had never even heard of it before, which is odd; I know as
much about the Mere as anyone living. We finally discovered
a mention of it in annals dating back to the second century. By
that account, it’s ancient, perhaps old as Evenmere itself, and
was written long before Master Kenton’s time. No one knows
who penned it, but one of the Masters did seal it in that
chamber. That much is true.”
Carter felt a flush spread across his face. His voice grew
cold. “What is this book?”
“A powerful weapon for our enemies. You should’ve
consulted me before entering the marsh, but it makes no
difference now. The thing is done.”
Lord Anderson fell into stunned silence, stung by
Abershaw’s just reproof. Events had happened too quickly,
and Carter’s judgment had suffered for it.
“I was played the fool from the beginning,” he finally said,
“starting with the poet at Vroomanlin Wood. With their talk of
anarchist factions, he and L’Marius maneuvered me into
delivering the very book they warned about! Everything is
clear now—the bosun’s seeming unintended cruelty, Nuth
lingering to be paid for his part. Why, L’Marius even showed
me his button collection! How he must have laughed behind
his sleeve! What an actor he was!”
“A small part of what he told you is true,” the pilot said.
“I’ve learned the Society of Anarchists has split into two
factions. But which group seized the volume?”
“It might have been either one. That book should have
been burned long ago.”
The pilot shook his head. “Once a book reaches the Mere,
there are always ramifications to destroying it. The Mere of
Books represents the thoughts of the worlds. That’s why part
of it is a swamp, for ain’t the thoughts of humanity akin to a
marsh, filled with twists, turns, and backward loops? Each
volume adds to the total of human learning. Placed together
they form a vast tapestry. Some can be taken without causing
harm, but remove the wrong support and the whole structure
crumbles.” The pilot cleared his throat. “You must be starved.
Would you like something to eat?”
The mention of food made Carter realize how hungry he
was. “I would, indeed. You’ve said nothing about my wounds,
and I am afraid to ask. I’m not in pain, but I remember being
shot at least once.”
“Twice, though one only nicked your leg. Our doctor
removed them both, and I used what power I possess to
promote the healing.”
“I owe you my life.”
“Each of us owes somebody something, there’s no doubt
about that. You rest now. We’ll have some grub for you
momentarily.”
After Raven Abershaw departed, Carter inspected his side
and thigh for injuries, and found them not only whole, but
totally without scar. He lay back in wonder. Abershaw’s power
to heal was an ability unknown even to the Master.
Hope appeared moments later, carrying a tray of food. “At
your service, sir,” he beamed. “And glad to see you looking
hale.”
He set down the tray and the two shook hands. “I’m
relieved to see you looking anything at all,” Carter said.
“We’ve been played for a pair of buffoons.”
“Honest men are always at a disadvantage, but I prefer
being counted in their number. Marshal Japth’s men arrived
several hours behind us, and I sent them searching for the
mysterious bosun. Of course, they turned up nothing. Our
enemy was well prepared. Japth also dispatched soldiers to
Vroomanlin Wood to try to track down the blind poet. The
question is, what should our next course of action be? Do we
continue to Aylyrium University and the College of Poets?”
“Even though the information came from Nighthammer, it
may still be true,” Carter said, “and it’s our only clue. I will go
there as soon as I am able, but I want you to return to the Inner
Chambers. Research everything you can about The Book of
Lore and The Book of Verse . We have to find the source of the
Poetry Men’s power before they strike again.”
Lord Anderson rested through the afternoon, but by
evening felt well enough to join the pilot and Mr. Hope at
supper.
Toward the end of the meal, Abershaw excused himself. “I
must be gone the rest of the evening. This afternoon it came to
me that a yellow book lying on a dusty shelf in a lower
basement needs be fetched to the Mere, else we will lose some
brilliant exposition on the habits of bumblebees.”
“I don’t suppose bees will vanish from the earth if you fail
to find it?” Carter quipped.
Oh, no,” the pilot said, “no danger of that.” He frowned.
“At least, I don’t think so.”
Still weary from his ordeal, Lord Anderson was about to
turn in for the night, but Sarah and Jason appeared at nine
o’clock, having traveled two days to reach him. Sarah
uncharacteristically rushed into his arms and wept, while
Jason, accompanied by a nurse, waited in some confusion
behind.
“There, now,” Carter said quietly. “I have distressed you.”
“Mr. Hope sent word you were shot but alive, then
followed with a message of a miraculous healing. I didn’t
know what to believe. I have been brave for Jason’s sake—”
“I am well, as you can see.”
Jason broke free from his nurse and rushed impatiently to
his parents’ side. “Papa, why is Mommy crying?”
Lord Anderson lifted his son into his arms. “Because she
loves us both very much and has missed me. As I have missed
you.”
“Are we going to Aylyrium tomorrow?” the boy asked.
Carter’s smile faded. Before the attack at Jossing, he had
promised to take his son to the circus at Aylyrium, checking
the progress of the telegraph as they went. “We shall see. For
now, it is late.”
They slept in Carter’s chamber that night. Because Jason
sensed their anxiety, they prepared a cot for him beside their
bed. Carter slept fitfully, dreaming of falling roofs and the
Balance staggering like a drunkard.
Jason found himself standing in a drab, gray passage,
carpeted in brown, with gargoyle heads peering down from the
molding. The house was silent, as houses seldom are, and he
could not remember how he had arrived; his last recollection
was of being tucked into bed.
“Am I asleep?” he asked. He pinched himself
experimentally, discovered it hurt, and decided he was awake
after all, despite the slight blurring at the edge of his vision.
Thunder rolled overhead, startling him, followed by the
slow rush of rain on the eaves. The solitude frightened him, for
his parents never left him alone in the great house. He
wandered along the corridor, wishing for his father, wanting to
call out but reluctant to do so, listening to the soft padding of
his shoes on the worn carpet. Th
e shifting shadows cast by the
gas jets alarmed him, for they danced and bobbed, sending his
own shadow puppeting across the wall.
The thunder roared again as he came to a gray door at the
corridor’s end. He halted, staring up at the ornamental brass
knob, afraid to open it, afraid to remain in the still passage
with its threatening shadows, very close to tears, feeling much
younger than his five years.
He turned and saw his own shadow stretching long behind
him, made tall by the gas jet beside the door. He flung his arms
above his head and watched it do the same, the bones long and
thin, extending down the hall. He flapped his hands and saw
his shadow pelican-flap in turn. Momentarily delighted, he
stamped his feet to see the shade tromp on its spindly stumps.
He stood still to watch its stillness.
The shadow abruptly raised its hands to its mouth and
pulled its face wider and wider, until it was an elongated mask,
with red, shining eyes.
Jason shrieked in terror, rushed to the door, and clawed at
the knob. It resisted his strength an instant before he pulled it
open on screeching hinges. He fled down another gray
corridor. Turning to look back, he saw his shadow following,
no longer connected to his legs, but running along the wall and
floor, long tongue protruding, head shaking, face still
distorted.
Jason darted around a corner, shouting in fear. A clown
stood in the middle of the hall, holding a wooden mallet and
stake.
“Hurry, boy, hurry!” the clown cried, gesturing wildly.
“Run past! I’ll get it.”
Many children would have been as frightened by the clown
as the shadow, with his baggy clothes and flower button, white
skin, red lips, red nose, but Jason had spent hours studying the
circus books his mother had given him. He obeyed without
hesitation.
No sooner had he passed the clown’s position than he
heard the thud of the hammer.
“Got it!” the clown cried.
Jason turned and saw the clown nimbly hammering the
stake into the floor, his whole body rising with each stroke,
while the shadow writhed in soundless pain. Though it twisted
and bent, it was held fast.
The clown dropped the hammer and brushed his hands
together to indicate a task well done. He removed his hat,
allowing wild curls of red hair to spring out, and gave the boy
a crooked smile and a bow. He was a heavy man, with deep
blue eyes and red, oversized shoes.
“Just the lad I’ve been waiting for!” the clown said. “You
must be Jason.”
Jason watched the shadow warily.
“Oh, don’t worry about that old thing. It just needs a bit of
taming,” the clown said. “We’ll leave it here and go
somewhere to find you a better-mannered one.”
The clown gave another deep bow. “I am Mister Simular.
The other clowns gave me that name in fun because I’m not
like any of them. I am Mister Simular with a u , not an i
because I ain’t similar at all, you see.”
“Are you a real clown?” Jason asked, beginning to recover
from his fright.
“Am I a real … why, boy, do you see this suit?”
“Yes.”
“Does it look like a real clown suit to you?”
“I guess so.”
“Of course it does. And look at this face. Does it look like
a real clown face?”
“Yes.”
Mister Simular rolled his eyes. “There you are! It’s the suit
what makes the clown, I say. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Jason said, giggling.
“Then let’s go.”
The clown extended a red, gloved hand, but when Jason
took it, it came loose at the wrist.
“Hey, wait a minute! Give that back!” Mister Simular took
the hand from the laughing boy and feigned screwing it into
place. Upon completion, he rubbed his hands together. “Here,
try again.”
Jason took the hand. “Now, we’re off!” the clown cried.
“Where to?”
“To a special room to find the shadows. Do you mind if we
skip? I like skipping.”
They skipped together down the hall until the clown got
out of breath and started fanning himself with an orange fan.
As they walked, Mister Simular told jokes and riddles, asked
questions, and sang snatches of funny songs. Jason laughed in
delight, no longer frightened by the storm. They soon came to
another door opening onto a curved stair, a gloomy way with
ebony carvings of dark angels in alcoves to the side and green
gaslights in carved skull sconces. Standing at the portal, Jason
felt a touch of fear. He suddenly longed for his father.
“Here now, what’s the forlorn expression?” the clown
demanded. “Don’t like the look of it, eh? Well, I don’t neither,
so never mind. It’s the way we got to go to get to the special
room, which is full of all sorts of wonderful things, including
an entire circus.”
“Will we see elephants?”
“Oh my, yes. We will see elephants and tigers and
leprechauns! Have you ever seen leprechauns? Fantastic
creatures, little taller than you and full of fun.”
“Are they scary?”
“No scarier than me.” The clown paused to give a mime-
stare of surprise, hands outstretched. “But!” he cried, halting
for emphasis. “You must beware their tricks. You must be
more clever than they are, or they’ll fool you. You must
believe nary a word they say. But you needn’t worry. I’ll show
you the ropes.” From out of nowhere, the clown unraveled a
foot of cord. “See, here’s one now.”
Jason laughed as only a child can. Determined to be brave,
he took the clown’s hand again, and they descended together
past the staring eyes of the dark angels.
They journeyed a long time, until the boy grew tired. He
was about to ask to rest, when they came to the bottom of the
stair. A single, massive door with a heavy iron lock stood
there, black as a moonless sky. A horned gargoyle peered
down from the lintel. The clown drew a ridiculously large key,
red with rust, from one of his pockets.
“This is a special key for our special room,” Mister
Simular said, giving a wink. He turned the lock with a quick
twist, but struggled to open the door. At last, it swung wide,
striking the wall with a boom.
“It’s dark,” Jason said. “There’s something moving
inside.”
“It’s bright once you get in. And you’ll meet some
wonderful people. Come on, I’ll help you.”
Jason gave the clown a trusting look, took a deep breath,
and started forward.
A noise louder than any thunder shook the corridor,
startling the boy so badly he closed his eyes and yelled in
fright. When he opened them again, he found his father,
dressed in his greatcoat and Tawny Mantle, gripping the clown
by the collar, his eyes aflame with a terrible fury, the blade
of
his Lightning Sword pressed against Mister Simular’s throat.
“Get behind me, Jason,” Lord Anderson ordered, in a tone
demanding obedience. The boy, afraid he had done something
wrong, burst into tears and crept behind his father’s legs. But
his papa’s attention was fixed on the clown.
“I used the Word Which Masters Dreams,” Carter spat. “I
control this dream now! Answer my questions or I’ll cut your
throat. Who are you? Why have you threatened my son?”
“Why, I was just taking him on a little trip,” the clown
replied, coolly. “He wants to see the circus.”
Though Mister Simular was much larger than Lord
Anderson, Jason’s father slammed him against the wall as if he
were weightless.
“No man! ” Carter screamed in the clown’s face, so loud
Jason tried to stop his ears. “No man takes my child into that
Room of Horrors !” For a moment the sword trembled, and
Jason thought the clown’s throat would surely be cut. But Lord
Anderson seemed to master himself, for he spoke in a softer,
but still deadly voice, “You have one more chance to answer
my questions, or you die. Who are you and who do you
serve?”
“I serve myself,” the clown replied. “But you ain’t the only
one with power in the land o’ dream.” With a slight gesture of
his left hand, Mister Simular abruptly vanished, leaving Lord
Anderson grasping empty air. His face suffused with rage, he
seized the ebony door and slammed it shut with a force that
rattled the corridor.
Terrified by such violence from a father who had always
been kind, Jason hid his eyes and sobbed. But powerful hands
wrapped themselves around him, lifting him into a hug so hard
the boy could scarcely breathe.
“Are you all right?” his father demanded, his voice
trembling. “Did he hurt you?”
Jason could muster little more than a shake of his head, but
it was enough, for Lord Anderson’s voice grew steadier. “I’ll
never let anyone harm you. I swear. Every second we stay here
increases our danger. It is time to wake.”
Jason found himself lying on his pallet beside his parents’
bed, in the chamber within the Mere of Books. Before he
could call for his mother, his father’s gentle hands clasped
him.
“Papa, I had a bad dream!”
“It’s all right,” Lord Anderson told him, hugging him “It’s
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 7