The Last Spellbound House: A Steampunk Dark Fantasy Thriller

by Samuel Simons

  The book wished for more, but there was almost nothing left of the wind. The faltering breeze needed a rest to gather its strength before it could be set to work one final time.

  Perhaps, the book hoped, the ones who had brought the wind with them would come soon. A living being could read so much more than a captive puff of air, and perhaps even comprehend the words upon the page if its language was yet spoken in the world. Oh, would that not be delicious?

  Patience, the book decided, must be its choice: and so it chose patience freely, as though there were any other option left to it. The lonely tome had to pretend it had a choice, because to admit its own powerlessness was too painful.

  How else could it keep its dignity?

  The three Relic-seekers led the way through the corridors of the manse’s Place Aside, with Vino out front wearing his circlet Relic to scan for invisible dangers. Pyke followed along, his thoughts turning ever-more-convoluted circles in his head as he racked his brain for ideas on how to free himself from his servitude to the Fae sisters. He had come up with nothing reasonable, and even the least outlandish of his plans relied on these Fae possessing very specific weaknesses which were likely only storybook material: cold iron; or guessing their true names; or challenging them to a game of riddles.

  He had also tried thinking of himself as Gedreos and not as Pyke, but the moment he’d considered the option he had developed a severe headache, as though thin, sharp blades were being inserted slowly into his temples. That had been enough for him to decide he didn’t want to test the patience of his new mistresses.

  Pyke’s headache was only now beginning to subside. He resumed scanning his surroundings, his natural curiosity about the magics and strangenesses of this Place Aside beginning to resurge despite his apparently irremediable situation.

  The hallways were still lined with full, lit candelabra. Thick red-and-brown carpets continued to run down the centre of the floors. Every fifteen metres, pairs of doors were set into each side of the hall. Some lay open, yielding glimpses of orderly studies with bare desks, richly appointed bedrooms, and small office-like rooms dedicated to books.

  To Pyke’s disappointment, though, the Relic-seekers weren’t stopping to investigate any of these side rooms. He could have demanded it, but something gave him the feeling he should use their fear of him sparingly, lest it be overpowered by their anger at being coerced.

  As the group emerged onto the second-storey landing overlooking the entry hall, Eiten unshuttered the lantern and held it up, illuminating the expanse of pristine floorboards and the double doors which hung open. Normally there would have been a cold wind blowing in through those doors, but in this Place Aside, the air was as still and cool outside the manse as it was inside.

  “There ain’t even dust to track the monsters by.” Merana hurried down the steps to the doors and knelt to peer at the ground, as though desperate to prove herself wrong. “Damnable, Ash-cursed place...”

  “No need,” Vino said. “They didn’t linger after we heard the doors open, and they went that way.” He indicated the corridor leading out of the room in the opposite direction from the dining hall.

  “How d’you figure—” Merana began to demand, but fell silent as Vino reached up to the Relic on his forehead and did something which caused a green veil to fall over the sight of all present. Now, Pyke saw a faintly luminous trail leading through the main doors and into the hallway, like a wake of lazily drifting fireflies. The brightness was fading gradually with each passing second.

  Pyke took this opportunity to pick up his knife from where it had landed on the floor of the entry hall after Raine had sent it flying out of his hands. Out of curiosity, he looked down at himself through the emerald-tinted sight granted by Vino’s Relic. No glow appeared until he subtly shifted his cloak to see the edge of the Relic clipped to the inside of his belt: there was a faint sheen to the object, like starlight reflecting from a mirror… but no brightness, for the Relic held no Res of its own.

  “What now?” asked Eiten, looking to Pyke.

  The green veil vanished from Pyke’s vision, and he let his cloak settle back into place. “We could see if those two are willing to help us,” he suggested.

  “By the Ashen hells, no,” Vino said firmly. “I refuse to get any closer than we’ve already been to anything trailing that much magic.”

  Pyke’s eyebrows rose at this uncharacteristic show of resolve from the normally submissive Risker. “Why?”

  Vino gave him a dark look. “You know better than anyone. All magic comes from mortal life force. To be that full of energy, those two fiends have drained hundreds, if not thousands of people of their lives. Based on how bright those trails must have been ten minutes ago when they first passed through here, one of them could power every enchantment in this place for almost a fortnight.”

  A shiver ran down Pyke’s spine as he recalled the sensation of raw power he’d felt from the Seer and the Gigant through the Lock and Key. Just what magics do those two hold? Are they mortals, or yet more Ancients tricking us?

  “C’mon,” Merana said quietly from near the door. “I want my knife back. And keep yer voices down, afore the damn fiends hear us and come back to use all that magic.”

  Pyke hesitated, considering his options. Perhaps there was still something he could do out on the grounds. He stood little chance of freeing himself, for the Fae sisters wouldn’t allow him to pass back through to the real world. But perhaps, if he found some way to motivate these Relic-seekers to intervene and then sent them back, they might cause enough chaos to break the sisters’ hold on him.

  But was it even possible to send the Relic-seekers out of this Place Aside without being able to cross through the veil himself? And if so, was it worth risking his life among the light-automata without the Voice to help him…?

  “Damnit. Ashes curse my luck! Of all the craven, misbegotten...”

  Pyke looked up to see Merana staring out through the doors as she continued to swear under her breath. Past her, a wave of white flame was sweeping across the grounds toward the manse.

  “Oh,” Vino said, walking up to stand a pace or two behind Merana.

  “They’re coming,” Eiten murmured, “But in response to the noise, or to something else?”

  “I ain’t waitin’ to find out,” snapped Merana. “Vino, take us anywhere that ain’t right behind them two fiends.”

  Vino turned and dithered for half a second before leading the way through the double doors on the ground level of the entryway, the ones framed by the stairs: they opened into a corridor which led straight ahead, deeper into the manse. Everybody followed at the quickest pace they could manage as, judging by the sudden din of hundreds of marching feet in the distance, the light-automata resolved into their soldier forms on the grounds behind them.

  The route Vino followed took them down the central corridor, deep into the manse’s centre. As they hurried down the long, broad hallway, tiny white flames appeared in midair, some hovering off to the side but others directly in the group’s way and necessitating some weaving back and forth. The flames were growing steadily larger: the light-soldiers approaching the manse from outside would soon receive reinforcements.

  Vino turned right at a T intersection at the end of the corridor, and brought the other three straight through a familiar archway which led into the large two-storey library room. Pyke began to wonder if he would need to reveal the presence of the hidden passage behind the bookshelves, after all… but the Risker looked around as though getting his bearings, then headed straight for a door set into the wall some distance to the group’s left.

  Like the one in the real world, this door was located in the only gap between the towering shelves. Reaching it, Vino turned the spherical doorknob and swore to himself when his desperate tugs failed to open it.

  Pyke sped up so as to arrive beside the Risker before the others. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ash-cursed door is suppos
ed to be unlocked!”

  “In the other reality, you mean?”

  “Damn, I hadn’t thought of that! Whoever opened this door in the real world never locked it again.”

  “Stand back.”

  Pyke drew the Lock and Key from its pocket in his cloak and pressed it against the door so it encircled the keyhole. Murmuring the command phrase as quietly as he could, he felt the familiar tug of Res expenditure, this time somewhere near his navel. When he pulled his hand away, the bronze ring remained stuck to the door. It changed colour swiftly from bronze-brown to the gold hue of brass, and a simple brass key with two symmetrical teeth materialized in his hand.

  Inserting the key into the door’s lock, he turned it and heard the distinctive click of the mechanism opening. When the key vanished, he opened his hand and caught the Relic as it fell free from the door.

  “Be my guest,” he said, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. His mouth was dry and his stomach was attempting to rebel against its meagre contents: even such a minor use of the Lock and Key meant months of his life had been sucked away, which was always a shock to the body’s system. Pyke wished he had been able to use the power stored in the Serpent’s Tongue to lessen the impact… but he couldn’t risk revealing the Relic’s existence to these uneasy allies, so he was left with only his own Res to spend.

  With nothing but a relieved sigh by way of thanks, Vino wrenched the door open and led the way into a cozy reading room ornamented only with a carpet, three comfortable chairs, and a marble-topped centre table which bore a lit candle in a metal dish: the candle was large and preternaturally bright enough to comfortably illuminate everything. Pyke noted the wax-catcher was unnecessary given that, like those in the candelabra and chandeliers of this place, the candle’s wax refused to melt.

  “Hurry,” hissed Merana, crowding in behind Vino and Pyke. “More of the damn things are spawnin’ like frogs!”

  Sure enough, as Eiten hurried into the room, clusters of tiny, hovering white flames appeared in the library. They were growing more swiftly than the ones in the central corridor. Eiten pulled the door shut and locked it behind him.

  Through the floor, Pyke felt the vibrations of the marching light-automata, and there came creaks overhead from more of the constructs treading on the second-storey walkways. Then, footsteps arrived outside the room. After a long pause, the doorknob rattled. Pyke held his breath.

  The automaton moved on. In unison, the humans let out four sighs of relief.

  “I suggest we wait for things to quiet down before going back out there,” Eiten suggested.

  “If things quiet down,” muttered Merana. “Any guesses on whether those creatures get tired?”

  “Unlikely,” Vino replied, keeping his voice low as well. “They’re the perfect soldiers. I’d guess they don’t need to eat, drink, sleep, or breathe. These defenses were built to deal with threats far more dangerous than four human beings. We’re trapped.”

  No one had anything to say to that. Everyone present watched expectantly for an uncomfortable minute, wondering who would be next to interrupt the silence with an idea or an opinion… but the only sound was the ongoing footsteps of the automata patrolling the library outside their door.

  Merana finally let out a quiet growl of frustration and threw herself down on one of the three plush chairs surrounding the table. She began to untie the laces of her boots.

  “What are you doing?” Vino asked nervously.

  “We’re here till somethin’ happens or somebody decides it’s better to die fightin’ than starve to death.” Merana yanked the boot from one of her feet. “Ahh. That’s better. Been wearin’ these things all night and most o’ the mornin’ now... if there’s still such a thing as mornin’ in this Ash-curst place.”

  “No sense in turning up our noses at the first quiet moment we’ve had since we got here,” Eiten said, heading over to the second of the three chairs as Merana removed her other boot. “If we’re safe here, perhaps we should use this time to do the planning we couldn’t when we were fleeing from the automata and the pair of fiends— that is, the Hoard-Watcher and the Seer.”

  Vino seemed to understand what Eiten meant by ‘planning,’ though Pyke was still in the dark. The Risker perched himself on the edge of the last remaining chair, and placed several books from his pouch on the marble-topped table. Among the books, Pyke recognized his own slim leather-bound journal. The Relic-seekers had been thorough with their search of him.

  Vino set all but one of the books aside. Opening the selected tome, he removed and unfolded what appeared to be an unusually large square of cartographer’s parchment which had been stored between the pages. He spread it out on the table, shifting the candle to the edge to ensure the parchment fit. On the page was a rough diagram of the manse and its grounds, covered in carefully mapped lines which traced smooth arcs beginning and ending in the same two specific regions of the building.

  “This is your project.” Pyke made use of Vino’s distraction to remove his journal from the stack of books and place it back in his own pouch. “The power flows you were mapping.”

  Vino launched into an explanation by way of agreement. “The Essence-field clearly shows two emanation points, one of which is this very library. It was always frustrating how, no matter what storey I was on, the rooms at the source of the fields were completely ordinary. But it makes sense now: the real sources were located in this place, not the real world.”

  Pyke crouched next to the map, staring intently at it. “Let me make sure I understand. This Place Aside isn’t just a prison. The magic source and the Lenses which project the Workings over this place, you think they’re both here.”

  “They must be. I mapped every last corner of this place in the real world, and I knew exactly where the leylines ended. I’d have found them if they were there. If we can get past those automata, we’re on the verge of an unprecedented discovery, mark my words. The three of us were headed for these spots, in the hopes that something there would help us get home, when we found you lying unconscious in a hallway.”

  “Wish we’d left well enough alone,” Merana griped, reaching down to massage her toes.

  Pyke wrinkled his nose. An odour not dissimilar to a midden at noon was rising from the mercenary’s feet.

  “Look, Antiquarian.” Vino leaned in to catch Pyke’s attention. “Whatever you’re here for, it has something to do with these. Whatever’s at the end of these leylines is the only thing to exist here and not there. At this point, I doubt you came here to save us. This is why you aren’t planning to go back to the real world yet: whatever’s hidden in this Place Aside is far too exciting to bother with a rescue mission.”

  Pyke hadn’t had time to pick it apart to that extent, but he had to admit the Risker’s logic was sound. The Fae sisters had sent him here for a purpose. He cast his eyes over the diagram one more time: could that purpose lie at the end of one of these two collections of arcs?

  “I have a question about something you said earlier,” Pyke murmured, partly to buy himself time to think, and partly because it had been bothering him. “You said you think this place breaks the rules of magic. Which rules were you referring to?”

  Vino’s expression lit up. “Just one. The first law: that the true source of all magical power, of all Essence, is mortal life force.”

  A stillness came over Pyke. The smallest meaningful unit of magical power is one mortal life. With unnerving accuracy, Vino had echoed a phrase used often by the Fae and the Dead, one which had the lilt of poetry to it in Old Ancient.

  Turas val Res rashei situmasaiti reshes reshai atii eshet. Every Antiquarian learned the verse as a cautionary lesson… and every one took care to keep it secret. It was a harsh reminder of the tyranny magic-wielders were capable of. The public didn’t need more reasons to fear and mistrust the Antiquities Guild.

  To cover his discomfort, Pyke returned to the matter at hand. “How is inefficient design enough
to conclude a law of reality is being bent?”

  Vino stood and began pacing. “Although I still don’t know why the master of the Last Spellbound House chose an inefficient channel for its magic, that question put me on the trail of the truth. Those light-automata, the trap which pulled us here, those ever-burning candles… they all cost power. Think about it: every last one of them has been running for at least a hundred cycles of the seasons, likely more. I ask you, Antiquarian: how?”

  A shiver of disquiet ran down Pyke’s spine. “There must have once been a vast storehouse of power here. There may still be.”

  “Or,” Vino said triumphantly, “There might be a truly eternal source. I don’t think this place was designed to last a long time. It was designed to last forever.”

  Pyke raised his hands in a placating gesture intended to mean, Slow down. “That’s quite a leap of logic. You must have some proof.”

  “The automata. Look how carefully designed they were to function for long periods of time without adjustment. Have you ever encountered a Relic or Lens which didn’t need maintenance after just a decade, much less a hundred cycles?”

  Pyke had to admit he hadn’t. But he wasn’t about to consider a theory supported by evidence until he’d looked at all the available facts. “The light-automaton Working could simply be designed to be robust. The Dead Lords wouldn’t have wanted to be constantly maintaining their magics.”

  “They had servants for that. Inuring a Lens against degradation was costly and imperfect. They didn’t mind committing their fiend-servitors to tasks like correcting Essence-drift.”

  “Essence-drift?”

  Vino launched into a jargon-heavy explanation. Most of it confirmed what Pyke knew: objects designed to transform Essence into Workings, whether they were a handheld Relic or a Lens, degraded over time unless maintained. The theory seemed sound, but Pyke made a mental note to check the information with his Voice when, or if, it returned.