Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1)

by Starla Huchton

  The cloaked figure said nothing more to him, and he scuttled out. After exiting, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow and made his way to the casting room. He hated that this woman caused him so much trouble. He hated that she caught him off guard. And he especially hated that she didn’t know her proper place.

  “Blasted female,” he mumbled to himself as he pushed the black, wooden door open. The sheath from the knife was already there, awaiting him at the altar. He glared at it, as though it somehow embodied the elusive captain. “Captain, indeed.”

  “You must purge these thoughts from your mind, Brother.” The dry voice of the old man broke into his quiet rant. “It will take all of your concentration to perform the connection ritual.”

  “I know that!” he snapped. “It isn’t as though I haven’t done this before.”

  The old man rose from a simple wooden chair that sat where the circle of candlelight did not penetrate the gloom. “Then act it. Your attitude is that of an initiate. Put your head on properly and stop acting like a dog that’s been caught with its nose in the rubbish.”

  He gritted his teeth and said nothing more. He knew it was childish to behave so, but this particular woman had gotten under his skin. He couldn’t forget the piercing dark eyes that glared at him from behind that tiny pistol. There was an animal behind those eyes, one that begged to be broken like an untrained pup.

  It was those eyes he focused on as he lit each violet candle on the altar. There were seven in all, one for each element: Earth, Air, Water, Fire, Wood, Metal, and lastly, the Machine. It was this final element so many others ignored. The power of the Machine, to create, to destroy, was the ultimate combination of all other elements. To shun it was to deny the supreme power in the universe. Those who worshipped nature would never taste the might of the Machine.

  He knelt on the step before the altar, directing the flow of aether into the items placed on the table. Before him lay the dagger’s sheath, wormwood incense, a thimbleful of oil, and a wand of ash with a rose thorn embedded in the tip. He began the incantation in hushed tones, reciting the ancient words that would link his spirit with the aether. As his thoughts drifted, he dipped a single finger into the oil and anointed the knife’s empty casing. He reached for the wand and held it aloft in his right hand. With a low, guttural cry, he brought it down across his left palm, the thorn slashing it open, then clutched the sheath with the wounded hand, the warm blood mixing with the musky oil. He replaced the wand on the table while the casing remained in his grasp. The dagger pulled him now, reaching out for its other half. He allowed his consciousness to be guided through the beyond, across the ocean, into the air.

  The woman was nearby; he could sense her presence, feel her breathing rhythmically. She was sleeping. This would make it easier.

  His thoughts slithered around hers, searching them for clues to where they were headed, but her dreams were scattered. Blasted woman. Even in slumber she was difficult to handle. He pressed harder, delving deep into her mind. He was careless, however, and felt her waking. He retracted the tendrils of thought, and she resumed her rest. Several times this happened, and his frustration grew exponentially with each failure. In irritation, he pushed his consciousness into hers, delving heedlessly into her mind. When she awoke this time, he did not immediately let go, instead letting his presence stay with her a moment longer. He watched her as she sat up in bed, trying to clear her head. He laughed. She could never shake free of his hold.

  Mr. Mustache haunted her dreams that night. Many times Rachel awoke to his greasy countenance fading before her eyes. Much of her doubted the wisdom in letting him live.

  He posed two problems to her. First, he knew her face and could most likely identify her, especially given the hasty departure of the Antigone’s Wrath. The second problem was far less troubling to anyone but her; she couldn’t keep him out of her head, and not in the pleasantly torturous way. His creepy face with its glazed, oily look and that curling, black, waxed mustache would not let her rest. As she sat in bed, arms curled around her knees, she felt his eyes watching her, and she shivered.

  Rummaging about in her nightstand, she reached for the cluster of birch, celandine and althea Mrs. Tweed gave her. She picked up the dried plants and instantly felt comforted. Whether it was the bouquet itself, or the thought of the old woman that made her feel that way, she didn’t know. As she inhaled the dusty fragrance, a faded memory came back to her.

  She had been very young, maybe a girl of six or seven years, and was working with Mrs. Tweed in the garden while her father took one of his many business trips. Rachel closed her eyes and could almost feel the warm sun on her shoulders, the cool breeze in the air, and the damp earth beneath her bare feet.

  Mrs. Tweed knelt in front of her. “Now dear, pay attention. This one is called cowslip. Next time you go off adventuring, best take a bit of this with you. Might find something worth keeping, rather than having only a ripped frock to show for your troubles then.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Rachel dug her toes in the dirt and tried to look ashamed, but wasn’t at all sure this was successful. She hadn’t cared about the tear in her dress. She’d just as soon wear trousers as the boys did, but her caretaker insisted she at least try to act a bit of a lady. Mrs. Tweed was very nice though, and made the most wonderful cookies, so Rachel tolerated the insistence on dresses.

  The woman was positively obsessed with plants these days, however. It was always “this is this and can be used for that,” or some other such thing. The amount of jars with dried bits of leaves and flowers in her kitchen grew exponentially by the day. Even the cookie jar was now home to some shriveled up seeds, rather than the sweets that normally filled it to the top. Rachel did not like this new hobby of the old woman’s.

  “I’ve just received the most fascinating picture in the mail from a friend of mine traveling on the other side of the world.” Mrs. Tweed brushed off her hands on her gardening apron and fished around in a front pocket. After a moment, she produced a single black and white photograph on it and handed it to the little girl. “Look at this now. The letter I got with it says this plant is called datura, and that they found a whole grove of them.”

  Rachel studied the picture closely. Giant white flowers dripped from woody stalks, the blossoms as tall as the man in the photo. They looked like trumpets hanging from the ends of the vines. It was very pretty. “Where is this? Can we go see it?” she asked.

  Mrs. Tweed laughed. “Oh dear, I’m afraid this is very far away. This place is in Ecuador.”

  Rachel scrunched up her face as she thought, not quite able to put a pin in the location of the foreign country on her mental map.

  “Come. We’ll go look at your father’s charts inside.”

  The memory faded away and Rachel sighed. She never had seen that forest of giant datura flowers in person. On her next vacation, she would definitely schedule a visit.

  Still clutching the dried bouquet, Rachel laid her head on her pillow and closed her eyes again. This time, she was blessed with dreamless sleep.

  She reached for something, and he was suddenly repelled back into himself. The effect sent his body reeling and he hit the cold stone floor, gasping for breath. Cursing, he sat up and tried to get his bearings. Such a fast transition would undoubtedly bring him a massive headache, and he needed his wits about him before the pain became too much of a distraction.

  “What is it, Brother? Why have you broken the connection?” The old man’s bony fingers gripped his arm in an attempt to help him to his feet.

  He shook off the feeble assistance. “I didn’t break it. Something happened. She has some sort of ward or means of protection.”

  “You must try again.”

  “Do not push me, Brother,” he said, angry with himself, and that woman. “There will be no way I can reach her again this night. You know as well as I that attempting another ritual would be pointless.” He winced as the first stabs of pain shot through his skull.

  “Did
she realize what it was you were doing before you were repelled?”

  “I don’t believe so.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose as another needle of discomfort hit him. “Whatever she did, I believe was unintentional. She may have sensed my presence, but I doubt she has the knowledge or skills to know what was happening, let alone how to stop it. No, I’m sure it was accidental, but fortunate for her.”

  “Tomorrow then.” The old man nodded. “You will try again tomorrow.”

  He spat and wiped his uncut hand over his mustache. “Perhaps, but adjustments must be made. I need to know more about this Captain Sterling.” He narrowed his eyes at the flickering candlelight of the altar. “Make no mistake, I will find her. And when I do…” He let his words trail off as he stalked out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  The Inventor

  The impossibly tall man entered the bookshop with obvious ill intentions, but that was not what bothered Silas. It was his manner of dress that gripped the inventor’s heart with icy fear. The all black ensemble topped with the bowler hat was the defining mark of the Brotherhood.

  This group of men had an unmistakable air about them. It was a mix of past violence and of violence to come. At least, it was thoroughly unpleasant at any rate. Silas wished the man would simply leave, but knew he would have to talk to him about the package delivered to the shop today. Thankful for the small blessing that Eddie was still en route to a merchant contact, Silas stepped through the doorway to the front of the bookstore.

  “Welcome, sir.” Silas gave a small, stiff bow. “How might I be of service to you this day?”

  “You are Silas Jensen, da?” The man spoke in deep booming tones, heavily accented in what Silas thought might be Russian.

  He nodded.

  “I believe you receive package today. I am here to negotiate details of contents.”

  “About that…” He decided to try his luck at getting out of the job. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I didn’t speak with anyone from your… association… regarding a job of any kind.”

  The tall man held up a hand. “There is no misunderstanding, Mr. Jensen. You were believed most qualified individual for task.”

  It was Silas’s turn to interrupt. “Qualified? Or expendable?”

  The man said nothing at this, staring with cold calculation. When he spoke again, his voice remained in the same measured tone. “As I say, Mr. Jensen, you were determined to be most qualified for task. As you told us before, your work is for who can afford to pay you. We will pay handsomely for your time, if job is done to our standards.”

  Silas kicked himself now for using that excuse to not join the ranks of the Brotherhood before. There was nothing for it at the moment. “Some prior communication would have been polite, but it’s a bit late for that now. There is, however, one definite flaw in hiring me.”

  “And that would be?” The Russian cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “The instruction manual you provided me with is in a language I cannot decipher.” He turned out his open palms, expressing helplessness. “If I cannot read the instructions, I cannot assemble the provided parts as they are meant to be.”

  The Russian removed a brown paper packet from inside his jacket. “Then I suggest you make use of this.” He tossed it on the counter. “And find someone who can help you with your problem.” Silas noted the stress on the word “your.” Obviously, he was meant to climb this mountain on his own. He swiped at the envelope and looked at the contents.

  “Inside you find travel papers for both you and apprentice. Also, ample monies for your journey.”

  “Your associates are aware of my aversion to travel, are they not?”

  “That is no for me to say.” The man crossed his arms. “I simply deliver message and make sure you understand gravity of work ahead of you.”

  “You can tell them that their message has been received and understood.” Silas narrowed his eyes. He hated traveling, either by air or sea, and if the mysterious origin of the book’s language was any indication, this journey would be quite a long one. “Is there anything else?”

  “Only one last thing, Mr. Jensen.” He paused, a thin smile crossing his lips.

  “And what’s that?”

  “We will monitor your progress, to make sure you remain… focused.”

  “I’m quite sure that won’t be necessary.”

  The Russian gave another cryptic smile but said no more. Instead, he tipped his hat, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door.

  Silas cursed under his breath, hating everything that Russian and his bowler hat stood for. He wished he were more physically imposing or had some sort of weapons training, but, unfortunately, that was not where his talents lay. His hands were built for the delicate work required to create fine machinery, not brutish functional pieces. His products were expressions, works of art. Damn the Brotherhood. Damn them for not giving him a choice.

  He glared at the packet in his hands as the front bell jingled again. His apprentice walked in, looking almost as dejected as Silas felt. “Did you speak with that merchant?” Silas asked.

  Eddie nodded, removing his cap and raking a hand through his bright blond hair. “He couldn’t read the characters you provided. He was able to tell me what it isn’t, though. Mr. Cho said it isn’t Chinese, Korean, or Japanese. Whatever it is, he says you’d have to go to Singapore to find a translator.”

  Silas scratched at his whiskered chin. He needed a shave, badly. “Singapore, is it?”

  “Sir?”

  He sighed. “You’ll need to pack a bag. It appears we’re going on a trip.”

  “You don’t mean we’re actually going to Singapore, do you, sir?”

  Ignoring the question, he continued. “Also, write a letter to your father telling him you’ll be away for a while. Don’t be specific on where we’re going. You may tell him we’re researching antique books in the Orient, but nothing about our true business there. Do you understand?”

  Eddie looked confused, but he nodded anyway. “I think so, Mr. Jensen. When are we leaving?”

  Silas started to exit the room, preoccupied with mental lists of travel preparation. “Don’t know just yet, lad, but it will be soon. Tonight if I can manage it, tomorrow morning if I cannot. Best hurry now. Lots to do.”

  He left Eddie standing there, mouth agape. “We’re going to… Singapore?”

  Their ship was not the most luxurious of transports, but on short notice, and with a certain amount of discretion being necessary, it was the best Mr. Jensen could procure for the two of them. Eddie stood by the rusty rail, watching the docks of Pevensey fade farther into the distance. When he no longer saw land, Mr. Jensen turned and faced him. “I know it’s not an airship, but—”

  “Airships don’t port in Pevensey,” Eddie finished. “I know.”

  “We’re taking this ship to La Rochelle, where we’ll have to search for another means of travel. It’s a large port, so I imagine it shouldn’t be too hard to find another means of conveyance. Maybe we can catch an airship next leg,” Mr. Jensen said.

  Eddie gazed out over the water towards Pevensey. He’d never traveled as far as this before. When his father brought him from Gillingham to study under Mr. Jensen, it was his first time away from home. And now here he was, on a steamship headed for France. He smiled to himself. The past twenty-four hours held more surprises and excitement than the entirety of his fifteen years. Eddie knew they were possibly in a great amount of danger, but he couldn’t help looking forward to every moment of this adventure.

  “Come on then,” Mr. Jensen called to him from halfway across the deck. “We’d best find our room and get some rest while we can.”

  Reluctantly, Eddie tore himself from the side of the ship and followed his teacher. He doubted he’d get much sleep tonight, as thrilling as it all was. Each new experience opened up another door in his head, and grew his world by leaps and bounds. They proceeded through the large metal door below the pilothouse
and clunked down the stairwell, lugging their small bags with them. They didn’t bring much, only some extra clothes, toiletries and, of course, Mr. Jensen brought the book. He also packed up the pieces of the machine he was supposed to build, painstakingly wrapping each component and placing it all in the crate so it wouldn’t be bothered no matter how abusively it was handled. Mr. Jensen entrusted the crate to a crewman to have it placed in their quarters. Eddie was only glad he didn’t have to carry it himself.

  When they arrived at their quarters, the box waited for them. It rested between two small cots that were bolted to the floor, and was strapped to the metal frames to prevent it from shifting during patches of rough seas. Mr. Jensen set his bag on top of the wooden box. Sighing with exhaustion, he flopped down onto the cot and promptly went to sleep, leaving Eddie to wonder what in the world he was supposed to do now.

  The apprentice tossed his bag into a corner and sat on his bed to think. Mr. Jensen said nothing about remaining in the room, so perhaps he could do a bit of exploring. He’d never been able to investigate a ship as big as this, only seen them in illustrations, so the chance to poke around was too much temptation for him. With his decision made, he slipped out the door and headed back to the main deck.

  He hoped to find a deckhand to question, but when he arrived topside, he instead found a rotund gentleman relaxed on top of a wooden crate, puffing on a big, black pipe. When the man saw him, he smiled broadly and motioned him over. Eddie cautiously approached, wondering what the man might want with him.

  “Now there’s a good lad, what ho!” He chuckled and puffs of smoke floated into the air. “Come here, boy. What’s your name? Speak up now!”

  “Eddie, sir. My name is Eddie,” he answered.

  The man frowned. “Eddie? Eddie? No, that won’t do at all. Is it Edward? Edmund? What’s your proper name?”

  Eddie groaned. He hated giving people his full name. “Edison, sir. Edison Maclaren.”