Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

The clerk must have contacted his superiors, for a dozen

  soldiers came scrambling over the rocks, pistols drawn.

  “Halt and state your business!” their captain ordered.

  “I’ve come to see the Thaloddian Arch,” the poet said,

  raising his hand, “and to parlay with your decemvirs.”

  The captain aimed his pistol and fired. The bullet whined

  toward the Poetry Man, but a gray light pulsed from his hand,

  sending it veering away.

  A hail of gunfire followed. The gray radiance expanded to

  surround the poet’s frame. He laughed as the missiles

  ricocheted around the gorge.

  Knives drawn, the men charged. The Poetry Man raised his

  arms, and the earth beneath them rose in answer, erupting in

  an undulating wave, scattering the soldiers across the hall,

  leaving them broken and moaning.

  Without a backward glance he continued on his way, softly

  singing, “Earth and stone, earth and stone …”

  Within the hour, he approached the High Mount of Jossing.

  The passage had sloped upward throughout his journey, and

  with it the marble roof, lifted by row upon row of columns

  until it formed a vaulted chamber vast enough to encompass

  the mountain before him. The mount was an artificial

  construction, an alabaster pyramid rounded by design, as if by

  the rain. Halfway up its peak stood the Thaloddian Arch, a

  granite expanse stretching across one side of the mount.

  Beyond the arch, at the peak, rose the swirled domes and

  towers of the Palace of the Decemvirs.

  Robe flapping, the poet hurried along the steep stone steps,

  making his way up the dizzying height. A company of soldiers

  had formed beneath the arch, and down from the manor behind

  them strode the ten regal decemvirs, clad in silver and sable,

  their dark cloaks flowing at their backs.

  The Poetry Man reached the level beneath the arch, a

  flattened expanse covered with tessellated tile. The arch

  curved thirty feet above his head, a granite band wide enough

  for ten men to walk abreast. The line of soldiers stretched

  beneath it, barring his way. He waited where he was.

  The warriors directly before him stepped stiffly back,

  opening a corridor through which the decemvirs strode, six

  men and four women, tall and majestic. The eldest, silver-

  haired and keen-eyed, spoke first.

  “Who are you?” The decemvir’s voice was deep and

  commanding. “Why are you here? And why do you shroud

  your face in mist?”

  “Do I?” the poet asked. “I did not know. My name is

  unimportant. I came because the poetry of your country calls

  me. I have seen, you see; I have found the ecstasy, hidden in

  both earth and stone. Do you hear its calling? Do you want to

  come with me?”

  “From the hour you crossed our borders we have felt …

  something,” the decemvir admitted. “A force, great as this

  mountain and far older. Perhaps old as the earth itself. That is

  why we came to meet you, to discover what it means.”

  The poet raised his index finger. “Know, o children of the

  canyons, that I have touched the deep-earth’s core. I bring you

  the essence of rock itself, the primal source of all that is stone.

  The strength of caves and towering peaks. A gift of stone to

  the people of the stones. Come with me, and accept the

  glorious bounty of the Wild Poetry.”

  The decemvir hesitated, but the youngest of his fellows

  stepped forward, his eyes alight with excitement. “I will go!”

  “Do not be hasty, Tycamber,” the eldest warned. “We

  cannot trust such power as I sense within this stranger.”

  But the young man’s eyes danced all the more. “I trust

  what I feel. It’s everything we’ve ever wanted! Not just stone,

  but Stone Incarnate, not just earth but Earth herself!”

  “Who else will join me?” the Poetry Man asked.

  The decemvirs exchanged glances. Sweat beaded their

  brows; their faces were hungry with longing.

  “I have never felt such desire,” one of the women cried. “It

  makes me want to desert both life and duty. I cannot bear it.

  Leave us, whatever you are, while I can still resist.”

  The poet turned to Tycamber. “We will leave, but the

  ecstasy goes on. There is no escape from the power of which I

  partake. Many are its forms and myriad its callings. The Song

  of the Earth for you and I, but for others, rhapsodies equally

  enchanting.”

  The Poetry Man could feel the energies rising inside him,

  wave upon wave, the quintessence of all that belonged to the

  earth. It emanated from him, surrounding him in a widening

  aura.

  He clasped Tycamber’s shoulder. The man gasped at the

  touch as the force swept through him. Eyes dazed, grinning in

  joy, he began walking down the hill at the poet’s side.

  “Wait!” the elder decemvir ordered. “We will not allow

  this, Tycamber.”

  “A Lord of Jossing has accepted my gift; so that which is

  released cannot be contained,” the Poetry Man called over his

  shoulder. “Those who reject my prize must be overwhelmed

  by it.”

  The gray light radiating from the poet surged outward,

  undulating like water. It swept along the mount, passing over

  the rocks. Whatever it touched, whether plant or animal, it

  transformed into stone. Like a wildfire it rushed down the

  mount, snaking along the corridors and canyons of Jossing,

  filling all that country with its enchantment.

  It passed among the soldiers, who screamed as it touched

  them. Their eyes grew gray, their limbs stiffened, leaving them

  forever locked in marble form.

  The poet glanced back. The decemvirs stood, as they

  would stand through the ages, monuments to their past glory,

  their nobility etched in lines of stone.

  The wave passed over the arch, and the span grew harder

  and even more massive, until it could not bear its own weight.

  As the poet and his new follower reached the base of the

  mount, the arch collapsed in a shower of granite.

  “A shame,” the Poetry Man said, “but the earth will not be

  denied. Come, my friend, we must spread the Wild Poetry to

  all of Evenmere.”

  The bedazzled decemvir did not once look back.

  Near the end of the day, the upper supports above much of

  Jossing fell in on themselves, leaving a gaping hole in the

  endless roof line of Evenmere. By that time, the poet and his

  disciple were far away.

  An hour before the Poetry Man confronted the decemvirs

  of Jossing, Carter Anderson, Master of Evenmere, Keeper of

  the Seven Words of Power, Holder of the Master Keys, the

  Lightning Sword, and the Tawny Mantle, stood within the

  wide halls of Indrin, gazing at the tall windows above him,

  where sunlight streamed through air heavy with dust motes

  and the promise of beckoning spring. A central marble column

  with gilded capitals supported a vault of Oozian intricacy;

  stenciled decorations interspersed with panels of Morris


  wallpaper covered the walls. Statues of ancient Gwyve—

  plumed warriors, athletes, and lolling women—peered down

  from alcoves beneath the vaultings, and a stained-glass

  window twenty feet in circumference overlooked a gallery at

  the chamber’s end. Outside the windows, cotton clouds swam

  through an ocean-blue sky, and a yellow bird on the outside

  ledge assaulted a pecan shell with its beak.

  Scaffolds were strung across the room, and men in brown

  aprons covered them like beetles, hoisting tools and wires up

  and down their rungs, installing the telegraph lines intended to

  eventually connect the entire White Circle.

  Standing beneath the gallery, Lord Anderson closed his

  eyes, fingertips lightly touching the wall, searching for the

  forces of Order and Chaos, listening for the Balance. Before

  the telegraph project began he could not have done this, would

  not have known what to seek; but he was well practiced now.

  He saw the two opposing forces as colors within his mind:

  Order, white and pure in planes and straight lines; Chaos,

  shimmering many-hued, perpetually changing its form. He

  searched the wall, eyes still shut, sensing the flow of energies,

  seeking a place where a hole could be drilled. But at every

  point, he saw that the slightest change would corrupt the

  Balance.

  He called the Head Architect to him. “Doonan, we cannot

  drill through this wall. No hammer must touch it.”

  Doonan, dressed in his customary blue robes, stroked his

  handlebar mustache thoughtfully, eyes bleary from lack of

  sleep. “Are you certain?”

  Carter glanced at the man in irritation. “Would I say so if I

  weren’t?”

  “Sorry, sir,” the architect said stiffly. “It’s just that I

  thought we had the go-ahead. The next nearest spot is half a

  mile north. We’ll have to reroute the entire section.”

  “I am aware of that. Are there any other options?”

  Doonan thought a moment. “Could we take the lines

  beside the gallery on the east and bring them into the side

  chamber? It would cost us half a day’s work, but it would save

  at least some of our labor.”

  The two men strode to the wall leading to the side

  chamber. Lord Anderson sought the Balance again and marked

  a place on the paneling. “This will work. Drill right here.” He

  clasped the architect’s shoulder. “Forgive my testiness. I’m not

  angry at you, but at myself for overlooking the problem. We

  are all tired.”

  “That we are, sir. That we are.”

  As Doonan walked away, Carter turned to find William

  Hope, the Butler of Evenmere, waiting to the side, hands

  behind his back, lips pursed in a soundless whistle, a round-

  faced man wearing a dark sack suit and black bowler.

  “A bit miffed, are we?” he asked.

  “I never would have started this project if I had known that

  every nail affects the Balance. Remember how easy it was in

  the outside world? Grab a sledgehammer and tear down a

  wall?”

  Mr. Hope laughed. “But a wall there wouldn’t affect the

  fabric of the universe. Understandable, it taking so long.”

  “Four years and only a third done! But that’s not why I’m

  frustrated. I checked that wall six months ago. I know I did.

  How could I have missed it? It’s as if the Balance has

  changed.”

  Mr. Hope shrugged. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. But

  think! Ancient pharaohs are known for their pyramids; you

  will be remembered as the Telegraph Master, the Caliph of the

  Singing Wire. I have your lunch set out on the Greensward. A

  breath of fresh air will do you good.”

  Carter laughed ruefully. “Lead on. Telegraph Master?

  More like Baron of Boondoggles. Did the pharaohs have

  advisors to keep them in their place?”

  “Yes, but they executed them regularly. A regrettable

  policy.”

  The two passed through the hall, down a winding stair, and

  along wainscoted corridors exiting onto a long commons

  fragrant with lilacs and newly mown grass. The porches and

  balustrades of Evenmere surrounded them on every side. A

  marble fountain stood in the center of the square with water

  foaming from the mouths of carved dolphins. Close to the

  fountain, on a picnic blanket beneath a stand of cottonwoods,

  sat Carter’s wife, Sarah, their five-year-old son, Jason, and

  Enoch, the Windkeep of Evenmere. The sun shone bright, the

  air blew cool; Sarah gave Carter and Mr. Hope a happy wave.

  “Look, Daddy. I found a bug!” Jason shouted, holding up a

  jar, his hand clasped tightly over the lid.

  “What color?” Carter asked.

  “Green.”

  “Bugs and lunch should never mingle,” Sarah said. “Put it

  away. I’ll not have it nibbling the salad.”

  Jason had the dark hair and the cheekbones of his mother,

  but Carter’s blue eyes and straight nose. Carter thought him a

  handsome lad, quick and intelligent—but beyond that, a

  miracle on legs—for he and Sarah had once despaired of ever

  having children. To him, Jason was a fragile vault with all the

  world’s hope locked within. Sometimes, it took his breath

  away.

  Carter turned to Enoch, who rose to meet him. The two

  exchanged warm handshakes. “I didn’t know you were in this

  part of the house,” Carter said.

  “I have to see to a water-clock in Lippenhost,” Enoch said,

  “so I thought: why not drop by and find out how the telegraph

  is going?”

  “Lippenhost?” Mr. Hope said. “I’m unfamiliar with that

  one. I thought I knew them all.”

  “I usually leave it to my assistants,” Enoch said, “but I

  think it’s time I checked it. The truth is, all these years I still

  can’t tell you what it does.”

  “You could let it run down and find out,” Carter suggested.

  Ignoring the humor in Lord Anderson’s eyes, the

  Windkeep shook his head, his Assyrian curls bouncing with

  the movement. “That might not be so smart. The trouble with

  Time is, you let it stop, it’s hard to start it again.”

  Carter clapped him on the shoulder. “Which is why I’m

  glad you’re on the job. Stay and eat with us.”

  Of all the servants, Carter loved Enoch best. He was burly

  and brown as a giant oak and easily as ancient, having by his

  own admission seen three thousand years, though his jet-black

  hair and jovial nature gave him the appearance of a man in his

  late fifties. As a boy, Carter had often followed him on his

  rounds to wind the various clocks that maintained the flow of

  Time, and the Windkeep had indulged him like a doting uncle.

  The three men joined Sarah and Jason on the blanket, and

  from the picnic basket Mr. Hope produced a feast of poached

  turbot with lobster sauce, steamed carp forcemeat served in

  anchovy butter, and salad of pike fillets with oysters. The meal

  went splendidly, except for a rough patch when Jason would

  not eat his carp.


  Carter glanced across the commons. Hard rains had

  recently torn scores of leaves from the cottonwoods, and a gust

  of wind sent them flurrying through the grass. Lord Anderson

  studied their motion, a bite of pike hanging forgotten on his

  fork.

  “Is something wrong?” Sarah asked.

  Carter withdrew from his reverie, looked at his fork as if

  seeing it for the first time, and ate the morsel. “I was just

  thinking. Have you given much consideration to movement?”

  “I consider all my moves before I make them,” she replied,

  “but in what way do you mean?”

  “It’s like those leaves stirring in the wind while we sit still.

  There is a mystery there, as if all of life could be understood if

  only we comprehended their motion. Both Order and Chaos

  are represented—the leaves blowing at random, gusted by

  haphazard winds, yet the winds are part of a vast world

  system, chaotic in manner, but following a complex, orderly

  pattern of interactions. Order and Chaos working together to

  create reality. When I first became Master I understood so

  little. I thought it was about wielding the Seven Words of

  Power and the Lightning Sword, like some cowboy gunslinger

  in the American West. Only later did I begin to comprehend

  the relationship. Now, I could sit for hours thinking of the

  movement of a twig floating down a stream, the fluttering of

  an eyelash, the tapping of a branch against the panes.”

  Sarah reached across the blanket, plucked a leaf from the

  grass, and handed it to Carter. “What do you see?”

  He turned the leaf over by its stem. “A pointed, tear-

  shaped object, nearly but not quite symmetrical, darker on one

  side than the other, with capillaries filled with chlorophyll.

  Order and Chaos again.”

  “No,” she smiled sweetly. “It is a leaf.”

  “You mock me,” he replied, grinning back.

  “I do not, sir.” And he saw she was suddenly serious. “In

  your brooding on the Balance, do not forget the beauty of the

  leaf itself. Don’t go from me, Carter.”

  “Have I been absent?”

  “Not in body. Oh, I understand. You see things other men

  can’t. You feel the whole house breathing around you. It is

  intoxicating. A week ago I saw you standing in the hall, gazing

  at a Morris tapestry as if it were the Holy Grail.”

  “I suppose I do get wrapped up. It’s just—”

  “I know,” she kept her eyes on his. “But it is my duty to