The Goblets Immortal

by Beth Overmyer

  The man tugged at his salt-and-pepper beard and nodded as Dewhurst spoke. “That very well could be, milord. Excellent deduction.”

  This wouldn’t do. Aidan needed to hear what they were saying and what they intended to do. Still keeping his eyes off Slaíne – he knew that one look at her could ruin his focus – Aidan tried inching closer to where the men were talking.

  The adviser said something about ‘maps’ and ‘interrogate’. Dewhurst cleared his throat and countered with something that sounded like, “She can’t know,” and shuddered.

  Aidan moved closer still, mindful of Pulls and appearances. No one was paying him much mind, which was a relief and at the same time suspicious; perhaps they did not view him as a threat.

  As if in response to Aidan’s unspoken thoughts, Dewhurst looked right at him and smirked. His advisers left the room with a look at their master, and Aidan was left alone with Dewhurst and two of the guards.

  “Let’s not play these games, Ingledark.” He snapped his fingers, and one of his guards brought over a stool, which he flopped down on with an ominous groan. “You took something of mine which is valuable beyond measure, and I would like it back. If you don’t give it back, well, there’s no saying what I will do to your traveling companion.” He laughed at the last two words, as if to imply there was something more to her than that.

  Aidan affected a bored expression. “Not one for originality, as always.”

  Dewhurst snorted. “We checked your person, and you’re obviously not carrying the household’s treasury of papers and oilskins. You sent them away. Bring them back. Now.” Dewhurst drew an iron dagger from the sheath at his ankle and handed it to one of the guards.

  The guard gave his master a confused look for a moment, but realization dawned on him as Dewhurst gestured to Slaíne’s prone form. She looked so helpless and pale lying there. They could do anything to her, and he would be powerless to stop them…unless he played his cards very carefully.

  “Enough with the dramatics, Dewhurst. Here are your papers. Now, be a good tyrant and tell your man to stand down.” With a blink, Aidan released all the papers and oilskins that he’d been keeping in Nothingness, being careful not to Summon anything else. He felt the silver sword’s comforting presence in his stores, and it gave him some reassurance that they were not entirely at this man’s mercy.

  Apparently Dewhurst had thought Aidan would need more persuasion than that, as he blinked with surprise and let out a low, “Oh.”

  The man with the iron dagger awaited Dewhurst’s directions, the blade raised.

  Dewhurst snapped his fingers twice, and the man stood down, lowering the weapon. “Well, we’ll see if everything is in order. You, Philip, or whatever it is your mother calls you.”

  “Milord?”

  “Take these papers upstairs and have Rumpolt and Stearns sort through them. Tell them to pay particular attention to the oilskins, and I don’t want to see any forgeries. Everything will need to be checked for accuracy.”

  “Yes, milord.” And with that, the guard began scooping up mounds of paper and dividing them into piles he could carry.

  Dewhurst paid the guard no mind, his attention still on Aidan. Despite having all of his dratted papers back, the man did not seem in the least bit pleased. He glowered at Aidan, and when he spoke, his voice was low and full of venom. “What can you tell me of the Goblets Immortal?”

  Aidan sighed. “I know even less than you, I am certain.”

  Dewhurst thrust up a finger to waylay his excuses. “Nonetheless, Aidan Ingledark, I know your family was part of the Circle. You must be in possession of some knowledge, even if you are unaware of its importance. Think, man. Think!”

  “All I know is third- and fourth-hand information. I was young when my parents died.” He gave Dewhurst a pointed look. “And before their death, I displayed none of my abilities.” Was that saying too much? Perhaps it was, but Dewhurst did not seem to catch that Aidan had to be Jolted. Maybe that’s what needed to happen to anyone who sought to wield a Goblet’s powers. He would use that information for leverage…later. Right now he needed to find a way to get himself out of this mess. The problem was, no immediate ideas were coming to him.

  Dewhurst regarded him with a thoughtful expression, though the frustration was still there, just held back. Sure enough, when he spoke his tone was even. “All right. I’ll let you know what I know, and then you can fill in with whatever I missed.”

  Despite himself, Aidan perked up at this. Perhaps Dewhurst knew more than Aidan did. Perhaps it would be Aidan who learned something to his advantage. Dewhurst did, after all, know about the Circle, and Aidan had only heard that cult mentioned recently.

  “There are six Goblets, each with different powers.” He began ticking them off on his fingers. “Warring, Summoning, Drifting, Seeing, Questing, and Enduring. Each Goblet bestows its powers upon he who drinks from it. Am I right so far?”

  Aidan nodded, though it was a lie. He had drunk from the Warring Goblet, and he certainly did not possess any new abilities. Slaíne had told him that the Goblet’s powers only lasted until the drinker’s body expelled whatever it had imbibed from the vessel. The only lasting way to have powers, it would seem, was to have absorbed a Goblet’s contents when forming in the womb. Aidan stopped Dewhurst to ask a question of his own. “What was the Circle’s purpose?” Though he was fairly certain, from his vision and from what Larkin had said, that he knew.

  Dewhurst frowned at being interrupted, but he answered anyway. “Well, we can be civil, now can’t we?” He paused, as if hesitant to give Aidan anything he wanted. At length he spoke again. “To find the Goblets and unite them…or, so my source tells me.”

  Aidan guessed but did not voice that Larkin had been the so-called source.

  “There were mostly women in the Circle. Goodness knows why.”

  That made Aidan’s stomach churn. So, he was right. The Circle had been a mere cult to breed Blest children. Aidan remembered what his mother had said in one of his visions, for now he was certain it had been of her: Lady Ingledark had spoken to her brother, Aidan’s uncle, of escaping. That answered the question of whether or not she was a willing participant. What of Aidan’s father, then? They’d been married and happy when Aidan was a boy. Had they escaped the Circle together? “What happened to the Circle?” Aidan asked.

  When Dewhurst spoke, he growled. “What does it matter? It’s done with. Now, it’s your turn to answer my questions. Enough of your cheek.”

  Slaíne still lay motionless on the floor, but her breathing at last began to slow. She let out a tiny moan.

  Dewhurst ignored her. “Six Goblets, united called the Immortal. That can only mean one thing – drink from all six, and you’ll have eternal life.” He gave Aidan a thoughtful look before continuing. “But why don’t the powers stick? I drank your blood and I possessed powers for approximately three hours. There must be something I’m missing.” They sat in silence for a moment, Dewhurst staring into nowhere while Aidan looked for his chance to strike.

  Would it be possible to kill Dewhurst here and now? The guards didn’t seem alert, and Dewhurst himself was leaning forward, right within strangling distance. The thought made Aidan break out in a cold sweat. He’d taken lives before in self-defense, watched the light leave a person’s eyes and felt their Pull slacken and fade to the point where they no longer anchored him. He was almost certain he could Dismiss a corpse. It wouldn’t do to have witnesses. If the guards left, Aidan could strangle the man, Dismiss his body – evidence that could get him hanged – and hope that Dewhurst had the keys to Aidan’s shackles on his belt. There was a definite repulsion around the man’s midsection. Perhaps that is where the keys sat.

  A shudder rippled through Aidan’s body. He had no love for Dewhurst, but the thought of killing a man who hadn’t a fighting chance left Aidan feeling hollow for having considered it. It
wasn’t mercy or pity, he reasoned with himself as the silence wore on. It wasn’t sporting.

  The thought and the moment passed. Aidan caught Slaíne blinking, her eyes distant and unfocused before closing again. No, it would not do to make an escape now, not until he was certain that Slaíne was in any shape to run and that her curse would rebind itself to him.

  “I’ll be frank with you, young man.” Dewhurst’s words startled Aidan and he nearly leaped to his feet. Dewhurst smirked. “My powers are only a shadow of what I’ve observed in you. I need the Summoning Goblet, the sooner the better.” He rose to his feet and took to pacing, treading in Aidan’s pool of sick without realizing it. “Until then, your blood will have to do.”

  Aidan told Dewhurst where he could go, earning a whack to his already sore head.

  “You will teach me how to….” Dewhurst paused, waving his hand around as if he would be able to physically grasp the words he was looking for. “You know, what you do when you make things disappear and reappear.”

  Aidan shrugged. He was not going to help the man out with his vocabulary, even if there was no choice but to help him with the task.

  “Whatever you call it.” Dewhurst’s eyes flashed, and a cruel smile spread across his face, exposing small teeth. “You are not stupid, no matter how much I wish to believe it. You know exactly what will happen if you do not give me your full cooperation.”

  Aidan pushed his luck. “Why do you need the Summoning Goblet?”

  “Hmm? What’s that?”

  “I said why did you single out the Summoning Goblet? You said you wanted all six.” That earned Aidan a kick in the shin.

  “I do not see how that is any of your concern.”

  There was worry there. Something had Dewhurst scared, something that possession of the Summoning Goblet could assuage. But what?

  Aidan resisted the urge to rub the spot where Dewhurst had kicked him, though it smarted something terrible. Instead, he studied the man’s face. Dewhurst did not look worried. His expression and his posture did nothing to betray anxiety. What had Aidan so convinced that this man was in all actuality terrified?

  “My staff will bring down some breakfast shortly,” Dewhurst surprised him by saying. He read the expression on Aidan’s face correctly. “Must keep up your strength. But if you refuse nourishment, well….” He looked sideways at Slaíne. “If you refuse, she doesn’t eat either.” He let out a booming laugh, as if this whole ordeal were quite amusing to him. He snapped his fingers, and his two guards were at his side.

  “Milord?” they chorused.

  He held up a finger, indicating they should wait for his words. He addressed Aidan. “How far?”

  Aidan frowned, wondering what he could mean. Then he realized that Dewhurst was referring to the boundaries of the curse, how far he, Dewhurst, could be from Slaíne before it took hold. So, he wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “No more than ten yards,” Aidan replied, though he believed the distance to be longer.

  Dewhurst considered him for a moment, nodded, then turned to his men. “Carry the girl upstairs after me. Then send Cook to me. I have special instructions.” Without another word to Aidan or anyone, the lord of the manor turned on his heel and sauntered across the dungeon floor and up the wooden stairs, his one guard carrying Slaíne after him.

  The other guard remained for a moment, regarding Aidan with interest. He waited until the footsteps on the stairs had retreated, then reached inside his vest.

  Aidan watched him warily.

  Without a word, the guard handed a small iron box to Aidan, who accepted it with some reluctance. “Open it,” the man mouthed, his expression earnest.

  Aidan did so, and was surprised to see a slip of paper. He looked up at the guard, his mouth starting to form a question, but the man snatched the iron box out of his hands, tucked it back into his pocket, turned heel and left.

  At once Aidan opened the slip of paper and read, “Stay put. Don’t resist.”

  He groaned and crumpled up the paper in his fist. For a brief second, he’d thought he might have an unexpected ally in the manor. Was this another one of Dewhurst’s tricks? Perhaps he had been trying to give Aidan false hope. Just to be on the safe side, Aidan tore up the note and hid the pieces in what appeared to be an ancient chamber pot.

  An hour later, a grumpy woman in a filthy apron carried a tray containing a plate and cup, but no cutlery. She slammed the tray down in front of Aidan and backed away. “You’re lucky you’re gettin’ anything,” she barked.

  Aidan raised his eyebrows at her but said nothing.

  “Don’t you look at me like that. Well, go on. Eat.”

  Aidan did not move.

  With an exasperated sigh, the woman pulled a horsewhip out of her back pocket and came at Aidan. “I’m not ter leave until you’ve et every last crumb.”

  Aidan looked at the plate. There were two pieces of burnt toast, a slab of fatty bacon, and two fried tomatoes. He did not wish to admit it to himself, but food sounded wonderful just now. If he had been unconscious for as long as he thought, then he hadn’t had a substantial meal in over three days.

  Slowly and deliberately, Aidan nibbled away at the toast, all the while watching the cook to see how fast he could get a rise out of her. Perhaps it was not the smartest thing to do.

  The woman, built more like a burly man than anything, brandished the whip more than once, her lips pursed. “Master said you stole important papers.”

  Aidan looked her up and down, then gave the woman a non-committal shrug.

  Her expression soured even more. “Eat faster. Like I haven’t got better things ter be doing than watching thee pick at yourn food.”

  Aidan washed down the rest of the toast with a swig of water, which he first studied for strange Pulls. This sent the woman over the edge. She raised her whip to strike, but Aidan Dismissed it before it could come within in an inch of his face.

  “Thanks for that.”

  Eyes wide and body trembling, the cook all but tripped over herself to get away. “Devil’s work! What are you?”

  Again Aidan shrugged. He finished the rest of the meal, no longer able to hide his hunger, and the woman watched him, her eyes filled with horror.

  The second he drained the remainder of water from the cup, and there was not a speck of food left on the plate, the cook snatched up the tray and fled up the stairs, faster than he’d thought her girth would allow.

  So, not all of the staff knew what Dewhurst was up to. As Aidan searched for something to pick the manacle’s lock with, he wondered if he could use that information to get a few of them on his side.

  * * *

  The next day ran on much like the previous one: long and tedious. Only this time he saw neither Dewhurst nor Slaíne, and the cook was replaced with a confused-looking scullery maid who barely regarded Aidan. Aidan ate burnt toast and a cold sausage, explored Pulls, searched his stash in Nothingness for something that might aid him, and came up with schemes that he immediately gave up because he knew they were futile. If only he could think straight. He’d never felt so powerless and so foggy-headed, and he knew why: iron.

  On the fifth morning of his captivity, Aidan woke up to five men standing over him, the repulsion of iron in their grasps. One man sat on his chest, one sat down on his legs, and the other two bled him. Aidan did not resist as they had apparently feared he would. He couldn’t escape or think clearly enough to Dismiss the blood, so what was the point of fighting them? Once they’d gotten what they wanted, the men cleaned up his arm, bandaged the spot, and left with the iron chalice of crimson.

  Dizzy and lightheaded, Aidan lay there, willing himself not to throw up his breakfast. Two hours later, the scullery maid from the previous day came down with a tray of food: cold cornmeal mush, a fatty hunk of braised beef, and two small carrots. While Aidan ate, he attempted to make casual conversation
with the girl, though she seemed more interested in watching the ceiling than answering his roundabout questions. After he’d finished the food, and drained the cup of water, she took the tray and its contents and made her way up the stairs.

  When she had left, a maid came down and emptied the chamber pot, much to Aidan’s relief; it had been full and sitting there for two days now. She did not even give Aidan a glance, but finished her task as quickly as she could manage. When she returned half an hour later with the pot empty and scrubbed out, Aidan tried a different tack than he had with the scullery maid. “Thank you,” he murmured, but she ignored him still.

  The remainder of the week wore on like this. Every other day, Aidan was bled. Every morning and afternoon and evening, meals were brought and cleared, and he was cleaned up after. It was like being a guest in a very perverted inn, one that charged in pints of blood.

  It was on the morning of the eleventh day that Aidan felt Dewhurst’s Pull overhead. Aidan was still lightheaded from being bled, and was recovering on the stinking mass of blankets. Flies buzzed around his prone, unwashed form, but he did not bat them away. He was growing weaker. Every day he felt it. Not only was he losing blood, he was losing muscle. He was not being fed enough to maintain what body fat and muscle he had, and the iron was certainly not helping. In short, Aidan knew himself to be on a slow, exhausting path to being bled to death. But Dewhurst’s Pull meant something was happening. Maybe he would come down into the dungeon, and that would give Aidan a chance to try one of his most desperate ploys on the man: tell him everything and hope he’d be set free. Even as he considered it, Aidan knew it to be futile.

  As he lay his head back down, shouts were taken up overhead. Slaíne’s Pull returned, and jerked him to an upright sitting position. Dewhurst was livid about something, and Slaíne was shouting something back. There were scuffling sounds overhead, and it sounded like someone had hit the floor with a thud. “Slaíne,” Aidan groaned, shaking his head.

  There were more shouts, and Dewhurst’s Pull headed for the set of stairs leading down into the dungeon, Slaíne’s Pull quick on his heels, flanked by two guards. “He’d just better ruddy well tell me,” Dewhurst was bellowing as he thundered down the stairs.