She ignores Druscilla’s remark and stoops to make a fuss of Iago. “Such a dear little thing,” she coos. “I myself kept a snow leopard for many years. Excellent company, highly intelligent, you know.” She winces as she attempts to straighten up once more.
Lord Grimes steps forward and offers her his arm, helping her to her seat.
The earl of Winchester does not concern himself with anyone but me. He takes my hand and raises it to his lips.
“Morningstar,” he says, “you are as beautiful as ever. I trust you are entirely recovered from the … difficult events at the inauguration?”
“Entirely,” I tell him. “It was good of you to come. Good of all of you.”
Druscilla states plainly, “You are our Head Witch now, my dear. You will not be refused by any of us. Ever.”
Victoria puffs slightly as she struggles to make herself comfortable on the bench. I wonder that over the years no one has seen fit to provide chairs with arms and backs for the older coven members. “It is rather nice to be thought of as some use,” she says. “Heaven knows, at our age we are considered something of an embarrassment in the Outerworld. Like guests who simply refuse to leave the party and go home.”
“Speak for yourself,” Druscilla tells her.
Lord Grimes does his best to keep the peace. “We are fortunate indeed that not all the young consider us nothing more than an encumbrance. Morningstar, once again, permit me to offer my condolences at the regrettable loss of your maid. Please know that if there is anything we can do to help you in your new role, any assistance we can offer, you have only to ask.”
The four turn their faces to me expectantly, for once quiet. I am keenly aware that they are all so very much more skilled and experienced, both as witches and necromancers, than I. I try not to let my lack of self-confidence show, particularly in front of Louis’s father.
“I have asked you here today because I have become aware of a threat to the Lazarus Coven.”
Druscilla shrugs. “There have always been those who are jealous of what we have, and who would try to take it from us.”
Lord Grimes nods. “We are ever on our guard.”
Victoria gives a light laugh. “Scarcely a year goes by that some coven or other does not declare themselves the true followers of Lazarus. Or else they have been inflamed by politics and wish to put an end to a coven composed in the main of aristocrats, such as ours.”
“I understand that,” I tell them, “but this is something … different. Something more specific, somehow, more … imminent.” I hesitate, and then continue, “I mean to say, the threat is new, but the adversary is not.”
A different quality of silence falls upon the assembled company. At last it is Lord Harcourt who asks the question they all have in their minds.
“Are you referring to the Sentinels?”
I nod.
“As you say,” he goes on, “they are old foes. It is hardly news that they wish us harm.”
“Huh!” Druscilla glares at him. “Harm does not say it. They wish us dead. All of us. Finished. Exterminated like so many rats. They would erase all of our work, our teachings, our rituals, everything.”
Lord Grimes puts a hand on her arm. “They consider that we took the Great Secret from them.”
“And so we did!” she agrees. “We had to. They were not and are not fit to own such power.”
Victoria hurries to agree. “Their work was without restraint. Their use of the Elixir reckless and ruthless. They used it not to gain knowledge or to preserve wisdom, not for the greater good, indeed, but to simply make themselves more powerful. And the power of a risen necromancer is quite terrifying.”
“This was their goal,” Druscilla adds. “To raise the dead of their group, so that these revenants could wield their dark magic for the furtherance of the Sentinels. Had they sufficient numbers of such sorcerers, none could have stood against them.”
Lord Grimes shakes his head at the wickedness they have all heard fabled stories of. “It is said some necromancers were put to death—willingly or otherwise, history cannot reliably relate—in order that the senior Sentinels could practice their skills in Infernal Necromancy…”
“And to further swell their numbers,” says Druscilla. “The Lazarus witches of centuries ago were compelled to act. They could not allow such abuse of the Elixir, such wanton, amoral employment of the Great Secret, to continue.”
Soon the three are chattering with some vehemence about the vileness of the Sentinels and their forebears. It is Lord Harcourt who eventually raises a hand for quiet.
“Tell us, Morningstar, why is it that you think they are more dangerous now?”
“My father spoke to Mangan before he died.” I ignore the tutting and huffing the artist’s name elicits. “Father was very near the end, and he took him into his confidence. He told him he believed that the Sentinels are planning to move against us. They are plotting something, and intend putting it into action soon. The challenger was the first proof of that.”
Lord Grimes shakes his head in disbelief. “You are telling us that there is a Sentinel in our coven?”
“I believe so, yes. The challenge was just the beginning.”
“But,” Victoria looks shaken, “that is impossible. How would he have been inducted? We would surely have sensed there was something wrong. We would have spotted him.”
“I believe he is skilled at disguise and at blocking his witch’s persona. If he does not want to be detected as a Sentinel, or indeed as a witch at all, he is adept at the deception.”
“I will draw up a list of new members at once,” Lord Grimes decides. “It would be as well to scrutinize it.”
Druscilla leans forward. “Morningstar, if what you say is true, then the first thing you have to understand is that the Sentinels are not witches.” There is a murmur of assent from the others. “They are necromancers, some of them, yes, but not witches. Never witches. They are sorcerers.” She hisses the word, as if it burns her mouth to utter it. “Their magic is ancient, more ancient even than our own, and fearsomely powerful. But it has its roots in evil. There are more sorcerers condemned to the Darkness than any other humans, and many of them are Sentinels.”
“We must alert the rest of the coven to the danger,” Victoria insists.
Lord Grimes questions the wisdom of this. “But surely we must take care not to show our hand. Might it not be better to allow the spy to think he remains undiscovered?”
“And so he does!” Victoria points out. “No, our fellow witches have a right to know that we are under threat. Who knows where and when the Sentinels may strike if they are prepared to take such risks as worming their way into our very midst? Think of poor Oswald Tressick.”
“But Oswald fell ill at the opera,” says Lord Grimes.
“And what caused him to fall ill? I wonder. He was a man of healthy appetites and vigor. Never had a day’s sickness in his life.”
“You suspect a Sentinel’s hand? In a public place?”
Druscilla nods her agreement. “Victoria may be right. In the light of what we now know…”
For a long moment nobody speaks. I know I must go on.
“There is something else. I have been visited by an unwelcome spirit. A blackness accompanies him. I believe him to be a Dark Spirit.”
Druscilla frowns. She understand the term I have used to mean a spirit from the Darkness, and she is unable to mask her alarm. “He has visited you uncalled?”
“He has. On several occasions. He was here … during the inauguration. In fact, his presence affected my ability to control the demon.”
Lord Grimes shakes his head. “I knew there was something…”
“You heard him, too?” The idea somehow makes me feel less alone, less singled out.
“Not heard, no, but I observed your behavior.”
Druscilla nods. “Yes, there was something. I, too, detected a presence.”
A thought occurs to me. “Could it be that the two thi
ngs are connected? The presence of a Sentinel and the Dark Spirit?”
Victoria fans herself with her scarf. “It would indeed be something of a coincidence otherwise. The Sentinels were known for favoring the use of such dangerous beings in their necromancy. A risky practice at best.”
I try to order my thoughts. “You mean, the Sentinel summoned the Dark Spirit to the chamber? Was he also responsible for having him hound me?”
“It is possible,” Druscilla agrees. “You must be on your guard, Morningstar. Such a combination of foes presents a very real danger.”
Victoria seems to shrink in her seat, looking suddenly every one of her many years. “This is too awful. A new Head Witch, the country in turmoil, war on the horizon—the spirits have been insisting as much for months—the Sentinels infiltrating the sanctity of our coven, of an inauguration! And now a Dark Spirit emerging from the Darkness. It is too much, all at once.”
Lord Harcourt gets up and comes to stand beside me.
“It is not more than we can face if we face it together,” he says, holding my gaze with his own as he speaks. “Your father had faith in you, Morningstar, and so do we all, but know this. You have our support. Whatever the price, whatever happens, I promise you we will stand by you.”
It seems even Louis’s father is prepared to offer me his sincere protection, to put his personal feelings aside for the good of the coven. The others nod and echo his words and I feel, just for a moment, a little of the fear I have been carrying these past days, I feel it lessen, feel it lift ever so slightly from my shoulders.
13.
Unlike the Lazarus Coven, the Sentinels do not have a central place of worship and gathering. They select venues for their meetings which are as varied and disparate as the membership itself. There is no rule of inheritance that decrees who should belong, so that each member must be proposed by an existing Sentinel and voted in by the Ruling Elect. This consists of seven men of long-standing allegiance to the group. There is not, never has been, nor ever will be, a female Sentinel. The greatest quality a member can possess is power, and it was long ago decided that while many women are in possession of admirable qualities, when pitted against men, their inherent weakness tells. And weakness will not be tolerated. In fact, new members are rare. Efforts are made to ensure that numbers do not decline, but none presently in charge consider there is an advantage to being greatly numerous, so the need for admitting someone new to this most secret of societies seldom arises.
As Stricklend passes through the great doors of St. Paul’s Cathedral and finds the interior temperature scarcely higher than the bitter November night outside, he knows some will question the wisdom of this particular venue choice. Admittedly, there will be few visitors wishing to gain entry, so there will be fewer questions asked about why the whispering gallery and all points above it should be “temporarily shut for maintenance.” This aside, other members of the group might consider there are places which would afford more comfort. But then, this meeting has been convened at the behest of Stricklend himself for an issue that is both serious and urgent. Personal comfort was not a matter to which he gave any consideration whatsoever.
His footsteps echo in the cavernous empty space and then soften to the slap of Italian leather on stone as he climbs the stairs at the base of the cathedral’s dome. Behind him the verger secures the twisted gold-and-red rope across the entrance. He is aware of two figures ahead of him. One has Maurice Loxton’s bulk and is making the ascent slowly and with not a little wheezing. Loxton, a stockbroker with a reputation for ruthlessness and a bank balance to prove it, has been a senior Sentinel for almost as many years as Stricklend himself. Almost. It still causes a certain friction between the two that Stricklend’s opinion always carried the greater weight. And now that Stricklend’s superiority is unquestioned and unassailable, his fellow Sentinel’s jealousy has hardened into a leaden loathing. Loxton’s loyalty to the group and to the cause is beyond question. He is sharply clever, a likable enough quality to Stricklend’s mind. Even so, there is a self-serving independence about him that niggles at the permanent private secretary. Of course, all men who worship power are themselves likely to be powerful and egotistical. But such self-interest must be checked by a greater love of the cause. If it is not, well, that way lies megalomania. Stricklend has seen it before. More than one great man, during his own time as an Elect, has let his belief in himself override the greater cause. And all have paid the ultimate price for their pride. Loxton needs watching, and Stricklend is the man to do it.
Stricklend slows his pace. Even though the Sentinels will be the only people permitted entry to the area, the practice of secrecy must be maintained. There are two hundred and fifty-nine steps to the gallery, so that the chill of the night has been driven from his bones by the warmth of exertion by the time he reaches the gallery. He walks briskly around the circular walkway, glancing down over the balustrade at the giddying drop to the marble floor below. He affects interest in an inscription on the wall and pauses to read it. Two more figures slip past him. He checks his watch. The appointed hour has arrived. He moves a little closer to the smooth stone of the wall and turns to stand facing outward and upward, as if contemplating the splendid architecture of the dome above or perhaps, inspired by his surroundings, offering up an exultant prayer. But the god Nicholas Stricklend serves cannot cross the portals of the cathedral.
A voice, thin and breathy, travels the circumference of the circle. The words hiss slightly as they loop the gallery, but are nonetheless clear. This is not the first time Stricklend has chosen the Whispering Gallery as the venue for a meeting. The trick of construction and acoustics means that a person standing here may speak his thoughts softly, and they will be heard on the far side, and indeed all around the narrow walkway. Stricklend himself is unimpressed by such parlor games. A point in favor concerning the location, however, is that the lack of comfort considerably curtails verbosity and keeps the meetings short.
“Let all present declare themselves in turn,” the speaker instructs.
To Stricklend’s immediate left the sequence is started with the first response of “I serve,” then from the next point on, until it comes full circle and he, in turn, declares his presence, anonymously, but with the statement “I serve,” as is required of them. Tradition also dictates that the Sentinel who called the meeting be the first to speak.
“I have summoned you here in order to further the most important aim, the singularly most pressing need for all Sentinels,” he tells them.
“As always, we are happy to answer the call,” comes the somewhat sycophantic response from the far side of the gallery. There are similar murmurs of assent and agreement.
“The time has come for action,” Stricklend says.
“It might help,” says Loxton with ill-concealed rancor, “if you were to tell us precisely what it is you are so concerned about. Now that you have us all assembled, and duty bound to hear you out, spare us all the rheumatism that will set in from these damp stones if we linger too long in this faintly ridiculous building.”
“You, sir, know full well why I have convened this meeting!” Stricklend’s voice is gaining strength and volume and already beginning to give the lie to the name Whispering Gallery. From somewhere farther around the wall he is shushed but pays no heed. “As all here will recall, it was your idea to have the heir to the Lazarus leadership challenged at the inauguration. A plan which succeeded only in consolidating the girl’s position.” There are murmurings of assent. “Time is passing and we are no further forward. We must act.”
“And what would you have us do?” asks another member of the elite from the shadows.
“I suggest there are but three options left to us in order to obtain the Elixir.”
At this there is a collective gasp. To name the prize, to speak of it at all, let alone in a public place, feels shocking even to the most seasoned member of the group.
“The first of these is to use the spy that has b
ecome an insider of the Lazarus Coven. The challenge at the inauguration was not as successful as we might have hoped, but it was not the fault of the challenger that the outcome was not in our favor,” Stricklend points out. “The man is a loyal and experienced Sentinel, and he is now a trusted member of the Lazarus Coven. Our first option, then, is to have him seduce Lilith Montgomery, become her lover, win her over completely, so that he is able to obtain the Elixir from her.”
The other Sentinels mutter among themselves regarding the merits of the proposal.
“But,” says one, “we do not know that the girl is … well, kindly disposed to our man. She might refuse his advances.”
“She might,” Stricklend concedes.
“And,” another points out, “seduction is hardly an activity one can set one’s watch to. The process might take weeks. Months even.”
“Quite so,” Stricklend allows, “which brings me to the second option. We abduct the Head Witch and … persuade her to part with the recipe for the Elixir. She alone of the coven members knows both the spell and the formula in their entirety.”
“You amaze me.” Loxton is beginning to lose patience. “You have so far suggested love or kidnapping as ways to overcome the obstacle before us. In both cases our success would depend on the foolishness, on the weakness of character, perhaps, of Lilith Montgomery. This is the witch who summoned a demon and controlled it sufficiently to send it back to the Darkness at her bidding. This is the witch who is known to be as serious-minded and clever as she is well connected. This is the witch who is, after all, Robert Montgomery’s daughter, schooled by him over many years. Do you truly believe she will fall for charm like some naïve debutante? Or that she would be so stupid as to leave the house without guardians?”
“The third route calls for more drastic, more violent action.” Stricklend goes on as if Loxton has not spoken. “Which is why I put it to you as a last resort. We must dispose of all the senior witches of the coven, save for the girl. Then, when she stands alone, when she has no real support, we take what we want from her. We may even be able to take the coven, too.”
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