by A. C. Cobble
Oliver shook his head slowly. “No, brother. If I’m successful, I will leave. You’ll never see me again. It’s the only way.”
John opened his mouth to reply.
Oliver cut him off. “Philip is a good man. He could be a good king, but he would never understand this. You and he, together, you could do well for our people, he as king, you as… however you see fit to serve. I do this for our family, John, and the empire. Not for myself.”
“Where will you go?” asked John.
Oliver shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”
Sam shifted beside him, and Oliver knew that soon, she would do something rash. It wasn’t long ago she’d been willing to kill him for her cause. Putting a dagger into John would barely make her blink. On the threshold of the palace, she would let nothing stand in her way.
“There’s something else, John. Mother was alive all of this time,” said Oliver. “She was in the Darklands, a sorceress. She fled Northundon and hid for the last two decades. Father knew that she was there. He knew and did nothing. He didn’t tell us she was there. All of his talk of family, but he didn’t tell us about Mother.”
John’s face twisted in confusion.
“Father lied to us. He’s always lied to us,” declared Oliver. “He lied to us about Northundon, about the Coldlands, about everything! The blood he’s shed is not worth it. It cannot be. We have a responsibility to stop this.”
“You’re right,” admitted John after a long pause.
“You’ll give me the key, then?” asked Oliver.
John shook his head. “Father gave me this key. He told me you’d be coming this way. He’s testing me, I think. If you walk through that door, you won’t walk far. There’s another way, a way I used to… It’s another way. You know the Speckled Beetle, the pub?”
Oliver nodded.
“Ask for Rosie’s room,” instructed John. “It contains a passage into the bowels of the palace. You’ll come into the servant’s quarters, three floors below our own. You’ll need to give them some coin, but they won’t ask questions. You can find Father in the throne room.”
Oliver nodded. “Thank you, John. Will you come with us and face him beside me?”
His brother shook his head. “No, Oliver, I cannot. If we failed, Father would know I did not give you the key. My life will be forfeit. I accept that, but I cannot sacrifice Matilda and our children as well. Family, you know… I haven’t lost all of my loyalties.”
“I understand,” said Oliver. “I will try to keep you out of it, if we can. Good luck to you, John. One way or the other, this will be the last we see each other.”
“The Speckled Beetle, Rosie’s room,” said John. He tossed the key onto the ash-strewn floor and left.
“No hug goodbye?” asked Sam after the duke passed from earshot. “You think he was lying? The trap could be the way he directed us.”
“No, he wasn’t lying,” said Oliver. “He’s my brother. I’ve known him my entire life. He was telling the truth. I saw the fear in his eyes, for Matilda and their children. He’d do anything for them, Sam, sacrifice it all.”
“You’ve known your father your entire life, too,” she reminded.
Oliver could only shake his head. She was right. “Let’s go find that pub.”
The trek through the underbelly of the palace was strangely quiet. It felt as if the servants of the place, like animals in the forest, sensed something was amiss and had burrowed into their lairs. Perhaps they’d heard there was a commotion in the Filthy Beggar. Word of hundreds of people dying mysteriously would spread quickly, if anyone had made it out alive to begin the rumor. It was a well-trafficked venue, and even from the palace, there would be patrons of the place out late at night.
Or maybe the denizens of the palace felt something was off with their master. King Edward, normally even-keeled and calm, was overseeing more excitement in his realm than any time since the Coldlands War between the preparation for war with the Darklands, the loss of Imbon Colony, the threat of pirates in the tropics, and the hushed whispers that sorcery had returned to the empire. It was enough that experienced palace servants would know to disappear.
It worked well for Oliver and Sam, and limping along the floors of the stately, stone building, they climbed and snuck to the hallways outside of the throne room. Peering from within a shadowed alcove, they could see the throne room doors were guarded. A dozen royal marines stood outside, half of them clutching brass-barreled blunderbusses, the other half leaning tall pikes against their shoulders. They looked bored, up so late at night, but they were awake. Any marine guarding the king who fell asleep at their post would have been strapped to a post and flogged, sufficient punishment to keep their eyes open, even if they did look as if they would rather be in their beds or the pubs.
There were more guards than usual posted outside of the king’s rooms, but Oliver supposed Captain Ainsley’s activities above the harbor must have stirred them up. Any sensible commander would bolster the posting near the king after that.
Oliver and Sam retreated to where they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Any way we can sneak around?” she asked.
He frowned and shook his head. There was no way around. There were no secret passages leading into the throne room. There was the front door and the back door, and both would be equally protected with a dozen well-armed marines and whatever supernatural defenses his father might have raised. He shivered. Those could be invisible.
For all he knew, they’d already been spotted, and his father was waiting for their arrival. If they had been seen, the king could know exactly where they were. He would be prepared. There would be no luring him out of the throne room, no ambushing him on his way to his bed or performing some other trickery. They had to face him and do it on his terms.
“There’s no sense waiting,” said Oliver, realizing that despite his hopes of a stealth approach, it simply wasn’t going to happen, “and there’s no way around the guards. Could you use some of your powers?”
She smirked. “I can be faster and stronger than normal, but I don’t have the ability to magic us past a dozen men. We’re going to have to fight our way through. On the plus side, your father probably already knows we’re here, so whatever commotion we make won’t give us away.”
Oliver grunted. “I’m not sure that’s an advantage.”
It was Sam’s turn to shrug.
Oliver opened his jacket and pulled out two vials of fae light. “Try not to kill too many of them.”
She glanced around and then strode over to a tall, brass lampstand. She removed the lamp oil and the wick and was left with a yard-and-a-half-long brass club. She hefted it. “I can’t make any promises, but this should be slightly less lethal than my daggers.”
Drawing a deep breath, Oliver unstoppered the vials of the fae. The tiny creatures swarmed out, flying close around him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she confirmed.
The fae darted out into the hall, keeping their lights dim, and shot toward the guards. Oliver and Sam waited several seconds then came running out after the fae. The little creatures reached the guards and burst into light, crowding around each of the men’s eyes, effectively blinding them.
Mumbled curses and shouts of alarm hid the sound of Oliver’s and Sam’s boots on the thick rugs leading to the throne room. They were in the midst of the men before anyone knew they were there.
Sam lay about her with the brass lampstand, clubbing men in the head with ruthless efficiency.
Oliver, his hands balled into fists, began throwing haymakers, clouting men on the side of the head, and knocking them unconscious.
One man turned at the last second and caught Oliver’s knuckles on the bridge of his nose. He shrieked in pain but was quickly cut off as Oliver swung a hook with his other fist and bashed the man on the temple. Oliver shook his hand and murmured a silent apology to his opponent. The guard was just doing his job, after all.
Wi
thout word, both he and Sam turned, stepping over unconscious bodies of royal marines and approaching the huge double doors of the throne room. Oliver placed a hand on each door and shoved. The heavy slabs of wood and metal shifted then stopped.
“Spirits forsake it!” cried Oliver. “He locked the door!”
A call sounded behind them. Another squad of guards who evidently heard the scuffle were coming to investigate.
“In fairness,” said Sam. “We probably should have foreseen that.”
Oliver kicked the unyielding door.
“Allow me,” suggested Sam.
Oliver stepped away and watched nervously as Sam’s eyes grew distant. A chill settled into the hallway, and he knew she was demanding the assistance of the spirits.
Running feet echoed ahead of the approaching guards.
Oliver held his breath. They didn’t have much time.
Sam took two quick steps and slammed the brass lampstand against the center of the two doors. The impact was shocking, and noise of the blow boomed down the hallway with a thunderous crash. Metal twisted and squealed as the bar across the doors bent. They opened a hand-width.
Sam brushed her hair back from her face and then swung again, smashing the lampstand against the protesting iron bar that locked the door. This time, it snapped under the force of the blow, and the doors swung wide on well-oiled hinges.
Oliver and Sam rushed inside. He spun, slamming the huge doors shut. He looked to relock them but saw the bent and broken bar was useless now. When the guards arrived, there would be no keeping them out.
Sam was already approaching the throne, walking down the wide, crimson rug toward King Edward, who sat upon his throne, chuckling at them.
Oliver joined her, striding toward his father, his eyes darting about the room, looking for a trap he was certain they were about to spring.
“John is dead,” remarked King Edward when they came within twenty yards of him. “He betrayed the Crown, and the punishment is death.”
Oliver stopped. “You killed your own son?”
“It seems I’m just getting started in that business,” replied his father with a smirk. “You could have stood beside me, you know. That’s what I wanted. You could have been the balance to my own power. Not just the head of the ministry, but a true force in this world. You have the potential, but unfortunately, it has to be your choice.”
Oliver grunted, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam edging to the side, trying to get another angle to the throne. When it came time, perhaps his father could not stop both of them. Perhaps one of them would get through the king’s defenses to strike a blow, but first, Oliver had to know.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “You had the airships. You had the royal marines. Enhover wasn’t in immediate danger from any other nation. With the might of our technology, we could have accomplished anything. You had the means to expand the empire already. Why did you sacrifice Northundon, Father? Why?”
His father, sitting upon the throne, tugged at his goatee.
“None of this makes any sense!” cried Oliver, taking a threatening step forward. “What was it all for?”
His father stood and began pacing on the dais before the throne. “I’ve been sitting here for hours, waiting to see if you would make it to me, watching to see if you are worthy. If, despite everything, you could still be convinced to join me.”
“Join you?” spit Oliver.
“The world needs balance,” stated King Edward. “It’s a necessary component of power, a way to grow without the entire thing toppling over. To grow my own might, for the stability of Enhover, there must be balance. You, Oliver, are that balance. I’ve known since you were a boy, since I rocked you to sleep and watched you take your first steps. I could feel it within you, the welling of life. You, unlike your brothers, had the instincts to use what flows within your blood. Life magic, druid magic, it is the balance to my own power. That you stand here before me is proof enough. I will ask one more time. Join me. Together, we can do great things.”
Oliver shook his head, confused. He shouted, “I’ve already defied you! Crown, empire, I want none of it! It’s not worth the price.”
“If not for the Crown, then for me,” said his father. “Without the energy you can call upon, without the balance of druid magic returning to Enhover, the empire will crumble. I will fall. Is that want you want, son? Think of what will happen to your brothers, to their children, to all of the children in the empire. They need your balance.”
“There’s another way,” declared Oliver. He stepped forward again, his hand on his broadsword. “You say you need my magic to balance yours, that the empire will fall if I do not join you, but that’s only if you remain on the throne. If I remove you, that will restore the balance. Your presence, Father, is what will bring the empire toppling down.”
“Remove me?” King Edward laughed. “You do not have the strength to remove me. You don’t even know what it is you face! You are ignorant children, playing at matters you cannot comprehend. Nothing is as it seems, son!”
“You conducted the ritual in Northundon,” accused Sam. “Lilibet told the truth. Did she know it was you, that you bound Ca-Mi-He? Is that why she fled?”
Eyes twinkling with mirth, King Edward shook his head. “You will never understand.”
“My mother was innocent.” Oliver gasped.
His father tilted his head, smiling at him.
“But she was a sorceress!” exclaimed Sam. “I’ve seen what she studied. We saw her! She was a powerful sorceress…”
King Edward stood upon the dais, glancing between them as they were mired in confusion.
“Lilibet,” gasped Sam suddenly. “You knew she was in the Darklands. You used her, somehow… She was part of the bargain.”
“Yes, part of the bargain, but Lilibet was not the sacrifice,” claimed King Edward, clearly enjoying toying with them.
“I don’t understand,” hissed Sam.
Oliver saw her looking at him, searching for an answer, but he had none. His mother was sorceress, they’d seen that much, but it made no sense. How had she escaped? How had his father known and done nothing? Lilibet had a connection to Ca-Mi-He, didn’t she? If his father had bound Ca-Mi-He, then surely he’d—
“Lilibet Wellesley died in Northundon, didn’t she?” Oliver asked suddenly. “It wasn’t her. It was Ca-Mi-He we faced in the Darklands. That is why she was so cold, detached. That is why she didn’t… why I didn’t recognize her at first. She wasn’t my mother any longer, was she? You knew! You knew this entire time!”
Fingers pinching his goatee, the king nodded. “What you faced in the Darklands was not your mother.”
“How… how did the body…” he stammered. “We saw her. If Ca-Mi-He took her, then who conducted the ritual? Who…”
Sam’s fists were clenched around the hilts of her daggers, her body tensed to spring, but like him, she must have been facing paralyzing confusion. He wanted to attack, but he had to know. His father, Ca-Mi-He, his mother. He had to know.
“So many clues, but you children still do not understand,” chided King Edward, wagging a finger at them. “I will tell you all, my son, but only if you join me. Join me and become my balance.”
“Tell us now,” demanded Oliver.
“Knowledge is power,” declared King Edward. “It is power in our world. It is power in the other. Knowledge is the only power. When you know more than your opponent, you will always defeat them. I tried to teach you, to show you and your brothers, but you never understood, never truly grasped. Airships, firearms, bombs, swords, silver, and sorcery, they are nothing more than an accounting of the score, the physical sum of what our knowledge has earned us. Those are not power. They are what power can buy. Since you were a boy, I tried, but I see you will never understand. I’m afraid I can no longer teach you. In this world and the next, knowledge is power, and if you do not join me, I will not grant you that power. I am afraid this is the end, Oliver.”
/>
“Teach me,” mumbled Oliver. “You never—”
The sacrifice had been fulfilled twenty years before, the bargain completed. What had his father gained from the sacrifice of Northundon? Why had he given the great spirit possession of Lilibet’s body?
Oliver snarled in frustration, inadvertently reaching up to run his hand over his hair and touching the leather thong that kept it tied back. A habit he’d had since Northundon, a comfort ever since he’d lost her. He maintained that habit even after what happened in the Darklands. He’d been doing it for twenty years, ever since…
His fingers traced the knot, the same one he tied nearly every morning since then. He’d been making the gesture ever since he’d lost his mother. His protector, his teacher.
“No…” he whispered.
“Do you understand, then?” asked King Edward. “Do you finally understand?”
“Why?” he croaked, painful knowledge crashing through him.
“What is he talking about?” asked Sam, but Oliver could not answer her.
He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t move. It was like a dam had burst in his mind, and the torrent of understanding was washing him away, taking him from where he was, what he’d known, taking him somewhere different.
“You do not understand this world, Oliver,” said the king. “There is so much you do not know, but there is one thing I taught you and your brothers, one thing that you do know. Family. Nothing is more important than family. I knew what I must do, what price I would have to pay to achieve what was necessary, but I could not leave you. I could never leave you.”
“What the frozen hell are you two talking about?” cried Sam.
The king turned toward her. “Priestess, orphan, Sam, Samantha, sorceress, assassin. We all wear masks, do we not? All of us wear many faces. None of us are who we seem.”
“D-Duke…” stammered Sam. “What is he saying?”
King Edward turned and met Oliver’s stare, their eyes locking. “Duke, rake, Oliver, cartographer, prime minister, son. You’ve been many things, but not the one you needed to be. Not what I needed you to be. The balance… The empire will crumble in time without a druid. It will crumble because of you.”
