by A. C. Cobble
Oliver would leave the blood there. It was a silent reminder of the horrific cost of sorcery, of why it must be stopped, eradicated from human knowledge.
He sighed.
Eradicated from human knowledge. It sounded like something Sam would say. She had a point, but it was easier said than done. The little show they’d put on behind Avery Thornbush’s townhouse would be impossible to cover up. Dozens of peers had been inside the building. Just as many of Moncrief’s inspectors had been into the back alley before the signs were obscured. Could they ever be sure that none of those people had seen a secret they could use as an entrance to the dark path? The peers had access to nearly limitless funds, and Moncrief’s men had the regular duty of handling occult artifacts that no one was supposed to know about. Could he and Sam trust any of them?
Shaking his head, Oliver continued to pace, feeling the bubbling tension as the work continued below. He felt that work. How could he feel it?
There were no answers and no one he could ask. Somehow, his body responded to the old druid fortress, or perhaps it was the other way around? Was the fortress responding to him? He wondered if it was because he’d spent so much time in a similar structure in Northundon. He could have gained an affinity there for the ancient construction, or he could simply be imagining the feelings. His unconscious mind might be making clumsy attempts to grapple with his turmoil, both in the past and over the last several months.
Simply imagination. He wanted it to be true, but he knew it was not.
He could feel the men removing a stubborn steel gate. He thought he could hear their cursing as they banged on the stubborn hunk of metal. He knew when they lowered one of the odd constructions from the ceiling and sensed as they moved it through wide circular tunnels, tilting it so the broad spans of wood and hide that stretched from it didn’t bang against the tunnel walls. He could feel them set the contraption down in the center of the throne room.
That odd device, a two-yard wide tube braced by long, stiff panels on either side of it, rested on skids that turned on hidden axels, and despite the light construction, Oliver knew the frame of the thing was remarkably strong. The contraption and the other bizarre artifacts left in the fortress had been a mystery to him years before, but they no longer were. He knew what the thing was built for, what it could do. He knew, but he couldn’t explain how he knew.
The warm presence he felt when he walked into the keep was sharing with him. The spirit, tied indelibly to the stone of the fortress, was aware of all that happened within. He felt it reaching for him, and he did not push it away, but he did not reach back, either. He was not ready, not yet.
He held his hand above the stone of the battlement, but he did not touch it. He didn’t need to any longer. The more time he spent within the ancient keep, the more he felt the connection, the more the place felt like home. He balled his fist and let it hang by his side, looking across the forest and the river at Southundon.
He was still on top of the roof when the workmen finished their day. He could feel as they walked down the tunnels, approaching the exit. He peeked between the crenellations of the battlement and saw them below. Just as he felt, one by one, they exited the keep and started down the rough road they’d hewn from the forest.
How. How was it possible he could feel it?
The Priestess V
“You summoned and bound a man’s spirit?”
She jerked, springing up from the table and cursing.
In the doorway, King Edward Wellesley watched her with a smug grin on his face.
“I’m sorry, m’lord. I-I didn’t hear you knocking,” she stammered, tugging on her vest to right it, looking down at the table where she’d been studying Lilibet Wellesley’s notes.
“I didn’t knock,” admitted the king, stepping into the room and walking over to look at the documents on the table. He tugged on his goatee, frowning. “This is ancient Darklands script, is it not? How much of it can you read?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “With what I know, what Lilibet wrote down, I’ve been able to piece together a few phrases here and there. Not enough to—”
“To summon a spirit and bind it?” questioned the king, raising his eyebrows as he met her gaze.
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“That is what you did, is it not?” asked King Edward.
“I, ah, I did not summon it,” she explained. “I merely prevented it from departing.”
“And with your blood you bound it?” he pressed her.
She felt prickles of apprehension on her back and had trouble meeting the king’s steely gaze. He’d shown her kindness. He’d allowed her into Lilibet’s old sanctum, and he’d frequently expressed an abiding hatred for sorcery. There was no question that what she’d done had crossed the line. It was a line she knew had to be crossed if they wanted to keep the dark art from Enhover, but would the king see it that way?
She had to do it. What other way was there to ensure the cabal had no additional members? That had been the only way she’d learned Victoria Thornbush was involved. Had that woman done what Sam suspected she’d been meaning to do with Duke, she could have taken material from him. The blood and the seed of kings had incredible potency, and Sam imagined the woman had plans for Duke’s.
She thought all of that but said none of it.
The king waited patiently.
“I did not intend to…” she mumbled. “I only meant… I knew that if we let his spirit slip away, we’d never have confidence that we got them all. We only had the one chance and no other clues.”
“The Knives of the Council of Seven have always made compromises to right the scourge of sorcery,” responded the king. “They’ve always taken steps that would otherwise, well, would otherwise earn a death sentence from both the Church and the Crown.”
She swallowed. He was right. They both knew he was right.
The king leaned forward, shuffling the papers on the table and looking at what she’d been studying.
Her belt and daggers were on the corner of the table. In the blink of an eye, she could lunge and grab them. The king was unarmed. She would have little difficulty with him. But then what? She’d killed before, and it had rarely bothered her. When she killed, it was for a noble cause, a necessary evil to prevent worse atrocities. If the king turned her into the Church for sorcery, it would mean her execution. How far would she go to save herself?
At her side, her fingers twitched.
If she killed this man, could she get away? His chief of staff, Edgar Shackles, knew she’d been given access to the room. She could move the body to somewhere public, somewhere she wouldn’t be a suspect. She could track down Shackles and ensure he would not talk. Would anyone else suspect what had happened? Would Duke?
Duke. She grimaced.
“Are you done considering it?” asked the king, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked up to meet his steady gaze. His eyes flicked toward her daggers. He knew what she was thinking.
“What do you want of me?” she asked.
“Like the Church, I want to eliminate sorcery in Enhover,” said the king. “Unlike the Church, I understand this is a job that will never be finished. You did well, killing the Thornbush boy and his sister. You did well, tracking down the Dalyrimple girl, Bishop Yates, Raffles, even my brother. It was good work, but it was not the end. I think you and I both understand that.”
She nodded slowly.
The king tapped a finger on the paper-covered table. “Knowledge like this exists in the world. We can search for it, confiscate it, quarantine it, but we’ll never get it all. There’s always another hidden cave like the one my son found in Imbon, a secret hoard some ancient family member began that the heirs discover anew. Aside from all of that, there’s always someone willing to experiment, to chart their own maps, to create new ways to walk the dark path. Many of those will die on their walk, but some will not. The underworld exists, and like all potential knowledge, the means to
reach it are there to be discovered.” The king smirked. “When either man or the underworld ceases to exist, then I will no longer care about the plague of sorcery. Until then, I care very much.”
“I didn’t… With Thornbush, I had to—”
The king held up a hand. “The Church, in its wisdom, decided that there must be those allowed knowledge of the dark path to hunt the dangerous foes who walk it. They sanctioned a certain, ah, flexible relationship with the rules for their Council and its Knives. For everyone else, both the Church and the Crown have made sorcery a crime punishable by death.”
“Yes, as a Knife of the—”
“You are no longer sanctioned by the Church,” interrupted the king.
She closed her mouth.
“The Church is ineffective and foolish,” continued King Edward. “Losing their support is no great loss, but if you plan to continue this pursuit, if you plan to continue eradicating sorcery from Enhover, then you need a new patron. I ask you, Samantha, will you be my hunter? Will you work on behalf of the Crown to protect our shores from the shadow of the underworld?”
“Of course,” she breathed, air leaving her body, relief washing over her.
“You won’t have protection from the Church or from the other Knives of the Council,” warned King Edward. “You understand, I hope, how the Crown cannot be publicly involved in these types of things. You will, however, have access to what assistance I can provide. Lilibet’s effects, for one, the sterling in my treasury, my inspectors… my son.”
“I would be honored, m’lord,” she said quietly.
“Oliver is bull-headed, sometimes,” said the king. “I’m afraid no matter what I say to him, he’ll do as he pleases. He’ll pursue these matters regardless of what his old father thinks. On this journey, while you hunt, will you watch out for him? When you can, stay by his side, keep him out of trouble. To me, that is equally as important as the other work I ask of you.”
“I’ll do anything that you need, m’lord,” she replied, bowing to the man.
“If he tries to slip away, you’ll go with him and watch his back?”
She nodded.
“Good,” replied King Edward, “In the meantime, I have something I need you to do.”
She stood atop the ancient druid keep, looking out over the dark forest, the black band of river reflecting the silver light of the moon, and the sparkling city of Southundon beyond it. Above, clouds whipped through the sky, obscuring and revealing the moon in turns, casting the landscape below in ever-changing patterns of dark and silver.
A cool breeze, heavy with moisture and the scent of the sea, gusted over the battlements, chilling her and making her shudder at the memory of the last time she had been on this rooftop, the last time she’d felt so cold.
From a pouch on her belt, she removed a roughly carved wooden symbol and a canteen of water. She drank but did not swallow. She swished the water in her mouth, letting each drop of it swirl, touching the sides of her cheeks, her tongue. Then, she knelt, turning the simple carving over to where she could see the back of it. It was stained dark from a dubious-smelling preparation.
She bent and dribbled water from her mouth onto the back of the emblem. It bubbled and popped, quietly hissing where the water touched the solution painted onto the wood.
When she was confident that she’d covered each bit of it with water from her mouth, she spit the rest of the liquid out to the side and drew Ca-Mi-He’s tainted dagger from behind her back. She used the tip of the blade to flip the wooden carving over and the hilt to press down on it.
The solution on the back of the wood should bind the carving to the stone of the fortress. The design was Imbonese, and the wood was from that island. Ca-Mi-He’s dagger invoked the power of the great spirit, and her saliva, tainted by the spirit’s touch, activated the binding. Repetition and symmetry, the tools of a sorcerer.
King Edward had told her that the symbol would draw the reavers to it should any more of them escape. Not a binding, exactly, but an irresistible call. It was a precaution, a safety measure, as they still did not fully understand the nature of the creatures. Best to draw them as far from the city of Southundon as possible, which she could find no argument against.
She’d been stunned when the king had suggested it. Shocked that the man had knowledge to design and craft the emblem, but he’d had access to his wife’s grimoires for years. He said he’d been unable to read much of it, as he professed complete ignorance of the ancient Darklands tongue, but he showed her Lilibet’s notes describing such a ritual. They’d been stashed in a small cubby in the room that Sam had not yet sorted through and were written in the same, clear hand as the rest of the queen’s notes. They’d modified the ritual to account for Sam’s performance of it and the specific nature of Imbon, but otherwise, it was spelled out with remarkable precision.
An odd and fortunate coincidence that Lilibet had studied the attraction of creatures like the reaver, but the notes were there, written in the same script that covered every page in the chamber. If Sam had held any doubt about Lilibet’s proficiency as a sorceress, reading the detailed instructions erased them. Not everything in the room hinted at such skill, but it was enough. Sam suspected the queen had taken much of her research with her when she fled, but the king could only shrug when she’d mentioned it. As Sam had read the note about attracting spirits drawn fully from the underworld but unbound, King Edward had looked on, quiet understanding in his eyes.
Sam had suggested that instead of her saliva, she use blood, but the king insisted they do it the way Lilibet had outlined. He demanded Sam not open her skin. With Ca-Mi-He’s influence, not to mention the reavers, he claimed they would do what was necessary and nothing more. Any more would be dangerous.
He’d told her, “You don’t want the reavers acquiring a taste for your blood, do you?”
Thinking back to the encounter with the reaver, she agreed. She was glad he’d talked her out of taking the ritual farther but confused how the man seemed so knowledgeable about the dark arts. How much of his wife’s material had he read? How much had he understood?
Hoping it’d been long enough that the preparation had time to bind spirit to wood to stone, she stood. She waited, wondering if she’d feel the touch of Ca-Mi-He as the power of the spirit was used in the binding, but she felt nothing except the cold breeze.
The breeze. Was it the breeze or something else? Grunting and hugging herself nervously, she turned and left.
The Cartographer VII
“Admiral,” he said.
“Duke Wellesley,” replied the man, offering a shallow bow. “I am glad you agreed to accompany us.”
Oliver snorted. “Agreed, was forced by my father… It is all semantics, no?”
The admiral shifted uncomfortably. “I’m glad you’ll be with us regardless of how it happened. My men are no stranger to this type of campaign except…”
“Except for the giant lizards,” Oliver finished.
“Exactly,” responded Admiral Richard Brach, straightening his immaculate navy-blue coat. “We’ll have the usual armaments and a strong contingent of marines. With the Cloud Serpent’s artillery, I’d say close to four-score good brass cannon, holds filled with red saltpetre bombs, and the new rockets your father’s men have been developing. I’m bringing three companies of royal marines with standard tropical kit, your sailors if they care to engage, and instructions to clear the island for rehabilitation. The Company will have seagoing vessels departing at approximately the same time we do, and I expect their arrival one week after we’ve finished our campaign. There will be additional marines with the seagoing fleet with a long-term assignment to provide security for the colony.”
“Tell me of the rockets,” said Oliver. “It was my understanding they were determined too dangerous for use on airships.”
Admiral Brach brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the epaulets on his shoulder. “Well, that is true. A combination of red saltpetre-infused gunpowde
r and the conventional sort makes for substantial ignition along with a rather large pop at the end. If it fails to clear the decks… We’ve used the munitions in land combat and tested them at sea. This will be the first campaign they’re authorized for deployment in the air. I’m still uncertain they will be necessary, but they’re as safe to transport as any explosive. If we light them, of course, the men need be careful.”
“Of course,” agreed Oliver, running a hand over his hair and checking the knot at the back. “I will accompany your expedition as agreed. I will offer my serves as a cartographer familiar with the terrain as well as a man who has spent some time with the natives. I’ll do my best to ensure the campaign proceeds as smoothly as possible, but neither I nor my men will engage in combat unless we’re threatened. On those terms, I’ll accept the voyage.”
“It’s rare a Wellesley is reluctant to bloody his blade,” complained Admiral Brach.
Oliver put a hand on his broadsword and leaned toward the admiral. “When I was last in Imbon, I killed half-a-dozen natives with this very weapon. I wounded as many more, though I cannot account for them after they fell from the battlement I was defending. I fired a cannon that took one of those lizards in the gut, and I held the wall until the corpse of the thing came crashing through it. I stood my ground in the compound until one of our own men knocked me on the head from behind and hoisted me onto the airship. Admiral Brach, if I ever hear you doubt my valor again, I’ll be seeing you on the dueling grounds.”
“M’lord, I-I meant no offense.”
