Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Realms of fire

  Book Five of The Redwing Saga

  By Sharon K. Gilbert

  Realms of Fire – Book Five of The Redwing Saga

  By Sharon K. Gilbert

  www.theredwingsaga.com

  Published by Rose Avenue Fiction, LLC

  514 Rose Avenue, Crane, MO 65633

  First Print Edition March, 2019

  Kindle Edition March, 2019

  All Content and Characters © 2019 Sharon K. Gilbert

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9980967-5-9

  Table of Contents

  From the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books By Sharon K. Gilbert

  From the Author

  This book has been a labour of love. Though long in coming, it’s been a journey worth taking for me. My original hope for this book was to publish it last September (2018), but travel and illness made that ambitious schedule impossible. I appreciate all who’ve patiently waited and encouraged me upon this long and winding road. The slow pace has allowed me to include plot twists and breadcrumbs to lay the groundwork for the next trio of books; all with names derived from chess. We’re leading Charles Sinclair and his family towards the inevitable changes to occur with the turn of the 20th century, when he emerges as an influencer of men.

  Most of the ‘action’ of this book occurs during Christmastide, which allows me to draw back the veil and consider how the ‘other side’ might view Christ’s incarnation. In fact, I’ve spent so much time putting myself in the minds of the fallen realm, that Derek and I are now writing a non-fiction book called Profiling the Dead, which should be available in the fall of this year.

  Remember, that spelling in all Redwing Saga books is based on British usage in the 19th century, and the language can be a bit challenging, particularly the dialects. I applaud all who breeze through these paragraphs; and some of you have told me at conferences that the Bow Bells dialect is ‘dead-on’. In response, I tip my bowler hat to you.

  In Christ,

  Sharon K. Gilbert

  24th February, 2019

  To all the many patient readers who’ve supported me with prayers and little notes as I’ve finished this book, I say:

  Thank you.

  Your desire to continue the journey along with

  Charles, Elizabeth, and Paul makes every keystroke worthwhile.

  May the Lord be with each and every one of you

  this day and always.

  In that day the LORD with his sore and great and strong sword shall punish leviathan the piercing serpent, even Leviathan that crooked serpent; and he shall slay the Dragon that is in the sea.

  - Isaiah 27:1

  And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads.

  - Revelation 12:3

  ...yonder in that wastefull wilderness

  Huge monsters haunt, and many dangers dwell;

  Dragons, and Minotaurs, and fiends of Hell,

  And many wild woodmen, which rob and rend

  All travellers; therefore advise ye well,

  Before ye enterprise that way to wend:

  One may his journey bring too soon to evil end.

  - The Faerie Queen, Book III, Edmund Spenser

  Prologue

  10th June, 1860 – Rose House

  The boy’s azure eyes popped open, wide as saucers. Something had awoken him—something scratchy and tempting. Something ethereal with a raspy voice that spoke in whispers.

  His bedchamber was shrouded in velvety darkness, the only sound the somnolent ticking of a gold and black marble clock that sat upon the mantelpiece opposite the curtained bed. The curious clock featured a magnificent figure of King Arthur astride a pure white steed. The figure’s position altered with the hands; the delicate changes provided by interlocking brass wheels and fine-toothed gears. On the quarter hour, the heroic king’s mighty horse would advance along a concealed track towards a terrifying, fire-breathing dragon. As the rider moved ever closer, the armoured arm would slowly lift the sword higher; until, at the chiming of the hour, it pointed straight into the serpent’s mouth, slaying the worm and ending his fiery reign.

  The clock should have inspired a sense of history and pride in the child, but the bellicose ballet of cold marble and crimson fire ground into the sensitive boy’s bones with a terrifying sense of dread. He’d hidden the clock numerous times, but the nursemaid always discovered its hiding place and returned it to the mantel. The child had learnt to shut out the persistent ticking—which often took on a grating, growling sound. Born of rare privilege and high position, the boy nearly always felt completely alone.

  Charles Robert Arthur Sinclair III, known in peerage circles by the courtesy title Lord Loudain, stood tall and straight as he emerged from the warm feather bed that morning. He had measured four-foot-one-inch precisely the previous day, when his ageing nanny Mrs. Millicent Caswell, had placed her charge against the door frame of the nursery’s play area.

  “You’ll be tall as a cedar one day, young lord!” she’d declared happily. “You might even outgrow you
r good father, and all the young ladies o’ the county’ll think you a grand catch.”

  The bashful boy had smiled patiently, as he generally did when trying to understand the strange amusements of adults. Most found humour in the oddest of moments, and very few appreciated the beautiful complications of the remarkable world all around them; for they seemed caught up in life’s trivialities—or worse, in matters so deep and troublesome that no amount of study could unravel them.

  Take his parents’ recent arguments, for instance.

  Ordinarily, Robby and Angela Sinclair had nothing but gentle endearments for one another, but beginning in late April of that year—following a masked ball at Haimsbury House—everything changed. Charles had gone with them to London, but he’d come down with a fever, leaving him with very little memory of that strange week. Once he recovered, the family abruptly left London and returned to their Cumbria estate, and his gentle parents commenced a distressing series of shouting matches—all of them centred on a foreigner named Prince Aleksandr Koshmar and a mysterious black mirror.

  As Charles secured the buttons on his shoes, the determined five-year-old decided to search out this troublesome looking glass and discover just why his father hated it so very much.

  Mrs. Caswell slept in a small bedchamber just beyond the main play area, but the fifty-two-year-old nanny snored like a bear, making it a simple matter to slip past her room without causing the woman to stir. Once through the apartment’s exterior door, the youth hastened to the nearest staircase. The main wall of the broad landing held an arched window seat that overlooked the eastern park. Charles tiptoed to the cushioned seat and climbed up, peering through the leaded panes. Dawn’s first rays were just beginning to paint the green hills of Eden Valley in a shimmering, watercolour pink; a stark contrast to the sapphire blue shadows cast by the statues and trees within the estate’s formal gardens. The landscape looked foreboding and eerily foreign to the child’s eyes that morning; as though he’d awakened to an entirely different realm.

  Leaving the window, he passed by the east-wing servants’ staircase. Charles could hear the rattle of copper pans and kettles rising up through the open stairwell, accompanied by the aroma of baking rye bread, cinnamon buns, and French butter sponge cakes. The hall’s head baker, Mrs. Celia Carson, and her two assistants rose at four each morning to prepare large wooden bowls of dough and kindle the oven fires. Usually, Charles would visit Carson for a cup of tea and a plate of warm biscuits, but not this morning. His destination stood high above, inside the centuries-old home. Upward, all the way to the attics.

  Built four-hundred years ago, the original limestone castle overlooked the western bank of Eden River. The main drive followed an old Roman road, leading modern visitors towards the west elevation of the expanded home. Consequently, the fortified castle at its heart remained concealed behind the magnificently amended wings and Palladian façade of the 18th century additions. Despite its antiquity, Charles found the original castle fascinating, and often came here to play; picturing himself as the son of a warrior marquess, learning to wield a sword whilst on horseback, or fire arrows from the defensive towers. He would wander through the armoury and run his small hands along a great blade that some claimed was nearly a thousand years old. It was called Lann Lasair, the ‘fire sword’, and it rested upon a bed of claret velvet, securely locked within a protective glass case. Despite its age, the ancient sword gleamed as though newly forged, and Charles sometimes imagined that it spoke to him, whispering of blood and destiny.

  That morning, however, the sword and the towers held no charm for the boy. He walked briskly past the armoury and pulled open a thick oak door that led to the south tower. A black rat scuttled past his feet as the iron-banded portal creaked open. A blast of stale air swept across the boy’s smooth face like wispy fingers of some ghostly knight.

  The boy froze, wondering if he shouldn’t return to bed and await his nanny’s call to breakfast.

  No, he told himself. This is important. I have to see that mirror for myself.

  With fierce determination for so young a heart, the lad forged ahead, slowly climbing the narrow stone steps. The well-worn, winding stairs led to a crenulated turret where archers and musketeers once took shelter as they fought invaders from other lands and other kingdoms. Charles held his lamp high as he ascended the hand-hewn risers. His sensitive nose discerned the musty odour of centuries-old mildew as he proceeded up the anti-clockwise curve. Along the case, arrow slits provided modest hints of dawn’s maturing light. At three feet high and one foot wide, the windows had seen many battles, their casement stones marked by blood stains; the last bits of life from long-forgotten men.

  Charles gazed upon the shadowed ground below, picturing the hills covered in the warm blood of horses and warriors and kings; the river’s clear water choked with the bloated bodies of the dead and dying. The vision sent a cold sense of dread through his bones, but the valiant child pressed onward, up the claustrophobic staircase, until he arrived at the final door. It required all his strength to push the heavy structure, but once through, he emerged into a dark chamber used now as storage. The flickering yellow flame of his lantern struggled to cut through the deep shadow. Rather than provide comfort, the dancing tongue of fire made the forest of books, sea cans, and wooden crates appear to undulate like angry trees in fields of endless night. The tall boy whispered a prayer and advanced into the unwelcoming landscape.

  A series of persistent scratching sounds caught his ear, soon turning into whispers in a thousand languages all at once; seductive words without translation that simultaneously terrified and tantalised the intelligent child. In one corner, stood a suit of armour; the helmet’s empty eye holes greedily watching his passage. Along the north wall, a row of sturdy bookcases guarded family histories and ledgers. Elsewhere, painted cupboards, wooden toys, musical instruments, bird cages, and scrolled iron bedsteads, patiently waited to be summoned; forlorn and abandoned, as if they’d come here to die.

  The child’s remarkable blue eyes accommodated to the low light as he continued through the haunted maze. Though bathed in shadow, the attics felt familiar, for Charles had wandered through these aisles of Haimsbury’s disjecta membra many times. What imaginative five-year-old wouldn’t find such a collection fascinating?

  But where is the mirror? he wondered.

  With only the candle’s light as guide, he threaded a path through the crowded field of debris and dust. Charles passed through a series of connecting doorways, moving from the original castle to the newer sections, where modern reliquaries guarded the unused treasures of the grandest home in all Cumbria.

  This newer loft included a series of round windows that ran parallel to the eaves, allowing dawn’s light to enter. The scratching sound seemed to grow louder here, and he noticed several slender tree branches tapping against the leaded panes. An adult would assume this to be the source of the scratching, but Charles doubted the delicate willow limbs could have awoken him this far from his bedroom. No, the persistent sounds must have another cause.

  He felt certain the mirror was to blame.

  As he passed through the tightly packed goods, the boy puzzled through the events of the previous night. The eve of his birthday had commenced with the arrival of his father’s good friend, Martin Kepelheim, just after breakfast. Then, shortly after luncheon, Prince Aleksandr Koshmar had unexpectedly appeared on their doorstep, offering armloads of gifts for Charles and far too many kisses for his mother.

  Usually a generous host, Robby Sinclair showed little warmth for the intruding foreigner, and the two men had nearly come to blows following a seemingly innocent chess match after supper. By half past nine, his mother retired, blaming a sudden headache, and Koshmar followed soon after. Charles’s father had whispered something to the departing prince, who’d clicked his heels and bowed before climbing to the upper storey. Robby Sinclair then ordered a decanter of his strongest
whisky and drew Martin Kepelheim into the Pendragon room for a hushed discussion. Suspecting something amiss, Charles stood at the door, eavesdropping on the troubling discourse.

  His father and Kepelheim argued over the mirror, mentioning a curse upon the Haimsbury family that reached far into the past—something to do with the Sinclair blood. Charles had overheard talk like this before, when he’d hidden in his father’s library and listened to the inner circle members as they debated the possible identity of a future child; apparently desired by some villainous group called Redwing. Since that day, the boy had tried to discover anything he could regarding this mysterious Redwing group, but thus far, he’d found very little. His father seemed to connect Redwing to the black mirror—and to the Russian prince, Aleksandr Koshmar. Who was he? And why did his mother so enjoy the interfering man’s company? Moreover, how did it connect to the mirror?

  Though young, Charles had a uniquely designed logic to his mind, with the ability to perceive patterns amongst a tangle of disparate threads. Was the Russian more than he appeared? Might Koshmar be evil? And why did these persistent scratching noises bring forth images of gloomy places and stones of fire? He gazed out the windows, wondering if the noise was meant to lure him into the attics. If so, then he’d meet the challenge head-on; just as his father would.

  As Charles progressed deeper into the dusty attic, his lantern fell upon a series of surfaces: wood, metal, cloth, even the odd jewel. Then, to his surprise, the buttery beam produced what looked like a companion beacon. A second, brighter light that shimmered seductively from the northeast corner.

  It’s a reflection! the boy realised.

  A velvet drape covered most of the tall mirror, but a tiny hole, the size of a penny, allowed the light to shine forth like a radiant eye. A deep chill ran along his long arms, and Charles paused, suddenly overwhelmed with dread.

  There’s something in there.

  Swallowing his fear, the child reached for the velvet cloth that shrouded the mirror. His fingers went numb, and a seductive voice whispered into this thoughts.