struggling to hold the vial in place. The suction grew; he felt
the skin of his jowls being pulled downward. The force
became nearly unbearable; the second hand trembled. He bent
his strength of will toward keeping the container in position.
Just when he thought he could bear no more, a flash of
golden light passed from the second hand into the vial. With a
click that seemed to shake the entire house, the clock moved
forward one second.
Armilus stoppered the container and the vacuum ceased.
Triumph flushed his heavy face. Eyes shining, he retrieved his
bowler hat, which had tumbled to the floor during the struggle.
As he looked at the vial, however, glistening golden with the
captured time, his expression grew somber. Whatever the true
nature of the Eternity Clock, he had just stolen a fragment
from it. If, as some said, it marked the amount of time
remaining until the end of the universe, millions of people
might never have time to be born.
“Yet one must break eggs,” he muttered to the beast. He
gave a rueful smile, feeling suddenly like a god.
Summoning and dealing with the police in the aftermath of
the murders in the library had made Lord Anderson late
entering the dream dimension, but he was soon hurrying
through the gray mist of the Long Corridor beside the Green
Door leading into the Inner Chambers. As he passed down the
men’s corridor and the butler’s corridor from the back of the
house to the transverse corridor, he glanced out the narrow
window alongside the door leading into the Yard, halted in
disbelief, and rushed into the twilight to face the charred
countryside and the white gash hanging surreal in the evening
light beside the melted lamppost. A half-sob escaped him. He
drew a deep breath and slumped onto a bench beside the well,
an empty throbbing in his chest. The charring continued to the
horizon, leaving the few standing trees in scarecrow ruin.
When he spoke the Word Which Brings Aid, he expected
Mr. Hope to appear, but after several moments, the back door
opened and Sarah stepped out, dressed in blue silk.
“Carter?”
He rushed forward and hugged her fiercely, speaking in a
hoarse whisper, “I am glad it was you. Very glad. Are you and
Jason all right?”
“We are both fine, except for worrying about you. We have
heard strange reports.”
“I’ve had a dreadful time of it. And now, seeing this …
Father and I used to ride our horses through that wood. I was
afraid something had happened to you. It would be more than I
could bear.”
She held him close, stroking the back of his hair with her
hand. “I know. We’re sick at heart. How little significance we
give to place until it is gone.” She glanced down at her
garments. “This isn’t what I was wearing. I don’t even own a
dress like this.”
“It has to do with your self-image in the dream-world.”
Sarah spread the skirt to study the material. “It’s rather
fetching. Perhaps I’ll have one made.”
Carter released her and sat down on the bench beside the
well. “Tell me the whole story.”
Sarah did so, ending with, “Chant is as disconcerted as
I’ve ever seen him. Captain Nunth brought a contingent of the
Fireman of Ooz, but the flames were spent by the time they
arrived. Mr. Hope sent riders at dawn, who reported the
devastation ends four miles down the road. Nunth was baffled
both by the speed with which it consumed the trees, and the
way it died instead of continuing through the forest, as if it
worked with purpose. The poet could not penetrate into the
Inner Chambers, but at least three of his fellows have been
sighted within the house, often accompanied by anarchists;
they melt away before our troops arrive.” She glanced at the
twisted lamppost and said bleakly, “No humor intended. If
they unleash such flames inside Evenmere …”
She took his hand. “Tell me what has been happening to
you.”
When he had finished, she said, “Oh, Carter, how horrible!
Seeing your mother like that!”
“Lady Order said the poets would strike at the Circle of
Servants,” Carter said. “I wonder how she knew?”
“Chant,” Sarah said, placing her hand over her mouth.
“He was clearly the target. You must have Major Glis
dispatch men to accompany both him and Enoch on their
rounds. We must also station guards at once at Shadow Hall,
the Tower of Astronomy, the Quadrangle of Angles, all the rest
of the Circle. And tell Mr. Hope to send men to make a
thorough search of the College of Poets. Where are Chant and
Enoch now?”
“Chant left for Keedin this morning, and Enoch has gone
to wind the Hundred Years Clock.”
“The Clock! I forgot about it. Of all the times for him to be
so far away.”
“I know, but Mr. Hope has pored over the records; there
isn’t any question of Enoch not going. Disaster will follow
unless the clock is wound.”
“Enoch told us as much already,” Carter said, suddenly
overwhelmed. “A fine use of Hope’s time when he should be
seeking information on the poets.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “Don’t get irritable with me, love. I
sharpen my tongue each night with a file. You haven’t a
prayer.”
A bolt of anger ran through Lord Anderson, but it vanished
when she gave him a smile.
“Oh, bother!” he cried. “It isn’t you I’m frustrated with.
Nor William. I’m sure you’re as worn as I.”
“Worn but not filed down.”
“It’s just … my course is clear; and it isn’t what I want. I
have to find Erin Shoemate and The Book of Verse . I believe
she is the key to the poets’ might. Her diary said she journeyed
first to Jossing, then to the Tower of Astronomy. With Jossing
in ruins, I must seek the Grand Astronomer, to see if he knows
where she went. But I want to be here with my son.”
She laid her palm against his face. “There is no help for it.
And we even lack verse to comfort us. When last I went to my
books, I found the lines dissonant. When I tried to play the
flute the tones were garbled and hideous. Chant is the same.
He suspects the poetry is being siphoned away and used as raw
power.”
“Poetry as a weapon? It sounds ludicrous. And yet … He
paused, considering. “Lady Order said the poets were tapping
into Chaos, but I think that is only her perception, based on the
results of their actions being so chaotic. The power I have
witnessed is fundamental, elemental force, not unlike the
Words of Power or the energy of the Cornerstone.”
“Words have strength,” Sarah said. “Civilization is built
upon them. Chant spoke of facing what he called Immortal
Fire, the word fire given physical form, the essence of flame.”
“Whatever it is, it is too terrible to be controlled.” C
arter
repressed a shudder. “I’ll speak to Jonathan of this. Being a
master bard, he may have some insight.”
“You seem to trust this Storyteller,” she said. “We have all
heard of him; but how do you know he is who he says? It
seems suspicious, his attaching himself to you at this time.”
“His first appearance probably saved my life.”
“A ruse perhaps, to set you off your guard.”
“Have you been spending too much time with Chant? His
cynicism is rubbing off.”
Sarah blushed. “Is it? Or is it just the constant intrigues of
the house? If I suspect conspiracies, it is because there is
always one going on at some level or other. You would not
believe what the upstairs maid did yesterday to undercut the
hall boy.”
For the first time that evening, Carter laughed. “I wish that
were the worst of our troubles.”
“You find it amusing; I threatened to send her to debtors’
prison. Told her Major Glis would escort her personally. I
haven’t time for such nonsense.”
“We haven’t any debtors’ prisons.”
“She doesn’t know that. It’s in all the romances.”
“You always cheer me,” he said, kissing her cheek and
rising. “You needn’t worry about Storyteller, or I am no judge
of men. I should look at that gash.”
“Must you? It frightens me.”
“You’d best stay in the Yard.”
He passed beneath the grape arbor and unlocked the white
gate. The grass up to the fence line was black ash that
powdered on his boots as he approached the mysterious gap.
The white void hung in the air, a two-dimensional hole in the
world, obscuring the sky behind it. He walked around it. It
appeared exactly the same from the back. He shivered.
“Can you give me a tree branch?”
Sarah found one lying on the ground and handed it over
the low wall. He used it to prod the opening. The part of the
limb that crossed into the gash disappeared, but returned
whole when Carter withdrew it. He pitched it into the
blankness and it vanished without a sound. He disregarded the
impulse to thrust in his face.
He realized just how exhausted his day’s battle had left
him when he tried to summon the Word Which Seals. It came
only with the greatest effort, but finally appeared in his mind,
floating in darkness, the letters aflame. When he spoke it, it
echoed over the distant hills. The air quivered expectantly; the
rent began to close, the blankness shrinking upon itself. Within
moments, all trace was gone, leaving only scorched earth and
the warped lamppost.
“Much better,” he said, staggering from his effort. “I seem
to be using the Word Which Seals too much lately, as if the
universe were springing leaks.”
He and Sarah made the rounds of the house together that
night. When at last the lamp drifted from the dresser to the
night stand, Carter held his wife in a long farewell.
“I wish I had known I could reach you through dream
during our early years,” he said. “There were so many nights
when I longed to see your face.”
“Much of your experience as Master has been trial and
error. It seems a chancy way to run the universe.”
“We live a chancy existence.”
“A burden shared is a burden halved,” Sarah said. “A
scientific fact, like osmosis and steam engines.”
They kissed and Carter ordered their awakening.
Lord Anderson awoke back in his room in Aylyrium. He
groaned, ran his hands over his eyes, and rose to bathe and
dress. Trudging wearily down to breakfast, he threw himself
into a chair across from Storyteller, who sat eating strips of an
orange.
“You have had a bad time of it,” Jonathan said, in a voice
that was not a question. “Is your Lamp-lighter all right?”
Carter gaped. “How could you possibly know about that?”
“The walls of Evenmere have ears, Master Anderson.”
Carter studied his companion, wondering just how far his
abilities went. He wished he knew more about the man. When
the minstrel gave no further explanation, Lord Anderson said,
“On top of everything else, I am beginning to feel—I don’t
know. Not exactly weary. Thin. Stretched. My mind seems
fogged. In my previous experiences, I always woke refreshed
from the dream world. But the last few days … I don’t know
how much longer I can continue these nightly excursions.
Some sort of cumulative effect, I suppose.”
As they ate, Carter related all that had occurred.
“We have too many mysteries,” Jonathan said, frowning
down at his plate. “I have never heard of the tower where you
saw Professor Shoemate, just as I had never heard of this Book
of Lore you discovered.”
“You can hardly be blamed for that. Evenmere is too large
for anyone to know everything about it.”
“You misunderstand me.” The minstrel’s brow was
unusually furrowed. “Storyteller has been in this house for
centuries. Over the ages, I have learned many things, some
small, some great. The tower I might have overlooked, though
it seems strange not to have even heard the rumor of it, but this
book is too important to have escaped my notice. There are
many in Evenmere who know me. I will put out the word and
see if we can learn more about the book and tower.”
“Good. Have you noticed any change in your own abilities,
as far as the draining away of poetry, writing, and music?”
“I have not. Perhaps my talents are so small there is little
to lose.” He laughed, then grew grim. “Each of these things
you mention, even music, stems from the love of story.
Everything grows from it. It is the root that raises us above the
animals. The dog and the cat tell no tales; they do not sit
before the fire and speak of the old days. If these poets grow
strong enough, I too may fail. I should like to continue on with
you.”
Carter brightened. “I would be greatly pleased. You will
save me the dreariness of traveling alone. But I need to leave
at once.”
“My bags are always packed, Master Anderson, for I carry
their contents on my own two shoulders.”
The companions were soon trudging down a red corridor
leading away from the university. They journeyed that day
through Aylyrium, and at Jonathan’s suggestion stopped for
the evening at Brown Study, a series of chambers entered
through a plain, four-panel door, filled with leather chairs, oak
beams, and fireplaces with massive inglenooks. Most of the
rooms were deserted, but a servant soon appeared, a thin
fellow with a thatch of gray hair sticking almost straight up,
dressed in a red coatee with white trim, epaulets, and a double
row of brass buttons down the front.
“Steward Moonslack at your service,” the man declared,
giving a half bow. “Welcome to Brown Study. If you like, my
wife can prepare your d
inner.”
“Thank you,” Carter said. “That would be most agreeable.
The generosity of Brown Study is legendary.”
“It is due to the beneficence of Father Brown,” Moonslack
replied in a bored monotone, as if reading the lines. “These
chambers were deeded to his family seven centuries ago by a
house-grant from the Aylyrium Polenuein Council. A bit of a
traveler, he was known for his kindness, and dying without
heir, set aside a trust to ensure sojourners should always be
well treated, as is only good and proper.”
“Yet you do not truly think so,” Jonathan said.
Moonslack’s long face contracted in surprise. “I said
nothing of the sort, sir.”
“No, you did not.”
Moonslack shrugged and rubbed his hand over his chin in
what Carter soon realized was an habitual gesture, as if he
searched for a missing goatee. “It ain’t always worked out the
way the father thought it would. He was smart enough to make
sure no one remains more than two days, but we get a lot of
unsavory characters, ne’er-do-wells rather than gentlemen like
yourselves.” He gave Storyteller’s patchwork coat a look of
obvious disfavor.
“Then you are a fortunate man,” Jonathan said, “for
perhaps you have entertained angels unaware.”
“Them stories sound good to children, but my wife and I
ain’t seen no angels hereabouts. And don’t believe people are
grateful. They take plenty and give little.”
The man halted, perhaps wondering if he had said too
much. “But that ain’t your concern nor mine, gentlemen.
Dinner will be served in the upstairs drawing room at six
o’clock sharp. If you will follow me, I’ll show the way.”
The drawing room, like the rest of Brown Study, was
furnished with the sort of careless bachelor comfort that made
Carter wish he liked smoking a pipe. The meal, a simple fare
of stewed rabbit served on a small table in one corner, was
overdone and under-seasoned, but neither of the travelers
complained to their dour host.
As Moonslack poured the after-dinner coffee, Jonathan
said, “If you and your wife would like, I would repay your
kindness with a tale or two. I have a small gift that way.”
“We usually go to bed early,” Moonslack said.
“As you wish. Should you change your mind, I will be
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 16
