detected a single word. And that word was Power .
The battle Carter now fought had nearly taken him
unawares, for he found he did want to give himself to the
calling. More than once, using a Word of Power, he had
recognized the way it made him feel—strong, almost
invincible, terrible to his foes. He had trained himself never to
misuse that might. Yet, as the sweet throbbing echoed through
the hall, encompassing him, drawing him into its warmth, he
wondered what it would be like to embrace even more power,
to become one with it.
An almost unbearable breadth of emotions swept through
him. He remembered his dead parents, the terror of being
thrown into the Room of Horrors, the sight of Evenmere
receding into the distance on the day of his childhood exile.
Unexpected tears streamed down his face. If only he had
possessed enough power, how he could have changed things!
He closed his eyes, no longer able to look at the reptile.
“Listen to it!” the poet urged. “You lost your way once.
That old wound, every old wound, can be healed. Only listen!”
But his foe had made his first mistake. Just when Carter
felt himself going under, giving himself wholly to the calling,
the poet had reminded him of his responsibilities. If Carter
fell, there would be no one to stand between the Poetry Men
and the rest of the house, including Sarah and Jason. At the
thought of his son he gathered his will, pushing aside the
armada of emotion. At once, he was aware of his danger.
He opened his eyes in time to see the lizard spring. He
flicked his wrist upward, and his sword met the creature’s leap
with a roar of power, cutting it neatly in half.
Carter stepped into the light toward the Poetry Man. As if
in answer, the pulsing grew to a ferocious volume, a spinning
turbulence driving directly into his brain, tearing at his
thoughts; no longer a temptation, but a weapon aimed at his
core. It filled him, and his determination failed. He staggered
and fell to one knee, mortal flesh overcome by immortal
longing.
The poet stepped out of the shadows toward him. “You
should not have slain my pet.”
By the firelight, Carter saw the man wore an olive robe
with a black question mark emblazoned on the front, but the
streaming mist still hid most of his face. “You have rejected
the calling, but it will not reject you! Such power will now
break you.” The man laughed softly. “A shame. A shame.”
The pulsing rose, higher and higher, maddeningly loud,
surpassing any volume Carter thought possible. He dropped
his sword and clutched his ears. It was useless; nothing could
drown it out. With one hand, he searched for his pistol, but
could not lift it from his pocket. His breath came in gasps; he
felt his thoughts disintegrating before concepts vast as
galaxies, glories beyond expression, sorrows beyond solace. A
terrible vision filled him; he seemed to be approaching a great
and mighty Face, too wonderful and awful to bear, the
archetype of Power in physical form. He had no doubt that if it
manifested itself, its sheer presence would destroy him; and
perhaps half of Ghahanjhin with him. Something similar must
have happened at Jossing.
In desperation he sought anything that might block its
coming, searching his innermost thoughts, where lurked the
Words of Power. It was hard to concentrate with the throbbing
all around, but at last a Word rose within his mind, its brass
letters smoldering. He turned every vestige of his will toward
it, inviting it in, asking it to use him as its instrument.
In response, it burst into golden flames. The Word Which
Gives Strength. The heat burned away the beating pulse,
creating a quiet space where he could think. With an effort, he
brought the Word to his lips, held it there, and released it, his
voice barely a whisper.
Sedhattee.
The effect was abnormally subdued. A fluttering ran
around the room, small echoes in the darkness, yet Carter felt
its energy rush through him, restoring his sense of purpose,
causing the dreadful vision of the onrushing Face to splinter,
blur, and fade. Even the throbbing became more bearable.
In one swift motion, he scooped up his sword and lunged
at his opponent, extending the full length of his body. The poet
threw up his hands to protect himself, and a glow emanated
from between his fingers, turning the thrust of the Lightning
Sword with a flash of light and energy. Seldom had Carter
seen his blade thwarted, and never by a creature of flesh and
blood. But he had learned battles were often lost by the one
who paused his attack, giving his enemy the chance to
retaliate, and he struck three times in quick succession, a
downward blow and thrusts to either side. The glow
surrounding the Poetry Man’s hands reacted to the assault as if
alive, appearing wherever Carter struck, blocking the sword
with a metallic clash.
A staff composed of light appeared in the poet’s grasp. He
used it like a hammer, striking at Lord Anderson’s head, a
clumsy swing displaying a lack of training. Carter parried and
the weapons met in a cascade of fire. The staff fell upon Lord
Anderson’s sword with a weight that jarred his entire frame.
Had the Poetry Man been a true warrior, Carter would have
been beaten, for it took him a fraction too long to recover from
the impact.
As it was, his assailant hesitated, and when the poet did
attack again, he struck at the same place. This time, Carter
braced himself as he parried. Even then pain shivered down
his arm and shoulder. The Power the poet was funneling gave
him strength far beyond his slender frame.
Lord Anderson stepped forward, feinting, striking
wherever he chose. In a normal battle, he would have
wounded the poet a half-dozen times; the man had the fighting
ability of a child, making it easy to avoid his blundering jabs.
But the Lightning Sword could not penetrate the luminous
shield; and whenever the poet did force Lord Anderson to
parry, the devastating impact nearly broke Carter’s defenses.
Still, by his enemy’s expression, seen through the swirling
mist surrounding his head, Carter knew his thrusts were
having an effect, and he kept battering away, hoping to get
past his foe’s guard.
Even as he fought, Carter sought to bring a Word of Power
to mind. Something about the pulsing made it difficult, as if
the two forces warred with one another, but at last he
envisioned the Word Which Manifests rising not out of
darkness as was usual, but upon the tides of the pounding
noise, like a ship struggling on the storm. With an effort, he
brought it to his throat.
Falan !
A golden wave of force proceeded from Lord Anderson,
meeting his opponent’s shield with a deafening crackle. The
shield held against the hamm
ering wave, but as the power
began to build, the poet gave a strangled cry.
Carter was abruptly sent hurtling across the room by a jolt
so unexpected he did not at first realize what had happened.
He found himself lying on his back, his sword fallen from his
hand. He raised his head to see the Poetry Man thrown in the
opposite direction. The convergence of the twin forces had
created a backlash.
He crawled on hands and knees, retrieved his weapon, and
stumbled to his feet. The Poetry Man had also regained his
balance and refashioned his staff.
Carter drew his pistol and squeezed the trigger, two precise
shots aimed at the poet’s heart. The bullets struck the Poetry
Man’s defenses and vanished, not even causing the man to
wince. Lord Anderson returned the useless weapon to his
pocket. On tottering feet, the adversaries closed once more.
Carter struck with his Lightning Sword, danced back to
dodge the return swipe, and moved forward, wielding his
blade with the precision of a machine, never hitting in the
same place, never giving his opponent a chance to counter,
never allowing the poet to connect. Left side, right side, high,
low, chest, head, waist, thigh. Again and again. But though he
struck until his limbs were leaden, he could not break through.
He began to slow. He met his enemy’s staff with a clumsy
parry, the poet’s weapon sliding down to the Lightning
Sword’s hilt, its tip an inch from Carter’s face. He ducked just
in time.
“One of us will break, Lord Anderson,” the Poetry Man
said. “I am willing to die to spread the Light.”
Through the mist, Carter caught a glimpse of the poet’s
fanatic glare; the madman would indeed fight to the end. The
Master retreated a few steps to catch his breath. His enemy
followed after.
It would not serve Evenmere for Carter to perish this night,
not when the other poets still threatened the house. He sought
a path of escape, but his foe blocked the way.
Taking advantage of Carter’s hesitation, the poet launched
a furious assault. Normally it would have been ineffectual, but
Lord Anderson was tiring. He turned too slowly to avoid the
staff, and it slammed against his sword arm, sending him
careening backward. Miraculously, he kept his footing, but the
poet hurried forward, still flailing, giving no respite. Carter’s
arm was numb; he could no longer hold his sword, so he
shifted it to his left hand. He had little skill in this fashion, but
was still better than his opponent, and managed to parry twice
against blows that shook his whole body.
He grew hot with anger at his inability to strike a telling
blow. Again he marshaled his strength and launched a steady
attack, keeping his foe off balance, striking at his face, forcing
the poet to instinctively close his eyes. The nimbus
surrounding the Poetry Man was wavering; the glow of the
Lightning Sword had dwindled to obscurity. Carter wondered
which of the two would fail first.
In the midst of his attack, a song arose, the rise and fall of
a powerful bass voice, distant at first, but gradually growing
nearer. It cut through the throbbing, which abruptly ended, the
last echoes choking away. Carter retreated a few steps to
appraise this new danger.
The Poetry Man stood wide-eyed, listening. With a snarl,
he sprinted across the room and vanished into the corridor.
Carter rushed to the threshold, where he heard his foe’s steps
echoing down the hall, followed by the slamming of a door.
His strength gone, he groped his way to a chair. The
singing was closer now, near enough for him to catch the
words.
Pass through the night-time
Pass through the day
Pass through the darkness
Run far away
Oh, yes chil’
Run far away
Hide in the meadow
Safe in the corn
Far from the danger
Never alone
Oh, no chil’
Never alone
Envoys of mercy
Close by your side
They will be with you
There where you hide
Oh, yes chil’
There where you hide
The echoes of the last notes died away, followed by
footfalls along the corridor. Carter backed toward the fire. His
sword-arm was nearly useless, so he sheathed the blade and
drew his pistol, steeling himself for whatever approached. But
instead of an attack, a man called from beyond the circle of the
flames. “Hello. Hello. Is there room round the fire for
everybody?”
Though the tone was deep and friendly, Lord Anderson
kept his weapon leveled. He could feel his hand trembling
from fatigue and the aftermath of danger.
“Present yourself,” he ordered, still panting from his
exertions.
A black man stepped into the light. He was unarmed, tall
and thin, broad-faced and broad-nosed, wearing a gray top hat
and a frock coat with so many colorful patches little of the
original material remained.
“It’s powerful dark here,” the figure said. “Powerful dark.
Whither do you wander, alone along the Ghahanjhin border?”
“I could ask you the same.”
The man bowed at the waist, lifting his arms in a sweeping
gesture. “I am Jonathan T. Bartholomew, singer of songs and
teller of tales. Some call me Storyteller. Maybe you have heard
of me.”
“Storyteller? The Storyteller?”
The man gave a brilliant grin that wrinkled his broad nose.
Despite his apparent age, his teeth were ivory white. “There is
only one in Evenmere and that is me. I heard a terrible
commotion and came to see what it might be. Do you mind if I
sit?”
“Suit yourself,” Carter said. “Your singing chased away a
… bandit.” Lord Anderson glanced at the place where the
lizard’s severed body had fallen, but only a dark stain covered
the floorboards. He shivered.
“My thanks,” Storyteller replied in his deep, sonorous
voice. He sat in a wing-back chair, and Carter sat down again
too, so they faced one another across the hearth. Lord
Anderson remained on the edge of his seat, gun ready but
pointed away from the newcomer.
“This is nice,” Bartholomew said, ignoring the weapon.
“This is real nice. Shall I call you Carter or Master
Anderson?”
Carter recoiled in surprise, but Storyteller laughed.
“Now don’t you go gettin’ agitated. The Words of Power
gleam bright as diamonds inside you, and I have known too
many of your predecessors not to recognize your fancy cloak
and jagged sword.”
“Call me anything you like, then,” Carter said, bowing at
the neck to avoid drawing close enough to shake hands. After
the deception by L’Marius, Bartholomew’s sudden appearance
in these deserted quarters struck him as more than suspicious.
He knew th
e man only by reputation and could not know if
this was an imposter.
“A fine pleasure, Master Anderson. A fine pleasure.”
Carter’s breathing had eased; he was settling down from
the combat. He tried to recall what he had heard about
Storyteller. “It is said you have traveled the house for
centuries.”
Bartholomew grinned again, dark eyes glistening in the
flames. He set his hat on a nearby table and scratched his head.
“Well sir, I reckon it has been a few thousand years. I am old,
that’s true, perhaps the oldest person in all the house. I am the
Storyteller, and I have traveled the great halls of Evenmere. I
have stood in the gray corridors and counted the shadows by
inches and known the whispering of the wind through the
endless reaches; and I am part of the Balance and the Song of
Evenmere. That’s right. For I tell the tales to remind the house
it has a Master who must see to its maintenance and the
keeping of the spinning worlds. At times, men scoff and say
the Master has no such powers. When that happens, I tell the
Terrible Tales, those not meant for human sensibilities, such
stories as are given only to me, and at first the scoffers smile,
and then their smiles turn to scowls and their haughty faces fill
with fear and their eyes with tears, and they throw themselves
at my feet, hands over their ears, begging me to say no more. I
always quit when they ask, and I tell them if a man has the
power to tell a story too awful to bear, the Master has the
strength to keep the suns in their courses. Thus, in my own
way, I maintain the Balance between the Chaos and the Order,
and the people of this great house allow the Master and his
servants to pass, never barring the winding of the clocks, nor
the lighting of the lamps. I am Storyteller, the joy and terror of
Evenmere.”
“I … see,” Carter said, impressed despite himself.
“But it nears nine o’clock, Master Anderson,”
Bartholomew said, “and you have an appointment with a
dream.” Carter leapt to his feet, eyes blazing, pistol raised.
“How could you know that?”
But the minstrel simply grinned. “Now, now, Master
Anderson. Be easy. Be eeeasy.” He spread his hand in a fan as
he said it. “I am not a bit of a danger. Storyteller sees into the
heart, you know. That’s right. He knows your fear for your son
and can smell the dream-stuff around you, a fragrance like
lemon custard. A sweet smell. You have recently been to the
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 9