Dark Embers

by R. L. Giddings

  “Oh, so how long has Aleena got left?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Aleena has over-extended her stay. She’s been on the throne now for seventeen years.”

  “I see.”

  “Aleena doesn’t like to share. Her argument now will be that she can’t yield the throne while the Kingdom is under threat of invasion.”

  “And what does her sister – this Silesia - have to say about that?”

  “There’s nothing she can say. She’s in stasis. But I imagine there’ll be a full and frank discussion when the change-over does occur.”

  We sat around the table in silence watching Macrory sip his drink. Although he was a member of the Sidhe, he had become greatly diminished by his time among humans. His powers were now greatly reduced. To compare him to a regular Sidhe warrior was a bit like comparing an old tomcat to a young mountain lion. There really was no comparison.

  “What are we going to do, Macrory? If three members of the Sidhe can cause this much damage, what would an army be capable of?”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” he said hesitantly. “We have to stop the War Council from gathering.”

  “But how? With Kinsella under arrest, any member of the Bear Garden is now going to be viewed with suspicion.”

  “Particularly this one,” Macrory indicated Millie, who looked affronted. “Now they’ve got Kinsella under lock and key they’ll be after you next, particularly as you worked so closely with him. They’ll want to keep you quiet”

  I hadn’t thought about that and, by the look on her face, neither had Millie.

  “Okay. Where is this meeting being, held?”

  The pair of them looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

  Millie said, “It’s at the Globe Theatre of all places. But I’m not even sure they’d let us in.”

  I took a final sip of my coffee and then went and poured the rest down the sink. “Well, we won’t know if we just mope around here. Besides. I need to tell someone about this Sabien guy.”

  Millie stood up, “I’ll come with you.”

  “Okay,” I turned to Macrory. “And what about you?”

  He was considering his drink, no doubt remembering his friend. “I think I’ll give this one a miss, under the circumstances. Besides, I need to make a few phone-calls. See what Daniel Cardoza is doing for lunch.”

  The thought of the suave businessman sitting down with the ever-so-slightly shop-worn Macrory almost made me smile but I quickly suppressed the thought. We had work to do.

  *

  “You’re sure this is the place?” I asked.

  We were approaching the Globe Theatre along the south bank of the river. There were posters along the outside wall announcing forthcoming productions.

  “Why would they have it here?”

  “Oh, you know,” Millie mused. “Theatre folk and magical folk like to think they have a lot in common.”

  “You mean they’re both big show-offs?”

  “Something like that. Now, if we can only find the way in.”

  We walked down a ramp and across a cobbled walkway. Ahead of us were two glass doors but before we got there we had to contend with the two door men. One was an enormous Rastafarian wearing a green and black knitted cap which sat uneasily atop his mound of dreadlocks. The other was half his height wearing a Crombie over-coat.

  “Let’s see your tickets,” Crombie said in a broad estuary accent.

  “Tickets?” Millie did her best confused face.

  “Invitations, tickets. Whatever! Let’s see ‘em.”

  This wasn’t going well. I noticed that the Rastafarian had a book under one arm.

  “We’ll have to sign in.”

  Crombie took the book from his partner, licked his fingers and found the appropriate page.

  “Names?”

  “Millie Goodwin. “

  “Bronte Fellows.”

  The man in the Crombie started drawing his finger down the list but the Rastafarian punched him lightly in the arm.

  When Mr Crombie attempted to fend him off, the Rastafarian did it again. Only harder this time.

  “Here, what’s your game?”

  The Rastafarian stepped forward, flashing his white teeth at us as he jostled his partner aside.

  “Miss Goodwin. Miss Fellows,” he purred. “It’s a pleasure to be meeting you both. If you’d like to ease yourself down to the reception area, you’ll find they’re all ready to get started.”

  With a switch of his hips, he managed to completely obscure his partner from view.

  Only once we were through the doors did Millie turn to me.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Looks like we’re finally getting the recognition we deserve.”

  We were ushered up to the mezzanine floor where we came across groups of magical practitioners from all across the globe standing about in groups of twos and threes. We took a few steps into the room and froze.

  We both felt it at the same time and the hairs on my arms bristled with it. Magic, pure and powerful, hung in the air like a dizzying perfume. I had never experienced anything like it and, judging from Millie’s reaction, neither had she.

  “Is it wrong to say that I am physically attracted to everyone in this room?”

  I had to agree. “It’s quite potent all this power under one roof.”

  “Is it ever?”

  Someone was approaching us from our right. I felt a sense of anti-climax when I realised that it was only Edwin.

  He was all smiles but his attention was fixed solely on Millie. I hardly got a look in. When he hugged her she held onto him for just a little bit longer than was necessary, the light reflecting off his shaved head.

  He made no attempt to hug me. We simply nodded our hellos. He was a handsome man although not really my type. He was just a little too tightly buttoned for my liking.

  “I’m glad to see you both.” He turned to me. “Did Millie tell you about the War Council?”

  “She did.”

  “Well, that was yesterday’s news. What would have been unthinkable just a few days ago now looks like being no more than a formality. They seem to have removed any possible opposition to the proposal.”

  “Kinsella?”

  “Not just him. They made a number of arrests overnight. I haven’t got the complete list but it’s not looking good.”

  “Should we be worried?”

  “No, you’re fine, Bronte.”

  Millie said, “What about me?”

  Edwin glanced around the room. “Some of the delegates are trying to build a platform for themselves by targeting the Bear Garden itself, as if that was the source of the problem. The fact that Bronte was suspended at the time might actually count in her favour. Whereas you …”

  I gave her arm a little squeeze.

  Millie said, “Should I even be here?”

  “For the time being, yes. I have no doubt that sanity will prevail eventually. For the moment, we need to put the conspiracy theories to bed.”

  I said, “You think that’s going to happen?”

  “I hope so. If the vote for the War Council goes ahead – and I’m pretty sure it will - then they’ll need someone to lead it. Whoever gets the most votes automatically takes the chair. Macmillan might not be Kinsella’s biggest fan but he’s very even handed. He doesn’t want to waste time on some ill-advised witch hunt – if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “So, you reckon Macmillan’s the man to calm things down?”

  “He’s got a fairly broad base of support. Plus, he knows what he’s talking about as far as the Sidhe are concerned. He’s one of the few people I know who’s actually been to Arcadia.”

  That reassured me down enormously. The idea of people being taken from their beds and arrested had initially filled me with dread. We needed level heads at a time like this not some kind of intellectual purge. I hoped that Edwin was right. If a moderate like Macmillan were to take charge then he might still be able to stee
r things away from an all-out war.

  People had started moving off into the auditorium by this point. A wizard in a black leather coat with various facial piercings paused to speak with Edwin who indicated that we should go on ahead.

  “I thought you might have said something about finding that body,” Millie said.

  “Do you think I should have?”

  “I don’t know. Edwin does work for the Inner Council after all. To be honest, I’m not sure who to trust anymore.”

  “Are you saying you don’t trust him?”

  Her eyes flickered around the people surrounding us. “I said I fancy him. Doesn’t mean I trust him. I’m just a bit confused right now being Public Enemy No. 1 and everything. Let’s hope this lot can make some sense of it.”

  *

  The leaders of the Inner Circle sat at three long trestle tables arranged across the stage. There were twelve places but only eleven delegates so far: four Americans, two Chinese, a South African, a Nigerian, an Australian and a German. Macmillan was the sole British representative.

  One of the American delegates, Travis O’Hagen, a bear of a man with a set of impressive whiskers, stood centre stage. His red flannel shirt and braces completing the impression of an American backwoodsman. He provided the lengthy introductions for all the main delegates proving himself knowledgeable about all aspects of the craft. Everything he said only served to confirm my initial fears: everyone seated on the stage was either an academic or, effectively, a glorified civil servant. None of them had any real experience dealing with the day-to-day pressures of policing the supernatural world. There were various agencies - like The Bear Garden - scattered all across the world: America’s NAMA and Spain’s Magico Especial but none of them were represented on the stage. Each of these bodies was loosely affiliated with the Council but these were relationships based largely on mutual distrust.

  The Inner Council was in charge of over-seeing the philosophy and ethics of magic users across the globe so that when they got involved with the various agencies it was invariably to investigate or discipline them. So it wasn’t surprising to discover that a certain level of resentment had developed over the years. There was no question that the members of the Inner Council could put us on a war footing. The problem was: how many of these agencies could they rely upon for support?

  There were probably three hundred delegates sitting inside the auditorium when there could easily have been twice as many, or even three times as many. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed.

  O’Hagen ran through the events of the last twenty four hours and, while he did acknowledge the devastation wrought on the Bear Garden, he made scant reference to the actual organisation itself and as far as the events concerning Kinsella were concerned, he said not a word. Once O’Hagen had finished, Macmillan approached the lectern.

  Macmillan was younger than I’d realised, in his forties with a boyish mop of blonde hair which was perpetually falling across his face. Unlike O’Hagen, he was wearing his gown of office. He took a moment to arrange his notes on the lectern, adjusted his wire-framed spectacles and began.

  “You may be wondering what a doctor of magical philosophy is doing advising you about the relevance of that old adage: Hope for Peace; Prepare for War. But the events of Sunday night have brought a new urgency to bear and we now look at the world in a different light. Tomorrow, we begin the nominations for the War Council. That’s a big step and I’m here to provide some much needed context to our ever changing relationship with the Sidhe.

  For the last two years, I have been leading a team which has been tasked with monitoring the threat levels posed by Arcadia. Initially, this was intended as an academic exercise, as a way of gaining important intelligence on a famously secretive regime. But our work forced us to confront a number of unpleasant truths which may well have significance for all of us.

  “When we talk about Arcadia, we tend to picture a sylvan idyll chock full of staggeringly underutilised resources, peopled by glorious amazons and benevolent giants. If that is your idea of the fairy world then prepare yourself for a shock. That land no longer exists. Today, Arcadia is unrecognisable from the land I first visited twenty years ago.

  “To foreign eyes, the effect on the landscape is perhaps the most obvious. The land looks as though it’s been battered by the elements. Rivers have been choked up, animals are giving birth to deformed young. Entire forests are dying. The magic that remains, once the most vital and striking aspect of their culture, has become erratic and unpredictable. This has culminated in hot-spots which are prone to magical storms and devastating earthquakes. Whole regions, with a rich tradition of magical use stretching back many centuries, have seen their enchantments stutter and fail.

  “In short, Arcadia is dying.”

  There was general up-roar at this announcement. Though very few practitioners had been there themselves, Macmillan was right: everyone had a vision of Arcadia as a benign land of milk-and-honey. Hearing the truth came as a shock to everyone. No one had suspected that the situation could be quite so bad despite all the warnings.

  Amidst the general frenzy, a woman wearing a tribal head-dress stood up and raised her hand. Her actions were so calm and composed that the noise slowly abated as everyone turned to listen to what she had to say. The roof of the theatre is open to the elements and the natural light which illuminated the auditorium, picked out the vibrancy of her costume.

  Macmillan had clearly not been expecting to be interrupted at such an early juncture, much less to be answering questions. Nonetheless, he signalled for a microphone to be taken over to her.

  “If what you say is true,” she said with a rich Nigerian lilt, “how is it that we are only hearing about this now?”

  Macmillan re-arranged the papers on his lectern. Clearly, this was a question he had been expecting.

  “Our work was classified. We were unsure how the Unseelie Court might react to this level of intrusion. Up until a few hours ago, the only people who knew about it other than the members of the Council itself were those people directly involved in the project. You must understand that this was an extremely dangerous enterprise. Four members of our twelve man team have so far failed to return and of those remaining eight two are currently resident in a psychiatric facility. Normally, at a gathering like this, the speaker would show you photographs or even video footage of the place in question but digital recording equipment breaks down almost immediately upon entering the region. We’ve tried taking stills photos using traditional film stock but the negative, once exposed quickly degrades. It has proven particularly difficult for the team members trying to map the area. The physical geography seems to change on a daily basis and it’s not unknown for groups to become lost, travelling in circles despite their best efforts.”

  “Has it always been like this?” she asked.

  “No. This appears to be a fairly recent phenomena. Certainly it wasn’t like this when I first visited. The one thing that we are fairly certain of is that this is not just a general malaise. It’s having serious effects in certain areas where the actual magic is failing. Also, the people themselves are showing signs of common mortality. We know of three reports of Sidhe being killed in various disturbances, which is worrying considering that, because of their incredibly long life spans, they were often thought to be immortal themselves.

  O’Hagen raised a hand. “Is there any suggestion as to what’s causing this? I’ve heard rumours that a man-made virus might be responsible.”

  Macmillan waved the idea away. “Tarsuk Singh who was part of our last exploratory party has looked into this. He has several thousand biological samples which he brought back with him. None of these points to a man-made virus. I wished it were that simple.”

  “Do you have thoughts yourself as to what’s causing this situation?”

  “Dr Emily Horrocks is a meteorologist. She’s in Arcadia at the minute and she is currently studying the way that their weather sys
tems are linked to their seasonal calendar. She has been trying for a number of years to be allowed to visit the Dandelion Tower, a highly advanced amalgamation of magic and technology. There’s a widely held belief among Arcadians that the tower influences the passing of the seasons in some way. It’s a bold claim and if it proves to be true there is a lot we might learn from it.

  “Dr Horrocks has been waiting for Silesia, queen of the Summer Court to take the throne. The good doctor believes that she is the more enlightened of the two queens and may be more likely to allow the tower to be studied. However, there have been no sightings of her in over a decade.”

  “Might the Summer Queen, in fact, be dead?” O’Hagen asked. “It’s not impossible even for members of the Elder Races to meet with accidents.”

  “Firstly, there have been no announcements. Secondly, if she were dead then one of her daughters would have succeeded her and, from what we’ve observed, that hasn’t happened. Whatever is going on, Dr Horrocks believes that Arcadia is perhaps only months away from the kind of cataclysmic occurrence which could have far reaching consequences.”

  Travis O’Hagen leaned into his microphone. “I understand what you’re saying, Doctor. But how does this link in to the activity we’ve been witnessing lately? Sunday night’s attack for example?”

  Macmillan swept the hair from his eyes. “The short answer is that we don’t know. I’d like to say that this attack is unprecedented but that wouldn’t be wholly accurate. I have only recently discovered that there have been a number of similar attacks over the past several months which were known to the Ministry of Thaumaturgy but which seem to have been covered up, or attributed to other sources.”

  I turned to Millie. If anyone should have known about attacks of that nature then it would have been her. But she just shrugged.

  First she’d heard of it.

  Macmillan continued, “I think that we’ll get a better idea of the threat posed by the Sidhe once we’ve spoken to the leader of their group. Seems that even Kinsella couldn’t mess that up.”