Twelve

A man may either move westward through life, following the light, or eastward toward the gathering darkness. It is a kind of orientation of temperament that is set in our earliest years; an emotional compass. One either pursues one’s dreams or one’s memories, and it is an exceptional man who, once his compass has been set, can alter it even a point or two.

—Halden: Essays

When Hayes came down to break his fast in the morning, he discovered that Erasmus had been gone over two hours. Hayes cursed himself for a lazy fool and considered going out after his companion, but then decided that this would invariably lead to Erasmus returning while Hayes was out, and so on, so he decided on food and staying in one place.

Around the site of Castlebough were several hot springs, the waters of which were said to be healthful, and these almost more than anything accounted for the town’s survival. Certainly the terraced gardens and small pastures he had seen on the slope below the town did not provide commerce, and the few travelers who stopped there on their way elsewhere would not support anything but the smallest inn.

But Castlebough boasted nine good-sized inns, and these catered almost exclusively to people coming to take the waters. To Hayes’ satisfaction Erasmus had chosen one of the better establishments, the Springs, and here he had found them each a room on the same floor. As Hayes had no worries about finances on this journey (Erasmus insisted on paying) he felt something like a gentleman of means again. He had never realized what a great sense of freedom one felt at being able to spend money without concern—not until he had been forced to count every penny.

Imagine, he thought, going into an inn and having to ask the cost of a meal before ordering! It had never even occurred to him to do such a thing before, and though he had become used to it in time, at first he had found the experience rather humiliating.

Well, I have been humbled enough to last a lifetime now, he thought. I shall never worry about growing arrogant or vain, that is certain.

Now, if they could only find Kehler. Hayes wondered, not for the first time, what his friend was up to, for Kehler was secretive even with him, and Hayes was very likely his closest friend in the world.

May we find him before he gets himself in too much trouble, Hayes thought, though he realized that, more than anything, he wanted to know what Kehler had discovered. His curiosity was burning.

The dining room was not half-filled with people, all of whom appeared to be taking their leisure—not residents of Castlebough, that was certain. There were a few elderly people who might actually suffer infirmities, but most he saw were hardly old—in their thirties or forties—nor did they look to be suffering from any illness. If anything, they seemed to be on a holiday. He could hear some of them discussing plans for the day: a boat trip down the river which would actually take them through a cave; a sail on Blue Hawk Lake; an excursion to various ruins. Hayes felt a bit jealous of their leisure, supported as it obviously was by resources he did not have.

“Ah, Hayes. . . . You’ve finally managed to face the day,” Erasmus said as he found his companion. “Have you been here long?”

“No, not at all. Just long enough to overhear the plans of our fellow guests, and to begin to feel a bit sorry for myself. You have come along just in time to save me from that particular emotional quagmire.”

Erasmus pulled up a chair and ordered coffee. “Well, I have been out to look at our town and to check the other inns. None seem to have a Mr. Kehler in their care, nor anyone who fits his description, so I hope we have not come so far to find he has already been and gone.”

“But he was two days ahead of us! I can’t imagine that he has already left.” Hayes was a bit distressed by the idea that he might have brought Erasmus Flattery so far, on an errand of mercy, and found it was only a fool’s errand, after all.

“Well, I’m told there are any number of residences in Castlebough that are owned by people from the lowlands. Some of these are let out by the week, and others are lent to family friends. You don’t know if Kehler has friends who might keep a home here?”

Hayes shook his head.

Coffee arrived, and Erasmus took it up without cream or sugar. “Then I suggest we go have a look at this mysterious crypt, then perhaps at the house that Baumgere owned. I have been asking the staff for directions—not so uncommon it seems. Baumgere and his mysterious excavations have drawn any number of people before us, apparently. Kehler might find his mystery well picked over. I wonder what he hopes to discover?”

Hayes shrugged.

Erasmus fixed an odd look on his companion, and the younger man turned his attention to his food, realizing that Erasmus believed he was holding back information. It was always difficult to know where one stood with Erasmus, for the man seemed to have made up his own mind about which of society’s strictures he would obey and which he would blatantly ignore.

“As soon as you’re ready,” Erasmus said, having bolted his coffee. He rose from his chair. “I’ll be in my room.”

Forty minutes later the two gentlemen were walking up one of the steep streets of Castlebough. It was a typical town of its type, built of local stone, the main street jagging back and forth up the hillside with numerous alleys and stairways joining the levels. A spring somewhere high up had been tapped for the village water supply and this ran down among the houses on a circuitous route, appearing here and there and could often be heard whispering beneath the paving stones. Hayes thought it a picturesque little town, trim and neat, and no doubt kept in this state for the visitors.

As they emerged above the last houses of the town proper, they found the old stair they had been directed to and headed up. The graveyard they wanted was on the hilltop behind the old castle, and though one could reach it by road, the stairway led to a shorter, if slightly more adventurous path.

Conversation soon ceased as they saved their wind for the climb. The stair ended at a path that wound up into the wood, then suddenly set off up a steep gully. Here stones had been set as steps occasionally and in one place a rusted chain acted as a hand rail; they pulled themselves up on this with some effort. Eventually they found stairs again, then a ledge, a final staircase, and then they emerged on the top.

Both Erasmus and Hayes threw themselves down on a stone bench to catch their breath. Before them spread a wondrous view, out over the town and down to the lake. To the north they could see the hills lifting up like seas toward an indistinct horizon that seemed impossibly distant and mysterious. If Hayes stared hard, he was certain that he could see another mountain beyond those he had thought were the farthest, and then others beyond that.

In the west the high hills lifted up to a jagged meeting with the cold sky, and here there was still snow to be seen, bright and pure in the morning sun.

“If Kehler proves not to be here, I will feel we’ve been amply rewarded just by this view,” Erasmus said, making Hayes feel a bit better, for he was worried that Kehler was gone, or worse—the priests had found him first.

They sat for a moment more, not speaking, but absorbed by the scene. Then Erasmus got to his feet, and Hayes followed. Reluctantly they turned away.

The castle had been greatly reduced by the villagers taking away cartload after cartload of stone to enlarge the town below, but even so there were still the remains of some high walls and towers. Hayes could see the blue sky through some of the openings, and tufts of dry grass and small yellow flowers sprouted from cracks and ledges.

A vine of morning glories had taken hold on the west wall, and these were open now, nodding in the light breeze. Behind some wild berry bushes they found an old graveyard. The most magnificent hornbeam Hayes had ever seen presided over the site, its trunk nearly three feet thick and its branches twisted and gnarled as such trees tended to be.

There were perhaps a dozen headstones half-obscured by brush and tall, golden grasses. Hayes bent over the stones and began to examine them closely. After a moment he called out, “Look! Baumgere’s grave, but only his name remains. The inscription has been obliterated.” He bent close, running his fingers over the few discernable lines. “Was this vandalism, do you think? Or could it have been erased for some other reason?”

Erasmus shook his head, but offered no opinion. There were a few bits of what might once have been a design or parts of an inscription left, and Erasmus looked long at these before taking out a pen and ink and copying them into a little notebook.

“And will you make sense of the remains, Mr. Flattery, where so many others have resorted to mere fantasy?”

Both Hayes and Erasmus turned to find the source of this strange, high-pitched voice, and there, a dozen feet away, stood an outlandishly dressed man who could not have been four feet tall. They were both so surprised by the sight that they stared dumbly.

“Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon, at your service,” the dwarf said, making a sweeping bow. “And you are the illustrious Erasmus Flattery, I take it?”

“At your service, sir, and my particular friend, Mr. Samual Hayes.”

“Your servant, sir,” Hayes said, offering a hand to the man who reached up his own small hand to meet it.

Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon was impeccably dressed in expensive and elaborate clothing of bright colors, and carried at his side a short rapier in a beautifully tooled scabbard. His high boots bore enormous silver buckles and his shirt studs glittered with pale stones that Hayes believed were diamonds. He wore no wig and tied his fringe of gray hair in a tail with a bright blue ribbon. His pate was bald and colored by the sun, his eyes the blue of mountain lakes, and beneath a magnificent white mustache, his full mouth smiled as though he enjoyed the reaction of the men before him, for certainly they stared like country boys with their first view of a noble.

“You know who I am,” Erasmus said.

“Yes, forgive me. It is a small village, and the news quickly spread that Erasmus Flattery was domiciled among us. Your studies of the noble grape are well known to those of us who are dedicatees. There is, you see, quite a large vintners’ society here. Some of the most successful oenologists and viticulturists spend part of their year in Castlebough, and you might imagine what the talk is among them.” He smiled winningly, showing a gold-capped tooth. “I hope you will have time to come to our meeting, Mr. Flattery, and your companion as well. Are you a horticulturalist also, Mr. Hayes?”

“I’m afraid not, though I admire a decent bottle of wine.” Hayes felt there was a hint of pity in the look this statement elicited.

“Well, you might find it of interest all the same. We have converted more than a few gentlemen to our cause in the past. But, Mr. Flattery, there is more of a connection between yourself and the village of Castlebough. The famed Admiral Vinzen Flattery kept a house here for a number of years, and came often with his wife to take the waters.”

“I had no idea,” Erasmus said. “The admiral was not known to me, unfortunately, though still alive, I think, when I was born. I shall have to see this house.”

“And I would be happy to show it to you. But I’ve come looking for you because I’d heard you had been asking questions about our mysterious Baumgere. I thought I should find you before those who would try to sell you copies of the inscription, or maps that lead to supposed treasure or what not. Not that you would be taken in by them, I’m sure, but they will waste a gentleman’s time. I once took an interest in Baumgere and his story and would be pleased to put my small knowledge at your disposal and act as your local guide, if you will permit me.”

Hayes and Erasmus looked at each other, their decision clear. “We would be delighted,” Erasmus said.

Suddenly something erupted out of the grass, causing Hayes to spin around. A massive wolfhound darted past him and came panting up to Clarendon, who was obviously its master.

“This is Dusk, my particular friend,” he said. “Put out your hands and let him sniff you. I hope neither of you wish me harm, for he will attack if you do. He can sense things men cannot and will not be persuaded that a man who does not like me should be allowed to go happily about his business. Fortunately I am not widely disliked, or I fear poor Dusk might have met his end by sword before now. Ah, there, you see, he has found you worthy, and that is a judgment worth more than many a man’s, I will tell you.” He stroked the dog behind the ears, barely having to reach down to do so, for Dusk came almost to Clarendon’s shoulder.

“As Castlebough is so small, Mr. Clarendon, perhaps you have heard of a friend of ours. We were hoping to meet him here. A young man named Fenwick Kehler?”

“Kehler? No. . . . I know no one of that name, but I will ask. And please, call me Randall.” The dwarf gestured toward some nearby trees. “Baumgere’s discovery lies back here. You are trying to discern the remains of the mysterious inscriptions . . . ?”

“Did they really exist?” Erasmus asked.

“Oh, indeed they did, though not for many years now. The inscription was erased during the time of Baumgere, as you have no doubt learned, though whether this was done by Baumgere is not known. The story, you see, has been . . . embroidered over the years, and the unfortunate truth is that the factual evidence—what is indisputably known—is very slim.” He took a deep breath, and looked at the headstones, an air of sadness settling over him. “That Baumgere chose Castlebough for his home has fueled the fire of speculation, for there are few regions around the Entide Sea as fertile for such theorizing as the Caledon Hills, with its uncommon history and many real mysteries. And perhaps the story of Father Baumgere did have its beginnings long ago, in some event that took place here in these hills. That is what many say.” He motioned again to the trees. “If you have the time, I will show you the mysterious ‘crypt,’ as it is called, and we can sit for a while and I will tell you what I can remember.”

Randall led them into the bower of silver-barked beeches, then down stone steps between lilac trees. The path circled around and then emerged in what almost seemed a small quarry.

There before them, carved into the whitestone, stood the facade of a small structure. Four pillars stood proud from the stone, the heavy eaves of the roof facade appearing to rest on them. A doorway had been cut into the stone, and a bronze door hung from heavy pins. This door stood ajar and slightly askew, as though it had been forced open and damaged in the effort. Hayes was quite astonished by what he saw, for though it was not large, the tomb projected a sense of grandeur.

“There was an inscription over the door, as well as on the lintel,” Randall said. “All gone now, as you can see.” He turned to the others. “You look surprised, Mr. Flattery?”

Erasmus did not take his eyes from the structure. “It is not quite what I expected. It is . . . well, humble in its scale, yet grand in its design, as though merely a model for the real thing.”

Randall turned back to the tomb, gazing at it for a moment. “That is precisely true. And what did the designer mean to convey by this contradiction? That the person buried here was more than others realized? That his or her true greatness was not recognized?” He stood a moment longer and then sat down on the stairs, his eyes still fixed on the facade.

“I have sat here like this often, and therefore the building, if it can be called that, is extremely familiar to me, yet it seems more a mystery each time. Perhaps this is what happens when the truth of an object eludes you—it seems somehow to be resisting your efforts.” He shook his head and smiled. “But it is just a facade cut into the rock, empty inside, as you will see if you venture in. A chamber not twelve feet square carved into the bones of the cliff. No secret doors or hidden chambers. Perfectly solid rock. The body or ashes long ago moved elsewhere, or perhaps it was never meant to be a crypt at all. Who can say, for it is only known as such for its vague resemblance to such structures. It might have served some other purpose entirely.” Randall looked at each of the others, and then down at the stone he tested with his hand.

“As you no doubt remember from your days at school,” he began, “the Caledon Hills have not always been part of the Kingdom of Farrland. Once they were claimed by what is today Entonne, and at other times they were autonomous or semiautonomous. Seven hundred years ago this was the Duchy of Atreche, and only nominally under the control of Farrland. Early followers of Farrelle hid here from their persecutors, and more than one mage has chosen to make his home among these enchanted hills. Great feats of chivalry were performed here—in this very spot as well as a thousand others. And the hills have witnessed tragedies, too. It is a harsh land, really. Agriculture is difficult; whitestone offers no metals to be mined. Only the forester and the huntsman can live to profit here. But despite that, the hills have a beauty that I think incomparable, and many before me have thought the same, so they were drawn here to find a life, and often had to fight to preserve the lives they made.

“The Order of Farrellite Knights, called the Knights of Glamoar, raised their great citadels here, eradicating the Tautistian Heresy which had taken root among people who had fled Entonne and Doorn. And then the knights themselves were branded heretics, and fell finally to the army raised by the Bishop of Nearl during the great turmoil.

“Many think the Knights of Glamoar left a treasure hidden among the hills, for certainly they had wealth enough, and this treasure some believe was the source of Baumgere’s wealth. And perhaps it was, but it is hard to imagine that Baumgere found the directions to this treasure among the Farrellite archives. Although it is said that a great deal of Farr history has been devoured by the church.” Dusk had wandered off, sniffing the ground and the air, and suddenly he came bounding back again, checking on his master and eyeing the strangers.

“But what do we know of this man for certain?” Clarendon continued, sounding like a lecturer. “Baumgere did appear to come into at least a little wealth after he left the service of the church, and there is no obvious source for this. That is all true. I will show you his home on the edge of the village and you will see what I mean. It is not only large and ostentatious, but it is an architectural oddity as well. The home of a true eccentric.

“Undoubtedly Baumgere had done something that made the local priest, who by the way was his friend and admirer, refuse him absolution. Now there are only certain varieties of sin that will see a man denied absolution, and they are well known: heresy, though what constitutes heresy changes over time; sacrilege, of course—robbing a grave, for instance is sacrilege. Murder, oddly, will not see you denied absolution, as long as you seek forgiveness from the church and repent of your sin.

“But if you are a priest of the church, there are a number of other things that can damn you and leave you wandering in the netherworld. Treachery during the religious wars would have seen a man denied absolution. Betrayal of a mystery of the church will have the same result. And so will acquiring knowledge beyond one’s station—a parish priest cannot have certain knowledge possessed by a bishop, you see.

“I have long said that much of the speculation about the source of Baumgere’s wealth could be repudiated by merely considering the possibilities laid out for us by the refusal of absolution. If we eliminate betrayal of the church in time of war, we are left with heresy, sacrilege, betrayal of a mystery of the church, acquiring knowledge beyond one’s station.”

“You seem quite sure that this denial of absolution related to Baumgere’s acquisition of wealth or to his discoveries, Randall,” Erasmus said.

“Ah, that is true.” Clarendon smiled, as though pleased to find that Erasmus had not gained his reputation without reason. “But I set out only to tell you what was known to be utterly true, not to subject you to either my own opinions or the speculation of others. Forgive me, for you are obviously correct: these things are not necessarily connected as cause and effect. As difficult as it is, I will try to stay with what is known, although resisting the desire to speculate in this particular instance is almost impossible.” The small man ran his hand over the stone again, as though he searched for something there. “Father Joseph, the priest who refused Baumgere his absolution, self-murdered within a week of Baumgere’s death. Utter disillusionment? Loss of faith? Or perhaps melancholia that was in no way related to Baumgere and his secret—for certainly Baumgere had a secret. Of that even I am certain. But one must believe strongly in coincidence to accept that these two things were not related, just as one must believe strongly to deny a connection between Baumgere’s mysterious discovery and the denial of absolution; or Baumgere’s years in the Farrellite archives, his unexpected departure from the service of the church and his sudden wealth.” Clarendon laughed.

“You see, I cannot confine myself to the particulars! Do forgive me, gentlemen. I am doing my best.” He appeared to focus his will. “Baumgere was an interesting person. He never rose far within the hierarchy of the church though he was said to have been an excellent scholar—something admired by the Farrellites. But perhaps he was not a political animal, which one must be to rise in the church of the martyr—it is like government or the court in that regard.

“Baumgere had few friends and kept his affairs to himself. I therefore suspect this was apocryphal, but a prominent citizen once claimed that Baumgere had answered his inquiry about the source of his wealth by saying, ‘Why is no one concerned with my true riches? My real wealth is in my knowledge,’ he said, ‘the years I spent immersed in the study of our history. These are the basis of real riches, and no one seems to be at all interested.’

“As I say, I don’t believe this story to be true but mention it only because it has become an integral part of the myth. Baumgere might not have been so rich as people thought.”

“And the headstone, and the ruined inscription on the tomb: where do they fit in?” Hayes asked.

“Ah. An excellent question, Mr. Hayes, for where things ‘fit in’ as you say is certainly the crux of the matter. There was an inscription on the headstone that did disappear, though whether this was an act of vandals or done for some other reason cannot actually be proven. The inscription on the crypt, however, was unquestionably eradicated—and almost certainly by Baumgere.

“I have only one thing to add to this particular instance—and I have shared it with very few. But, Mr. Flattery, I will make this knowledge available to you, for it is possible you might have something to add to the matter.” The small man stared at Erasmus as he spoke, then he stood. “Come. Let me show you.”

Clarendon crossed to the tomb again. He put one knee on the ground and bent to point out something in the design carved there. “You see, this is a floral motif circling the column.”

Hayes bent closer to look at what was a very common design—a vine and flowers in high relief.

“This is said to be wisteria, and though it is clearly stylized, I have often wondered if the clumps of flowers are flowers at all but bunches of grapes. You are a botanist and horticulturist, Mr. Flattery, what would you say?”

“That is the grape vine, Randall. You are absolutely correct.”

Clarendon brightened. “Ah,” he said with some satisfaction. “Now,” he said rising and pointing to the lintel above the columns. “Look there. It is the only break in the pattern. What do you make of that, Mr. Flattery?”

Hayes could see three flowers carved there, their stems intersecting.

Erasmus leaned back and looked up. “The two outer flowers are almost certainly roses, but the other flower I cannot name. I have not seen it before.”

“Exactly. One flower is unknown and the others are roses. Vale roses, I am told, by a man who has a great knowledge of roses.”

Erasmus stepped back abruptly, suddenly quite guarded.

Clarendon looked up at Erasmus. “I see you know what this symbol means, Mr. Flattery.”

Erasmus shook his head, though it was not a strong denial.

“Teller,” Clarendon said, and nothing more, but he stared at Erasmus who met his gaze.

Hayes looked from one man to the other, wondering what in the world they meant. Teller? “Who was Teller?” Hayes heard himself ask.

Clarendon did not take his eyes from Erasmus. “He was a man who once apprenticed to a mage: Lapin being the most likely candidate. But he did not complete his apprenticeship, for his mentor died.” Clarendon’s gaze seemed to become even more intent as he said this. “There is a possibility that Teller assisted the Farrellites in their war against the mages. We do not know what happened to him after that, though he may have lived for some good number of years. Some believe that Teller started a secret society dedicated to learning the arts of the mages—those he did not already possess. During the Winter War the mages destroyed what was left of Teller’s society—or so historians believe. The token of Teller, and later his society, consisted of three vale roses arranged as you see the blossoms here.”

“But there are only two roses here,” Erasmus said quickly.

“That is true, Mr. Flattery, but I am content that it is Teller’s token all the same.”

“But this crypt is certainly not five hundred years old,” Erasmus protested.

“It is difficult to say. Authorities believe it might be much older, but it has been buried and not subject to the usual weathering, so it cannot be dated with certainty. It might have been built long after Teller’s death, and his ashes moved here.”

“But if Teller’s society somehow survived beyond the Winter War, why would they do anything to call attention to themselves? It would have been foolish of them to build a tomb,” Erasmus protested. “The mages had tried to eradicate them once. Why do anything that might bring down the wrath of the mages? It makes no sense.”

Clarendon shrugged. “This tomb sat undisturbed and unknown until the time of Baumgere. It is only in the last century that Castlebough has become of interest to the outside world. Perhaps it was not such a great risk. Or perhaps the world had changed enough that they did not think it would matter. But it is interesting, don’t you think?” He placed his back against one of the pillars. “But you began an apprenticeship with Eldrich, Mr. Flattery, and did not complete it. . . . Perhaps you might shed some light on what happened so long ago to Teller?”

Erasmus shook his head. “I began no apprenticeship, I assure you. . . .” Erasmus’ denial was interrupted by a wild barking and snarling.

“Dusk!” Clarendon called, and immediately began to run in the direction of the noise.

The barking came from inside the castle ruin. Hayes and Erasmus followed Clarendon, though he was slower due to age and size, but neither of them wanted to find the apparently enraged wolfhound before his master.

After a moment of searching through the ruin, they rounded a corner to find Dusk staring up at a wall, snarling and taking the occasional leap, trying to scale the steep stone, and snapping his powerful jaws at some invisible foe.

“What have you treed, Dusk?” Clarendon called, trying to catch his breath. “Come out of it now.”

Hayes followed Clarendon, who took hold of his dog, and looking up found a man balanced in a niche in the wall looking quite terrified.

“Kehler!” Hayes exclaimed, completely surprised.

“Please, Hayes, call him off. I cannot hold myself here a second longer.”

And indeed Hayes thought that this was true. Poor Kehler was red with exertion and his arms were beginning to tremble.

“You may come down, sir,” Clarendon said, pulling back the still growling dog. “I have him.”

Kehler hesitated, perhaps comparing the relative sizes of man and straining dog, but then his body decided for him and he slipped, falling awkwardly onto the soft grass below.

Hayes helped him to rise, unable to hold back his laughter, and Kehler came up brushing at his clothing.

“I hope you are not injured, sir?” Clarendon inquired, not letting go of Dusk.

“No, only frightened half out of my wits. Martyr’s blood, but that is a fearsome beast,” Kehler said, eyeing the dog.

“But he will not hurt you now, Mr. Kehler. Have no fear. He means only to protect me, and was unsure of your intentions.” He turned his attention to the still growling wolfhound. “Now, Dusk, that will be enough. This is a friend.”

The dog and Kehler were properly introduced, though neither looked as though they would trust the other immediately.

Kehler collapsed onto a grassy bank, looking up at the two men and the astonishing little man they accompanied.

“I cannot tell you how surprised I am to find you here,” Kehler said.

“Nor can we tell you how happy we are to find you,” Hayes answered. “Where are you staying? We tried all the inns.”

This seemed to unsettle Kehler a little. “I’m not staying in the village. Have you been asking for me by name?”

“And how else would we inquire about you?” Hayes asked. “By reputation? Your accomplishments aren’t yet so grand, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“And these gentlemen are not the only ones searching for you, Mr. Kehler,” Clarendon said, his manner very serious. “A Deacon Rose has been asking about town for you.”

“Demon Rose!” Kehler said. “Farrelle’s flames! Do not give me away, please,” he pleaded, his face contorting in fear.