Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

Carter turned to Jonathan. “Few Masters come here

  willingly. One who did a century ago never returned to the

  Inner Chambers. In light of the danger, there’s no reason for

  you to risk your life.”

  “I am not afraid, Master Anderson. I have passed through

  this country before and met its queen. I want to see the old girl

  again.”

  “You accompanied one of the Masters?”

  “I came alone, to see what could be seen.”

  “You continue to amaze me. According to our records,

  none save the Masters have ever been allowed into Shadow

  Valley. If I had known, I would have asked you more about

  Queen Moethus.”

  “It took a bit of convincing to get through the gates,”

  Storyteller said. “As for Queen Moethus, she is centuries older

  than Astronomer Phra and many times more proud.”

  Carter raised his eyebrows. “I find that hard to imagine.”

  Jonathan laughed. “You just be your respectful self and

  maybe she will tell us what we want to know.”

  The minstrel lit the lantern from his pack and held it aloft.

  Lord Anderson led the way onto bare, black floorboards

  shining dully in the lamplight, along a broad walkway with a

  gulf of immeasurable depth on either side.

  The shadow country was both insubstantial and fluid, as if

  the whole land were in constant motion. The distant lights

  shone blue. The high ceiling shifted like clouds, creating

  figures of gargoyles, children’s faces, horses, dragons—

  myriads of ebony forms, darkness within darkness.

  “What a country!” Carter exclaimed. “I can scarcely keep

  my balance.”

  “There are places more awful than this,” Jonathan said.

  “As one moves farther from the Inner Chambers, the lands

  grow ever stranger, but there is also great beauty, lovely as

  leaves and laughter.”

  The companions traveled several miles along the black

  gallery above the abyss of Shadow Valley. Because Carter

  often had to close his eyes or shift his focus to keep from

  stumbling, he failed to see the two shadow guards stationed

  before an ebony portal until he and Jonathan were nearly upon

  them. Their voices wavered, as if they spoke from a great

  distance, but the black tips of their lances, prodding against the

  men’s chests, were quite solid. Their heads were round as

  globes, and their cloaks hung behind them in tatters. They

  wore black breastplates. Their features, hidden in their dark

  faces, looked blank.

  “Who enters the halls of Queen Moethus?” one of the

  guards asked.

  “The Master and Jonathan Bartholomew,” Carter replied.

  “You are not the Master who came here last,” the guard

  replied. “Show the sign of your office, that we may know

  you.”

  Carter lifted his right hand, revealing the ring with seven

  stones cut in seven concentric circles, representing the Seven

  Words of Power.

  “It is as has been described,” the sentry said. “Do you wear

  the Tawny Mantle?”

  Carter allowed the Mantle to drop from his shoulders,

  covering him from neck to heels, so that he became one with

  the shadows.

  The guard laughed. “This is a token of might? I see you

  plainly.”

  “Then you have eyes others do not.”

  “Do you possess the sword of the Master?”

  Carter slipped his Lightning Sword an inch from its

  scabbard, and its golden light shone brilliant amid the

  darkness. The shadows screamed in terror, and the whole

  country cringed before the illumination. Carter resheathed his

  blade, and the guard cried, “No more, for you are surely the

  Master of Evenmere.”

  The sentries lowered their lances and allowed the travelers

  to pass. Far beyond the portal stood the shadow of a man eight

  feet tall and impossibly thin, who bowed at the waist. As with

  the guards, his eyes were invisible. His nose was long and

  sharp, and a semblance of a top hat sat on his head.

  “Welcome,” he said in a spectral voice. “Welcome to the

  Master and the Runemaker. Welcome to Shadow Hall.”

  “How do you know us?” Carter asked, since the guards

  had not announced them.

  “When one shadow learns a thing, every other knows it,”

  the shade said. “That is why it is best not to plot in the

  shadows. This way, this way!”

  Turning, he strode off, moving in utter silence, yet raising

  his feet as if stamping with every step.

  The shadow-walls of the corridor gleamed like polished

  wood, while shadow cats pressed themselves against the

  travelers’ ankles and shadow birds and shadow butterflies

  fluttered about their heads. The inhabitants of Shadow Valley

  were known to be capricious, and Carter kept his hand close to

  his sword. As they proceeded, their guide gradually divided,

  until there were two of him walking in step. These, in turn,

  divided again and again, until a squadron of identical

  marching shadows filled the passage. They broke their eerie

  silence by humming in a minor key, every voice the same. The

  tune echoed across the shadow halls and down into the shadow

  chambers; and came reverberating back in long waves.

  After several minutes the shadow guides said over their

  shoulders, “There used to be words, but the words have been

  stolen, and now we cannot sing our shadow songs properly.”

  “That is partly why we came,” Carter said.

  “Oh, we know a little of that,” the guides said.

  “What do you mean?” Carter asked.

  “That is not for these shadows to say, but only the shadow

  of the queen herself. Come along!” And the echoes returned,

  Come along … Come along …

  Carter gave Jonathan a wary glance. “You may wish you

  had taken my advice and stayed behind.”

  “We will do what we can. It is all we can ever do.”

  For a long hour, the companions trod past the shifting

  forms of Shadow Valley. Gargoyle faces bubbled and churned

  on the ceiling; shadows poked arms and hands and feet and

  legs, claws and wings and babies’ tongues out of the walls,

  beckoning, gesturing, warning, raising fists and flapping

  appendages. It seemed to Carter that every shadow of his past

  drifted by. He saw the shadows of his mother and father. The

  shadows of the men he had killed passed one by one down the

  hallway, and their number appalled him. He saw the shadows

  of his regrets, of all he should have done, of the times he could

  have been more loving to his wife or spent more time with his

  son; the shadows of Duskin and Lizbeth and Sarah and Jason,

  Chant and Enoch and William Hope, and even his own

  shadow, for in these halls he and Jonathan’s shadows loomed

  large, and Carter’s shadow met itself and the two walked arm

  in arm together for a time.

  He also saw shadows of happiness, of times spent playing

  as a child, of courting Sarah, of the birth of their son. The

  whole corridor was filled with the shadows of his p
ast, the

  shadows of his present, and even the shadows of what might

  yet be, so that he saw great joy and terrible suffering and

  shadows of sacrifice beyond what any man could bear. With a

  jolt of fear, he saw the shadow of Doctor Armilus walking

  hand in hand with Jason. He witnessed vast battles and the

  shadows of death circling, so that he had to bat them away like

  flies. Looming high above, he saw the shadow of Jormungand,

  looking down with shadow teeth, swinging his shadow tail,

  and the Tigers of Naleewuath, and a hundred other things, so

  that when the companions finally came to the chamber of the

  Queen of Shadows, Carter felt a hundred years old.

  But Jonathan only gave a long chuckle. “Now there were

  many stories in that , and I have found a thousand tales to

  tell.”

  They were ushered into a hall so vast and dark its walls

  were invisible in the gloom. Their shadow guide seemed to

  collapse in upon his many selves, until only a single form

  remained.

  Blue torches stood in shadow sconces. A noise like a

  distant howling wind whistled overhead. A wavering throng,

  barely discernible, crowded around the black walls of the

  chamber. The travelers were led before a vast throne, where

  sat the shade of a woman, tall and lithe, the outline of her dark

  tresses falling to her shoulders. Another shadow stood behind

  to her left.

  “My queen,” the guide said with a bow, “I present Carter

  Anderson, Master of Evenmere, and the minstrel, Runemaker.”

  Carter gave a slight bow with his head, a carefully

  considered courtesy. As Master, he bowed to none, but he

  needed to be solicitous without losing his status as an equal.

  Jonathan, however, neither bowed nor gave any other sign.

  The queen made an imperious gesture with her hand. Her

  voice was ghost-thin. “So the old Master, Gembeard, is dead.”

  Carter thought quickly. “Master Gembeard died two

  hundred years ago, Your Majesty.”

  The queen gave a laugh, soft as the breath of a child. “So

  long? Time swirls quickly in the outer world, and the Masters

  seldom visit us.”

  “After I became Master,” Carter said, “in accordance with

  the ancient custom, an invitation to visit the Inner Chambers

  was slid beneath the door to Shadow Valley.”

  The queen sat back in her throne and turned her head to the

  figure standing beside it. He whispered in her ear.

  “We recall your invitation,” she said, “and according to the

  convention, we declined. We do not leave our shadow realm.

  You would not wish to gaze upon us in the Bright World. We

  would be too terrible to see. But you, Runemaker, have visited

  us before. You amused us then.”

  “I am glad, Your Majesty.”

  “It is memorable because we are seldom amused. We

  desire to hear more of your tales, which were concerned with

  subjects foreign to our thoughts and often difficult to

  understand. That must be postponed until later, however, for

  now we are troubled. Tell us, Master Anderson, why you have

  come.”

  “For two reasons, Your Majesty. The house is imperiled by

  enemies who call themselves Poetry Men, agents of Chaos and

  Entropy possessing great and terrible power. They have

  targeted the Servants’ Circle, assaulting both my Lamp-lighter

  and the Tower of Astronomy. The entire High House is

  endangered.”

  If what Carter said surprised the queen, she gave no

  indication. She sat silent for several moments, while the

  strange, distant wind howled overhead.

  “The Circle of Servants,” she finally said, giving her soft

  laugh. “We are said to be members of that circle. Perhaps we

  do not wholly agree with everything they stand for. The Tower

  of Astronomy—all that light. As long as there have been

  shadows we have been queen. We too have studied the

  Balance; we sense the shifting of light and darkness. Each day

  we send our subjects, our soldiers of dark, out to fill the world

  with shadow, and yet the world is never filled. Why is this,

  Master Anderson?”

  “The world is shadow and light, Your Majesty. How can

  there be shadows without light, or light that casts no shadow?

  The two, as you know, depend upon one another.”

  “You cannot say what we know. What is the second reason

  for your presence at Shadow Hall?”

  “We are seeking a woman named Erin Shoemate, who may

  have recently been here.”

  “Tell them nothing, Your Majesty!” a voice cried from out

  of the darkness.

  Every eye turned toward a form that stepped from among

  the ranks of sycophants, a hooded figure swathed in black

  robes with a dark sash covering the lower half of his face. His

  eyes were fevered; sweat beaded his pale brow. A dim, blue

  light arose between his folded hands, emanating from a black

  diamond, large as his fist.

  Carter’s hand went to his sword, though he did not draw it.

  Immediately the palace guards surrounded the figure, their

  spear tips close to his heart.

  “Hear me, Queen Moethus,” the man entreated, in a voice

  as ephemeral as the ruler’s own. “Do not tell them what they

  wish to know. Have we not spoken of the Greater Road? Are

  these not sacred things? Remember the wonders I bring.”

  “Beware, Your Majesty,” Lord Anderson said. “I don’t

  know how he slipped past our sentries, but he is one of the

  Poetry Men.”

  “Silence!” the advisor standing beside the throne

  commanded. “Silence before the queen!”

  The whole assembly fell motionless.

  “Those who come to Shadow Hall,” she said, “are the

  guests of Shadow Hall. Since we received the poet, we have

  had many interesting talks. But he will not tell us how we shall

  behave. We will do what we choose.”

  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” the Poetry Man said,

  lowering his head.

  “You are pardoned. We recall this Shoemate. She knew of

  the Old Times and did not fear us. She had courage. She was

  looking for a place in the desert of Opo known as the Eye

  Gate.”

  “If I may ask, Your Majesty,” Carter said, “were you able

  to answer her question?”

  “We did.”

  “I would very much like to know what you told her.”

  “That does not much interest us.” The queen turned her

  head toward the poet. “It is as you told us; they speak the same

  of light and darkness as did the Masters before them.”

  “They do not comprehend,” the Poetry Man said, “but I

  have come to bring you truth: you need not send your shadows

  to be withered by the burning sun; their might should not be

  wasted thus, murdered by the daystar kiss. I say be done with

  luminance, embrace the night and know True Shadow cast

  without the dread refulgence.”

  Carter hesitated, uncertain how to counter his enemy.

  “Your Majesty, if I might?” Jonathan asked.

  “We
will hear what Runemaker says.”

  “Long ago, a seer came to the king, saying: ‘Because you

  have misused your authority and oppressed your people, you

  will die in seven days.’ When the seer departed, the king,

  fearing death, ordered his blacksmiths to build an iron box

  large as a room. On the eve of the sixth day, he entered the

  box, after which it was sealed with pitch. Then the king

  thought to himself: ‘Within this box, I am safe. No enemy, nor

  weapon, nor any disease can reach me. When the seventh day

  is past, I will leave the box and so escape my fate.’ But the

  box was sealed too tight, and when the air was expended the

  king died.”

  The queen was silent a time. “So, if we believe what the

  Poetry Man says and accept his offer of True Shadow, we will,

  shall we say, seal our fate?”

  “Light is needed for shadows, no matter what this man

  says. You and your country will be destroyed. Where will the

  world be then, without shadows to define it?”

  “That is what truly concerns them,” the poet said. “Where

  would they be without both shadow and light? When we are

  done, the universe will become a place of Absolutes. Shadow

  and light, good and evil, such dualisms are illusion.” He held

  high the black diamond. “The gift is here in Incarnate Form.

  You need only accept it. Imagine the shadows forever dancing

  across the world, shadow separate from light, darkness

  swirling in ecstasy. Think of it, my queen, take what I would

  give!”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Carter said. “He is himself

  deceived.”

  “Three days the poet has spoken to us,” the queen said,

  “and we would heed his words, for we can feel the power he

  controls. It calls to us. The shadows saw the approach of a

  Master, so we waited to see what you would say, but you only

  repeat the same sad story. It is time the world was made new,

  with we sole ruler of Shadowland. You may pass through our

  kingdom, but you will not interfere in this, for we accept what

  the poet would give us.”

  The Poetry Man stepped forward to hand her the diamond.

  As the queen reached for it, Carter drew his Lightning Sword.

  Beneath that golden light, the land of shadow shrieked with

  one vast echoing scream, the shadows fleeing backward. But

  one of those was the queen clutching the jewel to her breast.

  “Too late!” the poet cried. “Too late! Once more, divine

  avatars walk the worlds. Oh, glory, glory!”