by Sean Russell
Does he really not know, Kent wondered? “The Countess of Chilton,” Kent said, unable to think of a reason to lie—or perhaps to see Sir John’s reaction.
“Of course,” Sir John said, glancing down at the house.
“But whose home is this?” Kent asked.
“You don’t know? It was the house built by Baumgere, the infamous priest. But who is staying here now, I cannot say.” He paused, and Kent sensed that he was trying to decide what else to say, or how to say it. “I have a man who passes me information. . . . Invaluable information, I will tell you, but he is a complete mystery to me. I cannot say where he is from or name the source of his knowledge, and this troubles me, Kent.” Sir John nodded his head toward the house. “I have reason to believe the man comes here, to this house, so I am here hoping to discover who it is that he meets. One wants to be sure one is not unwittingly embroiled in the plot of a foreign power.”
“This is the man I met on the road to Castlebough—Bryce?”
Sir John nodded.
“And what has he to do with the countess?” Kent said quickly, afraid that jealousy was obvious in his voice. Had not Marianne Edden named the man handsome? Yet the countess had claimed not to know whom she meant.
“I . . .” Sir John stopped, shaking his head, the motion so small it was almost indiscernible. “Bryce is interested in Skye, for some reason, but I don’t think Lord Skye is here.”
“Who is, then? Did you follow Bryce here?”
“One does not follow Bryce, Mr. Kent. At least that is what I believe. No, it was luck only that had me see Bryce’s carriage come down this lane. And so I am here, watching, not quite sure what I hope to see.”
Sir John leaned out to look around the corner of the wall, and held his hand up quickly, stopping Kent from speaking.
Kent moved so that he could see past Sir John, and there, in the center of the ill-tended lawn, a man and a woman walked under starlight. Even at this distance he knew it was the countess, but the man was a mystery to him. Certainly not Skye. Nor was it Erasmus. Was this Bryce, then? And what had he to do with the countess?
“Is that your man?” Kent whispered, keeping his voice as low as possible. But even as he asked the question, he was sure that the answer would be no. The man on the lawn was tall, with a stiff posture and movement. A king in pain, Kent thought immediately, though he didn’t know why—but that was what the man seemed to him.
Sir John shook his head.
Just as Kent started to raise his glass, a large dog appeared at the edge of the lawn. It hesitated a moment and then loped across the open space toward the people.
Kent was certain the woman froze with fear, but the man held out his hand and the beast, which he realized now was massive, circled them once. It didn’t do this warily, Kent thought, but out of independence.
Sir John pulled back behind the wall again, drawing Kent back as well. Kent was not sure what had come over Sir John; he seemed to be suffering from some sudden ailment, and Kent feared it might be the man’s heart. Sir John could not seem to catch his breath, and Kent was sure he could see sweat running in rivulets down the man’s face.
“Is that beast a dog, Kent,” Sir John managed, “or is it a wolf?”
It seemed an odd question, but Kent leaned out to look again. The animal had deserted the people and went back toward the trees, its head down, and neck stretched out. Definitely not a dog, and then he realized what Sir John meant and almost threw himself back behind the wall.
“Eldrich,” he said, realizing the only reason that a wolf could cause such fear. “Is that what you think? It is Eldrich?”
Sir John could not speak but nodded his head, his breath coming in quick little gasps. “Farrelle . . . save us,” he managed. “I had . . . no idea.”
He grabbed the front of Kent’s frock coat and levered himself to his feet, stumbling toward the wood. “Flee,” he hissed, and Kent hesitated only a second, before following the terrified man into the utter darkness beneath the trees.
* * *
* * *
By the time they found their way back to the lane, they were bruised and their clothing torn and soiled, for the starlight penetrated into the wood only rarely.
Sir John had finally regained his breath, to Kent’s relief, but the painter was now so concerned for the countess that he almost went back, despite his fear of the mage.
“Don’t even think about it, Kent,” Sir John said, sensing what was in the painter’s mind as he looked back over his shoulder. “There is nothing you can do. Even if the countess needed rescue, you could not accomplish it. He is a mage. I can’t quite believe we have escaped unharmed. Just be thankful for that, and do nothing foolish.”
They went on, listening for the sound of horse and carriage, or the howl of a wolf.
At last they stopped so that Sir John could catch his breath. He seemed only slightly less terrified, even though they appeared to have escaped.
“Are you recovering, Sir John?”
“Recovering? My breathing, yes, but I shall never recover from the shock. I had no idea what I involved myself in, Kent. Eldrich!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Bryce is an agent of the mage. What shall I do? Whatever shall I do? I have been promoting the interests of a mage, unknowingly. And what does Eldrich want with Skye?” Sir John seemed to realize that he was ranting, and stared up at Kent, immense fear and regret apparent in his manner. The man looked so cowed, almost cringing where he sat.
He suddenly grabbed the painter by the arm. “Kent, you must promise me that none of this will go any further. I had no idea what I did, I swear. And at no time did I ever subvert the interests of my country. I swear to you, Kent.” He looked down at the ground, almost ready to collapse, Kent thought. “How will I ever get free of this? Eldrich! He will never release me. What am I to do, Kent? Whatever am I to do?”
But Kent neither knew nor cared what Sir John should do. Why was the countess in the company of Eldrich? What was their involvement? That was all that concerned him. Was she in danger? Was she his agent? His mistress?
* * *
* * *
Kent sat on the step of a deep-set door, so that a shadow hid him from the street. It was the farthest point on the street from which he could still see the countess’ home. Never in his life had he felt so utterly powerless, so unsure of what to do. Was the countess in danger? Or was it much simpler than that: she was the most beautiful woman in Farrland, and the histories were clear that mages were not immune to such things. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, which burned from lack of sleep.
But somehow he could not shake the feeling that the countess was in danger. No doubt his feelings for her held sway here—but even so he would wait and see.
The thought of waking Marianne Edden crossed his mind, but she was likely the countess’ ally in all things, and would not be so sympathetic to Kent. He believed she thought he was a bit obsessed anyway.
What he wanted to do was ask the countess herself, so he waited, trying to imagine how he would approach her, what he would say.
It was too dark to read his timepiece, but Kent was sure that daylight couldn’t be far off. He wondered what he had landed in the middle of, here in this odd little village in the Caledon Hills. Skye had a copy of a painting by Pelier which showed the structure Baumgere had uncovered above the town—though the painting, if it was a true copy, must have been done many years before Baumgere made his discovery. Erasmus Flattery, a man who had served Eldrich, had become an intimate of the Countess of Chilton, though Kent had thought she was in love with Skye. Eldrich was here! Not on his estate, which he was said never to leave.
And what was this about Erasmus going into the cave? And others had followed, apparently. And Sir John? What was this man involved in? He could not remember having seen a man so overcome by terror. Sir John was entangled in all of this somehow, and he w
as a senior member of the Farr government!
Kent had not the slightest idea of what went on.
The sound of horses and a carriage rattling over the cobbles echoed down the empty street. Kent pulled himself back into his shadow, trying to wrap it around him like a cloak.
The same carriage Kent had seen take the countess away, stopped before her door. A small, round man handed the countess down, and she slipped quickly inside. The carriage came Kent’s way, and he regretted hiding on the street, now. He drew his knees up, pressing back against the door. Without thinking, he hid his face, not looking at the carriage as it passed. When its sound was barely audible, Kent forced himself to move. With absurd caution he stepped out onto the avenue, but the carnage was gone and the street deserted.
Kent crossed to the countess’ door at a run, but when he raised his hand to knock, he hesitated. Despite all his thought, he still did not know what to say. If the countess was involved with Eldrich in some way, she would likely report him to the mage, and Kent certainly didn’t want that.
For a moment he stood there before the door, unable to decide, and then he went immediately around the side of the house. He would see what he would see, and then decide what to do.
The faintest light came from the window he had crouched beneath before, and the thought of what he had seen then both propelled him on and made him want to turn away. As quietly as he could, he went to this window and peered in, showing as little of his face as he could.
The countess sat before a fire that had burned to embers. She sat rigidly straight in her chair, unmoving. There was something unsettling about her manner. Thinking that it was perhaps the greatest folly, Kent tapped on the window. There was no response. He tapped louder. Still the countess did not stir.
She must have heard, he thought. Pressing his face to the glass, he was sure that something was greatly amiss. He tried the door but found it locked, and it would not give way to pressure. He was becoming a little frantic, when he noticed a casement window slightly ajar. With a small blade he worked it open and went in as quietly as he could.
The room was dark, and it took Kent a moment to find the door that led into the hallway. When he entered the small sitting room, the countess still remained unmoving before the hearth.
“Lady Chilton?” he whispered, but she did not seem to hear.
Kent went nearer. “Lady Chilton?” Her eyes were opened, but it was as if she were deep in sleep.
Kent put a hand tentatively on her shoulder. He realized that she wore only a sleeping gown beneath her cloak.
What has been done to her? he wondered. She seemed to have been mesmerized. Was this the way a person acted when they had been bespelled?
He shook her ever so gently. “Lady Chilton? It is Averil Kent. Lady Chilton? Please . . .”
To his relief the countess took a quick breath, as though surprised, and then seemed to relax.
“Mr. Kent?” she said, startled.
“Yes. Do not be afraid. You’re all right now.”
She pulled away from him a little as her wits returned. “What has happened? What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”
“I will explain everything, though be at ease, Lady Chilton, I mean no harm.” Kent pulled a chair nearer so that they could speak without waking the house.
“I was passing earlier this evening, returning to my rooms, when I saw you entering a large carriage. You were dressed as you are now, and seemed . . . I cannot describe it, but you were not yourself. Almost as though you walked in your sleep.”
“Mr. Kent!” the countess exclaimed, obviously disturbed, “you are not serious?”
Kent nodded. “I’m afraid I am. This is what I saw. You entered the carriage and your manner was so . . . unworldly, that I confess I followed you. Out of concern for your well-being.
“I chased the carriage, running up the stairs through the village, and finally out along a lane to the manor house that this priest, Baumgere, built.” He paused to gauge her reaction and was touched by her look of distress. “The house seemed deserted, but as I circled, keeping my distance, I saw you on the lawn. You were standing with a tall man I didn’t know. And as I watched, what I thought at first was a large dog came out of the wood. But as it crossed the lawn, I realized that it was not a dog at all, but a wolf. A massive wolf.”
The countess stared at him, uncomprehending.
“It is well known that a great wolf prowls the estate of Lord Eldrich. . . .”
The countess pulled away from him completely, as though what he said were so offensive that he could never be forgiven. Her beautiful face contorted in fear and rage. “What are you saying? That I was whisked away to see Eldrich in my sleep?” Then the fury gave way to sudden comprehension. “Farrelle save us, Kent. . . . I woke here once before, having walked in my sleep, or so I assumed. Is it possible that I have been taken away before? Abducted from my house and have no memory of it.” She pulled her cloak close around her, crossing her arms over her breasts. “What has been done to me as I walked in my sleep?” she said so quietly Kent could barely hear. “What does a mage want with me?”
Kent shook his head, not wanting to say what he thought.
“What should I do?” she asked suddenly, and though she did not really seem to be asking this of Kent, he felt he must answer.
“You must flee,” he said immediately. “Leave Castlebough. Leave Farrland, even. To Entonne, perhaps, or Doom. Get as far from Eldrich as you can. He has hardly been away from his estate these thirty years past, I can’t think that he will pursue you.”
The countess rose from the chair and paced to the window, stopping to look warily out, as though she feared the mage was watching. “But what does he want of me, Kent?” she asked, turning away from the window. “Erasmus told me that Eldrich cares little for men and their concerns. That he will use them to his own ends without remorse.” She stared at Kent, a sudden realization striking her. “Has Erasmus something to do with this? He served Eldrich. . . . And look at all that goes on here. Skye has his copies of the Peliers and pursues Erasmus to have the script translated. This man Baumgere found some great secret in Castlebough, or so everyone believes. It is all connected. It must be.” She looked at Kent to confirm her fears.
“I think you are right, Lady Chilton.” Kent was tempted to tell her about Sir John, to prove somehow that he cared for her well-being by revealing his secrets to her, but something stopped him. The fear Sir John had exhibited: it was one thing for Kent to risk himself, but to expose another, especially one so convinced of his peril, was unforgivable.
“But what goes on in this sleepy little town?” she asked.
Kent shook his head.
“I can’t help but think Erasmus knows something more. . . . And then there is Skye. I will speak with him this very morning.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Kent blurted out, jealousy overruling all reason.
“Why do you say that?”
“Only because I think you should not waste a moment. We should be off this morning. Within the hour. Who knows what plans Eldrich might have for you. You said yourself, the mages were always ruthless—Eldrich will be no different.”
The countess looked at him oddly. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Kent. Were you watching my house?”
Averil felt fear at being discovered, but strangely he felt great indignation as well. As though the accusation was not entirely true. “Lady Chilton,” he said, his voice shaking a little, “I assure you that witnessing your abduction was entirely coincidental.”
She continued to fix him with that measuring gaze. “Then I apologize, Mr. Kent,” the countess said, although she did not sound at all convinced. “I have had such odd things happen with men. You understand. . . .”
Kent nodded.
“It is almost light. I’m going to wake Marianne, and then send a note to Lord Sky
e. I hope you’ll stay, Mr. Kent. I would like them to hear your story.”
“Of course,” the painter answered. Left alone, he banked the coals in the hearth and built a fire, conjuring the flames with a bellows. He was not happy with the countess’ decision to call on Skye, or to bring Marianne Edden into this matter. What he wanted most was for her to flee, with Kent as her protector. If they were together for a month in Entonne, he was certain she would begin to feel differently toward him. She would begin to see things which perhaps weren’t readily apparent in a quiet man like Kent.
Perhaps half of the hour later a servant delivered coffee and freshly baked pastries, and another fifteen minutes saw the countess return in the company of Marianne Edden.
The novelist greeted him rather perfunctorily, as though she suddenly did not approve of this poor painter. Kent found her entirely changed toward him. Servants brought more coffee and food to break their fast and for a while there was no conversation.
As the servants closed the door, Marianne fixed Kent with a look that could hardly be called warm. “You were out for a stroll, Mr. Kent, when you saw the countess taken away?”
“Yes, I could not sleep,” Kent said, not liking where her questioning might be going.
“And do you recognize this?” Marianne asked. Reaching over to one of the trays the servants had brought, she snatched away a cloth, and there lay Kent’s field glass. “A servant retrieved it from the rear garden.”
Kent felt himself color. “Ah, that’s where I left it. Yes, it is mine. Like many, I’m an amateur empiricist myself. I was looking at the heavens.”
Marianne’s scowl left little doubt that she didn’t believe him. “And how did you come to be in the house when the doors were locked?”
“I confess, I came in a window left ajar.”
“You stole into our house like a prowler and found the countess sleepwalking in little more than her sleeping gown? Mr. Kent, this is most irregular. What could have led you to take such liberties, I can’t imagine.”