Carter turned to Jonathan. “Few Masters come here
willingly. One who did a century ago never returned to the
Inner Chambers. In light of the danger, there’s no reason for
you to risk your life.”
“I am not afraid, Master Anderson. I have passed through
this country before and met its queen. I want to see the old girl
again.”
“You accompanied one of the Masters?”
“I came alone, to see what could be seen.”
“You continue to amaze me. According to our records,
none save the Masters have ever been allowed into Shadow
Valley. If I had known, I would have asked you more about
Queen Moethus.”
“It took a bit of convincing to get through the gates,”
Storyteller said. “As for Queen Moethus, she is centuries older
than Astronomer Phra and many times more proud.”
Carter raised his eyebrows. “I find that hard to imagine.”
Jonathan laughed. “You just be your respectful self and
maybe she will tell us what we want to know.”
The minstrel lit the lantern from his pack and held it aloft.
Lord Anderson led the way onto bare, black floorboards
shining dully in the lamplight, along a broad walkway with a
gulf of immeasurable depth on either side.
The shadow country was both insubstantial and fluid, as if
the whole land were in constant motion. The distant lights
shone blue. The high ceiling shifted like clouds, creating
figures of gargoyles, children’s faces, horses, dragons—
myriads of ebony forms, darkness within darkness.
“What a country!” Carter exclaimed. “I can scarcely keep
my balance.”
“There are places more awful than this,” Jonathan said.
“As one moves farther from the Inner Chambers, the lands
grow ever stranger, but there is also great beauty, lovely as
leaves and laughter.”
The companions traveled several miles along the black
gallery above the abyss of Shadow Valley. Because Carter
often had to close his eyes or shift his focus to keep from
stumbling, he failed to see the two shadow guards stationed
before an ebony portal until he and Jonathan were nearly upon
them. Their voices wavered, as if they spoke from a great
distance, but the black tips of their lances, prodding against the
men’s chests, were quite solid. Their heads were round as
globes, and their cloaks hung behind them in tatters. They
wore black breastplates. Their features, hidden in their dark
faces, looked blank.
“Who enters the halls of Queen Moethus?” one of the
guards asked.
“The Master and Jonathan Bartholomew,” Carter replied.
“You are not the Master who came here last,” the guard
replied. “Show the sign of your office, that we may know
you.”
Carter lifted his right hand, revealing the ring with seven
stones cut in seven concentric circles, representing the Seven
Words of Power.
“It is as has been described,” the sentry said. “Do you wear
the Tawny Mantle?”
Carter allowed the Mantle to drop from his shoulders,
covering him from neck to heels, so that he became one with
the shadows.
The guard laughed. “This is a token of might? I see you
plainly.”
“Then you have eyes others do not.”
“Do you possess the sword of the Master?”
Carter slipped his Lightning Sword an inch from its
scabbard, and its golden light shone brilliant amid the
darkness. The shadows screamed in terror, and the whole
country cringed before the illumination. Carter resheathed his
blade, and the guard cried, “No more, for you are surely the
Master of Evenmere.”
The sentries lowered their lances and allowed the travelers
to pass. Far beyond the portal stood the shadow of a man eight
feet tall and impossibly thin, who bowed at the waist. As with
the guards, his eyes were invisible. His nose was long and
sharp, and a semblance of a top hat sat on his head.
“Welcome,” he said in a spectral voice. “Welcome to the
Master and the Runemaker. Welcome to Shadow Hall.”
“How do you know us?” Carter asked, since the guards
had not announced them.
“When one shadow learns a thing, every other knows it,”
the shade said. “That is why it is best not to plot in the
shadows. This way, this way!”
Turning, he strode off, moving in utter silence, yet raising
his feet as if stamping with every step.
The shadow-walls of the corridor gleamed like polished
wood, while shadow cats pressed themselves against the
travelers’ ankles and shadow birds and shadow butterflies
fluttered about their heads. The inhabitants of Shadow Valley
were known to be capricious, and Carter kept his hand close to
his sword. As they proceeded, their guide gradually divided,
until there were two of him walking in step. These, in turn,
divided again and again, until a squadron of identical
marching shadows filled the passage. They broke their eerie
silence by humming in a minor key, every voice the same. The
tune echoed across the shadow halls and down into the shadow
chambers; and came reverberating back in long waves.
After several minutes the shadow guides said over their
shoulders, “There used to be words, but the words have been
stolen, and now we cannot sing our shadow songs properly.”
“That is partly why we came,” Carter said.
“Oh, we know a little of that,” the guides said.
“What do you mean?” Carter asked.
“That is not for these shadows to say, but only the shadow
of the queen herself. Come along!” And the echoes returned,
Come along … Come along …
Carter gave Jonathan a wary glance. “You may wish you
had taken my advice and stayed behind.”
“We will do what we can. It is all we can ever do.”
For a long hour, the companions trod past the shifting
forms of Shadow Valley. Gargoyle faces bubbled and churned
on the ceiling; shadows poked arms and hands and feet and
legs, claws and wings and babies’ tongues out of the walls,
beckoning, gesturing, warning, raising fists and flapping
appendages. It seemed to Carter that every shadow of his past
drifted by. He saw the shadows of his mother and father. The
shadows of the men he had killed passed one by one down the
hallway, and their number appalled him. He saw the shadows
of his regrets, of all he should have done, of the times he could
have been more loving to his wife or spent more time with his
son; the shadows of Duskin and Lizbeth and Sarah and Jason,
Chant and Enoch and William Hope, and even his own
shadow, for in these halls he and Jonathan’s shadows loomed
large, and Carter’s shadow met itself and the two walked arm
in arm together for a time.
He also saw shadows of happiness, of times spent playing
as a child, of courting Sarah, of the birth of their son. The
whole corridor was filled with the shadows of his p
ast, the
shadows of his present, and even the shadows of what might
yet be, so that he saw great joy and terrible suffering and
shadows of sacrifice beyond what any man could bear. With a
jolt of fear, he saw the shadow of Doctor Armilus walking
hand in hand with Jason. He witnessed vast battles and the
shadows of death circling, so that he had to bat them away like
flies. Looming high above, he saw the shadow of Jormungand,
looking down with shadow teeth, swinging his shadow tail,
and the Tigers of Naleewuath, and a hundred other things, so
that when the companions finally came to the chamber of the
Queen of Shadows, Carter felt a hundred years old.
But Jonathan only gave a long chuckle. “Now there were
many stories in that , and I have found a thousand tales to
tell.”
They were ushered into a hall so vast and dark its walls
were invisible in the gloom. Their shadow guide seemed to
collapse in upon his many selves, until only a single form
remained.
Blue torches stood in shadow sconces. A noise like a
distant howling wind whistled overhead. A wavering throng,
barely discernible, crowded around the black walls of the
chamber. The travelers were led before a vast throne, where
sat the shade of a woman, tall and lithe, the outline of her dark
tresses falling to her shoulders. Another shadow stood behind
to her left.
“My queen,” the guide said with a bow, “I present Carter
Anderson, Master of Evenmere, and the minstrel, Runemaker.”
Carter gave a slight bow with his head, a carefully
considered courtesy. As Master, he bowed to none, but he
needed to be solicitous without losing his status as an equal.
Jonathan, however, neither bowed nor gave any other sign.
The queen made an imperious gesture with her hand. Her
voice was ghost-thin. “So the old Master, Gembeard, is dead.”
Carter thought quickly. “Master Gembeard died two
hundred years ago, Your Majesty.”
The queen gave a laugh, soft as the breath of a child. “So
long? Time swirls quickly in the outer world, and the Masters
seldom visit us.”
“After I became Master,” Carter said, “in accordance with
the ancient custom, an invitation to visit the Inner Chambers
was slid beneath the door to Shadow Valley.”
The queen sat back in her throne and turned her head to the
figure standing beside it. He whispered in her ear.
“We recall your invitation,” she said, “and according to the
convention, we declined. We do not leave our shadow realm.
You would not wish to gaze upon us in the Bright World. We
would be too terrible to see. But you, Runemaker, have visited
us before. You amused us then.”
“I am glad, Your Majesty.”
“It is memorable because we are seldom amused. We
desire to hear more of your tales, which were concerned with
subjects foreign to our thoughts and often difficult to
understand. That must be postponed until later, however, for
now we are troubled. Tell us, Master Anderson, why you have
come.”
“For two reasons, Your Majesty. The house is imperiled by
enemies who call themselves Poetry Men, agents of Chaos and
Entropy possessing great and terrible power. They have
targeted the Servants’ Circle, assaulting both my Lamp-lighter
and the Tower of Astronomy. The entire High House is
endangered.”
If what Carter said surprised the queen, she gave no
indication. She sat silent for several moments, while the
strange, distant wind howled overhead.
“The Circle of Servants,” she finally said, giving her soft
laugh. “We are said to be members of that circle. Perhaps we
do not wholly agree with everything they stand for. The Tower
of Astronomy—all that light. As long as there have been
shadows we have been queen. We too have studied the
Balance; we sense the shifting of light and darkness. Each day
we send our subjects, our soldiers of dark, out to fill the world
with shadow, and yet the world is never filled. Why is this,
Master Anderson?”
“The world is shadow and light, Your Majesty. How can
there be shadows without light, or light that casts no shadow?
The two, as you know, depend upon one another.”
“You cannot say what we know. What is the second reason
for your presence at Shadow Hall?”
“We are seeking a woman named Erin Shoemate, who may
have recently been here.”
“Tell them nothing, Your Majesty!” a voice cried from out
of the darkness.
Every eye turned toward a form that stepped from among
the ranks of sycophants, a hooded figure swathed in black
robes with a dark sash covering the lower half of his face. His
eyes were fevered; sweat beaded his pale brow. A dim, blue
light arose between his folded hands, emanating from a black
diamond, large as his fist.
Carter’s hand went to his sword, though he did not draw it.
Immediately the palace guards surrounded the figure, their
spear tips close to his heart.
“Hear me, Queen Moethus,” the man entreated, in a voice
as ephemeral as the ruler’s own. “Do not tell them what they
wish to know. Have we not spoken of the Greater Road? Are
these not sacred things? Remember the wonders I bring.”
“Beware, Your Majesty,” Lord Anderson said. “I don’t
know how he slipped past our sentries, but he is one of the
Poetry Men.”
“Silence!” the advisor standing beside the throne
commanded. “Silence before the queen!”
The whole assembly fell motionless.
“Those who come to Shadow Hall,” she said, “are the
guests of Shadow Hall. Since we received the poet, we have
had many interesting talks. But he will not tell us how we shall
behave. We will do what we choose.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the Poetry Man said,
lowering his head.
“You are pardoned. We recall this Shoemate. She knew of
the Old Times and did not fear us. She had courage. She was
looking for a place in the desert of Opo known as the Eye
Gate.”
“If I may ask, Your Majesty,” Carter said, “were you able
to answer her question?”
“We did.”
“I would very much like to know what you told her.”
“That does not much interest us.” The queen turned her
head toward the poet. “It is as you told us; they speak the same
of light and darkness as did the Masters before them.”
“They do not comprehend,” the Poetry Man said, “but I
have come to bring you truth: you need not send your shadows
to be withered by the burning sun; their might should not be
wasted thus, murdered by the daystar kiss. I say be done with
luminance, embrace the night and know True Shadow cast
without the dread refulgence.”
Carter hesitated, uncertain how to counter his enemy.
“Your Majesty, if I might?” Jonathan asked.
“We
will hear what Runemaker says.”
“Long ago, a seer came to the king, saying: ‘Because you
have misused your authority and oppressed your people, you
will die in seven days.’ When the seer departed, the king,
fearing death, ordered his blacksmiths to build an iron box
large as a room. On the eve of the sixth day, he entered the
box, after which it was sealed with pitch. Then the king
thought to himself: ‘Within this box, I am safe. No enemy, nor
weapon, nor any disease can reach me. When the seventh day
is past, I will leave the box and so escape my fate.’ But the
box was sealed too tight, and when the air was expended the
king died.”
The queen was silent a time. “So, if we believe what the
Poetry Man says and accept his offer of True Shadow, we will,
shall we say, seal our fate?”
“Light is needed for shadows, no matter what this man
says. You and your country will be destroyed. Where will the
world be then, without shadows to define it?”
“That is what truly concerns them,” the poet said. “Where
would they be without both shadow and light? When we are
done, the universe will become a place of Absolutes. Shadow
and light, good and evil, such dualisms are illusion.” He held
high the black diamond. “The gift is here in Incarnate Form.
You need only accept it. Imagine the shadows forever dancing
across the world, shadow separate from light, darkness
swirling in ecstasy. Think of it, my queen, take what I would
give!”
“Don’t listen to him,” Carter said. “He is himself
deceived.”
“Three days the poet has spoken to us,” the queen said,
“and we would heed his words, for we can feel the power he
controls. It calls to us. The shadows saw the approach of a
Master, so we waited to see what you would say, but you only
repeat the same sad story. It is time the world was made new,
with we sole ruler of Shadowland. You may pass through our
kingdom, but you will not interfere in this, for we accept what
the poet would give us.”
The Poetry Man stepped forward to hand her the diamond.
As the queen reached for it, Carter drew his Lightning Sword.
Beneath that golden light, the land of shadow shrieked with
one vast echoing scream, the shadows fleeing backward. But
one of those was the queen clutching the jewel to her breast.
“Too late!” the poet cried. “Too late! Once more, divine
avatars walk the worlds. Oh, glory, glory!”
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 27