Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  And far away, the queen shouted. “See, it comes! How

  beautiful it is!”

  A darkness, greater and more vast than that which had

  been before, fell upon the chamber, overwhelming the rays of

  Carter’s sword until it cast but a slender light. One by one the

  blue lamps went out. Gigantic forms moved in the swirling

  ebony overhead, Shadow Incarnate come to earth. The stress

  of their regard beat upon Carter, so terrible that if they fell

  fully upon him, he knew he would become no more than a

  shade. Through the blackness, he heard the queen give an

  ecstatic shriek.

  “It’s too late to help,” Jonathan Bartholomew said, his

  voice level. “The old queen, who never faltered before, has

  failed Evenmere. We must escape. Follow me and keep the

  light of your blade close.”

  A pair of shadow guards tried to block the men’s path, but

  gave way before the sword’s glow. The companions hurried

  down the length of the long chamber in the opposite direction

  from which they had come. It was so dark, Carter wondered

  how Jonathan could even tell where he was going.

  Storyteller came to an abrupt halt just as Lord Anderson

  sensed an upheaval in the Balance. Jonathan reached down,

  feeling along the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Carter demanded.

  “It’s just right … here,” Jonathan said, and on the last

  word, he pulled with both hands and a section of the floor

  came up, revealing a long stair. Without hesitation, the

  minstrel hopped onto the first step and hurried down, calling

  over his shoulder, “It’s the short way out.”

  Carter followed behind, wondering how anyone, even

  knowing it was there, could have located the passage in so

  much darkness.

  They made a nightmare run down the stair. Carter fixed his

  eyes on his feet, concentrating on keeping his balance on the

  narrow steps, the dim light of his blade revealing cracked,

  ebony walls of stone on either side.

  At the bottom, they reached a chamber of unknown size.

  Not even pausing to consider his way, Jonathan led into the

  empty darkness.

  Carter gasped, feeling the Balance straining ever farther to

  the side of Chaos, even as the shadows hardened before them,

  as if they were pushing their way through deep water. The

  Lightning Sword became their only hope, for it cut easily

  through the shadows. Carter took the lead, thrusting his blade

  before him to sever the material darkness.

  “Keep going, straight ahead,” Jonathan ordered. “The east

  door is close by, but Shadow Valley is collapsing on itself.”

  Carter glanced upward and suppressed a cry of surprise.

  The shadows were indeed contracting; the hitherto hidden

  ceiling had descended enough to be seen by the sword light.

  The cries of the shadows, which had continued even after the

  men plunged down the stair, changed from joy to a deep

  groaning, a deafening cacophony, as if all of Shadow Valley

  were in agony, and the queen’s voice loudest of any.

  “Lord Anderson!” she wailed, her voice resonating

  through her whole country. “What have we done? What comes

  cannot be borne. Save us!”

  Carter halted. With great difficulty, he blocked out the

  stridency and searched for a Word of Power that might help.

  But no Word drifted before his mind’s eye; he could find

  nothing to halt the onslaught.

  “I can’t stop it!” he shouted.

  “My beautiful Shadow Valley!” the queen cried. “My

  beautiful valley!” Her voice trailed away into the uproar.

  Carter pressed forward. The way grew increasingly dense,

  forcing him to hack and slash with his blade, as if he were

  cutting through thick jungle. The noise was unbelievable—the

  cries of humans, the shriek of horses, the whine of dogs, the

  squawks of birds—the sound of Shadow Valley being

  murdered, so loud he wanted to huddle in a ball and clutch his

  ears. He thought he must go deaf. He felt the weight of the

  whole shadow world pressing against his shoulders, bowing

  the men’s backs with the load. Small talons began clutching at

  the companions’ feet from behind, slowing them even more.

  The glow of the sword dulled the farther the men went,

  until it was little more than a firefly light in a gargantuan

  darkness.

  “The door is right before us,” Jonathan said, “but our time

  is nearly up. Spare none of your might.”

  Jonathan’s voice, calm in the face of death, inspired Lord

  Anderson to redouble his efforts. He cut with renewed haste,

  shearing through the coalescing shadows, giving his strength

  to the task. His arms ached; his breath came in gasps.

  The darkness was right above them, pushing their heads

  down against their hunched shoulders, forcing them to crouch.

  Carter tried to slash harder, but his limbs were giving out; he

  was slowing down and could do nothing about it. His lungs

  burned. He had neither the will nor the time to use the Word

  Which Gives Strength. They weren’t going to make it.

  I’m going to die in a close place , he thought, with rising

  panic, just as I’ve always feared.

  And then he saw, scarcely ten yards away, a soft glow

  peeking beneath the threshold of a door.

  The sight of it was enough. He pushed through his fear and

  got his second wind. He had a system for cutting through the

  shadows now, and he worked with precision, slashing in a V to

  right and left, and thrusting through the gash with his boots.

  Despite the nearness of the door, their progress was slow.

  The ceiling continued to descend. Unable to even crouch, the

  men dropped to their knees. It made using the sword even

  more difficult. Carter hacked frantically from side to side.

  The roof pressed against their backs. Being the taller of the

  two, Jonathan was forced to crawl on hands and knees.

  Only a few more feet. Carter had one hand on the ground.

  The roof was pressing against his head and back. He dropped

  lower, crouching on all fours.

  His sword struck the door.

  “We’re through!” he shouted.

  “The keys,” Jonathan commanded. “Unlock the door.”

  Carter struck it instead, putting his remaining strength into

  the blow, trying to break it with the power of the sword.

  It held.

  He struck again.

  It withstood the blow.

  “The keys, Master Anderson!” Storyteller said. “Quickly

  now.”

  With fumbling hands, Carter grasped his brass key ring.

  The light from his sword had failed, but he held the ring close

  to the threshold, using the illumination from beneath the door.

  The ceiling forced him to drop to his elbows. He could not

  find the key.

  He fumbled through the ring again, trying to keep calm,

  knowing he was about to die. Several of the keys looked

  similar; in the uncertain light it was difficult to tell.

  He concentrated, pushing aside the fear of impending

&nbs
p; destruction. Every key gave off its own unique and subtle

  emanation. He closed his eyes, as he held each of the

  possibilities in turn. There was time for only one try.

  He took the one he thought correct, doubting his decision

  as he made it. With trembling hands, he fitted it into the lock.

  The door had shrunk with the ceiling, else he would not have

  been able to open it. The lock resisted. With a moan, he

  twisted harder.

  It turned with a loud click. Carter flung the door wide.

  Warm light pierced the darkness.

  He scrambled through the opening and turned to help his

  friend. Jonathan Bartholomew poked his head out, his body

  flat against the ground. The chamber was closing; there was

  scarcely room for the man’s back. He squeezed his shoulders

  through the opening.

  “I’m stuck,” Storyteller said.

  “No!” Carter shouted. He looked directly into Jonathan’s

  dark eyes, still calm but with the beginnings of despair, as the

  entire weight of Shadow Valley pressed upon him.

  With a sobbing cry, Carter seized Storyteller under the

  arms and pulled with every vestige of his might.

  The minstrel’s back and waist came out. His thighs; his

  calves. His foot was caught! He gave a cry of pain.

  Then he was free.

  Jonathan was out. Carter gave a rasping shout of triumph

  as the opening collapsed with a crash.

  A roar like the screaming of the whole universe filled the

  chamber. Carter clapped his hands over his ears. An explosion

  came and he saw no more.

  The Winking

  Enoch, accompanied by a squad of the White Circle

  Guard, stood on a high balcony looking down at a vast

  quadrangle near the border of the Land of Twelve. They had

  crossed through Nianar and over the Terraces, and spent the

  last three days winding their way through Corovia.

  “What does the lieutenant think?” Enoch asked his

  companion.

  Wulf Cumby scratched his chin, while the fourteen

  members of his squad looked on. Despite his rank, he was no

  more than thirty, with a long face, blond hair, and pale,

  intelligent eyes. “According to my maps, after we descend, the

  only way out is over the Ounceling Bridge. Not only will we

  be vulnerable to an attack from above, we could find ourselves

  hemmed in between here and the crossing.”

  Enoch sighed and shrugged. “Are you right? You must be,

  but I wanted to travel farther this evening.”

  “If the Windkeep knows a way to reach the Land of

  Twelve without crossing the bridge, we could continue on,”

  Cumby suggested.

  “The Windkeep does not,” Enoch said. “Or rather, I know

  seven ways to get to the Hundred Years Clock, but it would

  take at least sixteen extra hours. I came this way because of

  the bridge, but if we can’t reach it before evening, we should

  wait until tomorrow.”

  He pulled out his pocket watch, consulted it, and shrugged.

  “Already, I should have been at the clock. I would have been,

  if not for these violent poets. We have time, but we must cross

  the Ounceling no later than sundown tomorrow.”

  “Then I would like to encamp here, if it meets the

  Windkeep’s approval.”

  Enoch grimaced. “That’s the trouble with getting old. You

  live long enough, everybody wants your approval. What, you

  think I’ll turn to a mummy if I don’t get what I want?”

  “No sir, not at all. But if the Windkeep—”

  “Call me Enoch.”

  “If Enoch wants to—” the lieutenant’s face turned scarlet.

  “I mean, if you have a preference—”

  “You know what I want to know? Why they call you Wulf.

  It’s a good strong name, but I wonder, did your mother give it

  to you?”

  “My real name is Steven. My men started calling me Wulf

  after the Battle of Middlecourt. I was attacked by a gnawling

  in the shape of a wolf. I lost my gun, but managed to kill it

  with a broken pen-knife.”

  Enoch laughed. “A pen-knife? We should call you Lion.”

  “I was lucky.”

  “Not lucky. I know luck. Luck is finding a shekel

  somebody dropped. Killing a gnawling with a pen-knife—

  that’s meant to be. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No, sir.”

  Enoch produced a red clay pipe and tapped it against the

  railing. The soft scent of tobacco filled the air. “I know about

  luck. Especially with military men. I remember Corporal

  Rollory at the Battle of Pennywash. What did he know about

  strategy? Him and his hundred men, caught between two

  thousand. Vance, I told him, you should climb through the

  Upper Rafters and see where you come down. He could have

  ended up anywhere, but he landed right at his enemies’ backs.

  That’s more than luck.”

  “You knew Field Marshal Rollory?”

  “He was like you, hardly old enough to shave, but look

  what happened. I’m glad he took my advice.”

  “In school, they said he drew his soldiers together and

  outlined the whole plan.”

  Enoch waved his hand dismissively. “He didn’t even know

  where he was! But he had spunk. Sometimes that’s all you’ve

  got. Spunky Vance, I called him after that. He named his son

  after me. I thought that was nice.”

  That evening, as had become the custom during the

  journey, Enoch told stories at the evening meal. The squad sat

  in a circle on the wide balcony while the old Hebrew spoke of

  Rollory, and the Rout of Soffuth, and how Alexander the Great

  once entered Evenmere. But none of the soldiers knew who

  Alexander was.

  “You should read more about the outer world,” Enoch said.

  “A lot goes on there.”

  “I always thought the Outside was just a myth,” one

  soldier said.

  “So did I,” Cumby said, “until I went with Major Glis to

  the Inner Chambers and stood at the Front Door.”

  “What did you see?” the soldier asked.

  Cumby shrugged. “It was like a gigantic courtyard, with

  lots of trees in the distance, and a statue and green lawn up

  close. A road led down around a hill. You couldn’t see any

  more of the house. Evenmere ended right there.”

  “Were you scared, Lieutenant?”

  Wulf gave a smile that Enoch had seen in men who would

  someday be great leaders. “Not scared. I grew up at Innman

  Tor, and there’s a lot of sky there too, but it was disturbing.”

  “A whole country outside the house,” the first soldier said,

  “the end of Evenmere.”

  The warriors fell silent, awed by the thought.

  Enoch took a puff from his clay pipe. “Not the end. The

  outside world is inside Evenmere, too.”

  “How is that possible?” Wulf asked.

  Enoch shrugged. “How should I know? How do they put

  those little ships into bottles?”

  “They blow the glass around the ship,” the lieutenant said.

  “Evenmere is like that,” Enoch said, “except it’s both the

  ship and the bottle.” />
  Seeing their puzzled looks, he shrugged again. “A good

  thing I wasn’t brought here to be a teacher. I was never good at

  explaining. You should read about Alexander sometime. I met

  him on the Long Stair once. A handsome boy. He reminded

  me of Rollory. I thought to myself, so this is the great

  commander . He didn’t die like the stories tell us; he’s still

  around somewhere, lost in the house. But there were greater

  warriors when I was a lad in Aram. Nimrod—I should tell you

  about him. Now he was a mighty hunter.”

  Early the next morning, the squad descended a long,

  slender stair. They passed along the quadrangle most of that

  day, and by evening came to the Ounceling Bridge, which

  spanned a channel filled not with water, but with a flowing

  rainbow of glistening colors.

  “What is it?” the lieutenant asked.

  “It’s called the Stream of Time,” Enoch replied. “You

  swim in it, you come out either older or younger, depending

  on which direction you go.”

  “Don’t people flock to it by the thousands?”

  “They would, if there was any certainty to it, but you never

  know what will happen. You stay too long, you might get lost

  in it and never have existed at all. If you do make it ashore, it

  will be a different time; maybe a thousand years away,

  everyone you knew long perished, or all your friends unborn.

  It’s dangerous—being sucked down by eddies, or slipping into

  a still pool, trapped there for eternity while time passes you by.

  Only a fool would dare the Stream of Time. Sometimes

  someone near death makes the try. Not one has ever been seen

  again, at least not in this age. In all my years, I never met

  anybody who claimed to have done it. Time is tricky. You

  stick your finger in, it’s like getting too close to the fire.”

  “How do you know so much if no one has ever come

  through it?” a soldier asked.

  “Time and I, we have an understanding.”

  They watched the passing of the Stream of Time. A

  sweetness like twilight on summer days resided in its soft

  murmuring, but the swift movement of the strange waters soon

  made the soldiers melancholy.

  “Are you really as old as they say?” Wulf asked.

  “I’ve lived a long time.”

  Wulf Cumby, who was both a soldier and a bit of a poet,

  kept his eyes on the Stream of Time. “Most people would love