The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  Grimly, Sam nodded.

  “You certain you don’t want me coming with you?” asked Ainsley.

  “I need you to go to my father,” said Oliver. “King Edward has to know what is happening. He has to know about the knife poised at his back. He’s dealt with sorcery before. He’ll know what to do if we fail.”

  “Should you not wait for his assistance?” questioned the captain.

  Oliver shook his head. “I have to do this. I have to. I was always out of place in my family. My brothers have provinces to run. They have wives, families, heirs to the throne. I was always trying to find my calling, whether it be in the bowels of a druid keep or over some far horizon in the tropics. I’m still searching, I think, but I know where I need to look next. I have to do this. It feels right.”

  “Thotham’s prophecy,” murmured Sam. “He foresaw this.”

  “It feels right,” stated Oliver. He turned to Sam. “If it is my uncle we seek, I think I know where he’ll be. Do you think those tattoos will keep you undetectable by the spirits?”

  “I think so,” she said. “If they have no reason to suspect I’m there, the designs will help me avoid notice.”

  “Come on then. I have a plan,” he told her. “First, I need to draw you a map.”

  The two of them scurried into the captain’s cabin.

  Behind them, Ainsley called out, “Bring her down. Prepare to put two over the side. Quickly, now, boys! There’s work to do.”

  The fortress, a single massive block of stone, sat amidst the green hills and surrounding forest like a giant tree stump that some farmer hadn’t bothered to yank from the field. The structure was of the land, as if it always had been, but not a part of the current arrangement. The trees and open fields seemed to have grown around the uncompromising stone instead of the fortress being built amidst the foliage. Beside the forest, a river ran wide and sluggish, so near the coast. On the other side of the slow-moving water was a dusky smear in the sky which marked Southundon.

  From the distance, they could not yet see the tops of the tallest towers in Enhover’s capital city, but Oliver knew they would see them when they got closer. More times than he cared to count, he’d sat in airy rooms in his father’s palace, ignoring some blabbering tutor, staring out over the rooftops and walls to look at the countryside and the old druid’s keep in the distance. That scene, still vivid in his mind after so many years, was his strongest recollection from his studies, the pull, like iron to a lodestone, drawing him from the palace and civilization into the wilderness.

  No one quite knew what to think when William Wellesley had purchased the old keep from a family of peers that was on the decline, but everyone assumed there was some element of sibling rivalry. It was a joke, amongst those close enough to the royal family to speak assuredly, but not so close that they actually knew anything, to say that William wanted a place that adequately reflected his status — within sight of the royal line but not a part of it.

  Oliver wondered if there was some truth to the sibling rivalry speculation. Why else would William pursue the dark path? He was prime minister, the most powerful administrator in the empire. He’d been named a duke as well, though his land holdings were paltry. Still, it was enough to make Lannia an excellent match, but not so much he would be distracted tending to it. King Edward had ensured William’s family would be well provided, which was not always the case with offshoots of the Wellesley line, and William had been given true control over his offices, which was even rarer. What else could a man ask for?

  King Edward Wellesley always thought like that, always a step ahead. He’d placed his brother close. Oliver had assumed because William was a capable manager, but what if there’d been more? Had his father suspected something about William and made efforts to assuage his ego or keep an eye on him? If he’d had suspicions, why hadn’t Edward acted? If anyone had known of William’s secret studies, it would be Edward.

  “Rather grim, isn’t it?” asked Sam, holding a hand above her eyes to block the afternoon sun, staring at the keep in the distance. “For practitioners associated with life spirits, the druids built some pretty imposing buildings.”

  “They did, didn’t they?” muttered Oliver. “I wonder why.”

  “I have no clue,” said Sam. “I thought that would be the kind of thing you would have studied, you know, history of this land before your family’s empire?”

  Oliver shook his head. “There are few written records from the time when the druids held sway in Enhover. It was a century or more before the rise of the Wellesleys. That much is known. It’s clear from these structures that they must have run some sort of government, but it’s not known why the druids fell. By the time scholars began keeping track, the druids were no more than roaming vagabonds.”

  “All empires fall,” remarked Sam.

  “So they do,” agreed Oliver.

  He started hiking again. They knew where they were going and there was no reason to delay. William would know they were coming, and any time they granted him was time likely time spent preparing a defense.

  Sorcery was an art of preparation, and they were planning on assaulting a powerful sorcerer within his own keep. It was foolish when thought about so plainly, but the alternatives were even worse. If they left William to his own devices, they could only guess at what he had in store. Would he sacrifice the city of Middlebury as Raffles had said? Would he do something even more vile? They had no way to knowing, but they knew he would not merely sit on his hands and wait. They’d killed his two counterparts, and that begged a response. Oliver was certain William would give one. The man wasn’t in the line of succession, but he was a Wellesley.

  If they ran to King Edward for assistance, his father would send the fleet against the old druid stronghold. He would bomb the place into nothing but gravel and dust. Not even a powerful sorcerer could stand against the full might of Enhover’s military, the Coldlands had proved that, but what if William escaped? What if he had some other design? There was only one way to be sure he was defeated, and that meant looking into his eyes as it happened.

  And there was one other reason Oliver wanted to confront his uncle, one reason Ainsley had not guessed at, but as soon as they were on the ground, Sam had.

  “You think he knows something of your mother?” she’d asked.

  In truth, he did not know, but it was a hope, and hope was all he had. Sam had earned his trust, so he’d admitted his own selfish reason for pursuing his uncle in person. She’d simply nodded and gestured for him to lead the way.

  Sam was willing to risk her life to support his desperate gamble for knowledge, but he suspected she may have had her own reasons as well. Whatever her motivation, he was grateful. He knew he had no chance without her. Without the arcane knowledge in Sam’s head, he would be dead before he had a chance to ask his uncle about Lilibet.

  Not speaking, Sam and Oliver marched across the open fields toward the forest that surrounded the ancient druid keep, a forest that was dark and full of brambles, a forest that had sent chills down his spine when he had been younger. Now, he knew there was no lurking danger underneath the looming boughs of the trees. He knew the scattered rocks and undergrowth hid no skulking attackers. He knew the place wasn’t haunted. No, the forest no longer held any of those fears that he’d faced as a child. The forest wasn’t haunted. Not at all. The keep, though… He worried they were about to find darker horrors than his childhood imagination ever could have conjured.

  They had one advantage, though, and he could only hope to the spirits it was enough. As a young man, in the years after his mother passed, he’d spent countless hours running from his tutors, escaping to the environs around Southundon. The forest and the druid keep it enclosed had been his favorite haunt. No history tutor was going to follow an active young boy through those netted branches and into the dark corridors underneath of the trees. It was a place Oliver could escape to, and only his older brothers had the wherewithal to track him down in the wild
expanse.

  After his uncle purchased the keep, William had encouraged Oliver’s exploration of it. He’d been Oliver’s first patron, commissioning rough maps of the sprawling interior. Like roots of a tree stump, the twisting pathways inside seemed to follow no formal logic. Nothing like Oliver’s geometry and engineering tutors would understand. Instead, the pathways followed a deeper schematic, something long lost to current wisdom. He could never explain it, but somehow, Oliver had felt a semblance of order to the chaos inside of the keep. He had mapped those branching paths, explored the depths and the heights. He had stood upon the living rock of the roof of the place and looked across the forest to his father’s city. He’d sat in what he believed to be the ancient throne room, showed his uncle the maps, and taught his uncle what he’d discovered.

  William had been amazed, and Oliver wondered uncomfortably if it had been his uncle’s praise that had set him on a course to a position as the Company’s lead cartographer. Even then, Oliver had displayed a knack for the art. He’d mapped the twisting warrens of the druid keep while others failed to find a path to ascend to the top. Oliver had understood the place, like those strange tunnels were veins in his own arm. He’d felt it, and while he couldn’t put it into words, he’d been able to put it onto paper. His first maps.

  He knew the keep, knew it nearly as well as Southundon across the river. He knew the main entrances as well as the secret passages. He knew, no, he hoped, the knowledge would lead them safely into that old throne room, where he suspected they would find his uncle. Somehow, in his soul, Oliver could feel that was where the man was.

  And it would be his uncle standing in that room. The signs and coincidences had not been obvious before, but now, they were too much to be ignored. William Wellesley, defender of the realm, the man who’d spent years crushing every remnant of the Coldlands people. The man responsible for finding and disposing of the shamans’ sorcerous knowledge. William Wellesley, ascended to near the height of power in Enhover but one impossible step below the peak. William Wellesley, a close companion to both Randolph Raffles and Gabriel Yates. William Wellesley, the owner of an ancient keep that they were being inexorably pulled toward by the furcula. It simply didn’t make sense that anyone else could be the sorcerer they were seeking.

  They made good time through the low hills west of Southundon, and it was sunset when they reached the forest that clustered around the base of the druid keep. Another league through the tangled woods and they’d be there.

  To the east, Southundon had finally appeared, rising from the bank of the river, obscuring the expansive harbor which had made it such an attractive capital. The city glowed in the evening sun, and Oliver pined to cross the river and find comfort there. His father, his brother John, he yearned for the chance to tell them what was going on and to gain their support, but he knew it was only a dream. This was his fight. That certainty pulsed through his body.

  Prophecy or not, it felt right.

  “It’s just a league farther,” he said to Sam. “Even in the woods, we should arrive at the base of the structure a few turns before midnight. Moving cautiously, we could be to the throne room right as the clock chimes the new day. I’ve got to admit. The timing makes me a little nervous. Approaching a sorcerer at midnight?”

  Sam shook her head. “That’s the perfect time. The change from one day to the other at midnight is a construct of man. I’d expect a true sorcerer to be most powerful during a natural change, like sunset or sunrise. At midnight, we’ll be there at the darkest of night, the smallest moment of change. The pretenders practice then so no one will see them or because they don’t understand. I know it’s creepy, but it’s for the best.”

  “Onward, then,” he said, gripping the hilt of his broadsword.

  She nodded and untucked a vial of fae light from within her shirt. “Onward.”

  The Priestess XXII

  Ahead of them, she could hear the telltale rattle of a large body moving through winter-dry forest. In the black of night, underneath the skeletal, bare branches of the towering trees around them, the small noises were like firecrackers. The wind blew into their faces, still carrying the heavy scent of the sea. She guessed it was the only reason that whatever was out there had not yet caught their scent.

  She glanced back at Duke. In the pale light that suffused through the branches, she saw him scowling. They’d planned to approach stealthily, to slip into the bowels of the keep unnoticed. A violent confrontation with whatever was in the forest may ruin that chance.

  The prime minister likely knew they were coming or at least suspected that they would. That didn’t mean they wanted to let him know they were coming right then. It was a big difference, him being on his toes and listening for them versus him waiting with a blade in hand.

  She wondered if it wasn’t best for them to turn around. They could still slip away undetected before it was too late, take their time, and come up with a better plan. Perhaps they could lurk in King Edward’s corridors, waiting for the prime minister to show up to work? A quick knife to the back and they’d be done.

  Except, what if he didn’t return to his duties at prime minister? What if he went to Middlebury instead and began the ritual to bind the dark trinity? What if tens of thousands of people died because they were too scared to confront a sorcerer in his own nest? What if the ritual worked, and he gained control of one of the oldest and most powerful entities in the underworld?

  She shuddered at the thought. They couldn’t wait. They had to strike now. Of course, that still left the problem of whatever was moving around in the forest. The time to strike was now, but for the last quarter hour, they’d been still, listening and waiting.

  A low huffing made her twitch. Then, in the quiet, she heard the creature inhale, drawing a long breath. Had it finally caught their scent?

  She glanced back at Duke, and he voiced, “Wolfmalkin.”

  Grimly, she nodded back. Physical, large, able to operate independently, and hunting by scent. It made sense. They knew the cabal of sorcerers had the capability to call upon the things, though she still hadn’t figured out how they did it.

  Sam nearly jumped when Duke’s hand rested on her arm. He reached down and gripped the basket hilt of his broadsword, raising an eyebrow at her.

  She nodded. If it was a wolfmalkin, they would have no chance of slinking away. It would could hear them moving through the forest, and the creature would have little trouble tracking them by sound or by their scent once it was on their trail. She tapped Duke’s arm and pointed to the right, then touched her own chest and pointed left. They would come on either side of it.

  She did not risk whispering to him, and she did not explain she thought it likely one of them would draw the creature’s attention and then the other could attack while it was distracted. He would either figure it out or he wouldn’t.

  As he began to stalk away, barely catching himself before tripping over a fallen log, she guessed he was the one who was going to draw the wolfmalkin’s attention. Silently, she crept the opposite direction, her feet falling silently on the forest floor.

  For a moment, she recalled her lessons with Thotham, sneaking through the woods around the farm they had lived on, but she forced herself back into the now. Her mentor would have switched the younger version of herself had he seen her so distracted.

  Ahead of them, the wolfmalkin had gone silent. She tried to move quicker, getting herself in position to charge its back when it went after Duke. Hopefully, the man would survive long enough on his own for her to get there.

  Keeping her daggers in the sheaths for now, she ghosted through the trees, her feet finding solid ground to move across, her shoulders ducking and dipping as she maneuvered around low-hanging branches. Then, there was a crash, and a large body started moving rapidly.

  Sam darted ahead, trusting the wolfmalkin’s own noise to cover her footfalls. She barely dodged a wrist-thick branch that hung at chest height, almost invisible in the dappled light of the
moon bleeding through the bare canopy. She ducked under it on the run, and when she rose, she caught sight of the tall frame of her quarry. It was a wolfmalkin, as she’d guessed, and it was now smashing through underbrush with no care of stealth.

  She sped up but quickly slowed when a dark form sprang from atop a boulder. Steel gleamed in the moonlight, and Duke swept his blade down into the neck of the charging beast. The wolfmalkin whimpered as the sharp edge of the broadsword caught it, biting down to the bone.

  Duke crashed heavily onto the ground, rolling across twigs and leaves before leaping back onto his feet. The wolfmalkin had already collapsed and was stone dead by the time she arrived.

  “Nice work,” she whispered.

  “I threw a rock to distract it,” he explained. “I figured if it went after the sound, I could come at it from behind.”

  She coughed, rubbing the back of her neck. “That’s smart.”

  Duke glanced around. “I think we need to—”

  “Grimalkin,” she cried, jerking the nobleman off his feet and out of the way of the silent, pouncing, sleek black cat.

  Stumbling, Duke fell to the side, and the giant feline landed lightly where he’d been standing.

  Cursing, Sam jumped away as a paw swept at her face, claws the length of her hand extended, nearly raking her eyes out. Her two sinuous kris daggers held in her hands, she was so focused on the animal in front of her she nearly didn’t hear the one coming from behind. Only a hiss in the air as it lunged gave warning.

  She ducked. Instead of catching the back of her neck with its open jaw, the second big cat pounded into her, silken fur, heavy muscle, and bone impacting the back of her head and shoulders. Sam sprawled forward, her fists landing on the soil, daggers still in hand. She pitched away, rolling over her shoulder, across the forest floor, a disturbance in the air the only sign she’d narrowly avoided a second clawed paw.