The Melody of Three: (Evercharm Trilogy): Epic Fantasy by S.D. Reeves ➱ Promotional Tour with Giveaway
Chapter 29
Black. A
whistle in an adjacent room startles Rein, and his chin slips underneath his
hand. He is just able to catch himself before his face hits a hard, rough— “Table.”
The
word croaks out of him. His mouth is dry, lips cracked. He raises his hand to
his face. Everything is a blur of gray, but slowly blobs of color merge into
vague shapes. The taste in his mouth gets an adjective here, too: “Bitter.”
Grey-Black. “I
need a drink,” he says, wiping his eyes. Crust flakes off in large chunks.
“Tea
still needs time to steep.”
“Very
kind of you, Sofie,” Reins says. Sofie? His
head turns too fast, and by the time the rest of him catches up, he’s already
on the floor. White shoes appear. White shoes, a semi-white dress, only two
streaks of red in the form of ribbons breaking the line. The Inspector tries
his best to stand, but his legs go one way, his head another, and his eyes end
up staring at the floor once more.
Weakly,
he asks: “Steep? Tea?”
“Yes,”
she says. “Steep, cook, brew—” Sofie’s voice pipes like a tit that found the
sunflower seeds in the birdfeeder. “Boil!”
The
hem of her dress cuts the air as she spins, spins, then settles to the ground
in front of Rein. A pretty face, scratching at the mid-twenties, looks back. Young?
“Double,
double toil and trouble,” she whispers. “Fire burn and caldron bubble.”
“Sofie?”
She’s
wearing long gloves, white and black. Rein squints, his vision swinging back
and forth. Black fingers press against his lips in a quick “Shhh.”
“Have
you gone mad?”.
Her
smile straightens. “No, but you’re drugged. Of course, you’re still boring.”
Two
of the legs in the chair are loose, and it gives Rein poor support in his
effort to stand. “I am a ranking member of the Princeps Inspectorum, and a lead
investigator.”
Sofie
stands, curtseys, and mouths, “boring,” with the white glove.
“I’ve
been chased out of Liverpool in a bathtub.”
A
look of consideration rolls across her features. “Sounds like the Rein I know;
stupid, and—” The black hand dips, lowering itself to his face just as he
reaches her midriff. “Boring.”
“Elves
stir, and I fear something worse is about.”
“So
you decided trespassing was a good idea, after what you tried? And since the
former is illegal, I am well within my rights to bury you in my garden.”
Rein
wrinkles his nose, unsure if that is true of English law. She continues while
he ponders.
“You lured me in with the talk of ancient
knowledge, then tried to bind my mind. You wanted to make me duller than you.”
Rein
squints. “Well, obviously that did not work, so—”
“So
it’s the intent,” she says. “If I am supposed to appreciate the lousy gifts,
then I am within my rights to be peeved over betrayal.”
“You
were far too concerned with quick progress,” Rein says. “And not enough with
the dangers of consorting with ruinous powers.”
In
the center of the room is a large pot. Rein watches Sofie tiptoe up to the edge
and peak in. She speaks to him out of the side of her mouth. “That’s an excuse.
You just didn’t like being bettered by a woman.”
Every
so often she pokes and prods at the contents “Peas pottage hot?” She asks. “Or
peas pottage cold?”
Sofie
flashes a coy smile. “Peas pottage hot, “shoving a bowl filled with green mash
into his hands.
When
Rein thought it couldn’t get worse, she drops a spoon into the questionable
concoction, and talks on and on again. “Or did you think I was going to make a
stew out of you? That’d be a waste; no one to feed except my cats. And I love
my cats.” Sofie splits a heft of dark bread and pushes it towards him. “So,
elves?”
“Yes,”
he says softly. “I’m investigating the appearance of two, though I am afraid I
have lost their trail.” Rein then tries to lean in menacingly, but the only
thing in danger are his clothes from the bowl. “I was driven from Liverpool
before I could plan. The Forum Magicae is overrun.”
“By
elves?” The sound of her spoon scraping is slightly more annoying than the
smell of nine-day old legumes. “That’s nonsense.”
“No.
Demons—” And when he sees Sofie about to laugh, he adds: “The ancient powers
left between Construct and the ruins of creation.”
“You’re
being awful…” Sofie stalls and uses spoon to spell out the next word. “Open.”
The utensil bounces around the lip of the bowl as she drops it back in. “Don’t
you want to know how I broke that curse of yours?”
Before
he can answer, she adds: “I’m not going to tell you, of course.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says with a sigh. “I
need to investigate the prison at Tara, if I am to have any hope of tracking
these elves.” This time the Inspector doesn’t embarrass himself as he comes
closer. “No one knows their kind better than you. If we combine our skills and
link our magics, I think we will have them.”
She
balks. “You want me to do that with you? You’re
mad.”
“There’s
more,” Rein says. “I…well. May need some help recovering my assistant.”
“Recover?”
Slowly. “Recov—You killed him.” Her empty bowl clanks against his full one, as
she slides it across the table towards him.
“These
things happen in my line of work. Will you help me?”
Sofie
pulls off the black glove and tosses it behind her. For a moment, she sits,
tapping the table. Then her drumming slows, until there are several seconds
between taps. One. Two. She stiffens and shifts her shoulders. “No.”
“More’s
at stake than your anger at me,” he says.
“England?
The world? Your Curators? That stupid hat you still wear?” she says. “Maybe
things would be better with the elves in control.”
“Elves?
You know full well they aren’t the little winged sprites that the English like
to drool on about, when they aren’t chasing their milk maids or their cows. I
can never tell the difference. But elves—” He is feeling the rant building in
his bones and beating it down with a shimmy of his jowls. “They are a rigid
people, with traditions and rules for every bit of nonsense that make the
French court seem quaint. They are absolutely boring.”
Sofie
smiles curtly. “What about wars? The diseases, the poverty?”
“We’d
still have them,” he says. “Elves are a wondrous race. Their cruelty, their
alien minds, are all wonders to behold. We’d be no more, or in fact less than
blades of grass in their world.” Rein tries to lift his head here, to meet her
gaze, but he is still too weak. “On a more practical side, they aren’t known to
consort with greater spirits. They do not like to ally with beings of equal
status either. Anything that they cannot control invites trouble, or chaos.
Chaos goes against their nature.”
Sofie
leans back into her chair, and Rein takes this as a cue to continue talking.
“Therefore, It would be more likely that men are involved, somehow.”
“Who?”
she asks. “And why?”
“Cultists?”
Rein makes a movement with his hand, as if measuring the thought. “Most are
nothing more than little twits who could never challenge the Curatorium, much
less overrun it. Who then? Someone I don’t know? Or maybe someone we have
merely forgotten about.”
“There
are powers that have lived a long time in the void,” he adds. “And ancient
exiles. I need to figure out what is at play here — who is working with whom,
or this series of unfortunate events can be considered coincidence.”
“Not
my circus,” she says. “Not my monkey.”
The
woman’s raised eyebrow loads a memory into Rein’s pistol-like mind. And as most
weapons of the time, it takes a while to prime. In these moments, he manages to
stand, turn ninety degrees to one side, then look back at her dramatically.
“Whatever knowledge you have scraped from the muck of your garden cannot
compare to the library available to Artisans. You are just rummaging through
the garbage left for the hogs.”
“Does
this have a point, or is this a leadup to get me to read Radcliffe?”
“I
know how to pass between worlds,” he says. “I know the song needed to enter the
Fairhome, and from there, any door can be opened.”
There
is a glint in her eyes. And Rein reaches for it. “I will give this to you, and
more if you help me.”
“You
are desperate,” she says in a quick exhale. “You drop promises like my brother
does shoes. Why should I listen to you?”
“Because
I will teach it to you, here,” he says, pushing the bowls to the side. “Now.”
Even
in his weakened state, his mastery of the occult shows. Each word, each piece
of the song rolls with power and force. But this is more than a simple spell.
Here is a song, woven by the three races, that endures with them. There is no
traditional Étincelle, a physical component touched by the mage’s
understanding of magic, and connection with the immaterial. The Forme
twists in the practitioner’s mind and requires more than Rein can summon. It is
the barrier to entry; the lifeforce needed for men to cross over was meant to protect
against random incursion. One aspect of the classical magical structure is
present, and the Mort relieves the stress upon the Inspector, allowing
him to crumple back into the chair.
All the while,
Sofie looks upon down on him with one quizzical eyebrow. He can’t help but to
search her features. Looking for a bit of familiarity. Friendliness. This leads
to some mistakes in his retelling; which he is sure she catches. For his
purposes, though, Rein is unsuccessful. The inspector collapses in mid repeat.
“It’s done, I’m
done,” Rein whispers. “Do you have any brandy?”
“No. Do you have
your assistant’s remains?”
Slowly, and with a
fragility that for once hints at the Inspector’s true age, he passes the vial
to Sofie. “Then our bargain—”
“I never agreed to
anything,” she says.
The vial glows an
unhealthy green between her fingers, and the light shining over her face makes
Rein quail. He reaches, weakly, out to her hand, but is pushed away like a
small child.
“Do you really think throwing a few mouldy
phrases at me will do it?” Undertones of anger shatter an almost statuesque
performance. “You’re still the same pompous, ignorant, selfish fool.” Her hands
tremble as they reach out towards Rein, as if to strangle him, then withdraw
halfway. “You abandoned me. You can’t mend that with a few words. I’ll decide
when and if I trust you.”
“They are here,”
he gasps. “The demons have followed me to Meath.”
“Good for you.”
Then, softly: “I will think on it.” She moves towards the Inspector and places
her hand upon his brow. “But tonight, sleep. Cadal nis.”
Rein leans back,
eyebrow inching up quizzically. “What did you hope that would do?”
A serious glare
from Sofie peels off into a laughter that seems to roll out in waves. She steps
back and tilts her head. “Never can get the precise dosage right.”
“Dosage?” Rein
wavers, wipes the sweat from his brow. “The peas?”
“Maybe,” she says.
Rein’s stomach
twists, and clenches. His face and arms are now sticky with sweat. Sofie
ignores his following howl of pain and pushes him aside, letting the Artisan to
fall to the floor.
“Peas pottage puts
you on the pot. For nine days long.”
Chapter 30
Morning. Awful,
bright, and Klere, arrives at the
appropriate time; too damn early for Rein. The vagabond rays reach him under
the table, playing off the colours of his last meal, as if such could be
poetic. It’s not. And no inner narration can make what the Inspector did to his
pants heroic.
There are spells,
hacked together, for cleanliness. Incantations for health. Many of these are
used by the orderly Cultist, to varying degrees of success. Yet these take life
force to work the Forme, and the Inspector is rather dehydrated.
“Clean yourself up,” Sofie says, laying a bowl
of water at his head. “I’m putting you and the cats out.”
“You are just
going to cast me aside?” He looks to the door instinctively, seeing a trio of
felines there pawing, rubbing on the trim. When they notice him, their mewing
becomes a chorus, giving Rein a triumphant melody for his attempts at standing.
“Do you want your
lackey back or not?” Sofi shifts her hips and walks towards the cats.
The front door
swings open and the mewing stops, leaving Rein midway to standing without any
accompaniment. His shoulders relax from relief, which nearly topples him. After
a moment, he succeeds in lifting his head. She moves, and returns to rest
against a windowsill with an eyebrow raised as if expecting what the Inspector
may say next. But he remains quiet. This is the first time he has seen her,
fully, in over fifty years. Like he, Sofie has not aged a day. Between the awe
of seeing his former lover standing there ageless, and the fear of what this
represents, he forgets where and when he is. “Would you care to dance?”
Sofie bounces
forward in a laugh that is half scoffing and half surprise. “There’s a basket
outside,” she says, amusement draining out of her face. “It’s a long walk to
Teaghmorreagh.”
“Do not repeat
that name,” he chides. “Call it Liathdruim, or Tara.”
Beyond the door,
birds and a warm day preen, and as he makes his way past the threshold the
Inspector turns to Sofie only to have her look away. On the doorstep there is a
basket, partially harassed by the cats. When he bends down to pick it up, the
door closes behind him. Locks bolt when he stands. Before him, the garden
obscures the countryside like an open fan, but Rein is certain he has a full
morning, and afternoon of walking. Southeast
from here, and a castle marks the ascent. The same he saw from the road
upon arriving near Lismullin.
Wind picks up after crossing over a narrow mound that
separates Sofie’s land from another’s. The Inspector scratches his chin,
searching the terrain now that there is plenty of light. Homegrown paths lead
out and away. A few are promising.
Grass ripples,
the smell of barley touches him, and he looks up and west to trace the
direction of the wind. There, as he pauses, he can hear horses neighing. From
the commotion he would say they are close, but he can see no stable or barn.
Only Sofie’s cottage marks the land between here and perhaps the next mile.
Rein closes his eyes. Unseasonably warm air from the
west caresses his hair, blowing a single strand across his nose. I need a haircut, he thinks, breaking
his concentration. The Inspector huffs and blows the lock away from his face,
then tries again. The quiet this time takes him. Smells of the fields, of
tilled earth, of beats of labour, fade. The sound of horses, the whip of long
grass and wheat, dies. A hum encroaches upon him. The Inspector pivots towards
where he thinks the neighing might have come. The hum also retreats, replaced
by splash of colour against the background of his shut eyelids. Rein reaches
out, pushing in that direction with his will, his mind. The colours form a
pattern, then a shape. He frowns.
“She’s cast an obscura,” he says. She’s etched it on the land itself. The significance hits him in
the gut, so that the next statement, “and made it a permanent scar,” is hoarse,
and lost.
He
swallows. But she has not learned to hide
everything.
It is hard for him to leave the shadow of the
spell work. To abandon his assistant to her. But he does, even though this
concern follows him to the next field and beyond, where he finally joins the
path instead of trampling through a farmer’s livelihood.
“She’s
grown,” he says. The ground is much firmer than the muddy hell it was the night
before, but in the lower places there is still some treachery to be found. One
such hole nearly takes his shoe. Rein shimmies his leg from the sting.
“Though
if I had studied only the old ways, and not spent so much time traveling and
hunting Cultists, I would be just as knowledgeable.” Rein sighs. “I’ll note in
my journal the time and place. It will be interesting to see how long it takes
me to believe that.”
Rich
farmland swallows the hill of Tara, and the approach is slow because of this.
Within another two hours of navigating property lines, and other obstacles,
Rein manages to ascend to the primary hill from which the area receives its
name. Beyond, the land is flat, and on a clear day it would be easy to see all
the way to Navan. Today is not such a day. The westward wind has shifted and
blows from the opposite side. Rain threatens, but for now the sky is resigned
to remain veiled and angry. Thunder bays in the distance.
To
verify elves have broken free, he will need to find the signs of their passage.
To and from, if the rumors are correct.
And he doesn’t have to search far. The fruits of the craft are present
everywhere. Rein kneels close to the ruins of an old church. “It’s so complex,”
he says, referring to the spells woven by the Curators. I can feel the Construct’s power touching every blade of grass. He
staggers. The influence of the ancient Artisans works on his nerves, as if
trying to push him away.
Rein
rolls and pops his neck. The power of the prison needles at his senses. And in
this edge, where the instinct to leave is painful, he takes a deep breath and
closes his eyes. The rush of forms, of lines, and the strength of this land’s
connection to the Construct hits him like ice water. He gasps and forces in
another hard breath, shutting his eyelids tighter.
Under
an aura of power, thick and swirling with currents more dangerous than any
tidal flow, he plunges mentally. Lines — and a leyline — ancient and skillfully
made begat this sea of magic. And the approach is treacherous. Sweat rolls down
his face, and the taste of blood is upon his lips. Rein breathes in slow,
rhythmic huffs, hoping to ready himself for another push. But his body
trembles, his bones ache, and there is a sound from outside that yanks him from
his meditation.
“Horse,”
he says weakly. A similar visual distortion as before, back in Sofie’s cottage,
takes effect. He leans and looks towards the main road just as a blur of
movement crests. There is a flash of light, a trail of vivid splotches, and a
shape writhing like an oncoming thundercloud. Rein wipes his eyes, but even
before she speaks, he recognizes Sofie. She rides sidesaddle, and splendidly
so.
“Fool,”
she says, the whip of her dress hiding and then revealing sunlight in a game of
make-Rein-blink as she dismounts. “I’d ask if you could be any more reckless,
but halfwits like you take that as a challenge.”
The
Inspector spits on the end of his undershirt sleeve, and dabs again at his
eyes. “My inspection requires haste.”
A
lock of Sofie’s long black hair breaks free as she shakes her head. Rein can
now see she is wearing a gray riding dress — the thundercloud from earlier —
with a short jacket of military cut. Soft, rosy cheeks play against a muslin
chemisette, and the edges of a man’s undershirt poke out. On her head is a top
hat, and here he sees the storm touching her movements, as if she has ridden in
with it.
“You
could easily have been killed,” she growls. “Rushing in without knowing a damn
thing about anything? So typical.”
A
black strap hits him, which he can only guess are the reins. The Inspector
steps back, narrowly missing a bell from the swinging leather. He opens his
mouth to speak, but Sofie’s voice knifes his.
“I’ve
been studying this area for nearly all my life. And you think you can just
start digging without protection, or even a plan?”
A
memory of an equally angry, younger Sofie surfaces. She had been his second
choice for a dance that night, and it didn’t sit well. Rein temples his
fingers. “There is no time for—”
“Choose
your distraction: this, or a funeral. Even the lesser works of your Curators
are protected,” she says. “What idiot would think their greatest wouldn’t be?
The traps here will split your soul like an apricot.”
“If
they yet function.”
She
pushes past him, horse following. The look she throws at him as she does is
contemptuous. Rein follows, and they move away from the church ruins and many
of the other monuments, stopping only to tie the horse. Sofie takes them to a
small patch of grassy land. There is nothing distinct about the area, and the
signs Miss Van Couraden sees are not clear to Rein. But he waits, and in time
she turns and addresses him in her usual manner.
“The
Curators did not route every leyline directly to the Construct,” she says. “One
remains here, and their spell work is lashed to it. I am told it touches the
bigger work, so that if it is broken, they would know immediately. The flow of
true magic is greatest here, and their control the weakest.”
“And
you plan for me to use it how — as some sort of canal, or river?”
“Sometimes
you prove to be less dim than I give you credit for,” she says. “Yes, you are
going to sail around the battlements and hope for an easier landing.”
“But
you don’t have a boat, so I fail to—”
“And
then you go and say things like that.” A small bag that he missed earlier
appears from under her arm. She tosses it down to the ground, near Rein’s feet.
“I am going to armor you with protections and provide directions that even you
can follow. With luck, you’ll get past the first defenses. It’s all up to you,
after.”
“Wait,”
Rein says. “Unless something’s changed, you have no connection to the
Construct. How did you manage this?”
“You
aren’t the only Artisan, you know?” The coy, disarming smile that stole his
heart so long ago returns. “There have been other collaborations. Jealous?”
“No.”
Yes. Fear and doubt unsettle him. He
swallows. “I think I can manage my own protections well enough.”
“Like
you did before? Another moment and you would have been feeding the grass.”
Rein
crosses his arms. “You lack any sense of tact; that has always been your
failing.” The Inspector straightens and picks at hairs on his jacket. “Your
help has been most welcome, but I will take over.”
“And
being a stubborn, obstinate mule every time you get your feelings hurt is
yours. You asked for my help.”
“And
you have provided it,” he says forcefully. Rein turns, as if to inspect the
clearing. He nods, absently, then makes to craft a ward in the ground. Sofie,
though, is quicker — and every time he bends over, she is there with her own
implements.
“What
are we, children?” he asks.
Yet
she ignores the comment and continues her own work. Rein watches her move from Étincelle
to Mort skillfully and can’t help but feel admiration for the breadth of
her knowledge. And jealousy of her
skill.
With
the first set of wards in place, she curtseys to Rein and says: “The keel of
your boat is laid, milord,” then cocks her head while rising. “But there’s more
to do to make it sea-worthy. Why don’t you return to my house and get your
friend? I will keep working here.”
“Higgins?
He’s alive?”
She
smiles. “By the time you get back, he should be fully brewed.”
There
is a bounce in Rein’s step that wasn’t there a moment earlier. “Magnificent, I
will just fetch the horse and—”
“No.”
Her face and tone return to the stone she is apparently made of. “You will walk.”
“It
will be evening then before I am back.”
And
just as quickly as they came, the stony features leave. Again, there is an
almost joyful pulse to her voice. “Till this evening, then, Mister De Rein.”
“I—”
Rein, mouth open like a seal waiting for a fish, turns and storms away. Between
the mound where the Stone of Destiny was moved after the 1798 Insurrection and
the lip of land leading to the main road, a crash of thunder makes him lift his
head to the sky.
“You
better jesting.” One. He grimaces. Two, three, four drops of rain hit his face
in quickening fashion.
“Oh,
and Rein?”
He
spins on his heels in a slow, grinding arc.
“There
should be some parsnips I prepared earlier, bread, cheese — and can you be so
kind as to bring brandy from the cellar? You and Higgins can carry it in a
basket, you’ll find it near the fireplace.”
Rein snorts, then turns his attention back to
the road. One foot in front of the other. One, two drops of rain against a
dampening forehead. The ground travels by without notice while the droplets
splatter. And the Inspector this time forgets the count of meters, or even
miles. Or the unnatural length of the shadows that pass around him.
He
also forgets that he can make an umbrella.
Chapter 31
Of
all the wonders in the halls of the Forum Magicae, few were greater, to Rein’s
mind, than the knowledge kept in its archives. It was a place frequented by him
and the other members of the Inspectorum Princeps. His lot had free rein —
because to catch the enemy, you had to know their ways and magic. Upon
reflection, this might now include him. Things change.
In reflection, specifically
in the window of Sofie’s cottage, he sees a tired, young face: his own. A lamp
spell gleams just behind him, illuminating the way, and sets his jaw and high
cheekbones in eerie contrasting light.
Rein
tilts his head, considering, hesitating. All those years tracking down the
worst of the Cultists and I’ve never had
a look at any of them. They were just jobs, challenges to overcome. Nor had
he even spoken to the Necromancers who brought others, like Higgins on many
occasions, back to life. They were a strange lot, and heretical.
Maybe the other Artisans thought the
same of me. The door to her house is unlocked. At his
feet a trio of cats wait expectantly, their meows the only sound other than his
pacing. Rein pats his chest, where he keeps the few remaining pages of his
grimoire. So, I am a heretic. The
door to Sofie’s cottage creaks, opening. Night has made its home in the room,
deep and unsettling.
“Am
I even doing this for the Curatorium anymore?”
A
thousand questions burble around in the back of his head. Stirring, bumbling —
accompanied by many adverbs — but the eager cries of the felines and their
obnoxious pacing dominate.
“All
right, all right.” He throws his hands up. “House cats, fi. Where does she keep
your dinner?”
On
the table? No. On the stove, in the
pantry? In the cupboards. Fish. He
heard somewhere that cats like fish, and as luck would have it, Sofie was
soaking some salted cod. Rein tosses the pan and its contents onto a counter
top and returns to scour a cabinet.
The
Teamor must be stopped, he thinks with a slam of the cupboard
door. “I will deal with the rest later.” Pots rattle back an answer as
Rein paws through the kitchen. “No, first— “Dishes, dishes, dishes, oh.
He
made the mistake of leaving the fish unattended.
“And
at least I’ll be left alone for a while.” Rein moves, then stops at a cellar
door. “Probably bother me again when I’m on the chamber pot.”
He exhales. The kitchen is full of fragrance
from the flowers Sofie must have cut from her garden earlier. Lavender, roses,
flowering sweet peas. Though it is not yet full spring and nowhere near summer.
“How did she grow them?” The answer is clearly: more magic.
Everywhere
in this place she has woven spells, he suspects. The Inspector falls quiet,
listening to the house groan, moan, and — Stumble?
Higgins. She
must have prepared him, down in her cellar. Grizzly daydreams of witches, their
brews, and the awful experiments tied to them in legend prick his mind, causing
him to shiver. Rein places his hand on the iron latch of the cellar door. It
opens with little effort, revealing a set of wooden stairs.
Shadows
cascade on the stairwell walls unnaturally. Rein jerks back, laying his hand
upon the door behind. He finds nothing, save the way open, which he promptly
closes. Below, he can hear a moaning
“Hello,”
Rein says shakily. “Higgins?”
After
several moments a hoarse voice answers, and Rein’s chest heaves forward in a
gasp. Twelve steps are conquered in a second and he is smacked with the view of
an open laboratory. Light blast him in the face like a shot from a blunderbuss
as it reflects off every vial, beaker and other glass instruments. The
Inspector reels and rubs his eyes. When his sight adjusts, he is almost blinded
a second time.
“Rotzak,”
he cries. “Put some damn clothes on, will you?”
Upon
an apparatus that looks more like a mold for lead sits a confused Higgins. He
is wearing a lady’s bonnet and a scarf, but nothing else. There is a pair of
pants in his left hand which he seems to be pondering over intensely. When Rein
addresses him, he stands up and mumbles something intelligible.
“I
have to do everything, naturally,” the Inspector sighs. Clothes in Higgins’
sizes are willed into being, as he taps the power of the Construct. In this
moment, Higgins’ dreamlike stupor sharpens, and he leaps off the strange device
where he’d been sitting. At first Rein takes it as recognition of the clothing
he’d crafted, and a good, decent, Englishman’s — and his assistant is the only
one he will admit to liking — preference for general modesty.
But
then Higgins speaks: “You fool, they’ll see, they’ll know!”
Rein
squints. “Who?”
The
answer comes in a series of screams and screeches from upstairs. Higgins rushes
past the Inspector to shut the door. His face is white, paler than pall, and he
shrinks from Rein and contact.
“You’ve
brought them here,” he says, taking the clothing offered. “This will be our
tomb.”
Prowling
noises from above join in with a haunting tone that envelops the cellar. The
Inspector grabs Higgins by the shoulder but the assistant flinches from the
touch and pushes him towards a desk.
“Put
that chair against the door,” Rein says. The sounds of nails on tile, as if a
large dog is walking on the floor above with unclipped nails, begins.
“Good,
good,” Rein adds distractedly. “Now the sack of potatoes. And, Higgins? Could
you—”
Cracking
wood at the door gets them to quickly barricade it with an assortment of
vegetables and small furniture. Higgins, his weight against the stacks, adds
his howl to the chaos.
“Quick
man, think. Can you still see to the other side? How many of them are there?”
The
assistant bites his thumb as potatoes thump the floor. One. Two. “Enough.”
With
his hand against the door, the Inspector can feel the tremble and bulging of
the wood. His words flow between spell crafting and conversation. Finally, a
mishmash of wards is linked together, and the door stops shaking. Rein looks to
his assistant. “They will hold,” he says, his timbre rising. “The barrier must
hold.”
“We
can’t guard the walls, door, and the roof.”
“No,”
Rein wheezes. The tone circling the cellar grows clearer, louder. Both
recognize it for what it is: a chant. Higgins shimmies off the table to grab a
small rod from a batch of hazel in the corner.
“Lord, should I fight or—? “
A
clawed hand reaches through a gap in the door. The ground trembles, jostling
both, but sending the Inspector to one knee.
“Keep quiet,” Higgins says.
Or is escape still an option?
He doesn’t have a bucket. There are no windows here.
“Solna—”
The
start of a spell tears the Inspector’s attention from the door. He stares at
his assistant as if a walrus just waddled up to him and asked for a cup of tea.
“Solna
nea, Oran cruchaid, an beath.”
Blood
drips from a puncture wound on Higgins’ hand, onto the hazel rod. And wherever
the ichor touches, a brilliant white light erupts. “Stand back.”
The
door shatters. Chairs scrape and scuff as a terrible force pushes inward.
“Have
you gone mad?” Rein barks. “I’ve never heard of this spell.”
“It is remembered only by the dead.”
Arms
now crawl over the refuse. Things that pass for hands, and hands that are so
shriveled they might as well be claws, threaten to overrun them. A solitary
potato sack still lying on the side is rent open.
“Solna
nea, Oran cruchaid, an beath.”
The
hand movements, the repeated intervals of foot positioning. The strange,
primitive words. They all come together to make Higgins look as if he is
practicing some new sort of interpretive dance, instead of a spell. Even as
vegetables spill out one by one.
“Solna
nea, Oran cruchaid, an beath.” The flames brighten,
swirl in deadly arcs ahead of his wand.
Yet
the terrors barely relent, keeping only out of range of the light’s tendrils.
The Inspector is forced to huddle against his friend, as their boots crunch
over broken refuse. Up. Echoing on wooden stairs. Up, through the door. Even as
the unearthly chanting seeks to wrap around them like a blanket. Up, up. As
glints of teeth and appendages alternate between smoke and solid form.
“This
spell won’t last forever, and then what?” Higgins whispers and turns his head
only slightly. “Will our souls be devoured right as we reach the commons of
Lismullin?”
“We’ll
make for Tara,” Rein says, taking control. “Sofie is there, and she can aid us.”
A
hoarse laugh is the response, but the Inspector continues, pressing his face
close to the right ear of his assistant. “We’ll make for her stable and steal a
horse or two. That should give us time.”
“We’re
relying on the charity of your former lovers to save our skins?” Higgins’ guts
growl, as if he’s summoning something other than courage.
“Let’s press forward to the stables, by God,”
Higgins bellows.
Up
the last of the stairs, Rein’s friend pushes bravely, fiercely. Through the
threshold, into the main hall where the stars can reach him. Higgins’ nerves
appear to waver with each step.
“What
would your Sir Author Wellesley do?” Rein says. “Think of him.”
“He’d
run off to his tent and drink coffee,” Higgins answers. “And let you die for
him.”
“Maybe
you should think of Lord Nelson.”
Night
air, and the moon lies behind a twisting line of smoke and terror. Higgins
drives into it, at times growling, at times screaming. The chanting is joined
now with a mad sort of chattering that threatens to swallow them whole. Trees,
flowers, and shrubbery all look alike in the gloom. And feel so. Every scrape
of a branch, each tickle from a leaf, invokes shouting and cursing from the
two. Until it seems like there is little more of either to give.
Rein
strays too far from the protective light, and one of the shriveled beings takes
a swipe at his exposed leg. He cries out, calling for his friend, who reaches
back. Together, moving as one, they enter the garden’s middle yard.
“Hold!”
The Inspector kneels. Blisters mark the wound. Rein leans on his assistant,
searching for the path to the stables, returning to the light each time.
“Damn,”
he gasps. He lowers his head, and whispers into his friend’s ear. “The path is
here; I will steer us.”
The
aura holding the tide back buckles. Higgins shrinks further as Rein grits his
teeth. But the creatures are still testing the barrier. And the creatures now
are testing both their spirits. Using his assistant like a crutch, Rein urges
his assistant along.
Demonic
things leer from an oak’s branches. Eyes, lighting up like twisted stars amidst
the foliage. The two partners pass warily, the glow from Higgins’ makeshift
wand flooding the lower leaves, making the whole thing appear alien. From here
Rein pushes his friend right, left. To a wall. Against a small iron gate, and
beyond. The creatures chant, the creatures chatter. Yet no attempts are made
against the spell again. Together they inch towards the stable.
“They’ll
be upon us as soon as we mount,” Higgins says.
"That
can be taken so many ways,” Rein says in a pained laugh, reaching for where the
door should be. Wood. Wood. Wood. Aha. A
slight smile teases his lips, as he lays his hand on an iron latch. “Take it
slowly.”
“The
spell is nearly out,” Higgins retorts.
Double
wide doors open, and their light floods. Four stalls, three of them empty.
Panicked neighs come from the fourth, but luckily none of the creatures have
made a move for it.
Rein
shuts the way quickly, letting the shadow of his assistant disappear towards
the stall with the horse, while he ponders the fragile boards that mark their
only egress from this place. “Those things could move through the door, I’d
wager, without taking it down.”
A
grunt from behind could be acknowledgement, or Higgins’ attempts to calm the
beast. Rein turns in time to see him struggle with a saddle. “Why do they
wait?”
“Might
be tactical,” Higgins says. “Testing our defenses, waiting for us to weaken.
They have time, all the time of eternity.”
“Or
maybe…” Rein cuts himself short. A heroic image of him staying behind to allow
Higgins to escape rises, them fast sinks to the pit of his stomach. He
grimaces.
“Or
maybe what?”
“Nothing.”
His friend mounts the horse in one fluid motion, and Rein can’t help looking
on, impressed. Higgins leans over, offering him his hand. Shame thickens Rein’s
Dutch accent and slows “Just a foolish idea,” into a slough.
Wood
bends and cracks, mixing with the otherworldly chaos of voices outside, as the
Inspector swings up behind his friend. The horse fights the reins, refusing to
leave the stall.
“Get
us to the door,” Rein says. “When I throw the latch, sally forth.”
Higgins
leans to the side, pressing with his legs and putting the horse on the bit. The
ears of the creature swivel rapidly, but he moves. Rein reaches back and snags
the handle of a broken pitchfork from the side, watching the tail of the clamp
down.
“The
beast is tense,” he says. “Should I say a word to call him?”
The
door looms. Hay and excrement are tossed in the air by nervous pawing, but
Higgins presses, “Don’t you dare. You just throw the latch and hook the door.
Take the rod from me.”
Rein
leans forward, pressing both the rod and the broken half together in precarious
balance. “Well, on my count.”
“One.”
He struggles to loosen the lock as the wood buckles. “Two—”
With
a heave that almost throws him, the lock is loosened. Rein reaches forward once
more as the count passes beyond three. He wiggles the wood between the cracks
of the two doors, but it’s the demonic creatures, batting, driving inward, that
really help open the way further. And with a shrill cry of “three” at his back,
Higgins urges the horse forward.
“Watch
your hat!”
Rein
lurches as the horse charges into the night. The terrors part as if hit by an
unseen wind. Thralls, human slaves. Surrounded
by the formless creatures. Spirits,
wanton things.
As
the horse gallops past, a queasy feeling stirs the Inspector’s stomach, and it
has nothing to do with the jerky movement of their ride through the country. They could have us, yet don’t.
A
fence appears out of the night, and Rein falls forward during the lunge,
pushing Higgins against the beast’s head. “What the devil? I don’t remember
there—” Stars. Wait, is that Cepheus? “We’re
going north! Change to south by southwest.”
Their
turn is wide, and laborious. Yet in the arc the Inspector can see the twisted
forms of these demons, these spirits, waiting. “They’re just —“The last spark
of the spell’s light glints off a row of steel buttons in the crowd. Fine lines. Tall hat, but—no, it can’t be.
Chancy?
“We’re
being herded.”
Q: If you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend your
last day?
There’s a poet in me that would spend the time with my wife at a pond, lazily watching the wind blow the reeds, letting the sound of ducks farting waft over us as we partake of some pastries. Utter nonsense. Thankfully, I am a pragmatic man. No, I will ready a horse with barding, and myself don my assortment of the finest LARP ready armor and weapons. I, as my forefathers before me, will then sack Euro Disney.
Q: If you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?
A: The worst kind. Picture a world where everyone is forced to wear shoes one size too small. Where roving bands of Imperial Inquisitors scour the land, inflicting upon the populace a ceaseless march of the worst sort of memes. Where butter is currency, and even the sweet escape of death is polluted – as the solemn death dirges are replaced by the upbeat crooning of Rick Astley.
Q: When did realize that you wanted to be an author? When did you first consider yourself a writer?
A: I was sitting in math class some odd twenty years ago, thinking to myself “this is mind-numbingly boring, but not really painful. If only I could add the long wait times, to the feeling of grinding a lemon in my eye, daily…” Soon after I discovered writing, and editing, the query letter dance – but only then did my dream come true!
No, really, I
have been dabbling since my early teens. It was only when I was pushing towards
the time when I could drink legally, that it clicked for me. On the plus side
writing is a profession that goes well with potential alcoholism.
The second
question is a bit more difficult to nail down, and it also depends; on my mood,
on the time of the day, or if I have eaten anything. I.E. I am saying there are days where, even
now, I don’t consider myself a ‘real’ writer. It apparently is a common
problem, and I am no exception.
Once upon a time
I didn’t consider myself a writer until I was published. The goal line moved to
being traditionally published. Then an award-winning author. Then to some
nebulous financial baseline.
Nowadays? I just
write, and try not to think of the existential stuff.
Q: Besides writing, what other secret skills do you have?
A: I enjoy taking blocks of wood and torturing myself with carving them until the abomination comes out to resemble something close to the boat. I don’t know why I continue to do this, but it was born out of reading Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin series. Afterwards I just had to have a model boat, so I made one.
Q: You were born in Alabama but now live in Switzerland, how have these life experiences influenced your writing?
A: That would be a book by itself. A deep, boring, and weird book with a lot of references to cheese…But a book, nonetheless. Perhaps in the simplest of ways it helped instill within me a “I am going to do this no matter what,” mentality that helps me complete goals. In a more complex, deeper assessment I think moving from a place with a lot of wide-open spaces, to a crammed country like Switzerland has created within me a desire to roam. And there are a lot of beautiful, inspiring places to visit in Europe.
Q: Your work contains a lot of humor - why do you take this approach?
A: I believe in balanced writing. For instance, having parts of beautiful prose peek out over quick, terse text. In this case the humor is to balance the darkness. And the Melody of Three can get dark, and very scary at times.
Q: Tells us about your main characters, what makes them Tick?
A: Christaan De Rein is eccentric, fussy, but also brave and witty. He is known as The Inspector, representing his role among other Artisans (Sorcerers) in the Curatorium. But there is a lot more to him from his title. He has a long history of love, loss, and well, plain living that he carries with him. In short, I tried to make him human and grounded – as grounded as an old fop that doesn’t age can be.
Niena is a dreamer, and a bit naïve – though the latter is fast changing, as she is learning not to trust others so quickly. She is strong willed, compassionate, but also unsure of herself. Her bravery is a subtle affair. I like to think of her as any typical teenager, thrust into a position of too much attention and danger.
Q: What do you think about the current publishing market?
A: That is a loaded question, and one I’ve devoted more than a few blog posts too. The short and sweet of it, rather saturated. But I am not just talking about just the number of books. There is a glut of related publishing services, all promising miracle solutions. And the sad part of it, is that for every valid one there are 10 scams, helping to create a weird tango where it is easy to publish a book, but harder to get noticed.
This also has the alarming effect of suppressing
independent authors. There will always be those that are one and done; broken
down by the amount of work to initial results ratio. Well, when editing,
promotional, and organizational services fail you (because they weren’t
legitimate), it can add to the stress. This increases the literary graveyard.
So, while the barrier to entry is lesser, the fence to hop over for financial
success is a bit more difficult to manage. And any time taken out to research a
company is time that could be spent elsewhere.
My personal suggestions to aspiring authors is to read the
related writing forums and groups (20booksto50k facebook group is solid for
marketing), and to invest in a newsletter early on. For the latter Storyorigin
is free, and will give you a lot of opportunities to grow your reader base, get
reviews, and other.
Thanks for hosting!
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