River Into Darkness

by Sean Russell

  Eldrich said nothing for a moment, then nodded agreement. “No, they will not.” It was almost a whisper.

  A sudden ferocious howling brought Eldrich half out of his chair—not startled, but alert.

  A moment later a servant appeared. He said nothing at all, but Eldrich dropped his napkin on the table and he and Walky quickly followed the man out.

  The countess found she could not continue with her meal and went to the double doors that looked out onto the lawn, hoping to see what all the commotion was about. Although she could hear voices, there was not a lantern or light to be seen.

  “What has happened now?” she wondered aloud.

  The voices faded away and she heard only footsteps crossing the lawn—the servants, not Eldrich, she knew.

  Will I walk so silently one day?

  Voices rumbled down the hall and into the room, no words discernable. She found herself gravitating toward the door, desperate for some clue as to what went on in this house. Some indication of what might be expected of her.

  Quietly, she opened the door a little wider, leaning close, listening. She even dared to peek for a second but could see nothing at the hallway’s end. Then, very distinctly, she heard her name, and from a familiar voice, too.

  “My word,” she whispered, but before she could pull open the door to go out, footsteps sounded, and grew louder. The countess retreated into the room, taking up her wineglass.

  Whose voice had she heard? Not Skye’s. Erasmus? That seemed most likely.

  A moment later the door swung open and Eldrich came in—followed by Kent, of all people. Kent who had warned her to flee.

  She knew immediately why the poor man was here: on her behalf. Now what would be done to him?

  Eldrich paused, glancing back at the painter, who looked frightened near to collapsing. “Do you know this man?” he said, with more than a little accusation in his voice.

  She nodded. “Yes. . . . But Kent, what are you doing here?”

  “He is rescuing you, I take it,” Eldrich answered. “Somehow he is under the impression that you are not here of your own choosing.”

  The countess felt near to tears, both from frustration with Kent and fear of what Eldrich might do. Some part of her was touched as well. What a noble fool the painter was, setting off to confront a mage.

  Kent looked even more like a boy than usual—a truant, standing before his school master. His fair hair was in disarray, the skin around his eyes tight with fear, eyes bright with hope. Standing near to Eldrich he seemed small, almost fragile. She feared he did not understand the gravity of his situation at all.

  “Kent,” she said as softly as she could, “your journey has been in vain.”

  Kent did not respond, but only stared at her, deeply suspicious, blinking back tears, she was sure.

  She turned immediately to Eldrich. “What will you do with him?”

  Eldrich shrugged, taking up his seat at the table again.

  She thought desperately for something to say, something that would save the poor man. “Averil Kent is an artist of surpassing abilities, Lord Eldrich. Can you not release him? He’ll promise to interfere no more. Won’t you, Kent?” she said looking at the painter, imploring him with her eyes to agree.

  As she went to speak to Eldrich again, he looked away, and she stopped on the first syllable.

  Finally Eldrich looked over at Kent. “Do you paint?” he asked, taking the countess completely off guard.

  Kent nodded.

  “Paint portraits of Lady Chilton and myself, and if I judge them worthy, I will release you.” He nodded to Walky, who came forward to lead Kent away.

  “But he is not a portraitist,” she said, “and does he even have his painting box with him?” She looked back at Kent who shook his head.

  “Everything he needs can be found here. Apparently much of the ‘art’ that graces these walls was painted by some talentless member of the family.” He turned to his servant. “Walky,” he said, needing to give no more instruction than that.

  And Kent was led out, looking like a child-criminal leaving the court—and not to freedom.

  The countess turned back to Eldrich, but he was no longer in his chair. She caught a glimpse of his shadow as it slipped silently out onto the dark lawn—the shadow of a wolf.

  * * *

  * * *

  Despite the hour, Walky arrived soon after the countess’ summons. He looked a bit concerned as he came through the door.

  “Is something wrong, m’lady?” he asked, persisting in his use of the ancient form of address.

  “No, nothing, but I wish to speak to Kent. Is that possible?”

  “It would not be wise, m’lady,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I see. But would it be forbidden?”

  “Only Lord Eldrich could say, m’lady.”

  The countess glowered at him for a second, but could not keep it up. The little man looked so genuinely sorry that he couldn’t give her the answer she desired.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked very quietly.

  “All right, m’lady?”

  “Yes, will Eldrich . . . harm him? Kent did not mean to interfere. It was only concern for my welfare that brought him here. Eldrich can hardly blame him for that.”

  Walky knit his brows together and looked at her, tilting his head a little. “But he is the painter, Lady Chilton. The first good sign we have had in days. I hardly think he will be harmed. No, my master will reward him—or so I should think.”

  The countess hardly knew what to say. “‘He is the painter’? Whatever do you mean?”

  Walky shrugged. “Lord Eldrich has been awaiting the painter—and he has finally appeared. Do not be afraid for Mr. Kent. No, there are other matters far more worthy of our concern.” And with that he bowed and let himself out.

  Thirteen

  It was absurd to even contemplate sleep, so Sir John sat at his window, open to the night, and stared out at the shadowed wood, and beyond it the hills silhouetted against the stars.

  Insects and frogs filled the night with their peculiar love songs, and a nightingale held forth periodically, the sound like bells tumbling down a distant waterfall.

  A family of deer came out onto the lawn to crop the soft grasses, and a pair of fawns gamboled awkwardly about the doe.

  “What will he do with me?” Sir John wondered. He pushed the window wide, a breath of soft air cooling his face. When imagining the course of his life, the young John Dalrymple had never contemplated an occurrence such as this—held captive by a mage.

  “Perhaps you are merely a guest,” he suggested, as though he spoke to another—a guest who could not leave, however; not even his room.

  Would he see the countess again? The thought of an ally in this place was very appealing. If he could speak with her, he could find out if Kent’s fears were true, that she was here against her will—assuming she knew her own heart in this matter. But it would be good to know so that he might communicate this to Kent if he met the man again—which seemed very likely given recent history.

  Suddenly the deer started on the lawn, held utterly still, then bounded off into the wood, passing quickly into silence. Sir John wondered what could have caused this action, but then he saw—a wolf padded quickly across the grass, head down, neck extended. Sir John felt his pulse quicken at the sight.

  What a ferocious beast, he thought.

  And then there was a sudden crashing in the underbrush, and the branches of a tree began to sway. The wolf released a terrible howl, and leaped at the trunk, twisting as it returned to the earth where it stared up into the branches, howling pitilessly.

  Sir John almost reached to stop up his ears when a door banged open and men erupted onto the lawn. They kept their distance from the wolf, speaking in hushed tones, and then fell silent. Even the wolf ceased
its howling, though it held its position, trembling with anticipation.

  A shadow appeared among the servants, and Eldrich spoke to the beast, though Sir John did not know the words. The wolf suddenly slunk away growling and muttering, casting glances back over its shoulder at whatever had been treed.

  Eldrich spoke again, this time in Farr, adding a string of foreign syllables. The branches of the tree began to shake and sway. A moment later a figure appeared in the poor light of the lawn, and even though it was barely more than a shadow, Sir John knew immediately who it must be—poor, foolish Kent.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sir John did not know how much time had passed since Eldrich had discovered Kent, but certainly time enough for any kind of revenge, and Sir John had imagined several varieties, all of them unspeakable. Twice he had gone to the door, even placed his fingers upon the handle, but the futility of it coupled with Walky’s warning kept him in his room. The thought of that wolf skulking the halls was enough to suppress any noble act Sir John might contemplate.

  He returned to his view of the starlit garden, where he could discern very little but could imagine a great deal. What would the mage do to Kent? At least it gave him something else to consider while he waited, though the question had not changed but for the name.

  What would he do to Sir John?

  All the while his eyes played tricks on him. He thought he saw the wolf again, and then the deer, but could be sure of neither. Was that the countess crossing through the shadow of the trees? He listened, trying to parse the sounds of the night, searching for those that were human. A pale edge of light appeared, like the glitter of moonlight on a railing. This line extended and bent suddenly, tracing thirty degrees of arc, then bent in and crossed itself. This went on for some minutes until a figure of some complexity glowed on the lawn.

  Moonlight on silver, or low flames of mercury. A shadow could be discerned now, moving slowly around the pattern. A shadow Sir John had encountered before. Eldrich.

  Sir John had crouched down below his windows so that he could just see over the sill, wondering if Eldrich knew he watched. The arts were forbidden to men, after all.

  Perhaps he does not care what I see because my use is done, Sir John thought.

  A second shadow appeared, not so dark as the first. Kent, Sir John wondered, but then the person stepped into the pattern of silver light and shed her shadow like a robe. A raven-haired woman, as pale as the moon, for she wore not a stitch of clothing.

  Sir John heard his breath indrawn. The Countess of Chilton; it could be no other. Despite his fear he felt a surge of sudden desire.

  The musical voice of Eldrich began to chant, and silver characters appeared in the air briefly only to flare into nonexistence. The pattern grew in brightness, rising up until the countess appeared to stand in the center of an intricate silver cage. The musical chanting continued. It echoed in Sir John’s mind, as disturbing as the event he witnessed, yet he could not tear his eyes away.

  Suddenly the silver cage shattered, a sound like breaking crystal, and though not loud, painful to the ears. A shadow lay on the lawn, whimpering, Sir John was sure. The darker shadow of Eldrich bent down to bear the countess up, carrying her toward the house.

  Sir John continued to stare at the dark lawn, the pattern burned into his brain. What had he seen, and why had it left him with such a feeling of horror—and why did this night linger so?

  * * *

  * * *

  Servants arrived an hour after dawn, bearing hot water and the other articles for Sir John’s toilet. He had barely finished dressing when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened a crack, and the small man of the previous night looked in.

  “Ah, Walky, is it?”

  “Yes, Walky. Lord Eldrich will see you now.”

  Sir John froze for a second, then nodded. He thought a condemned man might be allowed a final meal, but apparently such traditions meant little to a mage.

  He followed Walky down the stairs, slightly bolstered by the morning light streaming in the windows, but only slightly. Fear was still tangible. He felt himself sweating, though it was not overly warm, and that sweat seemed to have an odd, sickly-sweet odor.

  They came to a set of doors, which Walky opened just enough to allow a man to pass, and nodded Sir John through, his countenance maddeningly neutral.

  Inside he found a large, bright room, but Sir John noticed nothing more, for his gaze fell immediately upon Lord Eldrich, who sat at a table bent over a sheaf of papers, sipping coffee.

  Sir John stood utterly still, trying to catch his breath, wondering if he could hide any of his fear at all. Eldrich languidly turned a page, and continued as though Sir John were not there. The small box that Bryce had him deliver sat upon the table, closed, its contents still a secret. Despite the fact that it bore no lock, Sir John had not dared to open it.

  “Few have set eyes upon a living mage,” Eldrich said without looking up, the musicality of his voice strangely repellent now.

  What was he to answer? That he was honored?

  Eldrich continued reading. “And fewer still remember it after the fact.”

  The mage looked up suddenly and set his cup down, patting his mouth with a square of yellow linen. “I have need of the cooperation of the Farr government—meaning this man Moncrief, I assume.”

  Sir John nodded.

  “Bryce explained what is to be done?” He raised an eyebrow, not without humor.

  “Yes. This young woman who goes by the name of Anna Fielding must be found.”

  Eldrich nodded. “Though surely she will be using some other name now. To aid in this endeavor Bryce will send you an officer who actually met her, though he did not recall it immediately. No matter. She can be identified by him. I am most concerned that she not take ship for the island of Farrow. Is that clear . . . ? Good.” He reached forward and picked up something from the table. “You will deliver this to Moncrief and await his response—which, unless the man is a complete fool, will be immediate and favorable. He is not a complete fool, is he?”

  “By no means.”

  Eldrich sat back in his chair, clasped his hands, and eyed Sir John. “Bryce tells me you are a particularly valuable and astute servant, Sir John, and Bryce is sparing with his praise. It occasionally serves me to have gentlemen in places in society who are aware of whom they serve and might even have some small knowledge of my larger purpose. You are such a man, Sir John.”

  Sir John bowed his head, partly to hide his own shock. “I—I am honored.”

  “No, you are dismayed, but that is no matter. I trust you will serve me with utter commitment and unwavering loyalty. Do you know what that means, Sir John?”

  “I think I do.”

  “I am not talking about the mere definition of the terms, you realize.”

  Sir John nodded, confused.

  Eldrich stared at him a moment, letting the silence extend until it seemed it must fail. “Loyalty unto death, Sir John.”

  Fourteen

  “I didn’t like the sound of it. I said, ‘Any man who wants to avoid the road returning to the lowlands is hardly to be trusted.’ ‘’Tis not a man,’ my brother said, ‘but a woman, and a pretty one, too.’” The guide patted the neck of his sturdy mount, blinking rapidly.

  “Did he tell you her name or describe her?” Erasmus asked.

  “He said only that it was a woman and that she would pay him handsomely.”

  Erasmus glanced at Clarendon, who nodded.

  “Do you know the way they traveled?” Erasmus asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Can you take us?”

  “I was going to set out in three days anyway. I thought Garrick to be back yesterday. He hadn’t intended to take her all the way, but only through the most difficult sections.�
� He shrugged. “It is likely that he’s taken her farther than he first agreed. The paths through the hills aren’t so clear as a lowlander might wish.”

  “We need to find this woman—immediately. Can we engage you to take us?” Clarendon looked very intent. “But we need to leave today.”

  “That’d be hard, sir,” the youth said. He could not have been more than sixteen.

  “Hardship is to be expected,” Clarendon said quickly, reaching into his pocket and finding three gold coins. “Would this hasten matters?”

  The boy looked for an instant as though he’d been pricked by a pin. “Aye. But even so, it will be late in the afternoon.”

  “There will be five of us,” Clarendon said. “I have my own horses and outfit.”

  “Five!” The lad was dismayed.

  “Don’t despair,” Clarendon said, taking the boy by the arm. “We will all pitch in, as will my staff. Come along. We’ll begin by seeing Mr. Tanner about horses. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  They went single file through the highlands, along the narrow paths and hidden ways known only to huntsmen and the falconers who sought nests to rob in the high cliffs. Following the roll of the hills they passed through various bands of vegetation: On the ridges wind-sculpted pines, stunted and sparse, grew out of rock painted with orange-and-green lichen; in the valleys they found spring flowers and lush, deciduous trees. Along certain streams grew a golden-leafed willow found only in the hills—there could not have been a thousand of them in all the world.

  Pryor, their guide, stopped to survey the path again, as he had been doing off and on all day. Erasmus was surprised to find that paths in the hills were not as rare as he’d imagined. They had even passed through two small settlements—large family holdings, he’d gathered, but still unexpected. No one had seen Anna or Pryor’s brother, which was not surprising. Anna had a lifetime’s experience hiding herself—if it was Anna they were following.