Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  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.