had returned from the grave to confront him, to accuse him. And what a terrible husk of a man he was. Burned hollow, no matter what Eldrich had done to heal him. Poor child. Erasmus could not help but remember the boy—innocent as rain, as trusting as a young bird.
What a monster Eldrich was. What a terrible monster. And all over this young woman—who, despite her duplicity, hardly seemed evil to Erasmus. No, she seemed far less malevolent than the mage. And now he must find her and offer her up to Lord Eldrich.
Remembering what Percy had said, Erasmus lit a lamp and unrolled the curling papers. Immediately he felt the room grow chill. The writing was Darian.
An enchantment.
He was halfway through before he realized it was familiar—the spell innocent boys had used to summon fire. The spell that had immolated Percy Bryce, burning away the germ of his humanity.
Six
The bruised joy of survivors was all but absent among those who had escaped the cave. They still wore the haunted look of men just awakened from nightmare. Erasmus thought they had been through quite enough.
Unfortunately, he could see no way to spare them. Their deliverance had been illusory. Erasmus regarded each of the silent faces in turn, and almost to a man their gazes slipped away. Only Rose was bearing up.
“I had a visitor this evening,” Erasmus began, his voice uncertain. “Not a welcome one.” He could see them all stiffen, as though about to receive a blow. “A servant of Eldrich.”
All eyes snapped up briefly, alert now, like the eyes of animals surprised by the hunter.
“I’d hoped we had escaped. That our ordeal was over, but instead Eldrich has found us.” His mouth was suddenly sticky-dry, the flesh like a sponge.
Only Deacon Rose did not appear frightened. Indeed, his eyes shone with interest. “I don’t know where to begin. Eldrich claims that we have committed a great offense against . . . his
kind.” He was almost whispering now. “That is the crux of it. But all is not dark, for he has offered us clemency if we will but perform a single task for him.”
“Clemency!?” Clarendon exclaimed, drawing himself up in resentment, one sign of life at least. “For what crime?”
“I’m afraid the Deacon was right, Randall. We trespassed in a place the mages hold . . . sacrosanct. For this alone our lives should be forfeit. We then added to this crime by aiding the escape of Eldrich’s enemy, damning us doubly in his eyes.”
Kehler began to protest, but Erasmus held up his hand.
“There is no court of appeals when dealing with a mage, Mr. Kehler. I know what you will say: ‘Was it not Eldrich’s design that we lead the Tellerites into the cave, to their ruin?’ Yes, and yes again to any arguments of logic and justice, but the justice of men has no bearing in the affairs of the mages. Only their own mysterious code, and according to the strictures of that code our lives should be forfeit for what we have done. Unless we are able to accomplish this task.”
The survivors looked at each other, all of them still, almost hunched, like the hunted. How battered they all looked, how haunted by their brush with death.
They were nearly buried alive, Erasmus thought.
Poor Kehler looked almost as aged as Clarendon, with his hair going gray too early, his posture stooped by fatigue. Even the bright curiosity of his eyes had disappeared.
Hayes looked only slightly better. His light hair and the blue of his eyes saved him from the dark look of his friend, but he no longer looked boyish, not even when he smiled.
Only Deacon Rose appeared unchanged by their ordeal. His vitality remained. Even his complexion still bore the mark of the sun, not the pale scar of their escape from the darkness. Deacon Rose retained his ability to appear at peace, his practiced charm. The eyes could still smile beneath the cap of gray hair.
Deacon Rose shifted in his chair. “We are to find the girl and her remaining colleagues,” he said, not showing the least surprise.
