“And how … how did you do that?” de Montague whispered. “The power of the warlocks is all but gone. Where did you find this new source of aether?”
“That took hardly any effort at all actually. Do you concede this battle or shall I finish you? I really don’t mind either way.” Patrice laughed. The low rumble of his voice expelled a vengeful satisfaction from deep within him. He looked up at the other members of the council. “Gentlemen, a new age for warlocks has come. I have been to the darkest places in the Shadow realm. In death, the path to regaining our former power has been shown to me.” The Council was staring at him in stunned silence. “Are you going to stay loyal to this weak old man while you slowly turn to dust, or will you join me so we may become strong and glorious again?”
“Potentia Mortis,” de Montague whispered, using his chair to pull himself to his feet. “You have the darkness of the Underworld within you. It has turned you into an abomination too dangerous to be allowed to live!”
“Well done, Grand Master. I am pleased to see that at least you remember your lessons well,” Patrice said.
“The aether inside you is dark, Patrice. Listen to me when I tell you that you do not know with what you meddle.” De Montague raised his arms up as if to strike. “You cannot be allowed to wield such power. The dangers are too great. So I must accept your challenge!”
Patrice faced the Grand Master. “Very well, old man, your challenge is met. We shall battle to the death and the winner keeps what he conquers. As are the rules.”
“Do not underestimate me. You may be strong, but you are no match for my centuries of experience of the Craft. You do not have all of me,” de Montague said with a quaking voice.
“We’ll see about that.” Patrice raised his arms and struck out at de Montague. There was a flash of light as the two men clashed. They met with deafening force and began to swirl around the room.
De Montague lashed out at Patrice and knocked him back.
Patrice reeled and righted himself. A small trickle of blood ran out of his nose and across his lip. He pulled out a starched white handkerchief from his inside pocket and wiped his face. “Is that the best you can do?” he said. “A burst blood vessel in the nose? Grand Master, honestly.” Patrice was annoyed now. Instead of surrendering, the Grand Master had made him ruin his handkerchief. And it was an expensive one too. He reached into the darkness that swirled within him to summon up enough power to strike. He did not like to admit it, but he was still a little unsure of how to use his new gifts with precision. And if he was completely honest with himself, the darkness within him scared him a little. But brute force would be enough to win him this challenge, and win he must, before the other warlocks recovered from their initial shock and came to de Montague’s aid. He had come here to exert his dominance; he could not afford to hesitate. No, the time to act was now.
In his mind, he imagined a large ball of swirling black flames, the very same flames that had almost consumed him at the edge of the vortex in Constantinople not so long ago. That day had changed him forever. It was the day he had lost Elle. As he raised his hands to strike out at de Montague, an image of her face flashed through his mind.
A blue bolt of energy flew across the room and struck the old warlock in the chest. De Montague gasped as he absorbed the impact. Patrice launched another blast at him. This time, bright sparks flew everywhere—de Montague was fighting back. The two men were locked in a deathly standoff for a few seconds.
De Montague’s face twisted in agony. Sweat turned his forehead shiny as he shook with the effort of holding Patrice at bay. But Patrice held firm, slowly increasing the outflow of power. He watched with satisfaction as the Grand Master’s power slowly started to wane. The light emanating from him grew fainter and fainter and then quietly went out. Bright flames appeared around him, catching his clothes, before finally enveloping him.
De Montague gave a cry of anguish and pain. The flames went out as life left him, and his body fell to the floor in a blackened heap.
Patrice watched on as the last remains of the Grand Master—the supreme guardian of the barrier between the realms of Shadow and Light—turned to dust before his eyes.
The room fell into a shocked silence. No one moved—or even breathed.
Patrice stared at the sad little heap of dust before him with growing delight. He had never used his power with such unrestrained force on another human before, and the results were both frightening and wonderful beyond anything he could have hoped. He would have to remember how he did that for next time.
The other warlocks continued to stare at him. De Montague had been the oldest and most powerful among them. Their terror and unease radiated from their very core.
“Well, gentlemen, can I have your answer or does anyone else wish to duel?” Patrice said.
“I vote to join,” Master Chen, the Chinese warlock, said without hesitation. “I pledge my loyalty to you, Shadow Master.” He bowed his head in reverence.
The others all started speaking at the same time and nodding in frightened agreement.
Patrice allowed himself to smile. Slowly and with deliberate enjoyment, he sat down in the chair which de Montague had occupied just minutes before. The seat was still warm.
“Winner keeps what he conquers,” he murmured in response to the shocked looks around him.
Master Obanwedya cleared his throat. He was a big man, dressed in the deep red ceremonial robes of the Shaman of Western Africa. “I think I speak for us all when I say we acknowledge you, Grand Master Chevalier, Keeper of the Realms of Light and Shadow.” The others all nodded in agreement.
All except one.
“What do you say, Master Lewis?” Patrice said as he met the gaze of the American. Lewis had been a good friend of Hugh Marsh. It was very important to ensure that everyone knew where the American’s loyalties lay, for he could be trouble in the future.
“I’d say that you won the battle to the death, and so you are within your rights to claim the title. I never cared for de Montague much, but I will reserve judgment on the rest, if you don’t mind. As they say, rather the devil you know than the one you don’t,” said Lewis.
“Fair enough.” Patrice inclined his head. It would take a little time for them to come around, but he did not mind. He could wait. It would not take long for them to support him, not when they understood what his plans for the Council were.
He turned to the parchment, which lay on the table before him. It was an agenda of points that de Montague had intended to discuss at the meeting.
“Gentlemen, shall we continue? Many of you have traveled far for this gathering and I am sure you are all eager to conclude the business.” He tore the agenda in half and threw it into the fireplace beside him. The pages burst into flame and reduced to charred black fragments in moments.
“First order of business: I would propose that we finally put an end to the perpetual problem of our current—and rather wayward—Oracle. Indulging her has wasted enough of our time, and I move that she should be brought to order without delay. The time to restore the power of the Council has come,” he said.
The other warlocks looked on with varying degrees of hesitation. What Patrice was proposing was both grim and distasteful.
“Motion seconded,” said Master Chen, rubbing his hands together.
“Now, allow me to fill you in on the plans I have.” Patrice sat forward as he started to outline his vision for the future.
As he spoke, the other warlocks nodded in agreement. A few of them even smiled and, for the first time since he entered the building, Patrice allowed himself to relax. Tonight he had won a crucial victory. If there was one thing that could always be relied upon, it was the greed of men. And right now their desire for power would be the means with which he would retain control.
CHAPTER 3
KHARTOUM
Heat shimmered off the clay-brick houses and dusty streets of the ancient city of Khartoum. Even in late October, the sun was relent
less. From the middle of the white-blue sky it turned everything below hot and dusty.
Here the River Nile split the city in two, before winding its way northwards to Egypt and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. Elle and Dr. Bell strolled through the central marketplace, which lay just south of the river. They were waiting for the departure time of Elle’s ship, the Water Lily to arrive.
Before them the market spread out in a grid of organized chaos. The alleyways and stalls were covered with vast swaths of matting made from woven grass. In fact, wooden planks, grass mats and canvas seemed to cover every possible space between the wooden shanty roofs, in an attempt to shield the place from the blistering sun.
Out of the sun, the air was surprisingly cool, and it was here, beneath the mottled shade, that the merchants of Khartoum sold their wares. Vegetables, spices and finely woven cotton, printed in bright colors, bloomed against the taupe of the clay-brick buildings.
Up ahead, a goatherd whistled fiercely up ahead and waved the stick that he used to herd his flock, eliciting sharp words from a nearby stallholder who was worried about the towering pyramid of tomatoes he had erected. Elle noticed that the goatherd had little hooves instead of feet. A faun herding goats, she thought. How quaint.
Dr. Bell flinched at the goatherd’s whistle and the sudden movement of the goats around her. “Oh my! I do say that I am still rather jumpy after our narrow escape.” The older woman’s eyes grew misty. “I honestly don’t want to think about what would have happened if it wasn’t for your timely intervention, Lady Greychester.”
“Oh, please don’t say anything more. It was all in a day’s work,” Elle said with feigned bravado. She didn’t want to admit it, but the force of the sandstorm she had created had scared her. It had taken the better part of a day for the wind to die down and the dust to settle enough before they could leave the fort. When the troops finally managed to dig away the sand that blocked the heavy gates, the Bedouin guides had been sent out to search for survivors. They came back with word of thirteen bodies as well as their beasts. All had suffocated in the thick dust.
Elle shuddered at the thought of the carnage she had wrought. The bandits may have been bad people planning to kill Dr. Bell, but such destruction could hardly be justified.
“I must admit that I will be rather grateful to be safely back in the air again,” she said. “I do prefer my charters to be a little less confrontational than this one. No offense,” she added quickly.
The older woman smiled at Elle. “None taken, my dear. Fighting off robbers is something I’ve had to contend with as long as I can remember. The moment they see a woman, they immediately assume she’s an easy target. You just cannot trust anyone these days.” She sighed. “Things were easier when my husband was still alive.”
“You were married?” Elle said.
“Oh yes. My husband was also an archaeologist and we spent many happy years exploring digs in far-flung places.” Dr. Bell’s kindly expression grew wistful. “My poor Alfred caught a fever in the Congo. We buried him in the jungle. My greatest regret is that I am unable to go there to visit his grave.”
“I am so sorry,” Elle said. She had to swallow down the awkward lump that had suddenly formed in her throat.
“Never mind. It was many years ago. Although I still miss him every day. He was the love of my life, that man.” Dr. Bell patted Ellen’s arm. “I am happy to say that all the artifacts made it to the fort in one piece, notwithstanding our mad dash across the desert. Human greed is such a terrible thing.” She shrugged. “I wish they would understand that my work is not about seeking treasure and riches. It’s about studying and preserving history for generations to come.”
Elle felt a surge of compassion for Dr. Bell. She suddenly imagined her as a young woman, exploring the world with her husband at her side. The image these thoughts conjured up cut deep, for Dr. Bell’s story was not entirely different from her own.
With great effort, Elle disentangled herself from such maudlin reflection. She pointed east, toward the other side of the marketplace where the airfield lay. From where they were standing, Elle and Dr. Bell could see just the tops of the moored airships and dirigibles as they glinted in the hot sun.
“They should have finished loading the cargo by now, I would have thought. Lieutenant Crosby has assured me that the crates would be kept under the supervision of armed guards at all times. Since they were bound for the British Museum, this is a matter involving the Empire so we have their full support. That is lovely, isn’t it?” Dr. Bell said.
“Well, then I suggest that we go and make sure they don’t drop anything,” Elle said.
“Good call.” Dr. Bell leaned forward meaningfully. “I have some extraordinarily well-preserved pots which I really would like to see reach their destination in one piece.”
“I’ve never lost a shipment yet. Knock on wood,” Elle said. She tapped her knuckles against a wooden beam that held up an awning. This made the canvas shake, which in turn elicited an anxious look from the stallholder who was watching the dust sift down on the pairs of shoes laid out on the table before them.
Elle held up an apologetic hand.
“Splendid!” said Dr Bell, ignoring the stallholder. “Then I say lead the way, Lady Greychester.”
Khartoum had a large strategic military airfield that lay beside the barracks and rifle ranges to the east of the city. The British had built it about fifty years ago in order to accommodate supply ships during the wars that had ravaged this land for more than a few decades. But, with the Empire shrinking, orders had been given for the armed forces to withdraw from the region, so in recent years permission for the use of the airfields by passenger ships and cargo vessels had become more common. The presence of soldiers in uniform was still very much in evidence though. There was no forgetting that this was a place where people died easily, if they weren’t careful.
The smell of roasting meat, spices and wood smoke greeted them around the next corner. This part of the market was busier and people thronged around food stalls as they walked through the narrow alleys.
Elle checked her leather holdall, which she wore slung across her body. The leather was worn now and it molded itself around her in the way that leather did when in constant use. Marsh had bought the holdall for her in Florence on their honeymoon—in a time that seemed like more than a lifetime ago now.
Marsh.
Elle stopped in the middle of the pathway and blinked.
She could have sworn she had just seen the shape of a tall man in a carriage cloak and top hat disappear round the corner of one of the stalls.
“What is it?” said Dr. Bell, suddenly concerned.
Elle shook her head. “Did you see him? The tall man in the top hat?”
Dr. Bell frowned and peered into the crowd. “I don’t think so,” she said. “You don’t see many top hats around these parts. Pith helmets, however, are a different matter.” She rapped on her own with her knuckles.
Elle scanned the crowds before them. Dr. Bell was right. For the most part, people were dressed in traditional cottons and linens. Here and there the ubiquitous khaki jacket of a soldier broke the pattern. For the most part, everyday life went on in this place as it had done for centuries.
Elle strode along and peered down the alley, but it was empty. “I thought I recognized someone in the crowd,” she said. “I’m sorry, it’s my mistake. The heat must be getting to me.”
“Never mind. I see people I think I recognize all the time. It comes from spending one’s life traveling the world.” Dr. Bell patted her arm reassuringly.
Elle pressed her lips together and nodded. “Probably just my imagination. Let’s get to the airfield, shall we?”
She never stopped looking for him. Not while she was awake, and not during the hours of slumber. But try as she might, and even with all her powers, he remained missing. As she walked, Elle silenced the tiny voice that kept nagging her; that he did not wish to be found; that her search was fruitless beca
use he did not want to come back to her.
The Water Lily was waiting in her landing dock. Elle felt a great surge of affection as she caught sight of her ship. With all the tragedy and changes in recent times, it sometimes seemed as if the little freight dirigible was the only constant presence in her life. Seeing her ship was like coming home.
“Lady Greychester, she’s all loaded and ready to go,” said the docking agent who greeted them on the landing platform. He handed her the customary bundle of documents she would need to cross international airspace while carrying freight.
“Marvelous. We will be preparing for takeoff right away.” Elle smiled at the man. He was one of the many agents she now used. After everything she had been through with her erstwhile docking agent, Patrice Chevalier, it was certainly safer that way. In fact, it was better not to form close relationships with anyone, for that matter.
“Permission to come aboard?” Dr. Bell said smartly.
“Please, after you.” Elle gestured to the new hydraulic retractable staircase, which the Water Lily sported.
In recent months, Elle had thrown caution to the wind. She had started taking on all the charters no one else wanted. The more dangerous and difficult, the better. And she had done well, in the way that people who had nothing left to lose often did. As time passed, she had gained a reputation for specializing in the transport of rare and exotic freight. And because rare and exotic freight tended to be valuable, most of her charters involved flights where the owner wished to have the freight accompanied. This was a service she gladly provided, and as these small-freight charters were mostly the reserve of the extremely wealthy, Elle had invested in a few luxuries, such as retractable stairs for embarkation. She had even splashed out, in a manner of speaking. Her brass and porcelain water closet, complete with automatic flushing system, had caused more than a few raised eyebrows—although she was sure that her clients were most grateful for this facility on longer flights.
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