by A. C. Cobble
Duke frowned. “Sacrifice, bargain, yes, that’s what they told me.”
“If they knew where she was, their plan would be to capture her and complete the original ritual, not start all over again,” said Sam. “They were going to bind the dark trinity, and from what I gathered, Set’s minion was not happy about it. If I hadn’t killed Yates myself, that creature would have done the work. They’ve gone a long time with those spirits angry at them.”
“I understand that,” said Duke, frowning, “but why would my mother not return? She would not have any idea she was a target of the attack, much less a piece of some dark bargain.”
“No,” agreed Sam, looking away, “not unless…”
“Unless what?” asked Duke coldly.
“It’s a good line of questions. How did she escape? Why hasn’t she returned to your father?” said Sam, not wanting to say what was obvious to everyone but Duke.
“Because someone close to him is who we seek,” guessed the peer.
Sam glanced at the furcula that lay on the table next to all of Ainsley’s clutter. It pointed in line with their heading to Southundon.
Without sorcery, could his mother have known of the dark bargain? Was there any other rational explanation for why she had not returned? Having a healthy fear of sorcerers was common sense, but the King and Queen of Enhover were the most powerful leaders in the known world. Edward had stood up to what he had thought was the Coldlands’ invasion, and if he was anything like Duke, he wouldn’t back down no matter the threat. If there was a hidden hand close to the throne that Lilibet feared, would she leave her children behind? No matter the threat, would she have allowed her four sons to remain in danger? The more Sam thought about it, the less likely it seemed Lilibet merely fled. But, they were trying to piece together a mystery twenty years old that no one back then had even realized was a mystery.
It was too much. Sam sat back, frowning in frustration. There was too much they just simply did not know. They did know one thing, though. Someone carried the taint of the underworld, and the furcula was leading them there.
She looked to Duke. “If it is someone close to the throne, Southundon makes sense.”
“My uncle led the incursion into the Coldlands twenty years ago,” said Duke quietly. “He was the one responsible for exterminating those people. He’s always been a regular visitor to Westundon, and I know he was close with Raffles and Yates.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Sam. “It could be… It could be anyone.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” replied Duke.
The Soldier I
He touched the edge of the copper knife, sliding his finger down to the point. He let the tip of the knife touch his flesh, feeling it press against his skin but stopping short of puncturing it. He would not draw his own blood. That was dangerous, though the time for hiding in the shadows, for minimizing risk, was at an end. It was time for danger, time to gamble.
He’d seen the glae worm transmissions. His nephew, the prince, had been panicked, sending concerned tidings to King Edward, worried that something awful had happened in Westundon. It had. Edward had shown the messages to William, curious what he would make of them. William had acted confused, as if he couldn’t understand what he was reading.
Most wouldn’t have understood, but he did.
Director Randolph Raffles. Bishop Gabriel Yates.
His partners. Something deeper than mere business associates or romantic flings. They’d intended to bind themselves together for, well, forever. Had their plans come to fruition, they would have become nearly immortal. Supported by the power and the longevity of the dark trinity, they could have gained control of the shroud between this world and the other. They could have siphoned strength to sustain themselves, to make themselves impervious to wounds that would fell another man, impervious to old age.
The trinity was a collection of spirits more ancient than the oldest texts, older than the oldest evidence of writing in Enhover, which took some thinking about. Spirits that, due to their tenure on the other side of the barrier and their incredible ability to avoid the grinding of the wheel, would impart near limitless power on anyone who could command the force to their will. Power that was, frankly, unimaginable even for him.
He guessed that in the early days of ascension, they wouldn’t be able to comprehend what it was they controlled. He imagined it would take years, decades, even centuries to fully realize the strength of those three spirits. They would have the time, though. He knew that with the power of the trinity, they could interrupt the pull of the barrier, the tug of the underworld, just as the dark trinity had avoided the wheel, rebirth, and life. Everything in balance.
It was so simple, except he was now one. He was one, and he needed three. Without three souls, the ritual they had designed would not work. Without a reflection in the pattern, the trinity could not be bound. But there was one hope that he clung to. It was irrational. It was risky, and it was foolish, but it was all that he had.
His nephew. Oliver would come to Southundon and confront him. He could feel it. The boy had never backed down in his life. Oliver didn’t know how. It might not even occur to him that he could fail, that he could lose. He certainly hadn't experienced loss often.
That, ironically, was what William was counting on.
Three souls. Himself, his nephew, and the priestess who was certain to be in tow. Three souls. Himself, Raffles, and Yates. Then there was the dark trinity. Three interlinking groups of three, arranged in a pattern, bound together. He could use his nephew’s death, the family blood within his veins, to tie him to Raffles and Yates. Even dead, the partnership could continue.
William hadn’t had time to test his theory, but he was confident it would work. The logic was sound. The ritual was supported by similar bindings and examples within the literature, and he could place himself in position to control it. He only needed his nephew’s blood. His nephew’s blood, and that of so many others. To power to the pattern, to lock the binding, the blood would have to flow like a river.
That was for another day, another place. First, Oliver would come striding in, shouting righteous platitudes and expecting certain victory. He’d achieved it against Raffles and Yates, somehow. He’d vanquished those sorcerers who commanded power greater than Enhover had seen in four centuries, yet they were shadows, shadows of the true leader of their mirror trinity.
That was what he’d learned that they never had. Every group needed a leader. Every pattern needed a strong point supported by the weaker ones. Each triangle had an apex. Whatever Oliver had done to defeat those two, he would find a tougher opponent with William Wellesley. He smiled, turning the bone-handled, copper-bladed knife in his hands.
“What are you laughing at, you sick bastard?” screamed a man.
He glanced at the man and his smile only grew broader.
“Stop toying with us, you monster. If you’re going to kill us, do it!”
He shrugged. “As you wish.”
Taking three quick steps forward, William plunged the copper blade into the speaker’s chest, instinctively slipping the tip between the man’s ribs and stabbing directly into his heart.
With the practice of a man who’d done the same motion hundreds of times, he twisted the blade, opening the wound and the hole in the man’s heart, then withdrew it. He held a copper bowl, forged from the same vein of metal as the knife, underneath the puncture in his victim’s chest. He watched as blood pumped furiously out, splashing into the bowl, filling it halfway to the rim.
William turned to the two other captives that he’d brought up for the ritual. Both of them stared at him, stunned.
“Anyone else in a hurry?” he asked calmly.
Neither responded, which was too bad. He had left them ungagged purposefully. He enjoyed hearing their pleading. Alas, these two were too frightened, and he knew from experience that wasn’t about to change. To be fair to them, it shouldn’t change. They should be frightened
. They were going to die soon.
Their arms and legs were locked in place by thick iron manacles. They were spread eagle against giant iron crosses, bound naked. They were exposed to the winter elements and entirely helpless. They’d just witnessed one of their fellow captives murdered in front of their eyes, and no one did anything about it. No one was going to do anything about it. No one had for two decades.
William shook the knife, flinging a stringer of blood onto the ancient stone floor where so many other spots of the sanguine liquid had fallen. Occasionally, a powerful storm would sweep the roof of the old druid keep and wash the blood away, but until it did, William left it there. The dried blood gave him a sense of accomplishment, of progress toward a goal.
He grinned, looking from his fortress, across the river to his brother’s city.
The prime minister. A plum position. One he’d earned by both birth and merit. It was the envy of almost every person in the nation of Enhover and, he imagined, the world. It was as far as he would ever rise, though, by conventional means. His brother was king, and he had a line of healthy sons. They were having their own children now. With every birth, William’s proximity to the throne lessened.
He knew his nephews respected his judgement and experience, but in time, they would have their own loyal advisors. They would have their own sycophants whispering into their ears. In time, William would be sent to the country for a comfortable retirement.
It was wonderful, he supposed, but he’d never known less. Ever since birth, he’d been destined to be his brother’s prime minister. It didn’t matter that he deserved it. He would have had the role anyway. His entire career had been about avoiding catastrophic failure. That was all he’d ever needed to do — simply do not fail so spectacularly that his brother had to send him away or bury him. It soured the sweetness of having the position, knowing that it was through no great skill of his own.
William had avoided demotion, for what that was worth. He’d avoided it and achieved heights that few men could dream of. But he was a Wellesley, and their blood did not flow through the veins of servants. He was not meant to be a mere advisor, whispering and bowing to his older brother’s whims. No, he was destined for something grander. He had always felt that. He’d spent twenty years crafting a design which would earn it.
He experienced a brief moment of doubt.
The other two points in the pattern had fallen. Weaker ones, of course, but weaker did not mean weak. Raffles and Yates had both been accomplished sorcerers, though they’d rarely used their skills in outright battle. Still, they’d known what was coming and had been ready. It made him nervous that he had heard nothing. He hadn’t known what had occurred until he’d felt their souls almost crossing the shroud.
Almost. He smiled, shaking aside the cloud of doubt.
He’d laid a snare along that barrier years before. Their cabal had worked decades studying, taking their time, and designing a pattern to bind the dark trinity. He had left nothing to chance. If his partners had backed out, if they were somehow discovered and killed, if they’d had a simple accident, he would not allow his work to be for naught. In the moment their souls had made the transition from one world to the next, he’d captured them.
It was a difficult bit of sorcery. First, he’d spent years unravelling the mysteries the ancients had left in the frozen wilds of the Coldlands. Then, for months he’d prepared the rituals which set the net between the living world and the other. The fact that his partners never realized he’d tied those bindings to their souls demonstrated which of the three was the key point in their trinity, and that justified his actions.
Preparation. It was what the game was about, and he’d prepared for everything.
Now that he had Raffles’ and Yates’ souls in his custody, he had to sustain them. The pull of the underworld was constant, and without the strength of the dark trinity, he couldn’t avoid it forever. He could delay the transition, though, and for long enough, he hoped. Long enough to complete the ritual and bind the dark powers. Then, he’d let his partner’s souls go to the other side where he could only imagine they would suffer eternal torment. The dark trinity would take revenge where they could, and William couldn’t protect the other two in the underworld.
No matter.
He turned back to the two captives behind him.
“Take one last look around,” he suggested. “Remember this place when you are on the cold other side. The stronger your memory of this world, the quicker the wheel will grind your soul, and the sooner you will be reborn. Consider it one last friendly piece of advice.”
Shocked, the red-haired youth stared at him, ignoring the instructions to take in his surroundings, to try and remember this place as he passed through barrier. Ah, the folly of youth. William hadn’t listened to his elders either when he had been the boy’s age.
He stepped forward and plunged his copper knife into the red-haired boy’s chest, finding his heart and letting that blood spill into the copper bowl he placed underneath the wound. More life-blood, enough to keep Raffles’ soul anchored in the living world for another two days.
Sighing, the prime minister realized he would need to spend more of his captives to keep Raffles’ and Yates’ souls secure. Captives he was in short supply of, but he couldn’t risk letting his partners slip away. He had much to do in the next several days, much to prepare before the ritual, and he was certain it would not be long before his nephew came looking for him.
Sliding his blade into the third victim and collecting the dying woman’s blood, he thought about his nephew and wondered how the impatient boy would come at him. Would he charge straight in, or had he learned wisdom in his travels? Would he fabricate a distraction and come from behind?
However Oliver came, William was ready.
The Cartographer XXIV
“Seheht is the physical strength of the dark trinity,” explained Sam. “The society was known as the Feet because the entity was the strength and power that moved the union forward. Set is the spoken knowledge, the Mouth. Seshim is the apex of the trinity, the master manipulator, the Hands. I believe Raffles was associated with Seheht and Yates with Set. Whoever the third point of the triangle is, they must be affiliated with Seshim.”
“Then we’ve got the strongest one left to defeat?” asked Oliver.
“So it seems,” agreed Sam.
In front of her, the black-leather bound Book of Law was open. She had spent the last several hours leafing through its ancient pages. Evidently, much of the grimoire was indecipherable for the priestess, but Kalbeth had agreed to translate a portion relating to the makeup of the dark trinity. Despite Sam’s angry demands, the palm reader had refused to translate any of the rituals.
“This book deals primarily with the spirit Seheht,” continued Sam, “though there is mention of Set and Seshim. I don’t know how much it will help us. It seems even in the lore of the trinity, Seshim is an unknown factor. To use a popular analogy, Seshim is the one behind the curtains directing the action, while Seheht and Set are on the stage drawing all of the attention. We should plan for the unknown, whatever that means.”
Oliver grunted. “One thing I do not understand, how does this all relate to Ca-Mi-He? That’s what got us started down the trail, right? Hathia Dalyrimple somehow made contact with that spirit. It tainted a dagger, and the bodies started to fall.”
“I know,” murmured Sam. “Here’s another mystery. The dark trinity and Ca-Mi-He are frequently noted as opposing each other. Two lords of hell, I guess you could say. I don’t think Ca-Mi-He would bless an artifact that was being used by disciples of the trinity. If Raffles and Yates were behind Northundon, then why would they change tact? It makes no sense, unless…”
“The master manipulator,” said Oliver. “It all comes down to that, doesn’t it? Even Raffles and Yates were being played. When I mentioned sacrifice, that could be why Raffles jumped to their plans in Middlebury, not Northundon.”
“I don’t know, may
be,” said Sam. “It’s possible after the ritual in Northundon failed, this unknown third sorcerer aimed to strengthen the pattern by recruiting help. Three is always stronger than one. Everyone knows that. I don’t think Raffles and Yates had any clue who, or what, they were dealing with.”
“Southundon is just over the horizon,” called Ainsley from the doorway to the captain’s quarters. “We can update our heading or drop you down. Either way, the time to decide is now.”
Oliver stood and picked up the furcula. With Sam and Ainsley in tow, he stepped out onto the deck, holding a hand over his eyes in the bright morning sun. He marched to the foredeck and stood beside First Mate Pettybone.
“Which way is Southundon?” Oliver asked.
The first mate pointed dead ahead.
Holding the furcula in his hand, Oliver waved it slowly back and forth until he was certain the tug was centered, tracking a few points starboard.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Not in the city?” wondered Ainsley from behind him.
“No,” said Oliver. “It’s tracking west.”
“West of the city,” said Sam. “What’s west of the city?”
“An old druid keep,” said Oliver. “Raised before my family took power, like the one in Northundon except it’s… bigger and wilder, I guess, like it wasn’t built for men as we know them. It’s been occupied periodically over the centuries, but no one has stayed long. Rumor is that it is haunted. Of course, that’s always the rumor around those places. It is true, though, that anytime someone moves in, something awful has happened to them or those they love. It’d been abandoned for decades until my uncle purchased it a few years after returning from the Coldlands.”
“Oh,” said Sam quietly.
“Maybe he can help us… Oh,” said Captain Ainsley.
“Set us down,” instructed Oliver, his voice heavy with dread. “If we have any chance of stealth, we can’t arrive in an airship. On foot, we might be able to sneak in. After Northundon, I spent a lot of time in that keep, exploring the ruins, drawing maps for my… for my uncle. Being inside felt comfortable to me, the only place that did after my mother disappeared. I know this place.”
