River Into Darkness

by Sean Russell

  Marianne opened the small window to the driver and had him stop. For an hour she questioned him mercilessly, until the poor man complained of a wretched headache, which she also had herself. But this questioning did not put her mind at ease. He suffered the same problem as she in that he could barely bring his mind to focus.

  She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. Had she met Eldrich? Was this true? And he had stolen her memories? Stolen her precious memories! No, she could not accept it, and the more she tried to consider it, the worse her pain became. Pain and strange distress.

  “This is not right,” she said aloud. “This is not natural. I have been . . . plundered. Raped. There is no word. A part of me has been stolen. And what did it contain? What secrets might I have learned? And what has become of Elaural?” She had half a mind to have the driver turn back, and might have if she had any idea where they should go. Back to Castlebough, apparently, but she was not even sure of that. It was like waking from a dream and discovering the dream was true, not the world from which one departed into sleep.

  She felt tears sting her eyes. How could anyone have done this to her? And why? Did this bastard mage not realize who she was? That her mind was sacrosanct, her memories precious? Had he no regard for anyone at all?

  Such are the bargains made with a mage.

  The line came back to her, as though she had read it the first time but had not been able to accept it. Had she made a bargain with Eldrich? She felt her heart sinking, and a terrible stillness came over her. What had he offered her?

  And what had she promised in return?

  * * *

  * * *

  It was not an original image, but the countess had come to think of Eldrich as a spider in the center of a web. On each strand it seemed some victim struggled, many not even aware that they were caught. Whenever it suited him, he drew another in, filling them with venom or feeding off them if he hungered. And then he let them go again, out into the world where they did his bidding. Some few might have escaped—Kent and Marianne, she hoped—but then Eldrich could have use for them again one day. As he did for her.

  Despite Walky’s protestations that she enjoyed special status in the house of the mage, she was well aware that she was no different from anyone else. He filled her with venom whenever it suited him—in this case the king’s blood.

  If Eldrich treated her with a certain respect, it was because he had to, though she was not sure why. He needed her willing cooperation, it seemed, and to get it he had refrained from his usual methods—though not entirely, for he had made a bargain with her, holding out something he believed she desired in return for what he wanted. It seemed only Walky served the mage without coercion or promise of something—and that “something” usually appealed to people’s baser nature.

  “He is not human,” she said to the rain. “He has no compassion, no heart.” Her kestrel flittered across the edge of the wood, landing on a branch. Occasionally it came closer, once landing on the ledge when the window had been ajar, but she did not encourage it, for it was connected to Eldrich’s schemes, and as such unsettling to her.

  It was surpassingly strange to feel such physical draw to a man and be repulsed by him at the same time. Oh, yes, she knew his story now. He had rather transparently sent Marianne to repeat it to her. Poor Marianne who was led to believe her memory would return to her in some years, and she would write this tale of the last mage. Unlikely, the countess thought. Eldrich did not care if people knew of him, or understood the reasons for the things he did.

  No, Marianne had been meant to tell the story in this room, and nowhere else. And it was a terrible story, and likely true. The countess found it difficult to imagine that Lucklow had been born of woman! So it seemed that Eldrich had suffered in the house of the mage far more terribly than Erasmus.

  But that did not forgive Eldrich’s heartlessness, his inhumanity. Not by the countess’ measure of things. Eldrich was a man of vast intelligence and could make his own choices. After all, he had collected over a century of experiences to draw from.

  She wondered what Marianne would make of her hastily scribbled note. It had been difficult enough to manage, for Eldrich had guessed correctly that Marianne would write a detailed description of everything that had happened since leaving for Castlebough—and this he had expunged. The countess had had only a second to jot a few words . . . and she was not even sure why she had done it.

  Rebellion, she guessed. Rebellion, and because she could not bear to stand by passively while Eldrich committed this terrible crime against Marianne—or so Marianne would have seen it—if not a crime against art. But then, Marianne had agreed to this bargain, had she not?

  A knock on her door roused her, and she crossed the room to open it.

  The small form of Walky stood in the dark hall. Often he carried no lamp or candle, but made his way through the unlit house as easily as a mage.

  Owl sight, he called it, and said she would learn it herself, by and by.

  “Ah, Walky,” she said, standing aside that he might enter. She could hardly think of another man in the world she would let into her bedchamber without hesitation—but Walky, though not immune to her charms, was so much a gentleman, and so loyal a servant of the mage, that he was to be trusted utterly.

  “I have brought you a book,” he said, proffering a small, untitled volume. This one did not seem so old as the other books she had encountered in the house of Eldrich, though it was hardly new, even so.

  “Come in, sit,” she said, realizing how much she missed the company of others. “And what is this? Enchantments? Hidden histories? A book of terrible secrets?”

  “It is enchanting, I think, but it is poetry. Poetry and songs,” he said, taking a seat. “Although it has no title on the cover the book has become known as Owl Songs. Very odd, for to the best of my knowledge, owls hardly sing. It is a book of lore, in its own way, but little is plainly stated. We will use it in our study of the language. Here, let me give you an example.” He took the book back and found a page. He read a short poem in Darian, and then looked up at her.

  “I think I gleaned about seven words.”

  “Allow me to offer a rough translation,” Walky said.

  “Worlds spun upon the web of time

  The ebb and flow and ebb again

  Of shoreless seas and waning light

  Unknown to worlds of sleeping men.

  Across the seas the seven came,

  With book and blossom in their flight,

  To land upon the island world

  By star and moon and fairest night.”

  Walky looked up from the book, his face oddly unreadable.

  “What does it mean?” the countess asked.

  “Mean? Well, it is poetry, m’lady, and, by its nature, means many things. It is likely only a fragment, as well, of some larger work. Upon its surface it is merely a description of the first mages’ arrival in this world. ‘Across the seas the seven came.’”

  “They came from somewhere else? Some other land?”

  “Yes, of course. The arts were not made whole in the lands around the Entide Sea. They are far older than that. Older than the Entide Sea itself, I would wager. But let us write it out in Farr, and you may study it. Nothing so ruins poetry as having it explained by another. You must find its meaning, for it is different for everyone.”

  She was always somewhat amused to see Walky write, for he did it with such deliberation and so slowly that she invariably thought of a child learning his letters. He finished and slid the page across to her.

  They sat quietly a moment, and just as Walky was about to take his leave, she spoke.

  “Why do you serve him, Walky?”

  The softly benign look that he always wore altered into one of confusion—as though the question made no sense.

  “He is the last great mage, m’lad
y. Could one need reason more than that? I have always served him. It is my purpose on this earth.”

  “But, Walky, certainly even you must see that he is cold and cruel. Of all those who serve him, only you do so willingly. All others, even those who might wish to serve him, are coerced, offered tawdry bargains, their weaknesses preyed upon. He has no compassion, no humanity. And yet you serve him with utter devotion. How can you?”

  “But he is a mage,” Walky said, wrinkling up his brow. “One does not judge a mage by the laws of men, any more than one would judge a falcon by the ways of a sparrow. A falcon is without remorse. It has no pity, no compassion, no humanity—but then it is not human. It is a lord of the skies. And so, too, is the mage, m’lady.

  “He is not as you and I, if you will forgive me for saying it. He has duties and trusts that we can barely comprehend. He is the master of an ancient tradition, a discipline that few may follow. A bearer of perilous knowledge and all of its attendant responsibilities. You must understand this one truth of mages, m’lady. He cannot afford the luxury of humanity. His duties are too grave for that. One does not pity him for this, for he would not understand it, and it would anger him, but one must at least show patience and tolerance. It is a calling that one pursues at great price. One surrenders one’s heart to become a mage.”

  They were silent for a moment, the countess taking in what had been said, surprised that Walky was suddenly so effusive, for usually he would avoid speaking of his master.

  “I thought a mage had no duties to any but himself,” she said, “and perhaps ‘his own kind,’ as Lord Eldrich likes to phrase it.”

  “That is the common perception, m’lady, but the truth is more complex, as the truth always tends to be.” He tapped the book. “As is poetry. We will study this and perhaps you will begin to see. Owl Songs, the book is called, and owls see through the darkness.”

  Thirty-Three

  The trail became a path, the path a track, and finally a lane. A tumbledown old house appeared on its bank, smoke streaming from the chimney, but with no inhabitants in view. The way went down quite steeply now, and they encountered a few houses that had been pushed out of the too-full town. And then they were in Wicken Vale, packs of children and dogs running along beside their horses, for it was not often that gentlemen appeared out of the hills—gentlemen and a priest.

  They quickly found the only inn the village possessed and handed their horses over to the livery boy. The proprietor looked them over as they came in, and jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “There is a gentleman here asking after others who might have made their way through the hills. That would be you, I take it?”

  “And who might he be?” Clarendon asked, a bit warily.

  “A Mr. Bryce.”

  “Ah,” Rose stepped to the fore, “the very man we seek. Will you please inform him of our arrival, and then we would like rooms and baths for a party of four.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Rose appeared at the door to their room as Hayes was rubbing his hair dry.

  “Deacon. Dinner has not been served without us, I hope.”

  The priest shook his head, his gaze shifting away from Hayes’ then back again. “We are to set out at first light to meet Eldrich.”

  Hayes dropped his arms to his side. “All of us?”

  The priest nodded.

  “You spoke with this man without us?”

  Again the priest nodded.

  “Was even Clarendon present?”

  “No one but me.”

  Hayes felt anger boil up through his incredulity. “What would lead you to believe you had the right to speak for us?”

  “There was little discussion—merely a command to attend the mage.”

  “He questioned you, surely. . . .”

  The priest nodded, rather reluctantly.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Only that we believed Anna had perished and, sadly, Erasmus Flattery with her. He asked to see Mr. Flattery’s belongings, but I knew what he was after and had brought it to him—the text of the ritual Erasmus was to perform.”

  Hayes tried to understand. What wasn’t the priest telling him? Why had the man snuck off to speak with Bryce without them? It was more than suspicious. “Does Clarendon know you’ve done this?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Farrelle preserve you when you tell him.” And without another word, Hayes closed the door.

  * * *

  * * *

  Deacon Rose rode in the carriage with the servant of Eldrich, whom none of the others had yet spoken with. Clarendon was in a dark rage and kept entirely to himself, riding behind the others. Even the day was somber, as dark banners of cloud fluttered over in a harsh wind from the sea.

  Hayes and Kehler hunched down over their saddles, as though to make themselves smaller targets for the wind. They said very little, though it was perfectly obvious what was on their minds: Eldrich and what he would do with them.

  Both young men had hoped they were quit of this matter, and Hayes was even looking forward to returning to his debt-ridden life in Avonel. Not that he had a place to live or any prospects. His hopes to enter the foreign service had been abandoned, as the positions for winch he had gone up were, no doubt, filled—and he had not even been in Avonel to answer a summons should one have come.

  But before all of that there was Eldrich, and the anxiety of this meeting made all else seem very paltry and remote. Survive the meeting with Eldrich and anything else in life would seem child’s play. Obscurity and pauperism would be almost pleasure.

  “We are not traveling in the direction of Eldrich’s estates,” Kehler said, trying to keep his voice low.

  He looked even more dispirited since their summons. Hayes was almost more worried about his friend than about their coming audience with the mage.

  “What? No, we’re traveling south. Apparently the mage is not in residence. Rose speculated that he was in Castlebough while we were below ground. He didn’t think it likely that Eldrich could have collapsed the cave from any distance.”

  “Are we returning to Castlebough, do you think?”

  Hayes shrugged. He felt a shiver run through him at the thought of the town, and it was not from the cold. The skeleton of a child reaching out . . . the stone constricting around him as he crawled through the dark. All to what end? He could hardly remember what had led them there to begin with.

  He looked over at his friend, who slumped in his saddle, barely raising his head, trusting his horse to follow the others, lost in his own thoughts—all of them dark and filled with foreboding. Hayes knew what he felt, having lived in poverty. He knew how impossible it became to believe that anything would ever turn out right. That there would ever be light again.

  He looked back over his shoulder to be sure that Clarendon was still with them, and saw the little man some way off, almost a smaller version of Kehler at that distance.

  What a ragtag company we have become, he thought. It will be a miracle if our meeting with Eldrich does not destroy us.

  Hayes longed to say something to Clarendon, something to soothe him, but he knew there was nothing that would ease the man’s anger. As Clarendon had said himself, he was a victim of his passions. Even Dusk was tentative around him when he returned from his expeditions over the fields and through the woods. No, Clarendon would have to stew in the bitter juices of his anger and resentment, emotions that were too ready to rise up in the small man.

  Hayes only hoped that he would not become like Clarendon in time.

  Clarendon appeared so small and forlorn upon his full-sized horse—an elf prince out of song. A gray drapery of rain wafted out of the hills, then, and Clarendon was almost obscured from view in the downpour. Hayes looked back to the carriage where Deacon Rose sat in comfort, protected from the weather. Life was often thus, for certainly Clare
ndon had suffered and overcome enough in this life that he deserved respite. He deserved to be the one protected from the world’s vagaries and injustice.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hayes had given up guessing where events would take him next. A hunting lodge in the Caledon Hills would not have been one of his guesses anyway. They arrived in the midst of another spring storm, tired and somewhat miserable, and were left to wait in an unlit hallway beneath a stair. From a window somewhere above, occasional flashes of lightning cast angular shadows of railings and balustrades, making Hayes think, for some reason, of a jail. Thunder followed the flashes almost immediately, the lightning striking nearby. The protracted rumbling was so deeply felt and so powerful that Hayes thought it sounded like the earth splitting, breaking apart around them.

  “You look rather calm and unruffled, Deacon,” Kehler said. “The journey was not too arduous, I hope?”

  The priest shrugged, as though to imply that sarcasm deserved no reply. Or perhaps even Deacon Rose was frightened and could think of no response.

  Clarendon stood apart, still wrapped in the rage that had surrounded him since Wicken Vale. What treachery was this priest involved in? That was the question on the little man’s mind. And there was more. There was this bargain that Clarendon had spoken of—something he would offer to the mage—though Hayes feared that even Eldrich could not offer what Clarendon wanted in return.

  An explosion of thunder was followed by the sound of footfalls—like very distant echoes—and a wavering candle appeared, dimly illuminating a round-faced little man. He stopped some yards from them. “Follow me,” he said, and started back the way he had come. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the priest set off after the man, the others rousing themselves to follow.