River Into Darkness Read online

  DAW Books by Sean Russell:

  The Initiate Brother Duology

  THE INITIATE BROTHER

  GATHERER OF CLOUDS

  Moontide and Magic Rise

  WORLD WITHOUT END

  SEA WITHOUT A SHORE

  The River into Darkness

  BENEATH THE VAULTED HILLS

  THE COMPASS OF THE SOUL

  BENEATH THE VAULTED HILLS copyright © 1998 by Sean Russell.

  THE COMPASS OF THE SOUL copyright © 1999 by Sean Russell.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Micah Epstein.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  Book designed by The Barbarienne’s Den.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1803.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780756414955

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

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  BENEATH THE VAULTED HILLS:

  I’m sure that every writer, at some point, has received encouragement and advice from kindly teachers, and in this I’m no different. This book is dedicated to them (for teachers receive so little credit for their work), especially the late Helen Fawcett, Chris Evans, Catharine Jones, and Larry Kendal, wherever he is.

  THE COMPASS OF THE SOUL:

  For Peter Stampfel for rescuing my first book from the slush pile, and Besty Wollheim for patience and insight.

  CONTENTS

  DAW Books by Sean Russell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Beneath the Vaulted HillsEpigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  The Compass of the SoulEpigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The journey out through darkened lands

  A way beneath the vaulted hill

  The tidal years sound elder bells,

  Though falcons cry and thrushes trill.

  Beneath the Vaulted Hills

  Men of such stature, of such undeniable greatness, cast shadows beyond our limited world.

  —Halden: Essays

  Prologue

  He sat before a window which stood slightly ajar and read by starlight. There had been a time when he’d preferred the warm light of day, but in the decades since the passing of his centenary, he’d become more inclined toward the cool illumination of the stars or even the moon. He studied the stars, of course, and one could hardly do that by daylight, but even so, he found the pale light so much more restful. Or perhaps he had just seen enough of the world.

  Recently there had been a particular wandering star that he’d been observing nightly, using his improved telescope—an invention of Skye’s, ironically. This star had a strange halo about it and a fiery tail. Things even the ancients did not know.

  But more than anything he felt its passing. Felt it pull on all the heavenly bodies and, in turn, the effect this had elsewhere. Here, in the house of Eldrich, for instance.

  The mage marked his place with a feather and closed the ancient book with care, placing it on a small table. He rose and walked out onto the terrace, looking up at the heavens. Eldrich had been reading Lucklow’s treatise on augury—its practice and its perils. Especially its perils. The chapter on interpretation particularly fascinated him. Interpretation was the key, and it was the least certain as
pect of the art.

  The wandering star, for instance. It meant something—he was utterly sure of that—but try as he might, he could not understand what. And there was no one else whom he might ask.

  “Do I feel lonely, being the last?” he asked the stars. He waited a moment and then decided that they could not reply. Only he knew . . . and would not say.

  From beyond the garden wall he heard a wolf raise up its voice, the howl reverberating in his own breast. His familiar, off in the hills and wood, hunting as it must.

  A spring night . . . still, awaiting the voices of the frogs and insects. Only the choral stars singing their ancient melodies.

  He looked up and found the wandering star. “Perhaps we have roamed long enough,” he whispered.

  Augury tempted him. He could feel it. Perhaps this time he would have a vision that was absolutely clear, and his course of action would be obvious. Obvious beyond all doubt.

  “A fool’s hope,” he said aloud. Certainly he was too old for those.

  The world was in motion. There was no doubt of that. Everyone poised to play their part, to make their sacrifice, if that was what was required. After all these many years he could not have a mistake. Not the smallest error.

  Eldrich tilted back his head and gazed at the stars, wondering again if he had calculated correctly. If he could make an end of it soon.

  One

  It is, perhaps, less than true to say it all began in a brothel, but I found Samual Hayes hiding in such an establishment and this marked the turning point if not an actual beginning. How Samual Hayes had become misfortune’s whipping boy, I will never understand.

  —The journal of Erasmus Flattery

  Hayes thought it particularly appropriate that the streets of the poor lacked public lighting of any kind. One passed out of the light of the better areas into near darkness, only dull candlelight filtering through dirty panes and casting faint shimmering rectangles on the cobbles. At night one often saw dark feet and legs passing through these rectangles of light, or if the passerby walked closer to the window, one would see a silhouetted head and shoulders floating oddly above the street. Hayes had sat in his window often enough to mark this strange anatomical parade passing by—incomplete men and women flitting into existence before each dull little window, then ceasing to be, then coming to meager life again.

  Paradise Street—he wondered if the man who named it had foreseen its future—lay near the boundary between the light and darkness, an area of perpetual twilight, perhaps. Almost a border town where few seemed to make their homes permanently. Most were on their way into darkness—a handful were moving toward the light. It was a place where a young man might end up if his family had sacrificed their fortune to foolishness and keeping up appearances, as was the case with Samual Hayes.

  For him Paradise Street was also a place to hide from one’s creditors, as astonishing as that seemed to him—a young man who, for most of his life, had never given money a second thought.

  He passed through a candlelit square of light and looked down at his hands. There he was, not gone yet. Still more or less substantial. Perhaps there was hope.

  “His High and Mightiness is still among us, I see,” came an old man’s voice out of the shadows. Hayes stiffened, but walked on, feeling his resolve harden as well.

  He would have thought his fall from grace into this world would have made him one of them, perhaps even engendered some sympathy, but for some few it made him an object of enormous disdain. How could anyone born to privilege have fallen so far as to land in Paradise Street? That is what they thought. Only a fool or a weakling could take such a fall. And there were moments when Hayes feared they were right. It made him all the more grateful for the kind treatment he received from some of his other neighbors.

  As he came up to his rooming house, he realized that there were perhaps a dozen people gathered in the shadows across the street, but they were uncommonly quiet.

  “Mr. Hayes!” said a woman who was one of the local busybodies. “There’s men taking your rooms apart. Look, sir.” She pointed up at his windows.

  Shadows were moving in his room, though Hayes knew he’d left no lamp burning.

  “Flames!” he heard himself say. He realized that everyone stood looking up, but no one made a move to interfere.

  Someone laid a hand on his arm as he went to run for his door. It was an old soldier who lived down the street. “Them’s navy men, Mr. Hayes,” he said with distaste. “Mark my words. Navy men, whether they wear their fine uniforms or no. You’d be best to give them a wide berth, sir. That’s my advice, for what it’s worth.”

  “Navy men?” Hayes’ rally to save his possessions was stopped short. “Agents of the Admiralty?” There was clearly some mistake.

  “And they aren’t the only ones, Mr. Hayes,” the woman said. “When they arrived, they surprised others already in your rooms. Those’ns jumped out the window. My Tom saw ’em, didn’t you, Tom?” she said to a boy who clutched her hand.

  The boy nodded and took his fingers from his mouth. “They floated down, landin’ soft as pigeons, if you please. Soft as birdies.”

  The woman looked back to Hayes, as though awaiting an explanation.

  “But who were they?” Hayes said, asking a question instead. “Robbers? I—I have so little to steal.”

  “If they were robbers, Mr. Hayes, they were uncommonly well-dressed ones. ‘Gentlemen,’ Tom said, and the old blacksmith saw them, too. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said as well. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Mr. Hayes, but there are men around asking after you—navy men. You’d best be on your way before someone turns you in for the few coins they’ll get. There are enough around that would do it, too, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I’ll talk to them. There’s some explanation, I’m sure. . . .”

  The old soldier touched his arm again. “I’m sure you didn’t do whatever it was they think you done, sir, but you’d best go. When authorities come bustin’ down your door, they don’t want to hear no explanations. The gaol is no place for the likes of you, Mr. Hayes. Find the most well-placed friend you have, sir, and go to him. That’s your best hope—that and a good barrister. Be off now, before some’un turns you in, as Mrs. Osbourn said. Good luck to you, Mr. Hayes.”

  A group of burly men appeared around the nearby corner and in the light from a window Hayes saw someone pointing toward him, and he was sure the men he was leading weren’t residents of Paradise Street.

  Hayes slipped back into the shadow, making his way along the fronts of the buildings, hugging the wall. He pulled up the collar of his frock coat quickly to hide the white of his shirt and neckcloth. Fifty feet farther he broke into a lope, as quiet as he could, passing ghostlike through the rectangles of stained light.

  He dodged down an alley, slowing now for lack of light, feeling his way, his heart pounding and his breath short, though he’d hardly run at all. Fear, he realized. I am running in fear from the authorities. This was how men disappeared into the darkness of the poor quarter.

  There were shouts behind him and the sound of men running, then suddenly slowing. A lantern swung into the alley at his back, but it was too far away for the light to touch him.

  In a hundred feet he came out into another street and turned left. His instinct was to head for the lighted streets—the safe streets—but the men chasing him were not cutthroats who kept to the dark, and in the streetlights he would be seen more easily.

  But still he found himself gravitating that way, mothlike. It was the habit of a lifetime; a desire to escape, to not disappear entirely.

  He continued to hear the men shouting. Hayes pushed himself on, fighting to catch his breath, not even sure if they were still following him—afraid to look back.

  He was heading toward Brinsley Park, and Spring Street—the beginning of the lighted boulevards. This is madness, he told himself. The
darkness was his ally now. The place he thought constantly of escaping, and now it sheltered him. He should cling to it, wrap it around himself, for it was all that protected him.

  But if he stayed here, in the twilight quarter, someone would give him away—for he would never be anything but an outsider, here. Not safe in the darkness or the light. Better the light, then. Too many disappeared in the darkness.

  Hayes took the risk of pausing before he went out onto the lit street that bordered Brinsley Park. For a moment he stood listening to the sounds down the darkened alley he was about to leave. His pursuers were likely not far behind.

  Almost more than hear, Hayes sensed noise down the street, not on top of him but too close. Composing himself, he stepped out onto the lamplit street, monitoring his pace so that he would not stand out, yet making the best time he could.

  Couples walked at their leisure, especially on the street’s far side, which is where he wanted to be, as far from his tormentors as he could be. Weaving between carriages and tradesmen’s carts, Hayes strode quickly to the opposite side, realizing that this was a mistake—because of the size of the park there were no streets leading off from that side of the avenue for a distance equal to several blocks. More than anything, he needed to make as many turns as he could to confound his hunters, and now that wasn’t possible. They might think he’d scrambled over the iron fence into the park, keeping to darkness like any criminal would, but the fence was so high. . . .

  He pressed on, fighting the urge to look back—a man who appeared to have pursuers would be noticed, no question of that.

  Men and women passed, arm in arm, chatting and laughing. A coach clattered by, a young man leaning out its window, toasting the passersby theatrically; his drunken companions laughed and as one of them tried to fill his glass, a crimson stream of wine splashed over the cobbles.

  “Hayes?” someone called.

  Hayes looked about wildly. Bloody blood and flames, someone was announcing his name to everyone on the avenue!

  “Samual Hayes?” the voice came again; from the carriage, he realized. “Driver! Heave to, man.”

  Slowing, the carriage veered toward the curb, frightening pedestrians, clearly not in perfect control. Hayes was not sure who had called to him, but he took one look back and made a dash for the still-moving carriage. As he approached, the driver set it off again, laughing inanely, for it was another young gentleman with the reins in hand. Hayes forced himself to sprint, and as the door swung open, he reached out and grabbed the carriage, feeling hands take hold of him and drag him in where he sprawled on the floor.