Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I don’t follow, my lord,” answered the gardener.

  “On this side of the crypt, we have human figures in a variety of poses. See there? The paintings over the door? Some of the humans demonstrate subservience; others appear more like masters. On the opposite side of the chamber, leading into the next phase of the tunnel system, is a great bird. Perhaps a raven or merlin. The images on the lintel and the posts are also birds. Some subservient; others clearly masters. But on both lintels, the uppermost figure is crowned. A human at the first door, a bird at the second. It’s intentional, and it has meaning. But what, I wonder? Now, what might this be?” he said hopefully. “At last! Evidence the men came this way, Powers! Crumpled tinfoil, an apple core, and a broken pencil.”

  “Might that book belong to one of the lads, my lord?”

  “Book?” asked the Scotsman. “What book?”

  “There by the bird door, sir. Beneath the statue.”

  Paul crossed the wide crypt to the exit, kneeling to collect a leather book. “Blackstone Exploration Society,” he said, reading the embossed name on the exterior. He opened the book. “This belongs to Seth Holloway! I pray this means he’s alive, Powers.”

  “It’ll lift the little duchess’s spirits, if we can find him, sir. But Lord Paynton’s a friend to you as well, isn’t he, my lord?”

  “An old friend whom I treated very badly the last time we met. I pray for the chance to apologise.”

  “I’m sure he understood, sir,” the older man said.

  “I doubt it. Have you ever been jealous, Powers?”

  “No reason to be, sir. My Annie’s too good a woman for me ta worry ‘bout that. We been married fer more ‘n thirty years. I’ve never regretted a minute.”

  “You’re a blessed man, then,” answered the earl, glancing through the notebook at a series of pencil drawings. One was of Elizabeth, apparently done from memory. The fine lines showed great skill and sensitivity, and Paul imagined how the viscount must have felt as he make each pencil stroke. “I failed to recognise love in myself until it was too late. I sometimes wonder how a man knows he’s in love.”

  “You just do, sir.”

  “Really? Then, why couldn’t I see it? Never mind. Let’s keep moving.”

  Taking the book with him, Aubrey crouched low to cross through to the next tunnel. Some of the more narrow sections nearly proved too confining for the broad-shouldered earl, and he feared they might need to turn back. “Careful, Powers. Hold tightly to your lamp. There are sconces in the main cavern ahead, assuming this way leads to it. Our little duchess knows this stone maze as well as she knows the yew maze above. I remember getting stuck in here once, when she guided me through. Did you know most of these connect to Branham Hall?”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. The routes are very old, and some say part of a vast underground system that radiates outward from Kent like a spider web, reaching all the way to London—perhaps, even beyond.”

  “It feels a bit like hell, sir.”

  “True, but it’s an engineering marvel, nonetheless. Look at this!” he cried as they cleared the next doorway to enter a grand gallery of polished stone. “This construction is vastly different from the earlier tunnels, don’t you think? You know, Powers, I really don’t think King Richard had anything to do with these structures. I’ve heard it argued that he ordered the building of this massive underground as a redoubt against a French invasion, but this chamber looks more like Egyptian stone-work to me. The blocks are fitted to one another with near perfection. It’s as though they grew together naturally! Truly marvellous! How did Blackstone know these were here, I wonder? From the outside, Lion Hall is nothing more than crumbling stones and fractured battlements. One might find an old piece of armour or a rusted horseshoe, but there’s nothing of importance. How did they know it held such treasures?”

  Already past sundown, Aubrey hastened through the impressive gallery, looking for signs of the missing men. After squeezing through a narrow opening, they reached a fork. The earl had no idea which way to choose. “I’ll go left, you go right,” he told the groundskeeper. After two or three minutes, he heard the other man shout.

  “I canno’ make it, sir! The way’s too tight!”

  The earl turned round and met Powers at the fork. “Go on back then. I can make it alone.”

  “Sir, forgive me for disobeying, but I canno’ do that. Whoever killed tha’ other fellow might still be down here.”

  “I’m armed and experienced in close combat. Go on, Powers. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sir, please. Allow me to stay.”

  Aubrey placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ve been doing this sort of thing since I was twelve. If my father trusted me on my own, so should you.”

  “Very well, my lord. I’ll go fetch the others.” He paused before heading back to the grand gallery. “Sir, might this passage lead up to the old abbey? My granddad claimed some o’ these tunnels connected up to it. I could have some of the men wait up there to keep a lookout for you.”

  “A team’s already searching the abbey. If the way leads there, then I’m sure we’ll meet up.”

  Reluctantly, Powers left, and the earl moved forward, crouching lower and lower, until finally dropping to his knees to crawl through the last section. He barely managed to squeeze past the final opening, but once through, he emerged into the grand ceremonial cavern beneath the abbey. Instantly, he knew his location from Sinclair’s vivid description of the place. A shivering cold ran through his veins as he walked along the stones.

  This is where Patricia died. Where Beth watched Trent kill her. Where she saw a helpless boy abused and slain. How many offerings were made here? How many blood sacrifices to devils?

  The thoughts made even the brave earl shudder.

  With darkness upon him, Paul said a quick prayer, asking for protection. Then, he realised what had so unnerved him. The torches were all lit.

  Who had lit them?

  Surely, the missing men. It was a positive sign.

  He used the lantern to examine corners lying in shadow, and as he perused a niched wall near the right-hand side, his sharp eyes fell upon an impossibility. A small doll gazed at him as though waiting. He instantly recognised the toy as one Beth carried as a child; one he’d thought long since destroyed.

  He crossed to retrieve the doll, but as he reached it, he heard breathing. A shallow, rapid sort of panting like that of someone in great distress.

  “Help me,” a raspy voice whispered. It was barely audible, coming from the darkest corner.

  The earl rushed towards the sound, finding a man he’d not seen since August. “Seth?”

  The injured teacher lay on a sharp slab of hard stone, his cotton shirt and waistcoat stained with blood.

  “Here now,” Paul said gently. “You’re going to be fine. Can you stand?”

  “Paul? Is that you? No... No, it cannot be,” Holloway choked, a thin stream of blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes were sunken, and his lips cracked and dry.

  “Don’t try to speak, Seth. You’re badly hurt. Can you walk?”

  “I’m not sure. I can try. Where am I?”

  The earl checked the man’s limbs for fractures. Nothing broken. Opening the torn shirt, he discovered the source of the blood: a gash that ran diagonally from the left shoulder to the right hip. It looked deep and jagged, possibly caused by a serrated hunting knife.

  “Lean on me, and we’ll find a way up to the abbey.”

  “I saw a staircase on the other side of the cavern,” Holloway gasped. “I started to climb up, but then I heard them screaming. Worthy and Pitt. Oh, it was horrible!” he wept. “I thought it came from behind that brick wall, but there’s no door. I tried to find a way in. They kept screaming and screaming! Then she came, that woman and the other.”

  �
��Tell me later. Let’s get you to a doctor first, my friend. You’re in very bad shape.”

  With Aubrey doing most of the work, it took nearly half an hour to climb the winding staircase and cross through the ruins of the abbey, but with many stops and much agony, the earl and Holloway at last emerged into the cold night air. Both Powers and Clark met them, and Aubrey assigned two of their men to return to the chamber and search for anyone left stranded. After an hour’s diligent hunt, the only things recovered were Wentworth’s rucksack, a short ax, and the doll. These were brought to Aubrey, who added them to the evidence they’d previously collected: some food scraps, tin foil, a food box marked ‘Abbot’s Ghost’, Holloway’s journal, a set of drawing pencils, a measuring line, and now the rucksack and a doll that looked eerily like a young Elizabeth Stuart Sinclair.

  By eight o’clock, Seth Holloway, only son and heir to the Salter earldom, had fallen into a deep sleep in the east wing of Branham Hall.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A cavern deep beneath the earth, near Saint Clair-sur-Epte

  Albus Flint gazed intently into the dark pool of cool water. Beneath its ripples, lay a glittering surface of obsidian that had not reflected light from the human world since Enoch walked the earth. He urged the diggers to move swiftly but carefully to lift the large mirror.

  “Easy with your ropes,” the lawyer commanded the student workers. “Keep them taut, but do not pull until I give the order.”

  The legal gatekeeper to the Blackstone Exploration Society had trusted no one else to exhume so prized and valuable an artifact. Its unique properties made it indestructible, but the precise moment that light struck the molecules had to be timed to the second—only then, could the spell be read.

  A tall being with shoulder-length locks of raven hair stepped close to the pit’s edge. “Is that my brother?” he asked, nearly upsetting the huge crane’s precarious balance.

  “Careful, my lord!” Flint exclaimed. “If you want this team to perform the task without mishap, then you must allow them room to manoeuvre. Step back, now!”

  “You always were an insolent little crow, Albus,” Saraqael answered, already growing bored. “No wonder she chained you up.”

  “She had good reason, but see? I wear no chains now,” the lawyer answered slyly. “And milady has chains aplenty, with skills to fasten them tightly upon anyone.”

  “Is that humour, Albus? You’re out of practise. I wonder if he is buried alongside the mirror?” asked the elohim.

  “If who is buried with the mirror?” enquired a dark-haired woman as she approached the group. “Surely, there are not two of us down there.”

  “You are not yet an ‘us’, Serena. Be patient, if you hope to receive your eternal body and powers. I could just as easily toss you into this pit. Shall I do that and be rid of your harping?”

  Di Specchio stepped away from the edge. “I prefer to remain here. Who else might be down there? Other than your brother, I mean?”

  “An older power. One attached to greatness. One that was, and is, and shall be again. But it will take much more than the solstice light to resurrect him. It will take a very special key and a unique vessel!”

  “You and your brothers love to speak in riddles,” complained the vampiress. “Even you, Flint. You present yourself as somber and serious, yet I have seen you in your natural state. Rather flighty, in my opinion.”

  “I care nothing for your opinions, human!” he warned her. “There!” he cried to the students. Of course, none of them perceived the supernatural beings standing round the deep fissure; neither Saraqael nor di Specchio, for both remained cloaked. The six men saw only Flint in his material mask.

  The wax-faced lawyer checked his pocket watch. “Two minutes, and then you may allow it to surface. Check the mirrors, Mr. Johnson!” he shouted to a lanky Cambridge student. “You, Mr. Walters, see to the second and third mirrors. They must reflect the sun’s rays upon the object in a precise manner, else the incantation will fail.”

  The students obeyed, whilst the four men holding the thick ropes strained to keep the heavy mirror stationary, hanging just below the pool’s surface. The watch’s hands ticked slowly, moving forward as though the timepiece itself conspired to stop the sun.

  “Well?” asked Saraqael.

  “Three, two, one. NOW!” shouted Flint, and the muscular young men, chosen for their brawn and not their brains, lifted the gleaming prison from its watery abode. A series of curved mirrors, placed at various depths along the cavern bounced the setting sun’s final beams one from another until a faint glimmer found its way to the pool. Flint read from Dee’s scroll, enunciating the ancient tongue as if born to it. The entire cavern began to shake, the deep temblor growing evermore close with each spoken word of the spell. Then, just as the mirror broke free of the water, the final solar photons of the winter solstice struck the polished obsidian, causing the midnight glass to crack into a vast web of fine, black lines.

  A shudder ran through the water as the glass bulged outward. A clawed hand emerged, and then a scaly arm.

  The terrified students dropped the ropes in a panic and ran for shelter, causing the device to crash back into the inky pool, submerging into its cold, black waters forever. Flint and Saraqael peered over the chasm’s edge, their eyes on the mirror as it descended.

  “Did it work?” the elohim asked. “Do tell me we don’t have to do all this again!”

  Suddenly, the floor beneath their feet began to quake, and the walls of the cavern split apart. The waters disappeared into the ever-widening pit, and all six students plunged into darkness.

  Moments passed, and the black waters turned a deep crimson; a red lake of blood.

  The earthquake shook the mount above, where an old abbey stood; and below, the River Epte flowed backwards. Farmers and villagers ran for cover, hiding in their homes, screaming of old prophecies and ancient dragons. Clouds of bats rushed from the Saint Clair caverns, and smoke rose up through cracks in the earth. A dry hayfield caught fire, which set the nearby barn alight, and soon all of Saint Clair-sur-Epte was ablaze; colouring the night with red. By morning, seventeen homes would be turned to ash, entire flocks would be dead from the smoke, and eleven people would lie slain—including the six students who’d raised the monster from its sleep.

  Terror had come to Saint Clair-sur-Epte.

  8:15 pm - Montmore House – Fulham

  “Mrs. Winstead, have you looked in on Miss Bunting since four o’clock tea?”

  Emily Winstead was in the middle of an inventory of the private hospital’s stock of pain medicines and tinctures, when she heard the doctor call. She glanced up over the top of her spectacles. The glasses fit her nose poorly, for Winstead had a very narrow bridge, which flattened just below the eyes.

  “Has something happened to her, Dr. MacAlpin?” she asked as he wandered into her office.

  Henry shook his head, not really focusing yet, for he’d only just awoken from an unexpected nap on the library sofa. He’d spent an hour getting Anthony Gehlen settled into the newly cleaned gardener’s cottage, and the short nap had left him somewhat foggy.

  “Not that I’m aware, but I had a very odd dream about her. You’ll recall that she’s here because of troublesome apparitions and imaginings, which her father thought indicative of weak nerves.”

  “Yes, sir, I recall. If you ask me, Sir Aleister only wants rid of a daughter he thinks unlikely to find a husband. Miss Gillian is pretty enough, and very sweet-tempered. Being twenty-six shouldn’t work against her. She’s never spoken a harsh word to anyone since arriving here three months ago, not even to Mrs. Crossfield.”

  “Which is remarkable in itself,” Salperton laughed, “but I’d like to see if she’s all right. Might she be in her apartment, or have the patients already assembled for supper? What time is it, anyway? I’ve lost all track.”

  “After eig
ht, sir. Cook will serve supper at nine, as usual. I believe the residents are enjoying tea in the music room. They’re listening to Miss Bunting play piano.”

  “And Miss Stuart as well?”

  “Yes. May I speak of her for a moment, sir?”

  “Of course,” he said, running a hand through his thick hair.

  “If you’ll forgive an old woman for prying, it seems to me that your manner with Violet is too friendly. Women know women, sir, and she’s been mistreated somewhere in her past. I can sense it. She’s vulnerable.”

  “Which is why I am friendly with her, Mrs. Winstead. Would you have me mistreat her?”

  “Of course not, but she’s falling in love with you, sir. Can you not see it?”

  The viscount believed no such thing, but he had no wish to argue with his forceful nurse. Winstead worked long hours and remained on call at night, and had done so faithfully since he’d hired her six years before.

  “If Miss Stuart shows fondness or an attachment towards me, then it is only as a patient, Mrs. Winstead. I’m quite certain of that, but I shall take your comment into consideration in future.” He turned to leave, but she called him back.

  “Henry?”

  The nurse rarely used his Christian name, and whenever she did, Salperton had learnt to listen carefully, for it was the mother in Winstead who spoke, not the nurse.

  “Yes, Emily?” he replied gently.

  “Do be careful of yourself. I’ve seen how you look at her. We’ve no idea who she really is, or what life she’s led. She might even be married, sir. I beg you to heed my words. First help Violet discover her past, and then if she can legally and willingly return your affection, follow your heart.”

  He crossed the room and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, Emily. I shall honour those words, and I pray I shall ever and always honour you. I cannot imagine this place without you in it.”

  She smiled in a way that dropped years from her face, and it lightened the viscount’s kind heart. The odd dream vanished from his thoughts as he headed towards the music room to join his resident patients. The current roster included Edwina Crossfield, a widow of some means who suffered from strong delusions and depression; Brian Gosberg, a businessman of considerable wealth who blamed himself for the deaths of his wife and three children, all drowned at sea in a boating accident in Cornwall; Mrs. Pamela Emmerdale, a widow who believed her husband had returned from the dead and lived with her; Miss Gillian Bunting, the spinster daughter of an MP, who claimed to see ghosts and twice tried to kill herself; Violet Stuart, an amnesiac who was slowly recalling bits of her former life; and now Dr. Anthony Gehlen, who suffered from memory lapses, unexplained shifts in time and place, and unfathomable fatigue, currently living in the gardener’s cottage at the north end of the estate.