by A. C. Cobble
Fleeing but not gone.
Her soul, her spirit, was still there, not yet passed beyond the shroud, when her father arrived.
Detached, slipping, viewing the room as if through a smoked pane of glass, she hung above herself. What had been her.
She saw Marquess Bartholomew Surrey stumble back from the altar. She could not hear, but she saw his mouth opening in panic and could imagine the high-pitched shrieks and demands he uttered.
It did him no good.
Her body, her corpse, curled into a kneeling crouch atop the altar. Then she, or what had been her, leapt at the marquess, grasping his skull with two hands and flinging him against the wall. He crumpled there, slumping to the floor in stunned terror.
What had been her turned, and the other six men, still masked and naked, bodies slick with sweat from the vigorous ritual, manhoods shriveling in fear, tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. They’d locked themselves into the circular stone chamber, and even if they’d had the presence of mind to find the key to the gate, what had been her was standing in the way.
What had been her sprang at them, reaching with unnaturally strong hands, rending their flesh into tattered strips like they were overcooked slabs of stewed beef. What had been her tore them apart, flinging pieces of them, chunks ripped from their bodies. In moments, the room was covered in hunks of flesh and sticky, dripping blood.
The fires had extinguished, the only movement the drip of blood onto the floor. Even in the dark, she could see, and she saw a shadow rise from what had once been her. The shade of her father. She didn’t dwell on the fact that she must be one as well. She didn’t dwell on anything. She couldn’t. She was dead.
Together, the two shades leaked from the room, flying fast into the cold, toward the unimaginable expanse of the shroud between their new world and the old one. The barrier parted, and the spirits flew through. Behind them, the shroud closed, and she felt nothing but cold.
The Cartographer I
“What will you do, Oliver?” asked Duchess Matilda Wellesley.
He sat down his heavy silver fork and picked up the crisp, white linen napkin from his lap. He dabbed at his lips and took a sip of dark red Ivallan wine before replying. “I’m not sure yet.”
His brother John laughed. “Oliver, if you mean to have any choice at all, you had better decide soon. With Uncle William gone in such a terrible fashion, there’s a vacancy in the ministry, a vacancy that has very few suitable candidates to fill it.”
Oliver blinked at his brother.
“Father is considering naming you prime minister,” continued John. “In fact, I think he’ll do more than consider. Once the dust clears from this situation in Imbon, he’ll want the ministry on stable footing. What better way to add stability than put another Wellesley in charge?”
“Me?” questioned Oliver, frowning at his brother across the candlelit table. “You think he’d name me as prime minister? That’s absurd, John. I have no experience, first of all. Second, what about you or Franklin? Either of you would be better suited than I to bear the mantle.”
John shook his head and grinned. “I’ve already told the old man I don’t want it. Matilda fancies moving to the west coast. You recall her family is there? We have our eye on Westundon as soon as Philip vacates the seat. Can’t very well handle the role of prime minister so far from the ministry, ey? And Franklin doesn’t have any more desire than I to take on the ministry. Did you know that wife he found from Ivalla has him attending Church services four days a week? He’s become rather serious about it and is even drafting plans for a new Church in Eastundon. He’s attempting to shift the balance of Church power that way, I think. With that in mind, it’s best he and Father have some separation. You know Father’s thoughts on the Church. A prime minister with such close ties? I don’t need to tell you Father wouldn’t give it a second thought. And Philip himself? He has political duties as prince that none of the rest of us share. Management of the Congress of Lords and the ministry require separate positions and separate people.”
“Well…” began Oliver, glancing between John and Matilda. “Father is in no rush to abdicate, which means Philip should be in Westundon for quite some time. You have no duties as a prince, and when he can be bothered, Father is quite capable of emerging from his study and leading. I have other responsibilities, John, and I don’t see how it’s necessary for me to become involved in governance.”
“Perhaps,” agreed John. “Stability, though, remember? Why name a prime minister we all know will only be temporary? It’s best to put in someone who can serve in the role for an extended period.”
Oliver shook his head. “I have other responsibilities. The Company, the Westlands… You know I’m meant to lead an expedition there.”
“What of Imbon?” queried Matilda. “It was my understanding that both President Goldwater and Admiral Brach were counting on you to lead the action against the natives. You know the place better than anyone, don’t you?”
Oliver’s stomach soured and he took another long drink of wine. At his elbow, an attendant hurried forward to refill his glass.
“I’m told the Company’s gaze has left the Westlands for the moment. At least until they clean up this mess in the tropics,” said John, peering at his younger brother. “Imbon, is it? Do you want to lead the marines against the natives?”
“I don’t want to do any of it,” muttered Oliver. He picked his knife and fork back up but did not move to slice another bite from the seasoned hunk of roasted beef on his plate. “I’d sail to the Westlands still, if the choice was mine.”
John tore a piece of bread in two and slathered a chunk of butter across one side. “If that’s your desire, you’d best make it known. Once Father settles his mind on something, he doesn’t change it.” John raised his butter knife in the air. “Imbon and then prime minister. I suspect that’s what the old fox is thinking. It makes sense, Oliver, even if that’s not what you desire. Ever since Northundon fell, it’s been likely the mantle of the ministry would rest on your shoulders one day. We’ve all expected it, sooner or later.”
Gripping his fork tightly, Oliver shook his head, forcing away memories of his uncle. His uncle declaring that he’d never be able to live his own life. His uncle claiming the Crown would use him as it saw fit. His uncle had been right.
“What’s wrong, Oliver?” asked Matilda.
He put down his fork and forced himself to relax his hand. “Still adjusting to William being gone, I guess.”
“The time for play is over, brother,” said John. “You had a better run than the rest of us, and while Philip is the one who will wear it, the weight of the Crown rests on all of our heads.”
“I’d hardly call what I’ve been doing these last years as play,” complained Oliver, retrieving his fork and digging it into the beef. Pink juices oozed from the rare cut of meat as he sliced off a bit. He stuck it into his mouth, chewing the tender flesh as much to give him an excuse to stop speaking as to sate his hunger.
“You’ve done good work for the Company,” commended John. “Great work, really. Showed a real talent for mapmaking and for adventure. But those shares you’ve accumulated, the stacks of coins, the properties, all of that wealth, it is play. You spend it, yes, on luxuries and that ridiculous airship, but you could have spent just as freely without a single coin from the Company. Father has never been one to say no to his youngest, and he would have opened the treasury for you. While Matilda and I have been busy ensuring the succession, producing heirs to the throne along with Philip and Franklin, you’ve spent countless nights in the beds of every nubile young lady this nation has to offer, but not a one of them has produced a legitimate heir. Tell me that’s not play.”
Oliver grunted but did not respond. His brother had a point with that last bit. He ran his hand over his hair, checking the knot in the back.
“Will you settle down, Oliver?” asked Matilda.
Oliver thought she was asking innocently until he
saw the wicked gleam in her eye.
“Aria, Isabella, some young thing I do not know?” continued his brother’s wife. “I’m told Baron Child is ready for his daughters to assume their responsibilities — find a husband, produce grandchildren, that sort of thing. I imagine either girl would be thrilled at a chance to settle into King Edward’s palace, or perhaps a home in the city would better suit? A man with your resources could give them whatever they wanted. The only problem, how to choose between the two? Maybe that is why you’ve had such a difficult time assuming a more, ah, traditional role for one in the royal family.”
Grinning at Oliver, John chomped down on his bread.
“Of course,” added Matilda, twirling her fork in her hand, “maybe you don’t plan to choose. Generations ago, there was a Wellesley who orchestrated a similar feat. Raised his mistress to duchess, did he not, John? I cannot recall that old fellow’s name.”
“I was never good in history,” admitted John.
“Will you tell me, Oliver, if you mean to court them both?” tittered Matilda. “The scandal would be delicious, and I can’t tell you how much I’d enjoy watching all of the old hens lurking around these corridors when they heard the news.”
“I’m not… I don’t think the baronesses would agree to such an arrangement,” mumbled Oliver, looking down at his plate.
“You never know,” said John with a wink.
“Why are you two encouraging this?” complained Oliver, sitting back and waving a hand between his brother and his wife. “You might delight in the scandal, but it’d be of no help to the Crown.”
“No, of course not,” said John with a laugh. “You’re right. We should not encourage it. It’s just that you, little brother, have always had free reign to involve yourself in all manner of scandals and controversies. I can’t say I haven’t been jealous of your freedom, and I can’t say that I won’t enjoy seeing you trying to fight your way through the towers of paperwork and bureaucracy in the ministry, but I will miss hearing about your adventures. You’ve lived the life I could only dream about. You’ve seen places, done things that—”
Matilda harrumphed.
“Not the Child twins. I didn’t mean them,” said John with a grin. He winked at Oliver. Beside him, Matilda rolled her eyes. He turned to her. “You’ve spoken just as often as I of seeing the floating islands in the Archtan Atoll. You’re just as curious about those pirate-infested waters off the coast of the Southlands. And to see the sunrise from the deck of an airship over the boundless sea! Why, we’ve only been to the United Territories half-a-dozen times, and each of those a diplomatic mission involving as much adventure as stumbling to the water closet in the middle of the night with no fae light.”
“We have a good life, John,” chided Matilda.
Gathering his wine, John raised his glass. “Yes, raising children, living in the palace, it’s a grand adventure. It’s no Archtan Atoll, though.” Giving Oliver a conspiratorial look, he leaned closer and whispered, “And it’s no Child twins.”
Matilda clutched his arm and yanked him close, planting a kiss on his cheek. “I am only one, but follow me to bed, husband, and I’ll make you remember that you couldn’t handle two of me.” She stood and nodded at Oliver. “It’s time for me to retire. Don’t keep him up too late.”
“With you waiting, my sweet, I won’t be late at all,” claimed John.
Flouncing out of the dining room, Matilda disappeared, and a gaggle of servants swooped in to clear her plate and refill the two dukes’ drinks.
“She’s a good woman,” said John. “My advice is to find one like that, one who is willing to put up with you, and let her settle you down. It’s not a bad life.”
Not responding, Oliver took another bite of his meat.
“I meant what I said earlier,” remarked John. “If you mean to have some say in what horizon you’ll chase next, you’d best do it soon. My understanding is that once William’s funeral has taken place, Father will instruct Admiral Brach to sail for Imbon. It’s going to be difficult for you to avoid that assignment, if that’s what you plan on.”
Oliver grunted.
“I know it was painful for you,” continued John. “It sounded… It sounded terrible.”
“It wasn’t pleasant,” admitted Oliver.
“You had friends killed in the attack?” asked John.
Oliver drew a deep breath and answered, “Yes, some of the people we lost there were my friends. Good men I’ve known for ten years or more. None of them were my enemies. Not the officers of the Company and not the natives, either. I thought it would be different in Imbon. I really did.”
“It was all over these figurines?” questioned John. “What was so special about them that made the natives revolt?”
Oliver shrugged. “I don’t know. Father looked them over and then sent them to the museum. Church scholars are studying the items now. If there are any strange properties to the statues, no one has found them yet. The natives claimed they contained the spirits of their enemies. Reavers, they called them.”
“Well, there must be something to it if the natives revolted,” declared John. “They had to know they’d lose any conflict against Enhover.”
Oliver nodded. He’d gone to see the figurines with Sam, and as his father had claimed, they all appeared to be there, tucked away in a back room of Southundon’s Royal Museum. They were not on display, but they were available for study, the statues and nothing else. The tablets, the ones he’d recognized a sorcerous symbol on, were missing. If there was truth amongst the artifacts they’d found in Imbon, it was on those tablets, and those were still in his father’s clutches. The old man was still transcribing the symbols, and he didn’t want them displayed publicly until he was certain there was nothing dangerous about them.
John glanced at a tall clock that sat in the corner of the private dining room, then he looked to Oliver’s wine glass. “If you mean to finish that while I’m here, you’d best hurry. Matilda is waiting…”
Oliver reached for his glass but paused as there was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” called John. He frowned as their father’s chief of staff cracked the door and leaned in. “Edgar, what can we do for you?”
“I’m afraid I have terrible news, m’lords,” murmured the man. “You need to come with me to your father, immediately.”
“What’s the matter?” questioned Oliver, standing. “Shackles, you have to tell us, is the old man all right?”
“It’s your cousin, m’lord, Lannia. She’s… she’s not all right.”
The Priestess I
Sam turned the page, the ancient parchment crinkling with the motion.
“I can’t believe you’ve been carrying that book around with you,” muttered the red-haired man across the table from her. Timothy Adriance was looking distraught, staring at the book. “A tome like that, it should be secure, held safe in a library where it can be cared for. Books must be preserved…”
“A book is an object,” she said, waving a hand at him. “Its value is the knowledge it imparts upon the reader. The knowledge should be cherished. The book should be used. I could make the argument that the Church’s greedy secrecy around the information in books like this has caused far more problems than it’s solved. Perhaps it’d be better if those restricted archives of yours were opened to the public. The tomes there could be copied, distributed—”
“You know not of what you speak!” snapped the man.
“I know the cost of sorcery when it’s let loose in the world,” argued Sam. “I’ve seen the horrors with my own eyes. I’ve been in front of a sorcerer without the knowledge to fight against what they summoned, and I’ve seen the deaths that have resulted. Have you?”
Adriance grunted. “You do not know what is contained within those books, the horrors that are still unleashed. The Church is guarding knowledge that is far more dangerous than what the mean conjurers you’ve faced were capable of.”
“Bishop Gabriel Yat
es was one of those I faced,” remarked Sam. “Did he not read the texts in your secret archives? What he learned, he learned from the Church! Where were you and the other scholars when he applied that knowledge and killed hundreds of people? If I’d had access, if you’d shared what you know, then perhaps I could have stopped him earlier.”
Across from her, the priest winced. “Gabriel Yates did not understand what he had. He… Some of the texts were hidden from him by others in our order.”
“I wonder how many lives could have been saved if everyone knew what to look for,” said Sam. “How many hundreds, or thousands, would be alive today if the knowledge of such evil was not a secret?”
Adriance touched the silver pendant hanging on his chest. It was the one she’d stolen from him and placed underneath Bridget Cancio’s corpse. Sam had recovered it from the ruins of Bishop Yates’ mansion and returned it to Adriance before anyone else saw it. Just she and Raymond au Clair knew what she’d done with it, and Raymond wouldn’t be talking.
The priest was suspicious of her, about the theft and for other reasons. Timothy Adriance wasn’t a dumb man, and he must have known she’d taken the emblem for a purpose, but fortunately, the purpose was beyond him. He didn’t know the details of what had happened in Westundon. He didn’t know how Bishop Yates had fallen, and she hoped he never would. She hoped he understood enough, though, to agree with the importance of sharing his knowledge with her. She needed him to help her translate the leather-bound grimoire she’d found in Isisandra Dalyrimple’s effects, the Book of Law. Prying the forbidden knowledge from between Adriance’s lips was proving far more challenging than lifting the silver emblem from the table beside his bed, though.
“I saw the Imbonese statuettes, the uvaan,” said Adriance, changing the subject, “the ones the king turned over to the museum. Thank you for interceding on my behalf and getting me access.”
