by Sean Russell
Erasmus nodded. “Yes, but there are no others, only Anna.”
“How do we know she is even alive?” Hayes asked.
“She is alive,” Rose said, “or the mage would not seek her.”
“But, Erasmus,” Hayes protested, “certainly Eldrich can find her more easily than we. After all, we are not masters of the arts.”
Rose interrupted, for he seemed suddenly rejuvenated. “But the Tellerites have ways of hiding themselves from practitioners of the arts. That is the reason for Eldrich’s elaborate ruse to draw them out into the open—to force them to reveal themselves—and Anna will not make that mistake again. No, she must be hunted down by natural means, like any criminal.”
Hayes sat up abruptly, his upper body swaying in a small circle as though he had been set off balance. “But what has Anna done to me? Nothing for which I would see her murdered, and that is certainly what Eldrich intends if she is found. Am I to participate in this crime to save my own precious skin?” He shook his head, pushing out his lower lip. “I will not be party to such a thing, no matter what the cost. It is not just Eldrich who has a code.”
Both Kehler and Clarendon nodded, the little man muttering, “Hear, hear,” under his breath. Then he looked up at Erasmus. “What of you, Erasmus? Will you carry out this errand of cruelty for Eldrich?”
Erasmus felt himself mired in some sort of mental ooze, as though still not quite awake—not quite back into this world from the murky world of cave and nightmare. Would he do this? What justification could there be other than self-preservation—and he knew what it was like to live with that.
He shook his head. “Let me tell you this, if any of us refuse Eldrich’s mercy, it will not be a simple matter of paying with our lives. Mages are more vengeful than you know. Men have suffered a lifetime of unspeakable torture for angering a mage. You should think hard on that before you make any decisions.”
Rose stood suddenly. “Listen to me. It is more than fear of torture that should be taken into account here. Eldrich has not set out to destroy the followers of Teller for petty vengeance—as notorious as his kind might be for such acts. I have read the confessions of the Tellerites, the heretics who hid within the church. The intentions of their conspiracy were not so innocent as one would expect from meeting young Anna and Banks.”
Clarendon stood, red-faced, and Erasmus thought he would storm from the room, but Hayes put a hand gently on his arm. “It will cost us nothing to hear him out, Randall.”
Rose paused to look at the small man, and then continued. “There has been much speculation about the disappearance of the mages. We don’t know why only Eldrich remains, but from the confessions of the heretics I learned this: Augury was at the heart of the mages’ decision.” He began to pace stiffly across the floor between Erasmus and the others, looking at no one, as though he rehearsed a speech. “What, precisely, the vision revealed I cannot tell you, but it was frightening and apocalyptic—frightening even to the mages. It would seem that they were divided in their interpretation of the vision. How consensus was reached is unknown, but somehow it was eventually accepted that the catastrophe would result from the arts or their practice. How else could they have arrived at the decision to erase the arts from this world? To hide their last vestiges for the good of the earth, perhaps for the good of mankind?”
The priest stopped his pacing and met the eyes of his audience, all attentive now, even Clarendon captive.
“The Tellerites will keep the arts alive at all costs, that is their avowed purpose. They either do not believe in the augury of the mages, or do not care, I don’t know which, but they are willing to take all risks to see their purpose accomplished. Do you see? Anna and Banks might have seemed innocent—and perhaps in some ways they were, but even so they are willing to risk the apocalypse to possess the arts. An apocalypse even the mages feared.”
Rose stood in the center of the floor, looking around at the others, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
“What do you say to this, Mr. Flattery?” Clarendon asked softly, like a man too tired to argue. “Is there any truth in the priest’s ravings or is this another in his long string of deceptions?”
Erasmus shook his head. “I don’t know, Randall. I don’t know. Eldrich did not confide in me, nor did I learn much of the mages’ history—a secret they guard assiduously. I wish I could say more, but . . . It is certain that Eldrich is determined to see the end of the arts in his lifetime, there can be little doubt of that. Is Eldrich driven by revenge to destroy the Tellerites? I think it would be naive to deny the truth of that, but given the circumstances it seems to be more than just revenge. The Tellerites clearly want to keep the arts alive—Deacon Rose is right in this—and it would seem that Eldrich is equally determined that this will not come to be.”
“But the priest has lied repeatedly,” Clarendon began, but Kehler interrupted.
“Be at peace, Randall, there is some greater evidence that the Deacon tells the truth, this time. I saw references to the Tellerites—the men the church calls Teller’s bastards—in my researches at Wooton. Whether their confessions were true, I cannot say, but they were not just a convenient invention of Deacon Rose. According to the Tellerites, the mages did have a catastrophic vision. Teller’s bastards were aware of some part of it, perhaps from their own augury, but they believed it did not apply to them, but only to the mages. I did not connect it to this—the disappearance of the mages. Only now have I heard that suggested.”
Kehler bounced to his feet, animated, unable to remain still. He stole the floor from Rose with his outrage and frustration. “But what are we to do? If we were to choose the path of honor, we would refuse to involve ourselves in this conflict of the mages, this struggle in which we cannot even begin to gauge right from wrong. Yet Erasmus has put such a fear into us—into me at least—that it would appear our only course of action is to obey Eldrich or self-murder to avoid a lifetime of unimaginable horror.” He threw up his arms and then let them fall limply at his sides. Suddenly he was very still. “Or do we accept that Eldrich has some reason other than revenge for his pursuit of the Tellerites, as the Deacon suggests? That there is some justification for what he does? Some justification that even we would accept?” He shook his head, touching a hand to his brow. “I cannot know the answer. It is not as though Eldrich will show leniency toward Anna if she is found—of that I’m certain. There will be no charity, no application of reason to turn her away from her purpose. No, if we deliver Anna to Eldrich we will be party to murder, in one form or another.” He stood like a scarecrow, his arms rising as though waving ineffectually at crows.
“But, Mr. Kehler,” Rose said, his voice calm and reasonable—the tone Erasmus had come to identify with his most egregious lies. “Many criminals do not comprehend the harm that they do, yet they go to the gallows for their crimes, all the same. We make no allowance for this other than madness. If we are to be utterly generous, we might say that it is not so different with Anna. She does not know what will come of her actions, nor, perhaps, does she want to know. But whether her intentions are good or evil, I am convinced that great harm will result all the same. An apocalypse, Mr. Kehler. An event so frightening that the mages would renounce the arts to avoid it. Renounce the arts!
“I think we can hardly imagine such a catastrophe, for surely it is more terrible by far than any war contrived by man. A war to wound the very earth itself. Who would not give his own life to prevent such a thing? I would, certainly. Better we live with the guilt of our actions than allow the apocalypse. Moral cowardice comes in many forms, Mr. Kehler, and all shades—not simply black and white. The life of one for the lives of many, and perhaps more besides.” He turned in a slow circle, like a clockwork-toy, regarding each of them in turn.
Clarendon looked through him, addressing Erasmus. “What say you, Mr. Flattery? This priest could justify any atrocity, I think, if it would benefit m
other church, but I distrust his ever-so-reasonable rationalizations. ‘A tongue so sweet it should be cut out and fed to dogs,’ were the words of Beaumont, and I feel they apply doubly here.”
Erasmus rubbed his palms into his eyes, feeling the burn. “I fear we are too depleted by our ordeal to make wise decisions. One can always rationalize when one’s life is threatened. This must be guarded against. Let us weigh all that has been said on the scales of our conscience, try to sleep, and decide in the morning.”
The others nodded at this, perhaps happy to put off passing such a verdict.
“But I have already made my decision,” Deacon Rose said, rising to his feet, almost lightly.
“Do not be hasty, Deacon Rose,” Erasmus said. “Eldrich’s servant intimated that his master would deal with you. It was ominously said. Best take this night and look into your soul. Sleep the sleep of the innocent, gentlemen.” Erasmus turned and left the room.
* * *
* * *
Erasmus stood upon his balcony and stared up at the wandering star that had trailed across the heavens these past weeks. “A wondering star,” he said aloud, for so he had misunderstood the term as a child. A star that wondered—as did he. What could such a star think about? The question of a wondering child, riding through the heavens on the back of this miraculous planet.
The ancients believed such natural phenomenon to be signs, portents—of evil, almost invariably, but sometimes of favorable events as well.
“And which do you presage?” he asked, the wondering child not quite absorbed into the knowing adult.
“Mr. Flattery?”
Erasmus started, unsure of the voice’s source.
“Sir?”
One of the attendants stood, poised in the door.
“Excuse me, Mr. Flattery. I knocked but had no answer. I wouldn’t normally intrude, sir, but you have a visitor. . . .” The man’s eyebrows raised. “It is the Earl of Skye, Mr. Flattery.”
“Skye?” Erasmus must not have looked pleased, for the attendant blanched.
“Is it too late, sir? I would have asked him to return tomorrow, but he seemed so anxious to see you, and . . . well, he is the Earl of Skye.”
“No, that’s quite all right. Can you show him up?”
A moment later the silver-maned Skye appeared, even his movements, strong and graceful, almost feline: the lion of empiricism.
“It is a great honor,” Erasmus began, but Skye waved a hand to cut him short.
“Hardly. I must begin by apologizing for intruding like this and at such an hour. You’re unharmed by your adventure, I take it?”
“Largely, yes.”
The two men settled themselves in wicker chairs. Despite his obvious need to see Erasmus, Skye appeared curiously reluctant to speak. He kept shifting in his chair, looking as though he were about to begin—but then demurring.
Erasmus did not know what he could say that would allow the man to overcome his reticence.
“Mr. Flattery, I . . . Oh, where to begin?” the empiricist muttered.
“I know the Peliers Lady Chilton showed me belonged to you,” Erasmus prompted.
Skye looked at him obliquely.
“Yes? Well, you also went down into the cave in the company of Kehler and Hayes. I don’t know what they might have told you.”
Erasmus nodded. He had assured Hayes he would keep his confidence.
“We were trapped in the cave for several days—a section of the roof fell in, you see. For most of that time we were convinced we would die there—taking anything said to the grave. I don’t think they would have broken their word otherwise.”
Skye nodded. “Indeed. Under the circumstances I cannot hold them responsible. I’m only glad they survived, for it was partly due to me that they came to be in that cave in the first place. Perhaps they told you this? Flames, but it is a long story.”
“I have learned of a number of things: the story of Compton Heath and the Stranger; Baumgere’s discovery of the crypt and his search of the caves; the Peliers, of course.”
“And what did you find in the cavern?” He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Erasmus in anticipation. “What was it Baumgere sought?”
Erasmus sat back in his chair. “We found nothing but a section of a cave never before explored. We almost found our deaths. As to Baumgere—I had hoped you might tell me. What was he looking for?”
Skye nodded, sucking air through his teeth. “Exactly. What?” He shifted in his chair again. “I believe he was searching for the way to the land of the Strangers. He wanted to know from where they had come, for the Stranger of Compton Heath was but one. There were almost certainly others.
“You saw the painting of the man crossing the bridge? Yes? It depicts the Compton Heath Stranger, I’m certain. He passes over a bridge from one world to another, and what awaits him? A dark carriage, just as the carriage came for the real Stranger.” He looked steadily at Erasmus. “Was it Eldrich? Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know for certain, but it seems very likely.”
“Then mages were interested in these things. It is not surprising; but why, do you think?”
Erasmus shrugged. “The affairs of mages are a mystery to men, Lord Skye. If these Strangers came from somewhere else—Well, the mages were almost all possessed of an enlarged curiosity, something that I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, but from where did they come? That is the question.” He rose out of his chair, agitated, and went to look out the window, hands on his hips, his frock coat thrown back. “Baumgere seemed to think that the entire myth of Faery resulted from the visits of Strangers. Do you realize what such a thing would mean to our concept of the cosmos?”
“May I ask you a question?” Erasmus ventured.
Skye faced him. “By all means.”
“There is a group interested in such things. I have only met two of them. A man named Banks and a young woman who goes by the name Anna Fielding. She is unique looking, hair a faded red . . . I can’t think how to describe her.”
“Looks as though she has had part of her life drained away? Part of her very being?”
“Yes, that’s her. She’s in her early twenties, mid-twenties at the latest, though she does look drained. I have never seen anyone like her.”
Skye returned to his chair. He appeared still, now, and lost in thought.
“Obviously, you’ve met her.”
“Yes,” Skye said softly, “or at least I assume it was she.” He rubbed his hand over the chair’s wicker arm. “It was an odd thing. I went to visit a friend at her home. . . .” He proceeded to tell Erasmus the story of meeting Anna, though it clearly unsettled him. When he finished, he sat brooding as though he had forgotten the purpose of his visit.
“It was an even stranger meeting than you realize,” Erasmus said. “I think Eldrich arranged it.”
“She was his agent?”
“No. She was the precise opposite. She is his enemy, or at least that is Eldrich’s belief. Centuries ago a renegade apprentice of a mage—a near-mage—made off with some texts that had belonged to his master. It was during the war with the church so the attention of the mages was focused elsewhere. This man created a secret society, the purpose of which was to learn the arts of the mages. To eventually rival them. Anna was a member of that society.”
“What? Are you saying that centuries later these people persist?”
“Not the same people, obviously, but others. Their descendants in purpose if not in blood. You were put into danger—from Moncrief—so that Anna and her colleagues would save you, thereby revealing themselves.”
“That is preposterous!”
“So it would seem, but the mage uses people without them ever realizing. You see, the followers of Teller—that is how these renegades are known—practice augury. They had a vision of you,
Lord Skye. In it you opened a gate for them, and beyond stood a man who held a book of lore . . . and other talismans of power. They had to keep you safe, you see. You were to open a gate to knowledge and power. That is how they revealed themselves to Eldrich, who sought them out to destroy them.”
“You’re seriously suggesting that I was a dupe in Eldrich’s plot. That he would use me so? A man in my position! I can’t accept that.” The man placed both feet firmly on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands about his face.
“Nevertheless, it is true. Eldrich cares nothing for rank, nor even genius. He would toss away a man’s life for his own purpose without qualms. Indeed, he would deal with the King this same way, should it suit him. Mages are above the laws and morality of men, or so they believe. You were used, Lord Skye, as was I.”
Skye stared at him now, his eyes wide, lip almost trembling with rage. “I appeared somehow in the augury of these people? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Precisely. They catch glimpses of events that might come to be, but these are filtered, somehow, filtered through the recesses of the mind so that they emerge in symbols—visions. You have the Peliers. What did Pelier do but somehow catch glimpses through time?”
Skye said nothing for a moment, suddenly calm. But it was more than calm—he was shocked into silence.
“Lord Skye? Are you well, sir?”
Skye nodded, still saying nothing, then he rose slowly and went to stand before the window again, his shoulders drooping a little. He took several deep breaths of the cool air. “Have you seen the wandering star?” he asked, his voice both soft and weary.
“Yes.”
Skye nodded. “Do you know my history, Mr. Flattery?”
“I’m sure everyone in Farrland knows something of your story.”
“I find that surpassingly strange, but nonetheless let me acquaint you with it again. There are some few things of which most are unaware.
“I was an orphan, taken in by a kind family. At fourteen I fell from a horse and apparently lay near to death for several days, and though I recovered, the memory of my life before that time was lost. The physicians said that in time I might recover some of what was lost, though it was far from a sure thing.” He rubbed his fingers over the palm of his other hand as though trying to erase the lines. “And memories do come to me at odd times. Occasionally in dreams, but often waking. I cannot explain these for they seem to be brought on by certain emotions, as though my feelings at a particular moment are so like those of a past time that some shard of memory catches in them. More often it is just the emotion—or a memory of emotion—and the incident from my past remains just out of grasp.” He shook his head, lifting a hand to his brow. “However, odd fragments of memory come to me, and they are truly strange. They are of my younger years, but not of my adopted parents’ home. Most often I have visions of a strange city that I cannot identify. Or I have what seem to be memories of ideas—as though they are not truly mine. The laws of motion came to me thus, and many other things as well. And in my dreams I sometimes fly through the air. . . .” He fell briefly silent, oddly distressed by this confession.
