Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “But the pain is sweet, Mr. Merrick,” she answered demurely. “It reminds me of other Christmases. Although this is the final work I ever played for my father, it is also one he often requested. It’s only right that I should play it now, before my dearest friends. And I do so in his honour.”

  “Perhaps, you should wait until your husband returns, Duchess,” suggested Blinkmire, sensing a dark mood in the atmosphere. The sensitive giant worried about his hostess, wanting only to protect her.

  “No, I’ll play it now. It might be that my father’s strength will pass into us all as I play. Many of you knew him, but others have only seen portraits. Connor Stuart was a man of great stature. Not as tall as our good Mr. Blinkmire, of course, but taller than most. Six foot five and a wee smidge, as he used to say. Isn’t that right, Grandpa?” she asked Duke James.

  “Aye, lassie. So he did. I’m glad to hear you play it again, Princess. Show off your pretty talent and remind us all of a great, great man.”

  A blanket of silence enveloped the room as all awaited the introductory chords of the mournful first movement. Elbert Stanley, Stephen Blinkmire, Joseph Merrick, Edmund and Emily Reid, Malcolm Risling, Dickie and Dolly Patterson-Smythe, Victoria Stuart, Adele Stuart, Duke James, Baxter and Esther Alcorn. All sat on the edges of their chairs.

  As Elizabeth’s fingers touched the keys; upstairs, a man lay in torment, recalling events so horrifying that his mind had tried to discard them forever.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Belgravia, London

  “Where is she?” Wychwright bellowed. “I insist you bring her out to me at once!”

  Edgar Alden had served the Earl of Cartringham as batman three years in North Africa and twenty years as butler. As a former soldier, he knew William Wychwright’s type well. The army captain (soon to be retired) stood toe to toe with the slightly shorter butler, screaming as though only ever-increasing decibels held the power to convey information.

  “Do you hear me?” he shouted into Alden’s left ear.

  “I hear you quite well, my lord, but I must repeat my earlier and constant answer. Lady Cordelia is not here, nor has she been here since the wake, sir. Lord and Lady Cartringham left two hours ago for his lordship’s cousin’s home in Oxford. I shall pass along your best wishes when they return.”

  Sir Richard Treversham tapped his friend on the shoulder. “Leave it, Will. Alden’s loyal to Basil. He’ll never talk. Let’s get back to the coach. It’s freezing out here!”

  Wychwright grudgingly turned to go, but threw one last threat as he departed. “If you’re lying, I’ll have your job, Alden!”

  The butler shut the door, imagining how very nice it would be if the vile young baron actually did ‘have his job’, and how satisfying it might be to see him reduced to the rank of a servant.

  Meanwhile, in the coach’s slightly warmer interior, a dark-haired companion greeted the baron with a smooth and easy smile. “I take it your sister isn’t here?”

  The baron and his greedy friend slouched into the seat, opposite the smiling man. “Complete waste of time!” shouted William. “Why did the foolish girl run, that’s what I want to know. She could have had an easy life by marrying Richard. Really, why a woman can’t simply enjoy the act and have done is beyond me. She’ll make a very poor wife, if she thinks the marriage bed is all flowers and hearts.”

  Saraqael (wearing the guise of his favourite Romanian ‘pattern’) offered consolation. “Yes, it is difficult to comprehend the female mind, isn’t it? Richard is handsome, in a feminine sort of way—and I mean that as a compliment, my friend. Truly, I do. Women don’t want overly masculine bears, do they? They want a man of refinement with gentility and charm. You speak of hearts and flowers, but Cordelia failed to see the soft rose beneath your prickly thorn. But don’t give up, my dashing friend. Just because she found your initial approach somewhat repulsive, doesn’t mean she won’t come round eventually.”

  “Repulsive!” shouted Treversham. “How dare you!”

  “Now, now, Richie, old boy,” soothed the fallen elohim. “It’s not your appearance, but your approach that repels. Now, there are some women who prefer a strong hand, but not Will’s pretty sister. She wants to be wooed. A sensitive nature such as hers requires finesse. Wendaway had the right idea. He’d very nearly charmed the lady, but then his own plot with the mother sent it all crashing down. I rather think the dowager baroness is becoming a hindrance, don’t you, Will? The police will eventually discover Sir Albert’s hiding place and arrest him for rape and possibly murder. And it’s a short hop from him to you.”

  The baron shook his head adamantly. “It’ll never happen. Even if Reid did find him, Albert would never go to trial, because we shan’t allow Cordelia to testify. She’s still under my authority.”

  Saraqael grinned, his light eyes flashing as though he kept a secret. “So you say. However, if you want to get your hands on her money, then you’ll need to act quickly. I noticed Aubrey paying a great deal of attention to your sister at that wake last week. I wonder, why do you call it a wake? Do you expect the dead to rise up and walk?”

  “Of course, not,” muttered the baron.

  Treversham was still recovering from being called ‘repulsive’, but this odd comment caught his ear. “Don’t you have funeral customs in Romania, Prince Aleksandr?”

  “We have many customs for the dead in my country. I grew up in the Carpathians as you know; a mountainous region with sharp slopes that defy the foot of man, fit only for goats and ghosts. The dead do not remain so in my country. They wander amongst those impossible crags and crevasses, searching for their lost lives. To assure a man is truly dead, you must cut off his head and stuff garlic into the mouth.”

  Treversham laughed nervously. “Cut off his head? That’s ridiculous!”

  “It may sound so to English ears, but all such rituals have roots in truth, my pretty friend. There is an old song, which is sometimes sung by the women of our village...”

  “Village? I thought you lived in a castle,” William interrupted.

  “Once I did, but the Russian invasion of our beautiful mountains has made refugees of even the richest prince. Many of the villagers now live under the lash of our invaders, but I shall conquer it again. Time is my friend.”

  “And this song? Is it a ritual?”

  Saraqael, in the guise of Prince Aleksandr Koshmar, offered an unsettlingly sardonic smile. “A beautiful word is that. Ritual. And yes, the song is ancient. It is not original to the Wallachian people, but harkens back to a time when Striga, the father of all skin-changers, roamed the mountains of my homeland. By day, he lived as an exceedingly beautiful and charismatic man; taller than all his brethren, with skin of such iridescent paleness that even the snows were jealous. His eyes shone like fiery drops of ice, and his full mouth pulsed with ruby blood. The wavy locks of his raven hair flowed along his muscled back and shoulders like a rippling waterfall, and his sexual prowess had no equal. All women fell at his feet, pleading for him to take them—right then and there! This song is about him. The translation from Romanian to English is imprecise and fails to rhyme, but the gist—as you British say—is this. The song recalls Striga’s power over women; one in particular. A rare beauty named Princess Trandafir. It means ‘Rose’ in our language.

  “This enchanting creature loved to dance in the woods, and all the woodland animals danced with her. Striga saw her there and fell in love, but she refused him. Day after day, he pursued her, but each time the princess rebuffed his advances. One night, Trandafir decided to dance in the moonlight. The pale orb was round and bright, illuminating the voluptuous dancer. As it happened, that same night, Striga was roaming the fields and forests in the skin of a great wolf, just one of his many nocturnal forms; and he saw her there amongst the sycamore trees.

  “His desire for her overwhelmed all reason, and he fell upon her with a mad fury
! Come the dawn, she lay upon the forest floor, dying. Changed back into his human self, Striga wept bitter tears over her torn body, but he could not allow her to die. To keep her alive, Striga offered some of his own blood, granting her immortality. Thus, Trandafir became a skin-changer, an eternally beautiful woman beneath the sun, but a voracious animal by moonlight. To this very day, when a man or woman dies a violent death, the head must be removed to make sure Striga and Trandafir do not steal them; for both are jealous of humans and desire company. It is said that they wish to build an army of skin-changers. With such a bloodthirsty multitude, no country would be safe. The world of ordinary men would soon fall.”

  The two humans stared at the Romanian. Though the tale sounded impossible, something in the prince’s manner, in his eyes and the sound of his voice, added an uncomfortable measure of credibility.

  “Surely, that’s a fable,” William laughed.

  “Not at all. It is practised yet today. Some say that those who die violently—no matter the country, no matter the race—their bodies may be snatched away from the grieving families and conscripted into this undead army. The theft can happen in the smallest of seconds! The day is coming when the dead will rise once more, my friend,” he added, leaning forward to stare into their eyes. “You may rely upon it.”

  The two men shuddered, and Saraqael/Koshmar laughed, clearly pleased with the effect of his tale. “But men such as you have no fear of the undead, do you? I sense a shimmering of specialty in your bones. A taste of blood royale,” he insinuated, taking their measure. “You know, William, it’s time I introduce you both to my other friends. It’s time for you to join us.”

  Treversham laughed nervously, his hard eyes blinking. “Join what? The Freemasons?”

  Saraqael laughed, his icy eyes shifting hues. “You have no idea how very funny that comment is! Do not allow the Masons to hoodwink you, my pretty friend, for they are pretenders: a pale imitation of a very old fellowship. If influence and wealth are what you seek, then join us. Ordinarily, we meet Saturdays at the Empress Hotel, but that venue has fallen out of favour. Do you know the building at Wormwood and New Broad?”

  “The big one? Just west of the police station?”

  Again, Sara laughed. “Yes, it is a fitting location. Come there tonight, at midnight.”

  “But it’s Christmas,” objected William.

  “You’ve no plans, I take it?”

  “No, but... Look here, just what sort of group is this? You’re not a religious outfit, are you? Prince or not, I have a strong aversion to anything connected to the church. You’re an ignorant fool, Koshmar, if you put any trust in so dated an institution!”

  The false human grew serious, his gloved hands gripping the head of the carved cane. “I should be careful how you address me, Lord Wychwright. Do not tempt fate when success lies before you. The tale of Striga is true, and his blood flows in my veins, which makes me a powerful ally or a vengeful enemy. I can fulfil your every wish, but just as easily, I could crush you like an ant. The choice is yours. Will you join us and live forever or die like any worm?”

  Wychwright felt an odd tingle in his fingers, as though energy coursed through them. Suddenly, he longed to run through woods and streams beneath the silver moon with nothing but blood upon his skin.

  Soon, his wishes would all come true.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Branham Hall

  “Tell me what you see and hear, Seth,” spoke a soft voice. “Where are you?”

  Holloway had a vague notion that the hypnotic voice belonged to someone he knew—a doctor, perhaps?—but it sounded far away, as though spoken from another point in time. “Where am I?” he asked the disembodied speaker. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Henry,” someone answered. “Tell me what you see.”

  Holloway stood in a large, high-ceilinged room hewn from limestone and decorated with bright paint. He recognised it at once. “I’m in the crypt Collinwood keeps calling Richard’s tomb. He really is an idiot sometimes. No Norman tomb would contain hieroglyphs. And King Richard’s body was divided and then interred at Rouen, Châlus, and Fontevraud Abbey. His embalmed heart at the first, entrails at the second, and the rest beside his father, King Henry II.”

  “Ah, I see,” the voice muttered. “Your knowledge of history is quite detailed. You mentioned hieroglyphs. Can you describe them?”

  In his trance-like state, Seth was able to survey the room as though re-living the event. “Some are Egyptian, but others look more like modified cuneiform. I also see proto-Hebrew, early Chinese, and something similar to rock art found in France.”

  “You’re an expert?” asked the voice.

  “I teach this at Cambridge, so I suppose they consider me an expert. Why am I here? Who are you?”

  Henry paused, for he’d conducted this sort of therapy a dozen times before, but had never been challenged by a patient. “You’re there to discover your hidden memories. I’m your doctor, and you’re lying in bed just now. Do you remember that?” Henry looked to Kepelheim and shrugged his shoulders. “Am I doing this wrong?” he whispered to Martin.

  The tailor whispered back, “May I?”

  “Yes, please,” Salperton replied. Then with a normal voice, he informed Holloway of the decision. “Seth, you’re about to hear a different voice. His name is Martin, and he’s quite good at helping people recover lost memories.”

  The dreaming man on the bed said nothing. He still clutched the ticking clock, and Martin used this to begin the new conversation.

  “My dear friend,” he started amiably, “I envy your ability to wander through your own past. Can you feel anything? In your hands, perhaps?”

  The patient’s lips moved slightly, as though considering how to respond. “I feel a rhythmic sensation. Very regular. Is it a clock?”

  “Yes, indeed, it is. Dr. MacAlpin placed it into your hands only moments ago, to anchor you to this place and time. Do not let your thoughts lose that sensation, Dr. Holloway. Now, as you’re a scholar, describe the room to me as you might report it to a fellow researcher. I’m an amateur antiquarian, and I’ve deciphered many hieroglyphs. Walk me through this crypt.”

  Below, in the hall’s music room, Elizabeth had finished the first movement to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, a mournful passage evoking loss and contemplation. The duchess had played the sonata countless times, and thus paid no attention to the music sheets, but shut her eyes, allowing herself to drift backwards in time to her childhood, when her father still lived.

  Every member of the audience sat still as a statue, marvelling at the interpretation and skill. Only those who knew her best, noticed how Beth’s expression altered with the rise and fall of the notes. Baxter began to worry that the queen’s choice was dangerous. His own mind reached back into the past, remembering the last time the duchess had played the sonata in this room: the final Christmas of Connor Stuart’s life.

  The second movement eased the tension, and its lilting allegretto pace allowed Elizabeth’s nimble fingers to dance along the keys as though skipping joyfully. Even her face shone more brightly, and Baxter breathed easily once again.

  One storey up, Seth Holloway was about to make a confession.

  “As I’ve already said, the chamber is transformational. And the bird statue probably represents a gatekeeper figure that guides the applicant to the next level. But I’m not thinking of that.”

  “Why is that, Dr. Holloway? And where are your companions, if I may ask?” Kepelheim probed.

  “Worthy and Pitt must be up ahead, for I no longer hear them. They’ve been singing or quoting from Shakespeare all morning, but it’s gone quiet. Worthy’s been strange since we left the Ghost. I think he’s sweet on the landlord’s daughter. I could be wrong, I suppose. I don’t really know the men well.”

  “They’re not your students?”

  “No.”
>
  Martin shifted in his chair, an odd dread creeping into his flesh. “You said your mind was fixed on something else. Was it the raven statue?”

  “In a way. I’ve been sketching it and copying the inscriptions on its base, chest, and wings. There are hundreds of them, but I’m not sure of the language. It all reminds me of Elizabeth.”

  Charles grew tense, his eyebrow arching in suspicion. “Why Elizabeth?” he asked.

  “Who is that?” Seth enquired, his closed eyelids twitching.

  “A friend,” Kepelheim explained. “Another researcher.”

  “Ah,” Seth answered. “Am I dreaming?”

  “In a way,” Henry told him. “There are four of us here, but you’re perfectly safe. Only your mind has returned to the crypt. Your body lies upon a bed.”

  The young man paused, the flesh over his high cheekbones pulling upwards as though he were smiling; or rather trying to do. “Four of you? Am I being judged?”

  “Not at all. We’re your friends,” Henry assured him. “Why do you mention the duchess?”

  “Because of the raven statue. She told me about it once—in Paris, during one of my visits. Beth used to wander through these tunnels as a girl, and she mentioned seeing a huge statue of a bird. It’s why she grew so angry with me that day. I openly doubted her tale, but now I regret every word, because she was right.”

  His voice revealed deep emotion, and the duke’s three companions all turned to the look at him, for Sinclair’s face also revealed strong emotions.

  Paul Stuart reached for his cousin’s forearm. “Charles, I’ve already told you they had a strong friendship.”

  “I’m not a fool, Paul. They were lovers,” whispered Sinclair.

  Henry worried the entire experiment was at risk, and he tried to return it to the original goal. “Seth, it’s Henry again. What lies beyond the raven’s doorway? Did you go past it?”

  “Yes, but...”

  Everyone waited to hear more, but Holloway said nothing for nearly a full minute. Those sixty seconds passed in agonising torpidity, each tick of the clock sounding like a death knell.