by Sean Russell
My Dear Mr. Kent:
Please, come at once! I clearly owe you an apology. Please,
please make all haste, I cannot tell you how worried I am.
Fearing the worst, Kent snatched up his frock coat and bolted out the door.
When he arrived at the house of the countess, he was met by a maid who looked near to tears. Kent felt his heart sink utterly. The countess could not be dead . . . ? She could not.
“Oh, Mr. Kent, thank Farrelle you’ve come,” she said. “Miss Edden is beside herself with worry.”
Marianne appeared behind the servant, her usual quiet demeanor swept away entirely.
“Lady Chilton has gone,” she said.
“Gone? But where?”
Marianne took his arm and drew him hurriedly into the house. “I was out visiting in the village and learned of her departure only when I returned. Gone without explanation.” She looked expectantly at the maid, who stood twisting her apron in her hands.
“Yes, Mr. Kent,” the maid said. “A small man came to the door asking for my mistress, and within moments Lady Chilton had me throw a few belongings into a trunk, and she went off with him. Went off without saying where, or even when she might return.”
Kent closed his eyes for a second. “Did this man come in a large, old-fashioned carriage?”
The maid nodded. “A coach and four. Yes, sir. And a smaller carriage followed behind.”
“She did not even leave me a note, Kent,” Marianne said. “Not a single word. I’ve known the countess for years. She would never, never have done such a thing. I—I . . .” She completely lost what she had meant to say.
The maid interjected. “Has the countess eloped, do you think?”
Marianne looked at Kent; clearly she no longer doubted his story. She dismissed the maid and took Kent into the sitting room.
“I should have listened to you, Kent,” she began, keeping her voice low, though it was filled with emotion all the same. “This is entirely my fault. It was just that . . . I have seen men concoct the oddest stories to gain the attention of the countess. . . .”
“It’s too late to worry about that, Marianne . . .” But Kent did not finish his sentence, for at that moment the Earl of Skye arrived.
“Ah, Lord Skye,” Marianne said. “I cannot thank you enough for coming so quickly.” She glanced oddly at Kent, who was sure he looked at her like a betrayer. “I’m sure you’ve met Mr. Kent? Yes? I hardly know where to begin.”
With Kent filling in his parts of the story, they related what had occurred.
“You believe it was Eldrich?” Skye said, when the story was completed. “You’re sure?” He shook his head.
“I’m afraid there is no doubt of it. If only Mr. Flattery were here,” Marianne lamented. “He might be able to tell us what to do.”
This caught Skye’s interest. “Perhaps we could speak with Mr. Flattery. I’ve heard he is traveling in company with a young gentleman of my acquaintance. Someone I would like to speak with in any event. Do you know where Flattery is staying?”
“Yes, but he remains down in the cave searching for those young men.”
Skye looked up quickly. “You don’t mean Hayes and Kehler?”
“Yes, that sounds right . . . but I don’t remember exactly. Elaural mentioned their names only in passing.”
“Farrelle’s—” He let the curse go unfinished for Marianne’s sake. “And is this the cave where Baumgere’s confessor self-murdered?”
Marianne shrugged.
Skye rose and paced across the room, pausing before the windows.
“But what shall we do?” Marianne said.
“What?” Skye turned back to the others. “Well, you should have heeded Mr. Kent’s warning,” he said. “If the countess is in the hands of Eldrich, then the Farr army will not pry her loose.” He turned back to the window again, obviously disturbed, but Kent was not sure it was by the plight of the countess.
“There is only one road from Castlebough back into Farrland,” Kent said. “We can catch them yet—if we ride at once.”
“And do what, exactly?” Skye said, whirling to stare down at Kent. “He is a mage, Kent.” He paused, looking at the painter and Marianne, his features softening a little. “I’m sorry about what has happened to the countess, but there is nothing anyone can do. And to be completely logical about matters—you don’t know that she didn’t go of her own accord. It’s true that the countess did not leave Miss Edden a note, and she rushed off in terrible haste, but—” He raised his hands. “You might catch them up, Kent, and if Eldrich is not inclined to cripple you on the spot, then the countess could just as well lean out the window of her carriage and tell you to turn around and bother her no more. And whether she says this of her own choice or not, we will never prove. I’m sorry. But there is nothing to be done.” He looked from one to the other. “How long has Mr. Flattery been in this cave?”
Marianne shook her head, hardly able to follow the change in conversation. “I don’t know!” she snapped. “Four days, perhaps.”
“Well,” Skye answered, “there is someone we can help. If Mr. Flattery hasn’t appeared by tomorrow, I suggest we organize a search. At least he is not in the clutches of a mage.”
* * *
* * *
Kent was beginning to feel the effects of lack of sleep, but he forced himself up the stairs to Sir John’s rooms. The knight had obviously been sleeping, but when he saw Kent, he came completely awake.
“Eldrich has taken the countess away,” Kent announced.
“Flames,” was all Sir John could manage. “Come in, man, come in.”
“Is this man Bryce still in Castlebough?”
“No. No, he’s gone. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. He is a servant of Eldrich. Perhaps . . . perhaps he could assure me that the countess went of her own choosing. That she is in no danger.” Kent sat in a chair, hands on his knees, his head hanging down as though he had not the energy to raise it. “I must go after her,” he said.
“Take hold of yourself, Kent, you’re not making sense. You’re not some hero off to rescue a maiden in distress. You’re a painter, for Farrelle’s sake. Come to your senses, man. There is nothing you can do. And do you even know if Lady Chilton was taken against her will?”
Kent looked up at Sir John, who asked the same question as Skye. “The countess had no memory of her meeting with Eldrich. The very thought of it caused her the greatest revulsion. How can I assume that anything but an abduction has taken place?” Kent sat back in the chair, letting his arms fall loosely to his sides. “Flames, I wish Erasmus were here.”
“Flattery, you mean? Could he help?”
Kent shrugged. “He has a certain . . . affection for the countess, I believe. And who would know more about the mage than Erasmus? Assuming he had nothing to do with the countess’ disappearance.”
Sir John shook his head. “If Eldrich is out in the world again . . .” he muttered, letting the sentence die. “Can Mr. Flattery be reached?” the knight asked.
Kent shook his head. “I don’t know. He has gone exploring one of the local caves for some unknown period of time. I cannot say if he is still there, or if he has, perhaps, emerged and even returned to Avonel.”
“Well, let us endeavor to find out before you do anything rash.”
Kent felt a bit embarrassed at his state. He knew that he had no claim on the countess and was acting a bit of a fool. “I don’t think I can wait, Sir John. I need to know where he has taken her, at the very least. Perhaps you could take on the contacting of Erasmus Flattery? And I will send word back to you as to the whereabouts of the countess. I feel sure Erasmus will help.”
Sir John did not look like a man who felt any degree of confidence in Kent’s plan. “I think it more likely that he will try to dissuade you from interfering.
Though I’m not sure, now, what my own situation is. I received a note from Mr. Bryce this morning saying that he was leaving Castlebough immediately and that I was free to return to Avonel. In other words, I have been dismissed—temporarily.” Distress seemed to draw his face taut. “He has gone off after his master, I assume.” Sir John lowered himself into a chair, staring at a spot on the floor just before him.
“I don’t know, Kent. It is all very odd. Eldrich was in Castlebough for a reason. Bryce insisted I accompany him here, but now I’m not sure why. Whatever purpose he had came to nothing, it would seem. But even so, I have a feeling that something occurred here. And not something insignificant either.” He pressed fingers into the corners of his eyes, clearly still tired. Then he looked up at Kent, his eyes red from exhaustion and worry. “Well, Kent, what will you do? I hold little hope that you’ll listen to reason in this.”
Kent knew the man was talking sense, but it did not matter. “I will heed your advice, in part. I will keep my distance from Eldrich and try to discover where he will take the countess. I’ll then send word to you. If you will attempt to speak with Mr. Flattery. . . .” Kent paused for a moment, finding it difficult to keep his train of thought. “Skye is worried that Erasmus has been gone too long, that he has met with misadventure.” Kent shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Erasmus Flattery is an enormously competent man. I’m sure no evil has befallen him. If you will tell Erasmus what has happened when he emerges, I will set off immediately so that Eldrich does not outdistance me.”
Kent shook his head, trying to make his mind function. Was there anything else he should say to Sir John? Unable to think of anything, he forced himself up. “Good luck to you, Sir John.”
“And to you, Kent. Safe journey.” He rose from his chair, reaching out to clasp Kent’s hand warmly. “But, Kent, do keep your distance from Lord Eldrich. It is likely he has already learned of your interference. Take no chances, Kent, I implore you.”
The painter nodded. Sir John pressed his hand firmly and then released it, and Kent went out thinking that Sir John treated him like a man going off to war. Like a man who would not be seen again.
* * *
* * *
The countess realized that she had been staring for a long time at the scene before her, but it had not registered until now. She shook her head and blinked, her eyes feeling like they had been scoured with sand.
Eldrich roused from his reverie and looked at her. “Ah, there you are,” he said as though she had just appeared.
“Indeed . . .” She felt a peculiar confusion, as though just awakened from a deep sleep. “But where am I?”
“In a carriage traveling through the Caledon Hills. We have come from Castlebough.”
She nodded. Yes, Castlebough. “My mind . . . it is not clear.”
“It will become so in a few moments. Do not be alarmed,” Eldrich said, his tone musical but not terribly soothing. She felt as though he mocked her; she was not sure why.
She pressed her eyelids closed for a moment, relieving the pain in her eyes, and tried to order her thoughts. She had been in Castlebough. With Marianne! Yes, now it was coming to her. They had gone there after Skye, though she could not recall the reason. . . . She took a long breath and searched her memories, which were terribly fragmented. A feeling deep in her center was familiar. Had she taken a lover there? Something told her she had; in fact she seemed to remember—everything but his face and name.
Erasmus! That was it; Erasmus, but she felt an odd sense of disappointment, though she was not sure why. Had it ended unhappily? Was he inadequate? Neither of these seemed to be true.
Putting this line of inquiry aside, she tried to remember the reason she had gone there in the first place. Skye. She was certain it had something to do with Skye. And his paintings! The Peliers. And this priest Baumgere. She took a long breath. It was coming back. But why was she here?
Certainly she knew Eldrich, but how? She was sure that she had not encountered him before her journey to Castlebough, but she could not remember when they had first met. One did not forget meeting a mage. Curious.
She opened her burning eyes and focused on Eldrich, who looked at her with disturbing disinterest.
“Why am I here?”
He did not answer but continued to stare, almost as if he had not heard. She was about to ask again when he spoke.
“The explanation is lengthy, and I have provided some of it already. It will come back to you. Give it time, something we have in abundance, for the next few days, at least.”
The countess straightened her skirt. “At least I have clothes,” she said, not sure why.
Eldrich smiled in amusement. “Are you disappointed?”
“No, I think not. What have you been doing to me?”
“Not what you suspect at the moment, though I will confess that I have been tempted. But that would be tempting fate, quite literally, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?”
He did not answer.
The countess sat up straight, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “Well, you have all the advantage of me. I do not know where we are going or why.”
He nodded agreement but did not offer an explanation.
One hand had gone to sleep, and she rubbed feeling back into it. “Nor do I remember agreeing to such a journey.”
“Were your relations with Erasmus intimate?” Eldrich asked suddenly.
“Sir! I am shocked that you would ask such a thing.”
“In fact, you’re not. And I’m glad to find that they were—intimate, that is.”
She was about to protest, but he turned and looked out the window, as though no longer interested in this matter. She thought his face changed a little, the mockery replaced by sadness.
“Something has happened to Erasmus,” she said suddenly.
He turned back to her, his look a bit surprised, or perhaps more impressed. “Erasmus is perfectly hale, I can assure you.”
“But where is he?”
“Do you really care?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
He nodded, though she was not sure why. “It is often said that to practice the arts one must give up one’s heart.” The look of sadness returned. “But I will tell you that it is not so simple.”
She did not quite know what to say, but suddenly her conviction that something had happened to Erasmus was not so solid. Did she care for Erasmus? She remembered their night of love. Certainly it had given her great pleasure. But had Erasmus engaged her heart that night? It almost seemed that if the question needed to be asked, the answer must be “no.” And this made her a little sad.
“You did not answer my question,” the countess said.
Eldrich looked at her sharply. “Have you not heard that it is unwise to anger a mage?”
She did not answer, feeling suddenly frightened, but frustrated and angry at the same time. Eldrich turned again to survey the passing countryside.
She felt a stirring inside and a blush spread across her skin. A memory of desire came back to her, but it did not seem to be connected to Erasmus. Eldrich . . . She had felt this desire for him—at his command, it seemed. And now the memory of it washed through her again.
Is this his doing, she asked herself, or are these my feelings?
Fear—she also felt fear. Fear and desire. The idea that these two emotions could live within her at one time she found loathsome, but her body did not care. And worse, she sensed a hunger in him that she had not felt before—hunger for her. It was hidden behind his mockery, by his stillness, but, even so, she felt it. She was desired by a mage. . . .
“I still do not remember consenting to this journey,” she said, hoping that speaking would take her focus away from the confusion she felt.
Eldrich turned and looked at her, drawing himself up in his seat. “Do you know my age?” he
asked, as though he had not heard her.
She shook her head.
“One hundred and thirty-three years. All other estimates you have heard are inaccurate. In fact it will be my birth day in just over a fortnight.” He paused, watching her reaction to this information. “I am stronger than men a century my junior, my mind is still sound in all its parts. In every way I am a man in his middle years, except that, like all my kind, I cannot father children.” He raised his eyebrows, cocking his head a little, as though a bit proud of these facts. “I will not stoop to asking how old I appear, for politeness begs a lie, even in my situation, but I do not look like an elderly man, of that I am aware.” He paused again—his conversation was punctuated by pauses, all a little too long, and the effect was to discomfit those he spoke to, or at least it had that effect on the countess. “Do you know Lady Felton-Gray?”
She nodded, wondering if his mind was as sound as he claimed, for there was no apparent thread to this conversation.
“She is eighty-some years old, I believe. When she was your age, I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. At the risk of being terribly unkind, she is now a crone.”
“It is rather more than unkind,” the countess said before she thought. “Lady Felton-Gray is a woman of great distinction, I think.”
He nodded. “But the men of Farrland, and even farther afield, sing the praises of the Countess of Chilton, not Lady Felton-Gray. You, Lady Chilton, are the great beauty of your generation. In ten years you might still look much as you do now. Oh, your hair will not be so thick and lustrous, and your skin will not have the glow that it does today, and lines will have begun to form at the corners of your eyes. But you will still be thought a great beauty. In twenty years you will be replaced by someone half your age. In thirty years you will be thought handsome and perhaps well-preserved. In forty years people will marvel that men whose names you did not know once fought duels over you. And when you are the age of Lady Felton-Gray . . .” He shrugged.