found, it fails. Because you are linked to The Book of Lore , it
was able to reach you through the dream dimension.” The
beast chuckled, a dry coughing noise. “One of the drawbacks
of reading the book.”
Armilus glanced down at the black-stoned ring welded to
his finger. “There are more of those than I first imagined. I
don’t like it one bit. On occasion the anarchists have been able
to move physical objects through dreams. It takes time and
incredible energy. Lord Anderson did it effortlessly, making
me less than his pawn. How could the Word know I would
help him? That almost suggests a controlling intellect.”
“Of that, I know nothing.”
“Besides,” Armilus grumbled, “if you wanted to kill him,
why didn’t you? I doubt I could have stopped you.”
The beast growled. “I do not understand what you mean,
Doctor. Did you not summon me when you opened The Book
of Lore ? Did I not tell you how to destroy the poet? Am I not
yours to command?”
So long as I am useful, Armilus thought. “As usual, you
avoid answering the question. I don’t know what you are, or
what you represent. Chaos, maybe. Entropy itself, perhaps.
Why won’t you tell me?”
The beast chuckled again. “I am the Thing of the Book.
That is all I know.”
“Hardly. You lie for pleasure. I wish I had something as
grand as the Words of Power, instead of a smelly, dangerous
dog. Let’s find a place to sit. I need to think.”
“Of course you do,” the beast replied, its voice thick with
irony.
Does it know everything? Armilus wondered. In truth, he
was going to faint unless he sat down. And the beast was
beginning to terrify him. He could feel its will pressing against
his mind, maybe reading his thoughts, perhaps even trying to
control them. He had to learn what it was and how to
command it before it was too late, or his plans would end in
disaster.
Carter woke soon after the doctor departed, knowing he
should leave before more enemies appeared, but despite his
intentions, his weariness kept him from rising. After a
momentary struggle, he drew his Tawny Mantle over himself
and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The last rays of sunset shone through the windows at the
far end of the room before he shouted and flung his eyes wide,
deeply startled. The chamber lay empty, an ordinary drawing
room save for the wet, charred carpet and the bullet-holes in
the wall; but something was terribly wrong. Something in the
Balance had just changed, something important and dreadful,
but he could not pinpoint it.
He ate enough from his dwindling supplies to give himself
some strength. Despite sleeping through the day, he was still
mentally and physically exhausted, but he had to enter the
dream world and confer with Mr. Hope to find out what had
happened.
The Word Which Masters Dreams came with difficulty,
rolling into his mind like a heavy stone, shedding nearly no
light. He spoke it with an effort and passed into the land of
slumber, where he found himself standing in the gray mist of
the Long Corridor, facing the Green Door. He fumbled with
the Master Keys, found the malachite key on the bronze ring,
and unlocked the door.
It opened onto moonlight. Carter faced the front of the
house, looking out toward the driveway and the statue of the
monk. The Inner Chambers was gone, winked out of
existence, leaving only bare earth where it had been.
The Long Way Down
Three days had passed since Jonathan T. Bartholomew
parted company with Master Anderson, and he had yet to
reach his destination. When the winking of the Inner
Chambers occurred, the shifting Balance had struck him as a
physical agony, leaving him writhing and feverish, too
incapacitated to travel for the better portion of a day. Better
now, he was still unable to journey at his accustomed pace.
Yet, when he wished, he could march at a tremendous speed,
and his capacity to go without rest bordered on the
superhuman, so that even in his impaired state, he was already
in Aylyrium.
His trek took him far north of the university, close to the
border of Ooz, in an area of catacombed chambers where
vagabonds and outlaws were known to hide. Few gas-jets
burned along the gloom-shrouded corridors, which even the
lack of shadows failed to make more definite; but as in so
many of the halls throughout the centuries, Jonathan had
walked here before, and he moved with assurance, not
bothering to light his lamp.
He entered a large, windowless chamber, empty now,
though the scent of lilac and candle wax suggested recent
occupation. He moved through the darkness to the far wall.
Raising his hands to his chin, he closed his eyes. A grumble of
pain escaped his lips as the wall abruptly opened, a narrow
aperture just wide enough to allow passage into the next room.
He stepped through. The chamber was well lit and in good
order, with comfortable furnishings and a bottle of wine and
loaf of bread on a linen tablecloth. Scarcely glancing around,
Jonathan removed a heavy portrait of a silver-haired
octogenarian from its place, disclosing a large wall-safe. He
studied it, and with a smile of satisfaction, dialed the
combination.
From within, he withdrew The Book of Lore and set it on
the table. Pulling a hunk of bread from the loaf, he took a bite
and chewed it thoughtfully as he opened the volume. His eyes
passed quickly over the pages, darkening occasionally as he
read. After only a moment he looked up, forgetting to chew.
“I’ve found it! And Lord Anderson doesn’t know. I’ll have
to hurry to gain the advantage.”
He shut the book and abruptly stiffened.
“I have a gun and will use it,” a feminine voice behind him
said.
Jonathan turned to face a beautiful woman holding a small
pistol.
With a nodding bow, the minstrel said, “Contessa du
Maurier? A pleasure.”
The contessa lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “And you are?”
“Jonathan T. Bartholomew, traveling singer and teller of
tales.”
“How did you unlock that safe?”
“I am Storyteller, who sees to the heart, not just of people,
but of other things, too. And you, once an urchin in Dumon
with a drunken father and a cowed mother, don’t want to shoot
me.”
Her blue eyes sharpened. “Threatening to slander my
reputation will get you nowhere. I won’t allow you to leave
with that book.”
“That’s right. It will stay.” He lifted the volume to return it
to its place.
“No,” she ordered. “Leave it on the table.”
“You have great ambition, Countessa,” he said, ignoring
her words and putting The Book of Lore back in the safe. “But
it wouldn’t be good for you to
read this book. As like as not, it
would kill you.” He shut the safe and locked it. “A lovely lady
such as yourself—why, that would be a shame.”
Without glancing her way, he moved back toward the
opening through which he had come.
“Stop!” the contessa cried. “You will remain here until I
summon my associates.”
“You don’t want me to do that, ma’am,” Jonathan called
over his shoulder. “You have too many secrets, and Storyteller
knows every one of them.”
He stepped through the opening, which closed with a
hissing sound, leaving du Maurier gaping.
Jonathan hurried away, having already dismissed her from
his mind.
I’ve got to hurry, he thought. Or everything I’ve worked
for will come to ruin.
Carter made his way along a winding stair in the upper
stories of the Opo, scarcely able to put one foot before the
other, his heart dead within him. The Inner Chambers was
gone, and with it Sarah and Jason and William Hope, all of
them vanished—possibly annihilated—but if alive, perhaps
forever unreachable.
It was exactly as Jonathan had said; he had compromised
his honor for nothing, and by so doing changed the Balance
and brought disaster. He had been a traitor his whole life; he
would probably die a traitor.
He had only one prospect: a handwritten note penned in
Mr. Hope’s neat hand, found lying at the entrance to
Evenmere, as if he had left it outside the door in the final
moment before his dissolution. Because Lord Anderson had
been in the dream world when he read it, he was unable to
retrieve it, but it contained only six words: Palace of Opo. Eye
Gate below .
Lord Anderson and the butler had last spoken just before
the disaster at Shadow Valley, so Mr. Hope could not have
known Carter was journeying through the Opo. Apparently,
Hope’s research had uncovered Professor Shoemate’s route.
Although he was already in the region of the ancient
Opoian capitol, there was no one in that deserted country to
give directions to the palace. He spent an hour tracing his way
through his maps without knowing exactly what he was
looking for, until he found a white edifice adorned with
ancient, carved emblems, standing alone along a wide corridor.
Throughout the day Carter traveled toward it, trying not to
speculate on the fates of his loved ones. At eight o’clock that
evening, within a mile of the building, he found his way
blocked by an impenetrable wall of debris created by a
collapse of the corridor. After consulting his maps again, he
backtracked for an hour, descended a stair, and continued
toward his goal, only to find his path again barred by rubble.
He suspected the poets were intentionally obstructing his path.
Four o’clock in the morning found him desperately
seeking another route, hurrying though a carpeted corridor
silent save for the whispering of an occasional gas-jet, his
lantern lit to fill in the spaces of darkness between the sparse
flames. His strength had flagged at midnight, forcing him to
use the Word Which Gives Strength. Under its influence, he
could go several more hours, but he dreaded how he would
feel when its effect faded.
His frustration had grown through the early morning hours.
His maps were nearly useless; every path he tried met defeat.
He found walls where none should be, stairs intended to
ascend turning downward, hallways doubling on themselves.
Evenmere shifted around him, causing havoc with his sense of
the Balance. Despite his best efforts, he was siphoned always
east, ever farther from his objective. The changes increased,
doorways sealing themselves behind him, making retreat
impossible.
At last, weary beyond hope, certain he was being led to his
destruction, he threw himself onto a low couch in a dreary
side-chamber and fell into a bleak sleep.
When the Winking came, Lizbeth and Sarah were in Mr.
Hope’s office in the gentleman’s chamber, while Jason played
beneath the billiards table. William sat behind his desk,
studying a book. He murmured, almost to himself, “I think I
have something.”
“About the professor?” Sarah asked.
“Not precisely. Did I tell you about the message Enoch
sent yesterday?”
“Not a word.” Sarah turned to her sister. “Did he mention
it to you?”
Lizbeth sat on the sofa, arms folded, looking down as if
listening.
“Lizbeth?”
She raised her eyes, a bit startled. “What? I’m sorry. Were
you speaking to me?”
Sarah repeated her question and Lizbeth shook her head.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Sloppy of me,” Mr. Hope said, rubbing his eyes. “None of
us have slept much since the shadows vanished …” His voice
trailed off, his gaze shifting across the stark, shadowless room.
Carter had last been seen by the White Circle Guard just
before he and Jonathan entered Shadow Valley.
Sarah patted his arm. “He is made of stern materials. I
refuse to believe he has come to harm.” But her voice
quavered as she spoke. “Now what about Enoch?”
“When he went to wind the Hundred Years Clock, he
verified what he had already sensed: someone has snatched a
second of time from Existence.”
Sarah raised her eyebrows. “I doubt it will be missed.”
Hope laughed wearily. “Enoch thinks otherwise, but it
reminded me of the starlight Doctor Armilus took from the
Tower of Astronomy, a similarly abstract artifact. Assuming it
was he who stole the time, I asked myself what he wanted it
for. Nothing came to mind, until I received this book from one
of my agents.” He held up the worn leather volume he had
been perusing. “I’ve had my people scouring the Mere for
information about the Eye Gate and The Book of Verse .”
“You know they call your emissaries Hope’s Minions
now?” Sarah asked. “The rumor is you have an army of them
traveling throughout the house, performing various arcane
duties.”
Mr. Hope frowned. “I fancy the name, though they’re
hardly an army. Closer to a battalion, really. At any rate,
hidden within these pages is a reference dating back seven
hundred years to the destruction of ancient Opo. The Eye Gate
stands blind, with none now left to watch. A single note, but it
sent my minions, as you call them, seeking anything
concerning Opo. An unusual description on an ancient vase
led to a scroll in the Aylyrium Museum of Antiquities.
According to it, the Gate of the Staring Eye was located
beneath the Opoian palace, and was a portal leading to a world
of elemental energies—Time and Dimension, Shadow and
Light, Water and Fire, Earth and Air. The kinds of power the
Poetry Men wield.”
“And a connection with the items Armilus stole,” Sarah
&n
bsp; said.
“Perhaps, though a tenuous one. Even if we are correct, the
Opo covers miles, and we haven’t yet discovered where the
ancient palace lay. I wish Carter would contact me. Shadow
Valley was near Opo; maybe he can find out something on his
end. I need to warn him as well; the scroll suggests dark
danger to anyone entering the Eye Gate.”
Throughout the conversation, Lizbeth had remained silent,
listening with only half an ear, troubled by a vague unease, as
if some peril were rising toward them. Now she gave a sudden
start.
“Something’s wrong!” she blurted, causing her friends to
turn to her in surprise. “Something is coming!”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Hope asked.
“I don’t …” She struggled to put her feeling into words.
“It’s like when I was imprisoned in the False House, when the
rooms would unexpectedly change. It’s the same sensation.”
Seeing Lizbeth’s urgency, Sarah rushed to Jason’s side and
lifted him in her arms. “What must we do?”
“We need to leave the Inner Chambers. We should—oh,
there’s no time!”
Leaping to her feet, Lizbeth fumbled across Mr. Hope’s
desk and grabbed the paper where he had written the words
Palace of Opo and Eye Gate below . Tearing away the rest of
his scribblings, she rushed to the open window and threw the
scrap out. Scarcely had it left her hand when the Winking
occurred.
The three friends gave an involuntary cry. Lizbeth felt
herself being torn to pieces. Just like the paper , she thought.
A darkness swept in from every side, enveloping her,
destroying the room. She lost consciousness.
Her first waking thought was surprise at being alive; she
felt certain she had perished. She must have been thrown
across the room, for she was lying with her head against a leg
of the billiards table. It felt solid when she touched it, as if it
had never been destroyed.
“Yet it has,” she murmured, not really understanding what
she meant. “We all have.”
The room lay dark, the only illumination a twilight glow
through the windows. Mr. Hope had collapsed at his desk;
Sarah was pulling herself to her feet and Jason sat on the floor
beside her, looking about with wide eyes. Lizbeth rushed to
the side of the woman who had been both mother and sister to
her, and helped her and the boy to a chair.
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 33
