by A. C. Cobble
“I don’t recall Bishop Yates making that argument at any service I attended,” challenged the duke.
“The bishop represents the new Church,” stated Sam. “After the Church failed its mission and your father was so successful defeating the Coldlands raiders, the argument began anew in the Church. Men like Bishop Yates took over, arguing successfully that the ancient threat we meant to oppose was no longer a threat. Not much of a threat in the United Territories either, after your father and uncle were done with the Coldlands. And for twenty years, Bishop Yates’ faction was proven correct. There was no threat from sorcery.”
Thotham continued, taking up her story. “In the new Church, Bishop Yates’ Church, the role of the spirits is that of a distant being, one that no one expects to encounter. We represent the old Church, in which interaction with the spirits is common and necessary. In the old Church, there was an organization formed — centuries ago as Sam explained — that anticipated the interaction and strived to contain it. Do not get me wrong. There is nothing evil about the spirits in this world or the underworld. They are like the wind and the rain, simply elements. Unlike the wind or the rain, though, they can be used to give a practitioner terrible power. The Council of Seven was created to ensure that the manipulation of the spirits remains benign. Led by Whitemask, the first action of the Council was to ban sorcery in all territories affiliated with the Church. Then, the Knives were recruited.”
“The knives?” wondered the nobleman.
Thotham nodded. “The council monitored the nations where sorcery was still practiced openly, watching for that knowledge to spread into Church territory. When it did, the Knives stopped the spread.”
“Assassins,” breathed the duke.
“And priests,” added Thotham with a smile. He looked to Sam and gestured for her to continue.
“Between the Church’s public remonstrations of sorcery from the pulpit and the knives’ quiet battle in secrecy, sorcery was stamped out in Enhover, Ivalla, and Finavia. In Rhensar, it fled underground, conducted by hedge-witches and other outcasts even to this day. It remained strong in the Coldlands, though, and it wasn’t until your father’s men marched to war that the Church finally got a foothold there. Admittedly, it’s a tenuous one at best.
“Some in the Church, such as Bishop Yates,” continued Sam, “believe that sorcery is effectively dead everywhere and that the only thing resembling it is the silly secret societies the nobles play in.”
“Much of what those societies teach, their rituals, has the flavor of sorcery,” added Thotham.
“But none of its power, right?” asked the duke.
“So we thought,” replied the old man. “Over the years, the knives have snuck into some of the secret societies, even progressed through their ranks, and never did we witness true power. We never saw anything more than a tenuous connection to the underworld. Communication, perhaps, but not control. We did learn, though, through our interaction with those groups coupled with our own internal study.”
“We never had to perform sorcery of our own because there was nothing to combat with it,” declared Sam, taking the narrative back over. “Now, Bishop Yates and his ilk have denounced the need for the council to the point none of its members are welcome in Enhover. To the point that Thotham and I are the only two knives left in these lands.”
“What about in the Unitited Territories? Do you know of any there?” questioned the duke. “I can charter an airship and we could have them back here within days.”
“We don’t know the others,” replied Thotham. “Like the sorcerers themselves, our organization operates in absolute secrecy. Bishop Yates knows something of who I am, but no one else does. We answer to the cardinal, the Council of Seven, and its leader Whitemask. None other and none outside of the council know the true identities of all of the knives. So, there could be more, but I have not seen evidence of their presence here in Enhover in years.”
“Can we contact this Council of Seven, ask them for help?” wondered the duke.
Sam turned to her mentor. “That’s actually not a bad—”
“No,” said Thotham, shaking his head. “There are no glae worm filaments crossing to the United Territories, and even if we used Duke Wellesy’s significant resources and commandeered an airship, it would take days to reach the Church in Ivalla. Hiding that the duke hired an airship to deliver a single message to Church leadership would be nearly impossible. Recall the assassin who attacked me in Middlebury was a fellow priest. We cannot trust anyone… and any of our enemies who found out about it would be certain to infer what the duke was doing. Instead of luring them into a trap, we’d be setting ourselves up for a surprise.”
“Oh,” murmured Sam. “I didn’t think about all of that.”
Thotham smiled at her. “I’m not entirely gone, girl. Not yet.”
“So, what is the trap, then?” asked the duke.
Gesturing for Sam to continue the discussion, Thotham found a chair and collapsed into it. He wasn’t gone, yet. He wasn’t far from gone, though. His apprentice took over, and he folded into himself, her conversation with the nobleman happening like he was watching from a dream.
“We’re not sure who or what we’re facing,” said Sam, leading the duke further into his empty banquet hall. “We can assume they are more skilled than either Thotham or I in the arts of sorcery. If Countess Dalyrimple is the one who developed the circle on Farawk outside of Archtan Atoll, and our foes are her superior… We’ve studied some theory, but this is not what we do. It is what they do, and they are more skilled than anyone we’ve heard of since the Coldlands War. Sorcery is a game of preparation, though, and we’ve prepared while they will be walking in uncertain of what they will face.”
“Maybe,” mumbled the nobleman. “Remember that scepter and shadow-monster thing they sent after Standish Taft?”
“I do,” said Sam, grinning, “and we’ve got something in mind for that, though it’s risky.”
The duke frowned.
“Sorcerers conjure spirits so they don’t have to do the dirty work themselves. Our guess is that they’ll send those spirits after us,” explained Sam. “Like you said, a shadow-monster or something else. We’ll lure the creatures in here where we’ve laid runes. Those will serve several purposes. First, they’ll sever the binding between sorcerer and spirit. Second, they’ll trap the spirits here in this room. Finally, they’ll banish the spirits and send them back to where they came from.”
“Smart.” The duke nodded. “Remove the teeth, and the sorcerers will be like any other man or woman.”
“Right,” said Sam, “but, ah, here’s the risky part. We have to know who they are. Who is conjuring the spirits and sending them after us? We need to bring the people here as well.”
“How will we do that?” wondered the duke.
“Me,” said Thotham. “The sorcerers came after me in Middlebury, and now, they must know they failed. When they come after me here, they’ll need to make sure they are successful.”
The duke scratched his chin, looking between the two priests.
“We’ll convince them I’m dead, again,” said Thotham, hobbling into the center of the room to join the two young people. “They can’t be sure, though, and they will have lost contact with their conjured spirits. They’ll be forced to come check themselves. That’s when we’ll take them. We hope they will have used everything at their disposal to send after us, and we hope that with surprise on our side, we’ll be sufficient.”
“That sounds… That sounds like it may not work,” admitted the duke. “I am no expert, but even I can imagine how things could turn on us. They’ll know when they lose their connections to the spirits that something went wrong, won’t they? I can’t think they’ll walk in here suspecting nothing.”
Thotham grinned. “The Church has been hunting sorcerers for centuries. Trust me when I say it will work.”
The nobleman shrugged uncomfortably and glanced at Sam.
“Th
otham is my master, and I’m merely the apprentice. He knows far more about this than I. I don’t even know half of the runes he’s drawn on the floors and walls of this room,” she said. “If he says they’re sufficient, we have to trust him. There is no one who knows more about sorcery than he does. Besides, he did kill that last sorcerer, didn’t he? I won’t lie and say there is no risk, but it’s the best plan we have.”
The duke looked around the room, his ballroom, and he took in the symbols that had been scrawled across the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. He looked back at the priests, an eyebrow raised.
“Winchester found us a ladder,” explained Sam.
“Very well,” said the duke. “I know nothing about this, but if you two believe this is our best option, I will go along with it because I don’t have any other ideas. When do we act?”
“The sorcerers won’t move until darkness, so we have until then. I recommend during the day you get some sleep, m’lord. We need you alert and ready tonight.”
“How do we spread the word that you’re here?” inquired the duke.
“Sam will go to the palace, make herself known, and let everyone know she’s staying with you. She’ll drop hints that I am as well,” answered Thotham. “One thing we know about sorcerers, they seek power. Whoever they are, they will have eyes and ears near the beating heart of the power in Westundon — your brother’s palace. If she drops her clues there, they will follow them.”
“Fair enough,” said the nobleman. Then, he covered a yawn with a fist. “My brother’s secretary has a packet for me. Perhaps you could collect that, Sam? It would give you ample reason to be there and an opportunity to drop your hints.”
“That could work,” agreed Sam, nodding and looking to Thotham for approval.
The old priest nodded, trying to corral his swirling thoughts. It sounded right, he thought.
“Then,” said the nobleman, “as you suggest, I’ll get some rest. Is there anything…”
“Be ready tonight,” assured Sam. “We’ll handle the rest.”
“Go now,” Thotham instructed her. “Plant the seeds.”
His apprentice and the nobleman left, leaving the old priest in the ballroom alone. He stood tall, his muscles protesting, his bones creaking. Walking slowly around the room, he looked over the runes and symbols he and his apprentice had inscribed. They had worked at it the entire night, and he was exhausted mentally and emotionally. It would all be over soon, though. His last trick, the reason he was so certain they could win.
He stopped, looking at a smudged chalk drawing. A rune, he’d told his apprentice, but it was nothing more than fantasy. She thought he’d gone deeper than her along the dark path, but he had not. He’d taught her everything he knew — except this last deception. The symbols she did not recognize were fake, tricks to convince her he had a plan different than the one he did.
They would sever the bonds, draw in the sorcerers, just like they’d explained to the nobleman, but after that, there was only one way to defeat the sorcerers and their shades that would be certain. There was one card he had left to play that was powerful enough to ensure each and every one of them would go to the underworld.
His death.
Tonight, he would die. The power from his end would be enough to drag his enemies with him. It had to be enough.
The Priestess XIII
“How was your night last night?” asked Sam.
Isisandra Dalyrimple stared at her, a coy smile curling her lip. The girl, clad in a simple, blue silk dressing gown, questioned, “Why did you come here?”
“You know why I came here,” snapped Sam.
“Because of what happened the other day?” sneered Isisandra. “You think because of what happened we have some connection?”
“Do we not?” asked Sam, leaning closer to the younger girl.
“No more connection than I’ve had with dozens of others,” responded Isisandra, sitting back and crossing her arms. “As have you, I’m sure. You want to believe you were my first? You were not. You think you taught me something? You did not. It wasn’t special. It was sex. A momentary pleasure, nothing more.”
Sam scowled at the girl.
“If that is all, I have things to do today,” declared Isisandra. “Last night was the palace’s Winter Gala, and I… Ah, now I see.”
“What?” snapped Sam.
“You are not upset I did not send you a note afterward. That’s not why you’re scorned. You are jealous about what happened with Oliver,” guessed Isisandra. She paused, her pretty lips turning down in a frown. “Why do you know about that? You weren’t at the ball. I’m certain I would have noticed you, and we didn’t return to his— He’s not staying here, in the palace. He said he was going to his home in the city.”
Sam crossed her arms over her chest.
“You are staying at Duke Wellesley’s home?” questioned Isisandra. “I thought you were simply assigned by the Church to assist him. It is not that simple, is it?”
“We are not lovers if that’s what you’re implying,” said Sam. “I was helping him with his investigation into the matter of your parents’ death. I still am.”
“Still?” questioned Isisandra. “He told me last night that there were no leads, nothing to show for your work. He left me no hope that the culprit would be found. Is that not true?”
Sam shifted, suddenly regretting coming to confront the girl.
“Those were my parents who were killed,” demanded Isisandra. “If you know something, tell me.”
“I don’t know anything,” murmured Sam, glancing down at her feet, feeling foolish.
“What are you investigating, then?” cried Isisandra, standing abruptly. “I have to know. Is there a chance my parents will have justice?”
“There’s a chance,” admitted Sam. “Look, this is… If it wasn’t your parents, I wouldn’t say anything, but you deserve to know. We’re trying something, and I hope it works. I warn you, Isisandra. If we find out who did this, it will not cover the hole in your heart. It-it might even make things worse. Your parents… They were involved in things they should not have been, things that may have gotten them killed. I am sorry to tell you that, but it is the truth. You should know before it spills out.”
“I… suspected something was amiss,” murmured Isisandra, her head falling forward, a lock of jet-black hair cascading over her eyes. “My parents grew distant in the last few years. They didn’t spend time with me. They met with strange people. They would disappear with no explanation. I-I didn’t know what to do, though, who to talk to.”
Sam studied Isisandra, so fragile, so vulnerable, and suddenly, she felt horrible about harassing the girl. There had been something there when they were together, she was certain of it, but she also understood why a young girl in Isisandra’s position would be attracted to the security that Duke could offer. He was handsome, wealthy, and not as terrible of a person as one might expect. For a young girl in society, he was as perfect of a man as a debutante could hope to find. She knew Duke wasn’t what the girl wanted, but Sam understood why Isisandra might think he was what she needed.
“I am sorry I snapped at you earlier,” said Isisandra, her eyes downcast. “Can you forgive me?”
“I can,” replied Sam. She lifted a hand then dropped it. “There is something I must do today, but can we talk? About your parents and the people they associated with?”
“I thought there was something else you wanted to… discuss,” replied Isisandra, looking up through a shroud of silky hair, fluttering her eyelashes at Sam.
Sam grunted. “That too, but we need to know who was involved in the same things you parents were. They could be dangerous people.”
“We?”
Grimacing, Sam admitted, “Duke Wellesley, myself, and my mentor in the Church.”
“You think you will catch my parents’ killer?” asked Isisandra. “When?”
“Soon, Isisandra, but really, I cannot speak of it. It is too dangerous.�
��
Isisandra looked up and met her eyes. “You’ll move against the killer, these bad people you speak of, tonight?”
Sam winced.
“It is tonight, isn’t it?” questioned Isisandra.
“We will talk soon,” muttered Sam.
Then, she turned to go. She felt the younger girl’s eyes on her as she exited the room. She forced herself to move slow and not break into a run getting through the doorway.
She walked into Duke’s office and hefted the heavy packet onto his desk.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Whatever your brother’s secretary had for you,” she responded. “Remember, it was my pretense for being in the palace, dropping hints that we are hiding out here?”
Duke frowned and ripped open the package. Peering inside, he murmured, “Ah, the ship manifests from the Company, the ones we’d requested while we were investigating in Harwick. To be honest, I’d forgotten about them.”
She walked to the side of the office where a decanter of liquor sat surrounded by crystal glasses. She unstoppered the container, hesitated, and put the top back in. “I suppose we should stay alert tonight.”
“We should,” agreed Duke, shaking the papers out of the packet onto his desk.
“So, what can we do with all of that?” asked Sam, moving to the other side of his desk and sitting down, propping her boots on the corner of the expansive, mahogany surface.
“The Company records everything. Each transaction, each bundle of inventory, each member of the crew, every passenger,” answered Duke. “If Countess Dalyrimple rode a Company airship from Archtan Atoll to Enhover, it should be noted somewhere within these documents.”
Sam eyed the stack of papers the nobleman was piling on his desk. There were hundreds of sheets of paper, all covered in small, cramped script. “You’ll never get through all of that.”
