by A. C. Cobble
The masked man nodded and opened the door.
Oliver rolled his eyes behind the man’s back before walking inside. His skin crawling, he passed his masked and cloaked guide. Each step brought a tremor of apprehension and disbelief. The theatrics seemed so… theatrical, but he had to consider the possibility the masked man was a sorcerer, even if it did seem a bit unlikely in that particular case. Surely a sorcerer wouldn’t be made to guard the door?
Regardless, Marquess Colston and Isisandra Dalyrimple had been true practitioners, and they had been associated with the Feet of Seheht. Anyone at the meeting could be upon the dark path.
He shivered, thinking of the grim horror he’d experienced just weeks before in Derbycross. He couldn’t let the theatrics and play-acting distract him. Any of these people might be dangerous.
But the man at the door made no movement toward Oliver when he passed. He did nothing threatening at all, in fact. He simply closed the door as Oliver crossed the threshold, presumably to wait out in the hall until the next aspirant formed the correct symbol and gained entry.
Briefly, Oliver wondered what would happen if someone arrived at the mansion in the correct attire, passed down that plain stone corridor, and couldn’t make the proscribed hand sign. Would they merely turn the person around, or deal with it in some other way?
He hadn’t thought to ask his cousin Lannia what would happen if her instructions failed, but it didn’t matter. He’d made it inside the Feet of Seheht, the secret society Isisandra Dalyrimple had been a member of, and where maybe she and her mentor Marquess Colston had learned the dark arts they’d utilized deep beneath Derbycross. As Oliver stood before the entrance to a large open ballroom, he forced himself to breathe slow, to still his racing heart.
The room was dimly lit. Shrouded fae light barely illuminated two dozen figures moving slowly about the tile-floored room. All of them were dressed similar to Oliver in flowing black, silk robes and masks that hid everything but their eyes. Scattered throughout the room were tables filled with slender glasses of sparkling Finavian wine. There were cushions and low-slung tables in other sections that held knee-high, glass vases, sprouting twisting, tentacle-like tubes that released slow tendrils of thick, white smoke. He watched as one of the robed figures bent and sucked from a tube and then stood, exhaling a billowing cloud. Syrup of the poppy.
Behind him, the door opened again, and he turned to see another aspirant standing directly behind him, waiting to enter. The person stood there patiently for a moment then grunted and waved at him.
Coughing into a gloved hand, Oliver shuffled out of the way, and the newcomer passed by, surveying the room and then marching to one of the tables and collecting a glass of wine.
Oliver found a strategic location and watched as several more arrivals came in the door, each of them quickly finding their way to the wine tables or clustering around the water pipes. No one spoke, as Lannia had instructed was procedure. Instead, they shuffled about, eyeing each other surreptitiously and, in short time, becoming rather intoxicated.
In the far corners of the room, black-robed shapes gathered, pawing at each other. Lannia had told him that after the ceremonies, it wasn’t unusual for an orgy to begin. At higher ranks within the society, they were part of the practice. He’d asked Sam, and she confirmed that sexual rites were rumored to be used in a variety of sorcerous rituals. They could be used to bind an aspirant to the society, she’d told him, among other things. He’d thought that his attention-seeking cousin had merely been trying to impress him with her wanton youth. It seemed she hadn’t lied, though, and some of the attendees were getting started early.
He steeled himself, thrilled and disgusted by the idea he might witness such deviant behavior. Stand against the wall, pretend you’re one of those who likes to watch, Lannia had advised him, before cheekily adding some other suggestions if the watching grew too wearisome. Sam, straight-faced, had suggested he join in but not complete the act. Do not stand out, leave no material behind, she’d insisted.
Hoping the silk mask hid his curdled grimace, he grabbed a glass of wine, raised it to his lips, and then set it back down. Poppy syrup was not just smoked, and there was no telling what members of a secret sorcerous society may have drugged the wine with.
A gong sounded. It was mere minutes before midnight and the start of the winter solstice. The figures in the room moved slowly toward the far side, though those in the corner took some encouraging, and several robes were adjusted as they walked to join the group. Oliver fell in behind the throng, noting that through the entrance, several more masked people had entered and lined the back wall.
At the far end of the ballroom, a short man was holding a mallet. He stood beside a metal gong that shined brilliantly even in the dim light. The gong was adorned with an upside-down, five-pointed star — the symbol of Seheht. It was set upon a dais beside a waist-high altar that was covered with purple velvet cloths and gleaming silver implements. A dagger, a bowl, and a mirror.
Behind the altar and the gong, a huge, silver star hung upside down against a plain stone wall. Both it and the symbol on the gong were identical to the star on the cover of the black leather-bound book Oliver and Sam had found in Isisandra’s effects. He had no doubt now that the Book of Law, as Sam had called it, had originated from this organization.
Another door opened, and from behind the altar, two figures emerged. They moved slowly, as if they were counting their steps, like players on the stage at the cheaper theatres. Cloaked and hooded like everyone else, these two sported silver, inverted-star emblems that hung around their necks on delicate chains.
One of the figures settled in front of the altar and raised its arms skyward. The gong sounded again, and a woman began to speak, her voice artificially low, echoing around the sparsely furnished stone-and-tile room. “Welcome, aspirants to the Feet of Seheht.”
The voice sounded familiar, and he suspected he’d met the woman at some function or another, but with her forced, low pitch, he couldn’t place her. He let a hand drift up to check that his mask was in place. If he recognized her voice, then she would surely recognize his face if she saw it.
The gong sounded again, and the woman glanced back at the mallet-holder. Oliver caught a barely perceptible shrug. The woman turned to address the crowd. “I, ah, I am the most high priestess of our order. Tonight, I will induct you into— as long as you pass the test of membership, you will be inducted into our order.”
Around him, Oliver felt the crowd shifting uncomfortably. The woman did not strike him as an experienced master of sorcery, real or imagined, and evidently, he wasn’t the only one. The woman’s speech had the hallmarks of the worst type of acting, and as the gong-banger struck again, the woman attempted to awe them by raising her voice and her arms even higher.
“Founded over three hundred years ago, our ranks are steeped in wisdom and knowledge obtained from the greatest sorcerers in Enhover’s history. Those ancient adepts studied at the feet of the spirits known as the dark trinity, and their forbidden knowledge has been passed down for generations, from elder, to priest, to acolyte. We, ah, we follow Seheht—”
“Where is Colston?” barked an annoyed voice in the crowd.
The room fell silent as they all waited on the answer.
“Our membership is a secret,” declared the woman, finally dropping her arms to her side and peering into the crowd, looking for the man who had interrupted her.
“You’re not the elder, are you?” questioned the man, shuffling irritably, making no efforts to hide. “You can try to keep his identity a secret if you like, but the man recruited half of us in this room. We know who he is, and I suspect I’m not alone in wondering where he is.”
“This is not—” began the woman.
“I’m a member of half a dozen societies in Enhover and even Rhensar,” interjected the man from the crowd. “I’ve never been to an induction ceremony without the elder present. Do you even have the rank to initiate us?”
“He is… Our elder is not here tonight,” admitted the woman, twisting her hands together in front of her. “He’s been, ah, not present for some weeks. Our mission continues, though, and the Feet of Seheht will continue to delve the secrets of this world and the next. If the marquess— if the elder does not reappear, we will elect a new elder. In time for our initiation rite we will have new leadership, if necessary. Do not fear. There is no cause for concern.”
Her assurances were cut off by a loud snort from the man in the crowd.
Underneath his mask, Oliver smirked. Evidently, he was the only one in the room who knew Marquees Colston would not be returning to the Feet of Seheht, ever. He was glad that, so far, it seemed none of the minions even realized the man was dead.
Oliver frowned. They didn’t know the man was dead. A suspected group of sorcerers didn’t know that, weeks ago, their leader had passed the barrier to the underworld. These people, purportedly in the business of summoning the spirits of the dead, did not know what had happened to Colston. Oliver’s heart sank. All of the work to follow the one clue that they had, and these fools were just play-acting. A true cabal of sorcerers would know by now that their leader had perished. Oliver was wasting his time.
Frustrated complaints rose from the crowd, and the woman demanded they quiet. Raising her voice to an unceremonious shout, she declared that the aspirant ritual would continue. A man turned to leave, but several cloaked figures had gathered around the back door and they crossed their arms, signaling that despite the complaints, no one would be leaving.
The gong-banger swung his mallet again, and the sonorous vibrations stilled the rustling crowd. There were a few muttered complaints around the man who had spoken out, but the rest of the aspirants quieted. They knew Marquees Colston and may have had some interest in the secrets he promised, but Oliver guessed most had come to the Feet of Seheht for the wine, the poppy syrup, and the orgy.
Oliver looked around, wondering how he could get out of there and salvage the rest of his night. These were not illicit sorcerers plotting to tear down the government of Enhover. These were bored peers and merchants looking for a little excitement. Joining this organization and moving up through the ranks was going to take him years to learn all of their secrets, and he was quickly becoming sure that they had few worth keeping.
The man at the gong banged it with his mallet again.
Shaking his head, Oliver turned, glancing back toward the blocked door and the milling cloaked figures around it, wondering if there was a way he could slip away unnoticed. The woman on the dais had begun speaking again, and this time, the crowd let her continue her farcical performance.
Between her declarations about the wondrous power of Seheht and the zealous gong-banger’s activities, a wave of sound washed over Oliver as he studied the available doors in the room. Just two of them, which was disappointing, and both were blocked by masked and robed figures. Against the walls, he saw plain stone covered with hanging black silk. If the mansion was like most in the neighborhood, one of the walls should have a bank of windows looking out onto the carriage courtyard. Perhaps he could slip out that way, behind the hanging?
He frowned.
Nearly imperceptible, the black silk over the far wall masked a subtle glow. Light from the carriage court, he assumed, but shadows moved through it, as if backlit by the lights. The silk curtain waved, stirred by a wind that didn’t touch the rest of the room. A window left open?
He glanced back toward the way he’d entered and saw one of the cloaked figures at the door fiddling with it. When the figure moved away, Oliver gasped. A dull iron lock hung from the door handle.
His eyes darted back to the silk curtain and he saw it stir again, a shape pressing against it. Supernatural or mundane, he didn’t wait to learn. The exit had been locked, and someone was sneaking in through the window. Whatever it was, he didn’t think it was part of the planned ceremony.
Moving quickly, Oliver stepped to the closest table, one set with long-stemmed wine glasses. He gripped one in his fist, and as the mallet-wielder smacked the gong again, he cracked the glass against the edge of the table, snapping off the cup, leaving him with a spike of broken glass in his fist. A few robed aspirants turned to him curiously, but Oliver ignored them, his gaze darting between the silk curtain and the two doors.
The curtain parted, and a dozen men dressed in simple workman’s garb came pouring into the room. They clutched a variety of tools and implements that wouldn’t be out of place on the streets of Westundon. Their faces were unmasked. Oliver took that as a sign they didn’t intend to leave witnesses to what was about to happen.
Grunting, he sprinted toward the door behind the dais, the only exit that wasn’t locked and wasn’t blocked by a dozen armed men.
Instead of a dozen, he saw it was just one. As he approached, and shouts of surprise rose behind him, the mallet-wielder stepped away from his gong and made to block the door. Beneath his mask, Oliver saw the man’s eyes showed no surprise at the sudden interruption. He’d been ready for this. Whether the man was a member of the Feet of Seheht or part of the group that was attacking the society, Oliver didn’t know. He just knew the man was blocking his one chance at escape.
Shouts of alarm turned to pain and terror behind him. Oliver launched himself at the mallet-wielder, speeding behind the woman who’d been intoning their welcome.
His opponent raised the steel-headed mallet, but Oliver didn’t give him time to draw it back for a swing. He crashed into the man, one arm smacking painfully against the handle of the club, the other whipping up and jabbing the stem of the broken wine glass into the man’s neck.
Startled eyes met Oliver’s as sharp glass punctured the man’s throat.
Oliver shoved him out of the way and cursed vehemently when he saw an iron lock hanging from the door handle. Without pause, he dove after the man he’d just stabbed in neck and snatched the mallet from his hands. The man, kicking and thrashing in the throes of his dying, raised no objection. He was solely focused on gripping his neck, trying to stem the spurts of blood that squirted out of the puncture wound.
Oliver smashed the mallet against the lock, snarling when it didn’t snap from the blow. He swung again and again, battering the mallet against the stubborn iron. Behind him, he could hear shouts and shrieks as the unarmed aspirants of the Feet of Seheht tried to defend themselves against a dozen assassins. Knowing there was no chance against the armed men, Oliver frantically battered the lock.
“What are you doing?” cried the woman who’d led the ritual earlier. She had stepped off the dais and was crouching beside him.
Ignoring her, he swung again. He smiled to himself as the hasp finally broke. He yanked the remains of the lock away and glanced over his shoulder.
The woman who’d claimed to be the high priestess stared at him open-mouthed. The rest of the room was filling with violence and mayhem. Black-clad aspirants were falling before their attackers. A few of them had hefted tables or the glass water pipes and were trying to defend themselves. Oliver could see in an instant that their attackers were practiced and determined. These were men who’d faced combat before, and they operated as a coordinated unit. As he watched, two of them closed on a man gripping one of the tall tables that had held the wine. The aspirant twisted and turned, but his assailants split and surrounded him. He could only swivel helplessly as they closed on him.
Oliver didn’t bother to watch the end. Instead, he opened the door and rushed through, calling over his shoulder to the shocked woman, “Come with me or die.”
Shaking herself, she darted after him.
Oliver slammed the door shut. There was no lock on the other side, though, and no way to secure it. Cursing under his breath, he started off down the hallway and found a well-dressed corridor that wouldn’t have been out of place in his own home. It was richly decorated and shouted the wealth of the owners.
“How do we get out of here?” he demanded, turning to the woman.
>
“What happened in there?” she babbled.
“You were attacked!” he exclaimed. “Can you… can you do something about it?”
She stared at him, eyes blank beneath her mask.
“Can you use sorcery to fight back?” he growled.
“Sorcery… That’s not… It’s not possible in Enhover anymore,” spluttered the woman. “We’re scholars, not—”
Grumbling, Oliver grabbed her wrist and dragged her after him up a flight of stairs. He didn’t know where they led, but anywhere was better than the room behind them. He was certain now that he knew her, but there was no time to wrack his brain and recall how. Now, the only thought was flight. At the top of the stairs, he found a long, dark hallway, and at the end, he spotted a pair of huge, mahogany doors. The front doors to the mansion, he thought. They should lead to the street. He didn’t bother to ask the panic-stricken woman as he was becoming convinced she knew even less about the Feet of Seheht and their chapter house than he did.
“I don’t understand,” complained the woman. “Who were those men? Why did they attack us?”
Ahead of them, Oliver heard glass shattering. He stopped, paralyzed with indecision in the middle of the hallway.
“What is— The library!” screamed the woman.
She jerked her hand from his grasp and charged forward, heading toward an opening beside the doors. A growing orange and red glow shined on her black, silk robes.
Oliver snarled a curse as he heard more shattering glass. Their attackers were not content to merely slay everyone on the bottom floor. They were going to burn the mansion to the ground.
He called after the woman, “We have to get out of here!”
She didn’t respond. She was transfixed, staring into the open room where he assumed the society’s library was quickly going up in flames. Books, manuscripts, the type of knowledge he was seeking, none of it known for its resistance to fire.
Suddenly, he heard the sounds of running boots from the floors above. Attackers or other victims, he didn’t know. There was no time to wait, no time to seek what he’d come to find. Besides, if the woman or her fellows had known real sorcery, they’d be using it now.