by Sean Russell
Forty-Three
He lay upon cushions spread over a bench seat upon the terrace, his great wolf by him. The stars still circled westward across the sky, their nightly migration nearing an end. The pearl of dawn would soon overtake them, and then the infinite blue.
Walky stood in the door looking out into the soft night, watching his master rest from his labors. He needed to rest more now, and this small sign of mortality Walky found oddly disturbing. As though the mage were human, after all.
Lately, there were other indications as well. A softening of his master’s demeanor, signs of regret over past actions. Small acts of compassion. It was the influence of the countess, Walky was certain. Even the mage wished to please her, though he would never admit it. But no, it was more than that. Her own compassion and heart forced even Eldrich to see himself anew.
Walky shook his head. She was a wonder.
The two, mage and countess, had been circling each other as warily as duelists for some days now, both seemingly unaware of it. She would not give herself to a man without a heart—he conscious of the folly of it all. A peculiar dance to watch.
“You should sleep, Walky,” the musical voice said softly.
The mage’s eyes were still closed, and he lay breathing evenly, like one asleep.
“Is there nothing I might do for you, m’lord?”
“Discover if this girl still lives. Tell me if my task is complete. Decide what I should do with this beguiling countess. Oh, and make me some coffee, as well.”
“Will you not rest now, sir? It has been a long night.”
“And it will be a longer day, yet. Coffee, Walky. I will break my fast later.”
The mage pushed himself up, his wolf rising with him, joyful, as though his master had been absent. Eldrich put a hand on the beast’s head, scratching absentmindedly.
“Time is running short, Walky.” The mage rose to his feet, his slightly stooped carriage seeming even more pronounced. “There is much to do. This moon and the next, that is what the stars tell us. Landor’s Gate has been rediscovered and Strangers walk among us. It is a propitious age, Walky, a time of wonder. But we cannot falter in our task. Not now, so near the end. But one cannot save the world without that unparalleled elixir.”
“I shall fetch you seed, sir.”
“I was speaking of coffee, Walky.”
The servant did not smile. This did not seem the time for jests. But perhaps Eldrich had seen a vision in his sleep, a sign that all would come out right in the end. He could hope.
Walky was about to turn to go when his master spoke again.
“She thinks she can hide him from me,” he said, perhaps to himself.
“Who, sir?” Walky asked, not sure if he was meant to be part of this conversation.
“Erasmus. She believes her art is deep enough, her skill great enough, but I am not so sure. I have had my sting in Erasmus Flattery all his life. Not long, perhaps, but long enough. We will see if her confidence is warranted. I will wager that Erasmus dreams of his days in the house of Eldrich. If he lives, he dreams of me yet.”
* * *
* * *
The mage had spent all the long hours of light in his preparations, allowing no interruptions. Walky had seen this many times before, the mage lost in his labors, his meticulous arrangements for an enchantment. At such times he would forget to eat, sometimes for days. And his servants would creep about the house, never speaking above a whisper, and that only if absolutely necessary. These were always unsettling times, and Walky was not quite sure why.
Men were never comfortable with the arts. Even men who lived in the house of a mage. They acted upon a man at some level that could never be quite articulated, touched him like the cold caress of death—something one feared so completely that the rational mind held no hope of controlling the reaction to it. The arts were disturbing, and that was at best.
Walky set a plate of food on the edge of the worktable, reaching out to take the one left earlier, which remained untouched. The mage did not raise his head or acknowledge the old man in any way, but continued to bend over his work, completely absorbed.
Walky paused for a moment to see if there were any orders or requests. He seldom pried into his master’s efforts, and the truth was that despite his years of service, he did not truly understand them. But tonight he could not help but notice a child’s frock coat lying on the edge of the table, and this struck him as very odd. Certainly the objects Eldrich used in his toils could be very strange, even rare, but he had never before seen anything that belonged to a child.
And then it struck him. This sky-blue coat had belonged to Erasmus Flattery. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see it on the child as he raced across the lawn, going nowhere in particular in the headlong manner of boys.
The coat of Erasmus Flattery.
May Farrelle preserve him, the old man thought, and he slipped out the door.
Forty-Four
Walky woke her in the night, setting candles on a bureau near her bed. The countess thought the little man looked more distressed than she could ever imagine.
“What is it, Walky?”
“A catastrophe, m’lady. An absolute catastrophe. Erasmus is alive. Without doubt, alive!”
“What are you saying?” She sat up, sweeping her hair out of her eyes. Was she dreaming? Certainly Walky could not be distressed by that news. “Erasmus is alive! How can that be anything but good?” She felt her own heart rise at the news.
Walky shook his head, his look of distress becoming more extreme. “But he is with her, he must be. With this woman who will destroy everything my master has accomplished, and worse. You must rise with all haste. We travel within the hour. Up m’lady, please. Do not delay him this night. Do not.”
And Walky was gone, almost running from the room. The countess forced herself up, the brevity of her rest causing a hollowness at her core.
“What in this round world . . . ?” She stood beside her bed in a daze. What was she to do? What would she pack? Did Eldrich still need her at all? They had not spoken since the night the mage had given her the terrible choice. Only a day, but it seemed so much longer. And she had not been able to choose. How could she?
She shook her head. Madness. There was so much that needed to be said. So much that required clarification. But what was she to do? Demand Eldrich stop and speak with her now—in the middle of crisis?
She began to pull on clothing, astonished by how often she did not seem to make clear choices but was merely swept along by currents more powerful than she. As though she were aswim in a dark river, the banks beyond sight, what lay ahead utterly unknown.
Forty-Five
A lamp and several candles were spread around the perimeter of the table. The haphazard nature of their arrangement told Erasmus that they were not part of some enchantment that Anna practiced but served the more mundane purpose of providing light. She bent over a large sheet of paper, unaware that he stood in the door.
Her familiar, Chuff, hopped back and forth across the surface of the table, resentful when she shooed him off the paper. Once he took the quill she used to write with in his mouth, and she was so engrossed in her work that it took a moment for her to understand why her pen no longer obeyed her will.
“Off with you,” she said, chasing the bird from the table. He landed on the window ledge and vented his resentment in a single, indignant “chuff.”
She turned back to her task, then realized she had seen Erasmus standing in the door and looked up, smiling wanly, her eyes rimmed in red and glistening from her efforts.
“What has you so involved you forget to eat?”
“So that is what causes this discomfort in my stomach. Did I really forget to eat?”
Erasmus nodded. It was almost midnight, and he had not seen Anna since noon.
She put down her quill carefu
lly and covered her eyes for a moment. “Farrelle’s ghost,” she exclaimed.
Erasmus came and stood behind her, softly rubbing her neck and shoulders.
“Mmm. . . . Farther to the right.”
Erasmus stared down at the paper covered in strange symbols and writing, all connected with the most intricate geometry.
“What is this?” he said.
“Your horoscope,” she laughed. “You shall meet a tall red-headed stranger. . . .” She uncovered her eyes, staring down at her efforts. “It is a somewhat incompetent attempt to find some pattern among the appearances of Strangers. In the past three hundred years there were about a dozen fairly certain appearances, and about an equal number of disappearances. Have we spoken of these? Cases where people have vanished in odd circumstances? Halsey was certain they became the ‘Strangers’ of another world. So I have charted them, trying to see if there is a pattern. Halsey did much of this work, I am really only reproducing it, and rather incompetently, I fear.”
“Have you added in the disappearance Clarendon witnessed?”
This caused her to pause. Erasmus could almost feel her thoughts scattering at his interruption.
“No. When was it, do you think?”
“When he was aged ten—about fifty years past, I think—but what time of year I cannot say.”
“Unfortunate, but even the year will help. More importantly, though, was Eldrich’s prediction of the exact hour and place where Clarendon’s Lizzy disappeared. Do you see? This exercise may not be entirely in vain. Eldrich managed it, though likely he had been engaged in this endeavor for a long time.” She returned her gaze to the sheet of paper. “All I have been able to conclude with any certainty is that there seems to be an increase in frequency of the appearance of Strangers, but if there is a pattern that can be discerned . . . well, I have nothing but admiration for Eldrich if he managed to find it.”
“What would be the point of the exercise, Anna? Other than the great satisfaction of solving a puzzle?”
“It would tell us if the worlds converge and if Eldrich thinks he can leave this world for another, leave it by knowing where to be at what time, as Clarendon witnessed.”
Erasmus stared at the paper a moment, trying to make sense of it. Could it really be Eldrich’s desire to leave this world? And if so, why? Yet, if Clarendon was to be believed, the mage was interested enough to witness Lizzy’s disappearance—and there was the mage who came for the Stranger of Compton Heath, who was very likely Eldrich. Erasmus was certain the mage did little out of idle curiosity.
“I would like to question one of these Strangers,” Erasmus said suddenly. “Hear firsthand of these other worlds. . . .”
Anna stared at him a moment, her look penetrating though softly pensive. “Fill a lantern,” she said, rising to her feet and leaving the room.
Fifteen minutes later they were on the path that ran along the cliff top back toward the small collection of houses that passed for a town on Midsummer Isle. They made their way up the main road, unseen by the islanders, for most were asleep, and it was only the odd window from which light escaped.
It was a relatively steep road, and they were soon harboring their breath, neither speaking. In half an hour they met an empty lane that ran off between rows of chestnut trees. They set out beneath the overhanging branches, and Chuff appeared suddenly to land on Anna’s outstretched wrist, his manner animated, as though there were about to be some excitement of the kind that choughs approved. After a moment he winged off down the lane, disappearing into the shadows of the trees—a chough that apparently did not fear the fabric of night or the owls that dwelt within its folds.
Anna kept their pace deliberately quick to avoid conversation, avoid telling him where they went. Erasmus was well aware that there might be no actual reason for this, other than her naturally secretive nature, and the delight she took in surprising him.
Finally they came upon the ruin of an old cottage, overrun by vines, the waving branches of an ancient willow hanging down through an opening in the roof. Anna held aloft the lantern to spread the light.
“There,” she pronounced, “you have never seen such a house before.”
“A tumbledown cottage?”
“No, the dwelling of a Stranger, for it was here that the old woman lived for the short time she survived. Mother Green was what the local people called her, though the reason for it has been forgotten. She appeared in the place I showed you, and the local fisherfolk took her in, unable to understand a word she said. Like the Stranger of Compton Heath, they thought she had survived a shipwreck. So provincial were they that they believed her to be from some out-of-the-way part of Doorn or even Entonne. And she came to live here, in this broken-down cottage, and had it not been for some of her writings, which were preserved, and the local legend, she would have been forgotten. One of the great wonders of the world, and she passed almost unnoticed.” She shook her head.
“It was a simpler time,” she said softly. “And who would have thought she could be anything more fantastic than a foreigner. Why, I’m sure that was exotic enough for the people of this island, who were never more than inshore fishermen, forgoing the deeper sea.”
From a bag she carried over her shoulder, Anna removed a clay jar and pulled the stopper so that a feather of steam appeared.
“You want to see a Stranger, Erasmus,” she said. “Well, here is your opportunity.”
The aroma from the bottle reached him. He knew it from Anna’s use, infrequent as it was. “King’s blood,” he said in a hushed voice though he did not know why. “Did you not warn that it was habituating?”
“I did, and for good reason, but this is diluted many times and indulging yourself once will not bring you to ruin, I think.”
Erasmus hesitated, feeling the draw of it, his own curiosity. Chuff flitted out of the darkness, flapping about Anna, speaking excitedly.
“Why would I do this?”
“To see a Stranger, or the ghost of one, for she dwells here still, our good Mother Green. And who knows—the seed will produce visions for those with talent. You might see more.”
Erasmus looked at the steam, which coiled out of the jar like a snake, and his nostrils flared at the stark, pungent odor. He could feel the vapor curl into him, twisting down through his lungs, spreading outward . . . touching his heart.
He turned to the fallen-down house, to the shadows within.
Did the mage take you to his house only that you might lure this woman down into a cave and die? The question spoke within his mind in a voice which hardly seemed his own. But I have defied him and lived. . . . Defied Eldrich.
Gingerly Anna held the jar out toward him, and he took it, touching it to his lips before he could reconsider. The liquid ran warm into his mouth, the aroma filling his nostrils, almost overpowering. He swallowed it down and felt the truth of it—not the vapor which barely caressed him, but the torrent which streamed hot down his throat. Almost before he lowered the jar, the world lurched, shadows taking on dimension, pressing out of the broken doors and windows as though they had gained substance. But there was movement within them now, darker shapes within the darkness.
Anna took his hand and led him forward.
They stepped into the shadow of the door that seemed to swell outward like a bubble. He felt this darkness cool upon his face. Things moved and scuttled in the corners, just beyond vision, and he heard whispers and hissing, the sounds of branches stirred by the wind.
A stair rail came to hand and Erasmus felt himself step up. A cool light glowed faintly above—moonlight or starlight. He no longer felt Anna’s hand within his own, but drifted free, as though gravity had all but released him.
Up the speaking stairs, up into the loft where the branches of trees grew from the walls and roof. And there, in the corner, made of moonlight and lamentation, an old woman hunched over her needlework
, rocking back and forth and singing softly to herself.
After a moment she glanced up and blinked, a look of confusion on her face.
“Who’s that?” she said in an odd whisper. This was no accent of Doorn or Entonne.
“A friend,” Erasmus heard himself say, and saw her cock her head as though struggling to hear.
“Wind and mice,” she said, “forest and owls.” She bent back to her work, rocking again, singing a different air this time.
Erasmus moved closer. He could see her unbound hair, dull silver in the moonlight. It fell like water to her waist. Whatever it was she toiled at could not be distinguished, as though she stitched something out of the threads of night.
“Who are you, child?” she whispered, not looking up. “And why have you come to haunt me? Can you not see I am poor and of no use to any?”
“I am here to learn from where you came.”
She continued to stitch, unable to hear him, apparently, and then she returned to song.
“Upon a hill, upon a cloud,
Upon a haystack golden.
Within a wood, within a lake,
Dwelt the lady Sollen.”
As she sang, she rose from her stool and went to the window, moving with fluid grace, almost floating, as silent in her movements as a mage. And in the light from the moon Erasmus could see that she was young, a girl of twenty, dancing before the window.
“Above the wood, above the world,
Above the hidden bower.
Along a path upon an isle
She danced away the hours.”
It struck Erasmus suddenly that she was singing Darian, not Farr at all! Darian—the mage tongue.
She spun into a shadow, and her voice changed, suddenly heavy with age, creaking like old timbers bent with the weight of years. And the song ended sadly, Mother Green humming the last lines distractedly as though the words had slipped her mind. A hand appeared out of shadow, delicate and smooth, the hand of a girl touched by moonlight. The fingers seemed to extend toward him, and after an instant of hesitation, he reached out and found the hand soft and cool.
