Balefire

by Jordan L. Hawk

  As I hung up my hat and coat, Miss Parkhurst stuck her head in through the open door. “Good morning, Dr. Whyborne.”

  “Good morning, er, Miss Parkhurst.” I was never quite certain whether or not to suggest a different level of formality, given the romantic attachment between my secretary and my sister. I didn’t wish anyone at the Ladysmith to imagine our relationship in anyway untoward, so I had avoided use of her familiar name thus far. “Anything of interest in the newspapers today?”

  Miss Parkhurst had spent the past few months combing a wide variety of international newspapers in search of anything which might signal Fideles activities. Unfortunately, it was sometimes difficult to discover whether or not an article truly indicated unnatural happenings, or merely that the writer had an unusually fevered imagination. Had the passengers aboard a steamer—suspiciously unnamed in the article—actually seen a sea monster of some kind, or had a bored reporter invented the story from whole cloth? What about the report of a flying creature snatching away an intoxicated man in Virginia?

  “Nothing, Dr. Whyborne. Or at least, nothing that seems connected to the Restoration.”

  I dropped into my chair. My unanswered correspondence had taken on mountainous proportions, and I shoved away a flare of guilt. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  She straightened, and her golden earrings flashed in the light streaming through my window. Yet another gift from my sister, no doubt. Why on earth Persephone was waiting to propose, I couldn’t imagine. “Of course, Dr. Whyborne.”

  “If you would be so kind as to leave early—with a full day’s pay, naturally—I need to speak with Persephone.” Of course I was perfectly capable of summoning the ketoi myself, but Miss Parkhurst might appreciate the excuse of spending a few hours together in an isolated cove.

  Her face brightened in response. “Oh, yes! That is, I’d love to. Love to help, I mean.” A blush spread across her cheeks, and I felt my own ears turn hot. “What do you need to speak to her about?”

  “The Endicotts have returned.”

  “I see.” Her expression turned sour. She’d had fewer interactions with my cousins than the rest of us, but she’d been there when Hattie threatened to cut my throat and Persephone’s.

  “Indeed.” I rubbed at my eyes. “And of course nothing is ever simple with them. They have a favor to ask of the ketoi.”

  “Oh dear. Persephone won’t be pleased to hear that.”

  “I can’t say I’m particularly pleased, either. But they have something we need.” Perhaps. Maybe. Assuming they wouldn’t decide Persephone and I posed too great a threat.

  Rupert had overruled Hattie in the Draakenwood…but that didn’t mean he didn’t have other family members who would happily spill our blood the moment we had served our purpose. Even if that meant facing the masters and fighting with only their own arcane power. None of the Endicotts I’d met had lacked for confidence in their sorcerous abilities, that was for certain.

  “I’ll leave around two o’clock, then,” Miss Parkhurst decided. “In the meantime, would you like your morning coffee?”

  ~ * ~

  I attempted to whittle down my pile of mail, but my mind refused to settle to the task. As I’d mentioned to Griffin the night before, the museum library included at least one tome on Cornish language. If Rupert wouldn’t tell us anything about Balefire Manor, perhaps I could learn something useful from books. I couldn’t recall anything specific to Cornwall in my previous arcane researches, but I dimly remembered the landscape was dotted with prehistoric stone circles and menhirs. Which could mean nothing, but my past experiences suggested sites of greater than normal arcane power were often marked by some sort of stones or structures. The obelisk and fane in Egypt, the clusters of standing stones around Widdershins, and the stele near the city of the umbrae in Alaska had all indicated places touched by the Outside in some fashion. Perhaps the same held true of the henges.

  If nothing else, someone might have written about the manor house itself. Surely a Tudor-era mansion, built on a tidal island, would have caught the attention of some architect or antiquarian. Even if I could find only a journal article, I might learn something useful about my cousins. And about what awaited us, if we should decide to help retake the manor.

  I quit my office in favor of the library. Mr. Quinn immediately marshaled the junior librarians to comb the stacks. I’d never set out to have a cult of librarians who answered only to me and my sister, but it did come in handy whenever I needed to do research.

  Unfortunately, most references to Cornwall concerned either tin mines or Arthurian legends. I was already familiar with those legends—my mother had read them to me a thousand times, starting when I was a babe in arms.

  None of it seemed of particular interest. As for Balefire Manor, it existed only in references. A single line here, a footnote there. Other manor houses of the era such as Cotehele or Trerice had their long histories laid out in detail, accompanied by illustrations of Tudor ceilings or stone dovecotes.

  The Endicotts, it seemed, had been very effective at keeping their secrets over the centuries.

  Out of linguistic curiosity, I asked Mr. Quinn for Pryce’s book. Knowing my own propensity to become sidetracked in matters of academic interest, I forced myself to turn to the vocabulary section. Carn Moreth was the name of the island Rupert had given.

  Carn translated to “a high rock” or “rocky place.” Moreth as “grief.” Hill of grief? Rocky outcropping of grief?

  Why did that sound familiar?

  I stared at nothing for a long moment, wracking my memory. Was it connected to some legend? I envisioned my mother’s room in Whyborne House, the sound of her voice as she read to me in French and German.

  King Arthur. Merlin. Tristan and Iseult.

  Lyonesse.

  I started to my feet. “Mr. Quinn!”

  Mr. Quinn must have been lurking just out of sight, because he appeared almost instantly. “Yes, Widdershins?”

  I wished he would stop calling me that. “I need one of the books kept under lock and key.”

  A smile crawled over his thin lips, and he laced his hands together. “One of the forbidden tomes? Excellent.”

  Chapter 6

  Whyborne

  Christine wasn’t in her office, but one of the secretaries directed me to the storeroom where Iskander was carefully photographing some of the more obscure artifacts from one of her digs. He’d rigged up a series of lights and neutral backdrops, and was in the process of adjusting the position of a small amulet shaped like a bird. At the sound of my steps, however, he looked up.

  “Good morning, Whyborne,” he said. “It is still morning, isn’t it?”

  “Barely, but yes. Do you happen to know where Christine is?”

  “Sorting through one of the crates from the Nephren-ka dig, I believe. She’s writing a paper on ushabti.” He paused. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  I started to deny it, but caught myself. Given Christine’s temper, Iskander might be better suited to accompany me after all. “Yes, actually. I need to speak with Rupert Endicott. I’ve come across some information about the estate. If I’m correct, we’re all in a great deal of danger.”

  He turned off the hot lights. “Say no more. I’ll accompany you at once. I won’t claim to have much influence over the Endicotts, but thanks to my mother they’re more inclined to look favorably on me than the rest of you.”

  “And you’re less likely to start a fight with them than Christine,” I agreed. “We’d better hurry before she returns and catches us slipping out.”

  ~ * ~

  The docks bustled with activity. Stevedores shouted, nets filled with heavy cargo groaned, and a pair of captains engaged in a shouting match over which of them was the proper husband to a certain lady, and thus had the right to see her first on the unfortunate occasion of having docked at the same time.

  The Melusine was a sleek vessel, but it was clear even from a distance that she didn�
�t sacrifice elegance for function. Her brass fittings gleamed, as did her teak deck. A canopy amidships formed a comfortable workspace; Rupert stood beneath it at a teak table, grinding something into powder in a mortar.

  He looked up at our hail. “Ah, Dr. Whyborne, Mr. Putnam-Barnett. I’ve been expecting you. Do come aboard.”

  Iskander and I exchanged a wary glance. I’d certainly had no plans to come here. Perhaps Rupert merely meant to keep us off balance. “Mr. Endicott,” I said coolly. “We would like to speak with you. In private.”

  “Of course.” He took off the apron he wore over his impeccable clothing and folded it neatly on the table. “This way, gentlemen.”

  He led the way below decks to a dining room equipped with a table, comfortable couch, library, and grand piano. I perched on the edge of the couch, gripping my knees. Iskander sat beside me.

  “Would you care for some tea?” Rupert asked. “I imagine poor Mr. Putnam-Barnett hasn’t had a decent cup since relocating to this benighted colony.”

  A look of longing passed over Iskander’s face, but he only said, “Another time, perhaps.”

  “We’re not here for pleasantries.” I folded my arms over my chest and fixed Rupert with what I hoped was an intimidating stare. “It seems you’ve left out some very important facts about the Endicott estate. Or was Von Junzt referring to a different hill of grief, when he spoke of the place the Eyes of Nodens conducted their rites to call upon the dweller in the deep?”

  To my surprise, a satisfied smile curved Rupert’s lips. “I was expressly forbidden to speak about such things with you. Alas, my small slip allowed you to discover it for yourself. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to reveal all.”

  Blast the man—he’d deliberately used me as a way around the orders he’d been given. He hadn’t lied at all when he’d said he’d been expecting us.

  “Such a shame,” Iskander agreed dryly.

  Rupert crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. “What else did Von Junzt have to say about Carn Moreth?”

  “I’m sure you’ve read the Unaussprechlichen Kulten yourself,” I replied stiffly. “Most of what he had to say about the Eyes of Nodens was vague, merely veiled hints of their relationship with the ketoi and the gods. He mentioned the focus of worship was something called ‘Morgen’s Needle,’ and suggested it had something to do with the drowned land of Lyonesse.” I paused. “Morgen was an early name for Morgan Le Fay. It means ‘sea-born.’”

  Iskander frowned. “Do you think it referred to a ketoi hybrid?”

  “It could, at least in this case.” Rupert said. “Of course, Morgen’s Needle has nothing to do with King Arthur, any more than Merlin’s Cave or any of the other stones and places associated with the legend. Morgen’s Needle is a single, tall standing stone, much, much older than any human myths. It stands at the highest point on Carn Moreth, at the center of an arcane whirlpool. Of course, our vortex is quite small compared to the maelstrom of Widdershins, and is unlikely to have developed any sort of sentience, let alone housed pieces of itself in flesh.”

  Curse Stanford and his plotting. He’d exposed our nature to the Endicotts, which no doubt meant they would eventually attempt to use it against Persephone and me somehow.

  “That was where the spell against the ketoi was performed,” I guessed. “The one Theo spoke of.” The one that had wrecked Mother’s health and forced my sister and me to be born before our proper time.

  “Yes. And the backlash killed some of our most talented sorcerers, so you can consider your aquatic kin avenged.” He paused, as though deciding what to reveal. “The arcane energy was too strong—it flooded into them with such power it scorched them from the inside and stopped their hearts.”

  Iskander winced. I’d sent a shock of arcane power through him once, to destroy the rust that had taken over his mind and body. Even that short burst had been enough to knock him unconscious.

  “So the Fideles have access to Morgen’s Needle,” I said.

  “Yes.” A troubled look passed over Rupert’s face. “As I said, the vortex is quite small compared to Widdershins. But Morgen’s Needle…it has similar markings as the Eltdown Shards and the stele in Alaska. The stone it was carved from resembles nothing found in Cornwall…but it is similar to that which the Occultum Lapidem are made from. I fear no human hands raised it, but that it is a tool of the masters, abandoned when they left our world.”

  Wonderful. “That’s why you believe the Fideles were the ones to take the estate, rather than another of your many enemies. This isn’t just an attempt to destroy the Endicotts, but to continue the Restoration.”

  “Indeed. Crippling our family’s ability to fight them is likely no more than a bonus for achieving their true goal. As to what they mean to do with it…” Rupert removed his spectacles and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “You mentioned Lethowsow—Lyonesse, as it is more commonly called. I assume you’re both familiar with the legend?”

  “Of course,” Iskander said. “It’s a mythical drowned country, which lay between Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly. Supposedly created when Merlin raised the waves to destroy the forces of Mordred.”

  “It is all only legend, but a legend that we believe contains a kernel of truth.” Rupert put his spectacles back on and turned his dark gaze on us. “Seven Stones Reef, said to be the remains of the capital city of Lyonesse, marks the ketoi city. We think that, at some point in the past, an ancient counterpart of the Eyes of Nodens used the Needle to inundate a vast swath of land. Why, I couldn’t say—perhaps as some favor to the ketoi, or in tribute to their god. The devastation must have been unimaginable. The height of Carn Moreth became a tidal island, renamed to commemorate those killed by the sudden flood, along with the new headland, now called Penmoreth. If we are right, if those who know how to properly use it can command such destructive forces…well. I’m certain you can imagine what they might do with it.”

  It was what I’d feared from the moment I’d recalled Von Junzt’s words. Some ancient thing of the masters, left behind so their minions could wreak destruction and terror now. “We need to take it back from them. Why the devil did you wait so long?”

  “It wasn’t by choice, I assure you.” Rupert’s lips thinned unhappily. “We needed a way to get through the defenses surrounding Balefire, and for that the Seeker required a particular artifact. A pendant with very specific properties. Others among the family searched for it while Hattie and I came here. Unfortunately, they only recently retrieved it from a stronghold in the Balkans.”

  He bowed his head. “You see why we are so desperate for your assistance, cousin. Why even the Seeker, who isn’t known for her tolerance of ketoi hybrids, is willing to join forces with you. To make peace with the ketoi themselves. To give you the key to the Wisborg Codex, which may help us stop the masters—but may also contain arcane secrets that a being such as yourself might use to take their place in subjugating the world.” He tilted his head back up and met my gaze steadily. “Morgen’s Needle drowned Lyonesse a thousand years ago. Should the Fideles use it, Widdershins—along with a good part of this state—may follow it to the bottom of the sea.”

  Chapter 7

  Griffin

  I spent the afternoon preparing Jack for the prospect of taking over my detective duties, should Whyborne choose to throw in our lot with the Endicotts.

  “I don’t know, Griffin,” he said as we sat together in the parlor room that served as my office. “I’m only just learning the trade. I don’t have your contacts, or your skill, or—”

  “I’m not expecting you to replace me,” I assured him. “But you can take some of the simpler jobs, ones that don’t require anything beyond a facility at asking questions, combined with a bit of charm.”

  Jack grinned and cocked a brow. “I might be able to manage that part, anyway.”

  I snorted. My brother had been adopted separately from the orphan train, and ended up running away from the cruel family who had wanted a laborer rather th
an a son. After a brief stint with a traveling circus, he’d roamed the country, living off his quick wit and easy smile. He’d learned to lie with a grin, and do it so effectively he’d even deceived me for a time.

  “Nothing unsavory,” I reminded him. “Keep to my usual rates, don’t add anything unnecessary to expenses, and absolutely no taking reward money.”

  “You’re no fun,” he groused. “Don’t worry about that, Griffin. I didn’t decide to stay in Widdershins just so I could let you down.”

  “I know.” I met the gaze of eyes as green as my own. “I remember.”

  I’d glimpsed his thoughts briefly in Alaska, when my mind had been possessed by the little queen. His pain and his love. Jack wasn’t perfect, far from it, but he wouldn’t do anything to hurt my business or my reputation.

  The ring of the phone interrupted our conversation. When I answered it, Niles Whyborne said, “Griffin, I’ve just heard from Percival. We’re to meet Persephone at the usual place this evening.”

  “Before sunset?” I asked. Normally the ketoi came ashore only after dark, when they were less likely to be spotted by curious humans.

  “Apparently there is some urgency involved. I’ll come fetch you in the touring car. Percival suggested bringing your brother as well.”

  When I hung up, Jack said, “Who was that?”

  “Niles Whyborne.” I sank slowly back into my chair. “How would you like to meet your sister-in-law?”

  ~ * ~

  Jack barely spoke on the ride to the beach. He seemed overawed by Niles, who rode in the back of the touring car with us while Fenton drove. As usual, Niles wore a suit straight from the most expensive tailor in New York, his Tiffany tie pin, emerald-studded pocket watch, and diamond ring casual reminders of the wealth controlled by the Whyborne empire.