Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  him, Lord Anderson, perhaps fingering this while giving

  commands that would change the course of the battle.

  Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Truly extraordinary,” Carter said, while Mr. Hope nodded

  gravely.

  To the Master’s relief, before the bosun could launch too

  far into the details of his hobby, Nuth returned hefting a heavy,

  black book.

  “Here it is, sir.”

  “Ah, good.” Seizing the volume, L’Marius consulted the

  index and thumbed his way deep into the pages. He glanced

  up, beaming, his nose red with delight.

  “It seems I’m still navigator enough to steer my way

  through the shoals of my memory. This may be exactly what

  you want! An extraordinary tale. Let me see. Let me see.”

  He scanned the page. “According to this, over six centuries

  ago, during the captaincy of Pilot Lessingham, John Kenton

  was the Master of Evenmere. Though renowned for saving the

  house during the Great Famine, Kenton was so overwhelmed

  by his responsibilities he refused to marry, believing he had no

  time for a family. He lived in terror of perishing prematurely

  without passing his knowledge to his successor. Apparently his

  butler was unreliable as well. At that time, some scholars

  working out of the Mere were trying to catalog all the

  knowledge of the house. Driven by obsession, Kenton gave

  them maps of the Secret Ways. He told the uses of the Master

  Keys, the location of the doors of Darkness and Entropy—all

  the secret lore save the Seven Words of Power. The scholars

  inscribed the information in a book and gave it into the

  keeping of the Pilot of the Mere.”

  “Dangerous knowledge, indeed,” Carter said.

  “Shortly thereafter, the Master perished, as Masters

  sometimes do. The new Master must have seen some use in

  the book, for he sealed it in its hiding place with a Word of

  Power, where it has remained ever since.”

  “Does the account indicate the book’s location?” Mr. Hope

  asked.

  L’Marius placed his finger on a line of text. “It is a place

  deep within the swamp.”

  “Swamp?” Hope asked.

  L’Marius strode to the map of the Mere. “The Mere is

  divided into four quarters. The Cozy Rooms, where we are

  now, are situated in the South and West. If you travel east or

  north, you find The Waters. Journey far enough into The

  Waters, and you reach the Thought Marsh. Beyond the marsh

  is the underground sea, and beyond that none know. The Mere

  has many unexplored regions, places even I daren’t go except

  from dire necessity.”

  “The Thought Marsh.” Hope said. “An odd name. Is it

  really a marsh?”

  “Indeed,” L’Marius replied. “No one knows how it got its

  title, but there is an old saying that if you are lost in Thought

  in the Mere of Books, you are lost in a real place.”

  “Sounds like a dreadful pun,” Carter said. “Can you take

  us to the book?”

  L’Marius gave a grin. “Am I not the Bosun of the Mere? I

  know the swamp better than any save the pilot himself. We can

  go at once, if you’d like. I’ll have Nuth ready a boat. I only

  wish I had time to show you more of my button collection.”

  “Perhaps on our next visit,” Carter suggested.

  They finished their tea and set out. L’Marius led them

  through winding corridors lined with every sort of book, going

  deeper into the Mere, finally following narrow, ill-lit passages.

  Carpet gave way to cobblestone floors, wood paneling turned

  to rough-hewn stones that made the corridor seem a cave. The

  hollow echoes of the men’s footfalls fluttered between the

  walls. A brackish odor filled the air. The bookcases were also

  of stone, with shelves starting three feet off the floor.

  After a full hour the passage began sloping downward, and

  the travelers soon found Nuth waiting beneath the dull green

  flames of a gas lamp, water glistening at his feet. A red boat,

  scarcely larger than a canoe, lay by his side. The boy leaned

  against a wall, reading a pamphlet. Noticing the travelers, he

  quickly returned the tract to its place on the shelf.

  “Is she prepared, lad?” L’Marius asked.

  “Aye, sir. I’ve waders for each of you and a lunch basket at

  the stern.”

  As the men donned the heavy wading boots, Nuth lit a

  lantern hanging from a pole at the boat’s bow and released the

  vessel from its moorings. Despite his girth, L’Marius stepped

  easily into the boat. Carter and Hope followed less gracefully,

  their weight making the vessel stammer.

  “Shall I come to row, sir?” Nuth asked.

  “Not necessary, my lad,” the bosun replied. “I’ve stroked

  many a mile. Let the second-mate know where I am gone,

  though, so he doesn’t fret. A fretful man, the second-mate.”

  “Aye, sir. And is that all, sir?”

  “Hmm? Ah, just this,” L’Marius reached into his pocket

  and tossed a coin the boy’s way. “A bit of reward for a job

  well done.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Nuth called enthusiastically, leaping

  away up the passage.

  Taking the oars from their locks, the bosun propelled the

  boat with even strokes. The lantern’s glow revealed the rough

  walls to either side, but beyond the circle of illumination the

  water before the travelers lay in absolute darkness. The noise

  of the oars echoed between the walls.

  “I didn’t expect this ,” Hope said softly. “And see, there

  are still bookshelves on both sides.”

  “Mostly grim volumes here,” L’Marius said, “though none

  so loathsome as those within the marsh itself, where you can

  find not just the Krankenhammer and The Book of Eibon , but

  the dreaded companion volume to The King in Yellow: Regrets

  of the King . The Pilot carries a scar on his left thumb, seared

  there from merely touching its spine.”

  “Books housed in darkness with water all around?” Mr.

  Hope asked. “How do they survive?”

  “Through the work of the Book Dryers, whose task is to

  preserve the publications within the Waters. We’ll probably

  see one of their boats. But they handle only the volumes

  outside the marsh; those within do not require any care, even if

  men courageous enough to grasp them could be found. They

  sustain themselves. ’Tis said the anarchists gained much of

  their power reading those books.”

  “Why not move them to a better place?” Carter asked.

  “The Mere of Books isn’t like that, you see,” L’Marius

  said. “It was above-ground in the beginning, a white-marble

  fountain and pool surrounded by the library. Well-lit, no

  darkness anywhere. ’Twas the darkness of men’s minds

  created the marsh, and the books gravitate to the part of the

  library that suits ’em.”

  The walls abruptly fell away from the range of the lantern,

  and the changing echoes told the men they had entered a large

  cavern. The roof, now lower, was
visible in the lantern light.

  “This is the actual Mere,” L’Marius said.

  “Are all the books of a disturbing nature?” Mr. Hope

  asked.

  “Oh, no. There are lots of mysteries and adventure novels,

  things like that. Some good reading, long as you don’t fare too

  far into the marsh.”

  “There are forces at work around us,” Carter said, the hairs

  on the back of his arms standing up. “Chaos and Order, and—

  most especially—Entropy. It is very strong here. The Mere has

  more to do with the Balance than I ever imagined.”

  “The human spirit,” L’Marius said, “that’s what it’s about.

  Cities and countries, physical objects—these are ephemeral.

  Words and ideas, they have a tangible reality. When towers

  tumble, the words remain. Troy is gone, but Homer lives on.”

  Carter glanced at the bosun. Sitting at the oarlocks, gazing

  into the darkness, the man seemed more bard than sailor.

  They soon spied a Book Dryers’ tubby craft, brightly lit

  with seven orange lanterns, crewed by ten dryers in gloves,

  helmets, and yellow slickers. As the vessel slipped slowly

  along the wall, the dryers removed the books one at a time,

  working in assembly-line fashion, the last man replacing each

  volume on the shelf.

  “I would like to see the process more closely,” Mr. Hope

  said.

  “I fear I am pressed for time,” the bosun said, giving a

  careless wave to the members of the crew. “Other duties

  require my attention. But perhaps if our mission goes well, we

  can stop on our return.”

  “It must be a miserable job,” Carter said, “spending so

  much time in the dark.”

  “It is oppressive, and their duties require deep

  concentration. Theirs is a battle against Chaos. A book must

  never be lost to the waters. They work in shifts, each man

  laboring only every other day, three days per week, and are

  well compensated.”

  To quicken their pace, Mr. Hope manned an extra set of

  oars, and thereafter he and Carter took turns rowing. The water

  remained still, a stagnant, reeking pool. Moss hung along the

  walls and from the stone roof. They passed intersecting

  channels and followed tributaries of varying widths, twisting

  and forking in many directions. Even with the help of his inner

  maps, it would require hours of study for Carter to make sense

  of it, yet the bosun navigated with obvious ease.

  Black trees appeared, like cypress but with slimy leaves

  white as mushrooms. Pale tangles of vegetation protruded

  from cracks in the walls. Carter wondered how they survived

  without sunlight. Featherless, eyeless birds, large as pelicans,

  flapped silently between the branches.

  “We are in the Thought Marsh now,” the bosun said.

  “Keep your hands out of the water. The serpents are

  poisonous.”

  “Have I mentioned my dread of snakes?” Mr. Hope asked,

  peering suspiciously along the gunnels.

  “You wanted an adventure,” Carter replied.

  “I want nothing serpentine. Is this the sort of thing you

  normally do when you travel?”

  “At times. The house is full of strange places. But I will be

  glad to be done with this one. I don’t like the feel of it.”

  “Perhaps I have undervalued the importance of research,”

  the butler said. “I would prefer to be back in my office just

  now; but I suppose I’m breaking some unspoken rule,

  speaking of my terror. I will try to refrain.”

  “There’s the spirit,” Carter said, giving an encouraging

  smile. “An out-thrust jaw and a brave stance—you’ll feel

  better for it.”

  Inwardly, Carter felt no more courageous than his friend.

  The darkness was nearly complete, though a foreboding glow,

  like will-o-’the-wisps, danced in the distance. The only sounds

  were the slapping oars and the unsteady drip of water from the

  overhanging trees, a sticky dew that covered the travelers’

  faces and garments.

  As they moved farther into the marsh, a green scum

  appeared upon the water, which the boat parted in its passing.

  Bloated, bone-pale lily pads dotted the surface; blood-eyed

  frogs peered between pallid rushes. Fire-flies, emitting a

  ghostly green glow, drifted above the pool. Stinging gnats

  swarmed the men’s faces, forcing Carter and Hope to

  constantly defend themselves. The bosun, protected by an

  ointment offensive to the creatures, gave no heed; nor did he

  apologize for failing to provide protection for his guests, but

  kept up a good-humored chatter about the marsh’s

  eccentricities. With some irritation, Carter realized the man

  was enjoying detailing its dangers.

  Four oppressive hours later, they stopped rowing long

  enough to eat a cheerless meal of cold beef and bread. After

  swallowing a dozen of the gnats covering the food, Carter

  tossed the remainder into the marsh, where something

  immediately pulled it beneath the surface. Mr. Hope followed

  suit, while L’Marius ate his with a good appetite.

  “Adds protein, my good fellows,” the bosun said. “Adds

  protein.”

  They rowed on, Lord Anderson and Mr. Hope miserably

  hungry, L’Marius humming a tune.

  At last they came to a stone pillar rising from the water,

  etched with the crest of the Inner Chambers: a triple-towered

  castle with an armored hand wielding a sword rising from the

  topmost turret. Beneath, half-hidden by moss, were inscribed

  the words Gainsay Who Dare . The men rowed to an

  embankment facing the edifice, which proved to be a stone

  pier obscured by vegetation. L’Marius lit a second lantern, and

  they scrambled onto the pier. Beyond it stood a granite door

  with a rusty lock.

  “I haven’t a key for that,” Carter said.

  “I do,” the bosun said, withdrawing a large ring of keys

  from his pocket. The lock turned remarkably easily, but it took

  the strength of all three men to open the heavy door, and even

  then they could draw it back only a few inches. Fetid air, the

  scent of a crypt, struck Carter full in the face.

  L’Marius led the way, forcing his bulk through the

  opening. “This way, gentlemen.”

  They stepped through a passage into a rectangular

  chamber, also of stone, bare save for another door against the

  far wall. Carter could feel energy emanating from the door,

  warm as a flame against his face, a force which could only

  have been created by a Word of Power.

  “You were right,” Lord Anderson said. “This door is

  sealed.”

  “Can you get inside?”

  “The question is, do I want to?”

  “Isn’t that why you came?” L’Marius asked.

  “Perhaps not. Since we now know the door is secured, our

  best course may be to leave it alone.”

  “Assuming the Poetry Men have no way to open it,” the

  bosun said. “You said they’d discovered a new source of

  power.”

  “It would take pow
er indeed to overcome the Word Which

  Seals.”

  “I’m merely a bosun,” L’Marius replied, “ignorant of the

  high matters of the Master, but I know there are many forms of

  energy within Evenmere, and I give the devil his due. Evil can

  be powerful.”

  “There is another consideration,” Mr. Hope said.

  “You’re thinking what I am,” Carter said. “You and I have

  faced what Master Kenton most feared. Both my father and the

  previous butler died without passing on the Master’s

  knowledge.”

  “If we had the book,” Hope said, “we wouldn’t always be

  struggling to uncover the mechanisms of the house. It might

  supply information that could mean the difference between life

  and death.”

  “We should at least investigate,” Carter said. “I suggest

  you step out of the room, gentlemen, while I unseal these

  doors. The manifestation of one of the Words can be

  dangerous.”

  After his companions departed, Carter closed his eyes,

  seeking within himself with practiced ease, bringing his

  concentration to bear. Gradually, the Word Which Seals, which

  can also be used to unseal, rose from the darkness behind his

  eyelids, the letters burning with fire in his mind’s eye. The

  Word grew until it loomed before him, its heat pulsing against

  his brow. He brought it to his throat, poising it there, releasing

  it only when he could hold it no longer.

  Nargoth !

  It roared from his lips, filling the entire chamber. He felt

  the seal on the door resist, then quaver and break.

  He opened his eyes. A moment later, the bosun peered

  cautiously into the room.

  “Are you well, Lord Anderson? It sounded like the whole

  world’s cannons firing at once.”

  Carter swayed unsteadily. Sweat beaded his brow. “The

  level of released power is variable according to the need. That

  was a … particularly strong display.”

  “It was, indeed,” Mr. Hope said, squeezing back into the

  room behind the bosun. “You’ve cowed the entire swamp.”

  “No more than I cowed myself. I’ve never tried to break

  another Master’s seal before. Proof the Words of Power exist

  outside the wielder’s will. Whoever secured the door may be

  long dead; the Word he used isn’t. I think I should enter by

  myself.”

  “We can’t desert you now,” L’Marius said.

  “Your bravery is appreciated, but there are times the