by Sean Russell
Marianne had finished telling her story, and stared at him. “Has this been too much in your reduced state, Mr. Flattery?”
“No, it is nothing to do with that. Were I at the peak of my powers, I would feel just as I do now.” But he did feel suddenly ill, and weak beyond measure. He felt his limbs tremble from just the effort of sitting upright. “I will tell you in all honesty, Miss Edden, that there is absolutely nothing that can be done—and no one regrets this more than I. Eldrich . . .” He groped for words. “The mage is a force of nature, Miss Edden. Completely remorseless, and without regard for our laws or principles. Eldrich cares no more for people than a lightning bolt cares for its victims.
“Whatever Eldrich wants from the countess, he will have. Flames, he can make a woman burn with desire for him if that is his whim. There is nothing to be done, Miss Edden, but pray. Pray—if you are able.”
Marianne put her hands to her face, her eyes glistening. “Mr. Flattery . . .” she said. “Mr. Flattery . . .” but no more.
“I hope Kent does not catch up to them. I wish I had been here to stop the man.” He hung his head at the thought of the painter encountering Eldrich. “But it is unlikely that Kent will overtake them. Mages can travel unnaturally fast when they so desire, and never change a team to do it.” He shook his head. “No, Kent is likely safe.”
Erasmus’ head spun, and he broke a cold sweat. His thoughts seemed to scatter, like a flight of doves released—a mad flutter in all directions. At least Kent had shown courage—born of ignorance, unquestionably, but courage all the same.
And what of Erasmus? Erasmus who had experienced the countess’ favors.
He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to stop the spinning. There was nothing to be done. One did not sneak into the house of a mage and steal away the fair damsel. Not in this world.
He thought of the countess lying close to him, the scent of her hair, her perfect lips tugged into an involuntary smile of pleasure and happiness. To think that Eldrich had simply stolen her away—against her will!
Marianne put a hand on his arm. “Can Eldrich simply abduct one of Farrland’s most noted citizens with impunity? There is nothing anyone can do? Martyr’s blood, is it the tenth century? Do mages rule the land again?”
“They have never abandoned their rule,” Erasmus said, “except to appearances. No, others have been spirited away by a mage and—But excuse me, I frighten you. Perhaps we are entirely wrong in our thinking. The mage is very likely treating the countess with all respect. It is not impossible that she went with him of her own accord. Mages can be very persuasive, even without employing the arts.”
The clearing of a throat drew their attention.
Erasmus turned to find Hayes standing at the stairhead.
“Your pardon,” he said. “We have convened in your room, Erasmus.”
“A moment,” Erasmus said, nodding.
He stood, too quickly, and the world wavered.
“You are in the same lodgings?” he said to Marianne. “I will come later if I can, or send word. Let me think on this, Miss Edden. I . . . Let me think.”
* * *
* * *
They appeared almost to huddle close in the room, as though they were back in the cave clinging together for warmth and support. Only Rose sat apart.
“What choice have we been left?” Hayes asked, the bitterness not masked by the quietness of his voice.
“Very little,” Clarendon said. “I, for one, would not be ready to accept the justifications of this priest—who would stop at nothing to see Anna dead—but for the word of Mr. Kehler.” He looked over at Kehler, as though asking for further confirmation.
Kehler nodded. “I can only repeat my words of last night. There was some cataclysm feared by the mages, and, yes, I do believe that is why the mages have trained no apprentices. I think it is very likely that Anna represents a danger, and not just to the designs of Eldrich. But I am loath to turn her over to Eldrich’s justice.” He looked at Erasmus now. “What if we were to find her and then deal with Eldrich? Could we not ask leniency for Anna in exchange for giving her up to Eldrich?”
Erasmus felt his head shake. “It might be very unwise, Kehler. Angering the mage is likely to make things worse for all concerned.”
“But if Eldrich had no choice but to negotiate?”
“And how would you hold him to his word?” Erasmus asked. “Let me assure you, Eldrich would not feel bound by any agreement we reached. He will do as he pleases.”
“There are ways to hold even a mage to his word,” Rose said.
The others looked at the priest in surprise.
“The church made pacts with the mages in which both sides were bound to fulfill their part. It can be done.”
“If we could find her, it would be worth attempting,” Hayes said quickly. “What say you, Erasmus?”
If we find her, Erasmus thought, I shall alert Eldrich by immolating myself—a living beacon. Yet if I refuse to search for her, I will face the justice of Eldrich.
“Even if we agree to try to treat with Eldrich,” Clarendon said, “there is no way we can trust this priest to keep to his word. He has proven that repeatedly.”
“I seek only to protect my church, Mr. Clarendon, and despite what you think, I would derive no satisfaction from Anna’s suffering or death. I believe she does not understand the consequences of what she does. No, I do not wish her harm. Let us find her and then treat with Eldrich. I think Mr. Kehler is right. Even a mage must make bargains out of necessity.”
Nine
A prism of sunlight angled beneath the eaves, delineated in dust motes and by a luminous rectangle on the polished floor. Particles moved within the geometry, their motion too languid to be real.
The awareness that this was no dream formed very slowly, and then crystallized suddenly. The countess pushed herself up on her elbows, realizing that she was in the offending bed and wore not a stitch of clothing.
“Farrelle preserve us. What has been done to me?”
For a second she shut her eyes, searching her memories. She had been sitting in the window, afraid to proceed to bed, and had fallen asleep. A nightingale had been singing. And then Eldrich had appeared. . . . But had he really? It seemed almost a dream now.
But how had she come to bed? Try as she might, she could not remember. The countess clutched the covers to her.
Why did I agree to this? The open window drew her eye. Could she slip away? Escape? Surely she had not made the decision to come here of her own free will. She must have been bespelled.
A memory surfaced of the woman at the roadside, and the countess collapsed back into the bed, covering her eyes.
“I am a vain, despicable creature,” she sighed. But she knew it was not so simple—there was a fascination as well. She was in the company of a mage. A mage. A man whose powers and myth were beyond understanding. A legend. And the last of his kind as well.
“Some women are only besotted with rogues,” she said. And though she had always thought them fools, she was suddenly a bit more sympathetic. “Is it the danger, then?”
She did not know. It was a mysterious attraction, like a spell perhaps, but often such things were. Or a kind of madness. All she knew was that she had not the mental discipline to turn her thoughts from Eldrich for long. And her thoughts of him were almost all encompassed by questions. Who was he behind his distant manner? What was it that drove him? How did he manage the feats that he performed?
“And what does he want of me?” she whispered. “Or has he had it already?”
A tap sounded at the door, and then it opened a crack.
“Lady Chilton?”
“Is that you, Mr. Walky?”
“Yes, Lady Chilton; Walky. We are to make a beginning this day. Will you break your fast in your room, or will you come down?”
“In my
room, I think. We are to make a beginning . . . ? Of what?”
“Your part in the bargain, Lady Chilton. There is little time and much to do. I will return immediately after your meal, if you will allow it.”
The false deference grated on her. She thought it highly unlikely that a refusal would be allowed.
“Until then, Mr. Walky.” Now what was this? Somehow she had not thought her part of “the bargain” would be carried out with Walky.
Breakfast was simple but adequate. The countess found herself suffering a little disappointment. Couldn’t mages eat exotic fruit out of season, famous and long-ago consumed wines with dinner? Could there not be some sign of these legendary powers? Or was the use of the arts for mere indulgence beneath Eldrich?
The countess held back her sleeve and refilled her glass cup with coffee. Lifting it, she remembered the sunlight pouring into the room when she woke. How like liquid within glass it had appeared, dust motes moving slowly, aimlessly through the liquid light. Touching each other only by chance.
Like humans, she imagined. Floating through life with little thought or purpose, but see how the light illuminates them for an instant here and there.
She glanced over at a mirror and, given the circumstances, thought she looked remarkably herself. Not tired or frightened. In fact her color was a bit heightened, as though she were in a blush of pleasure, like a woman newly in love. This caused her to color even more. Her dark tresses fell in lustrous curls, and her eyes, set too wide apart, appeared gray this morning, for they changed with her mood and the color of her surroundings. Men wrote poems praising her eyes—and her mouth, which was full and sensuous. She shook her head. What a terrible vice vanity was. A foolish weakness, and the countess knew that, in all the ways that mattered, she was no fool.
A familiar tap on the door drew her attention.
“Mr. Walky? Do come in.”
The rotund little man appeared, and she found herself smiling. How like a caricature he was—or like a character in a children’s book. A bit distracted, disheveled, but there was something more there. . . . Had Erasmus suggested the man’s memory was not quite sound? The countess thought it unlikely. He would not still serve the mage if that were the case. Eldrich would not be one to put up with incompetence. No, Erasmus must have been wrong—but then he had been only a child.
Walky hovered by the door.
“I’m quite finished—well, except for my coffee. Would you care to join me, Mr. Walky? They have provided another cup.”
“Kind of you,” Walky mumbled as he took the second chair. The countess filled his cup, which seemed to fluster him a little. He was the servant, after all.
It was only then that she realized Walky had set a book on the table—a book with an ancient leather binding, its title faded to unintelligible hints of gold.
“So, Mr. Walky, what is it we shall do?” the countess asked as casually as she was able.
Walky tilted his head to one side and looked at her quizzically. “You do not know?”
She tried to hide her embarrassment by sipping her coffee. “Lord Eldrich has told me nothing.”
“Nothing? Even yet? But you agreed. . . .”
She nodded, not sure what to say. Yes, an intelligent woman can make a foolish bargain. Do not look so disappointed.
Walky’s eyebrows lifted, and then settled as his brow knit in concentration—as though he had little time to spare for contemplating the folly of others. He placed a callused hand on the book, gently. “We are to begin your studies, Lady Chilton, and here is our reader. The primer, or more properly, Alendrore Primia—the first book of Landor.”
The countess had begun to lift her cup, but put it ungently down, staring at the book. “Erasmus told me that, while in the house of Eldrich as a boy, you left a book in the schoolroom. A book written in a strange language and filled with odd diagrams and drawings. He said that when it was discovered that he’d had the book, he was punished.”
Walky did not look at her but nodded slowly, gazing at his hand on the book. “Punished? You need not worry, Lady Chilton. It is the mage’s will that you begin your studies with me.”
“To what end?”
“Best you ask that of Lord Eldrich, Lady Chilton.”
She nodded at the book. “You are not really so forgetful, are you, Mr. Walky? And books of the arts are not left lying about for schoolboys to discover.”
Walky did not answer, but continued to stare though his focus was inward now.
The countess reached out and placed a hand softly on Walky’s arm. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Walky, will Eldrich use me so heedlessly? For surely Erasmus was supposed to discover the book—to suffer some terrible regret all these years, though what purpose this served I cannot imagine.”
Walky had become utterly still. She could feel the muscles of his arm tensed beneath her fingers, yet he did not move his arm away.
He has not known a tender touch in who knows how long, the countess realized. How old is this man and how long has he been living a monk’s life in the service of Eldrich?
She felt his muscles relax suddenly, and his eyes pressed closed. He sagged a little, as though something at his center collapsed.
“Please, Lady Chilton,” he said, the constriction of his chest squeezing the words flat.
The countess gazed at the man, who seemed suddenly to be suffering, pressed his arm gently, then let it go.
Mr. Walky removed his hand from the book and sat back in his chair a moment, careful to keep his gaze cast down.
“The primer,” he began softly, still not meeting her gaze, “is the first book in the study of the arts.”
For a long moment the countess heard no more. The study of the arts.
Ten
The baggage made a pyramid of battered leather in the corner of Sir John’s room: a monument to his resolve, for he was in no hurry to return to Avonel. Having been abandoned here by Bryce, Sir John had been tempted to prolong his visit. Even a few days without worries of Bryce appearing at his door would be a great gift. Shirking duty was not, however, in Sir John’s nature.
Bryce. . . . And to think he had asked Sennet to find out what he could about the man! Sir John was certain Sennet had not uncovered the truth, or anything like it. Bryce served the mage, and so, indirectly, did Sir John. A thought that invariably caused him such anxiety that his hands shook and blood drained from his face, leaving him sweating and slightly disoriented.
“Dinner,” he said aloud, intentionally turning his mind to matters more appealing. It was unfortunate that Kent had run off on his fool’s errand, it would be good to have company this evening. But Kent had his obsession with the countess driving him—driving him to ruin, Sir John was certain. Poor fool. These artistic types, they were so . . . capricious. Kent would come to regret it.
Sir John pulled on a frock coat of royal blue and regarded himself in the mirror. Still a passable-looking man, younger in appearance than most his age. A woman could do worse, he was sure.
A banging on the lower door interrupted his self-appraisal, and he watched his face sag as the confidence drained away.
“It is only the landlord, come to be sure I need no help.”
Sir John took a lamp and descended the stairs, unbolting the door.
“I am hardly a ghost, Sir John,” Bryce said. “You need not look so. Will you not invite me in?”
Sir John tried to regain his composure. “Certainly, certainly. I am surprised, as you see, as you had left so abruptly. . . .”
Bryce pressed past him, pounding up the stairs with his customary energy. Sir John struggled to keep pace, the light swaying around them in the narrow stairwell.
Bryce eyed the small mountain of baggage. “Just in time, I see. But what have you done? Purchased another wardrobe? You had less than half this when we came.”
“It belongs
to a friend, I’m carrying it back to Avonel with me.”
“What friend is this?” Bryce asked.
Sir John hesitated, almost certain this inhumanly precise man would catch him in a lie. “Kent. Averil Kent. He’s run off somewhere in his pursuit of beauty.” Sir John shrugged. “Artists . . .”
“Ah.” Bryce turned a chair slightly and took a seat, Sir John’s deception apparently unnoticed. “Matters have changed, Sir John, and we have need of your services again.” Bryce spread his hands and touched the tips of the fingers together. “There is a woman we must find. Find at all costs. She goes by the name of Anna Fielding, though she will not likely be using that name now. Fortunately she is uncommon looking: about twenty-three or -four, above average height for a woman. Her hair is straight and long—past the shoulder—and the oddest shade of red-blonde; as though it had been drained of color, or faded from too much time in the sun. ‘Washed out,’ is how one described it. But it does not stop there: her entire appearance is the same, as though she has had some of her life drained away, yet her manner belies this, for she is as vital as any her age.”
“Is this not the young woman said to have gone down into the cavern after Erasmus Flattery and the others?” Sir John thought to cover his discomfiture with a question.
“The very one.”
“But none of her party emerged. I have heard that Flattery and his friends all perished.”
“She did not,” Bryce said firmly.
Sir John shifted his weight to his other foot. “What am I to do?”
“You are to go to the Admiralty, to all of your most influential friends. This woman must be found and, above all, must not escape by sea. The ports have to be watched, watched as never before.”
Sir John stared at Bryce. “And how am I to accomplish this? Am I to tell the Sea Lord that an unknown gentleman must have this girl for unknown reasons? Flames, Bryce, I cannot perform miracles!”
