by Sean Russell
Yet another crest broke nearby and swept toward them, dolphins capering in the foam. And in the bright sea foam Eldrich thought he saw a shape—a woman borne by the wave.
The creature cried out as the wave overwhelmed him. Casting free his grip, he leaped into the sea, in among the dolphins and the sprite, if that’s what it was.
Once its head broke the surface, searching out Eldrich, and it bared its teeth again, in triumph now. It called out once more in Darian and was lost in the storm—a last slap of its tail upon the broken surface.
She comes not for you, it had called.
A glow, bone-white, broke through the cloud and spread over the shattered sea, chasing wave crests like streaming veils. Eldrich turned to see a bubble moon float up, casting his shadow on the water like a stain upon the spinning world.
Seventeen
An unsettling wind, disturbed in its patterns, invaded the Caledon Hills. It swept down slopes, moving the branches of trees like an army of advancing giants.
Horses became skittish, dancing away from the madly swaying branches and forcing their riders to struggle for control. Erasmus felt his own nerves begin to fray, and was surprised to hear Clarendon upbraid Kehler when the younger man’s horse shied in front of him.
“There is no profit in this,” Clarendon said suddenly, embarrassed by his outburst. “Let us find some shelter from this cursed wind and make a camp.”
There were no dissenters to this plan.
As they searched along the valley bottom, lightning splayed toward the eastern horizon—a jagged tear in the dark cloud. A moment later they felt the drumbeat of distant thunder. The initial flash seemed to be a sign, and the sky was shattered over and over.
Their guide, Pryor, in better control of his mount, had ranged ahead and appeared now and then among the trees, searching for a suitable site to make camp. Finally they caught up with him, off his horse, staring at something on the ground.
Erasmus and Clarendon came up next, and saw the dark stain of ashes, the charred remains of logs sticking out like blackened bones.
“Quite a cooking fire,” Erasmus said immediately, noting the size.
Pryor nodded, his eyes still fixed on the ashes.
Clarendon dismounted. “This is as likely a spot as any. There is water and we might find some shelter from the wind in that stand of trees. We shall have rain soon enough, and I fear we will have to manage as the beasts do and simply endure it.”
The others began dismounting, relieved to be off their nervous mounts. Hayes and Kehler took charge of the horses, glancing over at their guide, who had not moved from the fire pit.
“Pryor . . . ?” Kehler prompted.
The lad stirred, looked up, clearly not sure why he had been disturbed, then realized he shirked his duties and roused himself to help.
Erasmus began to collect firewood, which was in short supply in the immediate vicinity. Returning with a small armload a short time later, Erasmus found Rose crouched down and stirring the caked ashes with a stick, watching a stream of gray carried away on the wind.
A scorched fragment surfaced, like something dredged from the seabed. The priest remained immobile for a second, realization sinking in.
Bone . . .
“Why?” Erasmus whispered.
“To leave no one to tell where she had gone.”
“But can a mage not take away a man’s memories?”
“Yes, but she is not a mage. Who knows what she can do and cannot do?”
Erasmus’ coat billowed around him, fluttering like a sail.
Rose shook his head, dropping his stick and sitting back on his haunches. “It is said an enchantment can be strengthened by blood.”
“Not human blood,” Erasmus said quickly.
“Yes, human blood, too, though even the mages had strictures against such evil.” He nodded at the fire. “If she believed he had to die—”
Erasmus let his armful of wood fall in a clatter about his feet—sticks bleached and bone dry.
* * *
* * *
Hayes and Kehler finished dragging their tack in under the low sweeping branches of a fir, and left the horses to Pryor. The boy was a willing worker and took seriously his responsibilities as guide, making his earlier lapse seem oddly out of character.
Kehler was about to make his way back to the fire pit, but Hayes motioned for his friend to walk with him. They set off up the draw, the wind suddenly pushing against them with such energy that they leaned their entire weight into it—like soaring birds.
Finding a flat stone in the lee of an outcropping they sat themselves down, and there, beneath the wind, what seemed like quiet descended. Now that he had his friend alone, Hayes didn’t know how to begin. Kehler waited, appearing to listen to the wind, to gauge the growing darkness. In the distance the lightning continued unabated, branching like veins of pure, instantaneous light—then gone.
“You don’t need to say it, Hayes,” Kehler said softly, his words all but buried beneath a roll of thunder. “If I thought for a moment that all our endeavours would lead to—” His voice caught and in the gathering dark Hayes could see him shake his head sadly. “I only thought we would make a great discovery. That we would write a book that everyone would want to read and that we should make a tremendous success of it all.” He turned to Hayes, his voice very low. “And I thought you would escape your poverty, Hayes. That is what I hoped. Never for a moment did I think it would come to this, and that in the end we would have nothing to show for it.” He hung his head. “If only our notes had not been ruined. . . .”
Hayes was a little taken aback. He had not for a moment intended to accuse his friend of . . . of anything. “No sense regretting that,” Hayes said as warmly as he could. “Eldrich would never allow us to publish our story anyway. It was a great adventure, Kehler, but no one beyond our small band will likely ever know of it. Mages have ways of insuring silence. Poor Doctor Ripke proved that.”
“Not quite. In the end he spoke to me. Remember? But I know what you’re saying.” A peal of thunder silenced them a moment. “I fear that, rather than improving your circumstances, I have made them appreciably worse, Hayes.”
“Worse?” Hayes regarded his dejected friend. Poor Kehler was not doing well. “They could hardly have been worse. But no, Kehler, rather than making matters worse, all that we have seen and done has made them better. You see, I feel . . . I don’t quite know how to explain . . . I feel more whole, somehow. I don’t know what it is. . . . Perhaps seeing the wonders we have seen has altered my perspective on the world. The concerns of the educated classes seem suddenly terribly foolish and petty, and as a result my fall in society seems rather insignificant.” He smiled, though not with joy. “In some way, I am the better for what has happened. Do you see? My circumstances are not improved, but I am. If we survive, I shall thank you for it, Kehler. I shall thank you, despite all.”
Kehler gazed at his friend through the murk, as though wondering if he jested or perhaps had lost his reason altogether.
Hayes thought poor Kehler did not look bettered by their adventure. The young scholar seemed reduced somehow. It was not just that he had lost weight and his bones and joints had grown more prominent—but he seemed smaller, shrunken. Shrunken, the way old men appeared shrunken. The skin on Kehler’s face had lost its youthful luster, and the area around his eyes darkened as though he’d been bruised. If Hayes had not known better, he would have guessed his friend to be seriously ill. Fortunately Kehler’s energies had not failed, and he remained almost as wiry and nimble as ever.
“You did not bring me out here to blame me for our ruin?” Kehler said, somewhat surprised. “To excoriate me for leading you into this. . . .”
“No, anything but. In fact, riding through these hills in silence has brought a kind of clarity to my mind. I’ve been mulling over everything that’s ha
ppened these past months—the recent weeks most prominently. When you look at all the events clearly, you realize how truly odd some of the coincidences were. The fact that the family of Erasmus Flattery, the man who served Eldrich, were my neighbors, and that I should have found him at the brothel—where I was taken by sheer chance, or so one would assume.”
Hayes could barely make out his friend in the growing darkness, except when lightning flashed and illuminated his face in a shockingly unnatural blue-white.
“Yes, it is very odd,” Kehler said, sounding both relieved and tired, “but we have said as much before. Even Erasmus has mentioned it. Clarendon has said several times that he does not believe in coincidence, and I am coming to agree with him.”
Hayes nodded. “Yes, Clarendon.” He took a long breath and plunged on. “I have been mulling over the events that led us to this pass and have begun to realize that I know why we are here; Skye set us off on this quest which eventually led down into the cave where we hoped to make our names, to say nothing of monetary considerations. Erasmus is here because he has always been involved—as the child who lived in the house of Eldrich and the man the mage hoped might draw out the Tellerites. Rose is here because of his church and their determination that no one gain the arts now that the time of mages wanes. And that leaves Clarendon. Curiosity is his avowed reason. He led Erasmus down into the cave hoping to learn what Baumgere sought.”
“Yes, but he is here now because Eldrich has commanded it,” Kehler said, involving himself readily in the dialogue, which seemed a confirmation of their friendship, somehow—the cause in which they both believed.
Hayes nodded his agreement. “So it would appear, but he displays a determination that no one but Rose seems able to conjure up. I have begun to think that Clarendon’s purpose is something else, certainly something more than he claims. We both know how difficult it was to journey down into the cave, how frightening it was at times, how dangerous. Curiosity, even strong curiosity, would hardly be enough to make a man take such risks.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, Hayes. We were largely driven by curiosity.”
“And the desire to make our names and perhaps a tidy profit.” Hayes smiled. “We also have, according to Erasmus, ‘the impetuosity of youth,’ which Randall cannot claim. But look at how Clarendon proceeds now. He is a man with purpose. I don’t quite know what the purpose is, but he does not seem to have the ambivalence toward this task that we feel. He may have begun by protesting and proclaiming his principles and opposition to Eldrich, yet I see little evidence of this now.”
Kehler tilted his head to one side, thinking. “It seems to me to be rather a thin argument, Hayes. What is it you think he seeks?”
Yes, what?
“I confess, I don’t know. But consider our first evening at Clarendon’s house. Do you remember? He told us his personal history almost immediately, as though he could not wait. Is that not odd for a gentleman? We were only acquaintances of a few hours, after all. It was as though he had to tell the story quickly, as if by doing so he might forestall any questions. As though he did not want us to start wondering. Clarendon is so genuine and has led such a difficult life, or so he tells it, that who would question him?”
“I was rather touched by the trust he exhibited, telling his history to strangers,” Kehler protested.
“As was I, but think of it. We have hardly thought to question his motives since. However, Teller left more than one band of followers behind, each unaware of the other.”
“Now, Hayes,” his friend protested, “this is not mental clarity but overactive imagination!”
Hayes felt blood rise in his face, partly from embarrassment. Was he grasping at straws? “Really? The man has a beast that will hardly leave his side—a wolfhound, yet. And what is the familiar of our last living mage but a wolf? It is an odd coincidence, and Clarendon does not believe in coincidence, I might remind you.”
Kehler shook his head, almost smiling, but a flash revealed that the smile would not hold and dissolved into troubled shadows. “Do you really think he is a follower of Teller?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Well, I don’t know. It isn’t very likely, I suppose. I only meant to point out that I don’t believe we know why Clarendon is here. There is more to his story than he has told, or so I believe. He is a mystery masquerading as a tale of hardship and betrayal—an excellent ploy to gain our sympathy and trust—but there is a mystery there, all the same.”
Kehler looked up at his friend, the doubt almost visible through the darkness. “If what you say is true, is he a danger to us, do you think?”
“Randall? No, I cannot believe that. Certainly, he seems to bear us no malice. I . . . It is only a question of his purpose, Kehler. Why did he attach himself to us, and why does he pursue Anna with such determination?”
Kehler leaned back against the rock. “Perhaps we should speak to Erasmus about this,” Kehler said after a moment, which was what Hayes had hoped to hear.
“If you think we should . . .” Hayes said.
They sat in silence, watching the lightning-shattered sky, and then Kehler turned to his friend.
“I know you have tried to make me feel less responsible, Hayes, but I have not forgotten that it was my impetuosity that got us into this situation. I swayed you with hopes of wealth, even though your common sense told you not to become involved. No, what I am saying is true. You would never be here but for me promising you a way out of poverty, though in truth I had not the slightest reason to believe we would find anything of value in the cavern.” He paused, faltering. “It was treacherous of me to promise you profit. It was worse than treacherous. I was lying, Hayes. Lying. And now we are involved with Eldrich. I don’t know how you can bear the sight of me. Certainly no one has ever done you a worse turn. Flames, Hayes, but you should hate me. Hate me utterly.”
There was the merest second of silence wherein Kehler looked down at the ground, and then he jumped up and hurried off, shaking his head. Hayes watched him go, dumbfounded by this outburst. Perhaps he should despise Kehler. Perhaps he should blame him for all that had happened. But Hayes could not. He really felt that what he had said was true. Samual Hayes had found himself through adversity—though it appeared the same claim could not be made for Fenwick Kehler.
* * *
* * *
They had found an overhanging rock that provided some shelter, though the wind whipped about to all points of the compass and even occasionally seemed to blow directly down so there was no escaping the elements entirely.
The storm was still dry, the dark clouds passing overhead ominously, holding back their rain as though harboring it for a final onslaught. Once they had cooked, they let the fire burn down so that they would not be subject to its smoke, which in these conditions could not be escaped for more than a moment by shifting upwind. The darkness was near total, except for the flicker of distant lightning, which lit their faces in quick, ghostly flashes.
“You are quiet this evening, Pryor,” Clarendon said. “Have you nothing to tell us of this area of the hills?”
Pryor looked up, his face flickering into being. Etched with sadness, Hayes thought. “It is this place,” the boy said. “I find it . . . I haven’t the words.”
In the next flicker of light Hayes thought he saw Rose and Erasmus look at each other solemnly.
Pryor roused himself and with some difficulty lit a lamp, heading off into the darkness to see to the horses, though Hayes thought he had really gone to be alone.
“What ails him, do you think?” Kehler asked.
A gust of wind beat down upon the trees, which creaked and complained. When the gust was done, it seemed to have carried off any answer to the question, for no one spoke.
Hayes had rolled himself in a blanket and sat with his back to the rock. If not for the wind and the branches of lightning he could have believed himsel
f back in the cave, huddled against hard stone in the overwhelming darkness.
Suddenly Clarendon pulled aside his own sleeping rug and stood up, his movements oddly jerky in the intermittent lightning. “Someone should see to Pryor,” the small man said, concern in his tone.
Kehler rose as well. “I’ll come with you, Randall. It is too miserable a night to go off alone.”
The two of them picked their way down the few feet of rock and disappeared among the swaying trees.
They sat for some time, and then Hayes leaned closer to Erasmus so that he might be heard above the wind. “Tell me, Erasmus, why do you think Randall involved himself in this endeavor in the first place?”
Erasmus turned toward him, drawing his head back as though wondering what had led Hayes to this question, but then he nodded. “I have wondered the same thing more than once. Something more than we have been told, I think—as do you, I collect?”
Hayes nodded. “Yes. Not that I fear his intentions . . . I think there is a story he has not told, but then we have not all taken our turn to relate our tale.” He glanced at Deacon Rose, remembering how the priest had avoided telling his own story while they lay trapped in the chamber—telling of the destruction of the Tellerites by the mages instead.
Rose looked back at him. “I am gratified that others have come to have doubts about our friend Clarendon,” the priest said.
“I do not doubt Randall Clarendon,” Hayes heard himself say, “but only wonder if we have heard all of his story.” As soon as Deacon Rose voiced suspicions of Clarendon, Hayes found himself defending the man. After all, had not Clarendon been proven right about the priest at every turn? Deacon Rose was not to be trusted.
In the next flicker of light Hayes saw the priest smiling. “If I criticized a demon, you would rush to his defense,” Rose said.
