Though he had always loved the moments of quiet and the
desolate places of Evenmere, he grew increasingly
uncomfortable. The Dowagers became more numerous, so that
one was always visible wherever he walked, its eyes
invariably on his own, as if the subject had shifted position to
see him. Again and again he came unawares upon the
portraits, lurking behind pillars or beyond archways, leering at
him, giving their evil, conspiratorial grins. By the time he cast
himself into an overstuffed chair for his dinner, he was all
nerves.
He produced a bag of salted beef from his pack and
unstoppered his flask, determined to enjoy his meal. At least
when I’m sitting still, I can’t run into one of the vile things. I’m
perfectly safe here. But he did not feel safe. He tried to resist
the urge to look over his shoulder, knowing what he would
see. He told himself it was foolish; he could not possibly sense
the lifeless eyes of a Dowager burning on his shoulder, but it
wasn’t any good. When he could no longer bear it, he turned,
glancing instinctively to his left.
With a start, he found, at the very place he had expected to
do so, a Dowager peering at him from between the boles fifty
yards away.
He repressed an urge to move to a position beyond the
creature’s gaze, fearing if he did so he would be unable to
travel the forest without giving in to panic. Reminding himself
that this was but a creation of oil and pigment, he finished his
meal without looking at it again. But he found himself
anxiously tearing at the jerky, gobbling his food to be quickly
done. He wondered if the Dowagers had originally been
painted to frighten away invaders. If so, the artists had done
their work too well.
Finishing his meal, he hurried his provisions back into his
pack and rose to leave. He dared another glance at the portrait
and his blood turned to ice. For the barest instant, he tried to
convince himself that his imagination had made the figure
seem to move, that the dim illumination through the skylights
had tricked his eyes. But even as he thought it, the ancient
gentleman clutched the picture frame with a gnarled hand and
gradually and painfully stepped out of the portrait, using his
knobbed cane to steady himself.
Carter’s courage momentarily failed; he stood frozen with
horror as the creature, thin as a banister rail, its skin corpse-
pale beneath the brim of its top-hat, turned its head from side
to side, inspecting the forest. Lord Anderson dared not move
as those eyes passed over him, though he knew he could
scarcely be overlooked. Fastening his gaze upon the Master,
the Dowager raised its cane in salute and headed in his
direction, its movements slow and stiff in the manner of
someone approaching an old friend at a train station.
Carter struggled to understand the situation. Retreat
seemed his best course, and he strode quickly away.
The
man
followed
after,
shouting
something
unrecognizable. Carter did not run as he was tempted, but kept
a rigorous pace. Each time he glanced back, he saw the
Dowager falling farther behind, futilely waving his cane, an
incongruous caricature, like a stork in gentleman’s garb.
An archway lay ahead. He passed through it, his back
pressed against the right-hand side of the stone passage, and
peered carefully out. There was nothing to his left, but a
portrait hung to the right, its side turned toward him so he
could not see its occupant.
Carter stepped to the left, keeping his distance. The frame
wavered slightly, as if stirred by a wind, and as it turned
toward him, he saw it was empty.
A hand clutched his left shoulder.
He gave a shout, spun, and struck the Dowager a heavy
blow to the face. The creature, a bent crone, went down.
Despite his terror, he stood momentarily bewildered at having
hit an old woman. Such misgivings vanished, however, as with
a snarl and an expression of utter hatred she shrugged off the
blow and started to rise.
With his sword, he slashed her across the midriff. The
blade cut her in two, as if she were only canvas. Her upper
body tumbled to the ground, leaving the lower portion still
standing. She did not bleed, but was filled with a white, plaster
material. The severed portion lay with its hands braced on the
ground. Without a suggestion of pain, the Dowager turned her
evil head to glare and hiss at him. She crawled toward him,
dragging herself along. He backed away, hurrying deeper into
the forest.
Through his fear, he tried to think. He had to get out of the
forest no later than nightfall; the thought of meeting the
Dowagers by lamplight sent shudders along his spine. With an
effort of will, he forced himself to pause long enough to
consult his inner maps. It was difficult to concentrate on
finding a new path while watching for danger, but he finally
discovered a nearby stair leading to a series of attic spaces.
A noise like rustling paper arose behind him. He whirled.
An old man bore down on him, wielding a sword stick. Carter
stepped to the left and parried with his Lightning Sword,
rending his enemy’s weapon. The creature advanced and
Carter stabbed him in the chest. The Dowager walked right up
the blade, heedless of any discomfort. They stood face-to-face,
and the Dowager gave an animal growl, revealing pointed
fangs. Carter jerked his sword to the left, sawing through the
creature. Like the woman, he did not bleed, but tipped over,
overbalanced by the cleft portion of his body.
Carter hurried away. The attic stair was two hours away;
the thought of meeting a company of the Dowagers spurred
him to a trot, though he dared not risk exhaustion by running
too fast. For a half-hour, he traveled unmolested, easily
outpacing the Dowagers he sighted in the distance.
Finding it difficult to keep his direction amid the maze of
boles, he had slowed to a vigorous walk once more, when he
spied a figure moving to his left. Carter hid behind one of the
wider columns, and peered around it. This was not a Dowager,
but a man dressed in anarchist gray, carrying a pistol. Keeping
out of sight until the stranger passed, he drew his Tawny
Mantle around him and continued on his way, more wary than
ever, but hoping by his unexpected turn to the west to outwit
his trackers.
This fancy was dashed moments later when a bullet
ricocheted off a column close to his head. He crouched, trying
to pinpoint from whence the volley had come.
“What is it?” a voice called.
“I saw an indistinct shape over this way,” another replied.
“He must be wearing his cloak.”
By their words, Carter knew the anarchists were searching
specifically for him. This confirmed his suspicion that it was
the poets who had somehow given the portraits life.
The lack of shadow somewhat mitigated the effects of the
Tawny Mantle, which—even with its chameleon properties—
could not completely hide him from any who knew to look.
Feeling completely exposed, he slipped away and found
shelter under the protection of an archway. From his vantage
point, he searched the downward slope of the forest, until he
saw at least one figure creeping from bole to bole. The
anarchist raised his hand, as if signaling to others; Carter
guessed he would soon be surrounded. He sheathed his sword
and drew his pistol.
Under the camouflage of the mantle, whose colors became
those of the leaf-patterned carpet, he crawled away. For nearly
twenty minutes, he traveled in this fashion through the forest.
When he thought he had gone far enough, he rose, only to
turn and discover an anarchist passing from behind a bole
thirty feet away. The man glanced toward him, his gun
wavering, his sight confused by the mantle. Carter fired,
dropping him with a single shot.
Lord Anderson broke into a run, while someone shouted
behind him, “Over here! Hoffman is down.”
“Can you see the Master?”
“I don’t—I’m uncertain.”
Carter dashed madly through the forest, hurdling the
channeled streams, depending on his mantle to obscure him.
A barrage of fire erupted to his right and he flung himself
to the ground. He counted at least six anarchists and assumed
there were more. Several of the Dowagers, bearing canes and
sword-sticks, were also moving toward him.
He concentrated, seeking a Word of Power. Behind the
darkness of his closed lids, the Word Which Manifests rose,
though it did not blaze brightly, but smoldered like wet coals,
as if mirroring his exhaustion. By an act of will, he bent his
thoughts upon the Word until it brightened. He raised it to his
lips, feeling it burn his throat.
Falan !
The forest shook. A golden wave of power spread before
him. When it touched the Dowagers, they crumbled into bits,
dissipating and drifting to the ground like papier-mâché. Those
anarchists unprotected by the columns were thrown back, and
one of the pillars itself swayed and toppled, bringing a portion
of the roof down on the anarchists’ heads.
Carter bolted. His foes were calling both behind him and to
his right, but their voices grew increasingly distant. He ran
until his breath came in gasps, forcing him to slow to a walk.
Having gained a temporary respite, he kept low and
continued on.
For well over an hour, he saw no further signs of pursuit.
He was nearing the stair to the attic spaces, passing through an
archway into a clearing with a stone altar at its center. He
moved cautiously around the edge of the circle, staying near
the columns.
“Greetings, Lord Anderson.”
He turned and fired twice at a figure dressed in an olive
robe. Though his aim was true, the bullets missed their target,
ricocheting off the floor to either side.
“A poor reception,” the woman said. Her hair was
cinnamon blonde, her eyes bright green; she was tall and
slender, not yet thirty, and unlike her counterparts’, her face
remained unobscured. “Is it your custom to shoot women on
sight?”
Her robe had a question mark embossed on it; her voice
held the strange, stirring quality characteristic of the poets. An
aura of power surrounded her of tree and root and growing
things. A yellow-spotted lizard curled around her throat like a
necklace. Taking careful aim, Carter fired again. The shot
went wide, and Lord Anderson backed from the clearing.
“Do not fear me!” she cried. “I am Fecundity, bringing the
world to fruition like a goddess of old. Observe.”
She touched one of the support columns and it flowered,
becoming a true tree, its branches and leaves opening,
reaching toward the sky. “The Dowagers I animated, my
minions to watch for you, carved from the trees that became
their canvases, the vegetation that formed their pigments. I can
give you this power. You can become as we are.”
Carter used the Word Which Manifests again.
Falan !
The wave of force blew the leaves from the tree and sent
the Poetry Woman to her knees.
Lord Anderson had nearly been bested by one of her
fellows; he and Phra combined had scarcely defeated another.
Fearing the cost of failure, he dared not press his advantage,
but fled once more, running at full speed, his boots slapping
against the floor, down a sloping course ending several
minutes later at a forty-foot bridge spanning the tall, concrete
banks of a rushing stream.
The Poetry Woman stood beside the bridge, having
somehow anticipated his course. Hearing the shouts of the
anarchists behind him, he glanced over his shoulder. They
were approaching in a wide arc, the way men drive animals in
a hunt. He was trapped.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said to the poetess, in order to
buy time. “Perhaps I should surrender.”
She smiled, her eyes ecstatic. “Do you begin to
understand? Do you hear the wild calling?”
In truth, he did; he felt the throbbing of the earth and the
calling of life, seeking to draw him. As he approached her, the
center of its passion, the impulse grew stronger. Each of the
poets tapped into a different fundamental archetype: fire, earth,
water, growing things. Could that be a weakness as well as a
strength? A memory of childhood fairy tales came to his mind,
of woodland sprites who drew power from the earth and could
not cross water or leave their own country.
Without hesitation, he acted on the impulse, drawing closer
to the flowing stream, moving slightly to the woman’s right,
aiming toward the bridge.
She stepped to her left, keeping herself between him and
the span. As he concentrated, seeking another word, he wished
he had used the Word Which Gives Strength, for he was nearly
done in. As if in slow motion, the Word Which Manifests
struggled to lift itself through the darkness.
“Try no deception, lest I grow harsh,” she warned.
Part of him wanted to give himself to the cold power of
this woman. Its beckoning had grown stronger, a feeling
similar to lust, but purer, almost holy. He thought of Jason and
brought the Word to his throat.
The lizard around the woman’s neck hissed as Carter
spoke.
Falan !
The force of the Word, that would normally spread out in a
great wave, blazed forth against the Poetry Woman, throwing
her from her feet. She stumbled backward, nearly toppling into
the water, but caught herself at the bridge railing and tumbled
onto its wooden surface.
Before she fell, Carter was already sprinting toward her.
Separated from the leaf carpets of Beam Forest, her
glory had
vanished; she seemed only an ordinary woman. He grasped
her by the collar. The lizard tried to bite him, but he slapped it
away, and it fled, peering and hissing at him from behind the
safety of her neck.
“How did you know?” she cried.
Without answering, he cast her over the railing. She
shrieked as she fell twenty feet to the stream, but he did not
pause to watch her descent. Seeing their leader deposed, the
anarchists began firing, and bullets whizzed around Carter’s
head as he bolted across the bridge. A bronze door stood open
before him. He rushed through and shut it behind him, but
there was no way to secure it.
He fled through a rustic corridor of bare boards leading to
a stair. As he ascended, he heard the noise of pursuing feet
below.
He had been lucky at the bridge in realizing the poets were
tied to the avatars they summoned.
He passed the first landing, which opened onto a long
hallway. Three levels remained above him, but when he came
to the next one, he left the stair and hurried along a corridor,
pausing only to light his lantern before passing into a deep
gloom. Multiple branchings led from the passage, and if he
could occasionally double back on his path to confuse his
bootprints on the dust-laden floor, his enemies would be hard
pressed to follow. He consulted his maps, and was soon
traveling down passages scarcely wide enough for one person,
past small, half-finished rooms without doors, the slats and
wall studs still visible in their interiors. The ceiling sloped
downward from a height of ten feet in the corridor to less than
five at the far corners of the rooms.
The attic was hot, its silence oppressive. Though he was
certain he had left the Dowagers behind, he kept expecting to
turn a corner or peer into a doorway and find their infernal,
staring eyes upon him. His own footfalls disquieted him,
making him wary of every step; his apprehension grew as he
passed rooms with cow skulls hanging from the ceilings and
animal bones scattered across the floor, as if the remnants of
ghastly rites. Because his lantern cast no shadows, everything
lay stark, bare, unnaturally flat.
The heat seeped into him, leaving him sweating and weary.
He intended to travel through the night to ensure his escape,
but by midnight he was stumbling on his feet and had to rest,
if only for an hour.
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 31
