matrimony.
The old lady spent the afternoon napping, which left Eiddwen free to pursue her own interests. She arranged a tryst with Sir Henry, inviting him to take her rowing upon the lake. When they were alone in the rowboat, she laid out her plan. Sir Henry listened in amazement.
Eiddwen explained coolly that she had managed through various means to become acquainted with the baron and to be hired as the old lady’s companion for one purpose-to arrange this meeting with Sir Henry, a meeting that would appear to be accidental.
“I am not what I seem,” said Eiddwen. She sat in the stern of the rowboat, facing him, her black hair blowing about her. While she talked, she would sometimes reach up to play with a curling tendril.
“I am a member of a group of people who have a single goal and that is the utter destruction of Rosia. To this end, my associates and I have developed a weapon that has the power to destroy magic. Ah, you laugh, Sir Henry, but I assure you I am quite serious. I would prove it to you, but we lack the funds to build it. We were wondering if you might be interested in assisting us.”
Sir Henry was interested, though cautious. The two arranged a meeting in Haever in a house located at the end of the street in a quiet, upper middle class neighborhood. Court gossip had it that Eiddwen had been established in this house by Sir Henry as his mistress. That was true, in part. Sir Henry paid for the house, but Eiddwen was not his mistress. She had repulsed his advances with a firmness that left no doubt she wanted a business relationship, nothing more.
As time passed, he found himself wondering how he had ever thought her desirable. Eiddwen was ruthless, single-minded, determined. One might say she was a female version of himself, but with a dark, underlying passion for something unknown that chilled even Henry’s blood. He recalled vividly the night she showed up with the plans for the weapon and explained the theory behind it.
“The weapon is powered by contramagic,” she said.
Henry frowned in displeasure. “That is nothing to jest about, Eiddwen. Even to speak the word is to risk imprisonment and death.”
In answer, Eiddwen lifted a strange-looking weapon and fired. Green flame struck the cellar wall. The fire left burn marks on the brick.
“Examine it,” said Eiddwen. “You will find that the sigils placed on the bricks by the crafter masons have been obliterated. The contramagic does not merely break sigils. The beam erases them, as though they had never been.”
Sir Henry had examined the wall and discovered that she had indeed destroyed the magic. She was not only talking heresy. She was practicing heresy. If he were caught listening to her, nothing could save him-neither wealth, rank, nor power. The queen herself would be forced to disavow him. He would be proclaimed a warlock and burned at the stake.
Yet, if this contramagic could be transformed into a weapon as she claimed… He could see in his mind’s eye the destruction of the ships of the Rosian Naval Fleet: masts falling, hulls breaking apart, balloons exploding in green fire, men plunging to their deaths in the Breath. Rosia humbled, ground into the dirt.
After much serious thought, Sir Henry decided that the development of this weapon was worth the risk. He funded the project; within two years, they were ready to test it. Their choice of target was the naval cutter, Defiant. Disguised as pirates, Eiddwen and her “people” attacked the cutter with devastating results. The green beam weapon almost completely disabled the ship. They did not sink the cutter. They deliberately left it afloat in order to later sneak aboard it to study the damage.
Henry was there with two of his most loyal associates: Admiral Randolph Baker and the famous Freyan privateer, Captain Andrew Northrop, (brother to Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum, a relationship neither cared to acknowledge). Mr. Sloan was there because Mr. Sloan was always there.
Sir Henry and Admiral Baker and Captain Northrop were all enthusiastic about the contramagic weapon, seeing it as the salvation of their country. The next day, Sir Henry paid Eiddwen an immense sum of money, practically a king’s ransom. Several days after that, Eiddwen vanished.
Sir Henry went to visit her and found the house vacant. He let himself inside, hoping to find some clue as to her whereabouts, but the rooms were bare. She had left behind nothing but dust. He had been duped by this woman, who had taken his money and then fled. Baffled and furious, Sir Henry spared no expense trying to find Eiddwen. All he could discover was that she had an alias as vague and mysterious as herself. She was called the Sorceress by some of her associates. He could find no trace of her, however.
The years passed. Sir Henry had not forgotten Eiddwen nor had he forgiven her. He had come to believe the experiment on the Defiant had been some sort of hoax, an event staged to induce him to hand over the money. And then he began to receive reports of watchtowers crumbling for no apparent reason. He visited one of the sites and saw for himself the scorch marks, so similar to those on the Defiant. He knew the cause, but he dared not tell anyone, for he would have been forced to admit his involvement in contramagic.
And now this murderous attack. Demonic creatures riding giant bats. If any man other than the practical Sloan had written this, Sir Henry would have dismissed him as a lunatic.
I am a member of a group of people, Eiddwen had told him. Were those people fiends? Was she in league with the forces of Hell? Sir Henry could have believed this if he had believed in Hell. As it was, the prospect was dire enough without involving the Evil One. Yet, if not the Devil, who?
Eiddwen had lashed out at him, and he had no way to strike back. For the first time in his life, Henry was helpless. He did not like the feeling. It made him angry. Eiddwen had attacked his family. He wondered why. Why come for him after all these years? If she had wanted to kill him because he knew about her and her connection with the contramagic, she could have done so before this. Her timing could not possibly be worse.
“Not now!” Henry muttered, his hand closing, crushing the letter. “I can’t deal with this woman now!”
He rose to his feet, picked up the satchel containing the tankard, and limped slowly out of the church. He walked though the graveyard, pausing here and there as though fondly remembering old friends. He stopped at the tomb bearing the Rosian version of his name, “Henri,” and glanced down.
A bunch of violets lay in the grass.
Other agents besides Harrington knew to leave messages for him here, yet none of his agents used violets. He picked them up. They were bound with a green ribbon and there was a note tucked beneath the stems.
By now you have heard about the destruction of your manor house. Are you impressed? Come to Bitter End Lane this evening when the clock chimes six. We need to talk.
No name, but a knot had been drawn on the bottom of the note. He had seen that knot before-on the pendant that hung from the golden chain around Eiddwen’s neck.
He sniffed at the violets and carried them back with him into the church. Henry took his seat in the pew and remained there to hear the afternoon service. After the service, he entered the confessional. Once inside, Henry took off his clerical robes. The well-dressed Rosian nobleman who emerged from the church that afternoon bore no resemblance to the elderly cleric who had entered it with one exception-he was still carrying the satchel.
Returning to the inn, Sir Henry pondered the instructions in the note. The dockyards at that time of evening would be deserted, though there would still be some light for the sun did not set until after seven. Eiddwen would know, of course, that he would have refused to meet her in the dead of night.
On his arrival at the Blue Parrot, he told the jubilant Alcazar that his brother’s ship was due in tomorrow and that he should start packing.
Late that afternoon, a tall man dressed as a lawyer, with a white periwig sitting slightly askew atop his head, left the Blue Parrot. The lawyer, like most lawyers, was carrying a leather satchel.
As a guest of the Archbishop of Westfirth, Father Jacob Northrup had taken up residence in the archbishop’s temporary residence, a stolid and imposing structure known among the city’s residents as the Old Fort.
Father Jacob disliked staying anywhere as a guest of anyone, but with the Retribution being refitted at the ship yard, he didn’t have much choice. He could have taken lodgings at an inn, but he required a secure room in order to protect the books of Saint Dennis. Much to the amusement of Sir Ander, Father Jacob was forced to swallow his pride and accept the invitation of the archbishop, who was honored and delighted to have such a renowned priest as Father Jacob of the Arcanum stay with him.
The archbishop was less delighted when Father Jacob arrived. Father Jacob was not a good guest at the best of times. Impatient to return to the Arcanum, where he could study the books on contramagic at his leisure and not worry about their safety, the priest was irritable and demanding. He insisted on changing the location of his rooms
