by Sean Russell
“The evening proceeded in this way, people breaking down in tears as they heard from their lost loved ones, Magnus consoling them, especially the prettier women. I hardly noticed a carriage come to a stop near the tent, and when I did, assumed it was a lady arriving late. Contrary to my assumption, a gentleman stepped down from the coach, though I could not see him for shadow. A moment later he appeared behind me. As I made to cry out in surprise, he put a finger to his lips, and I was struck dumb. Nor could I animate my limbs to flee. I will tell you I have never been so frightened, though this man made not the slightest threatening gesture.” Clarendon might have shrugged in the dark.
“He merely watched the proceedings, vaguely amused, or so I thought. I remained in my stricken state, too frightened to even notice what took place. And then the seance broke up, several people leaving, though two—Magnus’ confederates—stayed behind to dismantle the apparatus.
“Magnus led Lizzy out into the night,” Clarendon paused and drew a ragged breath, “which was warm and bathed in the light of a full moon. The dark gentleman set out in their wake, gesturing for me to follow, which I did only because I was too terrified to disobey. I could hear Lizzy’s laughter and was struck by a fear that this terrible man might want something of her—for men always seemed to want something of fair Lizzy. Even then I realized he must be a mage, though I did not know his name.
“Lizzy and her conjurer went out into the meadow, and the laughter gave way to murmuring, sighs, things I had heard many times before. A round little man had appeared, following a few paces behind—the stranger’s servant, I surmised. For some while we watched from shadow. I could see the conjurer unbutton the front of Lizzy’s dress, two silhouettes in the moonglow. And then something unexpected—something unheard of. The heavens seemed to lose focus and shift, as though a pane of imperfect glass had passed across the sky, blurring the stars. But the world seemed to move as well. I felt it tremble beneath me and fell to my hands and knees. The meadow appeared to change, trees in different places, the faint lights of a house appearing, a copper moon over all. A rushing wind whipped about me, and then all was still, everything as it had been—except that Lizzy and Magnus were nowhere to be seen.” Clarendon paused then, lifting hands to his face in horror, as though he saw it all again. But then he went on in a whisper.
“‘What did you see, Walky?’ the mage asked. I did not grasp what had occurred. Certainly Lizzy and Magnus were still there, somewhere. People did not disappear into the air. ‘I saw the worlds . . . overlap,’ the servant said, ‘blend one into the other. And then with a wrench they separated again, tearing the woman and man away.’
“I could not believe what I had heard. Lizzy could not be gone. One did not walk out into a meadow and disappear! One did not! And what was this talk of overlapping worlds? ‘What you saw was history being made, Walky. Never before have we been able to predict when such a phenomenon would occur. We are the witnesses to a historic event. What did you see, boy?’ the mage asked, turning to me.
“At first I could not produce words, but then I realized that my safety depended on speaking and speaking true. I delved into my memory. ‘The stars changed. They blurred, sir, and there were more of them, some moving, and then the meadow changed as well, trees appearing as though in fog, and the lights of a house. And then they all grew smaller, sir, as though disappearing into the distance. And Lizzy was . . . gone. All I have, sir. She is all I have. . . .’ I began to weep. ‘Can’t you bring her back, sir? Please,’ I begged. I fell to my knees. ‘No one can bring her back, boy,’ the mage said. ‘Not even I can do that.’
“‘But where has she gone? Where can I find her?’ The terrible stranger seemed to take pity on me, speaking softly. ‘She cannot be found, child, for she has gone the way of Tomas and you cannot follow. But I shall make you forget this night, forget the pain you feel.’ He crouched down before me, staring at me with dark, unsettling eyes. He spoke words I had never heard, but then he suddenly stopped. ‘He has the curse of memory,’ he said to his servant. ‘Poor child, I should put him from his misery.’ ‘Sir,’ his servant said, as though in caution. The mage stood, staring down at me still. ‘Give him some coins, Walky. There is little more we can do for such a child.’
“And they left me there, my hands filled with silver, crying like an animal wounded—wounded in spirit.”
Clarendon fell silent then, still covering his face. In the darkness he could have been the child again, weeping for his loss, for the pain he could never forget.
Twenty-Five
The world dripped with rain. The forest, the vines covering the walls of the lodge, the eaves; even the windows ran with tears.
A world overwhelmed with sadness, the countess thought, and noted her own mood was in sympathy. She realized that Kent was staring at her, and it was not with his customary curiosity (the look he donned when he was painting) or adoration (the gaze he turned toward her the rest of the time).
“Am I fidgeting? I am sorry, Kent, it’s just . . .” She was not sure what she meant, and finally gestured toward the windows.
Kent turned his softly penetrating gaze there a moment, and then nodded. It was like him to understand immediately what she meant.
He returned his attention to the canvas, though he did not raise a brush. How unlike Eldrich’s was his gaze, the countess thought. “Softly penetrating,” she described it. Kent approached all of his subjects with a certain respect, even humility. He insinuated himself into the heart of them, whether it be nature—or human nature. She felt it herself. He made a place for himself in her, like a sparrow building a nest.
Eldrich’s gaze, on the other hand, tore through all impediments until he held the heart. His approach was essentially destructive. Kent’s desire was to slip in unnoticed, take an impression, and slip away—disturbing as little as possible.
Kent will pay a terrible price, she thought suddenly. He opens himself to the world, bears his breast to the knives. The very thing that makes him great will devour him.
He looked vulnerable, contemplating his canvas, brush in hand.
She could destroy him herself. Destroy him without meaning to.
“The light is not cooperating, is it?” she asked.
Kent did not answer for a moment, but continued to stare at the canvas. “It is worse than that,” he said, turning to her and blinking oddly. “I believe I’m finished.”
The countess did not move, realizing what this announcement meant, then she rose fluidly and went and stood beside the painter.
She felt it a bit unseemly, too narcissistic, to stare at her own portrait, yet she could hardly help herself. It was not like gazing into a looking glass, though that was her first thought. This was the Countess of Chilton filtered through the sight and mind of one Averil Kent. This was how another saw her.
He is in love with me, she reminded herself. But even so . . . Certainly he had made her seem beautiful, though it was not this that stood out for the countess.
“Do you really think me so unhappy?” she asked softly.
Kent glanced at her, eyes widening a little, and then back to the canvas. “I had not thought of it. I simply try to capture what I see, what I feel. . . .”
“Is this sadness yours, then?”
Kent did not answer for a moment as he considered, and then she saw his shoulders fall a little. “It is ours, Lady Chilton,” he said barely loud enough to be heard.
Yes, she thought, his sadness was there as well, mingled with her own. Sadness that she would never be his. Sadness that he would be forced to leave this terrible house.
She gestured toward the portrait. “I do not mean to criticize, Kent, but I’m sure my hands are not so long and elegant. In fact, I think those are your hands, Kent!” She teased him now, trying to lighten the mood, spoil the intimacy toward which he strived. “It is overly generous of you to give me your hands, but it is hardly p
ainting what you see. Let me sit again, and I will try not to fidget—though perhaps we might wait until tomorrow? The light might be better.”
Kent’s shoulders did not rise as she’d hoped, but he nodded slowly. Outside the world continued to weep.
“It can’t be changed, Kent,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.
Kent took her hand, turning toward her. “But if you are here by choice, as you say, then can you not choose to leave?”
She could not bear the compassion in his eyes, and looked away, though she did not attempt to remove her hand from his. “No. I cannot explain, but it is too late to change course. I . . . it is too late, Kent. I’m sorry.” She took her hand back then, glancing up once at the terrible sadness and loss in the painter’s face, and then she went out, trying not to look as though she fled.
Back in her room, the countess threw herself down in the window seat, staring out at the weeping world through rain running down the panes. She drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms, but no tears came. The world might weep, but the countess could not afford to.
Sitting up she noticed a spot of deep red upon the soft place between her thumb and index finger: paint, from Kent taking her hand.
“So you’ve left your mark upon me, after all, Averil Kent.”
* * *
* * *
Kent stood looking at his painting for a long while, trying to separate his sadness from that of the countess. No, certainly that underlying sadness was there in her. He had not simply painted his own heart. She was deeply unhappy—or perhaps unhappy at her center, though years of social schooling allowed her to hide it. But not from Kent, who was trained to observe.
“Too late,” she had said, and Kent felt all that he desired, all that he hoped for, slipping away. Like the words themselves, which for a moment vibrated on the air, and then dissolved to nothing. Leaving him with what?
“Memories are but the ghosts of past events.” So Beaumont had said—a man who knew something about being haunted, apparently.
“Tell me, Mr. Kent, if you will—what are you thinking as you stare at your work?” It was the musical voice of Eldrich. The mage had entered the room unheard.
Kent did not turn, though he felt a strange wariness—as one feels when perceiving a threat from behind.
“‘Memories are but the ghosts of past events,’” Kent said.
“Lapin,” the mage said, his voice closer now.
“I thought it was Beaumont.”
“And so it was, though Lapin said it first. Men often quote the mages and take the credit for themselves.” Eldrich was standing directly behind Kent now, and the painter could feel the hair on his neck standing on end, as though it were the wolf and not the man who stood so close.
“The countess’ praise was not undeserved, I see. Even I am affected. What is it, Kent, that goes beyond mere technical ability to make such a work? What is it that reaches out to others? ‘Art,’ I suppose you will say.”
Kent shook his head. “Love,” he said, speaking the truth, speaking it because it did not matter. The world of human emotions meant nothing to Eldrich.
“Ah . . .” the mage said, though Kent did not hear the mockery he expected. “And thus the talk of ghosts and memories.” Eldrich was standing at Kent’s shoulder, where the countess had been a moment before.
Let him do with me what he will, Kent thought. It cannot matter.
“The exquisite pain,” the mage said.
“Sir?”
“It is what Halden called the memory of love.”
Kent nodded. Perhaps the world of human emotions was not entirely foreign to him.
“Your work is finished here, Kent.”
“The countess is not happy with the hands.”
Eldrich laughed softly. “More than adequate for our purposes, I assure you. Tomorrow, Kent. I will speak with you before you go.”
Kent remained staring at the portrait, not sure if the mage still stood at his shoulder. If so, did he see the sadness? And would it matter to him?
He began to clean the brushes mechanically, replacing each in the vessel from which they protruded like rigid tails. But then he noticed one brush he had employed only the previous day bore a tint that he had not used—a deep purple, like winter plums. He lifted the brush and held it to his nose. Certainly it was fresh paint.
“But it was not me,” Kent said, and wondered how many painters Eldrich had hidden away in this strange house.
* * *
* * *
The countess looked up at Walky and then back to the text.
“I fear the countess’ mind is not on her work,” the small man said.
She had become “the countess” through the same process by which Eldrich had become “the mage”—or so she assumed. “Lady Chilton” was, after all, the proper form or, given that Walky was a servant, “Your Grace.”
She sat back in her chair, looking at the gray old man—not quite what she imagined from the descriptions of Erasmus. Walky’s mind appeared to be perfectly intact, for instance. “I confess I am worried about Kent,” she said. “I know you assured me that he is in no danger, but . . . well, I find Lord Eldrich less than predictable.”
Walky sat back from the table, a signal that this evening’s lesson was complete. “It is not the mage who is unpredictable, it is others. Kent is in no danger, I think. Why would he be? Oh, he acted foolishly, and intruded on the mage’s privacy, but even so . . . it is hardly a capital offense. No, Kent need only keep his bargain and not make a fuss. The mage will not bear interference or argument. If Kent will say nothing to anger him, he will leave no worse for the experience. My master is not vengeful in the common sense of the word—no more than the courts are vengeful to criminals. Do you see?”
“Yes, though all but the most benighted criminals know when they have transgressed upon the law. How would one know if one had violated the mage’s code? It is rather different, you see.”
Walky shook his head, sticking out his lower lip as he did when disagreeing. (Did he do this with Eldrich? she wondered.) “M’lady, there are a thousand tales written that describe in detail what one should and should not do to earn the disfavor of a mage. It is hardly secret. Never provoke a mage. Never. Not in the smallest thing.”
“I fear I have already broken that law,” she said softly.
Walky smiled. “Well, you have a special place in the mage’s house.”
“And what is that place?” she asked quickly.
Walky drew back into stillness as he did when questioned about certain subjects. “There are certain questions the countess must ask the mage.”
She was the countess again. Not “m’lady” as she became when he was feeling less formal—less formal and more affectionate, if one could accuse Walky of affection.
“I think we must be done for the evening,” he said, forcing an awkward smile. He did not like to be questioned about Eldrich. Clearly this was one of the mage’s laws. The countess was aware that Walky held her in a certain affection—as though he were an old family retainer who had watched her grow from childhood to prominence with subsequent pride. Not the usual reaction she had from men—even very old ones. This meant it hurt him to not answer her questions, but he was the servant of the mage, after all.
He bade her the pleasures of the evening and made his way to the door. Halfway out the old man stopped, and stood in awkward silence for a moment. “Kent will be gone tomorrow,” he said. “If you are concerned about his welfare, tell him to do nothing to provoke the mage.”
It took a moment for the countess to absorb what had been said—Kent was leaving in the morning!—but then she nodded, and Walky slipped out.
Her reaction to the news was not what she expected. Kent was leaving. . . . She would be left here all alone, with no ally. No one who truly cared for her—cared enough to risk
the mage’s anger. This thought left such a hollowness at her center that she thought tears might well up. Kent was leaving.
She went to the window, finding only her face reflected in the night’s dark mirror. What sadness had found its way into her countenance. And yet the turmoil she felt inside was revealed in no other way. No, this self-possessed woman did not appear as though she would fly apart at any moment, burst from too many contradictory emotions.
The school of Avonel society had taught her well. Only the sadness bled through, like Kent said paint sometimes would, no matter how many layers were brushed over. Only the sadness.
Even Kent had not seen the turmoil. Poor, loyal Kent. Kent who had risked everything just to prove his love. And how had she returned this loyalty? At the very least, she could carry Walky’s warning to him. At the very least.
She tossed a shawl over her shoulders, swept up a candle, and went quickly out.
She knew approximately where Kent’s rooms were situated, or thought she did. There were only a handful of people in the lodge, so it seemed that finding light under a door in the guest wing would answer—unless there were others there she knew nothing of. She feared that in the house of Eldrich this was not impossible.
She crossed above the great stair and waited a moment to be sure no one was below. Eldrich, of course, could walk the halls in darkness and utter silence, but there was nothing she could do about that. He would either see her and ask where she was going or not. As Walky had intimated, she was allowed to break some rules—to provoke the mage. Whatever it was he wanted of her, it gave her special status—a diplomatic impunity. Or perhaps the right to be undiplomatic.
She turned a corner into the next hall and froze in place, back against the wall. Eldrich’s wolf was sniffing outside a door, and then along the baseboard. It seemed unaware of her at the moment—although that was clearly impossible. She bore a candle, after all, and had gathered in such a gasp as to be heard by the house entire.
