by A. C. Cobble
Duke fell to his knees, rocking back and forth.
Sam suspected he’d need comforting soon, but first she’d give him time for understanding to truly sink in. She left him for the moment, eyeing the shades still crowding within the building. She began to walk the grounds of the garden.
It was situated at the back of the palace, placed in the center, overlooking the city and the harbor below. From that garden, the arrival of the Coldlands raiders would have been obvious. For half a day, maybe a day if it was clear, their sails would have been visible. Was that enough time to craft the pattern? Maybe if the city had been able to defend itself, to hold off the attackers for a long enough period. Had Lilibet Wellesley been frantically building her sorcerous construct in the gardens while the battle raged below?
As Sam walked, studying the terrain below, she realized something was not fitting. The harbor, protected by seawalls studded with cannon emplacements, was undamaged. Neither the Coldlands raiders nor Enhover’s bombardment had touched the frost-encrusted jetty that sheltered the anchorage. She could still see frozen brass barrels pointing out to sea, undisturbed after two decades. There was no sign of war, no sign of anything down at the mouth of the harbor. According to the common narrative, the fighting should have been hottest down there. How could the Coldlands overrun Northundon without fighting through those first barricades?
The only news Enhover had of the attack was a report from Glanhow’s fishing fleet that Coldlands longboats were headed directly for the city. Had they beached east or west and attacked on land, avoiding the fortifications around the harbor? If so, wouldn’t the defenders in Northundon have known? Wouldn’t they have sent a transmission along the glae worm filament? Even if it was cut, a messenger by carriage or even on foot?
The city had been surprised. The lack of warning spoke the truth of that part of the story, at least, but how?
The common belief was that the Coldlands raiders had called the spirits which assailed Northundon. Could they have done so from the deck of a moving ship? She’d always imagined the spirits were called when the raiders had made landfall, that their ranks had been swelled by Northundon’s own dead. The pristine harbor below did not tell of battle, though, and she had difficulty imaging how the shamans would conduct such a powerful ritual at sea. Each rocking wave was an opportunity to make an error in the pattern. If they’d made landfall and prepared their designs and rituals there, Northundon would have had plenty of time to alert the rest of Enhover that an attack was underway. It didn’t add up.
The Coldlands had been known to practice small sorceries for centuries. Even in the face of the Church’s rise and her push to eliminate the practice, the Coldlands and their shamans continued their rites. There’d been no reports she’d ever heard, though, of anything like this. From what Thotham had taught her, from what she’d learned on her own, from the stories in countless pubs and taverns, there had never been anything like this. Not in the Coldlands, not anywhere.
Could they have done it? Why would they have done it?
Why did the Coldlands suddenly and unexpectedly attack a single city in the north of Enhover? They must have known that by doing so they’d force a war between the nations, one that even with sorcery on their side, they could not win. Even if Enhover had not vanquished them, the nations that eventually formed the United Territories would have marched north. They would not allow such powerful magics to exist a border away, would they?
It was a risk the elders in the Coldlands would be aware of. They had to know the armies of the world would ally against them after they perpetrated such a heinous act. Why did they do it?
She glanced back at Duke. He was still kneeling, his head in his hands, sobs wracking his body. She walked to him and knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Duke,” she asked, “why did the Coldlands attack Northundon?”
“I… W-What are you talking about?” he stammered, clearly struggling to reconcile the pain of his mother’s disappearance with the unexpected question.
“What did they have to gain from unleashing all of this?” she asked, waving her hand around them. “If they meant to cripple Enhover, then why Northundon? Why not release the shades in Southundon where the bulk of the government and military reside? Had they been successful here, what would they have gained? War with Enhover, surely to be engaged by Rhensar, Ivalla, and Finavia as well? The Coldlands were raiders. They’d never shown acquisitive tendencies or held onto territory. If I recall my history, they were not ruled by a king but by a council of village elders. It was a loose federation rather than a proper nation. Why come together and begin a campaign they must have known they would lose?”
“I-I have no idea,” mumbled Duke. “They’re sorcerers. Maybe…”
“What if they didn’t do it?”
He stared at her, confused.
“What if the Coldlands did not release the spirits that attacked Northundon?” she pressed. “That sorcery is advanced beyond anything they’ve been known to achieve. It’s beyond anything anyone has been known to achieve. Finding a bridge and crossing it with so many souls? It doesn’t seem possible from such a distance or from the deck of a ship. The raid seems to serve no purpose that the Coldlands would benefit from. What if… What if the Coldlands was not attacking but responding to an attack?”
Duke shook his head, speechless.
“Duke, I don’t think they did it,” she declared. “I think someone else unleashed the shades which haunt these ruins. I think someone else made a bargain with the spirits of the underworld, and that bargain has not been completed. Your mother was meant to die here, but she escaped. While she lives, the bargain is not sealed. That is why the spirits continue to haunt this place. Their purpose is not finished.”
“What… What was the bargain?” asked Duke.
She shrugged. “I do not know.”
“But, my mother… Do you think she…”
“I don’t know,” said Sam. She stood, looking at the shades lurking inside the building. After a long moment, she asked, “Who benefited from the destruction of Northundon?”
“No one,” said Duke, standing, brushing his knees off. “No one did.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. “The war with the Coldlands, the push into the United Territories forcing them to be tributes to Enhover, the expansion of the Company’s global reach…”
“The Church’s monopoly on religion,” he snapped.
She shrugged. He wasn’t wrong.
“What are you saying?” he demanded.
“I don’t know who could have done such a terrible thing as to sacrifice this city,” she said, “but I know the Coldlands did not gain from the tragedy. If they were capable of such awful sorcery, why did they set it to this purpose? It was assumed they had no time to prepare a defense when Enhover fought back, but surely, they would have anticipated retaliation? How could they not? If they were so powerful, why do their actions make no sense? If they could simply perform a ritual and destroy a city of this size, how did they lose the war? They didn’t do it, Duke. The more I think about it, the more I am sure the Coldlands did not release the shades against Northundon!”
Frowning at her, he asked, “Then who did?”
She admitted, “I don’t know. I think… I think the shades called us here to show us this. They wanted us to understand that what we think is true is not. What we think happened did not.” She stabbed a finger back toward the glass doorway that overlooked the garden. Surging against the barrier like the sea against a harbor wall, shades clustered and watched them. “They’re not attacking us, Duke, because the Coldlands did not bind them to do so. They were forced to another purpose, one that is not finished. They brought us here so we could understand that, so we could know that there is more to it than some pampered peer leveraging family secrets to gain a little power. There is so much more. Duke, they didn’t bring us here for
answers, they meant to give you questions. We have to keep going. We have to keep asking the questions.”
“I have plenty,” he remarked grimly. “You’re right. The Coldlands did not benefit, but no one else did either. If there are no answers here, then… Wait, no. You don’t mean… That’s crazy!”
“As crazy at venturing into Northundon, the city of the dead?” she questioned.
“We don’t even have… Ah, frozen hell,” he muttered. “Ainsley.”
Sam’s lips formed a humorless smile. “Coming to Northundon was the only thread we had to follow, the only way to find out who is behind all of this. We still have that thread, Duke, but it doesn’t end in this garden. We have to see where it leads.”
Silently, he looked at the terrible apparatus in the center of his mother’s place. He studied the symbols inscribed on the posts, the cords — entrails they could plainly see now — that were strung between the posts, and at the skeletons that had been sacrificed in a terrible, arcane ritual.
“This was your home, once,” she continued. “Twenty years ago, it was destroyed. We all thought sorcery was dead, gone from Enhover, but it’s not. If you have any other idea, tell me, but we both know we cannot quit. Whether this could happen again, whether the perpetrators are even still alive, I don’t know, but I know we cannot quit.”
Rubbing his hand over his hair, touching the leather thong that tied it back, he said, “All right, then. Let’s go to the Coldlands.”
The Director III
“Frozen hell,” muttered the former soldier.
Director Randolph Raffles grimaced, watching Prime Minister William Wellesley’s face contort in barely controlled rage. The man’s neck and cheeks were turning a terrible shade of crimson. His jaw was locked like he might never open it again, and his breaths were coming in quick snorts, like that of a bull preparing to charge. He wouldn’t, though, not here.
The director was no fool. He’d requested they meet in the prime minister’s club so the man would have to contain his rage. At least for a bit. As long as they were in the comfortable alcove off the Hunt Club’s bar area, William wouldn’t risk making a scene and telling Raffles exactly what he thought.
Instead, with torturous restraint, the prime minister asked, “No clue, you said?”
Raffles nodded. “We have no clue where they flew off to, m’lord. The Cloud Wolf was disabled in the volley, and there were no other airships within fifty leagues of Westundon to give chase. It was a cloudy night, both the stars and moon obscured, and once they passed out over the sea, there was no way to track which direction they went. Obviously, they circled either north or south staying out over the water, but we don’t know which way. We don’t know if once they were clear they departed Enhover or found some safe haven above our shores. They couldn’t have planned their escape at a better time, m’lord.”
“You mean, you couldn’t have planned a worse time to attack their airship,” accused William.
“We all agreed, the three of us, just four days ago,” reminded Raffles. “You voiced no objections then. We heard Oliver was on the airship and preparing to depart in the morning, so we sent the shades. What would you have done differently? It’s simple, your nephew outsmarted us, m’lord. All three of us.”
William snatched a glass of whiskey and quaffed it in one gulp. He sat it back down and waved toward the corner of the room where a uniformed attendant was loitering. The two men sat silently while the attendant refilled their drinks. When the attendant departed, Raffles sipped his, waiting for William to speak again.
“Could he have had help?” asked the prime minister.
Raffles could only shrug. “The wolfmalkin in the apothecary, the surprise against our shades as they attempted to ambush the ship… If they do not have help, he and the girl are proving shockingly resilient.”
“The other,” remarked William. “Our fellow traveler on the dark path, what is his plan? Does he think my nephew and the priestess will uncover who we are? Does he plan for them to do his work for him?”
“That’s what I believe,” agreed Raffles. “The other does not know who we are but knows we exist. Like a hunter after a fox, he’s following the braying hounds. Your nephew and the girl are meant to catch our scent and send us running.”
“We’ve cut all ties and obscured all trails that may lead to us, no?” questioned William.
“The boy is more capable than I would have expected,” admitted Raffles, staring down into the dark amber liquid in his glass. “I don’t know of any clues that will tie to you, me, or the churchman, but I wouldn’t have expected him to survive our attacks and vanish so easily, either.”
“He’s no mere spoiled peer.” William sighed heavily and sipped his drink.
“Gabriel left two days ago on one of the Company’s airships for Ivalla,” said Raffles. “He anticipates no problem convincing his colleagues to loan him the use of the Council’s Knives. He’s going to tell them that one of their own betrayed them and is outright practicing sorcery. From what I understand about the way the priestess left Romalla, I imagine they’ll be easily persuaded. The Knives could be in Enhover in a week.”
“A week,” muttered William. “Oliver has an airship and a skilled crew at his disposal. He has financial resources like no one else. He’s more knowledgeable about the terrain around Enhover and the surrounding world than any man living. For years, he’s explored and traveled, facing challenges that required resourcefulness and quick thinking. Prior to that, he was trained by the best tutors the king’s sterling could buy. A week is too long, Randolph.”
“What do you suggest?”
Grimacing, William pounded his fist on his leg. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps it’s time we considered the end of this path,” suggested the director.
“The bridge to the underworld will be strongest during the solstice,” reminded William. “We all agreed that timing will give us the highest probability of success.”
“The summer solstice is five moons away,” retorted Raffles. “Five moons! We cannot wait that long.”
“If we attempt the binding and fail…” murmured William, shaking his head.
“If we do not attempt it and your nephew disrupts our plans, or worse, unmasks us to the other, it will be just as bad of an outcome,” challenged Raffles. “There are steps we can take to ensure the ceremony progresses smoothly.”
“More blood,” said William heavily.
“More blood,” agreed the director. “I do not like it, William, but we’re left with a risk we cannot control. You are right. A week is too long to leave Oliver untethered, but we don’t know where he is or what he is doing! Either we offer a hope to the spirits your nephew foolishly stumbles into our clutches, or we escalate the timeline. The only way we can take this matter back into hand is by fashioning a conduit deep enough into the underworld to reach the dark trinity.”
“How many?” wondered the prime minister, toying with his glass.
“Yates is best suited to handle the calculations, but it will be a lot,” speculated the director. “Glanhow is tied too closely to Northundon. We cannot risk Ca-Mi-He’s taint of that place interfering with our ritual. Eiremouth, Swinpool… there could be difficulties forming the patterns with so much water nearby. We need open space, leagues of it. Derbycross is too small, but Middlebury is not.”
William gaped at him. “Middlebury?”
Raffles met the other man’s eyes. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
“That’s… There are sixty- to seventy-thousand people living in Middlebury, Raffles. Surely you can’t mean…”
“We’ve killed hundreds over the last two decades,” remarked Raffles, “thousands between the three of us. If you consider what you did in the war against the Coldlands and the United Territories, I won’t even bother to speculate.”
“That was different,” insisted William. “This is… this is just murder.”
“Incredible power requires incredible
sacrifice,” murmured Raffles. “Balance, William, in all things. When we aimed for incredible heights, the price was always going to be high.”
“This high?” questioned the prime minster. “The stain of this will never wash off of our souls.”
“No, I expect it will not,” acknowledged the director. “We will have time, though, to try and forget.”
“We will have all time,” said William, nodding solemnly.
“With the strength we’ll have after binding the dark trinity, we’ll be able to control the barrier between our world and the underworld. The three of us need not cross that barrier, William, but others will have to do it in our place. We’ve known this since you uncovered the secrets of the trinity in that frozen forest. We’ve known since you shared your finding with Gabriel and I. We’ve already paid so much, William. There is no turning back. We are already too far down the dark path, and now the only way is forward.”
“There is no other way, is there?” asked William rhetorically, his shoulders slumped. “We cannot turn back, but I wish there was another way.”
“As do I,” agreed Raffles.
He was surprised to realize that he meant it. Twenty years ago, he’d known his soul would be steeped in blood, that the depths they would have to sink to would be unforgivable. He’d decided he was willing to do anything, though, to live forever. It was unfortunate that so many innocents would have to die, and he truly wished it could be another way, but such was the dark path. Such was the wicked way to immortality.
“What do we need to do, then?” asked William.
“We relocate your resources from Southwatch to Middlebury,” advised Raffles. “We need Yates to return from Ivalla and lay out the design. He’s done the research, and he knows the patterns better than us. Without the solstice, the design will have to be perfect. The moment he returns, I’ll discuss it with him. I’m certain he’ll see things the same way we do. How long will it take him to craft the arrangement? A week? During that time, I will assemble the required material—”