Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1) (3 page)

“I…” He paused, then seemed to resign himself. “You would do best to toss that,” he pointed to the knife, “and I would put as much distance between yourself and that ring as you possibly can.”

“And why is that?” Rachel would not let the matter drop. She didn’t like being in the dark with regard to her enemies. With a quick motion, she snapped up the dagger and weighed it in her hand, still scrutinizing Danton. “Who, precisely, does this belong to, why did they beat an innocent old woman to death, and why is this little piece of metal of such interest to them?”

“And you think I have all the answers to your questions?” Danton squirmed in the chair.

Clearly he had no desire to discuss this matter. She didn’t relish putting him in this position, but she had no alternatives before her. “If you do not have them all, I suspect that what you do know will go a long way in determining the rest.”

He passed his hand over his face wearily, stretching out the aging skin as it pulled downwards. It was times like these that every second of his forty-four years were truly visible. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth seemed to get a little deeper, and his dark hair, barely touched with silver at the temples, seemed to fade. “That knife belongs to a group known as the Brotherhood. When the angle is correct, you can see the insignia when the light hits the end of the hilt.”

Rachel twirled it around and studied the weapon. On the silver, ball-shaped end of the ebony shaft was a crest. She only caught a glimpse of it at first, but as she turned and twisted the dagger more carefully, she was able to study the seal. It was very simple, being only a few words of Latin engraved in an unbroken circle, surrounding a heart with a bolt of lightning piercing it. “
Evinco, in toto, cum cor et sententia unum
,” she read.

“To conquer, entirely, with one heart and one way of thinking,” he translated, saving her from having to ask.

She set the blade down and waited patiently for his explanation. She never pushed Danton to talk about his past, as much out of respect for him as to avoid talking about her own, but it seemed now she had no choice. If he weren’t forthcoming, she would have to force him. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

When he spoke, his accent thickened, as though the story pulled him back to his French roots. “Back in my youth, I knew my father’s family had ties to them. It seemed a point of fact, rather than anything out of the ordinary. My grandfather was always encouraging me to take their pledge, as he and my uncles had done. I had no interest in causes, so I avoided it for a long time.

“When my parents died and the estate was left to me, there was an assumption I would step into my expected duties. Again, I avoided it by making excuses, being busy with the management of family affairs, and, soon after, settling in with my new wife, Sabine. We had only been married a year before our son was born.

“One evening, as I rummaged through some old diaries of my father’s, I came across a strange sketch. It depicted a hidden panel to a safe I had not known existed.
Naturalement,
I had to investigate, lest there be anything of value I had to account for in the estate holdings. Sabine, the curious thing she was, was at my side the whole time. When I was finally able to open the safe, the things we found inside were not what we expected. I cannot accurately describe everything it contained, but Sabine informed me that all the objects were highly charged magical items. I had no care for such things, but it was a fascinating subject for my wife. I saw no harm in it, and left her to do as she would with them.

“As you might imagine, this was not a wise choice on my part, but, lovely as she was, I could deny her nothing. I had all but put it from my mind when the Brotherhood came calling one evening. There were three of them, dressed head to toe in black, but only one of them spoke. He told me I could either join the Brotherhood or hand over the items my family had been charged with keeping. I promptly told him I had no intention of doing either, to which he said no more, and the men departed.

“Time passed, and I forgot the incident.” He slouched in the chair, weary. “One of my uncle’s shops had been struggling, and I went to see if I might lend some assistance in his efforts to save it. It was only a few hours away, so I saw no reason not to go. Five days later, as my carriage passed through the outskirts of town on my return, fire brigades rushed past, nearly running us off the road. I suspected then what I would find when I reached my address, but I refused to believe it.” He swallowed hard and took a deep, steadying breath. “The flames were visible for blocks before I came to my home. I watched helplessly as men tried to douse the great bonfire. The house and everything, everyone, in it was consumed. Later, there were unconfirmed reports of shouts and breaking glass before the fire started, but nothing could ever be proven. The day I buried my family, I received a telegram thanking me for the return of the items to the Brotherhood.”

Rachel closed her eyes and leaned her chin against her templed fingers. “My deepest regrets to you, Danton. I did not wish to bring back forgotten pain.”

He didn’t meet her gaze, and his voice was cold. “Your sympathies are noted,
Mon Capitaine
, but do not confuse my reluctance to relate the story with having forgotten it. I remember it every moment of every day. It is why I have trained so hard and for so long to achieve proficiency with weapons. It is so when I meet one of those bastards, I can kill him with the mercy they denied my wife and child.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Then you will have no objection to killing any one of them on sight, should they cross our path in the future?”

A grim smile crossed his mouth. “Quite the contrary. It will be a nice change to have your permission.”

Rachel’s focus returned to the ring. “Would you have any insight as to why they would want this particular piece?”

Danton shook his head. “Apologies, but,
non
. All the documentation I had on anything to do with the Brotherhood was reduced to ash. There is very little I recall about the journals, although…” He trailed off and leaned in a bit more closely to the desk. “I do remember seeing a series of sketches that had particular significance to my father. It was some sort of machine, but the various elements were not identified in the drawings. Could be they were still building the thing or searching for parts.”

Rachel looked at the first mate, who quietly contemplated the story. “Iris, is there anything you might be able to add? Or perhaps some contact you might know that would be of use?”

Iris looked pensive. “If you don’t mind, could I examine the ring for a moment? It will help to discover what we’re dealing with.”

After a brief hesitation, Rachel acquiesced. The first mate did not pick up the bauble, instead letting her hand hover above it as she concentrated, eyes closed. Rachel and Danton waited in silence for her verdict.

“Very strange,” Iris murmured. “I cannot determine the elemental alignment of this object. However, its power is incomparable to anything I’ve ever felt before. I agree with your assessment that it is dangerous.”

Rachel frowned. Everything about this ring left her on edge. “And as for anyone who might know more?”

Iris cocked her head, as though paging through her mental list of possible sources. “There might be one…” She paused. “Yes, I think I know of one person who might have the knowledge we seek. It will require a trip to Tibet, however.”

“The monastery?” Rachel asked.
 

Iris nodded. “My teacher at Zhuqing should be able to tell us more.”

“And you feel this is our most viable option?”

Rachel watched the stubborn look settle onto Iris’s face. “I know it is. And yes, I do realize the risk we face in heading that direction.”

Rachel looked at Danton, who only shrugged with upturned palms, indicating his lack of a better idea. With a sigh, she decided. “Very well then. We’ll set a course for Singapore after our stop in La Rochelle, and pray Yong Wu doesn’t object to our surprise visit.”

“What news, my Brother?” the raspy voice hissed from beneath the cloak at the top of the stairs. The dark figure perched on the twisted wooden throne, face shrouded, malice simmering beneath the hood.

“We determined the identity of the woman to be Captain Rachel Sterling, Highest One. We believe she is in possession of the object, but she eluded us before we could capture her. She killed two of my best men and maimed a third. I only barely managed to escape her myself.” As he spoke, his fingers dug into the brim of the bowler hat.

“I’ve heard of this woman, but I do not believe you did much to detain her upon your meeting,” the figure said. The cloak shifted as he leaned forward, waiting to hear an explanation.

“She took us by surprise, Highest One. Had I not escaped with my life, the Brotherhood would never have known of her at all.” He shifted his weight nervously.

“A weapon is missing,” the cloaked figure said. “Has she taken that, as well as our ring and your dignity?”

He braced himself for reprimand. “Yes, My Lord. She stole it from one of our dead brothers.”

“Then at least do something useful. If she has it, you can use it. Get into her head. Find out where she’s going and what she intends to do with our prize.”

“Yes, Highest One.” The man bowed again and backed out of the hall. “I shall do as you command me.”

The cloaked figure said nothing more to him, and he scuttled out. After exiting, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow and made his way to the casting room. He hated that this
woman
caused him so much trouble. He hated that she caught him off guard. And he
especially
hated that she didn’t know her proper place.

“Blasted female,” he mumbled to himself as he pushed the black, wooden door open. The sheath from the knife was already there, awaiting him at the altar. He glared at it, as though it somehow embodied the elusive captain. “
Captain
, indeed.”

“You must purge these thoughts from your mind, Brother.” The dry voice of the old man broke into his quiet rant. “It will take all of your concentration to perform the connection ritual.”

“I know that!” he snapped. “It isn’t as though I haven’t done this before.”

The old man rose from a simple wooden chair that sat where the circle of candlelight did not penetrate the gloom. “Then act it. Your attitude is that of an initiate. Put your head on properly and stop acting like a dog that’s been caught with its nose in the rubbish.”

He gritted his teeth and said nothing more. He knew it was childish to behave so, but this particular woman had gotten under his skin. He couldn’t forget the piercing dark eyes that glared at him from behind that tiny pistol. There was an animal behind those eyes, one that begged to be broken like an untrained pup.

It was those eyes he focused on as he lit each violet candle on the altar. There were seven in all, one for each element: Earth, Air, Water, Fire, Wood, Metal, and lastly, the Machine. It was this final element so many others ignored. The power of the Machine, to create, to destroy, was the ultimate combination of all other elements. To shun it was to deny the supreme power in the universe. Those who worshipped nature would never taste the might of the Machine.

He knelt on the step before the altar, directing the flow of aether into the items placed on the table. Before him lay the dagger’s sheath, wormwood incense, a thimbleful of oil, and a wand of ash with a rose thorn embedded in the tip. He began the incantation in hushed tones, reciting the ancient words that would link his spirit with the aether. As his thoughts drifted, he dipped a single finger into the oil and anointed the knife’s empty casing. He reached for the wand and held it aloft in his right hand. With a low, guttural cry, he brought it down across his left palm, the thorn slashing it open, then clutched the sheath with the wounded hand, the warm blood mixing with the musky oil. He replaced the wand on the table while the casing remained in his grasp. The dagger pulled him now, reaching out for its other half. He allowed his consciousness to be guided through the beyond, across the ocean, into the air.

The woman was nearby; he could sense her presence, feel her breathing rhythmically. She was sleeping. This would make it easier.

His thoughts slithered around hers, searching them for clues to where they were headed, but her dreams were scattered. Blasted woman. Even in slumber she was difficult to handle. He pressed harder, delving deep into her mind. He was careless, however, and felt her waking. He retracted the tendrils of thought, and she resumed her rest. Several times this happened, and his frustration grew exponentially with each failure. In irritation, he pushed his consciousness into hers, delving heedlessly into her mind. When she awoke this time, he did not immediately let go, instead letting his presence stay with her a moment longer. He watched her as she sat up in bed, trying to clear her head. He laughed. She could never shake free of his hold.

Mr. Mustache haunted her dreams that night. Many times Rachel awoke to his greasy countenance fading before her eyes. Much of her doubted the wisdom in letting him live.

He posed two problems to her. First, he knew her face and could most likely identify her, especially given the hasty departure of the
Antigone’s Wrath
. The second problem was far less troubling to anyone but her; she couldn’t keep him out of her head, and not in the pleasantly torturous way. His creepy face with its glazed, oily look and that curling, black, waxed mustache would not let her rest. As she sat in bed, arms curled around her knees, she felt his eyes watching her, and she shivered.

Rummaging about in her nightstand, she reached for the cluster of birch, celandine and althea Mrs. Tweed gave her. She picked up the dried plants and instantly felt comforted. Whether it was the bouquet itself, or the thought of the old woman that made her feel that way, she didn’t know. As she inhaled the dusty fragrance, a faded memory came back to her.

She had been very young, maybe a girl of six or seven years, and was working with Mrs. Tweed in the garden while her father took one of his many business trips. Rachel closed her eyes and could almost feel the warm sun on her shoulders, the cool breeze in the air, and the damp earth beneath her bare feet.