Sean Russell - Moontide and Magic Rise 2 - Sea without Shore

Book Information:

Genre: Fantasy

Author: Sean Russell

Name: Sea without Shore

Series: Book 2 of Moontide and Magic rise

Sea without Shore

Book 2 of Moontide and Magic Rise

By Sean Russell

ONE

Tristam lay in his gently swinging hammock listening to the burble and pulse of the ocean passing over

theSwallow’shull—like the sounds of the womb, he was sure. He did not open his eyes, but lay sensing

the now familiar movement of the ship and exploring his own capacity for health.

Llewellyn’sregishad stemmed the spread of infection, but the body was slow to replace the blood of

which it had been robbed. As a result, the naturalist suffered continual exhaustion, dizziness, and lack of

strength and vigor. He also suffered from his desire for the physic: nausea, pain in all of his joints,

trembling, and headaches so violent that they could not be described.

And then there were the dreams—nightmares, in fact. Tristam tried not to think of these. He

remembered the King describing his own dreams asdevouring wolves, but this did not begin to describe

it. Repeatedly he dreamed of a great battle on a darkened field. It was so strewn with the corpses of the

fallen that it filled Tristam with horror.

Tristam felt as though he had been tainted. That letting theregisinto his blood had changed him

irrevocably.

He opened his eyes for a second to find that the open port had let in a small lens of sunlight which swung

wildly across his cabin and appeared to be searching with the same frantic desperation that Tristam’s

body yearned for theregisphysic. It was worse than a hunger, worse than starving, Tristam was sure. The

disk of light flowed

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determination.,

/would not take it now if it was freely offered, Tristam vowed. /would not. He shut his eyes and

struggled against the images that tried to form in his mind. Theregis, he knew, would stop these

nightmares, stop the feelings of anxiety and melancholia, restore his vitality and usual optimism. It would

do all of these things… temporarily.

Time, he almost whispered.Time will restore me, and I will not be in thrall to the seed. Like Llewellyn…

The doctor may have convinced Stern that he neededonly the smallest handful of regisseed, butTristam

knewbetter. Unless Llewellyn had a strength of will like no other, there waslittle chance that the doctor

would evergive up the physic willingly. Not after so many months of servitude.

Who else had become enslaved by the physic, Tristam wondered? Benjamin Rawdon’s wife, or was

that story entirely fabricated? Trevelyan, Tristam was now sure, or at least the baron had once been

enslaved. Now he might be free… and quite mad. Not a comforting thought.

Tristam pressed his eyes closed, feeling ill and fragile. Two weeks he had lain in this state, improving so

slowly that it was impossible for him to see a difference day to day. His mind had been affected as well,

unable to focus, to follow a train of thought, to draw on his hitherto excellent memory.

And there were other changes that were equally disconcerting.Of all people, 1 should never have taken

the seed, Tristam thought. He had begun to realize that he was aware of things that he could not possibly

know—or at least there was an illusion of knowledge. Like Trevel-yan’s habituation toregis—it seemed

perfectly obvious to him now (how could he have not seen before?). Or Llewellyn’s inability to break

free of the seed. He knew also that Llewellyn was something else altogether. Knew it as though the man

had told him.

Tristam wondered, for the thousandth time, if he were going mad.

not quite what he appeared, as astonishing as that seemed. Only the duchess eluded him. Only the

duchess kept her secrets, though he was not sure how. She had some talent of her own, he thought,

though she made efforts to hide it. That night at her home she had not let Bertillon suspect. Unlike Tristam

who had blundered on like a fool… bringing an Entonne marauder after them.

Too much knowledge, Tristam thought. /can barely hold a thought for two minutes. Can I trust these

insights? But somehow they were undeniable.Perhaps the delusional always feel this.

The most frightening realizations had to do withhimself. Tristam realized now that to become a mage was

not to learn a difficult art—thoughit was that, too—but more than anything, it was a transformation. A

transformation that Tristam had begun; perhaps when he had first touched the leaf of aregisplant, but

certainly when he drank from the fount at the Farrow Ruin, and then climbed up to look into the volcano.

And then he had been led to theLostCity , and the remains of a people who still performed arcane

rituals… But for what purpose?

To regain lost power.

This thought seemed to come from no knowledge that Tristam possessed—as though it were spoken

into his mind.

But what use had they made of him? That he did not know, nor did he want to. They had been after his

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blood, just as Trevelyan had warned; that much he knew, and that was enough.

He remembered the endless trek with the ghost boy, who was drawn to Tristam in the same way that

Tristam was being drawn along his own particular course. Thoughts of the boy pushed Tristam toward

the strange dream state that theregisphysic engendered.

He opened his eyes quickly, relieved to see the disk of light still searching his cabin. He felt suddenly that

he could trap it by opening a drawer in its path and then

pushing it quickly closed. Trap it as he had been caught, on this voyage he could not escape.

The effects of the physic were wearing off—not all of them and not all together—but there was a

noticeable change.

/may never be entirely free of it, Tristam thought,but I will be as free as I can. I will regain as much of

myself as is possible. I am Tristam. Tristam.

“He is recovering as I would expect, Your Grace. There is no reason for concern. The body cannot

make so much blood overnight. In a month he will begin to seem himself, and then another few weeks to

regain the strength he has lost. Tristam is young and hale. In two months there will be no signs that he was

ever ill.”

The duchess perched on the sill of the stern window looking at the doctor who sat, leaning on the table.

Llewellyn was lying to her—oh, not about Tristam’s medical condition; mat was no doubt true—but he

was lying about other things. It was a difficult situation.

“Tell me, Doctor, why do you think Tristam was treated in this way? You seemed quite certain that his

attackers had wanted his blood.”

Llewellyn worried the cuff of his shirt for a few seconds, then opened his mouth to speak, apparently

thought better of what he was about to say, and finally nodded his head to some inner decision. “I said

that only because it was clear from the nature of his injuries. The radial artery had been slit with surgical

precision. Whoever did that wanted to take as much blood as possible—or so I assumed. Why? You

know as much as I, Your Grace. Tristam…” he looked out the stern window, “is the focus for strange

occurrences. There is no denying it.”

“But why is he such a focus, do you think?”

Llewellyn shrugged. “I don’t know…”

The duchess fixed him with her most piercing look. “But I think you do, Doctor Llewellyn. In fact I’m

quite

sure of it. Roderick would never have sent you otherwise.“

Llewellyn turned in his seat as though he would rise and leave—an action he did not quite dare to take.

He was in the presence of the Duchess of Morland, who was also his employer. He turned to the

duchess, meeting her gaze steadily, something he almost never managed.

“I will tell you this, Your Grace,” a bit of resentment coming to the surface, “you will need me to sustain

this young man. Perhaps you think that your own knowledge ofregisand its effects will be enough-—but it

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won’t. Without me, Tristam Flattery will not survive what is to come. I beg you remember this when next

you consider threatening me with your dear brother.” Llewellyn did rise then, stiff with some long

contained rage. “Your Grace will excuse me; I have a patient to see.” He bowed quickly and went out,

leaving the duchess alone with her surprise.

“Well,” she said. That, at least, was the truth—or so the doctor believed—there was no doubt of that.

“Come in Doctor,” Tristam called out.

Llewellyn pushed his bulk through the narrow door. “And how are you today, Tristam?” Llewellyn

asked, his tone professionally solicitous.

“Well enough.”

Llewellyn nodded and smiled as though to encourage improvement, but his attention was focused on

taking Tristam’s pulse as the hammock swung.

“Still dizzy when you rise? Headaches?”

Tristam nodded.

“It will take time.” Llewellyn turned Tristam’s hand over, as though examining the color, but it was the

fading tattoo that was of real interest, Tristam knew. “And these terrible nightmares?”

“They have begun to abate a little. How go your own, Doctor Llewellyn?”

Llewellyn lowered Tristam’s hand. “It is you I am con-

Sean Rutsell

cemed about, Tristam.“ The man hesitated. ”And you feel no…needof the physic?“ He wet his lips

gently as he asked the question.

Tristam brought his hand close to him, almost hiding it. “I feel the need, Doctor, but it grows weaker.

Weaker as I grow stronger.”

Llewellyn said nothing.

“What did you imagine, Doctor? That I would fall into madness like poor Trevelyan?”

Llewellyn searched blindly behind him for the door handle, but Tristam tried to hold the man a little

longer.

“I know that you lied to Stern, Doctor Llewellyn. The tiny quantity of seed you require to cure your

‘disease’ will not be enough. There will never be enough, will there? Stern can never grant you all that

you need. Or has Sir Roderick already promised that? Perhaps you have so much already in your

possession that it does not matter?”

Llewellyn turned the knob, but didn’t open the door. “One of the sad effects of the physic, Tristam, is it

can make you believe that you are persecuted, plotted against. You should guard against this. I am your

physician. Your well-being is my paramount concern.” He managed a tight-lipped smile, trying to make a

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dignified escape.

Tristam lay thinking for a moment, watching the lens of sunlight tear about his cabin, searching. He held

up his right hand, turning it slowly. The snake seemed to be fading from its head toward its tail, as though

it were retreating into the wound on his wrist. Slipping back into the vein.

Quickly he lowered the hand to his heart, feeling it beat softly but surely.

TWO

False springs were not unknown to AverilKent . He strolled in his February garden, basking like a newly

awakened flower in the warmth of an unseasonal sun. For a moment he stopped to survey the garden in

its entirety, gazing down the south-facing slope toward the nearby river. A scene of tired winter greens

and grays and browns, relieved in places by bright berries of red and a few plants that would flower in

Farrland’s mild winter.

Come spring all this would change, but spring had not yet arrived—not really.

He went on, prodding the earth here and there with his walking stick. He had come to his country house

to think in peace, but this was not yielding the results he wanted.

The air was cool but calm, and the sun so uncommonly warm, that the day seemed positively balmy.

False spring. Spuriverna.

Kenthad too much on his mind. Count Massenet’s overture had disturbed him more than he liked to

admit. He had been so cautious! Too cautious, he had sometimes thought. It had beenVarese

approaching Valary that had set the wheels in motion: there could be no other explanation.

Obviously,Kent had not been conscious enough of the Entonne. Unlike the Farrlanders they realized the

seriousness of Valary’s work.

Valary.

He continued down a path of crushed gravel, the soles of his boots making a harsh grinding sound at

each step.

Massenet was careful, of course, and he was unbeliev-

ably social. Over the yearsKent had spoken to him fairly often. It would hardly raise suspicion—unless

Palle and his cabal began looking toward Valary themselves..;. A real concern. It was fortunate,Kent

thought, that he had been so circumspect, telling Valary no more than necessary. It had been his habit

with everyone he involved. No one was aware of all the strands of the web—except for Kent… and the

Countess. And now he was keeping something from her: his contact with Massenet.

“May they never find their way to the countess,” he whispered.

He moved on, his focus wandering as his anxiety returned.

/have come to live a life of anxiety, he thought. And it was beginning to show. It sapped his energies,

whittled away at him, both waking and sleeping. He felt like a wounded hart, escaping into the

underwood, fleet of foot to begin, but the slow loss of blood from the unstopped wound… It sucked his

life away, and AverilKent knew he could ill afford that. Not at his age.

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But he was not down yet. Massenet had caught him unawares, but there was still some strength in his

aged ‘ legs—enough for one last run.

Kentlooked out across his garden. Forty years of effort.

“You see how you have squandered your days, Averil,” he chided himself. No wife, no children to carry

on. Everything that was in his heart had gone onto canvas and here, into this garden—almost everything.

He stepped down three steps beneath the pergola, the tangle of wisteria vine twisting like strange braid

around the faded wood.

Forty years.Kent had spent so much time in this garden that he believed he knew its every stone, every

branch on each tree. Yet it was a garden, and each season it came forth from the earth, like magic,

almost mockingly familiar, but never twice the same. An ever-changing canvas, no single day ever to be

repeated. One could plan a garden in infinite detail, but what blossomed forth from the earth was only an

approximation of the vi-

sion. And in this way, too, it was like a painting, or like a man’s life, for that matter. One could never

predict what the magic of the earth would produce.

False spring.

If too many flowers blossomed now and there was frost…

He shook his head and walked on.

Massenet, Massenet, Massenet. He was a damnably unfathomable man. Charming, brilliant, deceptively

kind, deceptive, gifted with great strength of character, and not lacking courage. Not lacking anything

thatKent could think of: certainly not lacking women.

The Duchess of Morland—that was whomKent was reminded of when he thought of Massenet. Oh,

their personalities were differently formed, certainly, but they were more alike than dissimilar. Like two

species of rose—different in color and structure, but both beautiful, resulting from endless effort, both

concealing a thorn.

In many things Kent would be glad—more than glad—to have Massenet as an ally, there was no doubt

of that. But Massenet was, first and foremost, Entonne: an emissary of His Holy Entonne Majesty.

Thwarting Palle and his supporters wasKent ’s desperate hope, but to do so and betray Farrland to the

Entonne——-Better, perhaps, to take his chances with Palle.

But was that true? He thought back to his conversation with Massenet. Either the wily count had

takenKent ’s exact measure, or Massenet and Averil Kent were of one mind on many of life’s essential

truths. And the fragment… ! Valary assured him that it was authentic. Not in his wildest dreams… The

painter paused for a moment, as though he had forgotten where he was and where he was going.

Yes… Massenet. Valary. He shook his head and walked on, a sudden dull throbbing in his hip forcing

him to put weight on his cane—something he had carried only for reasons of fashion all these years.

At the edge of the pondKent took a seat on a stone bench. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the

sun on his face, the cool breath of the softest breeze. He

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thought of the countess. Her life of seclusion had become almost macabre. The thought caused him pain.

How distant she was, and yet he knew she was not without a heart. He knew.

How fortunate Jaimas Flattery was to have found a young woman like Alissa Somers. Warm of nature,

and sweet of spirit—and with such an intellect! Not driven to sacrifice a part of her life upon any altar.

Not like the Countess of Chilton, who had taken on her role like a consumptive artist driven to finish one

great work before the end. Sacrificing everything to this passion.

Passion. A word that was becoming frail. A spell that lost its power with age—but never all of its power.

The bare branches of a willow swayed, the sound vaguely skeletal.Kent opened his eyes to see a tiny

cat’s paw ripple across the pond, disturbing the water lilies on their moorings.

TheSwallowhad not reached Queen Anne Station, not at last report anyway. Foolish to begin worrying

about that as well; they had not been a month overdue when he had heard. Not entirely out of order.

The world is vast and its problems endless,Kent told himself. /cannot worry about them all, especially

those so entirely out of my control.

Thinking this, he raised himself up on his cane and continued along the path that skirted the pond’s

border. Water iris would begin to blossom here by mid May, dabs of yellow on curving lines of green,

their forms reflected among the clouds on the surface of the pond. Beside these, a rare blue daylily,

would sway delicately in the breeze. A trellis of climbing roses, in coral and pink, brought back from

Doom. Peonies, and to the path’s left, hydrangea—multicolored and oddly foreign looking. Arrowhead

and sweet coltsfoot.

Come spring the garden would rush into blossom, wave after wave of flowers, color and texture. They

would wash across the garden like a succession of floods: life in all of its exuberance and mad rush

toward existence. And then winter. A brief rest for flowers and gardeners. A brief rest.

Kentturned down another path crossing over a stone footbridge that he had designed himself, decades

ago now. It should be… Yes. Here. A variety of cherry and, as he had been told, it was coming into

blossom; the silver-pink flowers half-opening as though uncertain of their decision.

Kentpulled a branch down to eye level, admiring the cluster of small blossoms, the perfect petals and

delicate yellow-headed stamens.

False spring. He feared that they would be disappointed in their endeavor. There would be no bees to

carry pollen. This tree would be barren that season. As barren as the King’sregis.

Kentmade his way back through his treasured garden, wondering, as he often had these past years, if

this would be the last season he would witness its miracle. He had been told that Halden, in his eightieth

year, had ordered the removal of the cherry tree outside his study window. Everyone thought it odd for a

man who so loved nature, butKent understood perfectly. That spectacular blaze, the blossoming cherry,

stripped bare by the first wind. Life was short enough, the old did not need such pointed reminders.

As he approached the house in the fading light of a short winter day,Kent heard music. Someone was

playing his pianum, though who in the world would be so presumptuous he could not imagine.

Kentdid not go into the hall but went straight to the doors opening into the drawing room. As he stepped

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over the threshold, he stopped in surprise. He hadn’t recognized the sheer virtuosity of the playing. His

old pianum had never known such mastery!

On the bench a slender man bent over the keys, his lank hair falling free and hiding his features. As he

played, the man contorted continually, almost spasming, as though the music inside fought to escape by

any means it could and only supreme effort channeled it into the hands.

The man looked up, registeredKent , and the music died away, like petals taken on the wind.

The man’s lean face split into a sad smile.

“Mr.Kent . Chart Bertillon, at your service.”

Ah, the famous Entonne.

“I do hope you don’t mind,” he nodded to the pianum as he stood. “Your man put me in here to wait,

and, well… I could not help myself.”

“When the muse calls, Mr. Bertillon, one must respond. Certainly my poor pianum has never had such a

master at its keyboard. I’m sure it will never be satisfied with my poor efforts again.”

The young man crossed the room and tookKent ’s hands warmly.

“I hope you have time for a visit, Mr. Bertillon. I’m sure supper cannot be too far off… ?” Kent, who

saved all of his socializing for Avonel, wondered what this young musician could want with him? Was he

an admirer? An art collector?Kent usually knew of such people—those of stature, at least. But then many

were fired with a sudden need to acquire art, some for more genuine reasons than others.

“I do not want to interrupt your contemplations and your work, Mr.Kent . You see, I am really just a

messenger for another.”

Kentstopped. Perhaps his eyebrows lifted.

“My good friend, Count Massenet, asked me to look in on you.”

“Ah. And how is the ambassador?”Kent pulled light gloves off his fingers, gratified to see how still they

remained.

“Well. I have never known the count to be less than well.” Bertillon smiled. “It is his diet, I think.”

Kentdid not smile at this sally.

“I dare say. Shall I let the servants know there will be another for dinner?”

Despite the day’s hints of spring, the night was clear and cool andKent was glad of the fire. The two

gentlemen sat at the table, cleared now of most of its dinner-ware. By the light of the fire and

candlesKent thought his Entonne visitor had a wraithlike quality. The man obviously cultivated the

appearance of a sensitive artist,

somethingKent had always avoided. But then Bertillon’s fine bone structure and light complexion lent

themselves to it.

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Kentlooked down at the letter the young man had carried with him. It was couched in the terms of a

letter of introduction, though it did askKent if he would return the “book” with Bertillon, and also stated

that Massenet trusted Bertillon completely. Its meaning was clear.Kent was certain it was no forgery.

“I must apologize, Mr. Bertillon. The book in question is in the hands of a scholar of my acquaintance.”

“That would be the able Mr. Valary, I assume,” Bertillon said quietly.

Kentdid not respond.

“Not to worry. I was to return it only if convenient to you, Mr. Kent,” Bertillon said in Entonne. He

shifted in his chair and reached for his glass. Like many another man of slight stature thatKent had

known, Bertillon seemed to have enormous capacity for liquor. He had not stinted, before, during, or

after dinner, and he didn’t show the slightest effect. It was a myth that only large men could hold their

drink, that was certain.

“May I make a small suggestion, Mr.Kent ?”

“By all means.”

“We should speak candidly. We are both aware of how important this matter is and how little time we

might have.”

Kentnodded, glancing at the letter again. He held it loosely in his hand, as though he could hardly bear to

touch it, but neither could he bring himself to set it down.

Bertillon did not look the type to be an agent of Count Massenet, which, of course, made sense. And

certainly the man had entrance everywhere. He had probably played for the King. In fact,Kent seemed

to remember that he had. Perhaps Sir Roderick had even attended!

“It is our hope that you have considered the count’s proposal and will agree to mutual assistance?”

Kentreached forward and with some effort placed the letter on the table, and then hooked his thumb into

a pocket in his waistcoat. The diamond remained there,

awaiting the right moment to be returned.Kent was not about to take money, in any form, from the

Entonne. He looked into the dancing flames in the fire for a moment, thinking of his meetings with the

countess—one did not want to look directly into the flames. It left one blind in the darkness.

“I cannot remember, in all my years, being offered such a difficult choice,”Kent said. He was glad they

spoke Entonne, a language none of his servants knew well.

Bertillon nodded, saying nothing until certainKent was not about to speak. He must have realized that the

painter had not made a decision.

“Perhaps, Mr.Kent , you could tell me what you would require to feel more inclined toward such an

alliance?”

“Require? Oh, that is easy, Mr. Bertillon. What is difficult is finding a way to arrange for my

requirements.” Again a silence whileKent considered. “It has often been the experience of those who, for

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reasons of conscience, cooperated with foreign governments, that they would then find themselves unable

to withdraw their services. They had, after all, committed a terrible crime—treason, punishable by

death—and were henceforth easily coerced.” He thought of making his point by returning the diamond,

but he hesitated and the moment passed.

“You might respond that Count Massenet is a man of honor, Mr. Bertillon. And that this matter is far too

momentous to even weigh such paltry concerns. But, as you have said, we must be candid here. Count

Massenet has dealt with men in just this manner in the past. Do not protest. I know more of what goes on

in Avonel than most— perhaps even more than Count Massenet—or you would not be here this night.

The suicide of Lord Kastler I have never thought to be such a great mystery.”

He looked up at Bertillon.This is not an old fool you see before you.

Bertillon rubbed a finger along his cheek. He nodded but offered no other response.

Kent’s eye was drawn back to the flame, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve the diamond.

“Would it be reassuring to know,” Bertillo* stayingKent ’s hand, “that, if somehow the worst,,

cur in Farrland, you would be made welcome in f __

try? You are already famous there—famous in a land that venerates artists.“

“I will have to tell you, Mr. Bertillon, that it is small comfort, for if I am forced to accept this offer, it will

mean that I am perceived as a betrayer in my own country. I am not prepared to accept that. Call it

pride, but I will not be known to history as a traitor.”

Bertillon raised his eyebrows, perhaps a little impatient. “If Palle and his group manage to accomplish

mis

thing, Mr. Kent___Well, they cannot be allowed to get

so far.“ Bertillon leaned forward in his chair. ”I do not say this as a threat, but you must realize what this

could lead to. My government cannot allow Palle, of all people, to gain such power. You know the man,

Mr. Kent, you must realize what he would do. Entonne… it is his obsession. And the matter is larger than

that. Farrland would be in terrible danger as well.“

Kentthought that Bertillon would reach out and grasp his arm for emphasis, but the man held himself in

check, only gazing up at the painter with those intense eyes.War. He was speaking of war.

Kentwondered if he were making a mistake. Perhaps the matterwastoo large to worry about the

judgment of history.

Bertillon sat back in his chair, not taking his eyes from the painter. He let out a long breath, almost a sigh.

“What if you were privy to information that would almost certainly guarantee your safety from Palle and

would at the same time ruin the count—at least make it impossible for him to be of further use to the

Entonne government?”

Kentshifted his position, his shoulders aching—from tension, he realized. “I can’t imagine what this could

be, Mr. Bertillon.”What in this round world?

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Sean Russell - Moontide and Magic Rise 2 - Sea without Shore

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