Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  familiar figure stepped through the doorway.

  “Jonathan!”

  He placed a finger on his lips for silence and beckoned her

  into the corridor. Once there, he took her hands between his

  dark ones. “It is very good to see you, Lizbeth Anderson. I

  have been looking for you and Master Anderson, but couldn’t

  find you until you returned to Evenmere.”

  “Are you well?” she asked. “You look exhausted.”

  “I have been … ill, and have traveled a long way in a short

  time. I’m in an awful hurry. I need to speak with you.”

  “I should wake Carter.”

  Jonathan glanced back into the room, where Lord

  Anderson lay sleeping. “It can’t be done just now. He walks

  the country of dreams. You will have to tell me what I need to

  know.”

  “How did you ever find us?”

  “I don’t mean to be impolite, but there isn’t time for your

  questions. I must know what happened when you stepped

  through the Eye Gate. You succeeded in your quest, because

  the Balance is changed and I haven’t seen any sign of the

  poets, but I need the details. If you will come and sit beside

  me?” He gestured toward a nearby alcove.

  Jonathan’s eyes, suffused with an uncustomary concern,

  glistened as she told of the wonders of Deep Machine and the

  battle with Jormungand. He asked many questions, and when

  she was done, he rose quickly and gave a low bow.

  “I thank you and bid you farewell. Tell Master Anderson I

  am sorry I missed him.”

  “But where are you going and what will you do? Why are

  you so desperate to know what happened?”

  “It is too complicated to explain. Every minute counts.”

  And with that, he left her.

  On the morning of the third day, the three companions

  reached Loft, where Carter was able to contact the White

  Circle Guard. There the travelers determined to part ways:

  Professor Shoemate to Aylyrium, Carter to the Inner

  Chambers, and Lizbeth to join Duskin at Lowing Hall.

  “What will you do now?” Lizbeth asked the professor.

  “I don’t know,” Erin said. “Poetry and literature have been

  my whole life. For it to be channeled as a weapon … Perhaps I

  can use it to somehow alleviate the harm I have done.”

  Carter and Lizbeth wished her luck, and she departed,

  accompanied by five members of the Guard. Five more would

  journey with Lizbeth. Two years later, the professor would be

  named Poet Laureate of Aylyrium. She took the post with the

  greatest reluctance, stating her lines were the poorest imitation

  of the ones she had read in The Book of Verse . A decade after,

  she would pen Poetry as Political Force , a volume

  instrumental in the historic reforms of Shyntawgwin.

  Lizbeth turned to Carter. “What will you do about

  Jormungand, and how can we help?”

  “I don’t know the answer to either question. I am going to

  do what I can. I wish I knew what Jonathan was up to. He is

  being quite mysterious. I don’t want to sound melodramatic,

  but if I fail, you may be called upon to serve in my stead.”

  “Oh, Carter—”

  He placed his fingertips against her lips. “Hush. We will

  hope for the best, but you must be prepared. You and Duskin

  should come to the Inner Chambers as soon as you can, I

  think. Tell my brother … tell my brother I love him greatly,

  and am proud of the work he has done, as I am proud of you.”

  She hugged him fiercely and kept a brave face, but burst

  into tears as she watched him stride down the long corridor,

  alone as he so often was. She kept her eyes fastened on him

  until he vanished from sight.

  The Last Dinosaur

  Jonathan Bartholomew fell silent. Jormungand shifted his

  weight, making the attic boards creak. The heavy exhalations

  of the behemoth echoed among the rafters.

  “So you rushed from your tête-à-tête with Lizbeth

  Anderson just to tell me this?” Jormungand asked. “Couldn’t

  wait to spend a few hours reminding me of my defeat when

  victory was so close? Bad form, isn’t it? Bad enough to get

  you vivisected.”

  “I told the story for three reasons. First, because the telling

  of tales is a part of tradition, and this is the time and place for

  ceremony, here in this attic on this very day. Second, because I

  needed to buy time, to prevent you from taking immediate

  revenge upon Master Anderson, which is why I was in such

  haste. And in the best conventions of storytelling, I will

  withhold the third reason until the proper moment. But there is

  one part of the tale I still don’t understand. I believe you were

  the author of The Book of Lore. But when did you write it?”

  Jormungand chuckled mirthlessly. “So even the great

  Storyteller doesn’t know everything. Nor could you, for the

  book was my most carefully kept secret. Perhaps you

  remember a Master named Augustus Cane?”

  “He wasn’t Master long, and he disappeared …” Jonathan

  paused. “That’s right. He vanished into the Mere of Books, his

  body never found. I should have remembered that.”

  “When he first came to my attic, I appeared in a more

  pleasant guise,” the dinosaur said, “more serpent in the garden

  than behemoth. I enticed him, turning his head, showing him

  sense and nonsense until the Master himself became my pupil.

  A most excellent jest, that, worthy of a note in a good

  scrapbook! At my bidding, he penned The Book of Lore ,

  supposedly to depict the wonders I had seen in Evenmere. The

  fool didn’t realize I had designed the book to bend him to my

  will.”

  “But you didn’t delude him completely, did you? He

  caught on to your tricks and sealed the book in the cave in the

  Mere.”

  “His will was stronger than even I suspected,” Jormungand

  said. “He was bound to the book by then, and in sealing it he

  paid for his heroics with his life.”

  “And the book remained in the cave until Lord Anderson

  recovered it.”

  “The little Masters are so easily deceived,” the dinosaur

  said.

  “I see it now,” Jonathan said. “A masterful plan, executed

  over centuries.”

  “And worthless in the end.” Jormungand breathed fire.

  “To finish my tale, then,” Storyteller said, “Lord Anderson

  did return to the Inner Chambers to be reunited with his wife

  and Mr. Hope.”

  “How nice for him,” Jormungand rumbled. “I should have

  killed him the last time he was here. I let him live because I

  didn’t want to attract the attention of Those who originally

  imprisoned me. That was why I couldn’t operate openly.”

  “That’s right. That’s right. But there was another reason as

  well. You have only one nature, of which struggle is the whole

  part. You didn’t kill him because you must always have an

  adversary.”

  The dinosaur blew a heavy breath. “He has proved as

  formidable an opponent as any of his
worthless predecessors,

  and I do love to watch one of the Masters suffer. I wanted him

  to see his petty little universe brought to shambles. Quite

  dissatisfying. But it is the doctor who disappoints me most. He

  was my undoing. His lack of greed—”

  “That’s right. These humans show remarkable sparks of

  good at the oddest moments. Master Anderson is

  demonstrating that right now, preparing to come here to seal

  you in the attic.”

  “I knew he would.” Jormungand gave a ghastly

  approximation of a grin. “He places his hope in the Words of

  Power, but even the Master of Evenmere can’t contain the Last

  Dinosaur now that I am free. No Master ever had authority

  over me. Do you know what I am going to do to him? Kill

  him, of course, but I will do it with exquisite deliberation. I

  will cook him alive, minute by minute. Perhaps I will let you

  live long enough so you can watch. I will—”

  “No, old dragon, you will not.” Jonathan rose to his feet.

  Jormungand breathed fire, scorching the air. “Enough of

  your impertinence!”

  “Do you know who I am?” Storyteller asked.

  “A wandering vagabond, a bit of hope in a hopeless

  package. Tall tales and inspiring stories for an ant hill about to

  be drowned by the rain.”

  “But we are every one of us more than we seem—you,

  Master Anderson, the people of Evenmere. Come closer and I

  will tell you my identity. I won’t speak it aloud in this place.”

  “So much the better,” Jormungand said. “It puts you in

  easy reach.”

  The behemoth leaned his great head down, and Jonathan

  whispered a single name into the darkness.

  Jormungand sat back on his haunches. “You lie!”

  “Storyteller never lies. And he has the power to put the

  dinosaur back in his hidey-hole.”

  The minstrel let his ragged coat drop from his shoulders. It

  fell in a heap to the floor, revealing his slender, vulnerable

  frame. “The third reason for telling my tale was to make you

  impatient, to bring out that bad temper of yours, because once

  begun you cannot restrain your wrath. I am here, old reptile,

  and you, who have but one nature, must do as it commands

  you.”

  For the space of half an hour, Jormungand raged across the

  attic, bellowing his fury, his heavy footfalls thundering against

  the floorboards, his flames lighting the darkness. Miles he

  traveled into the deepest recesses, so far his fires became a

  distant torch to Jonathan’s eyes. He stomped back, shaking the

  entire attic, breathing so much flame the whole house would

  have surely gone up, had the attic not been proof against it.

  At last the juggernaut stood before Storyteller again, silent

  with a cold and deadly hush.

  “Very well,” Jormungand finally said. “I do what I must.

  From the beginning of time, the blood-sacrifice has turned

  back the forces of Chaos. The blood of such a one as you,

  freely given, will imprison me once more. But understand this,

  old man—in thwarting me you have revealed who you are, and

  I, who am terrible in my defeat, will use that if I can. And I

  will make you suffer with a torment far greater than I would

  have done to Anderson. The remaining moments of your life

  will be an agony beyond understanding.”

  “Do your worst,” Storyteller said, lifting his hands. “It is

  all I ever expected.”

  Stepping through the portal on his quest toward Deep

  Machine, Carter had feared he might never clasp William

  Hope’s hand again, or hold his wife and son in his arms once

  more. To return and experience that joy had been sweet

  beyond his understanding. But too soon, he had hugged Sarah

  and Jason goodbye again, and said farewell to his friend for

  what might be the last time.

  He thought of that as he stood at the entrance to the attic.

  He had climbed these steps before, wondering whether he

  would survive, but this was different. The Word Which Seals

  could not seal the entire attic, so he would try to seal

  Jormungand within the space, similar to the way he had sealed

  The Book of Verse . His intuition told him he would not

  prevail, but he had to make the attempt. The dinosaur could

  not be allowed to remain free.

  He did not bother carrying weapons. His pistol would be

  futile against the behemoth, and his Lightning Sword lay in

  pieces in the Inner Chamber. Even if it were whole, it wouldn’t

  help. As terrible as the Black Beast had been, it was the barest

  portion of everything that was Jormungand.

  He ascended the creaking stair, lantern in hand. When he

  reached the top, he halted and listened, straining to hear the

  noise of breathing. The attic lay silent. Had Jormungand gone?

  Would Carter have to search for him throughout the house?

  He crossed the attic, sweat beading his upper lip. The

  boards groaned beneath his weight. The air lay musty and

  thick.

  “Antsy, are we?” a voice whispered in his ear.

  He turned and shouted the Word Which Seals. In his

  mind’s eye, he saw it forming around Jormungand, a golden,

  growing circle. The dinosaur must have seen it too, for he

  snapped his jaws at it. For a breathless moment it held, then

  collapsed, bouncing around the attic with a sound hollow as

  marbles ricocheting off metal walls, unfocused and useless,

  sealing nothing.

  A wreath of dragon-flame fountained above Carter,

  revealing Jormungand standing between him and the stair. The

  Word had failed. His only hope now lay in escape. He raised

  the Word Which Manifests to mind. It would not harm the

  brute, but might purchase enough time for him to make his

  exit.

  “Pointless,” the dinosaur said. “I see the Word flowering

  within you.”

  Lord Anderson abandoned the effort. “As always, you are

  infallible within your own domain.”

  “A pity I was less so at Deep Machine.”

  “I should have suspected you from the beginning.” As he

  spoke Carter shifted his feet, edging to the right.

  “No doubt you have many questions. Unfortunately, I can’t

  provide you with a last meal—it will be the other way around

  —but out of courtesy for a brave enemy, I will give you the

  answers you seek.”

  Carter took another shuffling step. “The postman told us

  much of it. You must have enjoyed using the Poetry Men to

  spread your anarchy.”

  Jormungand blew a snort of flame. “It was a lovely plan.

  The poets were the perfect tools. You probably wonder why I

  chose forces aligned with beauty and wonder as my weapons.

  Not quite like me, you might say.”

  “I assume it was the simplest way.”

  “Oh no, my little gnat. Not at all.”

  “Why, then?” Lord Anderson took another slight step to

  the right, seeking a chance to bolt.

  “I could have chosen a dozen other methods of causing

  havoc, but I picked poetry because I knew it was a
power that

  would never be associated with me.”

  “But how could you …” Carter hesitated, feeling a faint

  stirring in the back of his mind. Man and beast eyed one

  another through several long seconds. Lord Anderson was

  stalling for an opportunity to escape. Was it his imagination, or

  was the dinosaur also playing for time?

  “How could I what?” Jormungand rumbled.

  The Master kept silent, studying his adversary. Why hadn’t

  the monster already killed him? Was this another of the

  dinosaur’s torments, delaying the falling of the hammer? Or

  was something else involved?

  “Perhaps you wonder why I used agents instead of acting

  openly?” Jormungand suggested.

  Carter weighed his words carefully, any thought of escape

  now vanished. “Something undoubtedly prevented you.”

  “It was much more than that. Much more.”

  The dinosaur waited.

  “I am sure it involved creating the maximum amount of

  pain,” Carter finally said.

  “Not at all. You’ve missed it completely. Not surprising,

  considering your limited intelligence.”

  Another silence fell. At last, Carter cleared his throat and

  said, “I have a question.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Are you once more a prisoner in the attic?”

  The dinosaur turned with deadly speed. Carter instinctively

  threw his arms up to ward the blow, though he knew nothing

  could stop it.

  Jormungand’s massive tail slammed against the floor, a

  thundering impact that rattled the entire attic. The force threw

  Carter from his feet; he landed on his back on the dusty

  boards.

  The Last Dinosaur blew flames against the roof, then grew

  utterly quiet.

  Finding himself still alive, Lord Anderson gave a grim

  smile and sat up on his elbows. When his opponent remained

  quiescent, he stood, intentionally taking the time to brush

  himself off, using the seconds to steady his nerves. Still, his

  voice trembled when he spoke. “I believe you must answer the

  question, which is the second one I have asked since entering

  the attic.”

  “Jormungand, the Last Dinosaur, the Greatest Creature in

  Existence, is bound once more.”

  Carter blew a quivering breath. “You hoped I wouldn’t

  know. You wanted me to ask more than three questions so you

  could slay me.”

  “I see nothing to my liking will come of this,” Jormungand