by Sean Russell
“Are you, indeed?” Eldrich seemed amused, but stopped all the same. “One hundred thirty-three years I have lived, one hundred twenty-six of them steeped in the arts. Give me some credit, child. You are but four and twenty, after all. It takes seventy years to make a mage—a true mage—which you are not.”
“I have undergone the transformation,” Anna said, her voice no more steady, though more defiant, “and won my struggle with the snake.”
“Won? You never win. It is but an uneasy peace, though perhaps you will manage that. More than I would have expected for one so poorly prepared. I was sixty-five when I stood upon the nance, and that only because Lucklow was near his death, and there was a task to be completed. And even so, I was not ready.”
Erasmus could see the countess, now, lurking behind the mage in the dim light, and this sight somehow made his plight seem even more hopeless. Walky and sad Percy Bryce were there as well—all the lives that Eldrich had ruined. He looked again at the countess, who was coldly beautiful in the moonlight. Did she hold a memory of their evening together that was near as sweet as his? Did she keep a memory of it at all?
And then another appeared, silver-maned—Skye, of all people. Erasmus had no time to wonder what Skye’s part was in this. Eldrich was here, and all their hope of escape was gone. They had been so close! So close to being free of him.
“You cannot touch me,” Anna said, her voice very quiet and unsure. She seemed exceedingly young, suddenly, not even four and twenty, but a mere girl confronting an angry parent. “I have knowledge of the curse. . . .”
“But not enough, it seems . . .” Eldrich said.
A spray of white down fell over Anna and Erasmus, catching fire where it touched the nance, and then suddenly Anna was tumbling down the stairs, in the embrace of some other—a whirl of red hair and priestly robes. At the bottom the priest rose over her prostrate figure, speaking words of Darian, crimson hands clutching a dagger.
At his feet Anna shuddered once, tried to rise, but fell back trembling, her mouth agape as though searching for air. And then she was still, a coil of hair moving in the breeze, blood pooling around her ghostly pale face.
What Erasmus noticed was the horror of the countess, and then Clarendon snatched the sword from his hand and leaped down the stairs before any could move. With all the force of his charge, the dwarf plunged the blade into the chest of Deacon Rose, and then in a fury, pulled it free and struck again. The priest was driven to his knees, the dagger clattering to the stone. Again Clarendon struck him, cursing him with each blow, and even when the priest toppled forward over the fallen Anna, Clarendon still cut him.
Then the little man dropped the blade and fell to his knees, sobbing.
Erasmus descended the stair and put his arm around the small shoulders, edging Clarendon back from the bodies. Poor Anna, lying there, her fugitive life at an end. Erasmus felt such cold in his heart at that moment—such utter cold.
“I have done murder,” Clarendon wept. “Farrelle help me, Mr. Flattery. . . . Murder.”
Eldrich stepped forward, chanting solemnly over the bodies, his hand moving quickly in the air. Then he looked up at those standing before him. “That is enough killing,” he said, all the mockery gone. “Life is short enough.” He looked down again at Anna and the priest. “The last follower of Teller has fallen. My task is done.”
“You let him do it,” Erasmus said, eyeing the mage, feeling his own anger rise. “You saw the priest with his blade and let him murder her.”
Eldrich stared at Erasmus until he realized his former charge would not look away. “She could not live, Erasmus. She had the knowledge and the power to open the gates, and that could not be allowed. She is dead, and so is her murderer. Let it end there. Let it all end.”
“And what of me?” Clarendon asked, suddenly very still. “I have the knowledge as well. . . .”
Eldrich stared down at the dwarf, and Erasmus could hardly credit what he saw. Compassion softened the mage’s face.
“You shall not outlive me, little man. But you will have to come along. There is no other choice.”
“Where?” Clarendon asked, Erasmus hearing the hope in the small man’s voice.
“We shall make the journey of Tomas. But there is no time for talk. Even this tardy moon sails toward the west.” He turned to Bryce. “Bind up her wound and carry her up onto the nance.”
“But she is dead, sir.”
“Yes,” Eldrich answered, “but she is a mage, for all that she has done, and I cannot leave her to wander here. Bear her up.” He strode past Erasmus and Clarendon up the stairs, speaking Darian as he went.
Quickly everyone was arranged; Bryce next to Erasmus, then Skye. Anna was laid before the central pillar, then Hayes, the countess, and Clarendon, still shaken and white. Brother Norbert stood by the small stair that led to the perch above the fount.
Eldrich approached the hermit, the only one there who did not draw back when the mage came near. For a moment Eldrich stared into his eye, and then nodded. “A priest who is pure of heart. . . . Live long enough and even one’s most cherished prejudices are shattered,” the mage said. He beckoned Kehler, who came near reticently. For a moment the mage spoke quietly to Norbert and Kehler, who nodded frequently, then bowed as the mage finished.
Walky then delivered a long roll to his master and the two stood whispering softly. Erasmus heard nothing but the murmur of Eldrich’s musical voice, the sound of water on stone. Walky did not look at his master, but kept his gaze cast down, nodding often. For a moment nothing was said and then Eldrich reached out and placed a hand on the small man’s shoulder. Walky looked up as Eldrich turned away, and even in the poor light Erasmus could see the servant’s eyes rimmed in red.
And then Walky hurried off the nance.
Finally Eldrich spoke to the countess, the mage glancing once at Erasmus, the two nodding, and then he saw them take each other’s hands before Eldrich returned to the center of the nance.
The rite began with Eldrich bringing the pattern to life, so that it glowed as though made of the substance of the moon. Brother Norbert chanted a word Erasmus did not know—the mage’s true name: Adorian. In the mage tongue it meant last.
And then Eldrich called fire from the fount. From there it was all a blur to Erasmus’ mind. The clarity of the scene dissolved, and Erasmus felt himself slipping into dream—like a king’s blood-induced vision.
Erasmus as a child, balanced atop the driverless carriage, gazing fixedly ahead. And then an uncurling rose; Percy blossoming into flame, crawling toward Erasmus, screaming. His howl of pain cut into Erasmus’ consciousness so that it rang always in the ear.
Eldrich walking in the garden below, a child perched in the window overcome by a fear that he felt in his heart, in the center of his being.
And then an old woman before a fire, suckling a baby and singing softly to herself.
“Upon a hill, upon a cloud,
Upon a haystack golden.
Within a wood, within a lake,
Dwelt the lady Sollen.”
A warm wind crossing a bay, far off the sound of surf and strange birds. Night. A procession winding up a mountainside through lush vegetation, bearing an old man wearing the mask of a bird and a cloak of feathers. Overwhelming sadness and loss.
A woman before him, dancing among tongues of flame, many armed, blonde hair streaming, and Erasmus felt himself chanting in Darian, felt a presence within.
He did not know if minutes or hours passed, but finally the flame trembled open—a gate into the world beyond. A place lit by the soft light of stars and moon. Erasmus inhaled the scent of flowers, of spring and woods and meadows.
The roll Walky had carried had been spread upon the nance and now fire burned about it like a frame, the portrait of Eldrich appearing to float, wavering upon some invisible surface.
Eldrich
spoke and sent the flaming likeness floating through the gate, and then he turned to Clarendon and then Skye. “Follow close behind me,” he said.
The mage bore Anna up as though she were no burden at all, her hair falling in an arc like the skirt of a gown. He laid her in the center of the pattern, brushing the hair from her face and laying her hands upon her breast. Quickly he bent and kissed her on the brow.
He stepped back from her, then, and intoned words of Darian. Green flame began to burn around her, and then it spread across the still form, hiding her from sight. For a moment it persisted, and then flickered and died. Anna was gone. Gone utterly.
Eldrich bowed to the dying flames, speaking Anna’s name three times, and then he straightened and looked around.
“Mr. Bryce,” he said quietly, and then straightened his stooped form and walked slowly through the gate, growing immediately distant, as though he’d crossed a field in three strides.
A dark shape shot through the opening—Eldrich’s familiar.
Clarendon hurried behind, barely hesitated at the flaming gate, then quickly stepped through, glancing back once. Skye went forward, faltered, gathered his resolve, then walked on, his shoulders squared—a Stranger in search of his past.
“Erasmus . . . ?” It was Percy Bryce, his voice low and harsh. He moved toward Erasmus, trembling, a sheen on his brow.
“I cannot,” he whispered. “The fire . . .”
“He calls you, Percy,” Erasmus said. “You must go.”
“Not into the fire. Not . . . fire.”
“Bryce . . . !” It was the voice of Eldrich, strangely distorted, stripped of its music.
Erasmus reached out and took hold of Bryce’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, Percy. I will guide you.”
Erasmus steered him toward the gate, which seemed to have grown smaller and pulsated strangely.
“Hurry, Percy,” Erasmus said. “I see the mage coming back for you.”
Bryce dug his fingers into Erasmus’ arm, moving forward stiffly, each step so small.
“Erasmus. . . .”
“A few steps more, Percy. You’re almost through.”
The portal was weakening now, Erasmus was sure. It wavered before him as though about to collapse. He pressed Percy on, hardly able to continue himself. Eldrich seemed to be running now, waving an arm, but Erasmus could hear nothing over the sound of the blazing gate.
And then Percy spun toward him, striking Erasmus hard on the temple with an elbow. Erasmus stumbled, and felt Percy shove him, fear making the man strong.
Erasmus sprawled on the floor and Percy fell upon him.
“Now you shall know my pain,” he whispered, dragging Erasmus up.
The world spun beneath Erasmus. He tried to take hold of Percy, but his fingers would not grip.
He felt himself thrust forward, falling.
And then he collided with something solid. The world went red, then dark, spinning madly. And then pain, like fire running along the strings of his nerves.
Fire.
Fifty-Six
Stars wavered overhead, spinning slowly. Erasmus closed his eyes again. He lay upon a surface that seemed to be moving, like the deck of a boat. More than that he could not say. Searching with a hand he found his throbbing brow.
“Mr. Flattery?”
He knew that voice. . . .
“Walky?”
“Yes. Are you well, sir? Are you . . . whole?”
It seemed a strange question and even more strangely phrased.
“My head is throbbing terribly.”
“Yes. Mr. Bryce struck you savagely, sir. And we have all been . . . sleeping.”
“I must get up, Walky. We must make our way back.”
“We are back, sir. Back to this odd ruin of a mountain, and it is night, sir, though whether the same night I cannot say.”
Erasmus opened his eyes again. The world spun, then caught and seemed to hold, like a boat suddenly aground.
Walky crouched over him, his face drawn and profoundly sad.
“How can we be back?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The little man shrugged. “The arts are mysterious, or perhaps it was the work of the mage. I cannot say, for no one has opened a gate in more than a thousand years.” He paused. “Only the mage knows.”
Erasmus struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. “But I have a memory of pain, of going into the flame. Was that not true?”
Walky nodded. “The mage managed to save you, sir. Do you remember? Mr. Bryce forced you into the fire, but you are untouched by it.”
Yes, he remembered. Percy had duped him into venturing near the flame. And he had felt it. The memory was strong. It had touched him, burning along the paths of his nerves. He felt himself cringe involuntarily.
“Are you hurt, Mr. Flattery? There is no sign of it.”
“No. No, I will recover.” Erasmus took a long breath. “What happened to Bryce?”
“I do not know, sir. He went into the gate as it closed. Whether he is in the other world or not, I cannot say.” A strange hesitation. “Nor can I say what happened to the mage.”
Erasmus heard Walky’s breath catch, and the little man sat back a little.
“Walky?”
“Perhaps he is safely on the other side, sir. That is my hope.”
Erasmus shut his eyes, trying to remember. The entire night was a blur. Nothing but vague images that he could not connect into any logical sequence, as though the narrative had been lost.
Could the mage have actually died? Died saving Erasmus? He could not conceive of Eldrich dead. It seemed impossible.
But even if it were true, Erasmus could feel no remorse. No guilt. He was more than surprised that Eldrich would make the slightest gesture to save him—the mage, after all, had tried to kill him once. But somehow Erasmus felt the mage owed him as much. After what he had done to Erasmus, Eldrich owed him a life.
“Who else?”
“Do you remember, sir; Rose murdered Anna.”
“Yes, and Clarendon avenged her.” He searched inside himself for some reaction to Anna’s death—they had been lovers, after all—but there was nothing but a terrible numbness. As though the flame had burned away all feeling.
“Clarendon passed through, as did Lord Skye,” Walky said. “Though Skye will not find what he sought. He did not come from Darr, but from the worlds to the east. The worlds of reason, not magic. All others are unharmed.”
“And Anna—He set her upon a pyre. Is that right?”
“She was a mage, Mr. Flattery. He would not leave her to wander in the dark.”
“But what of Rose, then?”
“The priest was a different matter,” Walky said darkly.
Erasmus felt a small shiver pass through him. He was ordering his memories of the gray world. Was Rose condemned to that place? Erasmus was not even sure he would wish such a thing on the treacherous priest.
“And what of you, Walky? Are you whole?”
“Untouched, sir. Which is lucky, for I have much to do.”
Erasmus looked closely at his old teacher. Walky drew in a long breath, and his face fell a little.
“It was his time, Mr. Flattery. The mage knew. And he passed into the other world—the fabled world, sir. And though few will ever hear of it, he took his place among the great mages of history. And at the very last he saved you, sir. An act of compassion. I am not a religious man, Mr. Flattery, but it seems an act of redemption to me. Somehow, an act of redemption. May he find peace now. Certainly he did not find it in this life.”
Erasmus nodded. But poor Percy had been bitter and treacherous and murderous in the end. If he was lost between the worlds, what a horrifying ghost he would be. Erasmus shuddered at the thought.
“The countess is well?”
“Yes. Perfect
ly, sir. And the others are unharmed, in body, at least.” The little man hung his head, his gestures small, voice suddenly very old and frail.
He grieves, Erasmus thought. In mourning for his master.
“Mr. Flattery?” It was another voice. Deep and solid.
“Brother Norbert?”
“Are you well, sir?”
“I appear to be unharmed—at least to the eye.”
The hermit came into Erasmus’ view. He looked very solemn. Very still.
“We are ready to make our way down. Will you need help yourself? Or can you manage?”
“I will manage, I think.”
Brother Norbert nodded. “Will you take up your sea fire, Mr. Walky, and light our way?”
The little man rose stiffly, and he and Brother Norbert helped Erasmus to his feet. For a moment he wavered, but then he seemed to gain strength. Walky’s doing, he suspected. The old man knew more of the arts than he ever let on.
The others were there. Kehler and Hayes. The countess, strangely distant. The captain sitting alone, staring off at the horizon. Kehler and Hayes came over to greet him, though they were hardly exuberant. They looked like men who had not yet assessed the cost of their adventure, but feared the result. Still, Hayes patted his shoulder, and spoke warmly.
They began the climb down from the Keep, single file, their way lit by the moon and Walky’s flaming brand.
Brother Norbert began to sing, his strong voice echoing like water running over stone, swelling in a song of sadness and great beauty.
They struggled down, all of them exhausted and near to collapse. It seemed they’d crossed a kingdom when they finally found the road where carriages were drawn up, and horses were being tended by the drivers.
Brother Norbert turned back toward the looming mountain and made a sign to Farrelle and spoke a prayer. No one objected, perhaps feeling, as Erasmus did, that there should be some ritual or rite to mark such a solemn occasion. The last mages had passed from this world.
The last mages.
Fifty-Seven
