by A. C. Cobble
Lilibet heard it and dropped Sam. She spun, a slight frown marring her terrible visage. She looked at the holes in the shroud, peering into the underworld, and her eyes widened. She thrust up a hand, closing it into a tight fist. One by one, the holes closed, sealing themselves like a knitting wound until they vanished.
Except for one.
Taking a step toward it, Lilibet raised an arm, concentration twisting her face.
Oliver shoved himself up, heaving the shades above him higher so he could gasp a lungful of air. He shouted, “The blood of kings has great power, Mother, but that blood is not yours.”
She turned to him. “What is it you are doing? You have no control of the shroud between our world and the other. You—”
“I do not,” he said, struggling to his feet, the shades falling away from him, lessened as she sealed the pathways to the underworld, closing the wells they drew their strength from. Oliver snarled. “I am not death, I am the balance.”
A chill wind blew over them, and in the opening of the remaining rent, Oliver saw a spectral figure, a shade, burning white, cold flame billowing from its body, leeching the warmth from the room.
Lilibet shrieked, “Edward?”
The spectre did not speak, but around it, others did.
“You found her, Oliver Wellesley,” rasped the voice of a legion. Thousands as one, they spoke to him. “You found her. We shall complete the bargain.”
“It is finished!” screamed Lilibet. “The bargain is finished! You got your souls. You got your price.”
“That is not this bargain, Lilibet Wellesley,” intoned the figures. “We are no longer the sacrifice. You are.”
“Ca-Mi-He!” shouted Lilibet. “I command you. I command you to seal this rent.”
In the opening to the underworld, the spectre of King Edward stared at his wife. He stood in the gap and held open the rent.
Around him, two columns of white shades, burning with searing cold, marched into the room. They spilled into the throne room, shuffling slowly toward the queen.
Her mouth opened as she shouted wordlessly. She turned and started to flee, but she stumbled, seeming to struggle, like a cold had was wrapping around her. Then, the marching columns reached her.
Brilliant white hands closed on her and the shades lifted her above their heads. The shades turned. “Oliver Wellesley, the bargain is completed. Our souls are traded for this one.”
The souls began to march back into the underworld, the stone of the throne room shuddering at each of the group’s steps. His mother, wailing, crying, cursing, was carried from the world of the living into the other. The shades disappeared except for one, the first one.
It turned to him, and the pressure on Oliver’s back vanished. Around the room, there was a startling series of deep thumps. The monsters, the denizens of the underworld, collapsed in on themselves, like crumpling parchments. The shades were dragged back through the shroud, streaming around the figure standing in the center of the rent like water around a rock.
Oliver felt an awful presence pressing against him, like a weighted blanket on his mind, but it did not come through the opening in the shroud. It hovered on the other side.
He recognized it. Ca-Mi-He was lurking behind his father. The rent between the worlds was open, but the great shade had what it wanted. The bargain complete. The great spirit had released the souls of Northundon in exchange for the one it sought, the one it had waited for — Lilibet. The great spirit had the prize it could not obtain on its own, the one who had bound it.
The figure in the center of the shroud stepped back, and the rent to the underworld began knitting shut. Oliver met the spectre’s gaze, saw it watching him.
He heard, like the faint whisper of wind.
There is no life without death. There is no love without sacrifice. There is no freedom without responsibility. There is no balance without pressure. He was the balance to his mother. He was the seed that destroyed the dark tree, the completion of Thotham’s prophecy. And now she was gone. All empires fall. All empires crumble from within. He was the balance, and he could tip the scales, or he could not.
The opening to the underworld closed, and the pressure lifted. His ears popped, and warmth returned to his body.
Oliver let out an explosive breath. He knew what must be done.
The Priestess XXII
The woman slapped her hand on the table. “I call this meeting of the Council of Seven to order.”
“Five,” mumbled Sam.
The woman turned to her, only her eyes visible beneath the white silk of her mask.
“There are only five of us,” remarked Sam, gesturing at the doddering old fools around the table.
“The Council of Five,” acknowledged the Whitemask, “though I have no plans to change our charter. I assume it is only a desire to needle me which causes you to speak rather than concern our paperwork isn’t in order?”
Sam gave the woman a wry smile.
“Very well then,” said the Whitemask. She shuffled through a sheaf of documents in front of her, thumbing through the papers slowly. The others in the room remained silent, letting her steer their discourse. “We have new reports of a coven of hedge witches in Rhensar, and it seems they’ve achieved some skill. The mayor of a medium-sized hamlet claims they raised the spirit of his late wife. The shade evidently told the coven of an affair the man was having, the discovery of which resulted in the wife’s death. The coven is attempting to hold this information over the mayor’s head to gain political power. The governor of Rhensar isn’t quite sure he can arrest the man for murder on the claims of a spirit, but he is sure he’d like the Church involved in eradicating the witches. Samantha, will you attend?”
“Send someone else,” she responded with a wave of her hand.
The Whitemask stared at her, the papers shaking in her grip.
“I’m returning to Enhover for a time,” said Sam.
“Looking for your duke, still?” questioned the Whitemask. “You think he stayed within the borders of the empire? Or perhaps you’re concerned with his family? Sorcery is a family business, more often than not. Do you know something which should be shared with this council?”
Sam shook her head. “No. I have a personal matter I must deal with.”
“What is it?” asked the Whitemask.
“When you need to know something, Bishop Constance, I will tell you,” said Sam, steel in her voice. “It is of no concern to the council.”
“Do you mean to make yourself a nuisance?” questioned the other woman. “It’s apparent to anyone with two eyes that we need your help. We are growing old and frail. We need those like you who still have strength in their limbs, but we operate as a council, girl. Our organization sets foot on the dark path. We flirt with catastrophe to prevent worse. Our methods only work when we operate together, when we balance each other’s worst instincts. It is when you choose to pursue dark matters alone that you risk walking too far down the path. Do not venture without us, girl. Do not make me regret adding you to our ranks.”
Sam drew a deep breath and let it out. “You are right, Bishop Constance. I’m not used to working with others. You’ve convinced me we need fresh blood, and I may know of someone suitable.”
“Very well,” said the Whitemask, glaring at Sam, clearly thinking that what made one suitable as an ally of the council were the exact same qualities as what made one an enemy.
“While I hope this person will join us, I will deal with them if they do not,” declared Sam, not meaning a word of it. “When I return, I will inform you of the outcome.”
Constance grunted. “And when you’ve finished this errand?”
“Then I will visit the hedge witches in Rhensar,” allowed Sam.
Bishop Constance, the Whitemask, cleared her throat and turned back to her papers. “Additionally, on the subject of recruiting, I’ve been speaking with the masters of the creche, and they’ve identified two more prospects — a boy and a girl. I’
ve evaluated them, and with proper training, the potential is there. Are there any objections to us beginning indoctrination and, assuming they survive, finding suitable mentors?”
Around the table, there were murmurs of assent, which was all the vote Constance needed. She made notes on her ledger, the official record of the Council’s actions, and proceeded to other business.
Sam’s mind had already wandered.
The Council of Seven, the hand that gripped the Church’s Knives. She was one of less than a dozen living souls to see the inner workings of the secretive group, but she found she couldn’t focus on their machinations. Not yet. The Council dealt in death, but she understood now that she required balance. She required a connection to life.
“Read my future?” she asked, ducking into the curtained alcove.
The woman inside scowled at her. “How did you find me?”
“Word of a palmist whose predictions actually occur spread quickly,” said Sam, taking a seat opposite Kalbeth and placing two empty mugs and a pitcher of ale between them.
“What do you want?” asked Kalbeth. “I thought I was clear with you. I never wanted to see you again.”
“You told me,” agreed Sam, “but I did not believe you.”
Kalbeth snorted and sat forward to pour herself an ale. She left the second mug empty, glaring at Sam. “Since I last saw you, you were responsible for my mother’s death.”
Sam shook her head. “Goldthwaite made her own choices. She died for a cause she believed in.”
“She died for you,” retorted Kalbeth.
“Helping me battle a terrible evil,” said Sam.
Kalbeth drank her ale but did not respond.
“I wager that as soon as you knew she was dead, you contacted her on the other side,” said Sam. “She must have told you what we hoped to accomplish. We found him— her, I mean. We found the ultimate source of the shadow that had spread across Enhover.”
“We?” asked Kalbeth. “You and your duke? What of him? Where is he hiding? I suppose you’ve come to beg my favor, to scry for him, perhaps? Or has he found himself in some trouble you think I can help him out of?”
“No,” whispered Sam. “I know what it costs you, and I could not ask for that.”
“It costs a piece of my soul, Sam,” snapped Kalbeth, turning her ale up and finishing it. She slammed the tankard down and leaned forward. “And you have asked for that.”
“I’ve taken much from you,” acknowledged Sam, “but I’m not here to take more. I came to offer to… to replace what I can.”
Kalbeth frowned at her.
“I’ve been wrong about many things, but the one that hurts the most is you,” said Sam. “I mistreated you, used you, and thought little of it. There was no balance in our relationship, and I’d like to fix that, if you’ll let me.”
“Fix our relationship?” Kalbeth laughed bitterly. “We have no relationship. Not anymore.”
Sam looked back at her, waiting patiently.
“What?” demanded Kalbeth. “You mean to mope around my rooms for a few days, pamper me with your kisses, and then what?”
“Then I’ll follow you wherever you go,” said Sam.
“And if I go nowhere?”
“Then I will stay by your side until you ask me to leave,” said Sam. “If you’ll have me, it is your choice what we do. We could stay here. We could leave. That is up to you, but I want to be with you whatever you decide to do.”
“For how long?” asked Kalbeth quietly.
“As long as you’ll have me,” responded Sam.
“You’ve said similar before,” grumbled the other woman.
“I mean it this time,” replied Sam.
The palmist’s fingers drummed on the table, and her dark eyes studied Sam. Finally, she glanced down at Sam’s hands. “Let me read them.”
Turning her palms over, Sam felt Kalbeth’s warm fingers press against her skin. She felt the woman’s assured touch as she traced the lines there. Kalbeth’s lips moved as she read the curve of Sam’s future. She frowned and looked up.
“Rhensar?”
“I have a job there, if you’d care to go with me,” admitted Sam. “I mean it, though, Kalbeth. It is your choice. We can go to Rhensar, or we can stay here. We can go to Finavia or the Southlands. We can find a cottage on the coast and take up fishing. If you’ll have me, I’ll be beside you wherever you are.”
“I’ve heard they have good ale in Rhensar,” said Kalbeth, still holding Sam’s hand.
Sam smiled. “I’ve heard that as well.”
“I’ll need a few days to prepare,” said the palmist. “There are things I need to sort here, bags to pack. I’ve had enough of this place. The streets, my familiar haunts, they remind me of my mother. She wouldn’t want me… She’d understand, I think.”
“I am sorry about what happened to her,” said Sam. “I-I didn’t realize what we were up against, and I was blinded by the dark path. I made a mistake, and she paid the price.”
“She made a mistake as well,” said Kalbeth. “She told me everything. It— You’re right. No one could have suspected.”
Sam turned her hand and gripped Kalbeth’s.
“What of the duke?” asked Kalbeth. “Speculation is in all of the papers, but it seems that no one who knows the truth is talking. Is he really gone?”
“He is gone,” said Sam, glancing around the room to confirm they were alone. “Far gone from here.”
“Good,” said Kalbeth. She stood. “Come upstairs with me, then. I have something I’d like you to do before I start packing my bags.”
Grinning at the back of her friend — her lover — Sam gripped the other woman’s hand and followed her to the rooms. Stay by the woman’s side and swim the current of life. It’d be a pleasant bondage, following Kalbeth’s lead. Sam had meant what she said. She’d do it as long as Kalbeth let her, she hoped.
The Captain IV
Captain Catherine Ainsley put a boot on the gunwale, leaning forward and resting one arm on her knee, the other hand on the butt of a pistol. Her hat flapped on her head, keeping the bright sun off of her. Clean air, warm so far south, blew by her face in a constant stream. As she inhaled, her lungs filled with heavy, salty sea air.
“Spyglass,” she said, holding out a hand.
First Mate Pettybone handed it to her and pointed down at the azure sea where he’d been looking.
She held the leather-bound brass device to her eye, spent a few moments locating the tiny white-and-brown speck floating in the distance, and then watched it for several long moments.
“That’s them,” she said finally, confirming what everyone on the crew already knew. She was the captain, though, and they were waiting on her pronouncement. “Prepare at stations then chase them down.”
Shouts rose behind her. Men scrambled to adjust the sails and lay out their armaments on the deck of the Cloud Serpent.
“Black Rodger,” said Pettybone beside her. “He just struck a freighter off Nurzig. His hold oughta be filled with spices.”
“Aye,” agreed Ainsley. “We’ll have to slow him and then board him. Can’t risk sinking such a catch.”
“Won’t be easy,” warned Pettybone. “Any thought of simply rolling a bomb over the edge and letting the bloody bastard sink? I know there’s valuable cargo on board, but there’s a healthy reward just for the kill. That’s easy coin, Captain.”
“Getting rich is never easy, First Mate,” she replied. “We’ll take him, and then we’ll take our share of the spices in his hold.”
Pettybone nodded.
“Not long ago, First Mate, you were convinced we’d be dead,” she reminded. “Now, we’re the richest damned aircrew in the empire — in the world!”
“Even after seeing the paperwork, I still don’t believe you managed to wrangle a privateering charter out of the King Philip,” said Pettybone, shaking his head and grinning.
“Someone’s got to hunt these corsairs. Someone’s got to end their
scourge in the tropics,” claimed Ainsley. “Why not us?”
“Because we spirited away Oliver after he killed their father,” mentioned Pettybone. “He killed the spirit-forsaken king! Our involvement would be called treason by some.”
“Aye, and if Philip had strung us up,” retorted Ainsley, “he’d have to tell everyone why — the lords and ladies, the Church, the commons, the Company. He’d have to admit his family’s secrets to them all, and if he didn’t, you’d best believe I’d shout out afore they tightened that noose around my neck. Nah, we’re safer for him out here, taking prizes and protecting his colonies from the corsairs. Everyone knows sailors tell tales. Out here, no one will believe ours.”
“You wouldn’tve had a chance to talk if there was no trial,” mentioned Pettybone. “In my experience, kings lose little sleep over breaking their own laws. A pillow over our faces in the night, a dagger in the back, poison in the ale… If I was him, I’d rather us dead than in the tropics.”
“That’s true, and King Philip suspects that’s the way we’ll end,” admitted Ainsley. “Told me so himself. Said he thought we wouldn’t make it a season out here before we chased the wrong vessel and met someone bigger and meaner than us. Not to mention the storms and the sickness that does so many in these seas. He said he thought we’d die soon enough. I told him if I died, I planned to die the richest damned airship captain in history.”
Beside her, Pettybone’s jaw dropped.
“Besides,” continued Ainsley, “Philip saw we can sail circles around his royal marines. We evaded the entire fleet outside of Southundon without even a scrape on the hull.”
“You… you told him about that?” stammered Pettybone.
“Had to convince him we were capable,” she claimed. “I needed that charter, First Mate, so we’d be legitimate. Otherwise, we’re pirates, just like Black Rodger down there.”
“Captain,” declared Pettybone, “you are crazy.”
