The clerk must have contacted his superiors, for a dozen
soldiers came scrambling over the rocks, pistols drawn.
“Halt and state your business!” their captain ordered.
“I’ve come to see the Thaloddian Arch,” the poet said,
raising his hand, “and to parlay with your decemvirs.”
The captain aimed his pistol and fired. The bullet whined
toward the Poetry Man, but a gray light pulsed from his hand,
sending it veering away.
A hail of gunfire followed. The gray radiance expanded to
surround the poet’s frame. He laughed as the missiles
ricocheted around the gorge.
Knives drawn, the men charged. The Poetry Man raised his
arms, and the earth beneath them rose in answer, erupting in
an undulating wave, scattering the soldiers across the hall,
leaving them broken and moaning.
Without a backward glance he continued on his way, softly
singing, “Earth and stone, earth and stone …”
Within the hour, he approached the High Mount of Jossing.
The passage had sloped upward throughout his journey, and
with it the marble roof, lifted by row upon row of columns
until it formed a vaulted chamber vast enough to encompass
the mountain before him. The mount was an artificial
construction, an alabaster pyramid rounded by design, as if by
the rain. Halfway up its peak stood the Thaloddian Arch, a
granite expanse stretching across one side of the mount.
Beyond the arch, at the peak, rose the swirled domes and
towers of the Palace of the Decemvirs.
Robe flapping, the poet hurried along the steep stone steps,
making his way up the dizzying height. A company of soldiers
had formed beneath the arch, and down from the manor behind
them strode the ten regal decemvirs, clad in silver and sable,
their dark cloaks flowing at their backs.
The Poetry Man reached the level beneath the arch, a
flattened expanse covered with tessellated tile. The arch
curved thirty feet above his head, a granite band wide enough
for ten men to walk abreast. The line of soldiers stretched
beneath it, barring his way. He waited where he was.
The warriors directly before him stepped stiffly back,
opening a corridor through which the decemvirs strode, six
men and four women, tall and majestic. The eldest, silver-
haired and keen-eyed, spoke first.
“Who are you?” The decemvir’s voice was deep and
commanding. “Why are you here? And why do you shroud
your face in mist?”
“Do I?” the poet asked. “I did not know. My name is
unimportant. I came because the poetry of your country calls
me. I have seen, you see; I have found the ecstasy, hidden in
both earth and stone. Do you hear its calling? Do you want to
come with me?”
“From the hour you crossed our borders we have felt …
something,” the decemvir admitted. “A force, great as this
mountain and far older. Perhaps old as the earth itself. That is
why we came to meet you, to discover what it means.”
The poet raised his index finger. “Know, o children of the
canyons, that I have touched the deep-earth’s core. I bring you
the essence of rock itself, the primal source of all that is stone.
The strength of caves and towering peaks. A gift of stone to
the people of the stones. Come with me, and accept the
glorious bounty of the Wild Poetry.”
The decemvir hesitated, but the youngest of his fellows
stepped forward, his eyes alight with excitement. “I will go!”
“Do not be hasty, Tycamber,” the eldest warned. “We
cannot trust such power as I sense within this stranger.”
But the young man’s eyes danced all the more. “I trust
what I feel. It’s everything we’ve ever wanted! Not just stone,
but Stone Incarnate, not just earth but Earth herself!”
“Who else will join me?” the Poetry Man asked.
The decemvirs exchanged glances. Sweat beaded their
brows; their faces were hungry with longing.
“I have never felt such desire,” one of the women cried. “It
makes me want to desert both life and duty. I cannot bear it.
Leave us, whatever you are, while I can still resist.”
The poet turned to Tycamber. “We will leave, but the
ecstasy goes on. There is no escape from the power of which I
partake. Many are its forms and myriad its callings. The Song
of the Earth for you and I, but for others, rhapsodies equally
enchanting.”
The Poetry Man could feel the energies rising inside him,
wave upon wave, the quintessence of all that belonged to the
earth. It emanated from him, surrounding him in a widening
aura.
He clasped Tycamber’s shoulder. The man gasped at the
touch as the force swept through him. Eyes dazed, grinning in
joy, he began walking down the hill at the poet’s side.
“Wait!” the elder decemvir ordered. “We will not allow
this, Tycamber.”
“A Lord of Jossing has accepted my gift; so that which is
released cannot be contained,” the Poetry Man called over his
shoulder. “Those who reject my prize must be overwhelmed
by it.”
The gray light radiating from the poet surged outward,
undulating like water. It swept along the mount, passing over
the rocks. Whatever it touched, whether plant or animal, it
transformed into stone. Like a wildfire it rushed down the
mount, snaking along the corridors and canyons of Jossing,
filling all that country with its enchantment.
It passed among the soldiers, who screamed as it touched
them. Their eyes grew gray, their limbs stiffened, leaving them
forever locked in marble form.
The poet glanced back. The decemvirs stood, as they
would stand through the ages, monuments to their past glory,
their nobility etched in lines of stone.
The wave passed over the arch, and the span grew harder
and even more massive, until it could not bear its own weight.
As the poet and his new follower reached the base of the
mount, the arch collapsed in a shower of granite.
“A shame,” the Poetry Man said, “but the earth will not be
denied. Come, my friend, we must spread the Wild Poetry to
all of Evenmere.”
The bedazzled decemvir did not once look back.
Near the end of the day, the upper supports above much of
Jossing fell in on themselves, leaving a gaping hole in the
endless roof line of Evenmere. By that time, the poet and his
disciple were far away.
An hour before the Poetry Man confronted the decemvirs
of Jossing, Carter Anderson, Master of Evenmere, Keeper of
the Seven Words of Power, Holder of the Master Keys, the
Lightning Sword, and the Tawny Mantle, stood within the
wide halls of Indrin, gazing at the tall windows above him,
where sunlight streamed through air heavy with dust motes
and the promise of beckoning spring. A central marble column
with gilded capitals supported a vault of Oozian intricacy;
stenciled decorations interspersed with panels of Morris
wallpaper covered the walls. Statues of ancient Gwyve—
plumed warriors, athletes, and lolling women—peered down
from alcoves beneath the vaultings, and a stained-glass
window twenty feet in circumference overlooked a gallery at
the chamber’s end. Outside the windows, cotton clouds swam
through an ocean-blue sky, and a yellow bird on the outside
ledge assaulted a pecan shell with its beak.
Scaffolds were strung across the room, and men in brown
aprons covered them like beetles, hoisting tools and wires up
and down their rungs, installing the telegraph lines intended to
eventually connect the entire White Circle.
Standing beneath the gallery, Lord Anderson closed his
eyes, fingertips lightly touching the wall, searching for the
forces of Order and Chaos, listening for the Balance. Before
the telegraph project began he could not have done this, would
not have known what to seek; but he was well practiced now.
He saw the two opposing forces as colors within his mind:
Order, white and pure in planes and straight lines; Chaos,
shimmering many-hued, perpetually changing its form. He
searched the wall, eyes still shut, sensing the flow of energies,
seeking a place where a hole could be drilled. But at every
point, he saw that the slightest change would corrupt the
Balance.
He called the Head Architect to him. “Doonan, we cannot
drill through this wall. No hammer must touch it.”
Doonan, dressed in his customary blue robes, stroked his
handlebar mustache thoughtfully, eyes bleary from lack of
sleep. “Are you certain?”
Carter glanced at the man in irritation. “Would I say so if I
weren’t?”
“Sorry, sir,” the architect said stiffly. “It’s just that I
thought we had the go-ahead. The next nearest spot is half a
mile north. We’ll have to reroute the entire section.”
“I am aware of that. Are there any other options?”
Doonan thought a moment. “Could we take the lines
beside the gallery on the east and bring them into the side
chamber? It would cost us half a day’s work, but it would save
at least some of our labor.”
The two men strode to the wall leading to the side
chamber. Lord Anderson sought the Balance again and marked
a place on the paneling. “This will work. Drill right here.” He
clasped the architect’s shoulder. “Forgive my testiness. I’m not
angry at you, but at myself for overlooking the problem. We
are all tired.”
“That we are, sir. That we are.”
As Doonan walked away, Carter turned to find William
Hope, the Butler of Evenmere, waiting to the side, hands
behind his back, lips pursed in a soundless whistle, a round-
faced man wearing a dark sack suit and black bowler.
“A bit miffed, are we?” he asked.
“I never would have started this project if I had known that
every nail affects the Balance. Remember how easy it was in
the outside world? Grab a sledgehammer and tear down a
wall?”
Mr. Hope laughed. “But a wall there wouldn’t affect the
fabric of the universe. Understandable, it taking so long.”
“Four years and only a third done! But that’s not why I’m
frustrated. I checked that wall six months ago. I know I did.
How could I have missed it? It’s as if the Balance has
changed.”
Mr. Hope shrugged. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. But
think! Ancient pharaohs are known for their pyramids; you
will be remembered as the Telegraph Master, the Caliph of the
Singing Wire. I have your lunch set out on the Greensward. A
breath of fresh air will do you good.”
Carter laughed ruefully. “Lead on. Telegraph Master?
More like Baron of Boondoggles. Did the pharaohs have
advisors to keep them in their place?”
“Yes, but they executed them regularly. A regrettable
policy.”
The two passed through the hall, down a winding stair, and
along wainscoted corridors exiting onto a long commons
fragrant with lilacs and newly mown grass. The porches and
balustrades of Evenmere surrounded them on every side. A
marble fountain stood in the center of the square with water
foaming from the mouths of carved dolphins. Close to the
fountain, on a picnic blanket beneath a stand of cottonwoods,
sat Carter’s wife, Sarah, their five-year-old son, Jason, and
Enoch, the Windkeep of Evenmere. The sun shone bright, the
air blew cool; Sarah gave Carter and Mr. Hope a happy wave.
“Look, Daddy. I found a bug!” Jason shouted, holding up a
jar, his hand clasped tightly over the lid.
“What color?” Carter asked.
“Green.”
“Bugs and lunch should never mingle,” Sarah said. “Put it
away. I’ll not have it nibbling the salad.”
Jason had the dark hair and the cheekbones of his mother,
but Carter’s blue eyes and straight nose. Carter thought him a
handsome lad, quick and intelligent—but beyond that, a
miracle on legs—for he and Sarah had once despaired of ever
having children. To him, Jason was a fragile vault with all the
world’s hope locked within. Sometimes, it took his breath
away.
Carter turned to Enoch, who rose to meet him. The two
exchanged warm handshakes. “I didn’t know you were in this
part of the house,” Carter said.
“I have to see to a water-clock in Lippenhost,” Enoch said,
“so I thought: why not drop by and find out how the telegraph
is going?”
“Lippenhost?” Mr. Hope said. “I’m unfamiliar with that
one. I thought I knew them all.”
“I usually leave it to my assistants,” Enoch said, “but I
think it’s time I checked it. The truth is, all these years I still
can’t tell you what it does.”
“You could let it run down and find out,” Carter suggested.
Ignoring the humor in Lord Anderson’s eyes, the
Windkeep shook his head, his Assyrian curls bouncing with
the movement. “That might not be so smart. The trouble with
Time is, you let it stop, it’s hard to start it again.”
Carter clapped him on the shoulder. “Which is why I’m
glad you’re on the job. Stay and eat with us.”
Of all the servants, Carter loved Enoch best. He was burly
and brown as a giant oak and easily as ancient, having by his
own admission seen three thousand years, though his jet-black
hair and jovial nature gave him the appearance of a man in his
late fifties. As a boy, Carter had often followed him on his
rounds to wind the various clocks that maintained the flow of
Time, and the Windkeep had indulged him like a doting uncle.
The three men joined Sarah and Jason on the blanket, and
from the picnic basket Mr. Hope produced a feast of poached
turbot with lobster sauce, steamed carp forcemeat served in
anchovy butter, and salad of pike fillets with oysters. The meal
went splendidly, except for a rough patch when Jason would
not eat his carp.
Carter glanced across the commons. Hard rains had
recently torn scores of leaves from the cottonwoods, and a gust
of wind sent them flurrying through the grass. Lord Anderson
studied their motion, a bite of pike hanging forgotten on his
fork.
“Is something wrong?” Sarah asked.
Carter withdrew from his reverie, looked at his fork as if
seeing it for the first time, and ate the morsel. “I was just
thinking. Have you given much consideration to movement?”
“I consider all my moves before I make them,” she replied,
“but in what way do you mean?”
“It’s like those leaves stirring in the wind while we sit still.
There is a mystery there, as if all of life could be understood if
only we comprehended their motion. Both Order and Chaos
are represented—the leaves blowing at random, gusted by
haphazard winds, yet the winds are part of a vast world
system, chaotic in manner, but following a complex, orderly
pattern of interactions. Order and Chaos working together to
create reality. When I first became Master I understood so
little. I thought it was about wielding the Seven Words of
Power and the Lightning Sword, like some cowboy gunslinger
in the American West. Only later did I begin to comprehend
the relationship. Now, I could sit for hours thinking of the
movement of a twig floating down a stream, the fluttering of
an eyelash, the tapping of a branch against the panes.”
Sarah reached across the blanket, plucked a leaf from the
grass, and handed it to Carter. “What do you see?”
He turned the leaf over by its stem. “A pointed, tear-
shaped object, nearly but not quite symmetrical, darker on one
side than the other, with capillaries filled with chlorophyll.
Order and Chaos again.”
“No,” she smiled sweetly. “It is a leaf.”
“You mock me,” he replied, grinning back.
“I do not, sir.” And he saw she was suddenly serious. “In
your brooding on the Balance, do not forget the beauty of the
leaf itself. Don’t go from me, Carter.”
“Have I been absent?”
“Not in body. Oh, I understand. You see things other men
can’t. You feel the whole house breathing around you. It is
intoxicating. A week ago I saw you standing in the hall, gazing
at a Morris tapestry as if it were the Holy Grail.”
“I suppose I do get wrapped up. It’s just—”
“I know,” she kept her eyes on his. “But it is my duty to
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