by A. C. Cobble
King Edward smirked. “My youngest would benefit from a lasting union, yes, but he heeds little of my counsel.”
“Well, when you, my father, or any of your sons can find a match who can afford theatre seats this grand, I’ll be happy to accompany them to any show they invite me to.”
The king rolled his eyes. “No one can afford seats like these, not as often as you want to attend. You grew up with Enhover’s treasury at your disposal, Lannia. You cannot expect a suitor to have access to the same funds. The only men of your age with that sort of income are your cousins. Will you marry one of them?”
She smiled at the king. “No, of course not, but that does not mean I shall lower my standards. The man I marry must have standing amongst the peers, and he must have the financial resources to take care of me. Perhaps someone with shares in Company stock and a barony. That would be a good start. As well as solid income and a title, he must be interesting and interested. He must be handsome, of course. Well read, versed in sport—”
“You forget that he must exist!” The king laughed. “I’m not sure there’s a man in Enhover who meets those criteria, my girl. Perhaps a compromise? You can find a man with standing amongst the peers, and your father’s estate will provide the financing for your lifestyle, or you can find a solid Company man, and we’ll look at granting him a title. A good woman molds the man to the form she desires, but you’ve got to start with the man!”
“And the theatre seats?” jested Lannia.
“Find the man, and I’ll share my seats,” claimed Edward. “I’m too old for going out and taking in these shows anyway. At my age, I’d much rather be sitting in my study in front of the fire sipping a glass of mulled wine.”
“You don’t drink mulled wine,” said Lannia. Her lips curled into a smile. “Besides, uncle, your books and scrolls are not going anywhere. They’ll be the same they were the year before and the year before that. The theatre is changing. The theatre is dynamic. Every season there is something new. You should be out while you’re young and spry. Save the books for when you’re old and decrepit.”
King Edward snorted. “I am old and decrepit.”
Lannia shook her head, grinning at her uncle. “You’re in better shape than men half your age. I don’t think you’ve aged a day since I was a girl, uncle. We should go out tonight, after the performance. Let’s have drinks and go dancing!”
“Dancing?” cried Edward. “You want me to go dancing? I’m the king, niece. I do not go dancing.”
“Perhaps not dancing,” she admitted. “Maybe Oliver will go with me. Is he still at the palace?”
“He is,” confirmed the king. “The boy’s growing up, though, Lannia. He has a lot on his mind this evening. You heard about Imbon and the uprising?”
“What does that have to do with Oliver?” she demanded.
The king stared back at her.
“I know. I know,” she groused. She glanced down at the orchestra pit and judged a few more minutes before the lights would be dimmed. Turning back to her uncle, she asked, “Grown up. You don’t mean he won’t go dancing or give a girl a tumble. What is it, then, uncle? What do you mean Oliver is growing up?”
“I mean Oliver is at a point where he must decide what is important to him,” explained the king, “his own flights of fancy or the Crown? He was quite upset about all of this mess with the Dalyrimples. What he saw in Imbon only exacerbated what he’s going through.”
“What he’s going through? I don’t understand,” said Lannia. She felt a flicker of annoyance skirt across her consciousness and roughly shoved it down. “It’s terrible we lost the colony, but you’ll be able to get it back, won’t you?”
“Of course. That’s not what the boy is upset about. It’s not so different from what your own father struggled with,” continued Edward. “Both he and Oliver have personal ambition along with intelligence and skills. That’s taken them far. Both had to decide, though, where their loyalty lies. They have to choose a path. Is it in their own ambition, or is it with the Crown? Oliver had a difficult awakening in Imbon, and he’s facing the reality that despite his talent and resources, there are some things he cannot change. The world is a harsh place, yes? Sometimes representing the Crown, we have to act in ways that seem harsh as well. It’s what we must do, for Enhover. Our ancestors formed this nation from the four distinct regions of the continent. They consolidated it and held it. They built a strong core. It is on our shoulders to continue expanding their work. The colonies, the United Territories, the land beyond the horizon, those are the blank pages we can write upon. The reach of our empire goes where we carry it.”
“And Oliver is no longer interested in carrying that weight?” wondered Lannia.
“Every generation must become accustomed to the heft of their responsibilities,” said the king. “Oliver, our cartographer, has drawn his lines with ink. He’s learning that sometimes those lines are drawn in blood.”
Below them, the discordant plucking of the instruments silenced. The lights in the theatre dimmed, and the drums began to boom a commanding beat. The show was beginning.
The Priestess X
“They had me kill the man in cold blood,” she said. “A knife in the neck and that was that. He dabbled a bit in potions, maybe some other things he should have left alone, but he wasn’t a bad sort. He helped me get from Valerno to Romalla, for one. He didn’t have to do that. Didn’t have to take the risk that he did.”
“Ruthless killers,” agreed Duke. He drank deeply of his ale and then wiped his lips.
“The worst was that they’d known the man. Known him for years!” exclaimed Sam. She snapped her fingers. “They made the decision to kill him just like that. For what? To prove a point?”
“A pointless point,” muttered Duke darkly.
“Are you drunk?” she wondered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Nah.” He sipped his ale again and set it down. “I had a little wine earlier’s’all. What I meant was that they had you prove yourself, and then you left. You didn’t get their help, and they didn’t get yours. The man’s death was for nothing.”
“Nothing,” agreed Sam, nodding slowly. “I did collect some of his potions, at least. Better in my hands than theirs.”
“Aye, we might need the stuff,” responded Duke. “Assuming we ever find out who is behind all of this.”
“Right, if we ever do.”
Duke drank down the rest of his ale and circled his finger in the air to the barman for another round.
“The uprising, I saw it in the papers,” mentioned Sam. “Was it as bad as it sounded?”
“It was worse,” replied Duke, his speech thick and slow. “I didn’t read about it. I saw it.” He shuddered, toying with his empty ale mug. “There will be thousands dead by the time all is said and done. My father and the Company are assembling a retaliatory force now. They’ll bomb any two sticks they find leaning against each other and send the marines trooping through the jungle to slaughter anyone who doesn’t know the difference between Middlebury and Swinpool. There won’t be a native left alive when they’ve finished. For what? Another warehouse filled to the rafters with spices? Another storeroom shelf stacked with pounds sterling?”
“They will kill everyone?” questioned Sam.
Duke snorted. “Everyone. They wanted me to do it, to lead the forces myself. I told them no. They don’t need me. Every living soul on that island will be dead in the next two weeks with or without my involvement. Spirits, my involvement… It’s what started this, isn’t it? Without me, none of this would have happened.”
“Someone would have found that island,” consoled Sam. “With or without you, the rail was laid. Conflict was inevitable. It’s the way of the world.”
Duke shook his head.
She thought he looked like he could use a hug. Instead, she asked, “Can they escape?”
“On the way out, Ainsley blasted holes in every sailing ship of decent size,” answered Du
ke. “They could fashion rafts, I suppose, but with the currents in those seas, I don’t think they stand much of a chance of making shore anywhere. Unless the United Territories or some other unwitting visitor arrives with a seaworthy vessel and a captain who doesn’t survey the port before dropping anchor, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Terrible,” said Sam. “Just awful.”
The barman Andrew dropped off two more mugs of ale, his eyes darting between the pair of them. Then, he moved away without speaking.
Duke returned to his ale with determination.
She gave him a moment before asking, “Is it true there were lizards longer than an airship?”
“Depends if you count the tail,” answered Duke, not bothering to look up.
She gaped at him.
“I killed one of them,” he slurred. “Shot it in the belly with a cannon. Tore a hole straight through the thing. It fell down next to me. Head was the size of this bar counter, teeth the size of you.”
“That wasn’t in the papers,” she mumbled. “What… what was it?”
“The natives have some knowledge of the supernatural,” answered Duke. “The artifacts we collected were related to sorcery. I turned those over to my father for further examination. The lizards, though… it didn’t feel the same. I don’t think sorcery is the explanation. In Derbycross, Archtan Atoll, it was cold. Does that make sense? I could feel the bitter chill seeping from Isisandra and Colston. In Imbon, it was warm.”
“Imbon is rather warm,” reminded Sam, wondering just how drunk the man was.
Duke shook his head. “Not like that, it was… a sense, I guess. I could sense a warmth that was outside of the ambient air, outside of anything I can describe. Like a warm pitcher of water pouring over my skin, but… but not like that, really. Is druid magic like that? Warm?”
“Druid magic wasn’t part of my training,” said Sam. “I haven’t heard of anything or felt anything like what you describe. It makes me curious, though. If that kind of thing is possible in Imbon, then it could be possible anywhere. Armies of giant beasts strolling across the countryside, sacking cities, wrecking armies. Some of the lizards are still there in Imbon?”
“Not for long,” remarked Duke. “My father and the Company are going to kill every man, woman, lizard, and child on that island. They’re not going to pause and figure out how it was done. I’m sure Admiral Brach would love the secret, but my father will be happy as long as no one else has it. Someone directed the creatures, so someone knows, but that knowledge is going to be lost forever.”
“Such a waste,” replied Sam.
“Such a waste,” agreed Duke.
“I need something stronger than this ale,” declared Sam. She looked up to the barman Andrew. “What do you suggest?”
“Well,” said the bartender, studying them, “if you want to get proper twisted…” He reached behind and opened the narrow cupboard where he kept the wormwood liquor. “This is a new batch from Rhensar. It packs a punch.”
“Sounds good,” declared Duke, banging his empty mug on the counter.
“I don’t know,” worried Sam. “That stuff’ll grab you different than ale or wine.”
“What do you mean?” wondered Duke. “You said you needed something strong, no?”
“They call it blood of the fae,” offered Andrew. “It used to be popular with some of the society sets. You know the ones I mean. Tipplers claimed it helped to see the world like one of the fae. Others say it just gets you drunk. In my opinion, a good drunk can help you sort things out, sometimes. And you two, as usual, have got a bit to sort out.”
“I don’t think—” she began.
“Pour it,” instructed Duke. “I want to wake up when all of this is over.”
Sam met Andrew’s eyes. The barman must have seen her concern, but without comment, he began preparing the glasses for them. Sugar, water, and the blood of the fae. There was art and pleasure in the preparation, she knew, but all she could think of was that they were walking down another unknown path, and this one would be lit by a strange, green glow.
“See you two on the other side,” said Andrew, setting down the bottle in between the pair of glasses.
The Cartographer XII
Bitter cold encompassed him. His breath billowed in front of him like angry fire disgorged from the maw of a mighty dragon. Turning, he looked back to see if he had a long green tail like those creatures of story, but there was nothing there. Nothing at all. He was incorporeal, insubstantial, less than the mist he breathed out. He looked down at himself and saw nothing.
He could see around himself, though. Spread before him were high, knife-edged mountains. White like bone, rimmed in frost. Mountains he recognized from long ago. Cold surrounding him, he felt a flutter of trepidation and a creeping understanding that he knew this place. He’d seen it long ago and not so long ago. He turned, and through the shroud of his breath and the shroud of other, he saw the billowing, cold fire. White flames reached to the sky in a raging, frigid, slow-moving inferno. The flame shed no light on him or on the mountains, no light on anything, but from a distance, he could feel the cold of the fire creeping through his nonexistent flesh.
Northundon, the source of the flame. Unending fuel for the fire.
No, he realized, the city was not the source of the fuel. Below him, in a long, single, sinuous line, marched the dead. Souls headed toward the inferno where they’d be consumed in its cold, white flame. Souls that had once been citizens of Northundon, he knew. His people now marched across the underworld in an unending sacrificial parade. Why were they marching to destruction? What would happen to them, he wondered, if they died in the underworld?
“Have you come to join us, Oliver Wellesley?” they asked him. Their voices, like dry bone rubbing against another, came from ahead of him, behind, and under. Each soul in the line, speaking as one, they asked him, “Is it your time?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He had no body in this strange place. Though he breathed and had breath, he had no mouth and no words. The world spun as he considered that. He had no answer, no understanding of what he was seeing and feeling, but it was not his time, he knew that. Not yet.
“Do you seek her still?” asked the souls. “You were told once before she is not here. She never was. Why do you come again, Oliver Wellesley, if not to join us?”
He strived to ask the souls what they spoke of, but he could not.
“She was part of the bargain, Oliver Wellesley,” intoned the souls. “She was once there, in that place, as were we. She was part of the bargain, part of the sacrifice. Where is she, Oliver Wellesley?”
His mother. They spoke of his mother.
“Will you take her place so that the bargain can be completed, Oliver Wellesley? We have waited so long, suffered so long. End our torment, Oliver Wellesley. You can take her place. You can join our sacrifice, fulfill the bargain. Your blood, Oliver Wellesley, will suffice.”
His mother was not here, not in the underworld, not part of… of what?
He shifted, turning his insubstantial body to face the fire, to feel the blistering chill, the horrible menace radiating from its white flame. Towering far above what he could see, the flame stretched beyond the sky, certainly beyond what Northundon looked like following the attack.
She was not here, but she had been there. What did the shades at his feet mean?
“You see her. Do you see her?” questioned the march of souls. “Find her. Send her soul to finish the bargain or take her place. We suffer, Oliver Wellesley. Complete the sacrifice. Free us.”
She was not here, but she had been there. Where was she?
“Find her, Oliver Wellesley. Look for her there. We invite you. We welcome you. Find her and find your answers. Free us. Understand. Go there.”
Terrible, throbbing pain assailed him. It felt like a strong man with a hammer was bashing his skull over and over again. He only wished the man would finish the job and finally crush the mess of b
one and flesh. Spill his brains and end it. He raised his arms, gripping his skull, keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Frozen hell, I’m hung over,” complained a voice next to him, the sound rough and painful, not unlike the bone-dry rasp of the marching souls. “Spirits, why are you so cold?”
Beside him, warm flesh shifted, and he felt a wave of air slide down his side. Cold air, but it warmed him. He was cold, but the tight agony in his head forced out all other discomforts.
“Frozen hell, I’ve got to start the fire… Make some tea or something,” complained the brittle, scratching voice.
He curled tight into a ball, the pounding in his head continuing, the cool air not bothering him. The voice was right. He was cold. He wanted to be cold.
Clatter and curses intruded on his pain, but he refused to open his eyes. The relentless throb in his skull beat in time with grim flashes of vivid memory. Not of the night before, he couldn’t recall any of that, but of the horrific dream he’d had. The underworld, his mother, Northundon…
“I have sugar now,” called a voice from somewhere distant. “We got it from that apothecary along with the… Ah, why am I talking about that…”
Something smelled awful and his stomach churned.
Hungover. He’d felt worse, he thought, or maybe not. Probably not, he decided.
Struggling, he forced himself to sit, half-slumped over, but better than lying flat. A scalding hot bath, coffee, some powder to relieve the pain, and gentle fingers to massage his head and neck. Definitely some water. Dry toast and a nap once the powder went to work. Sleep and give time for the drink to bleed from his system. One of his servants could rub his neck and shoulders until he sank into unconsciousness. That was what he needed.
“Well, this isn’t as hot as it probably should be, but I think it’s hot enough to steep the leaves. I put sugar in yours. Do you take it? If it’s not hot enough, ah, I suppose we could make more. Last time, I burned it rather badly, which I don’t quite understand. It’s just water and leaves. Took me a full turn of the clock to scrape the damn things off the bottom of the kettle. I tried the leaves in the mugs this time. I don’t have a lot of sugar. If you want some, this is the cup.”
