by A. C. Cobble
He waved her after him, and they began walking toward the collapsed druid fortress.
“Philip,” hissed Oliver.
His brother slowed his walk and turned. By his side, his wife Lucinda looked back as well, peering curiously into the dark night.
“Is that you, Oliver?” asked his older brother.
“I need to talk to you alone,” whispered Oliver.
“What’s going on?” asked Philip.
He made no move to join Oliver in the bushes, and Lucinda made no move to continue walking the pebbled path back to her rooms in the palace.
“We don’t have much time. I need to talk to you now,” insisted Oliver, trying to force urgency into his low tone.
“What are you doing hiding in my garden, little brother?” questioned Philip. “You’re lucky the guards didn’t see you and shoot you, mistaking you for an intruder. Come up to my study. We’ll get a drink and settle whatever is on your mind.” He turned to his wife. “You don’t mind, darling, do you?”
She adjusted her dress and gave the man a frank look. “I didn’t sit through the theatre, darling, to go to bed alone. Hurry along, will you?” She turned to look into the shadows beside the garden path. “It’s good to, ah, see you again, Oliver. I do hope you don’t get caught in Southundon and never find time to visit us. I have to admit, the city is a less exciting place without you doing, well, what you do.”
She turned and seemed to float down the manicured trail, the sound of the wind whistling through the spring growth and the scent of fresh blooms accompanying her back into the palace.
“Spirits forsake it, Oliver,” cursed Philip when his wife passed from earshot. “What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Come here,” encouraged Oliver.
Philip put his fists on his hips. “I’d rather have this conversation in my study with a glass of wine in hand, but if you won’t do that, then let’s do it here on the path. I’m not going to go skulking through the bushes of my own garden, no matter who you’ve angered.”
Sam nudged him in the ribs and nodded for Oliver to step out next to Philip.
Sighing, Oliver walked to the edge of the path where he knew his brother would be able to tell it was him. With luck, any passing sentries would only see a dark figure.
“Is this about Father?” guessed Philip.
“It is,” confirmed Oliver.
“Still worried about the expansion of the empire?” chided Philip. “He’s the king, the ultimate representative of the Crown. He’s given us great leeway, Oliver, you in particular. We may question him in private, but he is the king. I don’t like the way you’re approaching me. This is the type of thing men do when engaged in a conspiracy…”
Philip let the comment hang there, a half-formed question, as if he was nervous about getting the answer.
“He’s a sorcerer,” said Oliver. “Father is the one responsible for Northundon.”
“What?” Philip asked with a laugh. He paused, waiting for Oliver to reveal the jest. When he didn’t, Philip asked again, “What?”
“Philip, Father is a sorcerer,” stated Oliver. “He’s behind it all. Everything. He’s been playing us like marionettes, dancing us to his dark plan.”
The prince crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head and frowning.
“We have to work together and—” began Oliver.
“What are you saying, Oliver?” interrupted Philip, dropping his hands to his side and taking a menacing step forward. “I’ll tell you right now I don’t like this.”
“He’s a sorcerer, Philip.”
“He’s the king, Oliver.”
“How can you call him your king when he’s… he’s evil, Philip!” exclaimed Oliver. “He killed tens of thousands of people in Northundon, all for some silly notion of empire! All so we can draw new lines on our maps!”
“So you can draw new lines,” barked Philip, scowling at his younger brother. “You draw the lines.”
“I didn’t mean literally—”
“Imbon, the Darklands, the Westlands,” growled Philip. “You led the expeditions. You identified the resources, and more often than not, you were involved in claiming the territory for the Crown. I am not sure if I believe what you are saying or not, but I know Father does what he thinks is best for the Crown. As do you. As do I. Have faith that Father is doing what he thinks best, Oliver.”
“It’s not the same,” muttered Oliver. “Those were our people in Northundon.”
Philip snorted. “People are people, brother. Whether they were born in Enhover or the tropics, the Darklands or Ivalla. People are people. You’ve said that yourself!”
Oliver blinked at his older brother, only able to see the silhouette of the man in the darkness. He shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. His brother was right. People were people. How could Philip not understand?
“What?” asked Philip.
“People are people, brother,” said Oliver quietly. “You’re right. That’s the way the Crown sees them. That’s the way the Crown has always seen them. Natives in the islands, sheep herders outside of Middlebury, the peers in the Congress of Lords. They’re all the same, aren’t they?”
Philip clenched his fists but didn’t comment, evidently sensing Oliver was making a different point than the one he was insisting on.
“Father cares nothing of the people — ours or others,” continued Oliver. “He cares only for the Crown.”
“For the family,” said Philip. “Oliver, he cares about us. He’s doing this for us.”
Oliver shook his head.
“He is,” insisted Philip.
“I know,” replied Oliver. “That, Philip, is why we have the responsibility to stop him. I came here to ask your help, but I see now—”
“Stop him?” interjected Philip. “What are you planning, Oliver? Do not be stupid. Come inside with me, and we’ll talk about this.”
But Oliver did not. He could not. He realized now his brother would not understand, would not approve even if he did. Their father did it for the family, for the Crown, to grow the empire. Edward Wellesley was raising the empire, but he expected his sons to carry it. A mantle paid for in blood and darkness. If they accepted the charge, they’d be just as guilty as their father.
Philip, earnest and docile, believed that Enhover’s rule made the world a better place, but he’d never been there, never been out to the wild places before the imperial boot fell upon the soil. Philip had never seen what Oliver had. The peace Enhover brought was not worth the blood spilled to earn it. The commerce the merchants opened wasn’t worth the control they exerted. The tithes the Church claimed were too high for the glory she provided. The empire brought change by conquest, and nothing was worth that price. Oliver knew because he’d seen. His brother had not.
Their father, the king, was the embodiment of the bargain the empire made, the sacrifice it required. Edward sought to expand the empire and no doubt thought it would be a great gift to all men, but the blood that fueled his terrible sorcery, the darkness he would steep the world in, could not be tolerated. King Edward had to be stopped.
Oliver backed into the bushes and slipped behind a hedge, ducking low and scurrying through the growth. Behind him, Sam followed quietly.
He could hear Philip fumbling after them, getting caught up on unseen branches, cursing and calling for Oliver to wait, but he did not. Philip would never understand.
He rubbed his cheek unconsciously, wincing at where his skin still stung from the full-armed slap Isabella had delivered. The blow had reopened the cut Sam had given him in the steam room, and it was spirits-forsaken irritating.
Isabella had been in Westundon visiting her sister and father. She had literally stumbled into him as he was fleeing his brother’s palace. She’d been surprised to see him and reacted to the uncertain circumstances the way she always did. She’d wrapped herself around him and tried to drag him into an empty room, whispering entreaties and questions in
his ear as he struggled to extract himself from her grip.
In the midst of it, he’d realized the life she was planning was never going to be. He could not tell her what he was about to embark on, but success or failure, his life would never be the same. His life would never again be one that Baroness Isabella Child would want to be associated with. He’d tried to explain that to her, that he was giving up everything, but he couldn’t give her the details. He’d tried to assure her that he cared for her and that he’d make sure she was taken care of. He tried to… He’d accidentally mentioned Sam.
That was when the slap had occurred, followed by several more frenzied strikes that he managed to get his hands up and defend himself against.
Isabella thought he was leaving her for Sam, to pursue some illicit relationship that his family would not approve of. She thought he was giving up everything for another woman. He’d decided maybe that was for the best. It was an easier explanation than what he was really doing.
Sam, standing beside him, had burst out laughing at Isabella’s attack, which had not helped the situation. Oliver and Sam had scrambled away, chased by Isabella’s shrill admonitions and then by Philip’s guards as they were drawn to the commotion. There would be no hiding that he’d visited Westundon and spoke to his brother.
Philip would tell Edward.
Isabella might tell everyone.
His father would understand that Sam and Oliver had decided not to join him. He would figure out that, given the timing, they were moving on the Cloud Serpent. He would know enough about his youngest son to guess that they would not be fleeing to some overseas hideaway. They wouldn’t gather the available sterling and live a life of comfortable exile. No, Edward would know that unlike Philip, who was content to passively follow instruction, unlike Lilibet who’d retreated to pursue her own interests abroad, unlike Franklin and John who led where their wives took them, Oliver would stand up for what he believed. Oliver would defy the king, the Crown, and the empire.
The airship banked, and Oliver lowered his hand to brace it against the table.
“We ought to be heading out over the sea now,” remarked Sam.
He nodded, his eyes fixed on the maps spread out on the captain’s table of the Cloud Serpent. Ainsley was out on the deck, exhorting the crew and plotting a course into the night that would take them far from Enhover’s prying eyes. She would buy them time to come up with a plan.
Though, as the hours passed, Oliver was becoming more and more convinced that planning was a fruitless adventure. His father had all of the resources of the Crown. He had the royal marines and dozens of airships. He was the most powerful sorcerer the world had seen. When Oliver asked Sam what kind of strength Edward could have gained from the sacrifice of Northundon, she could only shake her head. Her look told Oliver everything he needed to know. They couldn’t stand against that strength, but they had to try.
The Priestess XIX
She watched him, poring over his maps, making notes, scratching them out, and then making them again. His cheek glowed where Isabella Child had struck him, which Sam felt he thoroughly deserved. Tentatively, her tongue darted out and touched the split where he’d opened her lip in their tussle the day before. It still stung something fierce. He definitely deserved what he’d gotten from the baroness.
Her heart began beating faster, thinking of their fight. Brutal and quick, though at the time it seemed to have stretched for an hour. He’d hesitated, and so had she. Neither one of them had committed to the fight, and she didn’t know which way it would have gone if they had.
Had some part of her known, suspected at least, that there was another way? Had some part of her resisted the allure of the dark path, or had she merely preferred a more pleasant way of tapping the power of a king?
It was as if she was looking back at the day, the weeks before, through a clouded window. She saw herself, recalled clearly what she’d done, but only vaguely remembered why. Ever since the Darklands, her thoughts were frantic, confused. She wondered if there was some influence of the great spirit still upon her, still twisting her toward its own desires, twisting her toward the dark path.
Not easy to walk upon, even more difficult to turn from. Everyone described the dark path that way, and she finally understood how true that was, how subtle the tug had been, how desperate her actions had become. She’d come close to a point of no return, where it would have been impossible to swim up from those dark depths. Or maybe she’d already crossed it. It made her cringe, not being able to trust her own thoughts, her own feelings. She shook her head, forcing herself into the moment, fighting back the cloud of unease that clung to her.
“Any ideas?” she asked Duke.
“Plenty of ideas,” he said. “I just don’t know if any of them are good ones.”
“Walk me through them,” she suggested. “Maybe that will clarify things.”
He grunted but stood, leaning over his maps.
“The new ship works isn’t operational in Northundon yet, so the Southundon yard will have been busy building Admiral Brach’s sea-going fleet,” he said.
“But they’re of no concern to us, are they?” she asked. “We’ll sail hundreds of yards above them.”
“They’re outfitting each royal marine vessel with banks of rockets to face the dragons of the Darklands,” said Duke. “We’ll be hundreds of yards above them, the edge of the range for those munitions. They won’t be able to make an accurate shot, but if dozens of vessels are launching at once, there could be hundreds of the explosives going off around us. We can bet that at least one of them hits us.”
“Can we sail above their range?” wondered Sam, peering at where Duke was stabbing the map with his fingers.
“We can,” he said, “but for us to reach my father, we have to get to the palace, and we have to come in low. The palace is just a quarter league from the waterfront, and it’s possible those rockets could reach us from there. While we might be able to draw away the airships, the sea-going vessels aren’t maneuverable enough to follow. They’ll still be on dock. I don’t think there’s any way we can bring the Cloud Serpent close enough to disembark at the palace.”
“We could come in high and drop bombs on it,” suggested Sam. “We could get off a barrage before the other airships spot us at night. We can target the royal quarters, reduce it to a smoking pile of rubble with little risk to our own skins.”
Duke frowned at her.
“If we attack your father in his nest, innocent lives are going to be lost,” warned Sam. “Whether it be exploding bombs or spirits called from the underworld, there will be casualties. Remember, this is the man who sacrificed Northundon. He released two dozen reavers and set them on our scent while we were in the midst of his city. If he’s capable of doing those things, I shudder to think of what else he would do. King Edward cares nothing for the lives of these people. Duke, if we give him the chance, he’ll use that against us.”
Duke smacked a fist on the table but didn’t respond. There was nothing he could say.
“We need more than a pair of daggers and a broadsword to face him,” said Sam.
He clenched his eyes shut in frustration. “Who can we ask to defy the king? Who would do it? Who has the skill to help?”
Sam fell silent. Kalbeth, her only friend outside of Duke, would be in no mood to help once she found her mother had been killed. Duke knew hundreds of people, but Edward was a popular king ruling the most prosperous nation in history. Many of those people performed functions in Edward’s government. None of them would be eager to join an uprising. Edward’s rule had benefitted nearly everyone in Duke’s circle. And if they couldn’t convince Prince Philip, who actually stood to gain from the removal of Edward, then they couldn’t convince anyone.
They had Captain Ainsley and her crew, but asking them to serve as anything other than transportation would almost certainly result in their deaths. They would be outnumbered twenty to one against the king’s airships and a thousand to one
against his marines. Direct confrontation, open battle, wasn’t the way. Even Sam had to admit that. Stealth, trickery, or supernatural favor were the only ways to win the day, but the king must suspect they were coming. He would be ready.
“What of your druid magic?” she asked him. “What you did to the keep, making it collapse, could you do something similar? If we bring the palace down around his head, it doesn’t much matter what sorcery he’s capable of.”
“The druid keep was imbued with spirits of old,” said Duke. “I was able to commune with them, and simply releasing them is what caused the keep to fall. It was their strength alone holding the fortress together. My father’s palace is built on mortar and dead stone. Even if we weren’t worried about the other people inside, there are no living spirits to contact. I can’t perform the same trick.”
“Could we gather those spirits back and enlist their help?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he responded with a shrug. “What I do is instinctual, the opposite of sorcery. That’s an art of preparation, right? The fae, the spirits in the stone, I don’t think about it when I connect with them. It just happens, and I encourage them to do what they naturally want to do. I don’t think I could convince them to come destroy a palace, even if that was possible.”
“The spirits in the stone,” murmured Sam.
He looked at her.
“We may not need to worry about the other airships,” she remarked. “Could you bring them down?”
He nodded, pinching his chin. “Maybe. It’d be risky, though, so many of them. We’d have to be close, at least to where I could see them. I’m certain a few hundred yards would be close enough, but I couldn’t reach out across leagues. With so many… I’m not sure how many of the spirits I could commune with at once, and my range may be no longer than that of a rocket.”
“It’s something to consider,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed, leaning back over his maps with renewed interest. “Anyone onboard of those airships wouldn’t survive the crash, though. I’m not sure if I could stomach that.”
