by R. A Humphry
Killynghall’s cold grey eyes found his. “You are to come as well. As is the Warden and the girl you have been teaching,” he said with a voice like the grinding of a glacier.
Henry’s heart sunk and he slumped into the chair. Game is up. He felt a curious sense of relief mixed in with the dread. The toll of worrying about the blade of Damocles that had hung over him since he quit the Order was greater than he had imagined. Yes, it would be frustrating. Yes, they would put some incompetent and pompous Adeptus Major to watch over him. It would be a tedious trial of tutting old men and the ramblings of deluded fantasists but at the end of it he was quite confident that he could slip free of anything the Order of the First Light might choose to impose on him. The thought made him feel better. Let’s get it over with. Then a nasty idea struck him.
“Mr. Killynghall, Sir?”
“Yes, Lord Grenville.”
“Just so that I am clear,” he said with a nervous smile, “which Order, exactly, are you talking about? Is it the First Light?”
Killynghall regarded him with a ghost of a smile. “No, Lord Grenville, it is not. The Order of the First Light is somewhat fallen away from its prime, don’t you agree? No, judgement will be passed by The Raven-Banner.”
“Oh, shit.”
#
Manu was quiet and contemplative. Henry watched as his friend turned the sheathed dagger over and over in his big hands. He had said almost nothing since Killynghall and Harrington had left to collect Heather. None of Henry’s arguments that he should be the one to approach Heather were listened to. Even Harrington, who Henry had supposed might be on his side, had only said that some things were better left to those that had done it before.
“Don’t worry about it lad, she’s not the first nervous wild one to be brought before the judges and she won’t be the last. We won’t frighten her. We’ll tell her that you wanted to come and get her, will that help?”
Henry had accepted this small concession with ill grace. He hated being under the power of others.
Manu looked up from his study of the sheaths artwork. “What is it about This Raven order that made you swear?” Henry squirmed a bit under the scrutiny of his big, brown eyes. They were the eyes of a predatory bird softened by a surprisingly sensitive spirit. Manu hated it when other people swore.
“The Raven-Banner. Hravenlandeye, to give them their proper English name. The great custodians, so called. The Valravens fancy themselves as the enforcers of arcane discipline amongst the practitioners. They hold themselves above all the other Orders as the law. The whispers you hear… what can’t be denied is that they are very powerful, very ancient. They have access to all the significant ancient artefacts and Grimoires. Until just now I wasn’t convinced that they existed.”
“So why the fear? They sound like just the people we need to fight this.”
Henry rubbed his face. What would it be like to be like Manu? He wondered. To have such unshakable faith that no threat was beyond their ability to overcome? “The one thing that everyone is certain of about the Order of the Raven is that they were responsible for the largest genocide of practitioners the world has ever seen. The medieval burnings and witch hangings all bear the mark of the Raven in the magical history of the land. Landøyðan, ‘Land wasters’ in the old tongue. They have a reputation of being ruthless with practitioners who step over the mark. Even if they have no idea what that mark is. The Raven-Banner is synonymous with summary judgement for a practitioner.”
“So why didn’t they stop Kilburn? Why don’t they help my parents?”
“I wish I knew,” Henry replied. “Maybe we should ask them.”
“We are in trouble, aren’t we? How many lines do you think you’ve crossed?”
“Recently, or over a period of years?”
#
Unsurprisingly, Heather had been less than delighted to be confronted and detained by two strange men. Henry heard her haranguing them both before her stiff neck and thrust forward chin entered the room. Henry couldn’t be sure, but there appeared to be wisps of coiling smoke rising up from Harrington’s deer stalker.
“… your fault if that building burnt down, not mine. Honestly, What do you think is going to happen if you abduct people like this? Henry! Henry what the hell is this all about?” She looked as enraged as he had imagined she would.
Henry sighed and braced himself. Attack is the best form of defence. “Hello Heather. Sorry about all this,” he waved at Killynghall and Harrington, “but I’m putting the blame on you. You fed a minor Absinthe and these are the consequences.”
Killynghall wasted no time and opened a portal as Heather spluttered. He did it with shocking ease, nothing more than a sharp vertical slash of the air with his hand. Harrington stepped through the empty slash, followed by Manu. Heather smiled at him with poison. “After you, Lord Grenville.”
#
They stepped through into a busy Oxford afternoon. The pigeons and gulls circled and called in the skies above the city of spires, which was filled to overflowing with tourists eager to make the most of the fine weather. The sound of camera shutters snapping mingled with the shouted instructions of the tour-guides who tried to herd their little groups into something close to order. The shops were heaving and the bicycle riding students wove between the endless lines of coaches sat stationary on the ancient roads.
None of them appeared to notice the five figures who glided out of shadow of a street-lamp next to the iron railings of the bridge before Magdalen College like unseen passengers disgorging from an underground carriage.
Henry caught sight of tied up gondolas bobbing on the small river below them. The Cherwell, he remembered, thinking of the small river’s name. The Cherwell that runs into the Isis, he thought, as the people flowed past him on the busy street. From there you, if you poled hard enough, could get down to the Thames and London and then wide grey sea. The water and the gondolas and the idea of a journey put a wild urge in him to run away to Venice. Would they chase him, if he opened up a portal and just went? If he lost himself in the canals and the piazzas and just never came back?
Not that trying to get to Venice that way would be the wisest idea, it was a pulsing magical vortex and with his aim it would end up a choice between drowning in the Grand Canal or drowning in the Adriatic.
Manu was staring at the arched stone entry to the Botanical Gardens and then up the curving street to the forbidding examinations hall that loomed like an unfinished task. “We are in Oxford, aren’t we?” he asked, directing his question at Henry.
“Yes, very elitist. Magicians never seem to be interested in places like Manchester or Milton Keynes.”
“I have always dreamed of seeing Oxford. My father was born here,” Manu said as the group set off down the busy High Street. “I’ve always thought of it as the very heart of England.”
“That’s too many re-runs of Brideshead revisited. Oxford these days is packs of Chinese tourists and self important undergrads rushing about. That or pompously quoting Derrida to each other while they try to pretend that despite their ludicrous workload they have time to have fun.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “Getting our excuses about your rejection ready early, are we?”
“Poppycock. I won’t apply. These people,” Henry waved his hands about as they crossed Longwall street to indicate he included all of Oxford, “don’t appreciate eccentrics anymore. They are all the boring copy and paste worker drones that I despise.”
Heather grunted, which Henry chose to interpret as victory.
#
They rounded the corner and Henry saw Manu take a step back as he saw the beauty of the Radcliffe Camera for the first time. Henry had not been to Oxford for years, not since his mother died, but he remembered that he had loved the building back then. He now looked at the rounded base and domed roof with new interest and new talents. The Corinthian columns and the lanterned dome were, to his surprise, layered with at least as many wards and enchantments as Darkwells. Th
ey pulsed and flowed along the architectural lines of the building like night-time traffic in a city. A fine spiral of spell-craft twisted from the tip of the dome up into the sky, unseen by any of the oh-so-clever students and professors that scurried along below it. He dismissed his reveal spell and looked at the building with his mundane eyes.
“It’s amazing,” Manu said next to him. “This whole place is just what I thought…”
“Don’t let it fool you. It’s as rotten as everywhere else,” Henry replied grumpy and irritated for some reason.
They continued on down Catte Street and rounded a corner. Henry’s gaze wandered across the road and he saw a familiar and inviting pub called The Kings Arms. Had his father taken him in there once? The memory eluded him. It was always easier to remember bad memories. He turned back and came face to face with the Emperors.
The Emperors were twelve carved heads mounted on the stone pillars that sat on the wrought iron railing at the front of a set back building that Henry recognised as the Sheldonian. Henry didn’t look at the curved front or the white cupola. His attention was fixed on the heads. Even without a revealing spell he could feel the energy rolling off them, radiating like invisible bonfires. He dared the spell and reeled back into the street.
He would have fallen but for Manu’s steadying hand. The heads were alive. They appeared to him as titanic wraiths curled like smoke about the weathered carvings. They were coiled and reptilian in their stillness. There was a certainty of judgement and justice in the unblinking eyes. Henry shuddered to think of all the unsuspecting people walking by who were seized, examined, and passed as unworthy without so much as missing a step. Here was magic as he had once expected it to be: majestic, terrible, inscrutable and infinite. There was an immensity to the beings that defied understanding.
“Easy, Master Grenville,” Harrington said, assisting Manu in dragging him back from the edge of the pavement. “I’d not cast that spell here. You don’t want these boys peering too hard at you, that’s for sure.” Henry dismissed the spell and then walked over to grab Heather’s hand. She had gone white and mute and was unmoving.
Henry remained silent holding her hand. A man in a dark robe with a feather lined collar strode down the steps to meet them. Killynghall spoke with him and Harrington, after a quick word to Manu, left, following the silent man up the stairs and into the building. Just watching him cross the threshold made Henry sick.
He was relieved beyond all reason when Killynghall led them down the cobbled road and away from the staring monstrosities. The taciturn Housemaster set a brisk pace and Henry struggled to keep up. He was sweating and a little nauseous. The Colleges went by in rapid succession, Trinity, Balliol, St. John and St. Cross. When Killynghall stopped they were outside a nondescript little pub. Henry was breathing hard.
The Housemaster turned and addressed them. “There has been a change of plan. I have been informed that the Raven-Master is here, right now. He wishes to speak to you.” The emotionless Killynghall seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. “Be warned. This is an exceedingly dangerous man. You would do well to listen.” He looked at Henry and then Heather. “Do not provoke him.”
Henry gathered his stamina and prepared for another leg of the long walk and was surprised when Killynghall turned and entered the little pub. Henry stopped and looked at the front. It had a long bar of black running along the bottom that contrasted with the white-wash of the tall walls that reached up three storeys. An oval sign hung over the door with a faded picture of a swooping bird on it, grabbing a baby. Under the sign in bold black calligraphy was the pub’s name, which was The Eagle and Child.
It was a little gloomy inside. The entrance was cluttered and squeezed by the bar but it opened up as you moved in. The decor was old, with wood panelled walls and with tables and chairs that looked unchanged for decades. It was a place that oozed with history. The pints and the wines, the pies and the laughs and the arguments of decades echoed out of each polished surface, each worn carpet and fading ornament.
Killynghall moved through the pub, which was almost empty, into a far room. There, sat by a gentle log fire, was a man who looked in his mid to late fifties. He looked as though he could have been a patron there at any time in the last hundred years. He had a neat white beard and was dressed almost as a caricature of an Oxford professor. He did not look up from his newspaper as Killynghall approached and only raised a finger in acknowledgement when spoken to. Henry soon found himself bundled into a chair around the man’s table with Heather and Manu. Killynghall vanished.
The old man put down his paper and regarded the three friends. “Do you know where you are?” the old man asked them in a pleasant, amiable voice. They shook their heads and the man looked pleased. “It may not look like much, but this pub is close to being the most magical place in all of Great Britain. Strange isn’t it? Consider. In these very walls, over there in fact, some old learned gentlemen used to sit and drink and argue. Ideas were formed and places built in their minds. The worlds created were so vast and complex and alive that they dwarf anything in any spell I know. They were true magicians. Ones of creation rather than destruction and imitation.
“Do you know who these wizards were? No? Well, one was J.R. and another C.S. There was Charles Dodgson, who called himself Carrol. I’ve even seen Pullman in here, although he is always too miserable to have a drink. It is why I like to come here. There is a thinness to the walls of reality in this place and wondrous things feel just a day-dream away.”
The bartender arrived with a pint of ale which he placed down on the table. The old man took a sip and placed the glass down on the coaster. Henry was at a loss. Who was this Raven-Master?
“So,” he began again, “I get to meet the daring little amateurs.”
Henry couldn’t quite place his accent. He spoke the perfect Queen’s English but there was something almost… German about it.
“I have been quite intrigued. Lord Grenville we know all about, of course. There were murmurs of worry when you left the Order of the First Light but to be honest, I think you made the right choice. The Grenvilles have a proud tradition of being self-made, which is easier when you have the finest Grimoire collection outside the Bod. And the First Light… They are not what they once were. Not since your mother died. It was her genius and character that held the whole order together you know. I miss her, truth be told. We used to consult together a great deal.”
“Funny, she never mentioned you,” Henry replied without thinking. He was starting to feel hostile to this presumptuous old pensioner.
The older man laughed easily. “Oh, we don’t tell all our secrets, now do we? It’s a magician’s rule. Like you for example. Have you told your friends what it was you were casting, exactly, when your mother went mad?” Henry’s blood froze. “No, I didn’t think you did. We felt it though, far away as we were. What a woman to contain all of that.”
“What,” Henry grated, “is your point?”
The old man’s smile slipped away. His gentle, soft eyes were now dark and unflinching. His voice dropped an octave. “We keep you on a long leash. Do not make us shorten it. Your action against Kilburn was rash.” Henry flinched under his gaze and looked away. “You will cease your teaching. You will cease your arcane research of Darkwells. You will be a mundane pupil and nothing more.”
Henry saw Manu clench his jaw. Before Henry could put out a warning hand Manu’s temper got the better of him. “What do you think gives you the right…”
“Master Wardgrave. So we come to you. What a wonder you are. Our first ever Warden of Te Aké’s line.”
“I’m sorry? Who?” Manu asked, his face going red.
The old man took a dainty sip of his ale and replaced it on the coaster. “You know who Te Aké is, boy. You must recall the spirit of Tawhiri-matea. Let it go. Embrace your nature. It is what will define you, in the end.”
“Faber est suae quisque fortunae,” Manu replied, matching The Raven-Master’s gaze. Henr
y stared at his friend. Was that the Darkwells motto? The old man smirked, amused.
“Quite. Shame. Wardgrave and Te Aké would be a potent mix. But fight it all that you want, you will always have something of the savage about you.”
“That’s my English half.”
“Ho ho! I like you boy. You have spirit, as expected. But know that they won’t see you that way.”
“Is that all?” Manu asked with obvious irritation in his voice, “Or are you going to tell me why you abandoned my parents and your duty?”
The Raven-Master didn’t even twitch. “James Wardgrave disobeyed a direct order to return to London. As did Ranger Harrington. The Empire is gone. The cheering mobs wanted us all out. The natives couldn’t wait to start helping themselves to everything we had carved out of the nothingness. So be it. If they don’t want us let them handle the problems left behind in the dark places. Besides, this is a new world. The horrors these days are in suites and on trading floors rather than in ritual circles. They carry machine guns and drive tanks rather than swords and spells. It is the monsters of mankind that has brought trouble in your home, not some magical catastrophe. Your parents were victims of the very people they were misguidedly trying to protect.”
“And the Feylings?” Henry found himself asking.
“As dangerous as children with paper swords. They are no match for a proper Valraven, as our Keeper demonstrates. We will let them break themselves against our strength. That is my message to you all, Master Wardgrave. Do not do anything rash. Harrington’s tale is a fantasy. Persist. Finish your time at Darkwells and we will come for you.”
There was a silence as the three friends absorbed this. Heather spoke for the first time, “And what about me? Why am I here?”
