by A. C. Cobble
Muttering to herself, she moved to a cupboard in the corner of the room and began digging for more candles. She pulled two out, the last ones in the drawer, and scowled. She would have to get more, which meant a visit to the palace staff and an explanation that she was, in fact, in the employ of the Crown.
Days before, she’d tried fae light, but the fickle creatures only stayed lit for an hour before blinking out. They did so as a group and with little warning. After several attempts that left her stumbling in the pitch-black room trying to find more light, she gave up and began doing it the old-fashioned way. She purposefully did not consider why the timid life spirits were so reluctant to show themselves in Lilibet’s old rooms.
Holding the two waxy sticks, she lit the wicks from the other candles and arranged them as close as she felt was safe near the open books she was struggling to read.
A man cleared his throat at the doorway to the stairwell that led out of the hidden room.
She jumped. She hadn’t heard him coming down.
“M’lord,” she murmured, bowing to the king.
“I should send my maid down again, I suppose,” he said, eyeing the mess she’d made of the room.
“Yes, m’lord, that would be welcomed.”
“You could clean up after yourself, as well,” mentioned King Edward.
She shrugged.
Sighing, the king stepped into the room, glancing at the materials on the desk. “Have you learned anything?”
“Some,” replied Sam. “Lilibet kept copious notes on her studies and her speculations. It’s unclear how much of it is truth and how much theory, but I did find one thing. The source of her knowledge came from a forgotten vault in the Church’s library of all places. She was made aware of the trove and removed all of the items to here. That is good news. She was not part of a larger cabal that shares her knowledge. What she knew died with her.”
“And any word on how that occurred?” questioned the king, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing on the other side of the table.
“I have not learned anything new, m’lord,” she said.
“She is dead, though? You are certain of that?” asked the king. “Oliver said that he never saw the body.”
Sam swallowed and nodded. “She is dead, m’lord. There is no doubt.”
“How did it happen?” questioned the king. “You’ve been avoiding me after sending that terse note to hide the uvaan. Oliver told me of the tainted dagger thrusting into her stomach. He said there was no blood.”
“The katars you gave me, m’lord,” said Sam, “they proved effective.”
“I’m glad. I thought they might be, but there’s never been a chance to test their efficacy,” said the king. “Why are you so reluctant to share the details?”
“I-I killed your wife,” stammered Sam, her eyes fixed on the table in front of her.
Her heart hammered in her chest, and she found it difficult to breathe. King Edward knew that, of course, but so far, she’d avoided saying it so explicitly. She wasn’t sure how he would react to the knowledge being dragged into the open.
He stopped walking but wasn’t speaking.
Tentatively, she peeked at him and saw him using a finger to push through the papers she had scattered on the desk. He must have sensed her gaze because he looked up and met her eyes.
“Our marriage ended twenty years ago,” he said. “I am not mad, and long ago, I stopped being sad. What happened, happened. As in all things, the only way forward is ahead. All but history has already forgotten Lilibet Wellesley, and it is time we do as well. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” acknowledged Sam.
She meant it. It was best if Lilibet was forgotten, though she knew it’d take more than a single comment to convince Duke. Plus, there was another matter.
She told the king, “I have a problem.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Lilibet and several of the other sorcerers in the Darklands spoke of being able to sense the presence of, ah, a spirit that clings to me, tainting me. If I am to continue in this role, I need to sever the connection.”
“What spirit?” asked the king.
“Ca-Mi-He,” croaked Sam. “I need guidance on how to perform the ritual, and I think I know of someone who can assist.”
“Ca-Mi-He,” muttered the king. “Yes, that makes sense. Of course it clung to you after the battle with William. That explains how you were able to… You are right. The connection must be severed. After the Darklands, it is imperative. We must not allow the great spirit any further hold upon this world. Who do you seek? Bishop Constance, the Whitemask? I caution you, girl. If she believes you’ve bound Ca-Mi-He to yourself, she will not help you. She’s going to kill you.”
“No, not Constance. No one from the Church,” said Sam hurriedly. “I need to go to Westundon.”
“Who is in Westundon?” questioned Edward.
“A friend.”
“A friend who knows more than you of sorcery?” pressed the king. “You’ve only been in my service a short time, but already I feel it is important to warn you that you’re here to eradicate sorcery, not encourage it.”
“I aim to do that, m’lord,” assured Sam. “That’s all I aim to do, but sometimes, that requires compromises. It requires dipping one’s toes into the muck. I beg you to trust me. The people I will consult with represent no threat to the Crown. They are no more than tricksters and hustlers, but they know a little bit of truth.”
King Edward frowned.
“If they ever become a threat, if they ever seek to learn more than they do, what better way to monitor them than as a friend?”
“And as a friend,” questioned the king, “will you be prepared to do what is necessary, should it become so?”
“I will,” said Sam. “I-I’ve done it before.”
Looking skeptical, the king nodded. “Very well, then. Go to Westundon. Inform me when you return.”
He turned on his heel and walked to the doorway.
“M’lord,” she said, “there is one other mystery. I cannot find why Lilibet pursued sorcery so arduously. There is nothing here that explains why she fled to the Darklands. There is no hint at what she considered so important she left behind everything and everyone. The only clue, she had three uvaan with her in the Darklands. She told me of their properties, which is why I gave you the warning when I first returned. Her enemies, she claimed. I don’t know who they were, what they were, but perhaps they are why she agreed to whatever dark bargain was completed in Northundon.”
“Sometimes,” said the king, looking over his shoulder, “the allure of the dark path is its own reason. When one walks too far, the only way is to keep moving forward. Remember that when you’re in Westundon.”
“She won’t see me?” asked Sam. “I don’t believe it.”
Mistress Goldthwaite snorted.
“What?”
“You use her, girl,” explained the mistress, leaning forward on her bar. “Perhaps once, when you were girls, you had a real relationship. You don’t any longer. Sex, trading favors, it is not what Kalbeth wants. It’s not what will keep her here.”
“Keep her here?” questioned Sam.
“In the current of life,” explained Goldthwaite. “You know what Kalbeth risks every time she dips her fingers into the shroud. That darkness clings to her, and she must cling to life just as hard, or she’ll slip to the other side. A roll between the sheets, an occasional visit when you need something, it’s not enough.”
“I’m not responsible for… I’m not trying to use her,” muttered Sam.
“You’re not?” Goldthwaite laughed, her braids bouncing merrily around her round face. “You came to tell her you mean to court her, then, or that perhaps you’re looking to move with her away from the city? A nice cottage by the sea, is it? You think that you two will settle down and grow old and gray together? Please, girl, don’t take me for a fool.”
“Kalbeth voiced no complaints the las
t time I was here,” snapped Sam, glaring at the mistress, and knowing as she said it, it wasn’t entirely true.
“She was clear with you, girl, had you been listening,” declared the mistress. “When you first came back, she would have done anything for you. She gave up a part of herself for that tattoo, in fact, but you didn’t take the hand she was offering. You turned your back on her, and she declined to follow. When you first arrived, she would have gone into that old keep without thinking twice about it. It takes two to form a relationship, though. I don’t know how many times I told her, but you were the one who finally showed her the truth. That’s why she doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“I need her!” cried Sam.
“And she needed you, but you didn’t give her what she needed,” replied Goldthwaite. “She’s moved on. You should as well.”
“The spirit of Ca-Mi-He is loose in this world,” growled Sam, lowering her voice and leaning close to the mistress. “I need her help to banish it once and for all.”
“Is it loose?” replied Goldthwaite, a disbelieving smirk on her lips.
“Kalbeth can look into the shadows that cluster around me,” said Sam. “She’ll see the truth. The taint of Ca-Mi-He is on me. The spirit is tied to me, bound by ropes I cannot break. I wouldn’t even know where to start… Kalbeth may be able to sever those ties, Goldthwaite. She can send the great spirit back to where it belongs. For me, for everyone. You know the power of that spirit as well as I. If it is able to use me as a bridge to come fully into this world…”
Frowning, Goldthwaite squinted her eyes, peering at Sam.
Sam picked up the mug of ale the mistress had reluctantly poured for her earlier and drank deeply, letting the older woman study her.
“How?” whispered the mistress.
“You can see it?” questioned Sam.
“Who do you think taught Kalbeth?” grouched Goldthwaite. She reached below the bar and retrieved a clear glass bottle. “Come with me.”
“What is that?” wondered Sam.
“Gin,” remarked the woman, pausing and then selecting a second bottle. “We’re going to need it.”
“You’ll take me to Kalbeth?”
“Spirits, girl,” snapped the mistress. “I wasn’t going to take you to her before I knew what shadows trailed in your wake. You think I’ll let you go anywhere near her now?”
“Don’t make me force you,” warned Sam.
“She wasn’t born from my loins, but Kalbeth is my daughter,” said Goldthwaite over her shoulder, leading Sam through a curtained doorway behind the bar of the Lusty Barnacle. “Someday, I will die for her. I will not take you to her no matter what you threaten, but I may be able to help.”
Sam grunted.
Across the tiny table, a bald-headed, toothless old man licked his lips, staring lasciviously at Mistress Goldthwaite. He was naked in the warm room, giving Sam ample view of the curling black tattoos that scrunched together on his dry, crinkled flesh. His skin sagged across his frame like a sheet, no meat between it and the bones. Now that he was seated across from her, Sam couldn’t see below his ribcage, but he had strutted about earlier like a peacock in mating season, except instead of colorful plumage, he sported a small, flaccid penis. Unlike the rest of his body, she couldn’t see even a hint of bone beneath that floppy skin. She’d wondered how many years it had been since the old man had gotten the thing erect.
The decrepit condition of his equipment seemed to do little to dampen his ardor for Mistress Goldthwaite, though. He eyed her like a pauper stepping off the streets into the Church for the New Year feast.
“What do you aim to do with her?” Sam asked the old man.
He winked at her. “A better question, girl, is what will I not do?”
“I’m trying to concentrate,” muttered Goldthwaite, not looking up at either of them.
The old man laughed, displaying his toothless gums.
Sam rolled her eyes.
“Maybe after I’m done with the mistress, you’d care to give it a ride?” questioned the old man, looking lecherously toward Sam. “I’ve quite a bit of experience, girl. I’ve traveled far, and I know the fervor of a Southlands lover, the wanton exuberance of those of Finavia, the forbidden techniques of the Darklands. In my day, women flocked from all over—”
“I’ll give you ten sterling if you can get that thing erect right now,” challenged Sam.
The old man frowned at her.
“That’s what I thought,” said Sam, sitting back and glancing at Goldthwaite to see how much more time she needed.
The mistress, still clothed despite the old man’s cajoling, was arranging a neat array of consecrated objects. A silver bowl etched inside with intricate geometric patterns traced in copper, a flagon of water blessed by life spirits in the Southlands and transported all of the way to Enhover, a thin vial of gleaming mercury, a decanter of yellowed oil that Sam hoped was from olives but suspected was actually something rather foul, three wax candles infused with the ashes of Goldthwaite’s own ancestors, a stick of chalk, a leather strap to bite down on, the long steel dagger that had been tainted by Ca-Mi-He and used to send Sam to the edge of the shroud, and several worn towels from upstairs in the brothel that would be used to mop up the blood.
“You understand I do not have the skill or the strength to banish a spirit such as this?” asked the mistress, glancing at Sam. “All I can hope to do is sever its tie to your soul. I do not know what such a powerful shade may be capable of, so I cannot promise that this ritual will go well even if I execute it flawlessly. If Ca-Mi-He comes here, it may take you, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. And if it attempts to invest in you, I’ll send you to the underworld myself. Ca-Mi-He is too strong for us to play around with. You understand I will act quickly if it looks like it might become necessary?”
“Could Kalbeth—”
“No,” said Goldthwaite.
Sam nodded.
“You may not survive this,” said Goldthwaite, evidently wanting to make absolutely sure her point was understood.
“What are the odds, do you think?” asked Sam.
Goldthwaite shrugged unhelpfully.
In truth, Sam was glad the woman hadn’t answered. There wasn’t a number Goldthwaite could say which would soothe Sam’s nerves.
“Before we begin—” started the old man.
Both Goldthwaite and Sam interrupted him with a firm, “No.”
“We shall start soon,” said the mistress.
From a chest behind her, she collected a small censer of incense and a long, dark stick of it. She lit both. The censer smelled of jasmine, cardamom, and musk. The stick smelled of burning pitch.
She scrunched her nose and said, “Sorry.”
With the foul-smelling stick, she lit the three candles, which smelled no better.
The old man shifted, his eyes glistening brightly in the candlelight.
“What is your name?” Sam asked him, suddenly realizing Goldthwaite had not introduced him.
He winked at her then nodded to the mistress.
Her eyes were closed, and she was whispering quietly beneath her breath. She seemed to have entered a meditative trance. Without looking, she picked up the flagon of water, pouring the silver bowl half full. She stopped right at the midpoint where the extensive copper inlay began on the inside of the container.
Still with her eyes closed, Goldthwaite unstoppered the mercury and put three distinct drops into the bowl. She did the same with the decanter of oil, though it was more like three splashes.
The liquids swirled in the bowl, maintaining distinct globs of three, moving though there should be nothing propelling them in the still water.
Goldthwaite, whispering below an audible volume, picked up the chalk and began to draw. Eyes closed, she operated from some other sight, and Sam realized she recognized none of the symbols or patterns the seer was producing. They were distinct, though, and as the woman continued, a clear design emerged, swirling,
beautiful, and then severed in sharp streaks.
Rising onto her knees, the seer continued the pattern, circling the bowl in several concentric loops, drawing closer and closer to the container, and then she made one last dramatic slash toward Sam. Goldthwaite sat back, pinching her pointer finger and thumb together, the chalk perfectly expended by her art.
The old man, a sorrowful smile on his face, nodded to the leather strap.
Wincing, Sam collected it and stood. She opened her mouth and bit down on the leather.
Silent, so as to not interrupt Goldthwaite’s incantation, the old man mimed removing a shirt and raised an eyebrow at Sam.
She shook her head no. Instead, she simply pulled up the tail of her shirt, exposing the puckered scar on her ribs that Ca-Mi-He’s dagger had left when William Wellesley had stabbed her. She put a finger on the scar and glanced at the old man to make sure he understood.
He picked up the tainted dagger, hefting it, trembling as he held it in his fist. He faced her, no longer full of the confidence he’d displayed earlier.
She could see him sweating, little beads of liquid rolling down his brow. He shifted on his bare feet, flexing his arms, his fingers barely gripping the dagger.
Sam suddenly wasn’t sure the old man was going to be able to do it. She met his eyes and then glanced down at the man’s limp phallus. When she looked back to his face, she raised an eyebrow questioningly.
He laughed, and then he stabbed her.
Sam woke to excruciating pain. She gasped and tried to sit up, but firm hands held her down. She didn’t have the strength to fight them. She was in a dark room, lit by a pair of fae light globes that had been covered in thin sheets to further dim the illumination. The sheets were stitched with some sort of creature, a bird maybe, and it cast odd shadows around the room. From those shadows, a shape leaned forward. Sam thrashed weakly, unable to free her arms from the constricting blankets that were tucked tightly around her.
