by A. C. Cobble
“It’s a foolish quest, Oliver,” said the king. “I know you believe she lives, despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s been twenty years, son, and there’s been no word, no rumored sightings, nothing! Even if you’re right, if she did somehow escape Northundon when no one else did, if she did somehow find passage out of Enhover undetected, and she did find a place to hide outside of the notice of our empire for two decades, why do you think you’ll find her? If she lives, which I do not believe she does, then she is well hidden. She does not want to be found, not by you, not by anyone. If she’s avoided notice for this long, she will continue to do so.”
“I have to try,” stated Oliver.
The king’s stare bored into him. “Why?”
“Family,” responded Oliver. “You taught me that. We must never turn our backs on family. Lannia is dead. I wish she wasn’t, but she is, and there is nothing I can do about that, but Mother is not. Lilibet lives, Father. Maybe she’s hiding and will never be found, but maybe she needs our help. I have to find out.”
“Your family is here, son.”
He met his Father’s gaze and shook his head. “Not all of it.”
The king snorted. “Leave me, Oliver. I have no stomach for continuing this discussion right now.”
Oliver turned to go, and as he was walking toward the door, he heard his father say to Sam, “Not you. I have something to show you.”
The Priestess II
“I have something to show you,” the king told her.
Her breath caught and she froze.
Oliver, looking back quizzically, left the room without comment.
She and the king were alone in his study.
“M’lord,” she said quietly.
“You went to the museum and looked at the Imbonese figurines?” asked King Edward.
“I did,” she acknowledged.
“What did you think of them?”
“I… I don’t know, m’lord,” she stammered. “I could not detect any supernatural properties. They have intriguing symbols etched into the wood, but perhaps that is it.”
“That’s not all,” chided the king. “Do not act stupid, girl. You think Imbon buried and flooded these things and then rebelled over their discovery all because there are some carvings on the wood? Tell me what you suspect.”
She shifted uncomfortably.
He waited, studying her.
Finally, she offered, “It could be these figurines, the uvaan, serve as a sort of prison. They may truly hold the spirits of Imbon’s enemies, as the natives told your son. If that’s the case, they are relatively safe.”
“A locked door remains a locked door until someone introduces a key,” agreed the king. “I also believe these are prisons, locking spirits away from our world and the other. Safe, as you say, but surely the creatures inside are not.”
She nodded, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
Stroking the hair on his chin, the king stood from his seat before the fire and walked to his desk. On top of it was a cloth-covered object. With a twitch of his hand, he removed the cloth, and she saw a dark clay tablet. One of the ones recovered in Imbon, she was certain.
Her gaze moved from the tablet up to the king’s face.
“Sorcerers are operating within the boundaries of our empire, Samantha. They are the rot that may cause it all to crumble,” the king told her. “Oliver is blinded by memories twenty years old, and he cannot see what is obvious. He yearns for the comfort of his mother’s arms, the safety he felt there when he was a child, but the time for childhood fantasies is over. It is time for him to leave that in the past and to face what is in the future.”
Sam stood stone still, unable to look away from the king, unable to respond.
“You were well trained by your mentor,” continued the old man. “You suspect something about what happened in Northundon, don’t you? Tell me what you suspect about Lilibet.”
Sam shook her head slowly, unable to tell this man, the king of the empire, what was obvious. She could see the understanding in his eyes, but it was too much to voice it.
“You think Lilibet is the only one who could have performed the sorcery you found in Northundon’s gardens,” said the king as if reading her mind. “You think she was a sorceress and whatever ritual she performed was meant to facilitate her escape. You think she still lives. Is that why you want to go to the Darklands, to locate Lilibet?”
Sam swallowed.
“The threats I am concerned about are at home,” said the king. “Let the Darklands do as they have done for centuries, for time long before we became a nation. They have no interest in us, and I have no interest in them. What happed here today, in our capital, is what worries me.”
“I understand, m’lord,” she whispered.
The king’s finger tapped on the clay tablet on his desk. “I’m told there are few people these days who understand ancient Darklands script. With a mentor as wise and well respected as yours, I wonder, are you one of those few?”
She shifted. “I, ah, I know a few words, m’lord.”
“Then perhaps you can do something with this,” King Edward suggested. “Perhaps you can tease some meaning from it. Or maybe one of your allies can? Is what Oliver found in Imbon a threat that should be destroyed, or should it be hidden? Is this the missing key to something we can use? Did the natives hide it because they were afraid of it or because it is a weapon? I do not know, but if you find out, will you tell me?”
“Of course, m’lord,” she said, finally able to break the iron lock of the man’s gaze. She looked at the tablet in front of him, wondering why he was giving it to her, wondering what he’d done with the others. He was the king, though, and she wasn’t about to ask.
“Samantha,” warned King Edward, “if the people of Imbon locked their enemies within those figurines, if this gaol was meant to last for eternity, there might have been a good reason. Be careful with the key, will you?”
She sat the clay tablet on the table in front of the priest.
Timothy Adriance looked up, startled.
“Can you read this?” she asked.
Frowning, he scooted the small stand with the hanging fae light globe closer. He stood up and leaned over the tablet.
“This is… this is one of the tablets recovered from Imbon?” he asked.
“It is,” she confirmed. “Have you seen it? Have you… Did you speak to the king about what we discussed yesterday?”
“The king!” exclaimed Adriance. “Of course not. Why would I— What did he say?”
“What can you tell me of this tablet?” asked Sam, ignoring the priest’s question.
He frowned at her but finally looked down at the tablet. “The language of origin is definitely the Darklands, but it’s not a pure form of the tongue. I’d need time to plot the connections, decipher the syntax.”
“Let me know what you find, will you?” she asked.
Not looking up, the scholar was already moving his notebook closer, licking the tip of his quill, and preparing to start diagraming the text of the tablet.
Smirking, Sam turned to go, confident the priest would do little other than try to unravel the secrets held within the tablet. He, at least, she understood. Timothy Adriance was scholar with little regard for anything other than uncovering the secrets of the ancients.
The king, she was unsure of. Why had he given her the tablet? Had it been a bribe to convince her to stay in Enhover? Had he truly sought her help in translating the symbols and script? If so, why was he still holding onto the other tablets instead of sharing them with her or with the scholars in the museum?
She walked outside of the room, peering around the darkened library. The Church’s library, a place she was unsure if she was still welcome, but so far, no one had thrown her out. Timothy Adriance was known there, evidently, and the other priests scuttled out of his way, deferring to the red-haired man who wasn’t any older than she.
She was learning that the Church, for
all of its mystery and hidden motives, was nothing compared to the Crown. What did King Edward want? Why had he told her that Lilibet was not the woman Duke recalled from his youth? Did the king suspect that his wife had been walking the dark path? Did that explain why he was in no hurry to discover where she’d been for so many years?
The Cartographer III
Oliver flipped up the collar of his long coat and stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets. Winter was breaking in the south of Enhover, but near the sea, a damp mist blew in, causing him to shiver and increase his pace, his booted feet clomping across wet cobblestones. Beneath the street, the ground rumbled with the passage of cars rolling along Southundon’s underground rail. Far above, a metal stack belched thick smoke, black flecked with red.
He kept moving, hoping to get away before the cloud descended upon the streets. Red saltpetre mixed with industrial coal provided dense, portable fuel that made Enhover’s rail the envy of the world, but the stuff caused an awful mess. The city streets were layered in soot, the black powder piling around the stacks and then spreading as feet and wheels tracked it all over Southundon.
Most often, members of his family, other peers, and wealthy merchants traveled those streets on quick-moving mechanical carriages. They rarely had to step foot on a stretch of cobblestone that wasn’t meticulously swept clean by liveried staff. They gave the accumulating filth in the lesser quarters of the city as much thought as they did the hard cases in the asylum, which is to say they gave it no thought at all.
This evening, Oliver had wanted fresh air. Chilly or not, he’d decided a stroll through the city would clear his head. It’d been years since he’d traversed the streets of Southundon freely, and he’d forgotten how far from fresh that air was. Briefly, he considered taking a carriage out of the city and walking through the woods, but a late jaunt into the environs he’d so recently confronted his uncle was the opposite of a respite. He needed somewhere quiet, if such a thing could be found in Southundon, but he also needed somewhere with light and people, people who he didn’t know, who wouldn’t ask him questions or make insinuations.
He walked down to the harbor and found a pub he was certain wasn’t frequented by anyone he would know, the Sailor’s Grief. The sign above the door showed a sailor returning home to his wife. Oliver snorted, his lips twisting in a wry smile, and he walked in.
Oliver made his way through a half-full room and ordered an ale from a dull-eyed barman. He settled down on a stool, sipping the mediocre brew and pondering what was next.
His father had accused him of ignoring the needs of the Crown by planning to find his mother. It wasn’t illegal, yet, to leave against his father’s wishes. Until the old man had it written up as a proper decree, no courts would punish Oliver for defying the monarch, but the magistrates were not the ones who gave him concern. What would King Edward do if Oliver fled in search of Lilibet? Would he do anything?
Finishing his ale, Oliver decided that there was little personal risk if he defied his father. The old man rarely issued any real punishment to his sons, and even direct defiance of an order would not lead to a stint in Southundon’s gaol. No, the strongest reprimand King Edward would give to his youngest was to force him into the ministry, and it seemed that was already going to happen.
But while there was little personal risk, King Edward wouldn’t stand for anyone outside of his own bloodline disobeying him. Sam, Ainsley, and the rest of the Cloud Serpent’s crew would face incredible consequences if Oliver left after his father issued an edict. They might do it, out of loyalty to Oliver, but could he let them take such a risk? Even if there wasn’t a direct order, how would his father treat anyone who helped Oliver avoid his duties to the Crown?
He grunted and tossed a few coins onto the bar top. He needed to go find Captain Ainsley.
“We leave tomorrow or maybe not at all,” said Oliver. “I have to warn you there’s a risk my father may consider you a conspirator. If I’m not there to explain that I forced you to accompany me…”
“Mmm hmm,” mumbled Captain Ainsley, inspecting a heavy brass cannon barrel. She poked at the portal door in front of it, ensuring it was shut tight, and then counted the neat stack of iron balls her crew had arranged beside the cannon.
Oliver blinked at her and then glanced at First Mate Pettybone.
“She thinks if we drop you off in the Darklands, you’re almost certain to die there,” explained Pettybone. “If you do, we won’t be coming back to Enhover no matter the circumstances of our departure. The captain is a bit of a gambler, m’lord. If you die but we do not, she’ll have an airship, m’lord.”
Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. Ainsley scowled at her first mate but didn’t meet the duke’s glare. He cleared his throat and waited, watching her back.
Finally, the captain turned and faced him. “I’d rather serve you while you’re living, m’lord. I’ll be as loyal to you as a sister as long as you’re alive and I’m your captain, but a girl’s gotta hedge her bets, you know? Gotta keep an eye on the future, m’lord.”
“What would you do with an airship if you had one?” wondered Oliver.
“Ah, private trade, I suppose,” murmured Ainsley, stooping down and recounting the stack of iron cannon balls.
“Private trade… you aim to turn pirate?”
“I aim to keep you alive, m’lord,” huffed Ainsley, standing and pointing a finger at him. “But if I fail that, what chances do you think I’ll stand back in Enhover? You are right. There is no chance your father or the Company is going to welcome me back if I’m involved in your demise. No, if you die on this adventure, then we’re outlaws. We’ve no choice in the matter but to stake out for ourselves.”
“My death is far from certain,” complained Oliver.
Ainsley shrugged.
“We had to tell the crew something, m’lord,” added Pettybone. “We had to make sure they knew there were options if… if you didn’t make it back home with us. You can’t take men on a voyage like this without letting them know there is a plan.”
“Wait!” cried Oliver. “You told the crew that if I died, you would turn pirate?”
Ainsley balled her fist as if to punch her first mate, but then admitted, “Pettybone is right. I had to tell them something.”
“You don’t think that might put ideas into their heads?” screeched Oliver. “You don’t think that maybe some of those crew members could decide it would be a lot easier to settle matters while we’re over the sea and avoid an onerous trip to the Darklands? Spirits forsake it, Captain! They could slit my throat and dump my body over the edge at any moment. If they’re already planning to turn pirate, what’s one more murder on the indictment? The royal marines can only hang them once, after all, no matter what they do on the way to the gibbet.”
Ainsley frowned, and Pettybone scratched the back of his head beneath his knit cap.
“Perhaps some more pay, m’lord, would assure the crew that you’re worth more to us alive than dead,” suggested the captain.
“You also ought to lock the door to the captain’s cabin when you’re sleeping, m’lord,” suggested Pettybone. “Just in case.”
Oliver groaned and kicked a cannon in frustration.
“The crew is loyal to you, m’lord,” assured Ainsley, a bit unconvincingly. “They’re not going to turn on you. We’ll be ready tomorrow to sail for the Darklands, or we’ll take you off to the Westlands if that’s what you’d prefer. Where you direct us, m’lord, we will go. The boys are going to need a bit more pay, though.”
Oliver grunted.
Just then, a cannon ball thudded down on the stairs leading to the deck above. Step by step, it thumped down to the bottom and rolled across the floor of the cannon deck. They could see a pair of dirty feet standing in the doorway above.
“Frozen hell, Mister Samuels,” growled Pettybone. He stalked toward the hapless sailor.
After the first mate passed from earshot, Ainsley quietly said, “The crew’ll fly wher
ever you direct us, m’lord, but if it’s the Darklands, might be best if I can get them proper drunk the night before. You think we’ll sail tomorrow? Are you certain?”
“Just be ready, captain,” he said. “Just be ready.”
Oliver stepped down from the mechanical carriage and tugged his coat tight in the chill air. Two turns of the clock before midnight, noise bubbled from the wood-and-glass fronted pub before him. A new establishment, arriving in the capital with a splash, the Juniper Goddess was packed full of wigged and suited patrons. Specializing in gin cocktails with exotic mixtures from the tropics, it’d caught the imagination of the wealthy citizens of Southundon.
Oliver wondered if Commander Brenden Ostrander had gotten a taste for tropical spices during his time in Archtan Atoll or if the man was simply chasing the latest trend like the other revelers inside.
“Wellesley,” called a voice.
Oliver turned and saw the commander disembarking from his own carriage.
Ostrander smiled and gestured to the place, “A bit crowded in there, but I’m told it’s the place to be seen by the right stripe of folks. I tried coming a few days back, and even in uniform, the attendant couldn’t find me a place to stand, much less a place to sit.”
“I think they’ll find me a spot,” remarked Oliver. He frowned. “When did you care about being seen by the right stripe of folk?”
“When Admiral Brach recalled me back to the capital,” replied Ostrander, raising his hands in front of him. “There’s more politicking than fighting around here. In Southundon, the royal marines say a sharp quill will get your farther than a sharp sword.”
“That’s what you wanted to meet about? Politics?” wondered Oliver, making a show of covering a yawn with a closed fist. “It’s late, and I don’t have the patience for it tonight, Ostrander.”
“Not politics,” assured the man, shaking his head. “I want to talk military maneuvers. I heard you’re leading the retaliation against Imbon. Brach’s assigned me to the mission as his second, and I thought it best if we spoke about it before we set sail. I’ve spent time in the tropics, and I flatter myself that I know how to run a campaign there, but you’re the one with boots on the ground knowledge of Imbon.”
