A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire, Book Two)

by Jessica Cluess

  But R’hlem did not attack. In fact, there was astonishment written upon his skinned face. Evidently, he could hardly believe my stupidity any more than I could. He was dressed in a well-tailored dark blue suit and white linen shirt. At least, the shirt would have been white if it weren’t soaked in gore. He wrung out his bloody sleeves, a casual gesture.

  R’hlem bowed low, bending deeply at the waist. Under any other circumstance, he might have resembled a gentleman asking me to dance.

  “I’m surprised you’d return, after all these months of shielding yourself.” There was interest in his gaze. He thought I’d done this deliberately. Telling him I’d got drunk and fallen asleep would make me sound even more pathetic than I already was, so I kept silent. As he advanced, I lit myself on fire in warning. “Ah. Yes, your power.”

  He smiled wider than before.

  Make him think you planned this. Act. Now.

  “I thought we might talk. After all, you did ask for me by name,” I said, doing my best to sound casual and fearless. “I couldn’t help but wonder why.”

  “I’d like to hear your own theories on the subject.”

  I shrugged. “Mine are bound to be incorrect.”

  “Very likely.” He walked about me in a circle, and I always made sure to face him. Church bells rang out through the mist, a bit muted but still distinct.

  I prayed that the bells would wake me, but there was no such luck. R’hlem stopped to wring out his sleeves once more. Dark droplets of blood disappeared into the undulating mist.

  “What I told you the night you destroyed my beautiful Korozoth remains true. You interest me greatly.” His gaze was intense, mercilessly scrutinizing.

  “My talent with fire, you mean.”

  R’hlem laughed. “Yes, quite a peculiar ability. But the fire isn’t all that fascinates me. You’re surprisingly resourceful, my dear. Those new weapons of yours are most original. I feel ashamed to have overlooked them.”

  I wondered how he knew about the weapons. Was it seeing Callax’s wounds, or had the Familiars reported back to him? And if so, how on earth did they go about it?

  “You’re picking apart everything I say. Tell me, was our meeting tonight your idea or were you sent by Horace Whitechurch?” He sniffed, which, considering he had no nose, was an unpleasant sight. “I imagine it was your own. The Order would never allow a common magician’s brat to use her powers in such an overt way.” He tsked.

  How? How in bloody hell had he known I was part magician?

  He stroked his raw chin with his fingers. “Are you curious how I winkled out your little secret?”

  Had someone betrayed us? R’hlem held up a hand; he seemed to guess my thoughts.

  “You are acquainted with Howard Mickelmas, are you not?”

  “I don’t want to hear your lies,” I said.

  “Then hear the truth from his lips.” R’hlem’s one yellow eye narrowed. “Ask him what happened on Midsummer’s Day in 1822. Ask Mickelmas what he did to me.”

  And with that, R’hlem extended his arms and ignited in blue flame.

  —

  I TUMBLED OUT OF BED, THE blankets tangled around me, and lay on the floor with my head throbbing. Breathing deeply, I waited for the pounding in my temples to stop. My head was still wretched from the wine.

  But not wretched enough to ignore what I had seen.

  Finally on my feet, I lit a candle, sat at my desk, and wrote:

  How can R’hlem set himself on fire? What happened on Midsummer’s Day in 1822?

  I slammed the note into Mickelmas’s trunk and waited. A moment later, I opened the lid, and the note was gone.

  But Mickelmas had never responded to my letters before. Suppose this didn’t work? Suppose the notes never went to him? But how on earth could I wait for daylight? I paced to the window and back. Somewhere inside, a voice was crying out, getting louder and louder, and I didn’t want to listen.

  Damn him to hell, where was he?

  I turned and bashed right into Mickelmas.

  “What have you done?” He’d dressed in a silk gown dripping with golden tassels, and crushed velvet slippers on his feet. His hair, normally tied back, was a massive cloud of gray and white.

  “What have you done?” I hissed.

  Mickelmas winced and rubbed his eyes. He had to clutch the bedpost to keep himself upright; apparently he was feeling as sick as I.

  “Come on, then,” he whispered, throwing his coat around me. Wind rushed by us, and when he let go, I found myself standing in Agrippa’s study. The familiar busts of Chaucer and Homer looked down on me from the bookcase. There was a fire in the hearth, and a cup of half-finished tea sat on the table beside the armchair. Agrippa might have walked in at any moment and taken his customary seat. Somehow, being back in these soothing surroundings made everything that much worse.

  “What happened?” Mickelmas fell into the chair.

  “I went onto the astral plane by accident,” I said, my voice cracking. “R’hlem told me you did something to him on Midsummer’s Day, and then he burst into flame. Exactly like me.” My voice died on the word me.

  Mickelmas leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and for a while he did not speak.

  “What do you think that meant?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a lie, or you wouldn’t have written to me at three in the morning.” He got up and went to a mirror hanging on the wall. Placing a hand upon the glass, he whispered words that I could not make out, wincing in pain as he spoke. The mirror glowed briefly, and there was an odd sucking sound. Finished, he pulled his hand away to reveal a stark white handprint, as if someone had etched it in ice.

  I recalled the little hand mirror I’d found in his trunk, the one with the thumbprint. This looked a great deal like that.

  I instinctively feared the thing.

  “Touch your hand to the surface, and don’t take it away,” Mickelmas said, reseating himself. “What I want to say…is too difficult for words.” His voice shook, though whether from the strain of his magic or something else, I did not know. “But you may not like what you find.”

  I stepped up to the mirror, my pulse pounding, and slowly pressed my palm to the glass.

  —

  WILLIAM’S GOING UP THE RIGGING FOR no damned reason. I swear, he’s like one of those blasted tree-climbing monkeys, if the monkey also worked as a solicitor. I toddle across the deck of the ship as a wave swells below us. Whoever enjoys pleasant Sunday cruises ought to be put in an asylum and studied.

  “Howard, isn’t it wonderful?” William beams down at me. Foolish boy. He thinks what we’re about to do is fun, instead of blisteringly dangerous. But for some unknown reason, his good spirits lift mine. He’s always had that effect.

  “Remind me again why we couldn’t try this on land?” I call up to him.

  “Here, there’s privacy.” Ah, His Lordship graces us with his presence once more. Charles comes up from belowdecks, an ax in one soft, manicured hand and a rope coiled around his perfumed shoulder. Being the Earl of bloody Sorrow-Fell, you’d think he wouldn’t want to take on any of the physical labor. Surely, he’d prefer that a servant set up his feats of magical abomination. But I must confess, he’s done his share of the work without complaint. It’s true that Lord Blackwood’s Sunday activities would normally involve many voluptuous, scantily clad women—I feel rather sorry for his wife—but he’s as excited by our endeavor as William is.

  Nonetheless, he can be a smug bastard. If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll get my foot right up his esteemed arse.

  William leaps onto the deck with enthusiasm befitting a boy of twelve, not a grown man. When Helena told him a little Howel was on its way, I was certain he’d stop all this nonsense. But impending fatherhood affects all men differently, and for William it increased his desire to accomplish this bloody task.

  I wish he’d taken up carpentry instead. I could have at least got a nice bird feeder out of that.
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  “Youth is wasted on people who annoy me,” I grumble as we finally get down to the matter at hand. I pull out the rune chart William nicked from that fellow in Whitechapel, a rough deal made in a rougher place. William even got stabbed in the arm for his trouble, and who had to patch him up so Helena never found out? I’m entirely too good a friend.

  Still, we should remember why the man who sold it to us panicked, why he went for the knife. He thought we’d use the runes. Terrified, he wanted the chart back. When William didn’t oblige, the man grew stabby. Kept shouting “Witness the smile” over and over again. Quite troubling, really.

  The runes look like a bunch of rude squiggles. “You’re sure this is correct, Will?”

  “You can trust it, Howard. I got it from a book, after all.” Ah yes, William does love his books. Most of the world’s agony comes from what people misinterpret in books, the rest from pampered house cats.

  The three of us paint the runes onto the surface of the deck in black ink. The basic design is a circle, then undulating lines of runes emanate outward, so it looks like a crude sun. Charles groans to see his pristine ship marked with heretical images. That’s why we didn’t carve them; he wants to varnish over it when we’re done.

  Charles’s involvement makes me rather uneasy, if I’m honest. What does one of the Order’s most esteemed sorcerers hope to gain by trespassing on the wildest frontiers of magician practice? I know what William wants—proof of our power’s origin, and justice. Justice for poor Henry, his unfortunate brother. That all makes sense. But Charles? He admires our strange abilities. Rather, he envies them.

  Perhaps he’s looking for a way toward greater power. Why, not even Imperator Whitechurch could stand against him then.

  I’ve got to stop thinking like this. It’s ruining the mood.

  Finally, our circle is complete, the paint gleaming wet beneath the sun.

  Is it wrong to say that part of me is afraid?

  It’s almost midday, which means we’re out of time. Charles sets the ax to his right and tosses a rope to each of us.

  “We should anchor ourselves, on the off chance something happens.” He ties his rope about his waist and fastens it to the side of the ship, yanking twice to make sure it’s secure. I do as he suggests, and so does William. We’re now a triangle of idiots tied to a boat.

  William is directly across from me and looks up into the bright sun, squinting. “When the shadows disappear, my lord,” he yells.

  I know what this summoning means to him. Ralph Strangewayes had a pet named Azureus from some other world. We saw his picture, William and I, when we made our pilgrimage to Strangewayes’s home. Well, what if Azureus can be our new pet? What if we can prop him up in a gilded cage before the king and prove, once and for all, that our power is not satanic in nature. Merely different.

  It’s the least we can do for Henry. Poor bugger.

  The sun hits its zenith, and my neck is sweating.

  Charles takes out his sorcerer stick-thingy and holds it up, a crease of concern on his face. He’s no idea what to do. Neither do I, for that matter.

  “Azureus,” William says, cutting his hand and bleeding onto the edges of the circle. “We summon thee. Traffick with us now.”

  When his blood touches them, the runes…hiss.

  No, that’s not it. They hum with energy while the newly dried paint bubbles before us as if boiling.

  I feel magic thrumming in my bones, down into my liver and spleen. The circle is waking up, for lack of a better word. A thrill electrifies my blood. I say I’m here to support William, but I can’t help my desire to know, to see where our magic comes from.

  In the air above the circle, a cloud begins to form, a spot of violent weather in an otherwise pristine day. The cloud purples and churns, and then it…

  Cracks. The air above the circle cracks as though it’s a mirror.

  “Is this supposed to happen?” Charles calls, keeping his stave up.

  William shakes his head slowly.

  “I don’t think so,” I add, clutching the railing behind me so hard it might break off in my hand.

  The cracks grow, forming fissures. Something is wrong, horribly wrong.

  “We have to stop,” I shout to William, but he doesn’t hear me, or he won’t listen. He steps forward, entranced by what he sees. Damned fool. He looks so young when he’s mystified, like the boy he was when I first knew him. He trails his fingers through the tendrils of vapor leaking from the other side.

  “I can feel it,” he calls, ecstasy lacing his voice.

  The air ruptures, and a gaping vortex of midnight opens in the bright blue summer sky. Screaming voices, banshee wails, insane gibberish come pouring out into our world. Charles screams. I scream.

  “Run!” I shout. William takes two steps back to the safety of his post, but it’s too late. His feet lift off the deck, and he hangs suspended in the air, tethered only by his rope. He shrieks, legs flailing behind him like a doll’s.

  The vortex has reached the limit of the runes. Fissures are appearing in the air outside the circle. This other world, this monstrous dimension, is opening into ours.

  No. It’s going to swallow ours.

  The maw is open, hungry. It wants a sacrifice. It wants flesh.

  William hangs there.

  No. Never.

  “Close it!” I shout.

  Charles takes the blade on his stave and cuts his hand, flinging blood onto the runes. Blood oils the hinge of reality. The tunnel above us retreats a little…then continues ripping apart the sky like a sheet of fabric.

  “It’s too big!” Charles bellows, the veins of his neck popping.

  I keep a tight grip on my rope, and even then my feet start lifting off the ground. Muttering a few spells to weigh down the soles of my shoes, I inch my way to my friend. His hand slips from mine once, twice, and I’ve almost got him….

  Charles lunges forward, slashing with his stave. He’s too far away. He’s…he’s trying to cut William’s rope.

  “We can’t!” I scream.

  Charles ignores me and grabs the ax next to him.

  William sees what this is. He pulls desperately, yanking himself down the rope. I can’t. This is impossible. My head is exploding with pain. Grunting, Charles lifts the ax with both hands.

  “Help me!” William cries, whipping and battering about in the wind like a child’s kite. The thought occurs to me to kill him, to put a blade into his heart before…

  I can’t. He looks into my eyes, and his face blurs because I can’t help crying anymore, and I tell him that I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it, I can’t do anything.

  “Howard!” William wails, a sound of pure suffering. “Please!”

  Charles throws the ax with deadly precision and slices the rope. For a brief moment, William is suspended in the air, a perfect illustration of shock. Then he is sucked up into the vortex. His hand reaching for me is the last I see of him before the void swallows him whole with an obscene sucking sound.

  The fissures retreat back into the circle’s frame. The vortex, satisfied with its morsel, withdraws enough for Charles to spatter his blood over the runes. He yells for it to close, and in a flash the cloud disappears.

  The sky is bright and blue, and William is gone.

  No. I crawl to the bloody runes. The gateway has vanished.

  “Call it back!” I touch the wet deck.

  “It won’t work,” Charles says. He appraises the empty sky. “It was the wrong summoning spell.”

  “No.” I reach for the ax to cut my hand, but Charles tackles me.

  “Control yourself, man,” Charles says as he grabs his stave.

  Warding that yellow blade of his, he slashes at the runes, making them unusable. Snatching the rune sheet, he tears it apart and flings the pieces into the water. Even if we wanted to open that gate again, we can’t. I didn’t memorize the runes needed for the circle, and now they’re lost forever.

  “What’s done is done.”
He stretches his arms over his head, as if he’d had a strenuous workout. “Interesting, isn’t it? Such a shame, the world of Ralph Strangewayes some barren hellscape.” He sighs. “Perhaps there are other circles to try. If one fails, another—”

  I can’t listen to his hateful, hideous voice. I run at him, blinded by my tears—I’m going to rip him apart where he stands. He sent William into that darkness. Charles draws up his ward about himself with ease, and I smash into it, biting my lip and tasting warm blood. Charles then takes me by my cravat. The easy expression on his face has vanished. His nostrils flare.

  “Now we’re off to the widow.” Charles’s voice is deadly. “You’ll follow what I do and say. If not, magician, you don’t even want to know what I’ll do.”

  “I don’t care what happens to me,” I spit. “Just so long as everyone knows the truth.”

  “Do you think anyone would believe a magician over me?” He lets me go roughly. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in Lockskill Castle, your hands chopped from your wrists? No? Best to speak when I tell you, then, like a good fellow.”

  He says it as if I were a dog. He walks away and leaves me crying for William as the afternoon sun moves farther into the sky.

  —

  MY HAND DROPPED AWAY FROM THE mirror. I didn’t realize I was falling until Mickelmas caught me about the waist and helped me into a chair. He pressed a cup of water into my hand and helped me drink.

  I’d been inside Mickelmas’s head. I’d seen the world through his eyes, heard his thoughts as if they were my own. And I’d seen my father. Not his painting; not some wistful dream. I’d heard his voice, seen his face as he smiled and laughed. As he screamed. I’d watched through Mickelmas’s eyes as the rope had been cut, as my father had been swallowed into that churning…I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe.

  I shoved the water away, spilling it onto the rug, and slid to my knees. I heaved several times, though nothing came up. My throat was raw. Once I could speak, I said, “You let him die.”

  “For six years, I spent all my money.” Mickelmas sounded deflated and, somehow, horribly relieved. “I traveled the bloody world in search of the correct summoning runes.” He pulled me up by my shoulders, his gaze locking with mine.