Night & Demons (61 page)

“Mona,” he said while keeping his eyes fixed on his task. “The only house elves I’ve heard of are the little fellows who live under the hearth and, well, make things go right. The Luck of the House, some people call them.”

He cleared his throat again. “Not that I’ve ever seen one. Or known anybody who did.”

“How could anybody live under a hearth?” Mona asked, with a pretty smile that took the sting out of words that could’ve been pretty cutting if said the wrong way. “But they could live between the cracks of the real world, in a place that grew for them. A place like this was.”

She looked around, no longer smiling. “When the elf died,” she said, “the dwelling should’ve fallen apart like a web when the spider dies. This dwelling took a life of its own instead. A sort of life.”

The sky was getting darker. It was solidly overcast, as heavy and oppressive as a block of gray stone. Cashel could feel a storm in the air. Duzi, the little god of shepherds, knew how many times he’d been caught by the weather while he was minding sheep; but he didn’t have sheep to worry about this time, so he could go somewhere else.

“Ah, Mona?” he said. “I think we’d best get under cover while we can. Unless you’ve got a better idea, let’s head for the castle up there.”

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll do that. Though the storm will catch us anyway.”

They had about a half-mile to go. The route was uphill on average, but Cashel could see there were several ridges and gullies between them and the castle. Experience had taught him that the terrain was always worse than it seemed at a distance, but he didn’t foresee anything they couldn’t cross even if he had to carry the girl part of the way.

He looked at Mona again. She wasn’t the frail little girl that she’d seemed when he first saw her in the palace corridor. She stepped with determination across the rough terrain, avoiding head-sized chunks of rock but seemingly unperturbed by the coarse gravel. Maybe the soles of her sandals were sturdier than they seemed. Cashel himself was wearing thick boots. He didn’t like the feel of footgear, especially in warm weather, but the stone floors of the palace and cobblestone streets of the city beyond were too much for the calluses he’d developed going barefoot on the mud and meadows where he grew up.

Lightning flashed somewhere above the clouds, giving them texture if not shape for an instant. Cashel held his staff crosswise, ready to brace himself with an iron butt-cap if the gravel slid or a rock turned under his foot. You couldn’t trust your footing here. . . .

“I’m surprised there’s nothing growing here,” Cashel said. The girl was a couple steps in front of him, choosing each step and keeping in perfect balance. “This isn’t good soil—” his boot toe gouged into the slope “—but with rain, there ought to be something.”

“Nothing can live here,” Mona said bitterly. She reached down and brushed at the loose grit. “Look.”

The underlying rock was mostly dark brown and cream, with streaks of maroon and other colors. Cashel frowned as he let his eyes grapple with the pattern.

“It’s a tree trunk,” he said at last. “It’s a stone statue of a tree trunk.”

“It was a tree trunk,” the girl said. “The house has turned it to stone to reabsorb it. Lesser vegetation is—”

She swept her left hand in a short arc, palm down.

“—already gone. Stone and dust. The house has only a half-life; it hates the real thing.”

She smiled wryly at Cashel.”Forgive me if I get carried away,” she said. “There’s nothing evil about what’s happening here, any more than there is with cancer or a wolf tree. But it’s a perversion and can’t be allowed.”

Cashel nodded. “We’d best be getting on,” he said, nodding toward the tower ahead of them. The hill was particularly steep right here; he could only see the crowning battlements from where he stood. “Though you were right about us not beating the storm.”

They resumed, climbing steeply now. The girl dabbed a hand down frequently while Cashel used the butt of his staff to steady him where he didn’t trust the grip of his feet.

He knew what a wolf tree was. If a forest grew wild, there’d always be a few trees, oaks more often than not, that through a combination of luck in soil and the weather spread over ground that could’ve supported a dozen ordinary trees. Their limbs shaded out lesser growth, and their trunks grew gnarled and rotted at the heart, useless for anything but firewood.

Forests didn’t grow wild, of course: wood was too valuable a resource for that. If a tree started taking more than its share, the woodlot’s owner hired a husky young man like Cashel to cut it down.

A steep-sided gully barred their way, not broad but deeper than twice Cashel’s height. He figured he could get over it, but the girl’d have to climb down and then—

Mona jumped over the gully from a standing start, looking like nothing so much as a squirrel hopping the gap between trees. She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll wait for you here, Master Cashel,” she said with a trace of laughter in her tone.

Cashel grunted. He checked the ground, then backed two steps and came on again in a rush. He butted his quarterstaff firmly at the edge of the gully and used the great strength of his shoulders to loft him over. He landed beside her, flexing his knees to take his weight.

“You’re graceful despite your size,” the girl said as she resumed her way toward the tower.

“Who are you, Mistress Mona?” Cashel asked. “What are you?”

“I’m a servant,” she said. “We’re all servants of one kind or another, aren’t we? You used to serve sheep, for example.”

“I didn’t serve sheep,” Cashel said, shocked at the thought. “I—”

He broke off. A shepherd did a lot of things, but when you boiled them all down they amounted to making sure his sheep were safe and comfortable. Put like that it sure enough sounded like being a servant.

“Well, maybe that’s so,” he admitted, saying the words instead of just holding his tongue and pretending he hadn’t been wrong to begin with. The rain hit, violent slashes from straight ahead. Each gust drove at Cashel’s face like he was standing in the sluice of the mill back home in Barca’s Hamlet. He didn’t see how Mona could stand against it but she did, lowering her head and striding on.

The lightning was nearly constant, dancing in the clouds as the air shuddered with thunder. Runoff gouged fresh rivulets which gushed down the slopes as streams of thin mud.

The gully they’d crossed must be a raging freshet now. It’d be a bad time to lose your footing and slide into a torrent.

The storm stopped as abruptly as it’d begun. It paused, at any rate; the rain no longer fell, but the sky stayed the same dark mat. Mona had a little peaked cap as part of her livery. It’d blown away, and her simple tunic stuck to her torso, sopping wet and three shades darker than its original light gray. Cashel figured he looked like a drowned rat himself.

He grinned and slicked the water off his staff between his thumbs and forefingers, sliding first his right hand to the ferrule and then cleaning the other half with his left. A drowned ox, maybe. On his worst day, nobody was going to confuse Cashel or-Kenset with a rat.

They’d reached the base of the great outcrop on which the tower stood. The cliff was pretty steep, but there was a path slanting up to the left. It looked badly worn . . . well, no. It looked more like the rock had been melted somehow. Anyway, they’d be able to get up it even if the rain started again.

“Wait!” the girl said, staring intently at the cliff to the side of the pathway. Her index finger traced a bump in the rock. It was about the size of a ripe cantaloupe and had a pearly luster instead of the dull, chalky surface holding it.

Now that Mona’d pointed out the first one, Cashel saw that there were more balls, as many as he could count on the fingers of one hand, in the rock beside it. They looked as much like frog’s eggs as anything Cashel could think of; though much bigger, of course.

“The seeds of new dwellings,” the girl said softly. She took her hand away from the stone. “Each seed should grow into a home for a young elf who’d make the people of a house in the waking world a little happier. This place is absorbing them too.”

She turned her head toward Cashel. “I was wrong, I think,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound angry, but it rang as hard as a sword edge. “What’s happening here is evil.”

“Let’s go on,” said Cashel, but Mona had started up the path before he got the words out.

The wind rose again before they’d climbed halfway. It whirled around the outcrop, buffeting Cashel head-on no matter which direction he was facing as he walked along the curving path. Rain began to fall, a few drops at a time but big ones that stung like hard-thrown pebbles.

Mona’s tunic was sleeveless and only knee-length. Even so Cashel was afraid that it’d give the storm’s violence enough purchase to snatch her from the path and throw her onto the broken landscape below. Her balance remained perfect and her steps stayed steady despite the gusts.

The top of the outcrop was as flat as a table. The tower stood in the center with no more margin than Cashel could span by stretching his arms out to either side. He wondered if the spire itself was artificial, a pedestal built at the same time the tower was; though if what Mona said was true, this whole world had been made—or grown, which he supposed was the same thing.

The entrance was partway around the tower from where the path reached the top. Mona started for it with Cashel right behind. Now that they were close, Cashel saw that the windows in the tower were blocked up—filled with stone rather than just shuttered. What he’d seen were the outlines where the sashes used to be.

The rain resumed in torrents, now mixed with hail the size of quails’ eggs. Cashel threw his left arm up to shield his eyes. He’d have bruises when this was over, that was for sure. Balls of ice shattered against the stone, cracking like a fire of pine boughs. Sharp bits bounced from the ground, pricking Cashel’s ankles and lower legs.

The tower’s doorway was recessed. Mona bent toward it, doing something with the panel. Cashel hunched behind her, trying to shelter her from the hailstones that slipped past the overhang.

The rattling hail drowned the thunder, but its deeper notes still vibrated through Cashel’s boots. Lightning was a constant rippling presence overhead. The tower’s walls were alabaster; Cashel ran his fingertips over them, trying to find joints between the courses. If there were any, they were too fine for his touch or eyesight, either one, to identify them.

“Mona, maybe I can break it down,” Cashel said, speaking louder with each word of the short sentence. The hail made more noise than he appreciated until he tried to talk over it.

A crust flaked off the wall when Cashel rubbed it. Though the tower stood in open air, the stone was rotting like a statue buried in the acid soil of a forest.

“I’ve got it!” said the girl, and as she spoke the tower opened; she stepped inside.

Cashel was close on her heels, bumping the door as he entered. It was made of the same white stone as the rest of the building, pivoting on pins carved from one block with the panel. As soon as Cashel was past, it banged shut with a ringing sound more like a xylophone than that of stone on stone.

The storm’s noise ended abruptly when the door closed. They were in an anteroom.

“There’s light!” Cashel said in surprise, and there was: a soft, shadowless glow from the stone itself. The room was unfurnished, but on the walls were carved patterns as rich and fanciful as the engravings on a nobleman’s gold dinner service.

Only a few patches remained to show what the original decoration had looked like, though. The scaly rot disfiguring the tower’s exterior had claimed most of the inner surfaces, too.

Mona stepped through the inner doorway. Cashel followed, keeping his elbows close to his sides. The passage was so narrow that if he’d tried to swagger through arms-akimbo, he’d have bumped the jambs.

A slender woman stood in the center of the hall, her right hand out in greeting. “Oh!” Cashel said, straightening in surprise. The tower was so silent that he’d convinced himself it was empty

“Her name was Giglia,” Mona said, walking toward the other woman. “She was the luck of the palace ever since the Count of Haft built it. There was never a house elf who could match what Giglia did with glass. She made the palace windows gleam like a thousand rainbows every sunrise.”

Cashel touched his tongue to his lower lip. His staff was slantways before him, not so much a threat as a barrier between him and the silent Giglia. “Why doesn’t she move?” he asked.

“Because she’s dead, Cashel,” Mona said. “She grew old and died; as things should do. Without death there can be no renewal.”

She reached toward the dead woman; their faces were as like as those of twins. When her fingers touched the other’s cheek, Giglia disintegrated into dust motes. Her right arm fell to the floor intact, then erupted as a geyser of fine dust swirling in the air.

There was a dry, sweetish smell. Cashel threw his arm over his nose to breathe through the waterlogged sleeve of his tunic, though he didn’t suppose it mattered. “Mona?” he said. “How can we get out of here? Back to the palace, I mean? Or somewhere!”

Instead of answering, the girl walked toward the door on the other side of the central room. Her feet stirred Giglia’s remains into umber whorls. Grimacing, Cashel followed.

The room beyond was darker than the others. Against the far wall was a throne inexpertly hacked out of stone; on it sat a statue as brutal and primitive as the throne itself. It was male, but it had tusks and a crude ape’s face. In its right hand was a stone club the length of Cashel’s arm.

“Is this a chapel?” Cashel said. “Is that the god they worship here?”

The tower shuddered. Cashel heard the sharp
crack! crack! crack!
of stone breaking. The statue trembled side to side on its throne.

Cashel turned; the outer door had slammed behind them, but maybe he could smash it open again. “Earthquake!” he cried. “We’ve got to get out!”

“It’s not an earthquake,” Mona said impassively; she didn’t move. “And we can’t get out while this remains. The dwelling must have a master to exist, so it’s created a master in its own image.”