Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  country of dreams. You have been and you have come back,

  and you must go again.”

  “How can anyone know such things?”

  “Why, the Storyteller does. Didn’t I say I knew of the

  Balance? I too have wrestled with Entropy. That’s right. My

  kingdom is the whole house. All of Evenmere.”

  “Like myself.”

  “But different. You are the Master; the Storyteller sings the

  songs and tells the stories. The kingdom of songs is my

  realm.”

  Carter lowered his weapon slightly. “Perhaps that’s why

  your singing interfered with the siren call of my assailant. You

  must have heard it.”

  “That’s right. And you did the correct thing, Master

  Anderson, resisting the call of Power.”

  “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “I know you must sleep now, so you can go protect the

  child. Storyteller knows that for certain. And I will sing to

  make you sleep. You do not trust me yet, but you must. Yes,

  you must. There is no time for anything else.”

  How strange it seemed afterward to Carter, that there in the

  darkness where Bartholomew could have driven a knife

  through his heart while he slept, he took the man at his word,

  for he found he did trust him. His spirit, his personality,

  everything about him, felt right. And the minstrel was correct;

  Carter had to reach Jason at once.

  And so, as Jonathan T. Bartholomew sang a soft, cheerful

  song, Carter sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, and spoke

  the Word Which Masters Dreams. Immediately, he walked

  once more in the country of slumber.

  Doctor Armilus

  Through experimentation over the years, Carter had

  learned he could enter the dream dimension wherever he

  wished, simply by thinking of the place he wanted to go. Thus,

  when he passed through the gates of slumber, he did not find

  himself in the dream-equivalent of the room where he had

  gone to sleep, but in the gray mist of the Long Corridor beside

  the Green Door leading into the Inner Chambers. With a smile

  of satisfaction, he opened the lock with the Master Keys,

  passed through the small room beneath the servants’ stair, and

  made his way down the men’s and butler’s corridors from the

  back of the house to the transverse corridor.

  The Inner Chambers includes the front door of Evenmere,

  which looks out into the ordinary world. Except for being

  deserted, the dream version of the Inner Chambers was exactly

  like its counterpart in reality. Carter hurried up the stair to

  Jason’s room and stood hovering above his son’s four-poster

  bed. Since the covers remained in place, he assumed the boy

  had yet to be tucked in. He paced back and forth for a few

  moments, then forced himself to sit in the bedside chair.

  In the country of dream, events happening in reality do not

  manifest themselves at the normal speed. Carter imagined the

  effect as waves on a shore, washing up bits of flotsam. As his

  eyes swept over the unlit beaded lamp on the night stand and

  the paintings of tigers on the wall, he was unsurprised to see

  wooden toy soldiers, fallen in battle, sprawled across the rug

  where none had been before. He glanced back at the bed to

  find the covers drawn back, and knew Jason was preparing for

  slumber.

  The upper stories could not be easily reached by an

  intruder, so Carter descended to the main floor, where he made

  his rounds along the transverse corridor, through the entrance

  hall, drawing room, morning room, dining room and library,

  then to the yard entrance, the gentleman’s chamber, and the

  picture gallery, where hung the portraits of the former Masters

  of Evenmere. Seeing nothing amiss, he continued through the

  butler’s corridor into the servants’ block, passing through each

  of the rooms in turn.

  Finishing his rounds, he backtracked with the intention of

  returning upstairs, when a soft tapping attracted his attention.

  He followed the sound, which proved momentarily elusive

  until he traced it to the outside doors of the entrance hall.

  Peeking through the blue-stained glass in the narrow

  fenestra on either side of the rounded oak doors, he glimpsed a

  tall figure. He considered opening the door and confronting

  whoever lay beyond, but thinking better of it, hurried back

  down the transverse corridor and slipped through the dining

  room into the servery, along the men’s corridor to the

  housekeeper’s corridor, and over to the luggage entrance.

  Through the large panes of glass bordering that door, he saw

  no one waiting on the other side. Withdrawing his Master

  Keys, he unlocked the door, stepped quickly outside, and

  locked it behind him.

  The luggage entrance stood at the end of the ell formed by

  the servants’ block. Carter could not angle across to the main

  entrance without being seen, so he slipped south along the

  wall, following it as it turned west, wholly hidden from the

  intruder’s sight by the abutment of the entrance hall. Moving

  in swift silence, he reached the porte-cochère and peered from

  behind its fluted pillars. A heavy, broad-shouldered man in a

  black greatcoat stood studying the door, bowler hat tipped

  back on his head, humming a melody from Swaylone’s

  Branchspell symphony.

  Beside the man sat a beast, black as coal, its head a cross

  between that of a wolf and a horse.

  The intruder began speaking in a strange and exotic

  language, and flames danced like fireflies across the surface of

  the oak doors, banishing the shadows beneath the porte-

  cochère. For several moments, the fires roared. But when the

  attack was spent and the flames exhausted, the doors remained

  unscathed.

  “No luck there,” the man said.

  Carter drew his Lightning Sword in one hand and his pistol

  in the other. At the sound, the stranger whirled with amazing

  gracefulness for one so large. The beast also turned, and to

  Carter’s shock, its eyes were a molten gold, without iris or

  pupil, as if poured into its sockets.

  Without hesitation, he placed a single shot between those

  eyes. It staggered, collapsed, and lay still.

  “A ton of dynamite wouldn’t crack even a single pane of

  glass,” Lord Anderson said. “I could open that door wide and

  unless you had an invitation, you could not step across the

  threshold.”

  The intruder gave a grim, brave smile. If the noise of the

  pistol had startled him, he did not show it. He had heavy jowls

  and wide, staring eyes of a pale blue. A short lock of blond

  hair protruded from beneath his bowler; a silver chain peeked

  from under his collar.

  “Just the man I was looking for.” His voice was rich and

  full as a dramatist’s. “I am Doctor Benjamin Armilus, former

  dean of the College of Poets at Aylyrium.”

  “I recognize the name. You were arrested some time ago.”

  “For a time I languished in a prison in Ooz. But I wonde
r

  …” He indicated the pistol. “Is that necessary? Or do you

  intend to kill me, too?”

  Carter ignored the question. “What was that animal?”

  “I wish I knew. I assume it is a product of The Book of

  Lore . It has been my constant companion since shortly after I

  retrieved the volume from the Mere. I was surprised to

  discover it had followed me into the dreamland.”

  “You were the one disguised as the bosun?”

  Armilus gave his half-smile again. “The very same. A

  good bit of work, that. I enjoyed our boat ride together.”

  “You bloody butcher!”

  “Yes, well,” Armilus glanced down at the ground,

  “necessity is the mother of assassination. I didn’t want to kill

  you, but that is often the only way to stop a Master. I am the

  Supreme Anarchist now, Lord Anderson. Previously, I had

  fallen from grace in the Society for opposing some of our

  more overly ambitious plans. Now I am returned, but to a

  party divided. I needed the book to counter the threat of the

  Radical Anarchists and their Poetry Men. I do not know where

  they receive their power, but it is a force too terrible to

  control.”

  “Strange words from an anarchist.”

  “I won’t argue politics here. I have my responsibilities

  even as do you. We simply disagree. I need to halt the Poetry

  Men and reunite the anarchist party, so we can go about our

  business. To that end, you see me before you, walking the

  world of dream, trying to break into the Inner Chambers, a feat

  I never would have attempted until I read The Book of Lore . It

  is the most vile and dangerous volume in the world, one only

  men such as you or I should be allowed to peruse. Since I am

  blessed and cursed with a photographic memory, there are

  parts of it I fervently wish I had never read, sections that will

  haunt me for the remainder of my existence. But it was worth

  it, for its power now resides within me.”

  “What is its origin, since it was obviously not written by

  Master Kenton?”

  “That was a necessary fabrication,” Armilus said. “But I

  don’t think I will tell you any more about it. No point in giving

  you information you might use against me, you understand.

  Do you know my objective in wanting to enter the Inner

  Chambers, Lord Anderson? I intend to steal your son.”

  At the confirmation of his suspicions that the doctor was

  not only L’Marius, but the clown, Carter gave a cry of fury and

  lunged forward, his Lightning Sword inches from the

  anarchist’s heart, the weapon trembling in his hand, ready to

  slay.

  With one rapid motion, Armilus batted the blade away, his

  naked palm striking its edge.

  Carter hesitated in amazement. The sword, capable of

  slicing through steel, should have severed the doctor’s fingers,

  yet he was not even nicked.

  Hand still upraised, the anarchist said, “You have used the

  Word Which Masters Dreams, but it cannot master me. The

  Book of Lore has given me power within the dream dimension.

  I think you will discover you can’t harm me here, any more

  than I can hurt you.”

  The doctor dropped his arm to his side and lowered his

  voice. “I have a proposal to offer you. If you agree to the

  terms, I swear to leave your son alone.”

  “Go on,” Carter said, keeping his voice level to avoid

  betraying how Armilus’ display had shaken him.

  “My people need time,” Armilus said. “Time to gather our

  strength. I want your promise that you won’t interfere. Fight

  the Poetry Men, as will we, but leave us to our own devices,

  and I vow to trouble your dreams no more.”

  “You, the Supreme Anarchist asking for my help, wanting

  me to trust your word after everything you’ve done? Do you

  expect me to believe you’re that desperate?”

  “You wound me, Lord Anderson. Deception is not a

  bludgeon; it is an art. I fancy I painted some fine strokes in the

  Mere; but now the brushes are put away. Even anarchists must

  honor their agreements or lose credibility, and I have

  negotiated many treaties in the past. Nor will I lie to you about

  the poets. Neither you nor I control anything like the force

  used to destroy Jossing. Whatever their intent, the Poetry Men

  threaten everything the Society of Anarchists has worked for.”

  Carter studied his opponent. There was something

  compelling about the man. “You ask me to break my oath as

  Master.”

  “You are sworn to protect the manor. Nothing more.”

  Lord Anderson pondered only an instant. With a sinking

  sense of hopelessness, he said, “I cannot agree to such a pact.

  Either I am responsible for the entire house or I must abdicate

  all authority.”

  “You are making a mistake,” the doctor said. “True, we are

  enemies, but enemies faced with a common foe. This isn’t

  about ethics, but politics.”

  Carter gave a bleak grimace. “I am afraid, Doctor, I do not

  know the difference.”

  “Then I will be back until you do, or until I hold something

  so precious of yours that you cannot oppose me. Good

  evening.”

  Before Carter could react, the anarchist vanished, leaving

  him standing alone before the front door. The ghost of a growl

  sounded behind him, causing him to whirl. The body of the

  dark beast was also gone.

  Lord Anderson entered the house once more, bolting the

  door firmly behind him. He drew a deep breath, concentrated,

  and spoke the Word Which Brings Aid. He waited for several

  minutes in the silent house before a low whistling drifted

  down the transverse corridor, and Mr. Hope appeared at its far

  end. The butler approached warily, his face noticeably pale.

  Seeing Carter, he asked, “Is this a dream?”

  “Yes.”

  “You summoned me to it?”

  “I did.”

  Hope gave an exhalation of relief. “That’s good.”

  The two shook hands.

  “Why were you whistling?” Carter asked.

  “Because I was afraid. The last time I walked in dream

  was a terrifying experience.”

  “I hoped you would be the one who came. Is Jason safe?”

  “Quite so. We have a guard on him every hour of the day

  and night. How goes your journey?”

  Carter related what he had seen, including the attack by the

  Poetry Man and his encounter with Jonathan T. Bartholomew.

  “We now know the Poetry Men and the Radical Anarchists

  possess only The Book of Verse , while Armilus and his

  anarchists have the The Book of Lore . We need to circulate the

  doctor’s description throughout the house, to try to capture

  him and his book, but the poets are clearly the greater peril.

  We’ve seen what they can do. Doctor Armilus, despite his

  villainy, appears rational.”

  “Even when he threatens the Master’s son?”

  Carter grimaced, wondering if this was how his father had

  felt when Carter was in peril. He cast the thought a
side. “I’ll

  tell you what I fear, Will.” He felt the blood drain from his

  face as he attempted to put the idea into words. “The poet I

  fought, the words he spoke—he acted like he was trying to do

  me a favor. They have discovered the very essence of Power,

  and it has driven them completely insane. Unless we can find

  and end the source of that power, they will channel it until

  Evenmere, and the universe with it, lies in smoking ruin.”

  Hope licked his lips, and for a moment his eyes filled with

  dread. Then his jaw grew firm. “Well. That’s what we’re here

  for, isn’t it? The reason we get to sleep in those soft beds in the

  Inner Chambers.”

  “That’s why you get to sleep in them. Right now I’m

  dozing in a dilapidated chair in a cold, dank room with an

  unknown stranger keeping watch.”

  “True. But before we declare the poets wholly demented,

  keep in mind they attacked you, the Master of the House. That

  suggests method to their madness.”

  Carter barked a grim laugh. “It’s a desperate situation

  when we take comfort in thinking our enemies might be

  slightly sane.”

  “I’ll redouble my research on the Poetry Men and Armilus.

  I’ll also try to find out about this Storyteller.”

  Lord Anderson glanced around the room. “I have another

  problem, one I hadn’t considered. In this dream, I can’t know

  when Jason wakes so I can end my vigil.”

  Hope removed his bowler and scratched his head. “There

  is a pretty paradox! But easily solved, I think. We could

  simply make the bed when he rises, I suppose, but to give you

  a clearer indication, why don’t I move the lamp from the night

  stand to the dresser? When he sleeps I will return it to its

  original position.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Carter said. “Do you want me to send

  you back now?”

  “I might as well stay and help you keep watch. It’s not as if

  I’m missing any sleep.”

  “True; and I would like some company. These halls are so

  barren. Familiar, yet uncomfortable.”

  They made the rounds together through the night, until

  Hope abruptly vanished in mid-sentence, so Carter knew he

  had awakened. Going to Jason’s room, he found the lamp

  moved. He breathed a word of thanks to his friend and

  commanded the dream to end.

  The Master woke to find the fire still burning in the hearth