by A. C. Cobble
Sam blinked at him.
Her mentor’s eyes remained up, scanning the blackness above them.
“You always told me to ignore prophecy,” she said, “that it is false more often than it’s true.”
He lowered his head and met her gaze. “It is false more often than it’s true, but what separates dream from prophecy? Future from the present? Truth from lie?”
“That sounds like some philosophical garbage to me,” remarked Sam. “Truth is truth.”
Thotham laughed, the sound of his mirth bouncing around the giant, empty chamber. “Fair enough, but I didn’t just train you to be a warrior, I trained you to be a thinker.”
“Wasting time by twisting words and avoiding my questions is not thinking,” retorted Sam.
Her mentor rubbed his hand across his face and glanced toward the narthex, where she heard one of the priests beginning preparations for the day’s worship.
“I had a dream,” he said, evidently deciding that whoever was there was not yet entering the sanctuary. For the moment, they still had their privacy. “I dreamt that there was a growing darkness, but not from the Darklands, not the Coldlands, not from some unexplored piece of the world, but from within Enhover. I dreamt sorcery would regain a foothold here, and it would spread to encompass the world. I dreamt of the dead here and in the underworld, rising like a tide that swept over the living. In my dream, that balance between life and death, between maat and duat, was permanently broken. Was my dream true? I do not know.”
Sam sat back in the pew, her arms crossed under her breasts.
“Most prophecies are false, Samantha, but some are true. In my dream, a seed from the tree of darkness will be our salvation. I could feel the importance of that idea, then and now. I wish I knew what that meant.”
She scowled at him.
Undeterred, Thotham continued, “Others have dreamed other dreams. Others have claimed other prophecies. Did those prophets truly believe what they saw, or did they have doubts as I do? I do not know. I do not know if what I saw was merely an echo of some unknown fear I have inside of me or a reflection of the future. What I do know is that it felt true. It felt like I was seeing a possibility, a possibility of the end times, and because it felt true — and still does — I have dedicated my life to stopping it.”
“And my life, too,” complained Sam.
“And your life, too,” agreed Thotham. “Not fair, perhaps, to bring a girl of just ten winters into my world, to enlist you in responding to my dream, but I did.”
“You did.”
“I have no regrets, and I hope you have no sorrow. You missed having an ordinary life, but perhaps that is no great loss,” said Thotham, his violet eyes holding hers.
“I don’t know what I missed,” she said, her voice wavering. She drew a deep breath and brought herself under control.
“Life in the Church does not have to be as difficult as it is for us. The acolytes in the bishop’s church live comfortable lives, as long as they can avoid the worst of the priests. Your life was not easy, not easy at all. It had to be difficult, though, to make you what you are today, and I’m afraid, my girl, if you stay with this, it will not be getting any easier.”
“You want me to go to Archtan Atoll?” she guessed.
“All the clues lead us there,” he replied.
“Why do you not go?” she demanded. “If this is so important, you should be there.”
He shook his head. “I have other matters to attend to.”
“Other matters the bishop is directing you to?”
Thotham smirked. “The bishop does not direct me, but yes, he asked me to deal with something. I cannot travel to Archtan Atoll and do what he asked. There may come a day I will need to defy him, but I do not think it is today. Instead of directly refuting his authority, I will go behind his back. Specifically, you will go behind his back. Bishop Yates has no idea I am asking you to do this. It is my earnest hope he doesn’t even know who you are other than a name and a description on a report. We do not answer to that man. We answer only to the prelate, the cardinal, and the Council of Seven. There’s no need to remind the bishop of that until it is time.”
“The prelate hasn’t left the Church grounds in Ivalla in decades. The cardinal isn’t in Enhover and hasn’t been for years,” she argued, “and I’ve never seen the Council of Seven. No one else I’ve spoken to in this building acknowledges they even exist. All of these things you’ve told me… these things that no one else in the Church knows…”
“The bishop knows,” responded Thotham.
“Then why does he look at you like a mangy cur?” snapped Sam, letting the anger rise in her voice.
Her mentor laughed again. “He looks at me like a mangy cur because he knows.” Thotham stood from the pew and waved his hand around, gesturing to the giant hall that formed the sanctuary. “In here, in the administrative quarters, in this church complex, the bishop reigns. As long as the cardinal remains in the United Territories, there is no one he answers to. Except me. That, my girl, is why he hates me.”
She glared at her mentor, unsure if he was jesting with her.
“In the Church’s organization, the Council of Seven supersedes the authority of the cardinals. The Knives of the Council answer to no one but the council and the cardinals. The hierarchy of the Church, its rules, is its foundation. The Church is truth and order — maat — and that is the reason it exists as a guiding beacon for so many in this world. Life is unpredictable, but the Church is not. At least, that is what Bishop Yates and his ilk tell us. In our world, unseen by the masses, there is unpredictability and disorder, and we are meant to stop it. To do so, we cannot be restrained by bureaucrats and the chains of hierarchy. We must be free to act, so we are. We must be free to command resources, so we are. We must be free to ignore the restrictions placed on us by others, and we do. We, my girl, are why the ancient Church was formed.”
“That seems rather grand for a man who slept in a cell barely longer than he is tall,” commented Sam.
Thotham’s broad smile split his wrinkled face. “You will see, girl. You will see.”
“When?” she asked, keeping her arms crossed and tilting her head to convey her doubt.
“Soon, I think.”
“What are your instructions?” she asked, her voice clipped, her stare hard.
Thotham shook his head. “Maybe you were right. Maybe you are no longer my apprentice. Perhaps, like me, you are ready to be unbound. I will no longer command you, Samantha. You are free to do as you see fit.”
Her arms fell to her side and she looked at him uncertainly.
“You told me the clues lead to Archtan Atoll,” he hinted. “Do you want to pursue the thread and unravel this tapestry?”
“How would I even get there?”
“I should not have to tell you this, but I believe the easiest way would be to catch a ride with your new friend, the duke.”
“He’s going to the Westlands,” she muttered.
“Is he?”
“Is he?” she asked, pinning Thotham with another glare.
“He leaves for Archtan Atoll tomorrow,” answered her mentor. “If you want a ride, I would go about securing it this evening.”
The Cartographer V
“I’m still upset with you,” lilted Baroness Aria Child.
She kept her arm looped through his, but her lips were pursed in a tight pout. She lifted her chin, trying to look down on him even though he stood half a hand taller than the top of her upswept blond curls.
“You didn’t enjoy the performance?” asked Oliver. “I thought that man’s baritone was masterful, and the set pieces were beyond extravagant. Not even Bishop Yates had better seats than us.”
“The show was rather nice,” admitted the baroness. “I’m still upset, though, because you left before our last appointment so unexpectedly. Why, I had no time to arrange other plans and was forced to spend the evening dining with my sister. You can imagine what she spent
the entire meal talking about.”
Oliver winced.
Supporting the baroness, he led them down the carpeted marble stairs of the theatre, listening to the bubble of conversation as the general admissions let out behind them. It had been a spectacular performance and a pleasant dinner before that. During the show, they’d sat alone in Prince Philip’s box. He hadn’t misspoken when he said they were the best seats in the house. It was the best he had in his arsenal, truth be told, and if it didn’t please the baroness, there was simply no pleasing her.
“My sister claims the two of you got rather drunk.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“She said it made you… adventurous,” continued the girl, “even more so than usual.”
He coughed and focused on his footsteps. It wouldn’t do, a duke and a baroness tumbling down the stairs of Westundon’s premier theatre.
“Shall we get drunk, then?” pressed the baroness. “I’d hate to think you would do such a thing with my sister but not with me. It would make me feel, well, that you preferred her company. That isn’t true, is it?”
“No, of course not, Aria,” he mumbled. “Ah, you know I leave tomorrow, right? At dawn. There’s an airship already loaded and two score men will be waiting on me…”
“To Archtan Atoll, I know,” she said, stepping off the broad stairs, the heels of her shoes clicking on the glossy floor. She tugged him toward the towering, iron-framed glass doors of the theatre. “You should have a little fun tonight before you leave civilization.”
“I’m sure Winchester will fetch us a nice bottle or—”
“No,” she said, turning to face him. “I want you to take me out. Take me somewhere exciting, where I’ve never been. Get me drunk, and then have your way with me!”
Oliver flushed and hoped the approaching horde of well-dressed theatre goers descending the stairs behind them couldn’t hear the pretty blonde’s demands. Wondering if he was getting old, the duke reluctantly led the girl out the doors and took her past the line of waiting carriages.
“We’re… walking?”
“You wanted exciting, didn’t you?” he asked.
“I’m in heels,” she squealed as he stepped off the curb into the cobblestone street.
“We’re not going far,” he assured her. “If necessary, I’ll carry you.”
That quieted her down. He noted the sly smile on her lips and escorted her through traffic to a noisy pub across the street and half a block from the theatre. It was brightly lit and quickly filling with revelers who poured out of the show. Catering to the wealthy clientele of the theatre, it was likely the cleanest pub in all of Westundon, but he hoped the baroness wouldn’t know that. He was counting on the hope that neither of Baron Child’s twins had ever seen anything resembling the inside of a public pub before.
The crowd parted unconsciously as individuals saw who he was. With little effort, he led Aria through the packed room and found an open table on a raised dais that was normally home to musicians when it wasn’t a night of the theatre. From the table, they could look out over the crowd and see through the tall windows that lined the front of the shop.
He deposited her at the table and was about to turn to elbow to the bar and order drinks when he looked down and saw Aria lean back in her chair, stretching her body cat-like. Her full-red lips were curved in a lascivious smile, contrasting with the milk-white shoulders that peeked into view as she let her shawl slide down. Her breasts were well-supported and half-exposed in the form-fitting gown she wore.
Sighing, he turned and waved toward the bar. The place likely didn’t have table service, but he was a duke, and it only took a moment for a barman to come scurrying out to their table.
Settling himself across from the baroness, Oliver ordered, “Two white… You know what? Bring us a bottle of your best sparkling wine. Chilled, please, and with clean glasses.”
“Of course, m’lord,” said the man, proffering a deep bow before rushing away.
The bottle arrived and, a turn of the clock later, a second one.
They proceeded to get drunk.
Oliver was certain that even if she’d never been in a proper pub, it wasn’t the first time the baroness had been drunk. She and her twin were no innocents, and he could attest they’d snatched plenty of quick glasses of wine at the palace balls. But, it may have been the first time Baroness Aria Child had been so publicly scandalous.
As the glasses emptied and a third bottle arrived, she grew downright wanton. Her subtle hints became slurred vulgar demands. Her tongue licked her parted lips, and more than once, Oliver had to push a stockinged foot from his lap. He hoped she hadn’t lost her shoes already.
He begged her to leave and accompany him back to his rooms in the palace, but the girl was having too much fun being the center of attention. Resigned to his fate and pleasantly humming from the drink, he waved to the barman again. If they were going to do it, they might as well do it right.
Oliver’s mind, moving slow, weaved between eagerness to get the girl somewhere private where he could ravish her and nervousness about what would happen if Baron Child heard rumors of one of his twins making such a display. Certainly, the baron was aware of the girls’ amorous natures and likely encouraged it. Encouraged it in private, at least. The girls’ prospects were higher if they were believed to be chaste.
The two girls were amongst the most beautiful members of Westundon’s peerage, and Oliver had no doubt the baron planned to use them to climb the rung to Viscount, or even Earl, with a powerful liaison. Eyeing the girl across the table from him and meeting her sultry smile, he wondered if that would be such a bad bargain.
“Duke,” said a voice, slicing through the haze. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Aren’t you supposed to be leaving in… three turns of the clock?”
He looked up and blinked. Sam was standing there, her tight leather trousers, fitted vest, and kris daggers marking a stark contrast to the gowned and suited opera patrons that crowded around them.
“Can you be in here armed?” he slurred.
She frowned at him. “They haven’t kicked me out yet. Do you think you are going to make your flight this morning? I need a ride to Archtan Atoll, and I’m told your airship is the fastest way to get there.”
“Who is this, Oliver?” asked the baroness, leaning forward and placing a hand on his arm.
“She’s… she’s a… she works for the Church. She’s a priestess,” he muttered, letting the baroness clutch his one arm while he poured two more glasses of fiery spirits with his other.
He frowned at the tiny glasses he’d just filled. Hadn’t they been drinking wine?
He turned to Sam. “I’m rather busy right now. Can we discuss this later?”
The baroness scraped her chair around the side of the table, keeping one hand on the duke, her eyes on Sam. Evidently, she suspected a rival.
Oliver downed the glass of liquor he’d just poured and decided it wasn’t his first of the night. They had been drinking wine, he was certain, but he vaguely recalled switching to something stronger several drinks back.
That probably had not been a good idea.
Beside him, Aria shifted closer. Wine or liquor, he supposed so far it was working out well. He’d been worried when Sam arrived that the baroness would get angry and make a scene. She wasn’t angry, though in a moment, they would be making a scene. It seemed instead of words she’d chosen to mark her territory with her flesh. Cuddling next to the duke, she pressed her body against his side and moved a hand under the table, drifting up his thigh.
His eyes widened, and Sam grinned at him.
“We need to talk,” she said. “Why don’t you take her upstairs and handle this situation? I walked up there looking for you and saw there are booths with curtains. I’ll wait.”
“You’re suggesting…” he mumbled.
“Duke,” advised Sam, “even you are going to get tossed out of this place if you let her keep
going on like that.”
He squeaked as Baroness Aria found her target and rubbed her hand across it. His mind churned slowly, thoughts rushing away as blood fled his head, flowing to another part of his anatomy. He asked Sam, “Upstairs?”
Sam nodded, and Oliver stood, adjusting himself awkwardly as Sam watched. The baroness clung to him, hanging tighter to his hip than his belt.
The priestess took a seat at their table and tossed back the drink Oliver had poured for the baroness. He saw her pour two more as he stumbled through the crowd, Aria trailing him, her hands pawing at him.
He nearly made good on his earlier promise and half-carried her up the stairs, the babble of the crowd like the roar of the ocean below them.
At the top of the stairs, an attendant stood ready to direct patrons to the chairs and booths that clustered along a quiet balcony. It was open to the room below, giving it a social feel, but it was private, and Oliver belatedly realized he should have taken the baroness upstairs in the first place.
No time to think about it, though, as the attendant glanced up and said, “I’m sorry, sir. We are closing down for the… Are you… Ah, this way, m’lord.”
The baroness gave the duke a mischievous grin and tugged on the front of her dress, nearly pulling it down and giving him an eyeful. He caught her wrist and led her after the attendant.
The man ushered them to a booth in the back corner and, red-faced, yanked the curtain closed the moment Oliver slid in, and the baroness climbed in on top of him.
She pushed him back down in the booth, straddling him, kissing him fiercely. Unlike her sister who was playful and experimental after a few drinks, Aria was demanding and determined. Oliver wasn’t ravishing her. Rather, he was being ravished, he realized.
It wasn’t such a bad circumstance.
He lay back as the baroness rode him, her top pulled down, her skirts hiked up. Her lips were parted, and she rocked frantically. His hands roved her body, finding and rubbing her sensitive bits, eventually focusing on the one between her legs. His hips moving in time with her, and in what felt like moments, she gasped and shuddered, tremors cascading through her.