by A. C. Cobble
“Is it that time? Shall we dance?” asked Philip.
“We shall,” declared Lucinda, and the beautiful blond noblewoman led the procession toward the stairs, taking her husband along with her, smiling and waving at individuals in the crowd below.
It was officially called Prince Philip’s Winter Gala, but everyone knew his effervescent wife was the one behind it, and as faces turned to watch her descend the wide flight of red-carpeted marble stairs, Oliver mused that his description wasn’t as far off as she thought. She was the sun, shining down on the throng below.
He turned and whispered to Isisandra, “My apologies, m’lady, but do you dance? In Archtan Atoll, I cannot imagine there were many events.”
“There were not, m’lord,” replied Isisandra, “but my parents brought in tutors for me from time to time, and a dance master was one of them. I believe I will be able to hold my own, even in such august company as this.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Aria and Isabella Child stood side by side. Oliver studiously avoided looking at them, but Isisandra pulled him close and stared directly at both girls.
As they passed, she said, “Perhaps later tonight, Duke Wellesley, you can tell me if my… dance… is up to the standards of this court. If not, then I’m willing to practice with you until it is.”
Walking quickly, refusing to look at the twin baronesses, Oliver fought back a groan.
Ahead of them, Prince Philip turned a moment before plunging into the swirling peers that covered the dance floor. As he was slipping into the crowd, he called, “I almost forgot, brother, my secretary has a package of documents for you. They were sent by the Company’s shipping offices in Southundon, and I was supposed to hand them to you. I’ve neglected to do that, so will you pick them up? The poor fellow is driving himself mad worrying he’ll be blamed if anything inside is time sensitive.”
“Of course,” said Oliver.
Then, he and Isisandra followed his brother onto the dance floor, and he swept her up into a stately embrace.
In the center of the floor, Princess Lucinda gestured to the orchestra, and they kicked off the first of the evening’s waltzes.
Dawn broke, and from his bedchamber, he heard the clatter of breakfast arriving. He uttered a quiet groan and cursed Winchester, the man’s parents, his progeny if they existed, and anyone who’d ever spoken a kind word to the noisy valet. After so many years in his service, why the man thought that, following a ball, dawn was an appropriate time for breaking fast, Oliver did not understand.
A soft voice cleared its throat.
“M’lord,” called Winchester, his voice pitched so it sounded like he was trying to be quiet, but he wasn’t.
“It’s too early, Winchester,” rasped Oliver.
“Your guests instructed me to wake you, m’lord. I brought coffee.”
“Pour it,” muttered Oliver, rolling over and letting his arm flop across the bed. He frowned, his eyes following the length of it to the empty pillow beside him.
“An unsuccessful evening, m’lord?” queried Winchester, returning with two steaming cups in his hands. “After the Winter Gala, I expected to find—”
“A girl in the bed?” interrupted Oliver.
“If you say so, m’lord,” demurred the valet.
Oliver snorted. “We’ve known each other longer than that, Winchester.”
“An unsuccessful evening, then, was it, m’lord?”
Winchester set one of the cups down and backed away. Oliver swore he saw a sly smirk on the man’s face, but when he looked harder, it was gone.
“Not that it is any of your business, Winchester, but no, it was not unsuccessful,” he stated, reaching for the coffee. “Isisandra Dalyrimple is different, though. She doesn’t… She doesn’t linger.”
“I see,” responded Winchester. The man stood in the doorway. Before slipping away, he said, “Your breakfast is ready, and Master Thotham and Madam, ah, Sam, asked to see you when you are available.”
“They’re priests, Winchester,” grumbled Oliver, kicking his sheets back and letting his feet thump to the floor. “They should be addressed as such.”
“You do not need to instruct me on protocol, m’lord,” claimed Winchester. “I thought that we were being circumspect with their presence. The staff is used to any manner of odd guests, and there is little which would cause gossip, except perhaps a priest. No one would ever think a real member of the Church would be staying in your home.”
“Sorry, Winchester,” muttered Oliver. “I, just… No one can know…”
“M’lord,” said the servant, “over the years, I have become perhaps more familiar in tone with you than is appropriate for one of my station, and I confess I take some secret pleasure in watching how you live your life. But you have my loyalty, m’lord. Never doubt that. I’ve taken pains with the staff to ensure no one knows the true identity of Master Thotham and Madam Sam. The staff believes them to be experienced navigators, preparing to accompany you on your journey to the Westlands. They do not know their names or their true professions. If you recall, m’lord, before your journey to the Southlands, you did have some experienced expeditioners stay with you. I felt the cover was logical and consistent. Please let me know if this is contrary to your wishes.”
“No, no,” said Oliver, standing and sipping at the scalding hot coffee. “I’m, well, Winchester, I’m hung over. I’m sorry if I offended you. Your loyalty is much appreciated, even if I don’t say it.”
“You didn’t offend me, m’lord, and I had already surmised that perhaps you were dealing with a bit of a headache,” replied Winchester dryly, a small grin curling the corner of his lips. “Shall I write the lady a note, then?”
“Sure,” said Oliver, “though I doubt she will read it. And, Winchester, send a man to my brother’s secretary. Evidently, there’s a packet for me that is driving the poor man to distraction. It seems he’s had the packet in his possession since I was in Archtan Atoll, and my brother keeps forgetting to hand it to me. The secretary is worried he’ll be blamed.”
“Of course, m’lord,” said the servant, offering a short bow as was proper. “Shall I tell the, ah, the priests another half turn of the clock?”
“No,” said Oliver. “Send for them now. They can break fast with me or just watch me eat if they prefer, but there’s no sense in standing on protocol when we have work to do.”
“I couldn’t agree more, m’lord,” said the servant before turning on his heel and disappearing through the sitting room.
Oliver sighed and sipped his coffee again, wincing as the steaming liquid passed over his lips and tongue. He stepped into the sitting room and eyed the silver tray Winchester had set out for his breakfast. Puffed pastries filled with jams or fruit and dusted with powdered sugar. Fat sausages bubbling as their juices leaked out of the casings. A silver pitcher, which he hoped contained more coffee. A plate of sliced melon arranged carefully into a fan, and a covered plate he suspected was a heaping pile of fluffy eggs.
His stomach roiled, protesting at the liquid diet he’d subjected it to the previous evening. Fighting down the urge to be sick, he collected two of the sausages and walked to two tall doors set in a wall of windows. Framed by iron, the glass looked out over his veranda and the greenery beyond. He put the sausages between his teeth and opened the door, stepping out into the cold, autumn air. He felt his skin prickle and a rash of tiny bumps formed as the breeze stirred the hairs on his arm.
Biting into one of the sausages, he walked along the veranda, looking out over the walls of his compound at the park that surrounded it. The park was public, at his request, though he owned the deed to it. Walls, six yards high, separated his private property from the lush greenery. It gave his guards fits, that people could walk up to the edge of the compound, but he felt it was a waste to keep the green space to himself. Besides, when he had a quiet moment, he enjoyed sitting and watching the people in the park. If someone managed to scale the six-yard high wall, avoid the
notice of his guards, climb the side of a balcony to an unlocked door, find him inside the palatial building which he only rarely visited, and attack him, he supposed that determined of a person was going to get him anyway.
Below, inside the wall, a gardener tended to his gardens; rose bushes, trimmed and dormant in the cold weather; and small evergreen topiaries formed into fanciful animals. Bushes, trees, winter-brown grasses, it was all teased and guided into something quite exquisite. The finest gardens in Westundon, some said, though he preferred the park outside with its rolling lawns, towering, centuries-old trees, and pebble-strewn pathways that even in the winter held a few bundled walkers. Small wildlife scattered before the walkers, disappearing into the lush undergrowth and hidden parts of the park. The land in the park was just wild enough to sate his passion for seeing the next horizon. For a little while, at least.
At night, the park was dark, only a handful of lanterns from the watchmen and the moon’s reflection off the surface of a palace-sized pond giving any sort of illumination. It was peaceful, and the light on the water reminded him of being aboard an airship, traveling to some far-off place, some simple place. In the chill autumn morning, the pond was blanketed by a low layer of mist, but he could still see walkers striding along the pathways, taking their exercise, breathing the fresh air. No matter the weather, someone was always out there walking.
“A little chilly, isn’t it?” asked Sam.
He turned to find her and her mentor eyeing him at the door to the veranda.
“It’s waking me up,” he replied.
“Long night?” queried Sam.
“It always is,” asserted Oliver. “The Winter Gala is the height of the social activity in this season. That means it’s full of sycophants, boot-lickers, and money-grubbers. I’ve found the quickest way through is to drink yourself into an uncaring blur.”
“Did you do any dancing?” questioned Sam.
He sipped at his coffee, not answering the question he knew she was asking.
“Is she here?”
“No,” he replied before taking a bite of his second sausage.
Sam frowned, looking down the veranda toward the windows of his bedchamber.
“Go check if you like,” he offered.
“No, I won’t. I just thought… I thought, you know,” she mumbled, eyeing him suspiciously.
Thotham glanced back and forth between them. “Is there something I should know?”
Oliver finished his sausage and took another swallow of his quickly cooling coffee. He couldn’t keep a satisfied smile off his face.
“Damnit!” exclaimed Sam. “You did, didn’t you? I told you she… she…”
“Apparently not as much as you thought,” murmured Oliver, walking past the two priests to the doorway. “I’m getting a refill. You want anything?”
The Prophet I
He eyed the boy and his apprentice, certain there was something he was missing, but neither one seemed eager to share, and he didn’t have time to address it, so he simply said, “Attend me.”
The nobleman slurped his coffee, and he could see the young man’s eyes were glassy from too much drink the night before. The breakfast the man had scarfed down wasn’t enough to cure his ills. His apprentice, though not drunk, looked just as distracted. Neither one appeared up to what he had planned. Not yet, at least.
“I’ll let you nap before we trigger the trap,” he offered. He turned and began explaining what he’d arranged.
“Thotham,” interrupted the duke. “I’m no expert, but hasn’t the Church made all of this rather… illegal?”
He turned and studied the nobleman. Finally, he allowed, “Yes.”
“And, don’t you work for the Church?” questioned the duke. “I want to catch the murderer, or murderers I suppose, just as badly as you do, but this seems like the exact kind of thing we’re trying to prevent.”
“You’re a trader, yes?” asked Thotham. Then, he continued quickly as evidently the nobleman didn’t understand the question was rhetorical. Speaking over him, he asked, “How do you beat another trader to close a deal?”
The duke sipped his coffee and looked back at him.
Thotham waited, but no one spoke. Sighing, he answered his own question, “You beat a trader by playing his own game better than he does. You offer a better deal, faster service, a better experience. You do what he does, but you do it better.”
“I’m not sure that’s a very good analogy,” complained the duke.
“We’re locked in a battle, m’lord, and losing is not an option. Sorcerers have done terrible damage to Enhover. We paid a terrible cost because we were not prepared. Perhaps you are too young to remember—”
“I recall what happened to Northundon, priest,” snapped the duke. He looked at Sam then back to her mentor. “I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t need you to remind me the cost we paid. That is… was my city. My city, my land, my people, priest. What I need you to do is tell me why this is any different than what happened there. Tell me this isn’t some dangerous step toward what the Coldlands used to be.”
Thotham nodded, rubbing a hand across his face. Northundon, of course the man… What was he thinking? He had to concentrate, to be present in the moment, and not… elsewhere.
He shook himself, and continued, “My apologies. I forgot, m’lord, and I shouldn’t have. My mind… Much of… what I was is now in the spear. Much but not all.”
“Let me explain,” offered Sam.
Thotham nodded and moved back, rubbing the side of his head with one hand, leaning against a table with the other. He felt thin and brittle. The plan his apprentice had hatched seemed risky, but he was so fuzzy, he could not argue. He knew he should have finished his original design and fallen on his spear. He should have let the rune-etched steel sink into his heart, spilling his blood over the symbols and patterns, pouring himself into the weapon. A weapon that could bite, that could help. Now… he was so tired, so ready to sit down. It wasn’t him, not all of him, but it would have to be enough. Right or wrong, they’d set out on this trail, and he had to see it through.
Besides, the head-strong girl had taken his spear from him and wouldn’t give it back.
“Four decades ago,” began Sam, “in Enhover, there were still druids — shamans or wizards as some call them — practitioners that were connected to the life spirits. They could call upon those spirits, enlist their aid, and hold the forces of darkness at bay. That’s the way it still is in the United Territories, druids roaming the land, shepherding it, communing with the spirits there. They keep them vibrant and strong. I imagine you could find similar in the tropics or just about anywhere else in the world.”
“But not here?” asked the duke.
“Not here,” agreed Sam. “The advent of the technological revolution, the use of red saltpetre mixtures to power the mechanical carriages, the rail… It began to sever the connection with the spirits.”
“I’ve heard this from my tutors,” remarked the duke, “but they could not explain why. They said the world changed, and Enhover had to change with it. They implied the rise of technology was an answer to the falling tide of magic, not the cause of it.”
“No, not exactly,” disputed Sam. “The magic of life follows an ebb and flow, and from what I understand, it had ebbed when technology bloomed. Science caught the fancy of your ancestors. The druids didn’t leave, though, merely because of a natural cycle in the world. They were supplanted by technology. Who needs to call upon some mountain sprite to ease passage across her peaks and passes when you can lay a rail line around the mountain and make the journey in a quarter of the time? Why pay homage to the water spirits in the sea when you can simply hop aboard an airship and sail unimpeded far above stormy waters?”
“Glae worms, fae lights, the stones within those airships you’re talking about,” retorted the duke. “Those are life spirits, are they not? They work just fine in Enhover.”
“They are spirits, but with th
e exception of the fae, they are not alive in the way spirits are elsewhere. They’ve been infused into the substances used in those technologies, or in the case of the fae, they are simply trapped,” replied Sam. “A fae cannot survive outside of the sealed globe in Enhover, you know this, yes? A druid does not bind the spirits. He communes with them. He doesn’t force their help. He asks for it. A druid is a negotiator and, to be honest, occasionally a cajoler. A sorcerer controls a spirit and forces them, just like Enhover’s technology. A life spirit, if found, can still be subjugated, but that is not the way magic works, not the way druids work, at least.”
The duke frowned.
“Your technology is really sorcery used to bind the spirits of life,” clarified Thotham. “It’s the same principle. Some could say that you Wellesleys—”
“That—” snapped the duke, glaring at the old man.
“Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter for us today,” interjected Sam, shooting her mentor a dark look. “What matters is that the life spirits native to Enhover have gone dormant. They’re still there, as spirits do not die, but they no longer respond to the whispers of the druids. They no longer dance and frolic where man can easily commune with them. Technology rules Enhover now, and the druids left because there is nothing here for them.”
The Wellesleys… Why had be started down that path? Thotham clamped his tongue between his teeth and offered his apprentice an encouraging nod.
“The balance between magic and sorcery is gone here,” continued Sam. “For a time, it was believed that sorcery was gone as well because all exists within balance. Life, death. Pleasure, pain. Light, dark…”
“I get the idea,” mumbled the duke. “What does it mean for us now? That because there are no druids, there is no answer to sorcery?”
“It means the life spirits are not the answer,” agreed Sam. “For centuries, the Church realized it needed strong measures to counteract sorcery. The strength of the druids, the advances of technology, they could no longer be relied upon to provide protection against those who sought power from the underworld. The only sure way to stop sorcery, it was thought, was to explore that power ourselves, to understand it, and, if necessary, use it in self-defense.”
