by A. C. Cobble
“And?” she asked. She’d seen them too but had been unable to determine any occult properties. Unable to determine anything at all, actually.
“A prison, yes, that’s what they are supposed to be?” asked Adriance. “A prison for the enemies of the people of Imbon?”
“That’s what the natives said to Duke before the fighting broke out,” confirmed Sam. “I don’t know if they were telling the truth.”
“I think they might have been truthful,” said Adriance. “If I’m right about the uvaan, they are a sort of prison, but one that is unique. The uvaan may access a place that’s outside of both our world and the underworld. It’s a true prison, then, for spirits. They’re held outside of the circle. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” muttered Sam. “They’re no longer part of the cycle, then? They cannot die, but they cannot be reborn into life, either?”
“Correct,” said Adriance.
“A prison, but not to trap an enemy for a moment or for years, but forever,” said Sam, frowning.
“One meant to last for eternity,” agreed Adriance. “Worse than a killing, I suppose. I cannot fathom what it must be like for a spirit trapped in such a thing. I don’t think they would be happy about it.”
“What would happen then, if they escaped?”
“I’m not sure they can escape,” speculated Adriance. “The uvaan are a door to the prison, yes, and if the door is gone, it’s quite possible the spirits are trapped there forever. While the uvaan remains whole, like any good prison, I believe a key is required to open it. With a key, then I think whatever is inside could be released, but only with the key.”
“Interesting,” said Sam. “Where is the key, then?”
The priest merely shrugged.
Sam opened her mouth to question him further, but a sharp rap on the door interrupted her.
Adriance stood and opened the door to reveal a man in Wellesley livery.
“Mistress Samantha?” asked the man, eyeing her. “Your presence is requested at the palace.”
“My presence?” asked Sam. “Why?”
“To meet with the king,” replied the messenger. “He requested you come immediately.”
Timothy Adriance’s mouth fell open, and Sam frowned.
The messenger stood in the doorway waiting.
“Well, I suppose I cannot say no to the king,” she murmured. She stood and eyed the servant. “You’ll take me to him?”
The messenger nodded, and she followed him out into the night.
The Cartographer II
The moment Edgar Shackles led him into the room, Oliver could feel a palpable sense of unease. His father sat in front of the fire. Earl Gerrald Holgrave, the Chair of the Congress of Lords, sat on a couch across from him. A man Oliver did not know stood before them, his silhouette outlined by the light of the fire. When Oliver got closer, he saw an open notebook in the man’s hand and a grim expression on his face.
John asked, “What is it, Father? Shackles said something happened to Lannia?”
“A moment,” said the king, turning to his chief of staff. “The priestess?”
“I sent a messenger to fetch her,” answered Shackles. “She should be here shortly.”
“The priestess?” questioned Oliver. “Sam?”
His father nodded confirmation.
“What—” Oliver began, but a knock on the door signaled her arrival.
She slipped in and gave Oliver a questioning look. He could only shrug.
“Inspector Moncrief, if you please,” said the king.
The man with the notebook cleared his throat. He looked nervously around the room then began. “M’lords, m’lady, approximately six turns of the clock past, the magistrates received an anonymous tip that there had been a murder deep beneath Marquess Bartholomew Surrey’s townhome. The marquess regularly resides in Southwatch, but his family has maintained a residence here in Southundon for—”
“Yes, yes,” said John. “We know the Surreys. What of the murder?”
Blanching, the inspector continued, “It, ah, it’s worse, m’lord. Myself and a pair of watchmen responded to the tip and found the house lit, but there was no response when we knocked on the door. We peered inside of the windows and saw nothing. Finding it rather unusual that the house was lit but there was no answer, and of course with the reason for our visit in mind, I authorized the breaching of the front door. Inside… At first, we found nothing, but on further inspection, we located a locked door, which led to the basement of the townhome. It was decorated with quite unusual and disturbing artifacts, but worse, through that basement room, we found the entrance to a stone chamber.”
The inspector paused, and Oliver glanced between the man and his father. The king sat patiently, his fingers pulling gently on his thin goatee, not prodding the inspector to speak faster.
Duke John, though, was not willing to wait. “Well, out with it, man. What did you find?”
“Your cousin, m’lord. Lannia Wellesley,” said the inspector. “She was surrounded by what we believe are several others. They died in a most violent manner.”
“Sorcery,” hissed Oliver.
The inspector, lips pressed tightly together, nodded.
King Edward added, “None of us could think of any other explanation.”
“A failed ritual?” wondered Sam.
“No,” said the king, “at least, not in the way you mean. When I heard it was Lannia, I immediately rushed to the site myself. I believe a ritual was successfully conducted, and they made contact with a spirit from the underworld. It appears as though they could not control it, and the spirit slaughtered them.”
“How—” began Sam.
The king stopped her with a raised hand. “I am no expert in these matters. Unfortunately, neither is Inspector Moncrief. You, however, are. You are the only two in Enhover who’ve faced evil like this. You’re the only two who have any chance of understanding what transpired in that chamber. I don’t want to say too much and bias your findings. Oliver, Samantha, the Crown needs your assistance.”
Uncomfortably, Oliver nodded. He looked to the inspector. “Moncrief, show us to the Surrey home, then?”
Sitting alone in a black inspector’s carriage, Oliver and Sam rumbled through the nighttime streets of Southundon. Yellow light from the gas lamps spaced along the street flashed by the window, illuminating the interior in regular intervals of pale color.
“Two days, Duke,” stated Sam. He didn’t respond. She prodded him. “Two days until your uncle’s funeral and the end of our freedom.”
“My freedom,” corrected Oliver. “John thinks our father will name me prime minister.”
“Your freedom,” agreed Sam. “Congratulations on prime minister, I’m told it’s a plum position.” She leaned forward and jabbed a finger at him. “What I meant was, unless you’re willing to loan me your airship and crew, I’m not very well traveling to the Darklands. I can’t get there on my own. If your plans and freedom are curtailed, then so are mine.”
“We’ll leave,” grumbled Oliver. “We’ll leave.”
Sam sat back, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What would you have us do?” questioned Oliver. “My cousin, my flesh and blood, was killed in a sorcerous ritual. I cannot turn my back on my family. And you, can you turn your back on your mission? For months, you’ve prattled on about how you and your mentor are the last line of defense against sorcery, the last guard against the dark arts. Well, the dark arts are being practiced right here in Southundon, less than a league from where we’ve been sleeping! How can we not investigate?”
“I’m here in the carriage with you,” said Sam. She squeezed herself then continued, “And you’re right. This is my role, my life now. Fighting sorcery is all that I am, but I don’t have the tools, Duke. I don’t have the knowledge to face the depth of what the dark arts are capable of. Another Isisandra, another Yates, perhaps we could prevail against them, but we both sensed what was loose atop
the old druid fortress. Ca-Mi-He, the great spirit. I don’t even know where to start on dealing with something like that. I don’t know where else to turn, either, except south. In the Darklands, we can find what we need to know. You say I don’t want to fight — I do! But I need to gather the right tools to do it.”
Oliver grunted.
Sam sat silently, watching him.
“Let’s see what happened to Lannia, and then we’ll decide what to do next,” suggested Oliver. “I have no plans to accept the position as prime minister. I have no plans to be in Southundon long enough for my father to even offer it. Ainsley has been quietly stocking the airship and preparing the crew. In two days, they’ll be ready to depart. While the capital is busy with William’s burial, we’ll slip away unnoticed.”
“Unnoticed?”
“Unnoticed for long enough,” said Oliver, a grin starting to form. Then it wavered and fell.
Lannia. His only cousin. The only child of William, who had died by Oliver’s hand. Now, she was dead as well, killed by the practice he’d sworn to root out of Enhover. He’d grown up with Lannia in his father’s palace. They’d been true friends during their younger years, and while life carried them apart, he’d always enjoyed her company. He’d always shared things with her that he trusted to no one else. More than anyone in the family, she’d understood him. And now, she was dead. Killed by sorcery.
“We forced the gate, m’lord,” explained Inspector Moncrief.
Oliver nodded and gestured for the man to lead them inside.
“I, ah, I’d rather not, m’lord,” said the inspector, beads of sweat popping on his forehead in the chill, stone corridor. He offered weakly, “With fewer of us in there… ah, you can conduct a more thorough investigation, I think. We can compare notes when you come back out.”
Oliver grunted and raised his globe of yellow fae light. The brilliant creatures were swarming frantically, and he pretended he didn’t think it was because they could sense the bitter cold aura of sorcery ahead of them.
“You feel that?” he asked Sam.
“Feel what?” she wondered.
“Nothing,” he said, ducking through the bent and twisted frame of the steel gate.
Even before they entered the circular stone chamber, he could see broad, crimson pools of blood that had spread into the mouth of the hallway. The blood covered the path wall-to-wall, and it was obvious from boot prints in the liquid where Moncrief and his partners had walked.
What they couldn’t see until they entered the room and the fae light shone to illuminate it all was the grisly nature of the killing. Blood, gore, and bits of people were strewn around the room like wrapping and ribbon from a child’s New Year gifts. The walls, the stone ceiling, the altar in the center of the room, the braziers still hot with embers from a fire, all of it was covered in viscera and splatter. The entire floor was coated in a thin layer of blood, and after a moment, Oliver gave up even looking to see if he could step around it. He couldn’t. It was everywhere.
“There is a drain on the floor here,” said Sam, her face pale, her voice tight. “This place was built for bloodshed, but it looks like it was, ah, stopped up with… flesh.”
She covered her mouth with her hand and looked away, but there wasn’t anywhere better in that charnel vault to rest her gaze. Oliver winced and stayed still a moment, forcing down the bile in his throat.
“Several others were killed, Moncrief said.” Sam swallowed and shook herself.
Looking around, Oliver didn’t think he could describe it any more accurately. How many bodies had provided the material for the mess strewn about the room? More than a few, less than a lot…
Cringing at the sounds of his boots lifting with each step from the sticky blood, he circled the altar, knowing that somewhere in the room, he would find Lannia.
Slumped against the wall on the opposite side of the altar from the entrance, he did. Her neck was opened to the bone with a vicious slash. It took little imagination to guess that was what killed her, but her entire naked body was covered in blood, like it had been painted on her. It was too much for it to be her own.
“Duke, look at her fingers,” whispered Sam.
He did and frowned. Her hands were stained crimson, like the rest of her, and at least half of her fingernails had been torn off. Several fingers appeared broken, and her skin was ragged, liked she’d been digging. He stooped, looking closer. No, not digging. Skin and blood was trapped beneath her remaining fingernails. She’d been rending. Tearing.
“She did it,” he said, his voice quiet but certain.
“How?” wondered Sam. “The strength it would take to… to do this…”
Both of them turned, surveying the room, not willing to touch anything except for what they had to. They found discarded piles of clothing, covered in ruined flesh but undamaged, as if it had been removed voluntarily. They found a knife, which could be the one that had been used to cut Lannia’s throat. Wishing it wasn’t necessary, they’d peeled off the silk sheet from the altar. Underneath the table was a variety of materials — wax candles, a thurible that was still warm from use hours earlier, incense, towels, and small jars that Sam warned him not to touch.
“Poppy?” he asked, peering at an amber glob of paste.
“That and others,” she said. “Common intoxicants, I think. I recognize some of these from, well, they’re used in pleasure houses. At least a few of those can be absorbed through the skin. The girls, ah… I couldn’t tell you which substance is which. Best not to risk touching any of it.”
He didn’t bother to tease her about how she knew which substances were distributed in pleasure houses. Instead, he turned back to the body of his cousin. “The gate was locked, Moncrief said, and he confirmed there had been no footprints in the blood until he and the other inspectors arrived.”
“Something invested Lannia and took out its rage on the others,” surmised Sam. “They called a spirit and couldn’t control it. It killed them and I suspect returned to the underworld once the bridge through the shroud was severed.”
“You think there is no longer a risk?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow and glanced around the blood-covered room.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
“Outside of our experience atop the druid keep, spirits rarely linger in this world,” responded Sam. “When the bridge they crossed to get here and the binding the sorcerer sets to control them are broken, they cannot stay. I don’t believe there is any additional threat to us from what happened here. Of course, it’s concerning that there are still sorcerers operating in Enhover who have the skill to contact underworld spirits, but it’s a little comforting that they cannot do it well. Whatever happened in here, whoever was responsible, they did not have the skill of your uncle or Yates, not even of Isisandra. These were amateurs, and they paid a heavy price for their folly.”
Oliver looked over the blood-splattered room and then back to Lannia.
“This was probably an isolated cabal,” suggested Sam.
“And Lannia’s involvement?” he asked.
Sam grimaced.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he instructed.
“Her father died two days ago,” said Sam. “He was a sorcerer. Which spirit do you think they were calling upon? Lannia could have been useful to them, a way to call to her father and strengthen the bridge. A strong enough bridge would give a spirit great power when it arrived.”
Oliver winced.
“It’s not your fault,” said Sam. “There’s nothing you could have done to prevent this. It’s probably not Lannia’s fault, either, for what that is worth. They could have abducted her and forced her part in the ritual. See those manacles? These were sorcerers, Duke, and they got what was coming to them.”
“I’m the one who killed William,” said Oliver, forcing himself to look away from his dead cousin. “He was family, and I killed him. Lannia has paid the cost.”
“Let the inspectors handl
e it?” questioned his father. “What do you mean let the inspectors handle it?”
Oliver cringed in the face of his father’s calm interrogation. Other fathers might have yelled. They might have bellowed and stormed around the room. But not Edward. When the king was angry, he never showed it. Only Oliver’s long history of irritating the man gave him any hint that he was venturing into dangerous waters.
“They’re trained for this, Father.”
The king snorted. “No they aren’t. They made a muck of it up in Harwick, didn’t they? The senior inspector there is dead. A brilliant investigative mind, wasn’t he? So brilliant he didn’t realize the society he professed allegiance to was at the heart of the conspiracy. So brilliant he didn’t anticipate the Church coming with knives out and slitting his damned throat.”
In the corner of the room, Inspector Moncrief shifted uncomfortably.
“The inspectors have no experience with this type of criminal behavior,” insisted the king, glancing between Oliver and Sam. “Only you two do. Only you two can get to the bottom of what happened.”
“We believe the threat is over,” declared Oliver. “The perpetrators called upon a spirit but lost control of it and it killed them. We can safely assume that one of those men was Marquess Bartholomew Surrey, and there are no clues left to identify the others or even to determine how many they might be. The inspectors are perfectly capable of checking the reports for missing people and making the connections to this crime.”
“Lannia is family,” reminded the king. “We are Wellesleys, and we do not turn our backs on family.”
“I am not turning my back on family, Father.”
The old man’s lips pressed together, and then he said, “Leave us, Moncrief.” The inspector shuffled quickly out the door and shut it. King Edward guessed, “You’re still thinking of your mother.”
Oliver didn’t respond. It hadn’t been a question.
