by Sean Russell
Skye was taken aback by this. He had been only a boy; what could a boy have done that he would be happier not knowing? Or was it what was done to him? “I would have my memories, all the same.”
“Would you, indeed? I will see the woman now, Mr. Walky.”
The small man tugged at his arm. “Say nothing more, sir,” he whispered. “It will not profit you.”
And Skye let himself be led out into the hallway, his past remaining in the darkened room with the man made of shadow.
* * *
* * *
Marianne settled herself in the chair by the single candle, drawn to the light in this strange place.
He will not harm you, she assured herself. Whatever else he does, he will not harm you. Even Eldrich would not be so arrogant. She counted the King among her ardent readers, for Farrelle’s sake. The King! Who could say—it was possible that even the mage might read her books!
After all, there was a book sitting on the table, the light of the candle falling upon its leather binding. But how old and worn it was, the leather as thin as decaying leaves in some places, any title erased long ago. It was her habit to note the titles of the books people read, only partly to see if it might be one of her own, so it was natural for her to wonder what book this might be. She almost reached out to open it, but then the realization struck. This was no common book.
This was a book of the arcane, forbidden to any but a mage.
“Flames,” she heard herself say. Suddenly this was an object of fascination. She could not tear her eyes from it, as though staring would reveal something. A forbidden book: to a woman who loved books and sought knowledge, there hardly could be anything more alluring.
“Why don’t you open it?”
She looked up to find a tall, stooped man standing in the garden doorway.
Marianne found that she could not open her mouth, not a word would come.
“You are fascinated, clearly. Open it.”
She only stared, caught by his musical voice, the way the shadows played about him. He was more forbidding than Elaural had described. Stranger.
She reached out her hand, feeling somehow that she must not back down from this challenge. Just as her fingers were about to touch it, she stopped. “Will I be harmed?”
A smile lit his face for an instant; mocking, as she’d been warned. “Why? Do you feel knowledge is dangerous?”
“Unquestionably, when possessed by the wrong people, but I was thinking of more arcane things. A protective charm or some such.”
He shook his dark hair. “No, in that way it is completely harmless.”
Gingerly, she touched it, curling two fingers under the cover, but she hesitated to open it. Eldrich watched her intently, she could feel it. She took her hand away, and looked up at him, feeling a thin smile tighten her face, then dissolve.
The two gazed at each other a moment, and then Eldrich shifted on the threshold. “Wisdom as well as talent,” he said, no mockery detectable in his tone. “That is not so common.” He came into the room, sliding a second chair toward her.
“Eldrich,” he said, bobbing his head in her direction.
“Marianne Edden.”
“Let us put aside this ruse that brought you here. Erasmus told you nothing about his years in my house.”
She nodded.
The mage looked a little saddened for a moment. “Bryce is always ready to believe the worst of Erasmus.” He looked away from her, appearing to stare at the candle’s reflection in the glass. “I trust you have been reassured that I did not abduct Lady Chilton or that I am keeping her here against her wishes?”
Marianne nodded, feeling the breath in her lungs disappear for a second. Was he angry that she thought this of him?
Eldrich sat back in his chair, almost sprawling, and interwove his long fingers before him. “How old are you?” he said, gazing at her in a manner that she thought less than polite—as though he were unaware of the etiquette of educated society.
“Twenty and nine,” she said.
He pressed his lips out, as though in thought. “What would you say if I could tell you the year of your death?”
“I thought augury was less than exact,” she said, hearing the wariness in her voice. Was this some jest at her expense? She did not like the sound of a mage speaking to her of death—her death!
“Oh, this is not augury. Not in the usual sense, at least.”
Marianne could not remember feeling fear in a good many years—not real fear. Anxiety that she would be embarrassed or that she would not be a success, yes, but not fear for her life. “I think that I would rather not know. After all, what good would knowing do?”
“Very little, in the larger sense. You would not be able to change it. Still . . . it might allow you to complete the things that are important to you. Do the things you have always dreamed of doing. That journey to Farrow, or that book you have long planned.”
“There is that, I suppose,” she said. “Is this your purpose? To tempt me with some forbidden knowledge?”
Eldrich laughed. “It is a terrible vice, but you see, I am interested in knowing how long you will live for my own reasons, and I thought as I will have this information it might be of interest to you. It is freely offered.”
“In all the stories I have read, I cannot once remember a mage offering something freely.” As Marianne spoke, she feared that she had overstepped her bounds.
“I see that you are a friend of Lady Chilton’s,” he said, with a touch of humor in the irony. “But those are merely stories, almost none of them real. Fiction. And not the type that is more true than truth.” He rose from his chair, suddenly, and went and stood by the door. Far off, she heard a high wail, and then realized that it must be the wolf. The famous familiar of Eldrich.
“Let me tell you a story, if I may presume to tell a tale to the teller of tales.” He was about to speak when Marianne interrupted.
“Why do you bother, when I am assured I’ll remember nothing that happens while I am here?”
Eldrich looked down at her, his face suddenly tight. “Do you fear you will forget your precious feelings for the countess, like Kent?”
“You misunderstand me,” Marianne said, struggling to keep her tone mild. “My memories are the stone from which I build. Without them I am no different from any other unmarried woman my age. It does not matter if you have no respect for me, but if you respect my art at all, you will reconsider.”
“Ah, this is about art.” The mocking smile did appear, then quickly disappear. “I must tell you, Miss Edden, yours is a comparatively minor art, however elevated by your class, compared with the ancient art I practice. Excuse me if I appear vain in this, but you evoke things only in the minds of your readers. I evoke them here, in the world in which we presently dwell.” He turned and gestured into the room. “There are spirits in this house. Did you know? Two children who died of influenza while still very young. The countess can almost feel them. Can you?” He began to move his hands in the air, tracing lines of glowing silver, a tracery of symbols and marks. Chanting in a language she did not know, he gestured to the candle near her elbow and its flame split into seven tongues and wavered up, so that she recoiled in fear.
A moment more, and there, in the center of the room, two children appeared, a boy and girl, staring at Eldrich, their eyes unnaturally wide and dark.
They whispered to each other, their gaze hardly leaving the mage. Once, the girl looked at Marianne, their eyes meeting, but Marianne was of little interest.
“Do you see?” Eldrich said softly. “The ghosts of the past. Can you feel the sadness? The loss? Aged three and seven, and wandering here still. Have you ever evoked a character so thoroughly? I think not.” At a gesture the children disappeared, and Marianne felt an odd warmth, though in her heart she was cold.
“Now let me begin again,
” Eldrich said, the musical voice soft and sad, as though he could speak in a minor key—pianissimo. “I was taken to the house of the mage, Lucklow, when I was but seven years. Seven years. I hardly recall the time before . . . my true childhood. It is lost. Lost in a dream that slips away as you wake.
“And I awoke to find myself in the house of a mage, a ruin of a castle which was haunted by more than memories. I was a child alone in that terrible place. I would stare for hours out over the surrounding forest, dreaming of the world beyond, the world from which my parents had sacrificed me.” He paused and drew a breath. “I feared Lucklow utterly. He was short-tempered and prone to cruelty. His familiar was an adder. . . .”
Thirty
Deacon Rose took the warm ashes from the edge of the glowing coals and filled the cupped hands of each of the mourners—Kehler and Hayes and Clarendon. Hayes found the warmth of the ashes disturbing.
Rose strode the few paces to the water, chanting words of Old Farr in his strong voice. He released a ribbon of ashes, which streamed out on the wind, and marked the sign of Farrelle on the flowing waters.
Each of them in turn did the same, and then together they released the remaining ashes into the river, into this artery of the world.
They had searched the whole day and all the afternoon before, becoming more desperate and more despondent as the hours passed. Much of the time Clarendon and his great dog had ranged ahead, wading in the margins of the current, clambering over rocks as though his years meant nothing. Often they saw him standing on some higher rock, surveying the opposite shore. Hayes had almost felt the concentration the man called forth, felt him willing Erasmus to appear on the distant bank—appear alive with their young guide in tow.
Hayes watched Rose as he knelt by the river and prayed, the Old Farr sounding regal and solemn in this place. Any triumph the priest felt at Anna’s destruction was tempered by the loss of Erasmus and Pryor.
When the prayer came to an end, Clarendon spread a handful of wild roses on the water, their scent swirling in the breeze that coiled out of the gorge.
Hayes watched the roses go bobbing over the waters, lost to them in a few seconds, and then he turned away, feeling the salt of tears. He went quickly up the bank, back into the trees to be alone with his grief.
Would all this have happened if he had not involved Erasmus in the first place?
Clarendon kept assuring him that coincidence played only the smallest part in any of these events, but even so—If they had not met at the brothel, would any of this have occurred?
He found an open place three dozen feet above the river and sat himself down there, staring out over the sunlit waters. The constant flow comforted him, somehow—the steady, uncomplaining procession toward the sea. They would all go that way, or back into the earth to become part of some great tree or the ferns that grew in the underwood. So Erasmus had gone, escaping Eldrich at last, escaping the hidden scars that he bore within.
Dusk appeared out of the trees, greeting him perfunctorily, excited to be here in the wilds with his master. A moment later Clarendon came out of the wood, his small boots making barely a sound.
“Ah, here you are, Mr. Hayes. Do I interrupt you?”
Hayes shook his head. “No. No, I am ready for some company. I am just sitting here watching the river flow, and it has comforted me.”
Clarendon lowered himself to the grass, a little stiffly Hayes thought. “Yes, I always find water comforting as well. I can see the lake from my home in Castlebough. And when I travel in the winter, I usually stay by the sea or some other body of water. It is not really intentional, but it just seems to come out that way. Do you know the old song? Anonymous, I think.
“We are borne within the clouds
Sailing landward on the winds
Falling sweetly to the grasses
Sipped by mothers, born again.”
The small man smiled wanly. “So we all shall go. ‘Down to the ship-proud sea.’ Whole continents will go that way, if these natural philosophers are to be believed. Mr. Flattery has gone earlier than he should. Earlier than his friends would have had it, that is certain. But we will all follow. Likely, I will not be far behind, and I do not say that in self-pity, but it is merely the truth, for people born with my particular condition seldom are blessed with a natural span of years.” He gazed out over the flowing river, suddenly a little sadder.
Hayes did not speak or try to offer comfort, and the two of them remained silent for some time, perhaps still hoping for a miracle. Hoping Erasmus would appear, swimming among the folds and creases of the river.
“One would think that of the lot of us, Erasmus would be the least likely to drown,” Hayes said. “Yet, in the end, it was his ability to swim that brought about his ruin. None of us would have dreamed of leaping into the gorge. And so his skill betrayed him.”
Clarendon nodded. “I think it is often the way. Our abilities are what lead us into danger—not our shortcomings, which we learn not to test.”
Hayes nodded. “What will happen now?” he asked. “Rose said something about a ritual that Erasmus was to perform if we found Anna. . . .”
“You did not speak to Mr. Flattery about this?”
Hayes shook his head.
“Well, it was not so much to alert the mage as it was a revenge upon Mr. Flattery. You see, he was to perform the ritual that had caused Percy’s terrible immolation.”
Hayes turned to look at Clarendon. “Do you think Eldrich was aware of this?”
The small man shrugged. “I don’t know. Who can say with a mage. But certainly none of us are prepared to do it. Only the priest likely has the knowledge or talent, and certainly he is not going to risk his precious hide now that he has accomplished his purpose. No, I think we will have to find some way to contact Eldrich. Deacon Rose will likely take on this responsibility, and despite what I feel about the man, I will accompany him. I have a bargain to offer Lord Eldrich.” His vivid blue eyes, which had seemed near to tears all along, glistened.
Hayes touched Clarendon’s shoulder. “Randall, you will gain nothing from meeting Eldrich. Did the mage not say that Lizzy had gone where none could follow? Certainly everything we have learned would indicate this to be true.”
Randall seemed almost to square his shoulders. “Eldrich knew what would happen to Lizzy. He came only to witness it—to be proven right. And there was Baumgere, who spent half a lifetime searching for a gateway to the world of the Strangers, to Faery, where Tomas had gone. A gate which I think we found, though we could not open it. And beyond must lie the world of the mages—the world Anna called Darr—and if that is where Lizzy has gone . . .” He fell silent, embarrassed, as though he had not meant to speak so openly.
“I will tell you, Randall,” Hayes said softly. “I don’t think Eldrich will care in the slightest that you seek a lost love. Such things mean nothing to mages.”
The little man nodded, looking down and running his hand over the earth. “Perhaps,” he said softly, and then picked up a small stone from the ground and hefted it, but did not seem to have the energy to toss it into the river, as Hayes expected him to do.
How many years had it been? Hayes wondered. Forty-some? Fifty? Eldrich had poisoned all of their lives—a poison that never seemed to leave the system. Would he be so in fifty years? Unable to forget what had happened? Unable to go forward in life for want of gazing always back?
“I will not feel comfortable, seeing you ride off with Rose to look for Eldrich.”
Clarendon shrugged. “I am aware of the depths of his deception, to what lengths he would go to preserve his church. I do not think he can surprise me now, unless he were to display compassion or behavior one might conceive of as noble. Do not be concerned.”
A dark bird soared past on the breeze billowing out of the gorge; for a moment it hung in the air before them, its blood-red bill gleaming in th
e sun, and then it angled away, like a ship sailing across the wind.
“Do you know,” Clarendon began, “I had great respect for Mr. Flattery, even before we met—his accomplishments demand it—but this became even greater as I grew to know him. And he treated me . . . I can hardly describe it. As though my abilities and shortcomings were no different than any others. Do you understand? My small stature was no greater handicap or advantage than extreme height would have been. There were things I could do that others could not—and things I could not do. Just as a large man would never have been able to negotiate the small passages we traveled—yet he might be stronger or have a greater reach. But to Mr. Flattery, I would have been that man’s equal. And as to my mental faculties . . . I think he understood the advantages and terrible failings of those, and again they were not judged, but accepted. Do you see? He did not judge me by my size alone, disregarding all else. Nor did he see only my unusual mental abilities, and not realize that I had shortcomings, as well.”
“I have not noticed these shortcomings in your mental abilities, Randall.”
“Ah, but they are there. I am too emotional and let my passions overcome my reason. A terrible failing in certain circumstances, I can assure you. And I have not an artistic notion in my head. Oh, yes, I learned to play the pianum, but I am no more a musician than are these devices that will hit the keys in the correct order and ‘play’ a tune. My mind is a calculating device, with near perfect recall, but I have little capacity for the imaginative. I could never have invented calculus, as Lord Skye did, yet even that great man has not the ability to do calculations in the mind that I have. So there you have it. Mr. Flattery saw me for what I was, and I will tell you, few have managed that.” He paused. “And though I knew him only a short time, I shall miss him terribly. It is yet another tragedy we can lay at Eldrich’s door.” He threw the rock suddenly, far out over the moving river. Its splash attracted several wheeling gulls, crying miserably above the voice of the water.
