J. Calvin Pierce, page 53
“No. Your house is good. You belong there.”
A dark form moved in the corner. It raised up and floated along the wall. Alexander watched as a man almost as tall as Breksin, but impossibly thin, drifted around the bed and slowly approached. He was pale, and dressed in tightly buttoned clothes of pitch black. He moved like a person walking underwater, lifting his knees high with every languid step. The light from the candle caught his eyes. They were yellow.
Alexander rose carefully from his chair and went to the mantel. He poured from a pitcher into a pair of deep slender cups.
“They have a wine here that’s almost black. Most unusual.” He slowly approached the ghostly being and handed him a cup, then returned to his chair. “You may sit, you know, Fildis.”
Fildis sat. He perched himself on a stool, bending like a folding knife, with his knees against his chest.
Alexander sipped from his cup. “Try the wine. I think you will find it good.”
“I will not lie to you.”
Alexander nodded. “Still, I wish you would drink. You always do at my house.”
Fildis raised the cup to his lips. When he lowered it, his narrow smile bared teeth that were curved and sharp. “Always a gracious host,” he said. “Even away from home.” He turned his yellow eyes to the wine. “The spirits from your cabinet are better, though.” He raised the cup again.
“There were disturbances,” said Alexander. “Here, in this Region. Now they are gone. I called you to ask only one thing. No riddles this time, nor will I keep you long.”
“The disturbances here are in this house. They have awakened something in the roots of the mountain.”
Alexander put his cup on the floor beside his chair. “But that is simply local, like a haunting.”
“Not ghosts. Mountain things.”
“I understand. What I seek is something else.”
Fildis looked into his cup. “I know nothing of these matters. You must ask some lord. Why do you speak to me of these things when you can summon even the great Rhastopheris?”
“Not summon. Rhastopheris I call. Sometimes he comes. But I dare not call him here, to a place not sealed.”
“Well, I am only Fildis, and must come when summoned, but I know little of the Middle Regions.”
“But what of your place? What of the Lower Regions?”
Fildis turned and watched the rain at the window. He emptied the cup. Alexander rose silently from his chair and brought the pitcher from the mantel. Fildis held his cup as Alexander poured, then sipped again.
“Pools of water gather in the desert. Deep holes bubble. My lord’s castle looks out now on a pond.” Fildis curled his lips. “Soon we will be an island.” The yellow eyes sought Alexander’s. “Some say it was the old man.”
Alexander looked sharply at his guest When he spoke, his voice was even softer than before. “Tell me of the old man,” he said.
“I know only that he passed.”
“Was this a necromancer?”
Fildis smiled a toothy smile. “No. Your pardon, necromancer, but this was some Power—a potent being.” He paused to sip again from his cup. “It is said that in ages past a sea filled the great valley where my lord’s castle stands. Some say the sea is coming back. My lord says he will not permit it.” The demon stared into the fireplace and began to laugh, softly at first, and then louder and louder, until the sound filled the room. Alexander began to raise a cautioning hand, then turned abruptly as the door from the hallway opened.
A dark-haired youth slipped in quickly and closed the door behind him. Fildis froze in mid-laugh, staring at the intruder. He tore his eyes away and turned to Alexander.
“Necromancer! I have your cup in my hand. You are pledged—”
“Be still,” said Alexander without taking his eyes from the door. “You are in no danger.” He rose from his chair to address the young man.
“Egri. What is your business? Why do you disturb us?”
Egri took his eyes from Fildis. “My business is to see the giant safely to Devlin, as you know. I disturb you when I hear the laughter of a demon.” He looked around the room. “Is this place not bad enough? Must you raise the Lower Regions?”
“Fildis will be gone soon. I am only asking him some questions.”
Egri looked from the demon to the necromancer, then turned and left without a word.
The demon stared at the door. “You know what he is?” he said. Alexander nodded and returned to his chair. “They are dangerous,” Fildis continued. “He is not bound to you; you cannot control him.”
Alexander smiled. “I have my powers,” he whispered.
“Yes,” replied the demon, “but you cannot see him as I do. If you could, you would not be so certain. I am from the Lower Regions; you are a man of these worlds. Yet you and I are more like each other than either of us is like him.”
“I am sure you are right, Fildis, but I am more interested in the old man. You did not see him yourself?”
“No. I know only what I have told you. I can tell you what I believe, though.”
“What is that?”
“I believe my lord will drown in his castle.” The necromancer and the demon laughed quietly together.
“You see,” Fildis said. “Tell me when you ever heard this Egri laugh.”
When he was alone again, Alexander went to the window. The rain had slopped, the wind abated. He stared out at the night. Now what did he know? Breksin was on his way to the pirate stronghold of Devlin for reasons that didn’t concern Alexander. Egri was accompanying him. As far as he could tell, their relationship to the old man was incidental and unimportant.
It was the woman, Marcia, who was the key. She had followed the old man, Father, they all called him, for lack of any other name, from another world of the Middle Regions. Though she was but a novice, she wore a ring of great power. She had only an imperfect understanding of her mission, but she was doing her best to follow the orders of her Sisterhood.
Alexander had left Marcia at an inn four days ago. They had hoped one of them would find Father. Now it seemed that Father had crossed to the Lower Regions.
And what of the desert sea? If Father was causing momentous upsets in the Lower Regions, was it not reasonable to assume that he had been the cause of the signs and portents that had brought Alexander so far from home? He thought of his house, high on a cliff above the ocean. Maybe he had come too late. He smiled. He would gladly go back home.
He pictured the climbing roses on his garden wall, his quiet rooms, the fog that so often obscured the sea below. Breksin and Marcia had both said the old man was out of his wits, that his talk had the character of delirium. And yet it seemed he possessed vast powers. Egri said nothing of him, whether because that was what he knew, or because he was willing to say no more, Alexander did not know. But if he was gone, none of it mattered. Alexander would not enter the Lower Regions just to satisfy his curiosity. The preparation required was too strenuous, and still there would be dangers.
He returned to his chair. So, he had come all this way for nothing, leaving his studies, the comforts of his refuge. Now he would have to return to Ambermere, cross from there to his own world, and then still be faced with crossing the continent. He sighed. It almost made a shortcut through the Lower Regions seem appealing. Almost.
He pulled his thoughts from quiet mornings in his garden. Before he returned, there were one or two things to be done. First, there was the matter of Marcia. Though she evidently had substantial powers of her own, she was, after all, a novice. She had been carried into this world by Father’s magic. When the old man did not appear, she would wait at the country inn where Alexander had left her, so his first chore was to return to her. From there they could journey to Ambermere together and cross to their own world.
A happy thought occurred to Alexander. He had invited Marcia to visit him someday, to look in his books for answers to some of her questions, and to meet Rhastopheris. She could come with him now. It would be interesting to have a house guest. He cherished his refuge, but it was, he realized, lonely, even gloomy sometimes. He supposed that was why he called demons to talk and play at riddles. He shook his head sadly. Just another lonely old man looking for company. Still, the idea of inviting Marcia was a good one. For the time, it seemed that she was separated from her Order anyway. A few days more—a week or so, perhaps—wouldn’t make any difference.
Alexander got up and went into the dark corridor. Egri’s room was next to his, a reflection, he supposed, of how little trust the youth had in necromancers. He raised his hand to knock, then thought of how Egri had entered his chamber. The door was not latched. Alexander pushed it open. Inside, the embers cast a faint glow from the fireplace. He peered into the shadows. The bed was piled with blankets and cushions, but the young man was not in it. He took a step toward the far wall, but there was only darkness and an empty chair. After seeing the demon, Egri must have gone to stand watch in Breksin’s room. Alexander turned to reach for the door, then started at the sight of the young man, sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“Oh. Sorry, did I waken you?”
Egri looked at him in silence.
After a moment, Alexander went on. “I wanted to tell you I am leaving.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. If I leave now I can reach the inn by dawn.”
“You have learned something of the old man, then.”
Alexander nodded. He sat down in the chair. “He is gone.” He peered through the darkness at the dark eyes of his host. “Back to the Lower Regions.”
Egri’s expression did not change. “Breksin will be disappointed. When he saw your tricks—chilling the wine, keeping us dry in the storm—he began to hope you might help him in Devlin.”
“But what could I hope to do?”
“Nothing. Nor is there anything that Breksin can do. When he considers it, he will see that if things go wrong, he can hope for nothing more than revenge. With my help, he might free the prisoners from a cell, but how to escape Devlin?” Egri leaned back slowly until he rested against a pile of cushions. “What will happen, will happen.”
In a few minutes, Alexander returned to his room. He put his few belongings together and made his way quietly down the stairs. As he began to open the outside door, he heard a faint sound from below, like something large and heavy being dragged through the cellars far in the back where the inn was built against the mountain. He listened for a moment, then went outside.
He stood in the entryway for a time, preparing himself, eyes open, staring sightlessly into the night. There was a momentary disturbance of the air around him as it seemed to coalesce, so that the little gray-haired man in the pastel clothing was hidden from sight. The shimmering air wavered, then moved into the night and was gone.
Chapter 3
On the morning after her escape from the Lower Regions, Marcia sat in her bedroom thinking about all that had happened to her in the last nine days. How to unravel the complications? She had now, it appeared, participated in so many strange events, had acquired a history of such a surrealistic complexion, that the most amazing adventures had come to seem perfectly normal, if a bit intense.
Marcia’s life had not often been disturbed by intensity. She lived alone, had worked in the same office for fifteen years, and had begun to suspect that the pattern of her existence was not likely to change. Even her unusual talents, which she was inclined to view as quirks—her ability to see auras, her sensitivity to unspoken communication—had become predictable and ordinary. Auras either confirmed judgments she would have made without their help, or else reminded her of the discouraging difference between appearance and reality. As for her mind-reading skills, they were too slight to be of any use, though they occasionally caused her to suffer hurt feelings or embarrassment that someone lacking the gift would have been spared.
But embarrassment and boredom had not been her biggest troubles lately. Last night, just after she had made it back to her apartment with her mind still full of the nightmarish horrors she had escaped, she had begun to doubt her sanity. Then she discovered she had not returned alone. Borphis, once she noticed him, proved that either she was sane, her perceptions accurate, or else she was so hopelessly lost in hallucination and fantasy that there was no point in worrying about it.
She smiled and stretched lazily. This morning her head was clear, she knew exactly where she was, and the Lower Regions seemed very far away indeed. She had not forgotten her guest, nor any of the unsettling events that had occurred yesterday, but she felt herself to be solidly grounded in the moment and in this particular place. She did not fear that she would find Hell in the next room—only one small devil.
A few minutes later, Marcia, wearing a blouse and slacks, came into the living room with a cheerful smile on her face. She had been thinking that it was a pleasant novelty to have a houseguest. It was also a pleasant novelty to wake up in her own bed among her own things, but that, she had figured out, was at least partly because the trappings of her familiar life were illuminated by the drama of the past week.
The pillow and quilt were in a pile on the love seat, but Borphis was not in the living room. Marcia looked toward the kitchen. Could he be making breakfast? Did demons cook? Marcia had entertained few houseguests, and only one who had insisted on cooking. Early in Cousin Ellie’s memorable visit it had become clear that she thought of herself as a sort of Caucasian Aunt Jemima. Every morning she had made stacks of “multi-grain” pancakes that had the heft of horseshoes and the consistency of something that should have been fed to animals with more than one stomach. Marcia sincerely hoped Borphis was not standing on a chair at the stove rustling up some breakfast specialty from the Lower Regions.
As she crossed the room, she noticed her purse lying open on the floor. She hurried into the kitchen. No demon. She went back to the living room and looked behind the love seal, then in every other place where a three-foot-tall gnome might hide. Were demons fond of tricks? she wondered. Was Borphis being impish? She recalled the sight of little Borphis lifting and tossing a boulder the size of a dishwasher and shuddered to think what form impishness from him might take.
Marcia went so far as to check under her bed and in her closets. She even peeked into the hamper. A one-bedroom apartment offered only so many hiding places—even for a little man three feet in height. She made one more pass through the rooms, going from one to the other in a methodical way that would not allow her to miss anything, nor permit a mischievous demon to slip past her. Once or twice she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, there was nothing there.
He was not in the apartment. Marcia opened the door and looked up and down the hallway. When the elevator chimed, she pulled herself back inside and closed her door. This was no time to run into an inquisitive neighbor. She went to the window, opened the drapes, and tried to figure out what to start worrying about first. When she happened to notice her aura in the daylight, the problem of what to worry about was solved.
Every color had changed. She looked more closely, distrusting what she saw. Last summer after she had been given the ring, her aura had changed, had taken on a cast that had exerted a subtle influence on all the colors. Now another cast had been superimposed. Sometime since she had last looked, her aura had become one that, had she seen it surrounding someone else, would have frightened her.
She sank into a chair by the window to stare at the eerie colors that clothed her, but her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Borphis entered. He was carrying a large white paper bag.
Marcia bounced up from her chair. “Where have you been?” she asked, speaking at a pitch normally reserved for climactic moments in coloratura arias.
Borphis regarded her calmly. “I think we ought to move,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I had to go five blocks just to get doughnuts.” He took some bills and coins from his pocket and handed them to Marcia.
Marcia took the money without taking her eyes from the demon. “You went out?” Her disbelieving gaze shifted to the bag beside him. “For doughnuts?”
“I got hungry.”
Marcia’s eyes settled on him in an astonished stare. “But you’re a demon. You can’t … I mean …” Marcia stuttered to a halt, then started again. “How can you just walk around on the streets?”
Borphis shrugged. Marcia looked at him carefully. Actually, the only thing terribly unusual about him, besides his pallor and his yellow eyes, was his height. He didn’t have horns, or obvious fangs. When she thought about it, she realized that he was by no means the strangest-looking person to be seen on the streets of the city. He would just be taken for a particularly ill-favored and oddly dressed little boy. The people at the doughnut shop probably hadn’t given him a second glance.
Marcia made a pot of coffee. No matter how good the tea had been, richly aromatic and laced with cream you could float a spoon in, she had thought about black coffee every morning while she was away. She poured two cups, and carried them to the dining room. Borphis was sitting at the table, elevated in his chair by a stack of phone books with a pile of doughnuts in front of him.
“I want you to try something,” she said, inserting a cup among the pastries.
Borphis glanced up from his doughnut. “Oh, coffee. Thanks.”
Marcia sat down with a quiet sigh. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of Borphis and his hoard of doughnuts. A nagging dream-image from last night floated at the edge of her consciousness. She remembered being able to see the relationships between her world and the others she had visited: the enchanted woods on the mountain, Arrleer, Ambermere—even the Lower Regions. She had suddenly understood the relationships in concrete terms. The places she had visited were simply occurrences, or manifestations, of a certain kind of permutation, or combination of … harmonic energies ….
Marcia opened her eyes. How quickly words could deflate an insight. Using language to explore her intuition was like trying to build a sand castle with cinder blocks.
