Goblin Moon (41 page)

Budge reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a
letter. He looked through it, selected a page, and handed it over
to Sera. She accepted the paper and read carefully through the
description that it contained, once, and then a second time.

“It certainly sounds like the same man,” she said.
Turning the page over, she read aloud, “’Half trolls as they are
called
—
though indeed they are no more
mongrelized than the race as a whole
—
more
nearly resemble the race of Men, and most of them sport but a
single deformity: a snout like a pig, a tail like a cow, a birdlike
claw in place of a hand . . . ‘ My dear sir, what is this
about?”

“A discourse on Nordic folklore. Mr. Gumley’s style,
as you may observe, is inclined to be incoherent. I do not
perfectly understand why he began his letter with an account of
these superstitions,” said Budge. “They do not appear to be in any
way relevant to the subject of Jarl Skogsrå. I believe that the
race of trolls—if not absolutely mythical—has at any rate been
proven extinct.”

“I have heard the same,” said Sera, adding with a
smile, “but only think, Mr. Budge, this may provide an explanation
for Lord Skogsrå’s lameness. Dear me, the Jarl might have feet like
a goat!”

“I believe,” said Mr. Budge, somewhat sternly, “that
cloven hooves would be comparatively rare. According to Mr.
Gumley’s account, a solid hoof like a horse is rather more common,
with the lower limb correspondingly deformed.”

Sera grew sober once more. “Your friend has certainly
provided us with disturbing information, but nothing I can possibly
repeat to Elsie. She has far too generous a mind to give any credit
to malicious gossip, and I fear that is how she would view Mr.
Gumley’s account.”

“I quite understand,” said Mr. Budge. “But surely the
fact that he has changed his name since arriving in Marstadtt, in
some sense supports our suspicions that Skogsrå is an
adventurer.”

“Indeed it does,” said Sera, with a sigh. “But Elsie
would not accept that, either, not on the basis of what may well be
a chance resemblance.”

Yet she was remembering that Lord Vodni had also
mentioned the city of Katrinsberg, and between the Baron and the
Jarl there appeared to be some ancient enmity. This being so, Sera
resolved to question Lord Vodni at the first opportunity.

Not until the following morning did Sera find that
opportunity to speak with Lord Vodni in private. And then it was
necessary to preface her questions with an explanation of her
conversation with Budge on the day of the picnic, and to produce
the letter containing so perfect a description of the Jarl, though
the name was not the same.

Lord Vodni was again dressed for riding, and Sera had
encountered him outside the stables, which were located at some
distance from the house, between the lake and the woods. “I knew
him some years back in Katrinsberg,” said Vodni, turning over the
paper which Sera handed to him. “And he was then known as Haakon
Jolerei . . . but there is nothing sinister in that, I can assure
you. Jolerei is the family name, and his older brother (who was
then the Jarl) was still alive. Whatever else I might be tempted to
say concerning Lord Skogsrå, he is certainly no imposter. His
family is well known in Nordmark, and indeed, I believe there is
even a distant connection with my own.”

Sera did not know whether she ought to be relieved or
disappointed. “But these rumors of wicked deeds and immoral
habits?”

“Those I am inclined to take rather more seriously,”
said Vodni. “Though I never actually heard anything against him, I
have never liked this Skogsrå. I could scarcely tell you how, but I
have always entertained an impression that he was somehow . . . an
unwholesome man to know.”

He glanced over the writing on the back of the page.
“You needn’t pay any heed to that,” said Sera. “As you can see, it
has nothing to do with Lord Skogsrå.”

“You think not?” said Vodni. “But I think that it may
have a great deal to do with Lord Skogsrå. You have, Miss Vorder,
as I must suppose, led a sheltered life. You would not know that
there are actually men who—at least in a metaphoric sense—might be
said to devour young women alive. Haakon Skogsrå may be one of
them.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “I believe that I should
speak to the Duchess. Yes, she must certainly be informed. And I
shall write to my cousins in Katrinsberg and ask them what they
know. In the meantime, madam, you must say nothing to anyone,
certainly not to Miss Elsie—who would not believe you, and
moreover, would almost certainly repeat the story to the Jarl
himself. If Skogsrå had reason to suspect that we know these
things, there is no telling what rash action he might take.”

Sera was utterly appalled. “But my dear sir! While we
wait to learn more, Elsie may well marry Lord Skogsrå!”

But Vodni shook his head. “There can be no danger of
that. A promise to wed, perhaps—but a promise can be easily broken.
Such, indeed, may already exist privately between them. But your
cousin is not of age, and she cannot marry without her father’s
consent.

“We must assume that she is safe for this time,” he
said, with a reassuring smile. “They cannot wed until Elsie returns
to Thornburg.”

Chapter
35

Containing much Speculation as to the history of the
Sorcerer in the Coffin.

Jenk woke in the middle of the night, sweating and
trembling in his bed under the eaves, staring up at the peaked
ceiling. He knew that the moon was waning, was shriveling away to a
tiny splinter of light—there was no cause, no cause that he knew to
account for his present agitation.

The hours went crawling by. Try as he might to relax,
sleep continued to elude him. At dawn he rose and left his bed,
dressed by candle light, and sidled down the stairs.

Jenk slipped the key into the lock on the laboratory
door. Something . . . something was stirring at the back of his
mind. He turned the knob, opened the door, and went into the room.
He set his candle down on the table by the coffin.

Slowly, he lifted the lid of the casket, stood
staring down at the face of the sorcerer.
Dead
or dreaming?
he wondered, not for the first time. With a sigh,
Jenk reached for one of the books: a thick volume bound in faded
red leather, with the sign of the Scolos, the two-headed serpent,
stamped on the cover. He placed it carefully on the sorcerer’s
breast.

This particular volume inevitably fell open at the
same page, as though the information written there were of
particular interest to some previous scholar. Jenk had read the
book through, but until tonight he had scarcely given a thought to
its contents. It bore no relevance to his search for the Stone. But
now—now that he had all but abandoned hope of bringing his
experiments to a successful conclusion, now that he was desperately
seeking some new interest, some new quest to enlighten and occupy
him—one passage from this book kept running in his mind. He scanned
the page, looking for that passage.

“
... but
of the Island of Evanthum, and of the People, and most particularly
of her Priests who were also Great Adepts,”
Jenk read aloud,
“much has been preserved in Secret records.
They built a great Temple to the Moon Goddess, encircled by three
Walls: the first of Brass, the second of Tin, and the innermost of
Orichalcum. And they Erected there a Statue in her Likeness, ninety
feet high, and Adorned with ornaments of Nacre, Sea-ivory, and
Pearl, being the gifts of the Sea, with which they identified her.
Many other Wonders they wrought besides.”

Jenk shook his head; this was not what he was looking
for. He skipped on ahead.
“Their Astrologers
knew the movements of the Planets and of the Stars and could
predict their Courses for a Thousand years. Their Alchemists had
discovered the secrets of Transmutation, and of Immortality. They
were a Proud and Mighty Race.

“
Yet
they were Dissatisfied. For the Empire of Panterra also flourished,
and her Adepts rivaled the Adepts of Evanthum, and her Astrologers
rivaled their Astrologers . . . and in All Things of which the
Magicians of Evanthum had gained the Mastery, so, too, were the
Panterran Magicians also Masters, save only in those Matters which
they had Determined were not Meet or Wholesome for Men to meddle
with.”

Jenk skipped over another long paragraph. He knew
what it contained—a lengthy explanation of the dispute between the
Rival Adepts, in which the Panterrans had scolded the adepts of
Evanthum for presumption, and the Evanthians mocked the Panterrans’
cowardice. The Panterrans ended by warning their rivals of the
dangers of that presumption, which the magician-priests of Evanthum
had taken for a threat.

He turned over another page.
“Accordingly, they set out to Destroy Panterra utterly,
with Spells both Mighty and Terrible, and the Panterrans, being men
of Honor and Reason themselves, and expecting a like Virtue in
others, were not Prepared for Treachery. Taken by Surprise, they
were Helpless to avert their Doom. A great Wave overwhelmed the
Island, and Panterra vanished beneath the Waters.

“
Yet
though the Land was lost and many Thousands of Lives, a very few
were Saved, and they were Men skilled in Magic, though not among
the Men of Highest Good Will, for all the Priests and Great
Philosophers had Perished in a futile effort to Rescue as many of
their Countrymen as possible. Thus it was proven that Virtue is no
protection and the Mighty will always have their Way. The men who
had escaped were Vengeful men and determined to Destroy Evanthum in
the same Manner that Panterra had met her End.”

While Jenk read, Caleb came quietly into the room,
carrying tiny Eirena on his shoulder. The bookseller glanced up.
They were an odd pair to be sure: Caleb so grizzled, gnarled, and
worn-looking, Eirena so small and dainty—yet some deep sympathy
existed between them, a sympathy which Jenk could not begin to
fathom.

Caleb moved around the laboratory, tidying the
clutter on the long table, picking up a broom and sweeping the
floor. When he chanced to come too near to Jenk, the homunculus
made a fearful sound deep in her throat. Since the incident of the
candle flame, Eirena had conceived a tenor of Jenk, a terror which
the intervening weeks had not diminished.

Jenk went on with his reading.
“Yet the Priests of Evanthum, expecting Vengeance, were
Prepared. They had taken measures to ensure their own Survival. And
though they were willing to Sacrifice the lives of their Lesser
Countrymen, yet they had Resolved to preserve all the Wonders and
the Riches which they had Gathered. Therefore, when the Wave Came
to Overwhelm the Island, the Priests of her Temples had already
taken Ship for other Lands, and they had set a Spell upon the
Island that though it Sink beneath the Waters, yet it should Rise
again in three-hundred Days. But this Spell, being performed in
Haste, went somehow Awry.”

There was such an undercurrent of excitement in the
bookseller’s voice. Caleb stopped sweeping and listened to Jenk
read.

“In the Nations of Euterpe the Story spread and so it
has Come Down to the Present day, that the Land of Evanthum was
Lost indeed, Never to Rise again. Yet in Ynde and Llyria they tell
the tale Differently, saying that Evanthum did Rise and Continues
to Rise, every three-hundred years, whereupon it Remains above the
Water for the space of Seven Days. And they say, also, that any man
arriving by Chance or Design, in good Time to See the island Arise,
might land his Boat and Walk the Streets of Ivory and of Pearl,
exactly as Men did of Old, and marvel at the Wonders so
miraculously Preserved, and perhaps even Discover the Secrets of
her Adepts, which were carved on Ivory tablets in the Temple of the
Moon. But whether this story be True, no man has Proven, for even
among Scholars and Philosophers, there is no agreement as to the
Year and the Season when Evanthum sank into the sea, and as for the
location of the Sunken Kingdom, it is not to be found on any
Map.”

“That’s an old story,” said Caleb. “Nothing there I
ain’t heard afore, and in nigh the same words. Nor you, neither, I
reckon.”

“’
The
gift of the sea, and not of the river,’”
Jenk said softly.
“Those were my words, on the night you brought the coffin to me. An
unconscious echo of this old story? Yet it seemed to me then, I did
not know why, that any connection between this coffin and the sea
was vastly important. Then, too, there is the little piece of
narwhal ivory—sea-ivory—which our departed friend holds so closely
between his fingers.”

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck with a knotted
hand. “I did wonder, the night we brung the coffin in, whether it
were buried in the ground proper to begin with and only come out
when the earth shook and the river flooded, or a sea burial come in
on the tide.”

He shook his head. “But the look of the box is
against that notion—they don’t build them near so fine, just to tip
them into the sea. No, and they don’t float, neither, them
shipboard coffins. They’re weighted so they sink right down to the
bottom.”

“But perhaps this one was
mean
t to float,” said Jenk. He turned back to the
page he had been reading. “The exact date when Evanthum will rise
again from the sea is unknown, yet one might attempt to fix it
within a decade or so. By my calculation, the next Emergence may be
expected some time around the end of the present century. That is .
. . supposing that we choose to believe the story at all.”

Jenk stood silently for a time, turning the matter
over in his mind. He felt as though he were poised on the brink of
some revelation. “We are old men, Caleb, and do not expect to live
until the end of the century; yet it is not impossible, not
entirely impossible. But let us imagine that we had both of us been
born a hundred years earlier. Let us imagine that we had some
special knowledge which allowed us to calculate the exact time and
place of the next Emergence—more than a century in the future.”