and Jonathan Bartholomew sitting wide-eyed in his chair, as if
he had watched throughout the night. The minstrel gave Carter
a broad grin. “Good morning, Master Anderson. And how
were your dreams?”
“Dreadful,” Carter replied. “Thank you for keeping watch.
You even stoked the fire.”
“It grew chill in the small hours. But you are troubled. A
bit of breakfast helps curb the fears of the night. Would you
like some? I have oranges, bread, and cheese.”
The mention of food made Carter realize how famished he
was. “I would, indeed.” He rose and stretched. Despite his
vigil in the country of slumber, he felt refreshed, as is the way
when the Master walks the land of dream.
Bartholomew did not ask what had occurred, nor did
Carter volunteer any information, but as they ate, the minstrel
said, “I think I will accompany you awhile, if it isn’t any
trouble.”
“Surely you have other responsibilities?” Carter replied,
uncertain how he felt about it.
Bartholomew gave a broad smile. “That’s right. But I will
tell you the truth, Master Anderson. I didn’t find you by
accident last night. No. I heard you were nearby and I was
searching for you. Don’t start lookin’ troubled! I didn’t tell
you that yesterday evening because if I had, you wouldn’t
have trusted me enough so you could visit your son. I know
who you faced in this chamber. I wanted to see you because
these men of verse have caught my ear. They are, after all,
trampling on my roses, if you follow me. Who is more likely
to find them than the Master?”
“I see.” He considered, wondering exactly who this man
was. “How do you know so much? What can you tell me about
these poets?”
“As the saying goes, the walls of Evenmere have ears. In
my travels, I meet a lot of people and hear a lot of things. Most
of what I hear doesn’t matter, but the Poetry Men are different.
I know no more than you do about them, but I want to see for
myself. So Storyteller will come along.”
“And what will you do when you find them?”
“Maybe I will ask them what they mean. Should we be
off?”
Lord Anderson appraised the man, who sat, eyebrows
raised, awaiting Carter’s answer. He was likable enough, and
there would be time to learn more about him from Mr. Hope’s
research. If he was as old as he claimed, he was bound to
possess useful information, and might prove handy in a fight.
Carter nodded. “Let’s go.”
They packed their meager belongings and headed down
the corridor, skirting the Ghahanjhin border throughout most
of that day. Around supper-time they opened a four-panel door
and entered the sparkling luminance of the Looking Glass
Marches, the mile-wide buffer surrounding that country, a
mirror-filled maze serving as a line of defense. Carter intended
to cut through the marches to reach the western Aylyrium
border. Although he could see no one, he knew they were
being watched by men armed with short bows and blow-guns.
“I should lead from here,” he told Bartholomew. “My inner
maps allow me to traverse the maze.”
“Now, now, Master Anderson. Storyteller is old, as you
have said. I know the way. Just follow me and you won’t have
to stop to consult those maps of yours.”
So saying, he set out across the passages, striding as surely
as a man walking down a country lane, unperturbed by the
deceptions created by the endless mirrors and clear panes of
glass.
“How can you be so certain of your steps?” Carter asked.
Storyteller glanced over his shoulder and flapped his
patchwork coat like a bird. “Oh, there is nothing to this. I have
flown through these parts. I think of the house as my own.”
“I have always thought of it as its own.”
“That’s right. You’ve got it just so. But I am right, too.”
From his name and reputation, Carter expected his
companion to be always telling wonderful tales, but the
opposite proved true; Jonathan Bartholomew exuded a deep
joy, a splendor of spirit manifested not in stories, which he told
only for a reason, but in the tone and flow of his words, in the
ivory bastions of his bright smile, in his dark face and
glistening brown eyes.
They passed through the Looking Glass Marches without
seeing another soul, and entered the warm, buttermilk halls of
Aylyrium. The security of the border resting on Ghahanjhin’s
clandestine shoulders, the men did not encounter any sentries,
and were soon strolling over tessellated Holdstock carpet,
replete with shimmering silk borders from the Early Aylyrium
era. Argent banners streamed from the high ceiling. The glass
doorknobs held brass butterflies with outstretched wings.
Aylyrium was an old civilization, where the first chamber-
states were said to have arisen. Many of the classic
philosophers—Wainamoinen, Vergilius, Oromanes—had made
their homes in Aylyrium; John Whitbourn’s revolutionary
Humanity Considered as a Counterpane had been written near
the site of ancient Arkover, where the learned still gathered in
the hallowed halls of the Disputatium to discuss their
speculations and theories.
The deeper into Aylyrium the travelers went, the grander
grew the corridors, until they walked along an elegant
concourse. Windows lined both sides of the paneled passage,
which was four stories tall and framed in Aquitanitan
cherubesques. Tiny palmettes, interspersed with daises, were
etched around the edge of every lintel. Shops appeared, selling
cloth, books, chocolate from Querny, and exotic furniture from
Far Wing. The travelers passed through courtyards open to the
sky, with tall oaks and mulberry trees rising between green
paving stones and trumpet vines flowing up stone towers; the
air hung sweet with the fragrance of lilacs.
“I love coming here,” Carter said. “Such fine architecture.
So many artists and artisans.”
“It reminds me of the cities outside the house,”
Bartholomew said, “only cleaner.”
“You have traveled beyond Evenmere?”
“No, but I have seen glimpses from afar. The entrance to
Evenmere hasn’t always been where it is now. At times, it has
stood near, or even within, cities.”
Carter frowned. “I didn’t know that. I lived in the outer
world for fourteen years. It always seemed alien to me. Too
many endless reaches. Vast plains; desert wastes. I prefer a
world that is all house.”
“There is great beauty in the outside world: canyons and
rainbows, sunrise on sprawling plains, hawks in flight, lions
passing through the veldt. The world, both inside and outside
of Evenmere, is good, unless people make it otherwise.”
“It’s hard to think so, with my son in peril. I have faced
dangers to the house before, and more than once despaired of
making it through. Yet we prevailed in the end; and I have
learned things are not always as dark as they seem. But this
threat to Jason … I wish I knew what to do.”
“It’s nearly noon,” Bartholomew said, as they passed
beside an outdoor cafe. “The best thing to do is to have lunch.”
The travelers seated themselves in fluted chairs at a bronze
table. A waiter dressed in velvet breeches, a jabot, and a long
matching coat took the men’s orders, and they were soon
feasting on Aylyrium apples and a delicate stew of freshwater
fish. To Carter’s own surprise, under Jonathan’s quiet gaze, he
found himself relating his encounter with Doctor Armilus.
Carter finished, adding, “Armilus was able to reach my son
in the dream dimension when Jason was outside the Inner
Chambers, but failed to gain entrance last night, so my boy
should be safe. Still, I can’t be certain. You strike me as very
wise. What would you counsel? What more can I do?”
“I would suggest you eat your stew,” Jonathan said. “It is
quite good.”
Carter lifted his eyebrows. “Have you no other advice?”
“Oh, no,” Jonathan replied. “No, no. Storyteller does not
advise. Storyteller tells stories.”
That night they lodged at an inn with arched portals, walls
painted to simulate emerald, dun, and red marble; and
intricate, polychromic ceilings embossed with windmills,
entwined maple leaves, and children at play. A West Highland
Terrier named Wallace greeted every guest at the door.
The dining hall was divided into small rooms, and that
evening Jonathan went about his work, telling tales beside a
half-moon hearth. Within the hour, the inn’s patrons had
deserted the other chambers to flock around him. They sat in
wooden chairs and low couches before him, faces upturned,
enthralled as children before the spell of his deep, melodious
voice. Sometimes he sang, sonorous and unaccompanied,
sometimes he chanted. The fire crackled its warm approbation;
the shadows sank comfortably into the corners.
Jonathan’s tales were not cozy fables, but stories filled
with cold beauty and deep sorrows. His words went to the
heart, piercing first one member of the audience and then
another, as if each tale was intended for a specific person.
Whenever the blow struck home, it showed in the eyes of the
listener. The faces of some grew radiant; others took on a
haunted expression. One woman fled the room in tears. A
burly man, with two long scars running down his face and
neck, bowed his head and blubbered. And still Jonathan
continued, stroking with slender fingers the terrier that had
crept into his lap.
Carter noticed one other thing about Storyteller’s stories:
each in some small way suggested the importance of either
being responsible to others, or of serving those in command of
the social and political order of Evenmere. As the minstrel had
said, he reinforced the rule of the house.
The hour drew close to nine, when Carter intended to
return to his room, but he found himself so comfortable in the
overstuffed chair, which was just the right distance from the
fire; and he felt so safe listening to Jonathan, he decided to
remain. He muttered the Word Which Masters Dreams,
making the room quiver only slightly, and so enthralled were
Storyteller’s listeners they did not even notice.
Lord Anderson found himself once more in the Gray Edge
outside the Inner Chambers. He unlocked the Green Door and
made his way down the hall.
In Jason’s room he discovered the lamp sitting on the
dresser; his son had yet to go to bed. He sat in a chair to wait,
and soon caught a flicker out of the corner of one eye, and the
lamp stood on the night stand.
After making his rounds throughout the Inner Chambers,
he returned to the chair in Jason’s room and used the Word
Which Brings Aid. Moments later, the butler came tramping
up the stair.
“You rang, sir?”
Carter smiled. “I never ring.”
“No,” Mr. Hope said, “you only summon me from a sound
sleep.”
“Not technically, since you’re still in one. I need to know if
you’ve learned anything about Jonathan Bartholomew. He and
I are traveling together.”
Hope sat on the bed. “You wouldn’t believe the number of
references I’ve found. And that’s only as far back as the
fifteenth century.”
“He is as old as he claims?”
“I suspect he is old as moist earth. I asked Enoch about
him. He grinned and called him a grand fellow. He said you
could never mistake him for an imposter because no one can
do what Jonathan can.”
“After this evening, I know what he means,” Lord
Anderson said. “I can’t describe the way he can tell a tale.
Cuts you like a cleaver.”
“He has been discreetly involved in the affairs of the house
for generations,” Mr. Hope said, “always far behind the
scenes. The reason I missed references to him before is
because he is called by dozens of names: Storyteller, Minstrel,
Vagabond, Spinner. It took hours of cross-referencing to
discover it. I wouldn’t have found it at all, except his true
name, Jonathan T. Bartholomew, crops up occasionally.” Hope
gave a wry smile. “He is certainly a mystery. I think he is
trustworthy within limits, but take warning: he usually has his
own agenda, one that may contradict yours. The records
suggest he was generally welcomed by previous Masters, but
had conflicts with some.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. I trust Enoch’s judgment and my own
instincts. If you find anything else about him, let me know.”
The two friends kept the vigil together that night without
seeing any sign of Doctor Armilus.
As for Jonathan T. Bartholomew, as the evening waned the
timbre of his tales grew soft as thistledown, the stories stirring
hearts with memories of rocking chairs and quiet hearths, of
peace within a happy home, of mothers’ croonings and
fathers’ laughter, of being carried drowsy to bed to sleep long
beneath warm covers. He sang a final song, and without
speaking a word the listeners drifted to their rooms to fall into
dreamless slumber.
When Jonathan and Lord Anderson were alone with the
dog and the dying fire, the minstrel lifted Carter as easily as a
man might a child, and carried him upstairs to his room.
Aylyrium
Carter woke the next morning, still in his clothes, but with
his boots and hat lying neatly by his bedside. He felt less
refreshed than on the morning before, rather thin, as if the
nightly treks were gradually wearing him away. This came as a
surprise, especially since this had been only his second night
in the dream dimension. Clearly he was mistaken about there
being no consequences to repeated visits there, and he
wondered, with a grim dread, how lo
ng he could keep it up.
He rose, bathed, and went downstairs to find Jonathan sitting
before the hearth as if he had never left. Yet the minstrel
looked bright and fresh.
“Good morning,” Jonathan said.
“Good morning. Do you ever sleep?”
“Kitten naps, here and there.”
“Thank you for taking care of me last night. I hated to
leave the party.”
“The night went well?”
“Very.”
They breakfasted on biscuits, eggs, bacon, and oranges. As
they dined, the other wayfarers began drifting into the
chamber. The woman who had left weeping the night before
came shyly to Jonathan; with wisps of tears in her eyes she
bent to hug his slender neck. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank
you.”
“That’s all right.” He patted her back with his long,
delicate hands. “That’s all right. No need to say more.”
Others entered and gave Jonathan jolly waves,
conspiratorial winks, and warm handshakes. Coins began to
stack up on the table: copper, silver, and even gold. One man
presented the minstrel with a leather bag, but Storyteller
handed it back without looking inside.
“You have given too much,” he said softly. “And you will
need every bit of it for the thing you must do.”
The man looked confused, then a brilliant smile lit his
features. He clasped Jonathan’s hand as if to wring it off, and
immediately left the inn.
The burly man came last. With his head down like a
scolded child, he placed a locket on the table. “I’ve carried this
in anger, m’lord,” he said. “And I’m going now to set things
right with my brother.”
“The woman in the locket forgave you long ago,” Jonathan
said.
When they were gone, Carter and Storyteller sat eating in
silence. Finally Lord Anderson said, “I am humbled. I have
my position and my power; I am given a grand residence in
the Inner Chambers. Now I see I have been but the protector of
the physical world, while you do the great work of the spirit.”
“Ah, the big fish eat the little ones,” Storyteller replied.
“But sometimes they just eye one another, nose to nose, in
respect. There is plenty of room in the ocean.”
The professors of Aylyrium reside within seventy ivory
towers, carved from the tusks of long-extinct mammoths.
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 11
