right here.”
As soon as Moonslack exited, Lord Anderson said, “Your
offer is more than he deserves. What a sour fellow! If his
master were living, he would be dismissed from service. Have
you ever been here before? He obviously doesn’t know you.”
“Father Brown was still alive the last time I came, almost
twenty years ago.”
Storyteller took a sip of coffee from a cracked china teacup
and began to sing a low, melodious tune, so somber and sweet,
with such beauty and power that the whole chamber seemed to
bend forward to listen, the walls resonating with his deepest
tones. Carter sat entranced. After a time, as if in answer,
Moonslack returned, followed by a heavy woman with tattered
hair and haunted eyes. They sat together on a low couch across
from the travelers.
When Jonathan finished, the woman said, “That was just
lovely.”
The minstrel gave a bow of his head, and Moonslack said,
“This is m’wife, Rosemary.”
“A pleasure,” Jonathan grinned. “Let me see if I can draw
a story or two from my hat.”
He actually told three tales. The first concerned a cat born
with only three legs. The other kittens made sport of it. The
kitten did not become a hero in the end, as Carter expected,
but died instead, slain by a badger, and despite the other
kittens’ guilt at their treatment of it, only the mother cat
mourned for long.
The second story was of a man who had but a single
daughter, who ran away. The father waited, looking out the
window, year after year for her return, but she never came
back.
Finally, Jonathan said, “There was once a young man
whose father was very rich and who drank too much and was
cruel beyond measure to his son. And there was another lad
about the same age, who was taunted by his classmates, who
called him slow and dim-witted. But his parents loved him
with all their hearts, and though poor, tried to give him the best
they had.
“One day, when the poor boy was fourteen, he met the rich
man’s son, who saw the lad as a target for the cruelty his father
had taught him. The poor boy didn’t know about brutality, for
he had never seen it, and he went trusting with the rich boy.
When the rich boy, who was taller and stronger, threw the poor
child onto the ground and would have beaten him, the lad
resisted. But the rich boy did not know the depth of the anger
within him. He killed the weaker boy and left his body for the
wolves of the Upper Stairs.”
To Carter, the tales seemed strangely disjointed, yet when
he glanced at the couple, he saw Moonslack glowering, his
face stricken, and Rosemary silently weeping, her hands over
her eyes.
“That’s a damned fool tale,” Moonslack said, lurching to
his feet. “I thought you a minstrel.”
“When the child died,” Jonathan continued, “you were
working. You couldn’t have been there.”
Sheer hatred shone from the man’s eyes. But abruptly,
beneath Jonathan’s calm gaze, his features crumbled. “I should
have been!” he cried. “I should have known!” He dropped,
weeping, back onto the couch. “My David was innocent, and
he beat him to death like an animal!”
“Moonslack,” the woman said, lifting her hands to her
husband. He fell into her arms; they clutched one another,
desperately weeping.
“If your son were here in this room,” Storyteller told the
woman, “he would tell you that he forgave you long ago for
the argument you had the day he left, for he loved you very
much. You have longed for justice against the one who killed
him, thinking he escaped. It isn’t so. David’s murderer has
faced injustice his entire life. It follows like a wolf, rending his
heart. If you would be healed, you must forgive both yourself
and him.”
“Oh, that is a hard saying!” Rosemary cried.
“Only because you can’t see the pain within your son’s
killer, so deep he doesn’t even know it exists.”
For several long moments, the couple wept, then clutching
one another, rose to go. But the woman turned back at the
door, rushed to Jonathan, and kissed his hand, whispering, “In
all this time he ain’t once cried.”
When they were gone, Carter wiped his own eyes with the
back of his coat sleeve. Finding his voice, he said hoarsely,
“You came here specifically for this.”
“It is the work of the Storyteller, who sees into the heart.”
“You have shamed me,” Carter said. “When I met
Moonslack I judged him rude, uncivil. How hastily I dismissed
him.”
“Sometimes my stories are intended for more than one
hearer.”
“Will they recover?”
“Perhaps they will, if they take my words to heart. If not
…” Jonathan lifted his hands in a shrug. “It is not my task to
make anyone do anything, Master Anderson. But if they do,
Moonslack will become the good steward he once was, and
this place will return to the refuge it was intended to be,
instead of a home for bitterness. Those who stay here will be
touched by Moonslack’s spirit, and will carry its goodness into
every corner of Evenmere. A small healing, spread through
many rooms, it will serve the house and the Balance.”
But when Carter entered the land of slumber that night, he
could not take his mind from Moonslack, who had not been
with his son when the child needed him. The murder was not
his fault, yet the boy had still died.
Was Storyteller trying to warn him about Jason? And how
many more nights could he continue entering the dream world
before his strength was gone? Something, he knew, would
have to give.
The Astronomy Tower
Within the attic of Jormungand, Jonathan paused to sip
water from a flask. The dinosaur shifted his weight uneasily on
the creaking boards.
“You have a way with words,” Jormungand said. “You tell
a pretty tale, but you are a liar. I am the Last Dinosaur, who
sees the comings and goings of the house. I observe the human
mites in their petty struggles; in all of Evenmere, only I
possess the gift of far-seeing. Yet, by your own admission you
told Anderson that you knew of the poet’s assault on the
Lamp-lighter. Impossible!”
“I saw it because I was there.”
“Oh ho! So now you’re a ball, bouncing from Aylyrium to
the Inner Chambers and back in a single night. You do Father
Christmas proud.”
“Storyteller never lies.”
Jormungand studied the dark, unwavering face. “Even if
your tale is true, you relate nothing new. I thought you would
be amusing. Why, even Anderson is more entertaining! It’s
nearly lunchtime, the most important meal of the day, and if
you can’t sing a song or serve up a bawdy story, I will devour
you. Sautéed, I think. I prefer mine well-done.”
but Jonathan looked straight into those ancient, bloodshot
eyes. “There you sit, your great big self and your hungry ol’
eyes, facing an old man who has walked the halls of this house
since before you were imprisoned. You were made to be as
you are, all appetite and no regret. If I am to die in this attic,
that will be as it will be; but I think you should listen to the
rest of my story.”
Jormungand moved his massive head nearer and sniffed
Storyteller, displaying jagged teeth and red gums. Saliva
dripped from his jaws to the floor. “Why should I?”
“Because you are curious, and that isn’t like you. Not like
you at all. Curiosity is not one of your traits; it isn’t lizardy,
one might say. Yet here you are, curious as a kitten with a ball
of string. The reason why is because the story isn’t finished
but is still unfolding, and even you don’t know how it will
end. And you wonder how Storyteller knows so much of it.”
“I have watched you for ages, rambling here and there, but
there is more to you than I suspected,” the dinosaur rumbled.
“Who are you? What do you want from me? Why must you
tell me this tale? What do you get out of it?”
Jonathan grinned. “You have asked more than three
questions. According to your own rules, I have the right to eat
you . But never mind. Never mind. I tell you this tale because
storytelling is part of ritual, and this is the time and place for
that, here in his attic on this particular day. The tale must be
told, because that too is part of the unfinished story, and
everything will be made clear in the end. Storyteller sees to the
heart, and though you have already witnessed the
circumstances unfold, you haven’t understood Lord
Anderson’s fear for his son, or Doctor Armilus’ callousness, or
the mad desires of the poets.”
“What do I care for the braying of sheep?” Jormungand
asked. “You think your little stories matter? I tell you what
touches the human heart—pain scores the mortal soul; fear
gives meaning to dull lives; death ends all in futility. I am the
Great Hero, the lone voice crying from my prison, giving the
world the One Great Truth, that existence is futile and without
plan. Your stories accomplish nothing ! Lift the human spirit
today and it is trampled into the muck tomorrow. Flesh and
bone give way to earth, and all the past is forgotten.”
Jormungand blew hot flames into the depths of the attic,
lighting its recesses for miles. The heat of the blast drew beads
of sweat from Jonathan’s brow.
But Storyteller gave a brave smile. “That’s right, old
lizard, you have your place, and it is a grand one, an attic
kingdom filled with the despair of the whole world. But like
many of those who spend all their time alone, you make too
much of it.”
“My place ?” Jormungand roared, sending the boards
shaking. “My place? There is no place but mine. I am the
quintessential Entity. I am what is important. What are you?
An artist! A poet! A wandering tramp!”
“That’s right. That’s right. But words, if they are true and
strong, if they speak to the soul, have power to survive the
ages.”
Jormungand growled, clearly disliking the course of the
conversation. He, who usually cowed his visitors through fear
or death, was unused to debate. “Human souls! Caterpillar
hearts! And you speak of humanity’s tiny span of existence as
ages ? That’s the kind of humor I like. Go on with your story
and be done with it. I was in a bad mood when you arrived,
and you’ve done nothing but annoy me. I doubt you will
survive the evening.”
“Maybe I won’t,” Jonathan replied, staring at the dinosaur
with his strange, dark eyes. “Curiosity isn’t one of your traits;
but murder, now, that surely is. Where were we? Ah, yes, we
return to Master Anderson, in his journey to North Lowing …”
The lantern flame danced. Jormungand’s eyes flashed. The
dust lay thick on the attic floor.
By noon of the next day Carter and Jonathan Bartholomew
entered Tucks Hall, a wide chamber stretching mile after mile
across the border between Aylyrium and North Lowing. A
marble channel, half a mile wide, ran down its center, the great
Fable River flowing from the Sidereal Sea. Hand-stamped tin
tile adorned the ceiling, and square shafts, ducts sealed in
winter, allowed light and rain to enter. Multicolored mosaic
floor tile depicted the history of the river—battles fought,
children born along its banks, treaties signed beside its slow,
serene waters. Squat trees with ivory bark and lime-pale leaves
rose in ordered rows from patches of bare earth, forming
umbrella canopies. White ivy lined the banks. Pale frogs,
small as a little finger, squatted beneath the twining branches.
Occasionally members of the Guild of Dusters and Burnishers,
dressed in their dark blue uniforms and caps, scrubbed their
way past.
The travelers journeyed down the bank until long after
noon, when they reached an ornate bridge too narrow for two
to walk abreast, with iron railings sculpted into tiny leaves of
ivy. They crossed above the whispering waters to the center of
the stream, where the bridge widened to accommodate a guard
station.
A sentry appeared, wearing the traditional heeki of North
Lowing, a white undertunic wrapped in black strips of cloth
that lent him the appearance of a mummy, with a chain-mail
jerkin over all. His beard was trimmed and oiled to a point; a
side-arm hung from his waist. He looked over the travelers
with eyes dipped in suspicion.
“Who wishes to enter North Lowing?”
“The Master of the house,” Carter said, “and Jonathan
Bartholomew, its minstrel.”
The guard’s eyes widened slightly, but he gave Carter’s
Lightning Sword and Tawny Mantle a careful scrutiny, and
required Lord Anderson to show his Ring of Office before
saying, “Very well, my lords. Pray pass, but mind the laws of
the land, which are posted along the way.”
Jonathan reached into his ragged jacket and produced a
slender book with a vellum binding. “Here, my friend. This is
for you.”
“What is it?” The man lifted his nostrils slightly, as if
Storyteller were offering poison or a bribe.
“Why, it is a book, a tiny thing read in an hour,” Jonathan
said. “I bought it for you in Keedin two months ago.”
The man took the book with a disbelieving stare. “For
me?” he said gruffly. “You don’t even know me.”
“That’s true, Nimikos,” Storyteller said, and the two
departed, leaving the man standing in the middle of the bridge
staring after them, holding the book as if it were a dead fish.
Carter gave his companion a questioning glance.
“It will heal his heart,” the minstrel e
xplained.
“I rather wish I had your job.”
Jonathan grinned and began to whistle.
The northern half of North Lowing is called the Golden
Steppes, an indoor wilderness with some of the largest
chambers in Evenmere. Golden oaks, yellow and sultry in the
half-light, grow beneath the ceiling shafts; the wood floors
curve to form hills and canyons. Deer, hares, raccoons, even
bears and wolves, make their dens in false caves or on ground
left open to the earth.
With each step the travelers took, the character of the land
seemed to change, so that one moment they passed paneled
friezes with ethereal flowers, and bay windows inlaid with
leaded glass, and the next, gazed up from deep shadows at tall
obelisks forming black mesas. They stopped for the night in an
alcove of oak paneling, with carved bronze warriors from
mythic Gost inset in the wood.
Following a supper warmed beside the small hearth,
Carter, anxious to reach the Inner Chambers before Jason’s
bedtime, climbed into his bedroll on the polished boards and
slipped into dream. He spent a lonely vigil guarding the empty
halls until midnight, when he used the Word Which Brings
Aid to summon Sarah. The two of them passed the rest of the
night talking beside Jason’s bed. When she remarked how
tired he looked, Carter did not admit how utterly worn he felt,
or how he feared being unable to continue his nightly watch.
He woke the next morning tattered and chilled and
feverish, scarcely able to focus his thoughts, and he and
Jonathan were on the road an hour before his mind cleared
enough for coherent conversation. He feared he might become
lost if he continued his treks into the land of slumber, unable
to wake from the world of dream, leaving his body a husk and
Evenmere without a Master.
No sooner was he feeling better, than a passing burnisher
gave the travelers more bad news. North Lowing was astir
with the news of the death of the Smith of Welkin Well,
another of the Circle of Servants, slain by a Poetry Man while
traveling through Fiffing. His apprentice had taken over his
duties, but Carter had known the Smith, and the loss of his
wisdom and experience was a terrible blow. Lady Order had
clearly been correct: the poets were targeting the Servants’
Circle, seeking to undermine the whole foundation of the
house. But for what purpose? To replace it with some system
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