by A. C. Cobble
The shimmering golden light was gone, its power faded with the death of the summoner. The four braziers still burned with natural flame, and the bodies still littered the floor. Off to one side, the injured wolfmalkin uttered a pained whimper.
Sam ignored it, for the moment, and stooped to collect Thotham’s spear. She walked to kneel beside her mentor.
“I am sorry,” murmured Duke, coming to stand beside her. “I-I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It is what he wanted,” she replied, not looking up to see the nobleman’s face.
Duke breathed a sigh that she imagined was relief.
“It’s not what I wanted,” she added. “There had to be another way. Another… some other way.”
They emerged from the underground cavern like prisoners released from a cell after a decade of confinement. They blinked, shielding their eyes from the light of the rising sun. It streamed through the windows of the manor, showing them a wealthy but abandoned home. Sheets were hung over much of the furniture to protect it from dust. The place was empty, all of the servants apparently meeting their end in the sorcerous chamber below. There was food in the larder of a quality that they would expect for the staff. They found little in the way of fine wine and spirits, which Sam thought was deeply disappointing, and that was it. The rooms they took to be Isisandra’s and her parents’ were nearly empty with only few items of clothing and no personal effects.
Duke carried Thotham’s body up and without speaking. They took it outside, beyond the walls of the compound, where he would not have to rest within the terrible structure.
Sam looked down at him and leaned on his spear, exhausted. Her eyes were fixed on it, but she did not see the body. Instead, she felt the spear, the curling, archaic script that had been etched there, the hardness of the wood, and the warmth that emanated from the weapon.
Thotham was gone but not entirely. She drew a deep breath, feeling the fresh air fill her lungs, feeling the carved wood as she slid her palm along it.
They stood there for half an hour, not speaking, before she finally looked up at Duke and offered, “I forgive you.”
He blinked at her like it hadn’t occurred that he should seek forgiveness, but she chose to ignore that. Instead, still clutching the spear in her hands, she turned to the manor. “We have to destroy it. Every stick and every brick in this place could be tainted. We have to make sure nothing is taken from here. Nothing can leave which might impart some small piece of knowledge to anyone else.”
Duke nodded. “Captain Ainsley has an airship filled with explosives.”
“That should suffice,” agreed Sam. “We’ll need to carry them down into the chamber below. We have to do it ourselves. No amount of explosives will penetrate that deep if we bomb it from above, and it must be done. That chamber must be destroyed, Duke. No one else should see what is down there. We cannot risk them taking a souvenir, finding an entrance to the dark path.”
The nobleman grunted, obviously not relishing the thought of lugging giant bombs down the ten flights of stairs but also realizing the wisdom of her comments.
“Signal the captain, then,” she instructed, “and I’ll take a look around the property. It appeared Isisandra conducted the bulk of her sorcery below in that chamber, but it’s possible she left some other items elsewhere.”
“Items we will destroy, right?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Sam,” said Duke, turning to face her. “You are right. The artifacts, the knowledge in the books here, it is too dangerous to risk spreading. We will destroy everything that we find. We’ll make sure no one sees it again, including us.”
“Duke, we already discussed—”
“Sam,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I am saying this as a duke, a son of the king of Enhover. Whatever we find, we will destroy.”
She stared at him, considering arguments about how important the artifacts could be for study by the Church, how it might give them an advantage against another sorcerer, but none of it mattered. He was right. She nodded, and he offered her a small smile.
“I’ll find some wood to burn,” he said then led her back inside the manor.
While Duke smashed furniture and piled it outside to make a fire to alert Captain Ainsley, she walked slowly through the empty rooms they’d only given a cursory glance at earlier. The geas of the endless hallway and hidden doors had been broken with the death of Isisandra. In the light of the new-born day, she could see what they had missed the night before.
As she went, she was shocked at how little evidence of life she found until she considered the chamber below. The Dalyrimples couldn’t risk that kind of evidence remaining in Derbycross while they were in Archtan Atoll. Whatever servants they kept at the country manor would be their most loyal. There could not be many they would trust with the secrets the estate held.
She paused, halfway up a stairwell, and frowned.
Their assumption was those servants had all been killed, but what if they had not? They would need to obtain a list, if such a thing existed, of who worked there. She started walking again, considering the impossibility of identifying the mutilated corpses below and how difficult it would be to even determine how many of them there were. Flesh and bones had all been torn, smashed, and demolished in Isisandra’s sorcerous rites. If some members of the Dalyrimple staff escaped, they would never be able to tell from the evidence left in that chamber.
She found nothing of interest inside of the house. Isisandra did not live in the place, and nothing in the building was hers. Her parents’ rooms were just as barren. Sam knew they operated in the chamber below. That was why they came to the estate when they did, and she’d already examined the items there.
Sam stepped outside the back of the manor, drawing a deep breath of fresh air… and a hint of blood. She sniffed again then spotted a black vehicle parked just inside of the carriage house, a carriage from the city of Westundon, if she wasn’t mistaken.
She walked over and quickly saw the source of the blood. A man was lying face down, dressed in the livery of the driver’s guild. His neat, black coat was slit in the back where she was certain a dagger had been thrust into him from behind.
A public carriage driver not given a chance to return to Westundon and share what he’d seen, who he had transported. Shaking her head at the injustice, Sam looked up and saw on the back of the carriage a heavy wooden trunk.
She approached it and hesitantly flipped it open.
It was half-filled with the hastily packed remnants of a noble lady’s life. Sam winced as she recognized a red silk robe, the one Isisandra had been wearing when… She shivered and pawed through the rest of the contents of the trunk, finding more clothing, combs, containers for makeup, a plethora of shoes, and at the bottom, a slim black book.
She pulled it out and set it aside as she finished rooting through Isisandra’s wardrobe then turned to the book.
There was no text on the front, the binding, or even the back, just a five-pointed silver star with an almond-shaped eye in the center of it. She turned it over in her hands, frowning at it. Why would the girl have a single volume packed away in her trunk? There was an entire library on the shelves of the macabre chamber below the manor. Sam opened the book and gasped. The pages were filled with small, neatly drawn runes. Runes that she could read a few of and many that she could not.
Eyebrows scrunched, she flipped the pages, letting her gaze trace the sharp, archaic script. From the Darklands, she was certain, but it was not the modern writing of that land. This was older, ancient. Her hands trembled as she continued to turn the pages, finding symbols, diagrams—
She flipped to the beginning and puzzled out the title there. The Book of Law.
“The Feet of Seheht, huh?” asked Duke.
She turned and saw the nobleman had approached quietly.
“The feet of what? What did you say?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t said what she thought he had.
“Seheht,” replied Duke. “Do you think the marquess was a member? It would fit, for a man like him. Isisandra is a bit young, at least on the noble side of the society from what I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?” whispered Sam.
Duke blinked at her, frowning. “The Feet of Seheht… It’s one of those silly secret societies the nobles waste their time on. Like the one we uncovered in Harwick, remember? What was that called, the Mouth of Set? Costumes, rituals… From what I understand, most of it is just an excuse for older peers to get a little excitement. Many of the rituals are purported to be sexual in nature…”
“Sexual rituals?” asked Sam, forcing down the cold knot of concern growing in her gut.
“It’s a, ah, a cult I suppose you could say,” replied Duke. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to one of their events. I know people, though…”
“You know members of the Feet of Seheht?” questioned Sam.
“Some…” answered Duke, clearly picking up the tension in her tone. “It’s harmless, isn’t it? Certainly no one was keeping it much of a secret. Older men and women, younger ones to pair with them, conducting strange ritual sexual rites at midnight. I— Sam, I know people who have been members, and not a one of them would be involved in anything like what we saw below. My cousin Lannia, she wouldn’t… It’s just a mockery of real sorcery, just a way to associate with other members of society, get drunk, take a little syrup of the poppy, and get naked every solstice… right?”
She held up the book. “Why, then, was this in Isisandra’s trunk? Why is it tucked in amongst her clothing? Duke, I believe this text is written in Darklands script from hundreds of years ago. No noble in Enhover would be able to read this. Duke, why would Isisandra have this, one of the few items she threw into her trunk before fleeing, unless it was real? Why is this one, the Book of Law, the one book she saved?”
The nobleman frowned at the volume in her hand, his lips pressed tightly together, his hands clenched into fists. “The Feet of Seheht is just playacting. I’m sure of it.”
“In Harwick, we uncovered a group calling themselves the Mouth of Set,” replied Sam.
Duke shifted on his feet and nodded.
“Set is one aspect of a purported lord of the underworld,” explained Sam. “It is a popular name in occult literature, not difficult to find and not surprising some nobleman would pick it as the name of an organization. Seheht is a second aspect of the lord, and Seshim is the third. The dark trinity, these aspects are called. Together, they are supposed to have incredible power, second only to another spirit lord, Ca-Mi-He, the one the countess contacted right before she was murdered.”
“S-so…” stammered Duke. He ran his hand over his hair, checking the knot at the back and then cursing when he found it had slipped. “I don’t understand.”
“Hathia Dalyrimple was involved in a society known as the Mouth of Set. Her daughter has a book from the Feet of Seheht. That is two of the three aspects of the dark trinity. Is that a coincidence?”
Grim-faced, Duke shook his head. “The trail does not end in that chamber below, does it?”
“Mother, father, daughter… Given what we’ve seen, can we assume anything is a coincidence anymore?” questioned Sam. “When we return to Westundon, we should gather your brother, Bishop Yates—”
“No,” interjected Duke, frowning. “I told you. I know people who were in these societies. For young peers, it’s quite common… I don’t think my brother would be involved in anything like what we found below. I know he wouldn’t. I’d trust Philip with my life, with anything… He’s the best man I know, but what if I’m wrong?”
Sam looked into the duke’s eyes and saw the worry, the fear. She told him, “We have to find out.”
Staring at the book in her hands, Duke added, “In Archtan Atoll, in Swinpool, someone followed us. Someone was aware of our movements. Sam, if we continue on this trail, it has to be between us. No one else can know.”
“You and me, then,” she agreed.
The Cartographer XXII
He tossed back the drink, letting the fiery liquid burn down his throat, warm his stomach, and fortify his courage.
“Another?” asked the barman.
Oliver looked up at the man, his bald pate reflecting the low candlelight in the pub, his short, brown beard speckled with longer white hairs, and his eyes burning with awareness.
“How long have you owned this pub, Andrew?” asked Oliver.
“Long as I can remember,” responded the barman.
“And is owning a pub all you ever wanted?” Oliver questioned.
Andrew chuckled. “Naw, drinking every day is all I ever wanted. I figured opening a pub was the easiest way to do it.”
“A drink together, then?” suggested Oliver.
The barman shrugged and set another small glass on the counter. He poured one for the duke, one for the priestess, and one for himself. Without word, he raised the glass, waited until they’d followed suit, and downed it. Without comment, he walked off, a rag in his hand, wiping down his bar, though there hadn’t been another patron seated at it since Sam and Oliver arrived.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked him.
“No,” replied Oliver, reaching for the bottle of spirits Andrew had left behind. “That’s why I am drinking so much.”
“Do not get drunk and sloppy,” warned Sam.
“Last one,” agreed Oliver. He topped her off as well.
They finished their drinks and then stood and walked out the back door of the Befuddled Sage. Sam steered him to a dark alley behind the tavern, around several fog-damp barrels, and led him several blocks into an abandoned courtyard.
“You are sure no one will see us in here?” asked Oliver, glancing around the courtyard and back down the dark alley.
“I am sure,” she mumbled, flexing her hand. “I, ah, I come and go back here from time to time. I’ve never had a problem. Now, take it off.”
“Not while you’re watching,” he complained. “Go fetch the carriage, and I’ll change.”
Sighing and affecting a pout, she turned and walked out of the courtyard into the street beyond.
Rolling his eyes, Oliver stripped out of his clothing. From a pack they’d brought with them, he pulled out a bundle of new clothing. Dressing quickly in the chill night air, he glanced up at the shuttered second-floor windows lining the courtyard. Businesses which should be closed this late at night, but one never knew.
He ran his hand over his hair, touching the knot in the back. The knot that always gave him assurance. The knot tied by a thin leather thong that had been his mother’s once. He remembered she wore it to tie back her hair when she played with him as a child, when they pretended to be explorers seeking the next horizon. That was before she… before she what? The vision of the underworld, was it real? She had not been there, not a part of that unending march across the spectral landscape. Was it a trick of the sorcerous powder Marquess Colston had thrown in his face, or… or what?
Shaking his head, knowing he did not have the answer, he pulled a black silk mask over his face then pulled up the cowl of the robe. He tugged on gloves and looked down at himself, every inch of his body covered in black silk. He felt rather silly, but it was the only way in.
He waited until he heard the rumble of carriage wheels stop at the mouth of the courtyard. A door clicked open, and he rushed out and climbed into the carriage. Sam stood on the street behind him.
Before shutting the door, she whispered, “No one should suspect where this carriage came from or who is in it. If there are watchers, all they will know is that you entered the Befuddled Sage with me and they’ll think we are inside until you return. If anyone suspicious comes sniffing around, Andrew will let me know.”
Oliver nodded, unsure if she saw the gesture, but the carriage lurched into motion, and he remained quiet. He peered out the tiny opening between the window frame and the curtain that covered the glass. The dark buildings were silent so l
ate in the evening. The black of night was broken only by a scattered few lit windows and the corner street lamps. Westundon was sleepy and cold on the eve of the winter solstice. It was just an hour before midnight.
The carriage traveled half a league until it slowed and then stopped outside a tall brick wall. Oliver could barely see the iron spikes ringing the barrier, and he waited nervously until the carriage lurched into motion, moving just a short distance before stopping again, this time inside a walled courtyard.
The door was opened from outside, and Oliver emerged, finding a masked and hooded man standing on the gravel. Another carriage was turning in the court and departing ahead of them. The masked figure nodded toward the door of the building.
He crossed the gravel expanse to it. Another robed figure opened the door and ushered Oliver inside. Plush carpet, silver lanterns, and bare stone walls. He followed the hallway, passing closed iron-bound wooden doors until he reached one at the end of the hall.
A third masked figure was standing in front of it. “Welcome, aspirant. Tonight, we renounce our primitive selves, our realistic selves, and our moral selves. Are you ready to set them aside and become one with Seheht?”
Drawing a deep breath, Oliver touched his chest, his pointer and thumb forming a circle, the other three fingers held straight.
The masked man nodded and then turned and opened the door.
Oliver walked inside.
The Cartographer I
The man held his gaze. Only his flat, brown eyes were visible beneath the black, silk mask. His voice was deep, and cracked with the strain of speaking in a slow, solemn rasp. “Welcome, aspirant. Tonight, we renounce our primitive selves, our realistic selves, and our moral selves. Are you ready to set them aside and become one with the spirit Seheht?”
Oliver drew a deep breath and touched his chest, his pointer and thumb forming a circle, the other three fingers sticking out straight.
