by A. C. Cobble
As she passed, the wind from her movement set the brands flickering — a warning to those watching that something was moving nearby. It was her, now, but just as easily the wavering flames would give away the presence of something else, something less tangible but just as substantial. Deep in the heart of the Church, the sounds of the quick feet of the junior priests was gone, replaced by her lone steps.
In years past, she’d been told that these halls were filled with Knives of the Council. Men and women dedicated to eradicating sorcery. Men and women who had little to do over the last two decades since the Coldlands War. Men and women who had failed. Twenty years ago, their work had been done by King Edward and his airships. Now, the king’s son—
“Sam,” called a voice.
She turned. Her mentor, Thotham, stood in the middle of an intersection in the hallway.
He nodded down the crossing corridor. “Come. I’m on the way to the practice yard.”
“Why?” she asked, walking back and falling in beside him. “Do you plan to make yourself known and rejoin the battle?”
“You are mad at me,” he acknowledged.
“Of course I’m mad at you,” she snapped. “You should have been in Archtan Atoll, not me!”
“You did not find the sorcerer, then?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted. “I found practitioners and terrible evidence of sorcery, but I do not think we found who we were looking for.”
“I did not think you would.”
“What?” she asked. “Why did you send me, then?”
“Did you learn anything?” asked her mentor.
She frowned at him.
“Here,” he said, stepping out of an open doorway into a small courtyard.
The space was ringed by stone walls and squat, thick-leaved, potted trees. Nothing was visible except the gray of the walls of the Church, the bright green foliage, and the blue sky above. The courtyard was hidden from eyes within the Church though it sat right at its center. The courtyard wasn’t empty, she saw. It held targets set against the wall, racks of practice weapons, scaffolding for climbing across, weights for lifting and building strength, padded armor, and other devices designed for training.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Who uses all of this?”
“You will while you can,” said Thotham. “Sometimes, others do.”
She grunted.
“You are right,” he continued. “You have little time, but what time you do have shall not be wasted. This was not assembled for you, but since it is here…”
“I don’t understand,” she complained.
“You didn’t answer, but I can infer you did learn something on your journey,” said Thotham, walking to the racks of practice weapons. “Tell me about it.”
He tossed her a slender, reed sword, and she snagged it from the air with one hand. He raised an eyebrow at her kris daggers. Reluctantly, she shed them, tossing the belt to the corner of the courtyard.
“And the rest,” he chided.
Muttering to herself, she disarmed, setting half a dozen sharp blades atop the ones she’d already left. She then turned to her mentor and demanded, “You wasted my time sending me to Archtan Atoll. You mean to waste it now with sparring?”
“It’s never a waste if you learn something,” claimed the old man, and he danced closer to her, a head-high staff in his hands. He flicked a weak strike at her to force her practice sword up then asked, “The duke, is he trustworthy?”
“You always say no one is trustworthy,” replied Sam, and then she leapt at her mentor, swinging a series of quick strikes, all of which the white-haired man easily parried with his staff before he backed away.
“You trust me, don’t you?” asked Thotham.
“Until you start talking,” claimed Sam. “I don’t trust you any more than anyone else. That’s what you expect me to say, right?”
Thotham spun and lashed out with a low, sweeping attack. She jumped over his staff and swung down at him, nearly connecting with his bony shoulder before he brushed her blow aside. Continuing his spin, he brought the other end of his staff around, and she was forced to slap it away with her hand, the hard wood stinging her flesh.
“That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” asked Thotham. “Trust. Who do you trust? You trust me, even though you won’t say it to my face. Do you trust the duke? Does he trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” she asked, settling her feet and slowly spinning the reed practice sword.
“You are keeping things from him, are you not?” chided Thotham. “Did you tell him Bishop Yates had no idea you were accompanying him to Archtan Atoll? Did you tell him what you’re truly capable of, who you are? This is no test, girl. It’s a simple question. Tell me. Do you trust him?”
Stalking around the courtyard, waiting for an opening in the old man’s guard, she finally answered, “I do. Why do you ask?”
“So you can continue to work together, of course,” replied the old priest.
“Continue to work together?” queried Sam.
“You don’t think he’ll want to?” questioned Thotham. He frowned. “Don’t tell me you two…”
“No!” snapped Sam.
She charged her mentor, raining blows that the old man deflected and dodged, but he’d lost a step in his years, and as she pressed him, his parries became slower, his movements less graceful.
He tried to launch a counterattack, but she saw it coming and stepped into his guard, trapping his staff between her arm and torso then whipping her sword around at his head. Cursing, Thotham released his staff and jumped back, narrowly avoiding a stinging welt across his temple. Moving with a speed that belied his apparent age, he scampered to the rack of practice weapons and snatched up a sword similar to her own.
“I didn’t expect that,” he admitted. “Well done. But this is important. Will the duke accept you by his side if you ask it?”
Sam paused. “Why?”
“Because you are going to ask it,” declared Thotham. “You will request to continue working with him on his investigation. Lie to him if you must. Tell him Bishop Yates directed it or whatever you need to say.”
“Would it be a lie?” asked Sam. “Bishop Yates will not direct me to continue working with Duke?”
“Yes, it would be a lie,” confirmed her mentor. “Bishop Yates believes our part in the investigation is concluded. He did not know you were going to Archtan Atoll. He had me… he had me conduct another exercise while you were gone to tie up what he considered loose ends. Officially, the Church is done with the matter, and I don’t doubt Prince Philip will feel the same.”
“I don’t understand. If the Church is satisfied, why are you continuing to pursue it?” questioned Sam.
“You know why,” claimed Thotham. “There is a darkness looming here in Enhover. The duke will be at the center of it, and so will you. He needs you, Samantha. Without the skills the Church can offer, the man has no hope. Without him, you have no hope. The Church… Bishop Yates does not believe in these things — in my prophecy and what must be done. I believe an inflection point is coming soon, something that will match the Coldlands War in the importance of Enhover’s history.”
“Then why don’t you accompany the duke?” snapped Sam. “If this is important, why are you not directly involved? We can both work with the duke and do whatever you believe needs to be done. I’m certain Bishop Yates would release you from… from whatever it is you do when you’re not sparring with me.”
Thotham shook his head. “The Church is not what it once was, not in Enhover, at least. The Wellesley’s pay lip service to the bishops and the cardinal when he deigns to make himself known, but they don’t need us. They haven’t needed us for two decades. Why would they? They are the ones who last faced sorcery in this land. They will need us again, though, and soon I think.”
“Your prophecy that no one else seems to believe,” remarked Sam darkly. “You want to know what I learned in Archtan Atoll? I learned powerful so
rcery had been conducted there. Countess Dalyrimple formed a circle and used it to contact Ca-Mi-He. The spirit tainted an object, and she returned to Enhover with it. That’s why she was killed. Thotham, you say we are needed, and I agree. You are needed. I cannot face this alone.”
The old priest leaned on his staff, frowning.
“Whoever was responsible for Countess Dalyrimple’s death is still out there,” continued Sam. “Someone with that strength! It’s unheard of, not since the Coldlands were defeated. You have to open your eyes, Thotham. Your prophecy may be right, or it may be wrong, but this is real. The threat is real, and you’re watching from the shadows!”
“Am I?” asked Thotham.
“Bishop Yates doesn’t believe your prophecy, does he?” questioned Sam. “You told him, and he did not believe you. That is why this assignment comes from you and not Church leadership. They think you’re a crazy old man. What about the Council of Seven, the Whitemask? Surely, they will understand if we explain what was found. If this is so serious, what do they have to say about it? Do they trust you?”
“No, they do not,” acknowledged her mentor. “They know most prophecies are false, just as you and I do. Most are false, that is a truth, but this one is not. This vision is not false, Samantha. I can feel it.”
She shook her head.
“You trust me, do you not?” asked her mentor.
Snorting, she replied, “That is not fair.”
“Trust me or not, you will stay by the duke’s side. That is a command.”
“What about Archtan Atoll?” snapped Sam. “Are we to leave it alone? What about you? What will you be doing?”
“No, the Whitemask and Council of Seven will address what you found in Archtan Atoll,” replied her mentor. “Other Knives are already being sent to the tropics to root out whatever sorcery remains there. You’ll be happy to know that they wanted both of us to participate in the venture, but I told them no. I told them we had matters to attend to in Enhover. They do not believe in my prophecy, Sam, but they granted me leave to stay here. It doesn’t matter if they believe, because you trust me. You are the one who will be at the center of this, not them, not me.”
She glared at her mentor.
“When we are done here, speak with the duke,” suggested the old man. “Continue your investigation, but keep it between the two of you. It is best if Bishop Yates forgets that you exist.”
“What about you? What will you do?”
“I will keep Bishop Yates busy.”
Thotham smiled and raised his practice sword.
The Cartographer XI
“Take her out. Show her around. Introduce her to society,” instructed Prince Philip. “Consider it a command if you like, though I’m told the girl is quite attractive, so I don’t know why it should have to be.”
“She is a girl,” retorted Oliver. “She’s barely eighteen winters.”
The prince guffawed. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”
“I was younger before,” muttered Oliver. “There wasn’t as much of a gap. Now… it would feel… I don’t know. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“It wouldn’t feel right?” challenged Philip. “I heard about the twins you know.”
Oliver coughed and ran his hand over his hair, his eyes darting to the side.
“To be clear, I’m not asking you to sleep with Isisandra,” continued the prince. “If you want to, that is up to you. What I’m asking is that you help introduce her to society. With her arm on yours, she’ll be invited to the right parties by the right people. The Crown benefits from stability amongst the peers, and we have a responsibility since her parents are gone to make sure she joins the ranks as smoothly as possible.”
“On my arm, she’ll meet the right people and the wrong people,” complained Oliver. “You know as well as I, people will approach her and try to take advantage of her or use her for a connection to us.”
“It will be good then that the girl will have such an experienced mentor to help her navigate those shark-infested waters.”
“It feels wrong,” Oliver grumbled. “I don’t want to lead the girl on.”
“Then don’t,” said the prince with a sigh. “Be honest with her. Tell her what it’s about. Or even better, don’t make it a fling. Make it a serious courtship. You could do worse than a beautiful girl with an extensive holding. Between the herds of sheep, the land around Derbycross, and whatever the governor had salted away in Company shares, Isisandra should be quite wealthy.”
“I don’t need the land or the sterling,” complained Oliver. “If you insist—”
“I do.”
“If you insist,” continued Oliver, “I’ll take the girl out and introduce her. That’s all.”
“While you’re at it, I have something else for you to think on,” advised Philip, leaning back in the chair behind his desk. “Her or the Child twins or anyone else who fits your fancy… Don’t you think it’s time to move past simple flings? Lucinda and I had three children by the time I was your age. Franklin and John had one each. Father had all of us but you. The Wellesley line has ruled for centuries only because our ancestors met that most important need. They sired children.”
“There are plenty of children to wear the mantle if necessary,” complained Oliver. “My heirs would be, what, twentieth in line for the throne, twenty-fifth? I can’t even do the mathematics, and that’s assuming you are all done producing progeny and that the next generation doesn’t get started. We’re better off ensuring the rest of you keep breathing than worrying about my own offspring.”
“It’s a long line to the throne, but we have cities and a ministry to rule as well, brother,” argued Philip. “Cities and territories. If something were to happen to Father tomorrow, then I’d be in Southundon on the throne, and I don’t doubt Franklin and John would agree to seat you here in Westundon. It will be several years before any of our children are of age, and even then, they’d need an experienced hand, like yours, to guide them. Someday, little brother, your adventures are going to come to an end, and you’ll be officiating meetings, presiding over disputes, and dealing with the same headaches the rest of us do. A wife and children will make it easier, Oliver. When you rule, you won’t have time for all of this chasing around.”
“Are you commanding me to get married?” questioned Oliver.
“I’m commanding you to introduce Isisandra to society,” declared Philip, sitting forward and pointing a finger at his brother. “Whether you turn that into a marriage or not is up to you. On that front, I can give you good advice, but neither Father nor I want to force you into a partnership you won’t be happy with. Not yet, at least. Make your own match, and we’ll never have to discuss it again.”
Oliver scowled at his brother.
“Tell me,” said Philip. “What of this sorcery you witnessed in Archtan Atoll? I saw the report, and even on paper, it gave me a shiver down my spine.”
“It’d put a shiver down anyone’s spine,” responded Oliver. “It was the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s saying something,” remarked Philip.
Oliver nodded. “Dark powers were called within that circle. I could feel it. Souls taken and abused, used in an evil ritual. The purpose, though, I cannot tell you. The priestess with me believed that the sorcerer was somehow contacting a powerful spirit. The powerful spirit if you get the distinction.”
“And what could someone do with a spirit like this?” wondered the prince. “Could they bind it?”
Shrugging, Oliver replied, “I don’t think even she knew. She said this spirit somehow tainted an object, a dagger we believe, and that may be why Countess Dalyrimple returned to Enhover. Everyone who would know anything about it has turned up dead, so the trail has gone rather cold.”
“Most of the men who fought the raiders from the Coldlands are gone. Retired, dead, or never the same after that war,” mused Philip. “Perhaps some of them are still around. I could ask the inspectors to f
ind and question anyone who served during that time. It’s possible they may recall some clue which could help.”
“I can check with the royal marines,” offered Oliver. “Perhaps send a glae worm transmission to Admiral Brach.”
“Let the inspectors and Bishop Yates handle it, Oliver. That’s why we have them,” replied Philip. “You did your part, and there’s no need for you to spend more time on the investigation.”
Oliver sat back, frowning.
“Though, there is one person you could interview,” mentioned Philip, sitting back in his chair. “Our uncle led a battalion into the Coldlands itself, remember? It would be better for you to speak with him about it than some low-ranking inspector. Why don’t you check with William while he’s here and see what he can recall?”
“William is here?” inquired Oliver. “I had no idea. What is he in town for?”
“Just keeping an eye on things, I suppose,” answered Philip. “He’s the prime minister. It’s his job to ensure the efficient function of the ministry. Most of the administrative staff in this palace are under his command. He makes several quiet visits a year out to each province. I dined with him last evening, and he seemed in high spirits. I think getting out of Southundon, out from under Father’s eye, does him a bit of good.”
“I can relate,” muttered Oliver. “It’s been years since I last saw him. Every time there is an official visit to Westundon, it seems I’m always away.”
“You’re always away… always,” suggested Philip. “It will be good for you to catch up with our uncle. Maybe a dinner where you can reacquaint yourselves, and then you’ll have an opportunity to ask about the Coldlands. Report whatever you find to the inspectors, will you?”
“I’m supposed to be going to the Westlands…” murmured Oliver.
“Not until the airship resupplies,” challenged Philip. “You’ll be here a week, at least. Use that time to meet with our uncle. If you were to take over rule of Westundon tomorrow, he’ll be running your administration after all. It’s foolish not to build your relationship with the man now.”
