centuries or millennia, perhaps—time when the old lizard
would have wallowed in destruction.”
“So …” A dozen thoughts ran through Carter’s mind at
once. “So you have lived since the beginning of the house.
You are the house! I have so many questions. Can you tell me
—”
“Do you know why I never told people who I was, Master
Anderson? Why I didn’t say, ‘Come look at Jonathan T.
Bartholomew, the man who is a house?’ Because if I did, I
couldn’t have done a bit of my job. They wouldn’t want stories
that touch the heart anymore. They’d want to know what it
was like in the old days, and how the house came into being,
and does God whisper in my eaves in the middle of the night.
Those questions aren’t for me to answer, so it’s better no one
knew to ask.”
Carter shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. “I
understand.”
“No, you don’t. Not quite. There are two sides to the
universe: destruction and peace. We are always following the
path of one or the other. But you and I, we have our places,
and that is good enough. I will tell you this: the High House is
not eternal. It is very old, but like all houses, it will someday
be torn down. Something new is always being put in place.
That’s right. Always something new.”
“What will happen to you?”
“Well, Master Anderson, I don’t rightly know, but there are
parts and parts. Evenmere, which is me, will live on, though
the High House will not. I’m not much different than
anybody.”
“Are you not?”
The statue grinned.
“You keep referring to Storyteller in the past tense,” Carter
said.
“Because he has passed, Master Anderson. That’s right.
That form was destroyed, and I will miss it. I am all house
now. I will especially miss eating good food, the touch of a
friend’s hand, the smell of lilacs on a summer’s day, a
thousand things. This body of stone is one I formed at great
physical effort so you and I could have our little chat. You see,
through Storyteller, Evenmere finally learned to speak.”
“I am so sorry, Jonathan. It’s my fault. I refused to
sacrifice my son. I—”
“Now you don’t go talkin’ that way, Carter. Master of
Evenmere or no, who are you to say what would or wouldn’t
have happened? Who am I, with my countless rooms and
chambers, to judge you? You’ve spent your whole life
regretting stealing your father’s keys, something any boy
might have done. Why waste the rest of it lingering on your
failures? Let’s both let it go.”
Carter bowed his head to hide the tears. “You are … very
gracious. Thank you. What should I do now?”
“Have I mentioned I never offer advice? But there is
always something for the Master of Evenmere to do. Some
wrong to right, some battle to win. What I would do, if I were
Carter Anderson, Keeper of the Master Keys, et cetera, et
cetera, is walk back into the house, find my wife and son, and
have a nice cup of tea.”
Carter abruptly laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You have always called me Master Anderson, never Lord
Anderson. You were addressing me as befits one who is my
superior.”
Storyteller grinned. “An old house accumulates many
private jokes.”
Together they walked to the door. But as the minstrel
touched the knob, his form melted away, melding with the
stones and timbers of the High House. As Carter stood
astonished, a voice humming from the eaves said, “I will be
listening for you, Master Anderson. The walls have ears, you
know. They surely do.”
Lord Anderson soon returned to his old life, overseeing the
building of the telegraph, working with Mr. Hope, Chant,
Enoch and the other servants of the house, and watching his
son grow up. He spoke often with Lizbeth, showing her much,
but not all, of the knowledge normally reserved for the Master.
One day, after receiving a message from Chant, he donned
his traveling boots and cast his Tawny Mantle about his
shoulders. Instead of his shattered Lightning Sword, he carried
an ordinary rapier. He traveled through Ghahanjhin, skirted the
Mere of Books, and reached the northeast corner of
Vroomanlin Wood. Among the walled gardens, he found
Chant in the dusk, reciting poetry to The Men Who Are Trees.
The Lamp-lighter completed the last stanzas just as Carter
arrived. The strange plants gave their plaintive wails for half a
minute, quieting after the last rays of the sun no longer shone
on their faces.
“Why do you recite to them?” Carter asked.
Chant smiled his wry smile. “My old friend Nighthammer,
the blind anarchist, asked me the same question. He assured
me it was a waste of time.”
Carter sat on the bench beside his companion.
“I miss him,” Chant said. “We had wonderful
conversations together. He was a brilliant man and an
excellent poet.”
“And the one who lied to you about The Book of Lore .
Perhaps a murderer as well.”
“Perhaps.” Chant gazed at Carter with his rose-pink eyes.
“Aren’t we all soldiers, fighting for a cause?”
Carter looked down, thinking of the blood on his own
hands. “Will he really come?”
“He said he would.”
“The pact I made with him nearly cost us everything,”
Carter said. “In my fear for Jason, I almost gave Evenmere
away. Armilus was this close to changing the universe. I
measured the life of a boy against the fate of Existence and
chose my son.”
“Well—he’s a good boy.”
Carter glanced at his friend, caught the irony in his eyes.
They both laughed.
“At least you decided for Evenmere at the end,” Chant
said.
“As a result, I alternate between feeling guilty about my
first choice and my second.”
“If, chance, from fell Charybdis I escape, May I not also
save from Scylla’s force My people; should the monster
threaten them ?” Chant recited. “We learn as we go.
Throughout my life I’ve thought poetry the highest calling, the
music of the spheres. I considered lighting the lamps a small
part of that. But we almost had too much poetry, poetry not to
be borne. I have been reminded that there are greater things
than poetry: friendship—hope—love.”
A sound behind the men caused them to rise and turn.
Doctor Benjamin Armilus, dressed in his bowler hat and black
greatcoat, filled the narrow opening with his bulk. In his
hands, he gripped The Book of Lore . Carter summoned the
Word Which Manifests to mind.
“Doctor,” Carter said.
“Lord Anderson. Lamp-lighter,” Armilus nodded his head
to both of them. “May I sit?”
Carter gestured toward a bench across from their own. The
seat creaked und
er the doctor’s weight, and Carter, reminding
himself that the man was more muscle than fat, placed his
hand near the pocket holding his revolver.
“I appreciate you agreeing to see me,” Armilus began.
“Are you well?”
“Have you come to inquire on my health?” Carter asked.
Armilus gave the barest turn of a smile. “We have played a
deadly game, Lord Anderson, with the highest stakes. I trust
you will prove a gracious victor?”
“I have played no games, Doctor. None of it was a game.
We were both manipulated. The world was nearly lost. Unless
you have come to turn yourself in to the authorities, we have
nothing to say to one another.”
Armilus looked down, almost imperceptibly nodding his
head. “I came for only one reason—to ask a question. It is
about … I want to know about the Face we saw at the end, the
one who took the beast away. Does it trouble you at night? Do
you think of it?”
The question surprised Carter. “Actually, it brings me
comfort.”
“Who was it?” Armilus’ voice grew ragged. “Do you
know? Can you tell me?”
“I have recently been told that there are many servants,
Doctor, so I assume it was one of those. A doorkeeper,
perhaps.”
“A doorkeeper ?” Armilus pursed his lips, shaking his
head. “You only make matters worse. Whoever it was, I have
never seen a Face like that. I cannot get it out of my mind.
Because of it, I now doubt my previous assumption of a
universe of impersonal forces. If there are indeed Beings
overseeing our existence …” He mopped his brow with a
handkerchief. “I have resigned my position as Supreme
Anarchist. I intend to go away for a time to meditate upon the
matter.”
“Will the other anarchists let you depart so easily?” Chant
asked. “You still possess the knowledge from The Book of
Lore . For that matter, I question whether we should allow you
to leave here unfettered.”
Armilus grimaced and set the heavy book on the ground
before them. “I came under a flag of truce, and you are both
honorable men. The book was a tool of Jormungand’s. I know
that now. It could never be turned to our purposes. That is why
I brought it to you, to destroy it if you can, or to seal it back in
the Mere. I informed the Council that its power was useless to
us, and I believe I possess enough personal authority to assure
my own safety, so long as I am not perceived as an
encumbrance.”
“After the way you threatened my son, surely you haven’t
come seeking absolution?” Carter asked.
“I came, as I said, to ask a question. Someday I may
indeed seek amnesty for my crimes. The Master has the
authority to grant a pardon in certain cases. But perhaps Lord
Anderson has never done anything he later regretted.”
Carter sat silent. Armilus rose and gave a slight bow.
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your time and bid you good day.”
With that, the former Supreme Anarchist departed.
“What do you make of that?” Carter asked.
“I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my
knee as then your force did. ”
“Perhaps,” Carter said. “Maybe he has undergone a
change. But he is still a murderer. When he came to us, I
assumed it was as the head of the Society of Anarchists,
arriving under what amounted to a cease-fire. If he no longer
represents them, he is merely a criminal deserving
punishment.”
“We can probably still catch him.”
Carter studied the quiescent faces of The Men Who Are
Trees. Their eyes were closed; they looked innocent as
children at rest.
“Do you really think they’re conscious?” Carter asked.
“Are they, as some say, paying penance for a terrible crime
committed long ago?”
“I only know when I read them poetry, it brings them
peace.”
The two servants looked at one another.
“Should we go home?” the Lamp-lighter asked.
“Let’s just sit here awhile. So long as Evenmere surrounds
us; we are among friends.”
THE END
To find out more about Phra’s story, read the short story,
The Star Watch , for free here
To return to the end of the scene of Jonathan and Phra on
the bridge click here
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 44
