The Gateway Trackers Books 1 & 2

by E. E. Holmes

  Rightfully, she ought to have been sweeping up the aisle on her own two feet with sure, and steady steps. Instead, two Caomhnóir pushed her wheelchair slowly toward the front of the room. Carrick floated along behind them; deep concern for his mistress had carved his face into a craggy landscape of worry. Finvarra looked shrunken and feeble, somehow even frailer than when I’d seen her yesterday. She was wearing robes of shimmering gold fabric. A circlet, much more elaborate than the others, clung precariously to what was left of her hair. Beneath that circlet, though, Finvarra held her chin high and a fierce fire burned bright in her eyes. She seemed determined, through sheer force of will, to lay claim to her dignity and her power before the entire assembly, regardless of the state of her health. I felt a totally unexpected surge of pride that she was our High Priestess. In spite of all of our clashes and disagreements, I felt nothing but respect for her in this moment.

  Because that’s the thing about women, isn’t it? You can push us down, and you can bury us, and you can heap the world on top of us, until we must surely crumble to dust. And instead, we turn into diamonds.

  I seemed to be alone in my reaction, however. All around me, gasps and cries of shock rose from the crowd. Evidently, many of the Durupinen had not known Finvarra was ill, or at least did not realize the severity of her condition. Three seats away from me, an older woman had burst into sobs, which she quickly stifled with her hands. She turned and buried her face in the shoulder of the woman beside her, who began to stroke her hair as tears dripped silently down her own face. I stole a glance at Hannah; her bottom lip was trembling.

  Finvarra did not deign to notice any of these reactions from her audience. The Caomhnóir wheeled her into her position at the High Priestess’ throne, but they did not move her into the seat itself; perhaps they thought she would not be able to tolerate being lifted from her wheelchair. Perhaps she simply did not want to suffer the indignity of everyone watching her struggle.

  When Finvarra was in position, she raised her arms and the flute died away on a long, haunting note and went silent. The mutterings and whisperings amongst the assembled Durupinen died away as well.

  Finvarra’s voice, though shot through with a quiver that she could not master, was full of unbridled fierceness, as though she dared everyone in the room, with every word, to deny that she was at anything less than her most powerful.

  “Welcome, my sisters, to the 203rd Airechtas of the Durupinen of the Northern Clans. For over a millennium now, the clans of the Northern Isles have met once every five years in the week leading up to the winter solstice. As we gather together, we look to the future, and recommit ourselves to our sacred duties as the keepers of the Gateways. In many ways, this year is no different; we will make proposals, cast votes, and shape our policies as we have always done. In one important way, however, this Airechtas is, perhaps, the most significant we have ever held.”

  Though utter silence had fallen at the first sound of her voice, the quiet deepened now. My own pulse sped up, sure I knew what she was referring to, and wishing I could sink through the floor and out of sight as she continued to gaze imperiously over us. I felt like every single pair of eyes behind us was now boring into the back of my head like hundreds of tiny drills.

  “For hundreds of years, we have feared the coming of the Isherwood Prophecy. We shaped our policy around its looming threat. Its terrible weight forced our hands again and again as we tried in vain to throw it from us. There has not been a time, in living memory, when we did not live in fear, looking over our shoulders for a whisper, a sign of its approach.”

  A woman standing diagonally in front of us actually turned around to sneak a glimpse of Hannah and me. I turned and met her eyes so fiercely that she whipped her head back around at once, blushing furiously.

  “And now, for the first time, the threat of the Prophecy is gone. We have come face to face with our greatest threat, and we have survived it. Our sisterhood cannot help but be shaped by the absence of the Prophecy now, just as it had always been shaped by its presence,” Finvarra said. The mandate in her voice was clear. “In the immediate aftermath, appropriate measures were taken to investigate every detail and to punish those responsible for the near-destruction of our world. Those measures were devised not only by the Council of the Northern Clans, but also by the International High Council. They were not made lightly, and they will not be questioned further. They will not be made the subject of further debate, or used to drag down the vital work we must do this week.”

  I shifted my footing so that I could see Marion out of the corner of my eye. Her expression was stony, with no hint of her trademark smugness. Her hands, clutching the back of her chair, were white at the knuckles.

  “We will not allow our enemies to divide us even as we try to heal. We will not look back; we will not look to shift blame, to point fingers, to propagate fear and mistrust. That was the way of the past, and it nearly destroyed us. From today, we only look forward. How can we learn and grow from this experience we have had? How can we take the lessons gleaned from it, and apply them to our clans? How do we recommit to our Calling?”

  She looked sternly around the room. Several people shifted and looked at each other, as though unsure if Finvarra was actually expecting someone to answer her. No one spoke up, though, and Finvarra continued. “We will explore this question as we move forward this week. It should be the foundation for all that we work toward. Before you propose a policy change, or an amendment, or contribute any suggestion to the week’s proceedings, you must first be able to answer that question: how does this move us forward?”

  All around the hall, heads were nodding in agreement. Whatever Finvarra lacked in physical strength at the moment, she more than made up for in authority and inspiration as she spoke. Her audience was captive to her, just as it always had been when she was able to stand on her own two feet. In fact, I thought I could sense an even deeper respect now, running like a current through the room.

  “As you have all no doubt noticed, I am not long for this world,” Finvarra said. A ripple of murmuring rose and fell within the crowd. A few Council Members seemed to be attempting to quietly protest the pronouncement. Finvarra was having none of it.

  “Swallow your protests, please. Do not think I seek your reassurance. Who understands the workings of death better than we, with one foot in the living world, and the other planted firmly in the world of the dead. For many years, I denied the inevitable. I delayed my fate, through means I now cannot look upon without sincere regret.”

  Another outbreak of whispers shivered through the room, and I understood why. Finvarra had fended off her illness for several years through a common but morally reprehensible process called Leeching. Through Leeching, a Durupinen siphoned energy from a Crossing spirit and used that energy for herself. Finvarra used it to heal herself, which I suppose was better than the majority of the Council, who were using the spirit energy purely for the purpose of maintaining unearthly youth and beauty. But that practice had come to a screeching halt with the investigation in the aftermath of the Prophecy. The International High Council had sanctioned Finvarra and the others for the Leeching. Some had lost their Council seats or other official positions. Karen had confided that it was only under the condition that Finvarra allow her illness to progress naturally that she had been allowed to stay on as High Priestess. It had seemed so harsh at first—a death sentence. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that all her “sentence” did was put her on equal footing with the rest of us mere mortals.

  Finvarra went on, bursting my bubble of thought. “I am prepared for the journey I surely must take, and soon, but not before I ensure that our sisterhood is on solid footing for the future. I feel it incumbent upon me, as the High Priestess, to set the expectations very clearly as we begin. Petty political stunts will not be tolerated. We were very nearly destroyed a few short years ago. I will not stand by and watch us destroy ourselves, not with ill-conceived sniping and juvenile
grudges. We have critical work to do. We have a Calling to live up to. It is time to decide if we are worthy of it.”

  Women all around me were shifting uncomfortably or bristling with silent resentment, but I wanted to stand up and cheer. Facing one’s own mortality must be a truly terrifying and eye opening experience, but Finvarra wasn’t backing down from it. Hell, she wasn’t even blinking. We’d gotten a glimpse of this new resolve when she’d called us into her office, but now, clinging to her dignity before this assembly, she was truly a force of nature.

  “Trusting that we will choose to honor my words, let us begin. Council Secretary, if you would officially call us to order, please,” Finvarra said, inclining her head graciously toward Siobhán, who was hovering anxiously in the shadows behind the throne. She stepped forward, looking relieved that Finvarra had been able to get through her opening address. She watched as the two Caomhnóir slid Finvarra’s wheel chair away from the podium, and then took her place at the microphone. Celeste came and stood beside her, a sheaf of parchment scrolls and folders in her arms.

  “The assembled clans being present, and the High Priestess having addressed the assembly, I officially call to order the 203rd Airechtas of the Northern Clans. Let the roll be called and recorded in the register.”

  With a great ripple of motion, everyone took their seats, and the session began.

  Eleanora: 27 June 1864

  27 June 1864

  Dearest Little Book,

  It is a sorry state of affairs when the worst havoc being wreaked in your life is not by the many spirits that haunt your every step, but by your own mother. This is the state in which I find myself tonight.

  Surely you must know by now, from my near constant griping, that my perceived value in life is to land firmly under the thumb of some wealthy gentleman, preferably before the venerable age of twenty and whilst wearing a wedding dress. Some of my earliest memories are of my mother correcting me for showing too much intellectual curiosity in public. I remember one occasion in particular when I was about five years old, and I had asked what stars were made of.

  “It is not for a young lady to ask questions,” she would admonish me. “But if a question must be asked, a young lady must nod and smile, and defer to the gentleman’s opinion or explanation at all times.”

  I did not think much of this advice, particularly because my pompous and overbearing elder cousin had chosen that moment to inform me that he personally had created the stars by shooting his archery arrows up into the sky and tearing holes in the darkness. I was not about to nod or smile, or defer to such utter nonsense as that. The ensuing argument between my cousin and me about the validity of his claims left my mother quite vexed with me.

  I have since learned to temper my opinions with demureness and my inquisitiveness with a healthy dose of charm, although I am still not the delicate wallflower my mother would prefer me to be. But never has my patience been more thoroughly tested than at a dinner party this evening when I was paired with Harry Milford.

  I have, of course, known the Milford family for many years. We have hovered around the outskirts of their circles, occasionally brushing elbows in the context of balls or charity work. My mother has lamented, time and again, the fleeting nature of our social connections with the Milfords, as their money and influence would prove incredibly beneficial to our family. I have always praised the infrequency of those same connections, as I have always found Harry Milford to be possessed of both an abundance of confidence and a dearth of intelligence.

  But tonight I found myself thrust into his arms not once, but many times throughout the evening at Lord Huddleston’s ball. First, Harry’s mother made a considerable show of introducing us, though we have been introduced several times before. Then she orchestrated a very long conversation between us, during which I nodded endlessly as Harry regaled me with tales of his hunting exploits. I was expected to attend breathlessly to his description of his new velvet hunting coat, a fully ten minute long endeavor that would have bored a corpse to tears. Then I was alarmed to discover that it was Harry’s intention not only to dance with me, but to claim every dance of the evening and demand my undivided attention between them.

  I found myself seated beside him at dinner, where he proved to have as little interest in gentlemanly table manners as he did in allowing me to express even a single fact about myself. I was constantly aware of both of our mothers’ hawkish attention to our interactions, and had to endure several ill-mannered jokes from Lord Milford about his son’s fine taste in companions. In the end, after Harry had consumed entirely too much wine, I was forced to extricate myself from his increasingly bold liberties by insisting I was not feeling well, but that I sincerely looked forward to seeing him again later this week at Lord Kentwood’s ball. I then practically sprinted for the door.

  It was very clear to me as I rode in the carriage home that some kind of arrangement had been agreed to between the Milford family and my own, or, at the very least, that an arrangement was being discussed. I waited up in the drawing room for my mother to return from the ball, meaning to confront her about it, and was attacked instead.

  “Eleanora, what in the world is wrong with you? Couldn’t you see that Harry Milford was angling for your attentions?”

  “I was not feeling well. I have a headache,” I said shortly, not caring to elaborate.

  “I don’t care if your head were falling off of your shoulders! How dare you jeopardize such a significant social connection! Surely it could not have escaped your notice that Harry would not be parted from you all night! He is to inherit an enormous fortune, and his father’s title to boot! What do you mean, fleeing from him as though the building were on fire?”

  “I do believe the glint and glimmer of that fortune has blinded you to the nature of those attentions, Mother!” I replied when I had recovered sufficiently from being scolded like a naughty child. “Harry Milford may be noble, but he is no gentleman, I assure you.”

  My mother scoffed. “No gentleman, indeed. He is a fine young man and an excellent prospect for you.”

  “A fine young man? He spent half of his time preening and gloating and the other half working his way steadily through a week’s supply of wine!”

  “A man of his stature is bound to gloat. It is not your place to criticize him, Eleanora. He is not the one who needs to seek approval.”

  It was at this point that I think I may have shrieked rather indelicately. “Are you suggesting that I should be working to seek his approval?”

  “Of course, I am!” my mother snapped at me. “If you can secure this match, you will have a title. A title, Eleanora, just think of that! Lady Milford! It will be a crowning achievement for our family.”

  “A crowning achievement? To chain myself to a preening, insolvent braggart for the rest of my life? What possible achievement could I claim besides an astounding disregard for my own happiness?”

  “You are being selfish!” my mother insisted. “Do not think of yourself. Think of your family! Think of your cl—”

  She stopped herself, but it was too late to cover for her error.

  “What does our clan have to do with it?” I asked her. I had to repeat the question several times before she would finally deign to answer it.

  “The Council has determined that your marriage into the Milford family is crucial to the Durupinen’s ability to wield political influence. The match is being arranged with their assistance.”

  I felt quite light-headed, unable to comprehend what she was telling me. “Is this what I am to you? Is my happiness to be sacrificed for political influence?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Eleanora,” my mother scoffed. “No one is being sacrificed. This is a match to which we would have aspired regardless of the Council’s involvement.”

  “You may have aspired to it, but I would have refused!” I cried. “I am not naïve, Mother. I understand that position and money have weight in matters of matrimony, but they cannot be the sole consideratio
ns! You cannot possibly expect me to sacrifice every hope of happiness for the sake of a Durupinen political agenda!”

  “I certainly do expect it,” my mother said bluntly, which left me too stunned to reply. She went on, “With your gift comes responsibility, Eleanora. That responsibility takes precedence, in this instance as in all others. The decision has been made. Make your peace with it.”

  I feel as though the walls of my room are closing in upon me as I write these words. I have always known I would have to choose wisely in matters of love, but I had always taken for granted that love itself would be a factor. What am I to do? Am I honestly to be shackled to a man I despise for the rest of my life? Oh, Little Book, if only there were a Casting I could write upon your pages that would whisk me far away from here, I assure you, I would already be gone.

  Eleanora

  34

  Contagious

  DESPITE HER POWERFUL, passionate opening to the meeting, Finvarra appeared more than happy to turn over the running of the session to Siobhán and Celeste. The Caomhnóir settled her in a less prominent position in the back corner of the platform, where a nurse tucked a blanket around her legs and felt her pulse. Carrick drifted over beside her chair, leaning down to speak quietly to her. Whatever it was he was saying to her, Finvarra waved it off with an impatient flick of her hand. Then she closed her eyes as though overcome with exhaustion, and lay her head back on her headrest. She did not move again for quite some time. Carrick stood guardian over her, looking ready to destroy the first person to disturb her moment of rest.

  The taking of the official attendance seemed to last forever. Each clan name had to be called, the participants had to stand and say their names, which then had to be recorded in a massive, gold-gilded book by hand with a quill. It probably didn’t help matters that Savvy’s Caomhnóir, Bertie, was the Council scribe, and appeared to consider his penmanship a matter of monumental importance. Just behind him, Fiona was looking daggers at him as he recorded each name with painstaking care.