Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “So it is, and I am honoured to be called your cousin. Second cousins, I think. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Will you join me?”

  “Thank you, no. I have far too much to accomplish before this evening’s meeting. I’ve come here professionally as well as personally. Paul and I are investigating a series of murders related to Redwing, or so we believe. I wonder if you recall seeing these symbols recently?”

  Sinclair opened the leather notebook and showed Henry the page filled with red symbols.

  Lord Salperton’s high forehead furrowed. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the book. He took it to his desk and sat, deep in thought perusing each line with care. “Now, these on the third line down are most interesting. I see you’ve circled them. You know, I believe I have seen them before, but I cannot recall where. Recently, surely. Carved, however, not written. Perhaps on furniture?”

  “Do all of them look familiar or just the third line?”

  “I can’t really say. Those on the top, perhaps. Are they Egyptian?”

  “I don’t think so. The circle has obtained ancient texts with what Ed MacPherson calls Sumerian symbols, but these vary slightly.”

  “Sumerian writing? How very interesting! Wait, I remember where I saw them! It was at the castle! The main gate had these very symbols engraved into each of the stone pillars. I know because I passed through that gate a dozen times, trying to get out.”

  Charles smiled. “I’d hoped you’d say that. It occurred to me today that I’d seen them there as well, but so much has happened since, I feared I was mistaken.”

  Henry continued to examine the page. “Very strange. Is this writing connected to a crime? Perhaps, the murder you mentioned?”

  “Two murders, actually. They were written in blood above the windows at one, and carved on the murder weapon at another. When do you plan to come by, Henry? We begin at seven, but it’s likely we’ll go late, particularly if my uncle calls for after dinner drinks, which he will. You’re welcome to stay over, if you like.”

  “Ah, yes. Cousin James. Stay over? I might consider it. I understand Count Riga and the others are living there.”

  “In the dower house. Paul’s sister has already made friends with them, and she’s teaching Mr. Stanley to speak French.”

  Henry smiled. “I’ve never met Paul’s sister. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”

  “Then you’ll stay?”

  “I just might! I could leave here almost immediately. If I’m to stay in Westminster overnight, I’d like to pay one last visit to a new patient first. She’s only just begun talking, you see, and I want to reinforce the conversation.”

  “How many patients live here?” Charles asked.

  “Presently, there are five. I like to keep the numbers small. I require no payment. Those who can afford it make up the shortfall for others. The Salperton inheritance left me quite well off, and I’m happy to open the doors to those who would otherwise be led away to harsher places.”

  “Have you ever heard of Castor Institute?”

  “Alex Collins? Yes, he’s a colleague, though not a close one by any stretch. I don’t agree with his methods. Why?”

  Sinclair returned the notebook to his pocket. “I thought I’d pay Dr. Collins a visit. His institute has come to my attention far too often lately to be coincidence. I wonder, if you’d consider coming along?”

  “I’d be delighted! It will be my first circle assignment, you might say. Did you hire a hansom or bring one of your own coaches?”

  “I brought a coach. My last hansom experience left me rather exposed,” he answered cryptically. “I’ll explain at the meeting.”

  Charles stood. “Shall I wait here?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. I promise to take but a moment. Charles, I wonder if we might stop by the castle on our way through Fulham? I’d like to see those gates again.”

  “Henry, you read my mind.”

  The viscount returned to the upper floor apartment and spoke briefly to his new patient. Violet Stuart had already received her luncheon tray and was enjoying a sandwich. He explained that he’d be away overnight but that Mrs. Winstead would be available should she need anything. He encouraged her to visit the music room and engage in conversation with the other patients.

  After a short discussion regarding evening medications with the nurse, Henry collected his medical bag, a clean shirt and socks, and joined Charles inside the Haimsbury-Branham coach.

  The two men left the drive, completely ignorant to the fact that only two floors above, watching from the confines of her bedchamber, Violet Stuart—once known as Susanna Morgan—watched the marquess and his cousin leave, wondering why the tall man with the beard looked so very familiar.

  Sir Clive Urquhart rarely felt anything akin to fear, probably out of hubris rather than bravery, but as of this moment, the diminutive builder felt absolutely terrified.

  “Another!” he exclaimed to his guest. “How many more will die before you admit it, Lord Raziel? Someone is killing us, and it must be one of your kind! Have you unleashed another of your hellish friends in London, or is the madman you call Saraqael to blame for this bloodbath?”

  Several of Redwing’s Round Table members had gathered at the builder’s Grosvenor Square mansion, including their most powerful ally, Raziel Grigor, called Prince Alexei by the uninitiated humans of English government. The ancient elohim had patiently listened to the humans squabble amongst themselves, quietly sipping a cup of herbal tea.

  “Will you not at least say something in your defence?” Alexander Collins insisted. “You claim to be all powerful, but your brother makes a mockery of you whilst murdering us!”

  “I’ve made no claim to being omnipotent, Dr. Collins, and I resist the idea that Sara is a madman. Mad yes, but hardly a man. It is a problem of language, but as he now inhabits a flesh and blood human, I see your point. As to the accusation that I’ve unleashed another of my kind, I beg to differ. You and your Round Table performed the ritual that released Sara from his prison. Not I.”

  “Pah!” the portly builder dared argue. “We merely followed your instructions, Lord Raziel, and at your insistence! Tis you who wants to unlock the mirrors and mazes. You who seeks to bring about hell on earth. I begin to doubt our alliance with you, if you must know. You promised us riches, and instead we are hunted like rats!”

  As with others of his elohim class, Raziel enjoyed taking human form when conversing with the clay-based inferiors of the material realm. He considered them little more than useful chess pieces, to be moved and removed, according to his will. The fallen angel’s humanoid appearance was intentionally taller than nearly all sons of Adam, with eyes of cold blue that caused shudders of fear when required, but as he’d happily discovered, considered irresistibly mysterious by the daughters of Eve. He focused these ice-blue orbs upon Urquhart with such intensity that the frigid stare caused the man to visibly shrink.

  “Do not speak to me of riches!” Raziel shouted. “Have I not made you a wealthy man, Sir Clive? Do not all of you stand as betters amongst the rabble of London? Would you have obtained lucrative government contracts without my help? Those subtle whispers into the ears of prominent men have availed you much increase. You boast of your wealth within your exclusive men’s clubs, and then go home and wallow like fat pigs in your very expensive sties!”

  He stood, towering over the group. “Those of your number who have died provide the blood required for the next phase of our plans, but the bloodshed needn’t continue. I’ve no intention of destroying anyone who follows me.”

  Clive gulped, his fat Adam’s apple bobbing up and down beneath the tight silk collar. “You killed them?”

  “Indeed. Did you think me charmed and tamed like a pet? Did you imagine that you are in charge? My plans are subtle and beyond your capacity for thought, but they require nourishment.
Only a few more deaths are required to unlock the next mirror, but we run out of time. The ceremony must take place on the solstice. We have but two weeks.”

  Collins gulped. “Are you saying this bloodshed will continue?”

  “Of course.”

  Urquhart began mopping his moist face with a silk kerchief. “How many are a few, Lord Raziel? And must these deaths be our own?”

  “Not necessarily. As to the number, I prefer not to reveal that.”

  “But we are safe?”

  “Those who follow me will rise to glory, those who choose to follow Romanov or even Sara, will die. Simple, isn’t it?” He poured another cup of tea, sipping thoughtfully. “A team of archaeologists from the British Museum have proven useful. I’ve endowed their expedition to Normandy to excavate Lord Araqiel’s prison. I require his key to open the Realms of Fire.”

  “Fire?” the alienist moaned, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into.

  Raziel paid him no heed. “Plans within plans within ancient plans begin to unfold and reveal themselves to me. The hidden guardians emerge, hungry for plunder.”

  “Forgive me, Lord Raziel, but your words make no sense!” the builder worried, his collar growing ever tighter.

  “My words are not meant for you to understand,” he told the distraught human. “Do as I ask, and all with be well, but the plans must proceed at my pace—my command. Who released the information about Sinclair to the press? I never sanctioned that.”

  Each looked to the other suspiciously. “I cannot say, my lord,” Sir Robert Cartwright snorted. “Not I. ”

  Honoria Chandler tapped cigarette ash onto the rug. “Hell if I know.”

  Dr. Malford-Jones, Serena di Specchio, and her new paramour Sir Albert Wendaway stared as though turned to stone.

  Alexander Collins was busy mentally weighing the odds of survival for any who opposed Raziel. Now, after realising he had few choices, the alienist suddenly blurted out an opinion.

  “Lord Raziel is in charge, is he not? We invited him. Perhaps, you should temper your words carefully, Clive.”

  “My words? Mine?” Urquhart shouted in response, rushing to accuse the alienist. “You are the one who called this meeting in the first place, Alexander! Twas you who blamed Lord Raziel, not I! You are a sniveling, self-serving, little worm!”

  Serena di Specchio chose charm as a weapon. “Even a worm has a use, Clive. Displacing the dirt to allow flowers to grow. Fertilisation comes to mind.”

  “A decomposing body makes a very good fertiliser, madam!” Sir Clive shouted. “I place no trust in either of you! You may both be in league with this hellion!”

  “Hellion?” Raziel echoed, his voice resounding with a mockery of wounded vanity. “I take exception to that epithet. I do not live in the nether regions, but rather here, in the city that rules the world. As to trust, I’ve led you thus far, have I not? Trent took you in an altogether pointless direction that nearly brought you to ruin. Trust in me. I will lead you to the top of the mountain itself!”

  “By way of the grave!” Urquhart shouted, his handkerchief soaked in cold sweat. “I am weary. We make no progress, and it is clear that our plans are lost. Finding the other mirrors is a fool’s errand now. If three Watchers make such trouble, how dare we add to their number? My friends, we must abandon these dangerous ways before we are all fish food!”

  “I am still here,” Raziel complained, tapping his foot against the floor tiles. “No one else need die. Only those who oppose me. How difficult is that?”

  Every face paled, even di Specchio’s.

  “Good. Now, we must continue with my plan to release the prisoners. We need all thirteen Watchers to unlock the final gates and return the earth to its glory days. The faithful will stand beside me and reign as kings and queens. Is that not worth all you have to offer?”

  “Glory days? Glory for whom?” the builder dared to ask.

  “Glory for those to whom it rightly belongs,” the creature answered obliquely. “Do you doubt me?”

  “I think your plans will lead to the ruin of us all! Redwing has existed for centuries without your guidance, Lord Raziel. I think we return to those days, eh? The Round Table idea of Trent’s has divided us, to be sure. It is time we unite again beneath the brand of the wounded wing,” he told the others. “We form a new table, with a new leader.”

  “And who might that leader be?” di Specchio asked. “You? Why? Because you are a man?”

  “Men have always led the group. Women have their place, but not as leaders.”

  “I suppose England’s queen might have something to say about that,” Raziel suggested, his eyes on the tea in his cup. “Well, it’s been enlightening, but I do have a life outside Redwing. Do continue bickering, won’t you? I could leave you a few knives, if it helps to reduce your numbers. The fewer members remaining when I commence the next phase, the easier it will be to assume full control, so be careful whom you slander. An adder that bites its own tail poisons only itself.”

  He vanished from sight, the teacup hanging in midair for a few seconds before crashing to the floor. The tea stain spread upon the carpet in a strange shape, and as he stared at the widening shadow, Sir Clive realised that it formed the wings and body of an enormous raven.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Stavely House - No. 4 Fitzmaurice Place, London

  “My brothers arrive in two days—well, two of them, anyway,” Cordelia said as a somewhat somber butler carried a tray of desserts into the drawing room of the Wychwright’s London residence. “William is very important in the Army, of course, and Thomas is a much admired student in Paris. He’s very bright.”

  The eighteen-year-old had a shocked expression that troubled her guest. Elizabeth Stuart Sinclair had arrived half an hour earlier, and since then, Delia had talked almost nonstop, as though terrified to close her mouth and take a breath.

  “And your third brother?” the duchess asked politely.

  “Ned? He’s in Carlisle. Father always loved Ned best, even though he’s the middle son. Isn’t that odd?” She paused, as though trying to sort through troubling thoughts. “Father... He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he is,” Beth answered gently. “When does your Aunt Margaret arrive? Isn’t she going to help with the arrangements?”

  “Yes, I imagine so. Mother’s not up to it. She’s taken to bed and will not leave it. Should I contact Parliament about my father? Is that my job? William is the new baron now, I suppose, but who will take over as MP?”

  “I’m sure the Lake District will have a special election to select a replacement.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. How did he die? Father, I mean. Was it—was it quick? He didn’t suffer, I hope.”

  The duchess set down her teacup and moved to the sofa beside the girl. “You shouldn’t think about that right now, Delia. There’s time for all that later, when you’re stronger.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I never expected my father to die, but if he did—when he did, I assumed it would be something more natural. Heart attack or something. Murder simply isn’t done, is it? Not to peers. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “I have,” Beth answered softly. “My mother didn’t die a natural death. A terrible man killed her, and I saw it happen. But, Cordelia, the pain of it all has faded with time. You’ll find that, one day, you’ll recall only the happy memories.”

  Tears welled up in the young woman’s eyes, and she unconsciously reached for a dessert from the tiered silver tray. “These meringue tarts are quite good. You should try them. Lemon with raspberry cream. Father loved these. They were his favourites.”

  She bit into the tiny confection, tears streaming down her pink cheeks. Elizabeth reached out and took the grieving girl’s hand. “Courage, Delia. You’re not alone. You have friends all ‘round you.”

 
A footman stood silently in the open doorway, waiting for a moment to speak.

  “Yes?” Beth asked the man, seeing that Delia failed to notice.

  “Lord Aubrey has arrived, Your Grace, and asks to visit.”

  Delia’s eyes turned towards the footman at last. “Paul is here?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She brushed bits of sugar and cake from her hands. “Send him in at once, Parker.”

  Paul Stuart had chosen a somber suit of dark blue, cream silk shirt, and a grey waistcoat. His chestnut hair was pulled back and conservatively tied, and he’d even shaved his beard. Seeing Cordelia’s hopeful face, the earl immediately went to her. Without speaking a word, that simple gesture caused a cascade of emotions within both women. Cordelia snapped out of her shocked fugue and let loose a torrent of tears, and Elizabeth perceived something which caused a strange mixture of joy and heartache: Paul Stuart, demonstrating love and support to another woman.

  “I should go,” she said, standing.

  The earl released Wychwright from the embrace, suddenly aware of the duchess’s presence. “No, Beth, stay. Please. I’m sure Cordelia needs support from both of us.”

  The girl looked thunderstruck. “Do I? Yes, yes, of course I do. Excuse me, I should see if Mother’s awake.”

  Without another word, she bolted from the drawing room, and Paul turned to Elizabeth. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, of course not. I think I’m to blame. I’m rather extraneous, you see. Delia’s in shock, and you’re far better at comforting her than I.”

  Elizabeth started towards the foyer, but the earl took her hand. “Are you angry with me?”

  “No. I think you and Delia deserve some time alone. Besides, Charles sent word that Henry MacAlpin is with him, and they hope to arrive by four. It’s nearly three now. I should get back to the house.”