by Sean Russell
Rose began to draw in the air with his flaming brand, speaking low in another tongue. Without stopping, he nodded to James and went nimbly forward.
They were in moonlight, and high up among ruined walls, as though in a tower taller than any known. He hardly had time to notice more than that. Somewhere before them water fell: he could hear it slapping stone.
The woman had moved to the edge of the clear area now, and bent to her labors again, so focused that she did not see them, but someone called out in warning and she rose, tossing back her hair.
“Ah, Deacon,” she said, “we have awaited you. Do not step on the floor, Captain James, or you will be consumed by fire. Only those within the ritual may set foot upon the nance.”
“But you are too late,” the priest said. He cast his eye around the others, measuring the situation. “I cannot imagine Eldrich’s rage when you meet him next—and he approaches even now.”
“Do not listen to his ravings,” Anna said, her voice mocking, more than a little triumphant. “We will be gone before Eldrich comes, and Deacon Rose can be our witness, for all who follow me will escape.”
“So that is what she has told you,” Rose called out, his voice strong and reasonable, “that you will escape to this other world? But I am here to tell you that you will not. No mage in a thousand years has opened a gate to elsewhere, though many of the greatest spent a lifetime in this pursuit. No, she will make herself a mage. That is what she intends—just as Teller always planned. A mage to stand against the last master of the arts.
“You know something of these matters, Mr. Flattery. Think on it. . . . Only a mage can open a gate. Even if she were planning this escape, still, she must first become a mage. And as such she will bring calamity upon the world. An emerging mage at this point in time—it is a curse that even the mages feared.” He waved his brand in the air as though to emphasize his words. “Mr. Kehler. You have read of the fears of the mages. Here they are, manifest in this woman. It does not matter that her intentions are not evil, evil will result—the worst evil ever brought upon mankind. Here is the moment the mages feared above all others. Do not do this, I implore you.”
“We have heard your speeches before,” Clarendon called out, unable to contain himself. The little man stood in his appointed place upon the makeshift nance, and shook his fist at the priest. “Even Eldrich warned that your tongue was charmed. We shall not fall victim to your ‘reason’ again. No, priest, you are the last person we shall believe, for you have uttered nothing but lies since the ill-fated day we met. Stand and watch if you will—your church dearly loves to have witnesses—but we will not heed you again.”
Anna had gone back to her preparations, ignoring the conversation around her and the threat of the intruders.
Captain James noted a shadow move beside the spring.
“Is that Brother Norbert?” he asked.
Rose took a step forward, holding his flame aloft.
“Brother Norbert! What madness is this? You will be damned for all time for what you do.”
“And you, Deacon. How is it you practice the forbidden arts and escape this same fate?”
“Perhaps I will not, Brother Norbert, but I do it for my church. I will die the true death so that all of you might live. Come away from this now; I order it. In the name of the mother church and all that we hold sacred. Come away while we might still save your mortal soul.”
“No, Brother, I no longer believe such threats. I have seen the evil that priests have done in the name of mother church. I will no longer condone it, nor will I be allied with it. I will make my own decisions about what will endanger my soul, for certainly a murderous church cannot.”
“Leave him be,” Erasmus called out. “Nothing you say will change our course now. Eldrich created our fear and hatred, let him pay the price. In an hour we will have done what no man . . . no mage has done in a thousand years. You saw it, Rose, written upon the walls in Landor’s crypt: the enchantment to open the way. And we have Landor’s seed. It is enough. May the devils take you and your world of lies.”
Anna had gone to the spring and, whispering a few words, cupped her hands and drunk. To each of those upon the nance she carried water, whispering as she let a few drops fall upon their tongues.
Taking up a jar of palely luminescent liquid, she unstopped it and began to sprinkle it over the pattern upon the floor, where it glowed like the substance of the moon. Rose’s brand went out as though snuffed by a sudden wind. In the pale light James could see the priest put his hands over his eyes, then quickly reach to his tunic, patting his side. And then in the silence, Rose began to pray.
When her pattern was complete, Anna poured seed from a bag into a mortar, crushing it with a small pestle. From a second bottle she poured an inky liquid, mixing it with the seed. A pungent odor reached Captain James, igniting a strange hunger. Anna lifted the mortar with great care, raising it in both hands, and stepped to the center of her pattern. After speaking a few words she drank the mortar dry and cast it into the small pool of water at the wall’s foot. She stood and hung her head, wavering as though she would fall.
But then she drew herself up, staring at the wall before her as though steeling her nerve. She opened the cuff of her right sleeve, and reaching down, wrapped something about her exposed wrist—the skin of a snake, James realized. Her other hand she raised aloft, and a crow—a crow with a blood-red bill—lit upon her wrist. Rearing back, the bird struck, tearing open her skin so that drops of crimson appeared, some few falling to the floor. She stamped her foot hard on the stone.
“Curre d’ Efeu!” she called out, the words echoing in the chamber. “Curre d’ Emone!”
* * *
* * *
Erasmus felt the words resonate inside him.
“Heart of flame! Heart of the world.”
And behind it all, Brother Norbert chanting; . . . naisannaisanna . . .
He struggled to keep his wits about him, to keep his focus, for it was either history being made, or his last moments of life. Either way he wanted to be conscious and aware.
Erasmus had no illusions. Anna was very likely not capable of opening the gate and having them pass safely through. Lucklow had not managed it, nor any who came before him, and they had spent their lifetimes studying the arts. But what other course was there? Only the retribution of Eldrich, and that would be a hell as terrible as any he might find. No, better to risk this than face Eldrich again. Better death than that.
“Your servant calls out in darkness.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Erasmus saw Deacon Rose fall to his knees in prayer.
Anna was making herself a mage. . . . Rose was right in this. Only a mage could open a gate. But once a mage, what would she do?
“Vau d’ Efeu. Ivanté!” Anna called, her voice gaining strength and resonance.
Voice of flame. Come forth!
Again she called out in Darian.
Speak from the mouth of your child.
Erasmus found that he trembled, his knees weak, heart pounding like a stone upon the wall of his chest. He fought to breathe, and then called out in Darian, words he did not know.
A sound like water and wind funneling down a narrow gorge, and then flame erupted from the pool and Brother Norbert disappeared in a blossom of fire.
* * *
* * *
Captain James staggered back as the flame erupted, raising his hands to ward off the heat and light—but only a warm breath touched him, though the fire boiled and curled barely yards away.
Beside him, Deacon Rose continued his prayer, hands clasped before him, eyes tightly closed, as though even a glimpse of such blasphemy would endanger his soul.
The navy man found himself sinking down beside the priest, for there, where Anna had stood, a great serpent struggled with a massive bird, locked in a deadly battle. He shook his head to clea
r it, but still the vision persisted, though not quite clear or focused. The bird and serpent seemed to have climbed into the towering clouds, thrown hard against the dome of stars.
And then they fell, writhing, to the earth where they burst into flame as they struck, lying still, locked together in death.
But when he thought there would be peace and an end, they rose again, like martyrs from the pyre, and battle was renewed.
Seven times he saw the serpent arise and seven times the bird struck, and each time they fell in flame, flame that consumed them both.
Captain James felt as though he floated within a dream, where things made some terrible sense that could not readily be explained, as though another logic held sway here.
Finally, a woman lay broken upon the floor in a pattern of cold fire, her face hidden in a blaze of red hair.
* * *
* * *
Anna lay like one who had fallen from a great height—still, as only the dead could be still. A breeze wafted a few strands of hair. Erasmus wanted to go to her, to cradle her, push back the hair from her face, say some final words, for surely she had failed.
But then a hand moved, searching, as though it had a will of its own. Then a quivering arm. Her chest heaved as though life had slipped back into empty clothing, and with a moan she rolled and began to force herself up on trembling limbs. But she could not rise past her knees. There she stayed, head bent, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. And then she straightened, pushing back the mane of hair.
“Tandre vere viteur . . .” she whispered.
Hear me, Erasmus translated.
“C’is m’curre.”
Here is my heart.
From somewhere she produced a sprig of green—king’s blood—and tossed it toward the flame. From above, her chough swooped down, taking the offering in the air, winging straight into the fire where it vanished with barely a swirl of flame, the sound of a wave dying on the shore.
And then darkness. Erasmus felt his knees strike stone, and struggled to keep his balance.
They were in a high place, or so it seemed, among the stars. A cool breeze tugged at his clothing, and a high keening, almost beyond hearing, blended in strange harmony.
Anna rose from the floor beside him, bent like one in prayer.
“Where are you?” Hayes whispered in a voice not his own.
“Alone,” Anna said, her voice small and flat, “among the alone. Among the stars.”
“What do you hear?” Clarendon asked in that same terrible voice.
“The songs of stars.”
“Tell me your true name.”
“Annais.”
“Then you may scribe it here, among the stars.”
And they were returned to the keep, a high note still ringing in Erasmus’ ears.
Anna knelt in the center of the nance, weaving intricate patterns with her hands, speaking words of power. Erasmus felt the cool wind blow through him, stripping him bare, as though he were exposed to the world in some way he had never known before.
* * *
* * *
Captain James still knelt upon hard stone, his sword lying before him, forgotten. What had he seen? A mage being born? Born among the stars? Had anyone alive witnessed such a thing?
Movement caught his eye, and he realized Deacon Rose had risen from his place, and was moving deliberately forward toward the nance. The priest chanted, tossing something before him—white down, James realized—and in his hand he grasped a blade. But then a shadow coalesced to rise in the priest’s path, moonlight turning it into a great dog. It stood before Deacon Rose, fangs bared, barring his way—the wolfhound of Clarendon.
The priest stopped. Then, as he went to step forward, the dog lunged, faster than moonlight could trace, and Deacon Rose stood, pressing a hand to his wrist, the dagger lying on the stone.
“Do not move, Deacon, or he will savage you again,” the seaman said.
“Take up your sword, Captain, and slay this beast for me.”
“I will not, Deacon, for it is not a natural beast and is not to be trifled with.”
Deacon Rose began to protest, but as he turned toward James in anger, the dog growled, and the priest froze in his place.
* * *
* * *
Around Anna the pattern came to life again, and Anna rose, speaking the words of Landor’s enchantment—the ritual for opening the gates.
It was long and complex, and even if Erasmus’ Darian had been up to it, he likely would not have understood what went on. He felt the power of it, though, felt it grow within him, felt the majesty of it, like some glorious music rising inside him, reaching toward a crescendo.
And then, when he was sure the time had come and some glorious opening would appear, the flame rose up again, trembled against the heavens, and then fell upon them like a great wave.
Fifty-Four
The countess came over the shoulder of rock behind Eldrich and Walky to find a priest and an officer of His Majesty’s navy kneeling upon the rock like stricken men. And there, before them, a great, towering flame trembled, split in two, and in its center a cavern seemed to have been opened into the solid rock.
“They have opened the first gate,” Eldrich said. “Flames, but we have no time to waste. Bryce!” he called.
Bryce appeared, assisting Skye, who was clearly not used to such exertions.
“Come, all of you. We must go in, but once inside, we will be separated, lost in a colorless land. I have no time to explain. You will see things that are not possible, but you must not falter. You must always go forward. If you falter, you will be lost. Make your way up, always up. We seek a long stair to the highest point, and if you find each other, stay together. Make all haste. All haste. You, priest, come with me. We must stop them by whatever means we can. Bring this sailor—even he might have a part.”
Not waiting for any discussion, Eldrich plunged into the opening in the flame, speaking words of Darian as he went. The countess hurried after, fearing to be lost in this colorless land.
* * *
* * *
Erasmus stood upon a rock awash in a sea of fog—a gray ocean whirling slowly in the complete and unsettling silence. Across the colorless expanse, reefs of barren stone broke the surface, solitary and oddly substantial in the vaporous landscape.
The mist lapped about Erasmus’ knees, a languid wave, and then drew back, revealing more of the island upon which he had been cast away.
It was the top of a wall, Erasmus realized. A ruined wall. And there, far off, a shattered tower thrust up out of the fog, mist breaking around it.
A ruined castle, Erasmus thought, or an ancient city, and somehow that did not surprise him, though he did not know why. He began to feel his way along the narrow isthmus of stone, his boots making no sound.
A moon shone down through a high, thin overcast which diffused the light of the few visible stars. Featureless, pearl-gray clouds hung almost motionless in the heavens, like daubs of plaster on the dome of the sky.
“Where am I?” Erasmus said aloud, the words seeming to come from far away, as though they were echoes.
The mists parted some distance off, and for a moment a figure was revealed—the silhouette of a man. Erasmus waved, but the figure looked elsewhere, and then the mists closed again, seeming to sweep the figure off its perch.
For a long moment Erasmus remained in place, turning slowly, surveying the strangely illuminated world. There, three stone arches surfaced, and he thought he saw movement. But after a long moment no one appeared. He considered shouting but found the place so unsettling that he feared drawing attention to himself.
It is a king’s blood dream. But how had it begun? When had he taken the seed?
A silent wave of mist combed over the wall, submerging it in gray. Erasmus dropped to a crouch and felt his way forward. Abruptly the
wall turned to the left, and it was only by luck that he did not pitch off . . . into what?
It is a dream, he told himself, not sure if he could suffer injury in such a place.
Suddenly he was on a stair, and as he descended, the mist settled with him so that he seemed to be wading in fog to his waist. Level stone came underfoot, and in a moment the mist had streamed away like an ebbing tide. Movement caused him to whirl, but he caught only a glimpse of something disappearing into shadow among the ruin. An animal, Erasmus thought.
He went on, through the ancient city of dark stone. Down another stair, past a pool of mist, across a bridge arcing over a finger of the gray sea.
Up again, and then, over a parapet, he saw movement below.
“Randall . . . ? Is that you?”
“Who is that?” came the small voice, distorted by mist and stone.
“Erasmus.”
“Do I know you, sir?”
“It’s me, Randall. Erasmus Flattery.”
He could see the small man shake his head. “But who is Randall?” he said, and was swept by a sea of fog.
“Randall . . . ?” But there was no answer.
Erasmus went forward, wandering aimlessly, now driven up by inflowing mist, or turning this way or that to stay in the clear air. Twice he was submerged in fog so thick that he crept forward, groping like a sightless man.
And then he heard a sound, a high, thin keening like some small animal in pain or terror. It echoed among the stone, seeming to originate from nowhere. Erasmus searched for what seemed a very long time before he found the source—a small child curled up in the high window of broken wall.
“What is it, child?” he asked. “Have you lost your way?”
