Abbey Hill Literary 4th Quarter: Evolving Talent
FIRES OF DARKNESS
By Avril Field-Taylor
The sun set in the east that night. Luke stared in disbelief, feeling sick to his stomach and not a little fearful. He stumbled his way back to the fire and sat down staring into its depths. Not only were sunderers abroad, but they were nearby, which meant danger for elemancers such as he, committed to using their magic talents in secret for the benefit of mankind. Sunderers, with equal secrecy, conjured exclusively for evil and self-advancement.
He wished he was simply an apothecary tending the unfortunates around Hampton Court Palace in this year of our Lord 1547. Henry VIII, eleven months dead, had left his kingdom in the hands of his son by Anne Boleyn. Dark factions conspired around this untried boy of thirteen, putting England in religious foment. Henry IX would by now have finished presiding over his first Christmas revels, together with his beloved mother. Many had tried to usurp her. All had failed.
His hand dropped to stroke Joss, his faithful greyspring. Her presence bolstered his resolution. Greysprings, dogs bred solely for elemancers, comfort, calm and protect their owners. For trances come to elemancers when they will, not when it is convenient. Luke buried his head in her long fur, asking God for the courage to do his duty if called upon.
Sharp urgent knocks at the door made him jump, disturbing his musings. He cursed, hoping he would not have to venture outside. His particular element of affinity was fire, so he hated the cold more than most. He breathed a sigh of relief when the open door revealed a bent elderly man.
“I prithee pardon, sir. I am ill. I have not eaten for many days.”
Nor washed for longer, Luke thought. “How many have turned you away, Gaffer?”
Weak rheumy eyes gazed up at him. The old man’s face was pinched with cold, his cheeks verging on blue. Luke held the door open and his visitor shuffled in.
“God’s teeth, you stink,” Luke said.
“So would you if you were forced to sleep under hedgerows, unable to bathe for weeks.” The stranger hobbled to the fire. The stench intensified. Joss took one look at the newcomer and padded into the shop away from the warmth she had been enjoying.
“I have bread, cheese and pottage,” Luke said. These items had been earmarked for his consumption on the morrow, but he knew that if he refused to feed this starving wanderer, the food would taste like ashes in his mouth. The old man bolted the bread, hardly bothering to chew it before he swallowed.
“Hold hard,” Luke admonished. “You will vomit if you eat like that. Take your time. Tell me about yourself.”
“I am Clifford Emory from Devon. I got too ill to work. Food is scarce since the frosts came. I was a useless mouth to feed, so they cast me out.”
There was something in the man’s voice that made warning hairs rise on the back of Luke’s neck. With a casual air he was far from feeling, he brought a beaker of ale, having first trickled a few drops of truth potion into it. Emory drained it in one gulp.
“That is a terrible story, Master Emory. What a shame it is all lies.”
Emory sat back, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “I know not what you mean.”
“Nobody who was as ill as you claim to be could have spent weeks wandering the byways and survive. Your accent is of the north, not the west and the poor do not bathe.”
Emory leapt up, bent-backed no longer. Mist swirled around him and his rags changed into rich silks and velvets. Now Luke knew him. Or rather, knew what he was.
“A sunderer.” It was a statement more than a question and Luke swallowed, unable to keep his heart from hammering. “What do you want of me?”
“You will do as we wish. Do not think that the poxy drops you put in the small beer will affect me. You know a seamstress in the palace who serves Anne Boleyn.”
“Do I? I know many people.”
The dark sorcerer flung out his hand and Luke paid for his impudence with searing pains in his gut. Emory grabbed him by the hair and ground out his words between clenched teeth.
“You will force the sewing woman to take us to the Great Whore. She protects her mouldwarp son and prevents the fruition of our plans. She will be destroyed. As will he.”
“I will not.” This time the pain was intense. Luke knew he had no option but to obey. However, whilst he allowed his pain to show on the surface of his mind, hidden underneath was a cold determination that Emory must not succeed.
“Where is your dog?”
Luke looked directly into Emory’s eyes. “She knew you. She has fled.”
The sunderer stood in thought. “She is of no account. Let us go.”
They crunched through the snow to the main gate. Luke had to admire the way in which Emory walked them through every guard point. It was clear that he had cast a perception spell so that the yeomen saw them as familiar courtiers. Luke knew he would find Grace Paige in the Watching Chamber. They threaded their way through the crowded Great Hall, Emory at Luke’s shoulder to prevent him giving the alarm. The smell of food hung in the air, mixed with perfumes of the ladies and other less savoury things, making him cough. Now that the meal was over, Luke knew the King and Queen would each have retired to their private apartments.
Conscious of Emory at his back, he approached his friend. “Mistress Graceful, how utterly charming you look today.”
Grace appeared a little startled at his words, so unlike his usual greeting. His face, turned away from the sunderer, belied his sentiments. He prayed she would realise all was not well. At once, she sank into a curtsey, her lip curling contempt.
“Master Ballard? I had not thought to see you after our acrimonious parting last week.”
Luke, careful to keep his emotions cloaked, could have hugged her. The room was thronged with courtiers and he deduced that Emory would be hard-pressed keeping all the tensions and emotions of the court chamber isolated. Luke must pick up the ball Grace had thrown without delay. He bowed.
“Indeed. I always seem to be in trouble with you, mistress. I pray pardon, but mayhap you can help this gentleman. He has come far with festive gifts for the Queen. Could you...?”
Grace turned her sunniest countenance to Emory and curtsied again. “Sir, I pray you remain here. I will ask if the Queen can see you.”
It was a weary wait, but eventually, a page approached Luke, bowed and begged that they follow him to Queen Anne’s apartments. Luke had never seen the Queen close to, so a detached part of him was curious to see the woman for whom Great Harry had brought England to schism. They were shown into a large chamber. The walls were hung with rich tapestries and lit by torches thrust into sconces. Emory and Luke bowed at the distant seated figure on the chair beneath the royal cloth of state.
“Approach,” her musical voice invited.
Luke bowed again, but Emory, too keen to accomplish his task, strode forward, threw off his cloak and raised his hands. In an instant, six men leapt from behind the wall hangings, surrounding him, their arms outstretched. The force of their combined immobility spell rendered his powers impotent. Luke watched Elemagus Verrall, head of the guild, approach the sunderer, but before he could throw the death strike, Emory’s body vanished, leaving behind an empty suit of clothes that crumpled to the floor.
Joss, released by another elemancer, scampered to Luke. Their reunion made all smile. Elemancers are almost never separated from their dogs. He looked up as Grace Paige rose from the chair of state and hurried to him, greeting her with a dazzling smile.
“Grace. I owe you my life. He would have killed me had it not been for your quick wits.”
She blushed with pleasure. “When I arrived, that man was with the Queen. He seemed to know everything.” She pointed to Verrall, who walked over to them.
“I salute your courage, Mistress Paige. Joss came direct to me, Luke. The Queen is safe. She sends you her thanks.”
Verrall stood behind Grace, pointing at her. Luke understood. Rubbing his hands together, he threw a misremembrance spell in her eyes, before escorting her back to the public rooms.
Grace would remember nothing, save that he was the apothecary who tended the poor in the Outer Green. Verrall’s comment about the Queen unsettled him. Was it possible that she knew who and what the elemagus was? That could not be, surely? Still, for the moment, both King and Queen were safe. All was as it should be.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I am an English crime writer, with books published in 2008 and 2009. My contemporary detective, Georgia Pattison, is a professional singer. I have completed the first draft of a full-length alternative Tudor mystery, featuring apothecary and elemancer Luke Ballard.
JUDGE’S COMMENTS:
This story feels like part of what could be a longer speculative spin on the Tudor era. From the vocabulary characters use to the author’s rich descriptions of setting, the fantasy world of the story has been constructed with care. However, the language is, in places, a bit too archaic--and the period dialogue is not always convincing. The author should consider either setting the story in an imaginary time period or doing additional research on how people spoke at the time. Another important question is how to introduce unfamiliar words or ideas (be they fantastical or more obscurely historic). On a case-by-case basis, the author might consider the following: Should a word be defined and explained, for clarity’s sake? Or should it be shown in the context of the plot, so readers can understand through immersion? This story responded to prompt 4.