Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  detected a single word. And that word was Power .

  The battle Carter now fought had nearly taken him

  unawares, for he found he did want to give himself to the

  calling. More than once, using a Word of Power, he had

  recognized the way it made him feel—strong, almost

  invincible, terrible to his foes. He had trained himself never to

  misuse that might. Yet, as the sweet throbbing echoed through

  the hall, encompassing him, drawing him into its warmth, he

  wondered what it would be like to embrace even more power,

  to become one with it.

  An almost unbearable breadth of emotions swept through

  him. He remembered his dead parents, the terror of being

  thrown into the Room of Horrors, the sight of Evenmere

  receding into the distance on the day of his childhood exile.

  Unexpected tears streamed down his face. If only he had

  possessed enough power, how he could have changed things!

  He closed his eyes, no longer able to look at the reptile.

  “Listen to it!” the poet urged. “You lost your way once.

  That old wound, every old wound, can be healed. Only listen!”

  But his foe had made his first mistake. Just when Carter

  felt himself going under, giving himself wholly to the calling,

  the poet had reminded him of his responsibilities. If Carter

  fell, there would be no one to stand between the Poetry Men

  and the rest of the house, including Sarah and Jason. At the

  thought of his son he gathered his will, pushing aside the

  armada of emotion. At once, he was aware of his danger.

  He opened his eyes in time to see the lizard spring. He

  flicked his wrist upward, and his sword met the creature’s leap

  with a roar of power, cutting it neatly in half.

  Carter stepped into the light toward the Poetry Man. As if

  in answer, the pulsing grew to a ferocious volume, a spinning

  turbulence driving directly into his brain, tearing at his

  thoughts; no longer a temptation, but a weapon aimed at his

  core. It filled him, and his determination failed. He staggered

  and fell to one knee, mortal flesh overcome by immortal

  longing.

  The poet stepped out of the shadows toward him. “You

  should not have slain my pet.”

  By the firelight, Carter saw the man wore an olive robe

  with a black question mark emblazoned on the front, but the

  streaming mist still hid most of his face. “You have rejected

  the calling, but it will not reject you! Such power will now

  break you.” The man laughed softly. “A shame. A shame.”

  The pulsing rose, higher and higher, maddeningly loud,

  surpassing any volume Carter thought possible. He dropped

  his sword and clutched his ears. It was useless; nothing could

  drown it out. With one hand, he searched for his pistol, but

  could not lift it from his pocket. His breath came in gasps; he

  felt his thoughts disintegrating before concepts vast as

  galaxies, glories beyond expression, sorrows beyond solace. A

  terrible vision filled him; he seemed to be approaching a great

  and mighty Face, too wonderful and awful to bear, the

  archetype of Power in physical form. He had no doubt that if it

  manifested itself, its sheer presence would destroy him; and

  perhaps half of Ghahanjhin with him. Something similar must

  have happened at Jossing.

  In desperation he sought anything that might block its

  coming, searching his innermost thoughts, where lurked the

  Words of Power. It was hard to concentrate with the throbbing

  all around, but at last a Word rose within his mind, its brass

  letters smoldering. He turned every vestige of his will toward

  it, inviting it in, asking it to use him as its instrument.

  In response, it burst into golden flames. The Word Which

  Gives Strength. The heat burned away the beating pulse,

  creating a quiet space where he could think. With an effort, he

  brought the Word to his lips, held it there, and released it, his

  voice barely a whisper.

  Sedhattee.

  The effect was abnormally subdued. A fluttering ran

  around the room, small echoes in the darkness, yet Carter felt

  its energy rush through him, restoring his sense of purpose,

  causing the dreadful vision of the onrushing Face to splinter,

  blur, and fade. Even the throbbing became more bearable.

  In one swift motion, he scooped up his sword and lunged

  at his opponent, extending the full length of his body. The poet

  threw up his hands to protect himself, and a glow emanated

  from between his fingers, turning the thrust of the Lightning

  Sword with a flash of light and energy. Seldom had Carter

  seen his blade thwarted, and never by a creature of flesh and

  blood. But he had learned battles were often lost by the one

  who paused his attack, giving his enemy the chance to

  retaliate, and he struck three times in quick succession, a

  downward blow and thrusts to either side. The glow

  surrounding the Poetry Man’s hands reacted to the assault as if

  alive, appearing wherever Carter struck, blocking the sword

  with a metallic clash.

  A staff composed of light appeared in the poet’s grasp. He

  used it like a hammer, striking at Lord Anderson’s head, a

  clumsy swing displaying a lack of training. Carter parried and

  the weapons met in a cascade of fire. The staff fell upon Lord

  Anderson’s sword with a weight that jarred his entire frame.

  Had the Poetry Man been a true warrior, Carter would have

  been beaten, for it took him a fraction too long to recover from

  the impact.

  As it was, his assailant hesitated, and when the poet did

  attack again, he struck at the same place. This time, Carter

  braced himself as he parried. Even then pain shivered down

  his arm and shoulder. The Power the poet was funneling gave

  him strength far beyond his slender frame.

  Lord Anderson stepped forward, feinting, striking

  wherever he chose. In a normal battle, he would have

  wounded the poet a half-dozen times; the man had the fighting

  ability of a child, making it easy to avoid his blundering jabs.

  But the Lightning Sword could not penetrate the luminous

  shield; and whenever the poet did force Lord Anderson to

  parry, the devastating impact nearly broke Carter’s defenses.

  Still, by his enemy’s expression, seen through the swirling

  mist surrounding his head, Carter knew his thrusts were

  having an effect, and he kept battering away, hoping to get

  past his foe’s guard.

  Even as he fought, Carter sought to bring a Word of Power

  to mind. Something about the pulsing made it difficult, as if

  the two forces warred with one another, but at last he

  envisioned the Word Which Manifests rising not out of

  darkness as was usual, but upon the tides of the pounding

  noise, like a ship struggling on the storm. With an effort, he

  brought it to his throat.

  Falan !

  A golden wave of force proceeded from Lord Anderson,

  meeting his opponent’s shield with a deafening crackle. The

  shield held against the hamm
ering wave, but as the power

  began to build, the poet gave a strangled cry.

  Carter was abruptly sent hurtling across the room by a jolt

  so unexpected he did not at first realize what had happened.

  He found himself lying on his back, his sword fallen from his

  hand. He raised his head to see the Poetry Man thrown in the

  opposite direction. The convergence of the twin forces had

  created a backlash.

  He crawled on hands and knees, retrieved his weapon, and

  stumbled to his feet. The Poetry Man had also regained his

  balance and refashioned his staff.

  Carter drew his pistol and squeezed the trigger, two precise

  shots aimed at the poet’s heart. The bullets struck the Poetry

  Man’s defenses and vanished, not even causing the man to

  wince. Lord Anderson returned the useless weapon to his

  pocket. On tottering feet, the adversaries closed once more.

  Carter struck with his Lightning Sword, danced back to

  dodge the return swipe, and moved forward, wielding his

  blade with the precision of a machine, never hitting in the

  same place, never giving his opponent a chance to counter,

  never allowing the poet to connect. Left side, right side, high,

  low, chest, head, waist, thigh. Again and again. But though he

  struck until his limbs were leaden, he could not break through.

  He began to slow. He met his enemy’s staff with a clumsy

  parry, the poet’s weapon sliding down to the Lightning

  Sword’s hilt, its tip an inch from Carter’s face. He ducked just

  in time.

  “One of us will break, Lord Anderson,” the Poetry Man

  said. “I am willing to die to spread the Light.”

  Through the mist, Carter caught a glimpse of the poet’s

  fanatic glare; the madman would indeed fight to the end. The

  Master retreated a few steps to catch his breath. His enemy

  followed after.

  It would not serve Evenmere for Carter to perish this night,

  not when the other poets still threatened the house. He sought

  a path of escape, but his foe blocked the way.

  Taking advantage of Carter’s hesitation, the poet launched

  a furious assault. Normally it would have been ineffectual, but

  Lord Anderson was tiring. He turned too slowly to avoid the

  staff, and it slammed against his sword arm, sending him

  careening backward. Miraculously, he kept his footing, but the

  poet hurried forward, still flailing, giving no respite. Carter’s

  arm was numb; he could no longer hold his sword, so he

  shifted it to his left hand. He had little skill in this fashion, but

  was still better than his opponent, and managed to parry twice

  against blows that shook his whole body.

  He grew hot with anger at his inability to strike a telling

  blow. Again he marshaled his strength and launched a steady

  attack, keeping his foe off balance, striking at his face, forcing

  the poet to instinctively close his eyes. The nimbus

  surrounding the Poetry Man was wavering; the glow of the

  Lightning Sword had dwindled to obscurity. Carter wondered

  which of the two would fail first.

  In the midst of his attack, a song arose, the rise and fall of

  a powerful bass voice, distant at first, but gradually growing

  nearer. It cut through the throbbing, which abruptly ended, the

  last echoes choking away. Carter retreated a few steps to

  appraise this new danger.

  The Poetry Man stood wide-eyed, listening. With a snarl,

  he sprinted across the room and vanished into the corridor.

  Carter rushed to the threshold, where he heard his foe’s steps

  echoing down the hall, followed by the slamming of a door.

  His strength gone, he groped his way to a chair. The

  singing was closer now, near enough for him to catch the

  words.

  Pass through the night-time

  Pass through the day

  Pass through the darkness

  Run far away

  Oh, yes chil’

  Run far away

  Hide in the meadow

  Safe in the corn

  Far from the danger

  Never alone

  Oh, no chil’

  Never alone

  Envoys of mercy

  Close by your side

  They will be with you

  There where you hide

  Oh, yes chil’

  There where you hide

  The echoes of the last notes died away, followed by

  footfalls along the corridor. Carter backed toward the fire. His

  sword-arm was nearly useless, so he sheathed the blade and

  drew his pistol, steeling himself for whatever approached. But

  instead of an attack, a man called from beyond the circle of the

  flames. “Hello. Hello. Is there room round the fire for

  everybody?”

  Though the tone was deep and friendly, Lord Anderson

  kept his weapon leveled. He could feel his hand trembling

  from fatigue and the aftermath of danger.

  “Present yourself,” he ordered, still panting from his

  exertions.

  A black man stepped into the light. He was unarmed, tall

  and thin, broad-faced and broad-nosed, wearing a gray top hat

  and a frock coat with so many colorful patches little of the

  original material remained.

  “It’s powerful dark here,” the figure said. “Powerful dark.

  Whither do you wander, alone along the Ghahanjhin border?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  The man bowed at the waist, lifting his arms in a sweeping

  gesture. “I am Jonathan T. Bartholomew, singer of songs and

  teller of tales. Some call me Storyteller. Maybe you have heard

  of me.”

  “Storyteller? The Storyteller?”

  The man gave a brilliant grin that wrinkled his broad nose.

  Despite his apparent age, his teeth were ivory white. “There is

  only one in Evenmere and that is me. I heard a terrible

  commotion and came to see what it might be. Do you mind if I

  sit?”

  “Suit yourself,” Carter said. “Your singing chased away a

  … bandit.” Lord Anderson glanced at the place where the

  lizard’s severed body had fallen, but only a dark stain covered

  the floorboards. He shivered.

  “My thanks,” Storyteller replied in his deep, sonorous

  voice. He sat in a wing-back chair, and Carter sat down again

  too, so they faced one another across the hearth. Lord

  Anderson remained on the edge of his seat, gun ready but

  pointed away from the newcomer.

  “This is nice,” Bartholomew said, ignoring the weapon.

  “This is real nice. Shall I call you Carter or Master

  Anderson?”

  Carter recoiled in surprise, but Storyteller laughed.

  “Now don’t you go gettin’ agitated. The Words of Power

  gleam bright as diamonds inside you, and I have known too

  many of your predecessors not to recognize your fancy cloak

  and jagged sword.”

  “Call me anything you like, then,” Carter said, bowing at

  the neck to avoid drawing close enough to shake hands. After

  the deception by L’Marius, Bartholomew’s sudden appearance

  in these deserted quarters struck him as more than suspicious.

  He knew th
e man only by reputation and could not know if

  this was an imposter.

  “A fine pleasure, Master Anderson. A fine pleasure.”

  Carter’s breathing had eased; he was settling down from

  the combat. He tried to recall what he had heard about

  Storyteller. “It is said you have traveled the house for

  centuries.”

  Bartholomew grinned again, dark eyes glistening in the

  flames. He set his hat on a nearby table and scratched his head.

  “Well sir, I reckon it has been a few thousand years. I am old,

  that’s true, perhaps the oldest person in all the house. I am the

  Storyteller, and I have traveled the great halls of Evenmere. I

  have stood in the gray corridors and counted the shadows by

  inches and known the whispering of the wind through the

  endless reaches; and I am part of the Balance and the Song of

  Evenmere. That’s right. For I tell the tales to remind the house

  it has a Master who must see to its maintenance and the

  keeping of the spinning worlds. At times, men scoff and say

  the Master has no such powers. When that happens, I tell the

  Terrible Tales, those not meant for human sensibilities, such

  stories as are given only to me, and at first the scoffers smile,

  and then their smiles turn to scowls and their haughty faces fill

  with fear and their eyes with tears, and they throw themselves

  at my feet, hands over their ears, begging me to say no more. I

  always quit when they ask, and I tell them if a man has the

  power to tell a story too awful to bear, the Master has the

  strength to keep the suns in their courses. Thus, in my own

  way, I maintain the Balance between the Chaos and the Order,

  and the people of this great house allow the Master and his

  servants to pass, never barring the winding of the clocks, nor

  the lighting of the lamps. I am Storyteller, the joy and terror of

  Evenmere.”

  “I … see,” Carter said, impressed despite himself.

  “But it nears nine o’clock, Master Anderson,”

  Bartholomew said, “and you have an appointment with a

  dream.” Carter leapt to his feet, eyes blazing, pistol raised.

  “How could you know that?”

  But the minstrel simply grinned. “Now, now, Master

  Anderson. Be easy. Be eeeasy.” He spread his hand in a fan as

  he said it. “I am not a bit of a danger. Storyteller sees into the

  heart, you know. That’s right. He knows your fear for your son

  and can smell the dream-stuff around you, a fragrance like

  lemon custard. A sweet smell. You have recently been to the