by Sean Russell
Hayes nodded. He felt near tears from exhaustion and from the decision being pressed on him. “Yes, well, it will be my price.”
Anna rose almost noiselessly. “There is no more time. If you will not help us, then I suggest you go now. Better not to be here when Eldrich arrives. Even Deacon Rose and his followers are to be feared.”
“The time for discussion has passed,” Clarendon said. “Come, those who will, let us begin. And any who will not—I wish you all speed.” The little man turned away, though not before Hayes saw a tear in the small man’s eye.
The despair in Clarendon’s voice could not be missed.
Let him go with Anna, Hayes thought. Let him pass from this world that has so injured him.
Hayes looked at the forlorn figure of Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon, his fine clothes torn and dirty. There was no thought of the future with the small man now, but only of escape. Memories had overtaken him like a storm at sea; it would be a wonder if he did not founder.
“I will help if I may,” Brother Norbert said, his deep voice very solemn. He had risen with the others but stood apart. “Despite the teachings of the church, Farrelle never spoke against the practice of the arts. I will help in whatever way I can. Let Eldrich do with me as he will, I follow my own conscience now.”
“I think you have little reason to fear Eldrich,” Erasmus said. “It was not chance that brought you here. Just as it was not chance that took a priest to Tremont Abbey the night the mages trapped the followers of Teller. You will be the witness for the Holy See. And you may pray for us as well.”
They all turned silently to the spring and the open area before it.
At Anna’s instruction they placed seven rocks in a semicircle around the spring. Taking out a dagger, she began to etch lines onto the stone that recreated the intricate geometry Erasmus remembered from the nance in Landor’s chamber. The same pattern that was etched on the floor of the Ruin of Farrow.
“We must perform the ceremony without mistake,” Anna cautioned. “Let no one set foot on the nance without the proper ablutions, for it will endanger us all.”
Hayes found his heart had begun to palpitate oddly, and he had not a drop of moisture in his mouth.
Each in turn did as Anna instructed: speaking words of Darian in dry mouths; gesturing as she demonstrated; then going to the spring to drink a cupped-palm of water. And then she began to teach them their parts, fear focusing their minds completely.
Fifty-Two
Even horses driven by a mage must stop for water, and the countess found herself on a riverbank at the bottom of a deep, narrow valley, waiting while the horses were tended. The trees on the hillsides bent to a rising breeze, and the river seemed to clatter past, as though it tumbled stones through the shallows. Dusk was gathering in the east, even as storm clouds climbed the southern sky.
The countess had taken the opportunity to escape from the confines of the carriage. They were following Eldrich’s familiar, which was apparently tracking a wolfhound that belonged to Clarendon. The odd thing was that this did not seem the slightest bit strange to her. So they were careening across the countryside led by a wolf that anyone would describe as magical; what of it? Such absurdity now made up the fabric of her life. After all, who was she but a woman under an enchantment that made men foolish with infatuation?
She shook her head.
Sweeping aside a branch she found Skye and Eldrich standing on the riverbank, and though the conversation had lulled, their bearing spoke clearly in the silence. Eldrich was half turned away, his shoulders hunched, looking down at the empiricist with undisguised disdain. Skye stood back, his arms slightly open, palms out as though in appeal.
“From where?” Skye said, sounding as though he had been punched in the chest.
“A world where your great discoveries are common knowledge, Lord Skye. Where children know the laws of motion. So all of this puffed-up vanity over your great genius is nothing but so much empty posturing. That is what I have kept from you. Are you not overcome with joy and gratitude that I have revealed the truth at last? Now pester me no more.” Eldrich swept off along the embankment, leaving Skye stricken, wavering on his feet. The empiricist took two steps and then seemed almost to collapse, sitting down in a heap on the grass.
The countess came and stood by him, tempted to reach out a hand to console him, but somehow she could not. “It isn’t true,” she said, not sounding terribly convincing. “It was said only in a fit of anger and cruelty. They were always thus, the mages.”
But Skye shook his head, staring down at the ground. “No, it is true. I am a Stranger. I have always known it. Have always known my discoveries were but memories—nothing more.” He put a hand to his brow, shaking his head almost desperately.
“What can I do for you, Lord Skye?” the countess said, almost a whisper.
“Lord Skye . . . ? That is not me. I am . . .” He shook his head again and, rolling awkwardly to his feet, pushed aside the branches and disappeared.
For a moment the countess stared after him, but then she turned to look for Eldrich. She knew he was caught in a fit of anger, and at such times would say whatever would hurt most—truth or lie. In this case she hoped it was a lie, and that she would be able to tell Skye so. Poor man. He might be a genius, but provoking Eldrich would hardly prove it. Of course what was she about to do?
This brought her headlong flight to a sudden stop. Perhaps this was not the moment to confront the mage over this matter. There was so much afoot, so many things she did not understand. Eldrich’s mood was dark. Dark and fearful, she was sure. He had been left such terrible responsibilities. She remembered the vision he had shown her—the vision in the water.
Beneath a willow leaning out over the river, she found Eldrich plucking leaves from the branches, muttering to himself. Darian, she realized, and kept silent.
She remained a few paces off, afraid to intrude, wondering suddenly what he had decided. Would he release Erasmus unharmed? He had never clearly answered yea or nay.
For an instant he glanced her way, but went immediately back to his task, stopping only when he had a handful of the new leaves.
“It is not in my nature to gamble,” he said, his voice and manner mild, and she sensed that he regretted the scene with Skye. The mage stared off over the river. “I allowed Skye out into this world against my better judgment only because I could trap the renegades of Teller no other way. I knew it was likely that some of his knowledge would surface in time. And now I have been forced to do the same with Clarendon—and he bears knowledge of even greater danger.” He shook his head. “Is it not ironic?”
He shook his head, then crouched down by the river, his oddly bowed posture making him look like a penitent—something the countess suspected he had never been.
He began to chant, moving his free hand in intricate patterns. Across the bank before him, he drew his fingers, and a pattern glowed upon the grasses. Dusk seemed to flow up the valley, like flood waters, overtaking them. The mage continued his chant.
The countess was familiar enough with Darian now to glean a few words, and knowledgeable enough to guess that this was augury that Eldrich performed—something Walky said his master resorted to too often.
Caught by the wind, the willow branches writhed around him, like tendrils, she thought, as though animated by the arts.
With a final powerful syllable, Eldrich threw the leaves upon the water, staring fixedly where they fell, and then he toppled forward almost into the river, struggling to balance himself as though the riverbank tried to throw him off.
The countess fought through the grasping branches and took hold of his shoulder, pulling him back from the water. He flailed awkwardly with his arms, as though blind or stupefied.
He still mumbled, half in Darian and half in Farr. “The nance . . .” he kept saying. “They are upon the nance . . . !”
>
At that moment Walky appeared.
“I will tend to Lord Eldrich,” he said, making it very clear that her presence was neither required nor wanted.
“Walky?” the mage said, staring blankly as though his sight had left him. “They are upon the nance. . . . Do you hear? Upon the nance!”
* * *
* * *
A moment later the countess found herself bundled into Eldrich’s carriage, the mage slumped against the side, wrapped in his enormous old cloak; shivering, she thought, though in the failing light it was difficult to be sure.
He looked suddenly frail—frail and old—and this she found quite disturbing. So much so that she turned her attention to the dark window, the passing scene barely distinguishable now. Far off she thought she perceived something—something on the edge of hearing, on the edge of the world. Thunder.
Eldrich was staring at her. She realized it before she turned her head to look. His eyes seemed as dark and cold as ever—no sign of age or frailty there. In fact, he looked to be quickly recovering.
“What is the nance?” she asked.
Eldrich continued to regard her, and then finally spoke, the music still there, but brittle. “It is a place of ritual and power, and it is a gate. In the past, a gate that led to other lands . . . infinitely far away yet near at hand.”
“And this woman is there? This woman you seek?”
“And Erasmus, yes.”
“What will you do with him?” she asked quickly.
“It will depend upon the degree of his betrayal.”
“What does that mean?”
He stared at her, eyes darker than the dark corner he inhabited.
Yes, he does not like to be questioned, she thought. She steeled herself for what she would say next. “We spoke of a bargain,” she said, forcing out the words. “How else will you assure yourself of my cooperation?”
“You saw the vision of the mages,” he said evenly.
Yes, she had seen it. The end of the world, or so it appeared. What would she not do to avert that? Her bargaining position was not strong, and he knew it. Her chance of saving Erasmus was slipping away.
“Is it true, then, that one can trust a devil more than a mage?”
“I have never met a devil,” he said, the old mockery returning to his voice.
“If Erasmus is harmed, I cannot guarantee that I will be able to keep my part of the bargain.”
“You would allow a cataclysm to spite me?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Can you be sure I won’t?”
He continued to stare. “Do you really care so much for him?” he asked after a moment.
The question caught her off guard. Did she, indeed? Why was she making such a fuss over Erasmus Flattery? Certainly the mage treated any number of people callously—Lord Skye, for instance—and she was doing nothing on their behalf. A memory of her evening with Erasmus—the way she had used him to gather information for Skye, and how he had reacted.
Perhaps that was it; the feeling that Erasmus, despite all that had befallen him, was a man of essential goodness, and considering how few such men there were, he had been terribly misused.
“Yes,” she said, knowing it was said partly to wound. “Yes, I do.”
But he is a mage, the countess reminded herself, and can sense a lie. Can sense a lie and its purpose.
Eldrich turned away, staring out at the passing night.
“Do you remember the Paths?” he asked, his voice mild and matter-of-fact.
“Yes.”
“I have cast them recently, and something has changed. There are two paths now: one on which I live and another on which I die, or perhaps merely leave this world.”
“Which will you take?”
“I am not certain I shall have the choice.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Sympathy, she thought. He wants my pity.
“Why? So that you might prepare yourself. . . .” And he would say no more.
Fifty-Three
There was a mage at large in Farrland for the first time in perhaps five decades, and Captain James wondered what in this round world could have roused Eldrich from his slumber.
A faded woman whom Captain James would know only when he saw her.
James glanced over at Deacon Rose riding beside him. The truth was he did not like the priest. He much preferred Hayes and Kehler and their diminutive friend, but Clarendon had slipped away to warn those the mage sought, and the others had aided him. Captain James had been left no choice but to throw in his lot with Deacon Rose. He had been ordered to offer all assistance to these people, never guessing that they were not all of one mind.
By default the captain ended up supporting Deacon Rose, a priest of the church of Farrelle who was far too much of an authority on the mages and their secret knowledge. The arts were proscribed, after all, and certainly it was a mortal sin to pursue them. Yet here was this priest, only a deacon in rank, who knew more than any priest should about matters arcane and had an air of authority that belied his modest station. And he sought the faded woman, apparently knowing a great deal about her—more than James could say.
When you meet her, you will know.
Moonlight lay upon the road, shimmering the gravel and casting ruts and potholes into shadow. The river chortled along its course, and wind raced them down the valley floor. From all his years at sea, James knew this to be a storm wind, yet there was not a cloud to be seen. Instead, the sky remained unnaturally clear, the stars bright and large for such a moonlit night.
The man who led them, a local huntsman, halted his horse suddenly, pointing at a path winding into the trees.
“They were seen going this way; a redheaded woman and a dark gentleman, and not long ago three horses were found wandering on the roadside, all of them spooked and lathered.”
“Then that will be all we require of you,” Deacon Rose said. “May Farrelle smile upon you and your endeavors.” He turned away, dismissing the man. “I will go first, Captain James.”
As they went into the shadow of the trees, whispering broke out among the Jacks, like flames among grass. Their uneasiness with this priest and his involvement with things arcane had festered to the point where open mutiny was no longer just a remote possibility. For his part, the priest didn’t seem to care what the Jacks thought, perhaps believing that the navy was like the church, where those lower in the hierarchy did as they were bid, and kept their peace. Captain James, however, knew better. He hadn’t enough armed officers here to ensure the Jacks would follow orders, especially if these orders required they face the arts. It was a volatile situation, and the priest’s utter insensitivity to it made it much worse.
What appeared to be a ruined city endured upon the rise, alchemic moonlight turning stone to muted silver. Out of shadow, two horses appeared, like limping ghost mares.
“They are here before us,” Rose said, and spurred his exhausted mount on.
After half an hour’s climb they came to a place where the horses could not pass, and Deacon Rose jumped quickly down, pulling a bag from his saddle.
Fanaticism makes a man strong, James thought.
The priest dropped the bag upon the uneven ground and pulled open its fastenings. Not paying any attention to James or the gathering Jacks, he began to spread out articles in the moonlight. Softly he began to chant, and a small brand caught fire.
The Jacks reacted by backing away, making warding signs, and uttering oaths. The Deacon began to sprinkle gray dust, like fine ash, upon the ground, drawing careful lines and curves. Touching these with the flaming brand, the design caught fire, revealing a finely drawn geometry. The Jacks fled in dismay, Captain James making no effort to stop them, but only watching the priest in terrible fascination.
Deacon Rose continued to chant, and flames, the green of sea fire, rose
to envelop him.
And then, at a word, they died away, leaving only a flickering pattern traced upon the ground.
Deacon Rose looked at James, and then his eyes widened. “Where is your crew?”
“Gone. Threats of death would not have held them, for they fear death less than this.” He waved a hand at the dying flames.
Deacon Rose picked up the still-burning brand and turned in a circle. “Then there is only thee and me,” he said, “but if we are in time, that will be enough. Draw your sword, Captain. We might have need of it.” He took up his bag and began to climb, holding his flaming brand aloft.
Up they went, among fallen boulders, then along a narrow ledge that looked down over the valley below from a great height. Twice the priest stopped to perform rites, flame from the brand forming strange patterns in the air.
“They try to thwart us, Captain,” Rose said. “Do you see? But they shall not, for I am more skilled than they know. With this flame I can protect us from arcane assault, but you must not hesitate to use your blade—against man, woman, or child, no matter wealth or station. You must be utterly ruthless, Captain, for everything depends upon it. Everything.”
They continued up until Rose stopped. From above voices echoed. The priest beckoned him, and not for the first time Captain James found himself reluctant to continue. Place him in an action at sea and he would face death unwaveringly—nothing less was expected—but this . . . ! It was more than the unknown. It was the darkness, the secret arts.
Despite his fears he crouched down beside Rose, feeling the cool rock press against him, reassuringly substantial. From above, a strange light wavered and a single voice spoke: a woman’s voice.
“Thank Farrelle; we are in time,” the priest said, his voice almost breaking. “You must stay close and be prepared to defend me at all costs, from that woman most of all. She is the true danger.”
They toiled up the last thirty feet, and there, in the center of a level area, a woman was bent over in concentration, red tresses falling about her in a torrent. And he knew her! Without realizing why or from where, James knew her! Like a dream long forgotten, suddenly surfacing. He felt some strange triumph in this.
