by A. C. Cobble
“I told you my wife studied the occult for years,” continued King Edward. “She had a secret chamber here, a nest as it is called. She collected artifacts and documents there. Whatever she kept in Northundon is lost to the shades, but what she left in this palace remains undisturbed. These artifacts are of no use to me, just reminders of a terrible truth I would rather forget. If you stay in Southundon, Samantha, perhaps you could evaluate these objects? See if they are dangerous, like the uvaan was, or if it is something you can use in your own pursuits. We must always be prepared to battle sorcery, Samantha. If you stay here in Enhover, and keep my son here as well, I can help you prepare for that battle. The Council of Seven has been of no use to me, but that does not mean no one from the Church is useful. Help me, Samantha. Help me keep your friend and my son safe. Do that, and I will be your ally.”
The Cartographer V
“You’re used to all of this adventure, Oliver, but I cannot tell you how worried I was for John,” breathed Matilda.
John rolled his eyes, fiddling with his fork and stuffing peas into a pile of mashed potatoes. “It was nothing, Matilda. Oliver cut the thing down to size. All I had to do was stick the circlet on its head. Really, there was hardly any danger.”
“Weren’t dozens of people killed?” asked the duchess.
“Ah…” stammered John, glancing to Oliver for help.
“Did you not tell me the building was on fire?” demanded Matilda, thrusting at her husband with her own fork. “Your clothes were covered in soot, and you had those little marks where the embers had scorched you.”
Shifting uncomfortably, John admitted, “There may have been some small danger, but we had to stop the thing. Like you said, my love, dozens had already been killed.”
“And it was coming for us in the palace!” exclaimed the duchess. “We all could have been slaughtered by that monster.”
“I’m certain the guards would have stopped it,” assured the king, glancing between his sons. “They’re trained for this type of thing. It just happened so fast they did not have time to get there.”
“It was over before I even knew what was going on,” agreed John.
Oliver guessed his older brother was telling the truth, though his father was not. He asked John, “This priest who gave you the circlet, no luck finding who it was?”
“None,” replied the Duke of Southundon. “To be honest, I’m no longer even sure it was a priest, though he was dressed as one. What about the priestess, the one who’s been following you around, do you think she might know anything? I could have someone sketch the face of the man who handed me the circlet. I recall it quite clearly. Maybe it was another one of the Knives of the Council. Would she recognize them? They are the ones who should be looking after these matters, though why a Knife would not simply put the device on the creature’s head themselves is beyond me.”
“There are no other Knives in Enhover that she’s aware of,” said Oliver. “Besides, if this man took such pains to hide his identity, I am certain he would have been wearing a mask or some other disguise.”
“Between this and Bartholomew Surrey, I’m beginning to believe that no one is who they seem,” complained John.
Oliver frowned. His brother was right, but he had no idea how right. Both the king and Oliver had decided it was best not to share the full story of their Uncle William and the rest of his cabal. There was enough turmoil and unease as it was without everyone suspecting each other as secret sorcerers.
“Have you spoken to the priestess?” asked King Edward, glancing at Oliver.
“For a brief moment,” replied Oliver. “Shortly after I broke fast.”
“Did she have any new theories?” wondered the old man.
“She claimed she found some leads here in Southundon that she could pursue,” said Oliver, frowning. “Evidently, there may have been some artifacts and documents left behind by the priest who unleashed the reaver. With time, she told me that she might uncover the nature of the creature.”
“Interesting,” murmured the king.
“Well,” trilled Matilda, reaching over and gripping her husband’s arm, “we are glad you are here, Oliver, and not gallivanting off on another voyage for the Company. In times like these, it is best for family to stay close. With both William and Lannia gone… I’m glad you’re with us.”
Oliver winced. At midnight, he had an appointment with Captain Ainsley. They planned to set sail for the Darklands. But now Sam was asking for more time, he knew his father might decree that he stay, and there were attacks within a stone’s throw of the royal family…
“Oliver is a loyal servant of the Crown, Matilda,” assured King Edward. “He would never turn his back when his family needed him.”
Oliver stuffed a strip of roast pork in his mouth and chewed.
A brisk breeze greeted him as he hopped down from the mechanical carriage.
“You’re going in there, m’lord?” asked the livery-clad driver.
“I am,” confirmed Oliver. “The carriage can’t make it through. Can you wait here for me?”
“Of course, m’lord,” said the man, doffing his cap and pulling his scarf tight.
“Sit inside,” suggested Oliver, talking over the man’s protests. “Take a nip of that brandy to keep warm. That’s an order. I’ll be back in a few turns.”
The driver, one of his father’s personal staff, babbled thanks as Oliver turned and studied the wall of foliage in front of him, the forest that surround the old druid keep, his uncle William’s sorcerous nest. It was passed down to Lannia, Oliver supposed, but now most likely in the hands of the Crown. William wouldn’t have had any debts to settle, and with such a history, no one else would want the obelisk of menacing, living stone.
Menacing. Oliver could see why everyone thought that. It was tall and dark, and the inside was strange and discomforting. It had a grim history, capped with the death of his uncle. Not that anyone knew the keep was where the man had died, of course. They all thought it was a simple hunting accident in the surrounding woods. Still, it was enough that no respectable peer would be interested in acquiring such a useless structure, even if it was close to Southundon.
Ducking beneath a branch, Oliver entered the trackless forest and headed toward the ancient druid keep. There were no established paths to follow, not anymore, but there was little risk of becoming lost. The keep rose high above the surrounding forest, and any time there was a break in the canopy, the walls were easy to spot. More so, Oliver felt a tug, like he was following the pull of the furcula. Inexorably, he felt compelled to visit the keep, to walk its strange tunnels, to explore those twisting passageways.
Brushing aside a low branch, he resolved that if he began to visit the keep regularly, he’d have to get some men to clear a road to it. It wasn’t a long walk, and at the moment, it felt good to stretch his legs, but a proper passageway through the trees would shave two hours off the journey to and from.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the clean scent of the wooded area, and exhaled. Ahead, the presence of the keep drew him like iron to a lodestone. The warmth he’d felt that night atop the roof called to him, the warmth that had coursed through him in defiance of the deathly cold of the spirit Ca-Mi-He. He remembered it vividly, like he’d experienced it just moments ago. He could feel it pouring through his body and into Sam’s. He could feel how it had welled up from the stone of the fortress, passing through the barrier of his skin.
He had no idea what it meant.
The forest around the keep was quiet, though he heard the sounds of small wildlife scampering about, staying out of sight. There was no sense of danger beneath the pine boughs, just comfort. He felt no fear this brisk late-winter evening. It was a stark contrast to the last time he’d visited the fortress.
In an hour, he’d weaved his way through the trees and stood before the main entrance to the keep, a dark circle, the interior deep black where the rising moon lost its reach. From inside of his jacket, he produced
a vial of fae light and shook the little spirits awake. Half-a-dozen of the tiny orange fae flared alight, illuminating the way. He began to walk up the tunnel, his booted footsteps echoing on the stone. A hundred yards into the keep, he stopped.
Ahead of him, a green glow was growing, like someone else was approaching with a flaring globe of fae light. From around the bend, he saw a swirling cloud of the creatures. He gasped. They must be the ones that had been released while he had been fighting his way into the keep. They were still there, somehow still alive. In Enhover’s air, the delicate spirits never survived, but now, days after the confrontation with his uncle, they were alive and vigorous. They swirled around him and then condensed into a tight formation in front of him as he began to walk again. It was as if they were lighting the way for him, welcoming him home.
He shook his head. Fae, as far as he knew, had no thoughts. They flew around and slept, and that was it. They did not eat, did not produce waste, did nothing but get woken and spill light from their minuscule bodies. The little creatures could be sustained indefinitely if kept sealed in air collected in the Southlands. They were safe and steady sources of light, but no one had ever speculated that they were sentient. He wondered, could they think? And why had these particular ones not been extinguished by Enhover’s air? He’d never heard of any of them staying alive for more than a few moments after their glass prisons were opened. Of course, as far as he knew, no one had experimented with such a thing inside of an old druid keep.
He opened his palm, hoping to coax one of the fae to land upon it, but instead, they just swirled around him, as if waiting for him to walk again. He sighed, and with little thought given to it, he passed through the twisting tunnels higher into the keep. He didn’t consciously think about where he was walking, but he ended up ascending to the rooftop of the fortress. The green fae stayed clustered inside of the keep, reluctant to fly out into the open.
Ignoring them, he breathed the cool air and moved to the macabre iron crosses his uncle had installed near the edge. Between the grim metal, he could see Southundon. Thin plumes of black smoke rose above the city, as they always did, lit by the glow of the factories and the gas lamps. Dirty, industrial, powerful, Southundon was the seat of the world’s greatest empire. When he saw it from afar, it was difficult sometimes to reconcile that it was his family who sat upon the throne, who ruled that empire.
Powerful, yes, they were that, but they were vulnerable, too. What would have happened had he and Sam not been there the night before when the reaver had attacked? Would John have still been approached by a mysterious priest with the means to subdue the monster? Without Oliver’s and Sam’s help, would John have been able to do it?
What would have happened had Oliver not fought Isisandra, Raffles, Yates, and William? Had the cabal bound the dark trinity, there was little question the rest of the Wellesleys would have fared poorly. His father, his brothers, their wives, their children, they all would have been killed through sorcerous means.
Oliver placed his hands on the stone of the fortress, feeling its smooth, seamless construction. For hundreds of years, perhaps even longer, the fortress had stood there. It’d been there when Southundon had been a tiny fishing village. It’d been there long before Enhover became Enhover. Long before the Wellesleys gained the Crown.
All empires fall.
He’d been taught that from birth. The druids had fallen, but he wasn’t sure they’d ever been a proper empire. Their construction had remained, though. Their legacy was intact. Was his family strong enough to maintain their grip on the empire? Would they leave anything behind when they inevitably lost that hold?
He pounded his fist against the stone.
Philip, John, Franklin… they wouldn’t have thought to look for the sorcerers had Oliver not been there. Had it been up to them, after Harwick, they would have merely written a stern letter to the Church. His brothers had skills that Oliver did not, and they were fulfilling their roles better than he ever could, but what if the strength of their family, of the Crown, was not on the back of an individual but on the group? His brothers had their roles, and he had his.
He put his palms down on the cool stone, searching for the warmth he’d absorbed the night of the fight with his uncle. It was there, he thought, but faint. Not as if it had fled, but as if it was slumbering. It couldn’t have fled, that warmth, he realized. It was a part of this keep, integral to it. The warmth, a life spirit, was what kept the keep together. Without it, the keep would collapse, like a fae blinking out or a levitating stone falling from the sky. Oliver grimaced, shaking his head at the comparison.
The keep was stone, he told himself. Nothing more. Stone that had stood sentinel over the forest, over Southundon, for ages. Stone that had not failed in that time. Stone that had proven its strength by simply being there. Like his home in Northundon, the stone outlasted the brief lives of man. It outlasted because it was strong and reliable.
He sighed. Perhaps it was time for him to be that as well.
He looked across the river to Southundon. It was dirty, loud, and far from the wild parts of the world that called to him, but it was home. He took his hands off the stone of the keep and fought the urge to put them back, to stay there. It was comforting to be there, and he would come again. The fortress was calling to him, the spirit comforted by him as he was by it, but his home was across the river. His home was in Southundon.
“How’d the crew take it?” asked Oliver.
“Pettybone breached a keg of grog. The men who could play a bit of music did, and last I heard, they were ordering enough girls to the airship to have two or three of the lasses for every able-bodied crewman. You’re going to have a bill from the brothel that I shudder to think of, m’lord. I only hope they don’t get so drunk on the grog that they try and impress the fallen women by giving them a spin around Southundon on an airship.”
Oliver blinked at her.
“You were the only one who actually wanted to sail to the Darklands, m’lord,” she mentioned. “The men are content to receive the extra pay and stay tied to the bridge here in the city.”
“I think he’s more worried about the drunken crew piloting the airship,” mentioned Sam.
“Ah, yes,” said Ainsley, nodding confidently. “After a few more drinks, I’ll head on back and make sure things don’t get out of hand.”
“Kick them off the airship,” suggested Oliver. “I can bail the lot of them out of gaol, but I can’t fix it if they crash the Cloud Serpent into a building.”
The captain nodded and turned. She circled three fingers in the air toward the barman, ordering another round.
Oliver frowned at the back of her head.
“If she’s in the Darklands, Duke, she’ll still be there when you have time to go looking,” said Sam quietly.
“If I ever have the time,” muttered Oliver.
“What’d your father say?” asked Sam.
“He offered me the role of prime minister,” replied Oliver. “He doesn’t want to grant it so soon after William’s and Lannia’s burials, of course. There should be a period of mourning, but he means to do it soon. My father wants me to do something that shows the people I deserve the position.”
“Find the sorcerers—” began Sam.
Ainsley interrupted, “Nah, Imbon.”
Oliver nodded to her. “Imbon. He wants me to lead the assault on Imbon and ensure it’s resettled. Upon my return, he’ll reward me with the prime minister appointment.” Oliver snorted. “Some reward.”
“Well, it is a rather lucrative post, is it not?” inquired Ainsley.
“I don’t need any of my father’s sterling, Captain.”
She grunted, disbelieving. “You can always use more silver.”
“And what of the rest?” asked Sam.
Oliver smiled grimly. “The other uvaan, whoever was responsible for Lannia’s death, William’s acolytes, Ca-Mi-He? I suppose we’ve got a little time to find them, if you’re interested. I’ve
been thinking… Bartholomew Surrey visited Southundon frequently. Who did he socialize with when he was here? Were any of those friends also associated with those who are missing? With Lannia’s involvement, I think you were right that Surrey was attempting to contact William, and it stands to reason those in the room were my uncle’s acolytes. I think first, we ought to make sure the ones who perished in that chamber were the only ones.”
Sam nodded. “That’s logical.”
“You’re with me, then?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“What about me?” asked Ainsley.
“Tonight, make sure the crew doesn’t kill themselves, or worse, someone else,” instructed Oliver. “Then, prepare to sail to Imbon. I have no desire to go back there and see the reprisal for the uprising, but it is my duty to the Crown, and it’s time I stopped running from that duty.”
Three mugs thumped down on the table in front of them.
Ainsley grabbed hers and raised it. “To the Crown and the empire, then.”
“To the Crown and the empire,” said Oliver and Sam, raising their mugs as well.
An empire bought in blood, built for one purpose, expanding the wealth and power of those that led it. The Crown, his family. They had it all, but the price had been high.
The Priestess IV
She rolled over, the silk sheets sliding across her bare skin. She tugged the covers tight around her, more for the pleasant feeling of the smooth fabric than the warmth it provided. At the far side of the room, her fire glowed with bright red embers, providing the only light to the chamber. Two stories below ground level, no sunlight ever breached that darkness.
It was quiet, too, and would remain so until she started moving about or until the king came to visit. He was the only other with a key to the locked gate that barred entry to the tower’s basement.
