rouse you from your reveries, to show you the world, the sun,
and your own son, all Chaos and little Order at this stage of his
life, who should be seen merely as a small boy.”
Carter grinned ruefully. “Have I really been that bad?
What do you say, Enoch? Has she bagged me?”
The Windkeep shrugged. “Being the Master is a
troublesome business. Sometimes you lose track of things.”
“A diplomatic answer,” Carter said. “What of you, Will?”
“You have been a bit intense of late,” Mr. Hope admitted.
Lord Anderson leaned back on one elbow on the blanket.
“Even my butler condemns me, and he with a degree in law. I
can but surrender and promise to do better.”
Yet Carter wondered whether he could. The Balance was
always with him now, as it had not been in the early days.
Sometimes, in the dark of the night, the responsibility he
carried for the whole of Existence seemed unbearable. He
spent far too much time worrying about it.
The last few days had been especially difficult. He kept
sensing something—some disturbance at the farthest reaches
of consciousness. It was like the problem with Doonan and the
wall: a vague sense of things going wrong.
Jason, having apparently decided to disagree with the tone
of the conversation, abruptly rushed into his father’s arms,
spilling his dinner. By the time everything was set right, the
talk had turned to other topics. When dessert ended, Carter
rose to go back to the telegraph.
He had taken less than a dozen steps when a searing pain
swept through the center of his head, a jolt so powerful it
brought him to his knees. An involuntary shout escaped his
lips, and blackness momentarily covered his vision.
By the time he could see again, Enoch knelt beside him,
Sarah stroked his face, and Mr. Hope stood close by.
“What is it, love?” Sarah was asking him.
Lord Anderson’s breath had been driven from his lungs,
and it took a moment before he could reply. His voice came in
a half-whisper. “The Balance … something has happened.
Some part of the house has been destroyed.” He sat down in
the grass, breathing heavily. “I’m all right. A moment.”
When he was stronger, Enoch and Sarah helped him up.
Leaning on their shoulders, he closed his eyes and opened
himself to the Balance, searching for the source of his pain. He
could feel it, far to the west.
“Jossing,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “We must
go at once. Will, you come with me. Sarah, contact the White
Circle Guard. Tell them we need men and medical teams. The
disaster is unprecedented.”
After a few moments’ discussion and some additional
instructions, they were ready to go. Carter clasped his son to
his chest.
“Papa, you’re hugging too hard,” Jason said.
“Because I love you so much.”
“How quickly our lives shift,” Sarah said. “One moment
we’re enjoying a picnic and now this. Like the leaves in the
wind, stillness and motion.”
“You always listen,” Carter said, “even when I babble.”
“You never babble,” she replied, kissing him on the lips.
It took Lord Anderson and his butler three days of hard
travel to reach Jossing. They journeyed down the Long
Corridor to the train station at Indrin. Dawn, peering over the
roofs and towers of Evenmere, found them waiting in a wide
quadrangle, listening to the roar of a yellow locomotive
streaming out of an opening in the south wall. The ancient
train was the only one in all the known regions of the house,
with passenger cars just wide enough for one row of bench
seats. Upon this narrow conveyance, Carter and Mr. Hope
sped along a skinny lane, with a high roof above and long
windows flashing by.
At first, winding its way between the chambers, the
locomotive went little faster than a pony’s pace, but upon
reaching straighter passages its speed increased, and the
condition of the rails became apparent. Between the jostling,
Mr. Hope leaned over and shouted above the rattle, “I now
understand the expression: I’ve never felt an earthquake, but
I’ve ridden the Innman train . I hope we’re not shaken to
butter before we get there.”
Hours later they reached the rail yard at Innman Tor, a
wide, open field surrounded by the house. They stayed only
long enough to stretch their legs and board two companies of
the White Circle Guard. The soldiers’ pearl armor glistened in
the glow of the car’s electric lamps. The train, now heading
east, swept back into slim corridors. The locomotive rolled
through Ril, Kitinthim, and Keedin, popped out like a mole
from its burrow onto the vast courtyard surrounding the
farmlands of the western Terraces, and traveled from there to
the station at Gittenty, where the travelers and soldiers
proceeded on foot through Tengfey until they reached the
entrance to Jossing.
Throughout the journey, Lord Anderson and Mr. Hope had
speculated on who was responsible for the attacks. There were
many factions within the High House, but the main threat were
the members of the Society of Anarchists, an organization
whose goals bore little resemblance to its name. The anarchists
were not so much anti-government as anti-reality. They wished
to gain control of the mechanisms of Evenmere in order to use
them to reshape the nature of Existence, to end all pain,
suffering, and death. A seemingly laudable ambition. But
Carter, like the Masters before him, doubted it was possible for
humans to remain human in such a reality.
The anarchists were the likely suspects, but how they
could have accomplished such destruction was unknown.
Leaving Tengfey, Lord Anderson and the soldiers opened
the double doors into Jossing—and stepped out of comfortable
halls into a region of utter destruction. Blue sky stretched
overhead through a miles-wide hole where the ceiling had
collapsed, leaving the mountains of Jossing exposed to the
sun. Crews of soldiers, civilians, and the firemen of Ooz sifted
among the rubble, looking for victims. Volunteers had poured
in from all the neighboring countries. Mr. Hope gasped at the
enormity of the wreckage; hollow despair gripped Carter’s
heart.
The next few days were a blur. Lord Anderson did what
the Masters have done since the beginning of Evenmere,
rallying the people of Jossing, who had lost their leaders with
the destruction of the decemvirs, arranging for men and
materials, and demonstrating that even in chaos, the High
House stood firm. All of Evenmere had been stunned by the
attack, and messengers and emissaries came from the
surrounding countries, seeking information and reassurance.
Carter attended constant meetings and public appearances,
getting little rest and less sleep, while Mr. Hope, conducting
interviews and collecting evi
dence, sought to learn everything
possible about the nature of the perpetrator of the crime.
And always Lord Anderson was asked the same question
in different forms: What will the Master do to stop those who
committed this atrocity? And what will keep them from striking
again?
It was the duty of Chant, the Lamp-lighter of Evenmere, to
ensure the stars of the universe always burned, a charge he
accomplished by keeping certain lamps in the great house lit.
He had a boyish face and a boyish smile, but the gray at his
temples bespoke middle age. (He was actually in his second
century, long-lived as are some members of the Circle of
Servants). A bit of the gentle rogue lay upon him, and his eyes
were rose-pink. By nature a poet, he liked to quote Stevenson,
saying his duties as Lamp-lighter consisted of “punching holes
in the darkness.”
Two days had passed since the attack at Jossing, and the
news had rippled through the house. Only his responsibilities
had kept the Lamp-lighter, who held a degree in medicine,
from rushing to lend aid. Instead, with a pensive heart, he had
finished replenishing the oil in the green lamp beside the
Ionian candles at Riffenrose, and was on his way back to the
Inner Chambers, when an urgent message from an old friend
forced him to divert his course to Vroomanlin Wood.
Any time he journeyed through this part of the High House
he enjoyed spending time in the wood, which grew in a thirty-
mile-square
courtyard
consisting
of
hundreds
of
interconnected walled gardens open to the air, no chamber
greater than twenty by twenty feet, with stone paths winding
through the vegetation. An endless variety of trees grew within
the forest, but the predominant species was the oto , a sparse-
leafed, twisting growth that gave the wood an especially bare
appearance in early spring, when the trunks looked like
gnarled ballerinas cast in bronze.
He came to the place where he was to meet his friend,
where grew The Men Who Are Trees. The Men Who Are
Trees were each about ten feet tall, with a single human head
sprouting from their topmost branches. Yellow beetles lay in
dead piles at their trunks; wood ants gnawed their barks; sap
oiled their waxen faces. Seated before them on a gray stone
bench, Chant withdrew a red leather volume of poetry from his
pack and began to read, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
At first, The Men Who Are Trees cursed the Lamp-lighter in
their hollow voices and flailed the air with the hands that grew
from the ends of their branches, but they soon quieted as if
listening, their limbs waving in the breeze.
Throughout that evening Chant read to them, closing the
book only when the last rays of the sun no longer shone on
their strained faces. For half a minute The Men Who Are Trees
wept, then closed their eyes and fell quiescent as flowers
folding for the night; and the Lamp-lighter climbed into his
bedroll and fell asleep, lulled by the wind in the branches.
He was awakened at dawn by the wailing of the creatures,
an alarm more abrasive than any rooster. The Men Who Are
Trees fear fire above all else, so he ate a cold breakfast and
read aloud from his book again. Once more his bizarre
audience soon ceased their railing, save for an occasional
anguished cry.
After an hour he was interrupted by a tapping sound
behind him. Turning, he discovered a blind man approaching,
dressed in robes like a monk, a hood pulled over his eyes, his
cane clacking along the stone path.
Chant rose, bowed to the trees, and said, “We will continue
when next I return.”
Again they quietly wept before becoming still, while he
placed the book in his pack and turned to the newcomer.
“Nighthammer! At last! Well met, old friend, on this far shore,
we two who never dreamed to meet again.”
“Beside the ocean’s roar we stand,” Nighthammer replied,
finishing the verse, “and clasping hands, we laugh to scorn
those bitter tongues of idle men who said it never could be so.
Reading to the vile vegetation again, eh? Why do you waste
your time?”
“I think it relieves their suffering.”
“If they truly suffer,” Nighthammer said. “They may be no
more intelligent than parrots. His numbers, though they moved
or seemed to move in marble and in bronze, lacked character.
”
As if in answer, the nearest of The Men Who Are Trees, a
raven-haired fellow with hollow eyes and a twisted scowl,
gave a dreadful roar.
“Perhaps they think otherwise,” Chant said, “or at the least
don’t care for Yeats.”
Nighthammer grinned. “Coincidence. They have existed in
Vroomanlin for ages, and are nothing more than plants
resembling men. You spend your valuable time seeking to
comfort them, while they revile you the next time they see
you.”
“My friend, true compassion never depends on the reaction
of those who receive it. I enjoy my time in Vroomanlin, and I
like reading poetry. A few hours spent reading to trees is a
small sacrifice. I brought you a sandwich. Come sit beside me
and tell me why your message was so urgent.”
Nighthammer made his way to the gray bench, feeling
along with his cane. As he sat down, Chant handed him a
small bundle wrapped in paper. Nighthammer smiled and
placed the parcel in a pocket of his robe. “I will come to the
point, for there is little time. A month ago, my brothers and
sisters in the Colony of Blind Poets began leaving Vroomanlin
Wood, lured away by the call of a new and dangerous power.
They are all gone now; only I remain. Others will soon hear
the siren song: the romantics, the artists, the musicians. I
suspect you have already sensed it—touches of joy or sorrow
in unexpected places? A special enchantment in the starlight?
Storm clouds reeking of terror and awe? Have you felt it?”
The Lamp-lighter moistened his lips. When he spoke, his
voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “On the night of the new
moon, I stood in the twilight preparing to light the lamp
beyond the Yard. For the barest second, I felt the utter,
unalterable horror of the impending darkness, a surging sea of
emptiness breaking against the shores of existence. The feeling
was excruciatingly intense, unlike any fear I have ever known.
I lit the lamp with the haste of a frightened boy, but drew no
comfort from the flames, which appeared equally terrible to
me—the essence of fire itself, burning, cleansing, destroying,
too dreadful to bear. I fled back across the Yard with as much
speed as my pride allowed.”
A long howl from one of The Men Who Are Trees echoed
among the gray walls, making both men start.
“How long have we been friends?” Nighthammer asked.
Chant frowned in thoug
ht. “Over twenty years, I suppose.
Why?”
Nighthammer turned his face toward the sky and smiled. “I
have enjoyed our conversations, our talks of books and poems
and dreams. We have whiled away many pleasant hours. I
regret losing that friendship.”
“Must it be so?” Chant asked.
“It must, for circumstances force me to admit that I am an
anarchist.”
Filled by the emptiness of sudden loss, Chant was
momentarily silent. “I see,” he finally murmured.
Nighthammer groped until he gripped the Lamp-lighter’s
shoulder. “I hope you do. I was assigned to Vroomanlin a
decade ago by the Society of Anarchists to engage travelers in
conversation and learn what I could, especially from you.”
“Why tell me now?”
Nighthammer sighed and folded his arms, hugging himself
as if against a chill. “Matters have not gone well for us since
the death of the Supreme Anarchist six years ago. There has
been growing dissension which reached a peak recently when
a number of members broke from the main body. This group,
which we call the Radical Anarchists, obtained access to the
new power of which I spoke, through the discovery of a
mystic volume. Apparently, the first signs of its use appeared
at the College of Poets at the University of Aylyrium. Those
who wield it call themselves Poetry Men.”
“Your former colleagues?”
“Some of them, though other poets have come from all
over the house. Rumor has it their very words can drive men
mad. At Jossing, we have now seen what they can do.”
Chant raised his eyebrows. “The woods decay, the woods
decay and fall … Your story fits the description of the poet
who appeared there. What can be done?”
“We believe the Poetry Men can be defeated only by
finding the source of their might, an ancient tome called The
Book of Verse. But we have also learned they will soon attempt
to recover a companion volume hidden within the Mere of
Books. If they obtain it, we believe they will become nearly
invincible. The Society has sent me to you because only the
Master of the house has a chance of stopping them.”
Chant raised a wry eyebrow. “The Anarchist Council
wanting the help of the Master of Evenmere? There’s a tickle
for my fancy.”
“Believe me, we come to you as a last resort. We are
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 3