Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  fiction. A fiction. It has a beginning and an end. It is a tragedy,

  but the story is complete. Not like the other.”

  “I would avoid going any further with that thought,” a

  voice said behind them. The three whirled to find a Poetry

  Man locking the door behind him with a silver key.

  This poet was different than the others, taller, his face

  unhidden, ruggedly handsome, with dark eyes and jet hair.

  Something in the twist of his mouth reminded Lizbeth of her

  father.

  Falan ! Carter cried.

  The Word Which Manifests, spoken at such close quarters,

  had a terrible effect. Lizbeth had seen it used before, but in this

  deeper reality it was more dreadful; like the Lightning Sword,

  it emerged as undiluted power. A golden wave shot toward the

  poet, too swift for the eye to follow. The backlash sent Lizbeth

  flying onto the fainting couch, knocking the breath from her.

  As she lay struggling for air, Carter hurried to her side and

  helped her up.

  She glanced at the doorway. The Poetry Man lay stunned

  or dead and the shattered door hung by a single hinge.

  Shoemate was gradually regaining her feet. Carter rushed to

  the professor, guiding her away from the book.

  “This way,” Carter said. “Lizbeth, help her out.”

  Taking Professor Shoemate by the arm, Lizbeth led her

  past the broken doorway to the top of the stair. Behind her, she

  heard Carter utter the Word Which Seals. As if in response, the

  whole tower began to quiver, almost undetectably at first, but

  with growing intensity.

  Lord Anderson stepped through the doorway.

  “What did you do?” Lizbeth asked.

  “I sealed The Book of Verse .”

  “What’s happening to the tower?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it is connected to the Poetry Men’s

  power. Let’s hurry.”

  They rushed down the stair, herding the still-bewildered

  Erin Shoemate along. Plaster dust drifted from the ceiling,

  shaken loose by the growing vibrations.

  “Please, Professor,” Lizbeth urged, “you must make

  haste.”

  The words had scant effect. Despite their coaxing,

  Shoemate went as one in a dream, often glancing over her

  shoulder toward the chamber of the book.

  “So the answer to everything isn’t in the text?” the

  professor asked. “But what about the Essence? What about the

  Primordial Ooze?”

  We won’t make it , Lizbeth thought. It would be faster if

  only we could carry her.

  A third of the way down, heavy chunks of plaster and

  stone started tumbling about them. A large portion of the

  ceiling shattered on the steps directly before them.

  “Where are we?” the professor abruptly asked, as one

  coming out of a heavy sleep. “Is this the College of Poets?

  Why am I here?”

  “Our lives are in jeopardy,” Lizbeth said. “Please hurry.”

  The professor looked around at the debris. Finally realizing

  her danger, she took the stair as fast as she could. The tower

  was visibly swaying, as if shaken before a monstrous wind.

  A serpent rose before them, coiled to strike. The professor

  shrieked; Lizbeth froze. Carter, trained to action by years of

  experience, gave the viper a furious kick. It struck at him,

  catching the heel of his boot as it hurtled over the edge to the

  long drop below.

  “Carter!” Lizbeth shouted.

  “I’m unhurt. It couldn’t get through my boots.”

  They hurried on. As they neared the bottom, the

  palpitations of the structure grew so violent they had to press

  themselves against the wall to avoid being thrown off the

  steps. Heavy stones fell around them.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry , Lizbeth thought with every step.

  They reached the bottom and rushed through the door. The

  professor would have thrown herself to the ground, but Carter

  upheld her until they were several yards from the tower. They

  turned.

  The structure was crumbling, tearing itself to pieces. It

  lurched to the left; it shuddered; it collapsed straight down

  upon itself. A cloud of dust rose, obscuring it.

  “We’ve won,” Lizbeth cried. “We’ve won.”

  Carter sat on a rock facing a boulder-strewn field. Beside

  him, Lizbeth gave Erin Shoemate strips of beef and water from

  a flask.

  “How long have I been here?” the professor asked.

  “You vanished from the college six months ago,” Carter

  said. “We know you were traveling during part of it.”

  “It seems an eternity.”

  “How have you lived?” Lizbeth asked.

  “Lived? Have I lived? Reading that book was like

  perpetually dying, like following an endless maze. It must be

  what it feels like to be addicted to opium. I wish I had never

  seen the Histian scroll. It was what led me to The Book of

  Verse , you know.”

  “What exactly is the book?” Lord Anderson asked.

  “It is Poetry Incarnate, the essence of the beauty of

  language. I know I shall dream of it the rest of my life. The

  words were … unimaginable.”

  The professor looked with troubled eyes across the

  landscape of Deep Machine. “As soon as I began reading, I

  couldn’t stop. I must have become a channel between our

  world and this one, for the poets soon came to bring me food

  and to care for me. The first were those I knew from the

  Poetry College. I would read to them from the book and they

  would leave changed, bright and beautiful as crystal and

  roses.”

  “Mr. Hope said the Opoian Gate was a portal leading to a

  world of elemental energies,” Lizbeth said. “Time and

  Dimension, Shadow and Light, Water and Fire, Earth and Air.

  The Book of Verse must have infused those energies into the

  poets.”

  “I sometimes wondered where they went when they left

  me,” Erin said. “Back to Evenmere, I suppose. Is that how you

  found me? Through them?”

  “Indirectly,” Lord Anderson said.

  “I wish you hadn’t hurt the man in the tower,” Erin said.

  “They are sensitive, peaceful people, seeking beauty and

  truth.”

  Lizbeth paled. This gentle woman, clearly ignorant of the

  destruction the poets had caused, was bound to feel terrible

  remorse when she learned the facts.

  “At least it’s over now,” Lizbeth said, “and we can go

  home.”

  “Is it?” Carter asked. “One thing keeps bothering me. The

  poets could have stationed a half-dozen of their number to

  guard the tower and we would never have gotten through. If

  they were too self-absorbed to maintain their own defense,

  why were they so calculating in their attacks of the Circle of

  Servants? Almost as if they were being guided. Until now, I

  thought Professor Shoemate was directing them.”

  “Attacks?” the professor said. “What nonsense! Poets

  don’t attack people.”

  “Anarchists do,” Lord Anderson said. “The objects Doctor

  Armilus sought—
bits of starlight, moments of time—what

  does he want with them? And how does the Black Beast that

  accompanies him fit in?”

  “A beast?” Shoemate asked. “I saw such an animal. But

  how is Benjamin involved?”

  “The doctor is the head of the Society of Anarchists,”

  Carter said. “What do you—”

  “Benjamin Armilus?” the professor said. “Impossible! We

  taught together. He has some anarchist leanings, of course—

  many of the professors do. And he was wrongfully accused of

  some crime, but that was nonsense. He can’t be the Supreme

  Anarchist!”

  “What do you know of the beast?” Lord Anderson asked.

  “Bandits took me prisoner as I was nearing the ruins of

  Opo. They would have slain me except for the appearance of a

  creature the size of a mastiff, but more terrible, so black it

  almost looked faceless. It killed them all; I thought it would

  murder me, too. Instead, with a sound disturbingly reminiscent

  of a laugh, it turned on its heels and departed.”

  Carter and Lizbeth exchanged glances.

  “Armilus must have either lied or been deceived when he

  told me the beast was a product of The Book of Lore ,” Lord

  Anderson said, his eyes narrowing. “When Professor

  Shoemate encountered the creature, the book was still sealed

  in the Mere.”

  “If Benjamin was looking for The Book of Lore , he never

  told me,” Erin replied. “He was interested in the Histian scroll,

  of course, but I thought it merely intellectual curiosity.”

  The Master began pacing. “But now we find the beast was

  involved with both of you. The first time I saw Armilus with

  the animal, he seemed puzzled by its presence. Did the doctor

  lie about when it appeared to him or …”

  He abruptly stopped, his faced turning ashen.

  “What is it?” Lizbeth asked.

  Carter licked his lips. “We have been duped from the

  beginning. The professor, the poets, every one of us. It has

  been the beast all along. It used Professor Shoemate to unleash

  the poets. It is using Doctor Armilus for some other purpose.”

  “For what purpose?” the professor asked. “What can it

  want?”

  “Perhaps what the anarchists have always wanted,” Carter

  said. “To change the fundamental nature of the universe. But

  how could it be done?”

  Erin Shoemate put her hands to her mouth; her eyes filling

  with tears. “You’ve not told me everything. I’ve caused

  terrible harm, haven’t I?”

  “You didn’t know,” Lizbeth said.

  “Oh, but I know now. I begin to understand. The Book of

  Verse taught me many things. There is a cavern called the

  Cave of Confluence. It is the key to the Laws of Existence in

  the realms below. Within it, those laws can be changed.”

  “Are you suggesting that the doctor is coming here?”

  Lizbeth asked.

  “If he isn’t here already,” Carter said. “And the beast with

  him. How do we find this cave?”

  The professor stood, looked around, and pointed with

  outstretched arm toward a distant opening in the rocks. “It is

  there. I saw it in the book. I saw so many things, some too

  terrible to be borne.”

  “We must make haste,” Lord Anderson ordered.

  “Everything depends upon it.”

  Ignorant that Carter and Lizbeth had preceded them, the

  doctor and the Black Beast had reached Deep Machine several

  hours before and were steadily angling their way upward,

  disregarding the stair. The beast had changed again, this time

  into the semblance of a centaur, its upper body human, its hind

  parts those of a lizard. Its grinning jackal-head reminded the

  doctor of statues of an ancient god of death. It reveled in

  crushing the tiny cities and villages beneath its feet, while

  Armilus trod carefully behind, disgusted at the senseless

  destruction. He found useless cruelty intolerable.

  “That is our goal up ahead,” the beast said.

  Thirty feet above them, at the end of a slender path, gaped

  the entrance to a cave. The sight of it made Armilus shudder.

  Unearthly, he would have called it, even in this most bizarre of

  places. It seemed to tremble, like a maw straining to devour its

  prey. Padding along the narrow path, the creature led the

  Supreme Anarchist to its threshold.

  “Perhaps you should enter first,” the doctor suggested.

  The creature chuckled. “So little trust in the world.”

  As it stepped inside, the ebony animal melted into the

  darkness. Armilus followed, feeling his way among the rough

  stones, led by the heavy breathing of his guide. A few feet in,

  his eyes began to adjust; it was brighter than he first thought; a

  dim orange glow emanated from somewhere before him,

  reflecting off the black rocks.

  When they had traveled twenty yards, the cave abruptly

  opened into a cavern of vast proportions, as indicated by the

  long echoes of the doctor’s footfalls. The glow lay before

  them, slightly brighter now, reminiscent of an orange, rising

  moon. The pair walked through a half-twilight of shapes and

  shadows along a floor strewn with rough boulders.

  They soon reached the source of the glow, an orb hanging

  without visible support a foot off the ground. Though he

  betrayed no emotion, the doctor marveled at what he could

  only describe as a machine. The orb was twenty feet tall and

  pocked like the moon, but the pocks were fluted channels.

  Half-animal devices protruded. Momentary vertigo suggested

  the orb was rotating at a barely perceptible speed.

  “Is there a sentry?” Armilus asked.

  “The inhabitants of Deep Machine have little interest in

  coming here,” the beast hissed, “and they trust the guardian in

  the alley to keep those of Evenmere from reaching the orb.

  Their overconfidence is their undoing.”

  “Who are they ?”

  “Unimportant. You know what to do.”

  Armilus withdrew a golden key from his pocket, made

  from the stolen treasures—the bits of starlight and time and

  dimension—forged into its present shape under the beast’s

  direction. Coruscating with energy, seeming to grow more or

  less intangible at any moment, it was the most beautiful object

  the doctor had ever seen. Holding it almost reverently, he

  pressed it into the lowest of the fluted channels. He flinched as

  the orb opened, unfolding itself within the cave, conforming to

  the rocky surfaces, encompassing everything within.

  Sweat broke across his brow, a fear intermingled with

  triumph. He was within the final mechanism. The possibility

  of victory was close. But the region where he stood bore little

  resemblance to any reality he had previously known. There

  were more dimensions; his eyes could not adjust. The colors,

  richer than any on earth, beat upon his vision, nearly

  overpowering him. It was an ecstasy and a terror. He glanced

  behind him, and the motion of his own head seemed a wonder,

  as if he
turned and saw himself turn, and saw himself seeing

  himself turn. Yet it was not like that at all.

  I am at the Center .

  He became aware that he was standing before an abyss, an

  endless plunge in six dimensions. Between him and the void

  stood a gossamer web. Or was the abyss beneath him? It was,

  yet he did not fall. But he could fall. That fall would be

  endless, and he did not understand what prevented it.

  He glanced at the beast. Its form had shifted from that of a

  centaur to a man eight feet tall, black as obsidian, still

  retaining the head of a jackal.

  “Use the key and make yourself Master of Evenmere,” the

  beast ordered. “Make haste! We may soon be discovered.”

  “A moment,” the doctor said. “I must study the thing.”

  He looked upon the gossamer web that was the engine of

  Existence. There were uncountable, perhaps infinite filaments,

  like the strings on a vast harp. Yet as his gaze turned to each,

  he comprehended their purpose. They were grouped; he had

  but to isolate the group, and then the individual strand.

  This is what we always sought. The ultimate power.

  Using the key, he could make the slightest of changes. The

  very slightest. But he knew the beast would never allow him to

  do so. It intended to make its own.

  “Here,” the creature said. “You must place the key here.”

  Armilus looked at the indicated line, rapidly following it

  with his eyes, seeing how the universe would be reshaped; and

  what he saw was a world of war and chaos, eternal battle,

  desolation, and despair. The worst of all possible realities.

  I believe I am about to die , the doctor thought. Odd how

  little it moves me; perhaps because it seems as yet academic.

  Perhaps I will feel more when the suffering begins. Yes, I am

  certain there will be suffering from this creature who so loves

  inflicting pain.

  He took a single coin from his pocket and released it. The

  abyss lying beneath him was real; the object vanished into the

  endless depths. Why Armilus did not fall, he did not know. He

  hoped it was not the beast preventing him from doing so.

  He dropped heavily to one knee, to be closer to the void,

  and held the key an inch from it.

  “Stay where you are,” he ordered, “or the key will be lost.”

  The monster’s black eyes glittered with both hatred and

  amusement. Armilus could sense it measuring the distance