by A. C. Cobble
“I suggest you travel to the center of Enhover,” said the old man. “From there, the furcula will pull you toward the taint of the underworld. Find it, and you will find those responsible for the destruction of your home and mine.”
“We’ll try,” said Oliver, glancing at Sam. She still looked suspicious, but she did not comment.
She was right to not trust the little man, but could he be telling the truth? If the Coldlands shaman thought a cabal of sorcerers in Enhover was responsible for Northundon, ones too powerful for him to confront alone, did it not make sense he would try to use Oliver and Sam to exact his revenge? However it turned out, whichever side died in the conflict, the old man won.
“One more piece of advice, Oliver Wellesley,” said the old man. “Your family has built an incredible empire. Your power has spread across the shores of many lands. You are not the first, though, to claim foreign lands, to build such an empire. Others have gone before you, fashioning their own legacies. They are all gone now, like my people. Most are not even memories. It is the fate of all empires to fall. Even mighty Enhover will fall, when it is time. Who will be the cause?”
Oliver stared at the man, not responding.
The old man smirked. “You do not think it will happen? There are no threats you perceive that can topple you? What other nations have the strength to face Enhover’s might, you think? You are right. No other nations can match Enhover, but it is always the fate of empire to fall. It is the fate of empire to crumble from within. Do not ask when, Oliver Wellesley, because it is soon. Instead, ask who. Ask who within your empire will be the seed of its demise.”
“You are crazy, old man,” snapped Sam.
Toying with the furcula, feeling it pull gently in his hands, Oliver turned to Sam. “It’s time to go home.”
The Priestess XVII
Above her, the branches creaked, rubbing against each other and showering a trickle of snow. Already, a light coating was accumulating on the tarp she and Duke had strung to provide them shelter. Their fire, rebuilt after visiting the old man, hissed as the frozen water fell into it. Beside her, the peer’s breathing came in long, deep intervals.
It was time.
Moving slowly and wincing at the crunch of frozen snow, she rolled out from under the tarp and stood. Duke mumbled in his sleep. She crouched down, tucking her blanket, still warm from her body, tight around the man. She put a few more sticks from their pile onto the fire and waited. He settled down, and she stood back up.
She buckled on her knife belt, checking the kris daggers to make sure they hadn’t frozen in the sheath. Cold-numbed fingers darted around her body, touching the poignards in her boots, the knife at her back, and then, she collected her spear, Thotham’s old weapon. She hoped it would keep her fingers warm, and when she needed to act, they wouldn’t be stiff from the cold.
Stalking carefully, she made her way out of camp, following the same trail they’d broken earlier in the evening. She arrived at the frozen river and hurried, glancing up and seeing it was two hours after midnight. Still time until dawn, she thought, to do what was needed and then return to camp. When sun broke, she hoped to be asleep at Duke’s side.
The moon gave enough illumination that she was able to follow their tracks, moving silently along the frozen river then louder but slower along the path through the trees to the fire that had first attracted them. It was black and dead now, burnt out. Even the embers had been killed by the cold air and falling snow.
She walked the well-worn path the old man had led them down. His stone home rose before her, the black silhouette standing out even in the dark forest. The torches that bracketed the entrance had been extinguished. Only a dim glow gave away the opening to the cave mouth.
Sam stepped inside, gratefully leaving the crunching snow behind. She waited a moment, standing on the stone path that tunneled into the massive rock. Then, her spear held before her, she slunk along the edge of the wall, hoping the low light coming from the man’s glowing hearth wasn’t enough to cast her shadow.
She saw the fire first, only orange-red coals radiating heat but barely illuminating the kitchen and sitting area around it, failing to reach the ceiling of the domed space or the back corner. Stepping into the open area, she paused, looking away from the hearth, letting her eyes adjust to the dark room. The fire popped, and she bit down on her tongue, nearly squeaking in surprise. She waited, but there were no other sounds. Absolute silence. She couldn’t hear the breath of the old man, which made her nervous. No snores, no shifting in a rickety cot, nothing.
Taking steps slowly, she forced herself to remember the lessons her mentor had taught her. Placing her heel carefully and then rolling the rest of the foot down, she walked across the room. Each step took her half-a-dozen breaths to complete, but she moved across the stone floor in total silence. As long as she wasn’t spotted, only her own soft breathing could give her away, and she wasn’t going to stop breathing.
The lessons Totham had taught her years ago were like half-forgotten muscle memories, skills she hadn’t practiced in ages but had once practiced daily. The gift her mentor had left her, the knowledge of how to kill a man.
She’d been eager, at first, learning how to lash out against those who’d hurt her, learning how to get vengeance. And she’d done that, but it wasn’t why he’d taught her those skills. Even then, she’d known. She’d paid for her revenge by truly becoming the man’s pupil. She’d absorbed what he’d taught, learned it well, better even than the old man himself, she sometimes believed, but it had seemed for naught. For years, for a decade, they’d never found a trace of sorcery. They’d never sniffed a hint of that foul taint which he’d raised her to fight. It seemed it was already gone. Everyone said so. But now, she knew they were wrong. Now, she knew that awful stench was just as powerful as it had been back then, when Northundon had fallen. Now, finally, her purpose made sense. Now, finally, she could do what she’d been raised to do.
Sorcery was alive and well, and she was there to kill it.
Except, splayed out on the altar, his blood leaking down the front of the yellowed bones, was the old man, already dead. His bald head shone in the subtle light from the embers in the fireplace. His blood was like a black stain.
Cursing silently, she looked around. She saw no one, so she stalked closer, her spear held ready.
The man did not move and would not move. Drawing out her vial of fae light, she shook it and leaned closer. The old man’s throat had been slashed wide open, showing glistening, ruby-red flesh. A clean cut, no hesitation. There were no signs of struggle. There was no weapon, either, so someone else had committed the act, but as she looked around the area, touching nothing, she saw no obvious evidence.
Someone had slashed the old man’s throat to the bone, spraying his blood across the altar before he collapsed on it. There was no blank space in the pattern of spray, so they must have stood behind him. Behind, where there was no entry or exit. She surmised the old man must have known what was happening. How else could someone have snuck in while he stood there? Besides, the old man had sensed Sam and Duke. He would likely sense the approach of any others. The old man had acquiesced to this sacrifice.
But why, and who had done it?
The scrolls and several of the implements she’d observed behind the man when he’d handed Duke the furcula were missing. In the light of the fae, she could see faint outlines in the dust where some of them must have sat a long time before being taken. There was nothing of value left that she could see, except maybe…
She turned back to the altar and unceremoniously tugged the dead man off of it. He flopped onto the floor.
Tacky blood painted the bone altar where it had not spilled down the front. There were no pools of the sanguine liquid, though, which she would have suspected given how much must have pumped out of the gaping laceration in the man’s neck. It had dripped through the spaces between the bones. As she suspected, it was not only an altar but a reliquary. It was hol
low inside.
Bending close, she saw the reliquary was held together by slender leather thongs, tight from the cold and age. She couldn’t see anything on them, but when she touched one, she felt tiny intricate marks. Runes. Someone had stenciled runes on the thongs and bound hundreds of bones together with them. It was intricate, time-consuming work.
Setting her spear aside, she drew one of her kris daggers. With the razor-sharp tip, she snicked one of the leather thongs. She moved across, slicing open a line of them, circling the entire reliquary. After sheathing her dagger, she gripped the top, carefully avoiding spots of the old man’s blood, and lifted it.
She looked in and saw a note written on paper. The rest of the space was empty, though it was clear that had been a recent change. Indiscernible shapes were outlined in dust. Blood speckled the paper, so she inferred it had been laid there before the old man’s throat was cut, but after everything stored inside had been removed. There was no doubt the old man had known what was coming. Why? Who? And how had they opened and shut the reliquary without disturbing the ties?
Cursing under her breath, she picked up the page, pinching it carefully to avoid the spots of blood that had soaked into the parchment. It was thick, fine quality, and in elegant, delicately formed script, she read:
“The path you walk is a dark one. Those who walk it rarely turn. Decide if you will continue the walk or if you will stay in the light of the world. The time to decide is nigh. If you continue, answers lie in the blood of the three. If you continue, know others walk the path ahead of you.”
Snorting, she crumpled the paper and stalked to the fireplace. She tossed the wadded ball of parchment onto the embers then knelt, blowing on them until the paper caught. Scowling, she watched it burn. Walk the dark path? She wasn’t walking the dark path, and who had written such a thing? Who even could out in the wilderness? The blood of the three. Was it a false lead or something else? Someone had placed the parchment in the reliquary and killed the old man, ensuring he could tell her nothing more. They’d known he would talk, and somehow, they’d known she would return. How had they known? Who else could be out there in the uncharted wilderness with them? Had everything the man said been a false lead? Had everything he’d said been true?
She grimaced. She needed a proper drink and a tumble. Maybe then it would all make sense.
The Director IV
Randolph Raffles shifted the blade with his finger, moving it a few inches over so the tip of the gleaming dagger lay directly atop the city of Middlebury. He thought about snatching it up and slamming the blessed blade directly into the location on the carved map, but it seemed dramatic, like something some foul villain on the stage would do. Not that he didn’t acknowledge he was playing the role of the villain, but he was not a product of the feverish imagination of some poppy-dreaming stage-writer. Instead, he centered the tip of the knife directly above the city, hiding it from his view.
Carved with a map of the world, the dark wooden table had sat in his office in Company House for years. He’d rarely thought about it until Duke Wellesley commented on how inaccurate the depiction was. Now, he thought about it all of the time. So close to when he would achieve power to dominate all of those far-flung lands, he had a constant reminder of how little he knew of them, how unfathomable the scale of the world was, how unfathomable his power would be. The not knowing excited him, spoke to him of the possibilities. It also, in his most honest moments, scared him.
He flicked the dagger with his finger, this time spinning it, watching as the flashing steel swept over Enhover, turning for several long breaths. The blade stopped spinning, pointing to the coastal city of Swinpool.
Frowning, he flicked it spinning again. He had rather hoped it would stop and point to a more meaningful location, like Southundon, a portend of what was to come. As it came to rest the second time, the tip hanging well off the east coast where there was nothing but empty sea, he growled and picked up the weapon.
A tingle of discomfort started down his wrist and arm, like his blood was slowly beginning to boil inside of his skin. It wasn’t, it was a manifestation of the blessing the great spirit had placed upon the dagger. His body was reacting violently as the touch of Ca-Mi-He was anathema to the living. He placed the dagger in the plain wooden box he’d prepared for it, and the sensation immediately began to fade.
The dagger was the one Hathia Dalyrimple had somehow managed to get blessed by Ca-Mi-He in Archtan Atoll. There was no doubt the spirit had invested it. A simple touch was enough to determine that, but after pressuring Yates to turn the thing over, Raffles had spent fruitless weeks trying to determine the nature of the blessing. Did it impart something to the one who held it? Did it cause some reaction in those who were attacked by it? He didn’t know. None of his experiments had shown anything of the nature of the blessing. He’d felled two dozen subjects trying to find an answer, their corpses dumped into the harbor by the remaining acolytes of the Feet of Seheht. If the dagger had properties other than a sharp edge, he hadn’t found them.
Now, William Wellesley wanted it, and Raffles was happy to pass the blade over. With everything they had to do to prepare for the ritual, he had no time for such foolishness. Whatever powers the infuriating dagger held, he was certain they would be nothing compared to what they would obtain by binding the dark trinity. The dagger held a tenuous connection to Ca-Mi-He at best. They would have direct contact with spirits nearly as powerful. They would gain control of an entity that would make them almost invincible. Soon, the dagger would be a worthless trinket. Let William waste his time with the thing.
His hand hovered above the weapon one more time, feeling the reaction within his body and nothing else. He grunted and slammed the lid of the box closed. He locked it with a small key, slipped the key into a plan paper envelope, sealed it with wax, and rang the bell on his desk. He would send the weapon to William, but he and his followers did not have time to deliver it themselves.
In a moment, a man opened the door. “Sir?”
“Writer… ah, what is your name?” he asked the man.
“Factor Quimby, sir,” replied the man, a wince twisting his face.
“Right, Factor Quimby,” he said, wondering if he’d ever seen the plain-faced man around Company House before. “You are the man selected for the special dispatch?”
“Yes, sir, I, ah, I’m eager for the opportunity, sir. I’ve been employed by the Company for over ten years now, sir, and I want to prove myself. I—”
Director Raffles waved his hand dismissively. “Ten years, Factor? Any field work?”
“In the Southlands, sir, but things went sour. Not my fault, you understand, sir, but at the time, the directors felt—”
“I understand, Quimby,” interrupted Raffles. “You want another opportunity, yes, another chance to prove your worth and achieve some real wealth out in the colonies? Perform this dispatch for me, exactly as instructed, and you’ll get your chance. You have my word.”
“Thank you, sir. I—”
“Enough, Quimby,” growled Raffles. “This requires utter secrecy, you understand? The other trading houses must not know. Even our own members must not know of your mission. It’s imperative, Quimby. Take this box and this envelope to Southundon and hand them personally to Prime Minister William Wellesley. Personally, Quimby! I would do it myself, but I was just in Southundon and have matters to attend to here. I will ask the prime minster about this, Quimby, and he’d better tell me he saw your face.”
“T-The prime… the prime minister, sir?” stammered Quimby, his eyes wide.
“Insist on a personal audience, but do not inform his staff you are coming on my behalf or for the Company. Tell them it is a personal matter,” instructed Raffles. “It’s best they don’t know who you are, if you can manage that. Make up a story if you have to. Once he knows I sent you, William will back your tale, whatever it is. Secrecy, Quimby, is why I am tasking you with this. Take the rail so no one suspects it is Company business, an
d, Quimby, do not delay.”
“Tonight, s-sir, this evening, I mean,” stammered the factor. “I will be on the way. Directly into the hands of the prime minister, sir… That you’d do this yourself if you had the time… I understand the importance, and I will not fail you, Director.”
Raffles nodded and smiled. He flicked his gaze to the box and back up. “Now, Quimby.”
The nervous man scurried forward, collected the items, and bowed on his way out.
Bowing, certainly not something the board of directors encouraged Company officers to do, but Raffles found he rather liked it.
His fingers drummed on the table, restless. The ritual…
He noticed Quimby had left the door open and cursed. Standing, he began around his desk to shut the door when his secretary appeared. Adjusting his powered wig, the man looked as if he’d just come running from the harbor.
“What is it, Charles?” he asked.
“He’s here, sir,” said the man, drawing heavy breaths. “I came to inform you immediately.”
“Bishop Yates? Yes, can you—”
Interrupting him, the secretary blurted, “Duke Oliver Wellesley.”
Randolph Raffles’ mouth fell open.
“He’s in Westundon, sir. Just arrived on the Cloud Serpent and tied up to the bridge. I’m told he was headed for the palace, which I suppose should have been expected. He’s likely meeting with his brother now, sir. Do you want me to—”
“No,” snapped Raffles, snatching his own wig off the rack, tugging it on, and then shrugging into his formal coat. He glanced in his looking glass, adjusted the wig, and then turned to his secretary. “Run to the carriage yard. Arrange a ride for me to the palace. I’ll leave immediately.”
Nodding and wide-eyed, his secretary Charles hurried off.
Oliver, back in Westundon. What was the boy playing at?
