Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

right here.”

  As soon as Moonslack exited, Lord Anderson said, “Your

  offer is more than he deserves. What a sour fellow! If his

  master were living, he would be dismissed from service. Have

  you ever been here before? He obviously doesn’t know you.”

  “Father Brown was still alive the last time I came, almost

  twenty years ago.”

  Storyteller took a sip of coffee from a cracked china teacup

  and began to sing a low, melodious tune, so somber and sweet,

  with such beauty and power that the whole chamber seemed to

  bend forward to listen, the walls resonating with his deepest

  tones. Carter sat entranced. After a time, as if in answer,

  Moonslack returned, followed by a heavy woman with tattered

  hair and haunted eyes. They sat together on a low couch across

  from the travelers.

  When Jonathan finished, the woman said, “That was just

  lovely.”

  The minstrel gave a bow of his head, and Moonslack said,

  “This is m’wife, Rosemary.”

  “A pleasure,” Jonathan grinned. “Let me see if I can draw

  a story or two from my hat.”

  He actually told three tales. The first concerned a cat born

  with only three legs. The other kittens made sport of it. The

  kitten did not become a hero in the end, as Carter expected,

  but died instead, slain by a badger, and despite the other

  kittens’ guilt at their treatment of it, only the mother cat

  mourned for long.

  The second story was of a man who had but a single

  daughter, who ran away. The father waited, looking out the

  window, year after year for her return, but she never came

  back.

  Finally, Jonathan said, “There was once a young man

  whose father was very rich and who drank too much and was

  cruel beyond measure to his son. And there was another lad

  about the same age, who was taunted by his classmates, who

  called him slow and dim-witted. But his parents loved him

  with all their hearts, and though poor, tried to give him the best

  they had.

  “One day, when the poor boy was fourteen, he met the rich

  man’s son, who saw the lad as a target for the cruelty his father

  had taught him. The poor boy didn’t know about brutality, for

  he had never seen it, and he went trusting with the rich boy.

  When the rich boy, who was taller and stronger, threw the poor

  child onto the ground and would have beaten him, the lad

  resisted. But the rich boy did not know the depth of the anger

  within him. He killed the weaker boy and left his body for the

  wolves of the Upper Stairs.”

  To Carter, the tales seemed strangely disjointed, yet when

  he glanced at the couple, he saw Moonslack glowering, his

  face stricken, and Rosemary silently weeping, her hands over

  her eyes.

  “That’s a damned fool tale,” Moonslack said, lurching to

  his feet. “I thought you a minstrel.”

  “When the child died,” Jonathan continued, “you were

  working. You couldn’t have been there.”

  Sheer hatred shone from the man’s eyes. But abruptly,

  beneath Jonathan’s calm gaze, his features crumbled. “I should

  have been!” he cried. “I should have known!” He dropped,

  weeping, back onto the couch. “My David was innocent, and

  he beat him to death like an animal!”

  “Moonslack,” the woman said, lifting her hands to her

  husband. He fell into her arms; they clutched one another,

  desperately weeping.

  “If your son were here in this room,” Storyteller told the

  woman, “he would tell you that he forgave you long ago for

  the argument you had the day he left, for he loved you very

  much. You have longed for justice against the one who killed

  him, thinking he escaped. It isn’t so. David’s murderer has

  faced injustice his entire life. It follows like a wolf, rending his

  heart. If you would be healed, you must forgive both yourself

  and him.”

  “Oh, that is a hard saying!” Rosemary cried.

  “Only because you can’t see the pain within your son’s

  killer, so deep he doesn’t even know it exists.”

  For several long moments, the couple wept, then clutching

  one another, rose to go. But the woman turned back at the

  door, rushed to Jonathan, and kissed his hand, whispering, “In

  all this time he ain’t once cried.”

  When they were gone, Carter wiped his own eyes with the

  back of his coat sleeve. Finding his voice, he said hoarsely,

  “You came here specifically for this.”

  “It is the work of the Storyteller, who sees into the heart.”

  “You have shamed me,” Carter said. “When I met

  Moonslack I judged him rude, uncivil. How hastily I dismissed

  him.”

  “Sometimes my stories are intended for more than one

  hearer.”

  “Will they recover?”

  “Perhaps they will, if they take my words to heart. If not

  …” Jonathan lifted his hands in a shrug. “It is not my task to

  make anyone do anything, Master Anderson. But if they do,

  Moonslack will become the good steward he once was, and

  this place will return to the refuge it was intended to be,

  instead of a home for bitterness. Those who stay here will be

  touched by Moonslack’s spirit, and will carry its goodness into

  every corner of Evenmere. A small healing, spread through

  many rooms, it will serve the house and the Balance.”

  But when Carter entered the land of slumber that night, he

  could not take his mind from Moonslack, who had not been

  with his son when the child needed him. The murder was not

  his fault, yet the boy had still died.

  Was Storyteller trying to warn him about Jason? And how

  many more nights could he continue entering the dream world

  before his strength was gone? Something, he knew, would

  have to give.

  The Astronomy Tower

  Within the attic of Jormungand, Jonathan paused to sip

  water from a flask. The dinosaur shifted his weight uneasily on

  the creaking boards.

  “You have a way with words,” Jormungand said. “You tell

  a pretty tale, but you are a liar. I am the Last Dinosaur, who

  sees the comings and goings of the house. I observe the human

  mites in their petty struggles; in all of Evenmere, only I

  possess the gift of far-seeing. Yet, by your own admission you

  told Anderson that you knew of the poet’s assault on the

  Lamp-lighter. Impossible!”

  “I saw it because I was there.”

  “Oh ho! So now you’re a ball, bouncing from Aylyrium to

  the Inner Chambers and back in a single night. You do Father

  Christmas proud.”

  “Storyteller never lies.”

  Jormungand studied the dark, unwavering face. “Even if

  your tale is true, you relate nothing new. I thought you would

  be amusing. Why, even Anderson is more entertaining! It’s

  nearly lunchtime, the most important meal of the day, and if

  you can’t sing a song or serve up a bawdy story, I will devour

  you. Sautéed, I think. I prefer mine well-done.”
r />   The dinosaur’s fetid breath blew against Storyteller’s face,

  but Jonathan looked straight into those ancient, bloodshot

  eyes. “There you sit, your great big self and your hungry ol’

  eyes, facing an old man who has walked the halls of this house

  since before you were imprisoned. You were made to be as

  you are, all appetite and no regret. If I am to die in this attic,

  that will be as it will be; but I think you should listen to the

  rest of my story.”

  Jormungand moved his massive head nearer and sniffed

  Storyteller, displaying jagged teeth and red gums. Saliva

  dripped from his jaws to the floor. “Why should I?”

  “Because you are curious, and that isn’t like you. Not like

  you at all. Curiosity is not one of your traits; it isn’t lizardy,

  one might say. Yet here you are, curious as a kitten with a ball

  of string. The reason why is because the story isn’t finished

  but is still unfolding, and even you don’t know how it will

  end. And you wonder how Storyteller knows so much of it.”

  “I have watched you for ages, rambling here and there, but

  there is more to you than I suspected,” the dinosaur rumbled.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me? Why must you

  tell me this tale? What do you get out of it?”

  Jonathan grinned. “You have asked more than three

  questions. According to your own rules, I have the right to eat

  you . But never mind. Never mind. I tell you this tale because

  storytelling is part of ritual, and this is the time and place for

  that, here in his attic on this particular day. The tale must be

  told, because that too is part of the unfinished story, and

  everything will be made clear in the end. Storyteller sees to the

  heart, and though you have already witnessed the

  circumstances unfold, you haven’t understood Lord

  Anderson’s fear for his son, or Doctor Armilus’ callousness, or

  the mad desires of the poets.”

  “What do I care for the braying of sheep?” Jormungand

  asked. “You think your little stories matter? I tell you what

  touches the human heart—pain scores the mortal soul; fear

  gives meaning to dull lives; death ends all in futility. I am the

  Great Hero, the lone voice crying from my prison, giving the

  world the One Great Truth, that existence is futile and without

  plan. Your stories accomplish nothing ! Lift the human spirit

  today and it is trampled into the muck tomorrow. Flesh and

  bone give way to earth, and all the past is forgotten.”

  Jormungand blew hot flames into the depths of the attic,

  lighting its recesses for miles. The heat of the blast drew beads

  of sweat from Jonathan’s brow.

  But Storyteller gave a brave smile. “That’s right, old

  lizard, you have your place, and it is a grand one, an attic

  kingdom filled with the despair of the whole world. But like

  many of those who spend all their time alone, you make too

  much of it.”

  “My place ?” Jormungand roared, sending the boards

  shaking. “My place? There is no place but mine. I am the

  quintessential Entity. I am what is important. What are you?

  An artist! A poet! A wandering tramp!”

  “That’s right. That’s right. But words, if they are true and

  strong, if they speak to the soul, have power to survive the

  ages.”

  Jormungand growled, clearly disliking the course of the

  conversation. He, who usually cowed his visitors through fear

  or death, was unused to debate. “Human souls! Caterpillar

  hearts! And you speak of humanity’s tiny span of existence as

  ages ? That’s the kind of humor I like. Go on with your story

  and be done with it. I was in a bad mood when you arrived,

  and you’ve done nothing but annoy me. I doubt you will

  survive the evening.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” Jonathan replied, staring at the dinosaur

  with his strange, dark eyes. “Curiosity isn’t one of your traits;

  but murder, now, that surely is. Where were we? Ah, yes, we

  return to Master Anderson, in his journey to North Lowing …”

  The lantern flame danced. Jormungand’s eyes flashed. The

  dust lay thick on the attic floor.

  By noon of the next day Carter and Jonathan Bartholomew

  entered Tucks Hall, a wide chamber stretching mile after mile

  across the border between Aylyrium and North Lowing. A

  marble channel, half a mile wide, ran down its center, the great

  Fable River flowing from the Sidereal Sea. Hand-stamped tin

  tile adorned the ceiling, and square shafts, ducts sealed in

  winter, allowed light and rain to enter. Multicolored mosaic

  floor tile depicted the history of the river—battles fought,

  children born along its banks, treaties signed beside its slow,

  serene waters. Squat trees with ivory bark and lime-pale leaves

  rose in ordered rows from patches of bare earth, forming

  umbrella canopies. White ivy lined the banks. Pale frogs,

  small as a little finger, squatted beneath the twining branches.

  Occasionally members of the Guild of Dusters and Burnishers,

  dressed in their dark blue uniforms and caps, scrubbed their

  way past.

  The travelers journeyed down the bank until long after

  noon, when they reached an ornate bridge too narrow for two

  to walk abreast, with iron railings sculpted into tiny leaves of

  ivy. They crossed above the whispering waters to the center of

  the stream, where the bridge widened to accommodate a guard

  station.

  A sentry appeared, wearing the traditional heeki of North

  Lowing, a white undertunic wrapped in black strips of cloth

  that lent him the appearance of a mummy, with a chain-mail

  jerkin over all. His beard was trimmed and oiled to a point; a

  side-arm hung from his waist. He looked over the travelers

  with eyes dipped in suspicion.

  “Who wishes to enter North Lowing?”

  “The Master of the house,” Carter said, “and Jonathan

  Bartholomew, its minstrel.”

  The guard’s eyes widened slightly, but he gave Carter’s

  Lightning Sword and Tawny Mantle a careful scrutiny, and

  required Lord Anderson to show his Ring of Office before

  saying, “Very well, my lords. Pray pass, but mind the laws of

  the land, which are posted along the way.”

  Jonathan reached into his ragged jacket and produced a

  slender book with a vellum binding. “Here, my friend. This is

  for you.”

  “What is it?” The man lifted his nostrils slightly, as if

  Storyteller were offering poison or a bribe.

  “Why, it is a book, a tiny thing read in an hour,” Jonathan

  said. “I bought it for you in Keedin two months ago.”

  The man took the book with a disbelieving stare. “For

  me?” he said gruffly. “You don’t even know me.”

  “That’s true, Nimikos,” Storyteller said, and the two

  departed, leaving the man standing in the middle of the bridge

  staring after them, holding the book as if it were a dead fish.

  Carter gave his companion a questioning glance.

  “It will heal his heart,” the minstrel e
xplained.

  “I rather wish I had your job.”

  Jonathan grinned and began to whistle.

  The northern half of North Lowing is called the Golden

  Steppes, an indoor wilderness with some of the largest

  chambers in Evenmere. Golden oaks, yellow and sultry in the

  half-light, grow beneath the ceiling shafts; the wood floors

  curve to form hills and canyons. Deer, hares, raccoons, even

  bears and wolves, make their dens in false caves or on ground

  left open to the earth.

  With each step the travelers took, the character of the land

  seemed to change, so that one moment they passed paneled

  friezes with ethereal flowers, and bay windows inlaid with

  leaded glass, and the next, gazed up from deep shadows at tall

  obelisks forming black mesas. They stopped for the night in an

  alcove of oak paneling, with carved bronze warriors from

  mythic Gost inset in the wood.

  Following a supper warmed beside the small hearth,

  Carter, anxious to reach the Inner Chambers before Jason’s

  bedtime, climbed into his bedroll on the polished boards and

  slipped into dream. He spent a lonely vigil guarding the empty

  halls until midnight, when he used the Word Which Brings

  Aid to summon Sarah. The two of them passed the rest of the

  night talking beside Jason’s bed. When she remarked how

  tired he looked, Carter did not admit how utterly worn he felt,

  or how he feared being unable to continue his nightly watch.

  He woke the next morning tattered and chilled and

  feverish, scarcely able to focus his thoughts, and he and

  Jonathan were on the road an hour before his mind cleared

  enough for coherent conversation. He feared he might become

  lost if he continued his treks into the land of slumber, unable

  to wake from the world of dream, leaving his body a husk and

  Evenmere without a Master.

  No sooner was he feeling better, than a passing burnisher

  gave the travelers more bad news. North Lowing was astir

  with the news of the death of the Smith of Welkin Well,

  another of the Circle of Servants, slain by a Poetry Man while

  traveling through Fiffing. His apprentice had taken over his

  duties, but Carter had known the Smith, and the loss of his

  wisdom and experience was a terrible blow. Lady Order had

  clearly been correct: the poets were targeting the Servants’

  Circle, seeking to undermine the whole foundation of the

  house. But for what purpose? To replace it with some system