The cauldron effect, p.2
The Cauldron Effect, page 2
Everywhere, black splatters gleamed in the candle’s flickering yellow glow. He took out one of the cloths he carried, specially protected and blessed for this purpose, and used it to wipe down his sword.
“Thank you for your help.” His words were heartfelt. Garth deserved a reward for this night’s work and there’d be a gold coin in it for him later tonight. “You saved my life.”
“What help, milord?” Garth asked.
Did magic come so easily that he didn’t even notice when he performed something as spectacular as that flaring sword? He glanced at his footman, curiosity mingling with an irrepressible flash of envy.
Braden flung the filthy cloth and his soiled gloves to the ground by the dead beasts and held Agamore out to Garth. “Thank you for making this sword light up and burn that hound. That’s what finally chased them away.”
“I didn’t do that,” Garth protested, and exchanged the weapon for a velvet bag containing ingredients with which to bless this evil-sullied ground.
“Of course you did,” Braden said. “Do not worry. This once I forgive you for disobeying my order to never to use magic on me. Your spell was impressively effective.”
“Milord, I swear I didn’t cast such a spell.” Garth slipped the great broadsword into its sheath on his back.
Head pounding with worry, Braden hid his astonishment. “Then why did you leave me unguarded?”
“I’m sorry, milord, but you looked to be thrashing them devils without any need for my help, and the night watch approached. I added a silencer spell on the shield and went to warn him off. When I returned, the hounds were fleeing, though there seemed more of ‘em. So, the sword flared? Odd. It wasn’t any of my doing, sir. I swear.”
Braden looked at the sword hilt and then into Garth’s eyes, to see if he were lying. The confused look in his servant’s gaze seemed genuine. That begged the question, if Garth hadn’t bespelled Agamore, what had happened in this alleyway?
Prayer answered? Dare he believe he’d been granted a personal favor from God? The thought both elated and terrified. He must seek the archbishop’s guidance. See if other guards had ever been gifted such an extraordinary blessing. He shook his head. How ironic that he seemed more comfortable believing in spells than miracles.
Trying to still his unruly thoughts, Braden took out handfuls of red powder from the velvet bag, and while muttering a quiet prayer, sprinkled the holy mixture that the archbishop gave all the guards to spread over demon corpses. As he prayed, consecrating the battleground, clouds of incense smoke spewed up, bubbling over the fallen beasts, soiled material and poisonous streaks of fae blood. Soon, the ground was covered in naught but ash and sand.
“Garth, could those hounds have been waiting here for me?”
“How, milord? You only decided to come two hours ago.”
“Yes, after you brought me that note earlier from Dewer suggesting we meet at White’s tonight.”
“Didn’t like that note,” Garth muttered. “Almost didn’t give it to you. Should’ve listened to me instincts.”
“Garth.” Braden stopped and glared over his shoulder at his footman. “I decide which notes I read or not.”
“O’course, milord. Ain’t that always been the way? Though sometimes notes do get misplaced. Just happens.”
Braden frowned, not liking the innocent look on his footman’s wizened features. How many notes had been misplaced since he’d hired Garth two months ago after rescuing him from a vengeful wraith? No wonder life had become positively tedious since then.
Late for his appointment, he shook away the disturbing thought. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
“You’ve blood on your coat, milord. Best change first. I brought spares.”
By the candlelight, blood spatters were indeed prominent on his white cravat, and his coat sleeves were ruined.
With an impatient hand, Braden pulled off the neck cloth and shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed both to Garth, though he held little hope that whatever his footman produced would be suitable for White’s.
From his pack, Garth fished out a replacement coat and a strip of pristine white cloth.
Braden frowned at the oddly un-creased garments coming from the cramped pack. Had Garth conjured them up?
Don’t ask. Best if you don’t know.
He shrugged on the new coat. It fit to perfection as if crafted by Gieves and Hawkes of Savile Row. As he tied the cravat in a loosely arranged Mail Coach style, he prayed the magical cloth would not choke him in the middle of a conversation. Satisfied he looked presentable, he strode toward the street. At the alley’s entrance, the air flared and pushed him backward.
“Garth!”
“Sorry, milord,” the little magician muttered and slipped to the other side of the invisible barrier without any hindrance. There, he moved some small rocks aside and spit on a larger one before wiping it clean.
Braden watched with a troubled spirit. As an ordained church guard, he had been taught that magic was a tool of the dark, just as miracles were tools of light. Convincing Garth to beware the deadly lure of the dark arts, however, had proved an exercise in futility. One Braden had given up lecturing on.
For his part, Garth often said he owed Braden his life and insisted he was devoted to his master’s missions.
“That’s done it, then,” Garth said and the barrier shimmered and fell away.
Braden headed for the club. “I shan’t be long. Stay close.”
Inside White’s entryway, the butler recognized Braden and said the proprietor had a missive for him. He hurried off to fetch it.
The moment the note was in Braden’s hands, the first thing he noticed was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s secret seal. He opened the note with suppressed excitement. Finally, a new assignment.
The dove must return to the nest.
A coded message. He sent his regrets to Dewer and abruptly left the establishment.
Down the road, Garth sat up on the carriage box beside the driver. Braden gave instructions to speed them to Lambeth Palace forthwith. He’d barely claimed his seat before the carriage lurched forward.
Soon the ripe stench of fish and refuse hinted they journeyed alongside the Thames River. On arrival at Lambeth, Garth flagrantly refused to follow orders to drive into the palace. Instead, he ordered the vehicle stopped ten feet short of the gatehouse doors.
Braden disembarked, pushing back the angry words hovering on his lips. He knew better than to resume a revolving argument. No matter how often he told Garth that the archbishop’s palace was the safest home in the kingdom, he insisted on waiting outside the palace walls. His excuses varied with month, week and time of day.
“Best be careful, milord,” Garth said in a warning tone, from atop the carriage. He pointed to an illusory line running parallel to the open gates. “A ley line. Could get you transported to places you don’t want to visit.”
Braden crossed the imaginary barrier without a backward glance or comment. In the garden, he passed a stately white fig tree heavy with fruit. Harvest time. He’d often climbed its branches as a child, hungering for a taste of those sweet morsels. He now ignored the bounty and headed for the Great Hall. From there, a butler led him toward the Blue Room. Bowing, the man left him by the door.
Braden knocked.
“Enter!” The summons was as sharp as a slap.
Braden’s pulse ricocheted. He huffed an impatient sigh at his nervous reaction. Why did he let Garth’s fears get the better of him? He went in. Stopping before His Grace, he descended to both knees, head bowed.
“I’m pleased to see my dove returned safely.” His Grace made the sign of the cross and said a quiet prayer before extending his right hand.
Braden reverently kissed the opulent medieval gold-rimmed, amethyst ring on His Grace’s middle finger. The jewel was carved with the symbol of the Green Cross.
“Arise, my son,” Charles Manners Sutton said. “We have grave matters to discuss.” He offered a glass of brandy.
“Thank you.” Braden accepted the drink and swept the orderly, spotless, book-lined room with a fond gaze. He’d learnt his church guard theology here. Entering this room felt akin to removing tight boots and settling before a warm fire with a favorite volume.
“You look worse for wear,” His Grace said, with a look of curiosity.
Braden ran a hand over his hair hoping it wasn’t too disheveled. “Discovered a pack of otherworldly hounds near White’s. I wondered if they’d been waiting for me.”
The archbishop seemed unperturbed by the suggestion.
“Do you know why they would have done so, Your Grace?”
“I suspect they were meant to stop you from being sent to Callington.”
Intriguing. His assignments took him to all corners of the British Isles except for Cornwall or Wales. That was witch and warlock territory. They handled their own problems without church guard interference.
“Callington, Cornwall, Your Grace?”
Manners nodded. “There’s trouble at a parish there. A demon stole a boy brought to the church for his baptism.”
“From inside the church? How did it enter? I understood they couldn’t access holy places. Also, why take a boy?”
“How is up to you to determine and to ensure it never happens again. As to why, who knows why demons do anything in our realm, or who they collude with on any given day? The rector tells me the happening is beyond his understanding. You must uncover the truth and find and return the boy to his school in Snowdon.”
Braden’s eyebrow shot up. Snowdon? “The warlock school in Wales?”
“Snowdon,” the archbishop repeated, his gaze hardening, daring Braden to question him. “The headmaster, Mattock, is the boy’s father and he has sworn allegiance to the Church in exchange for our assistance. I will not turn away any seeker of God, no matter what guise he appears in.”
Or whatever talent he brings to the table. Braden cringed inwardly at that uncharitable thought. He must not presume to question His Grace’s judgment. After all, Braden housed and harbored Garth, who, though not intrinsically evil, did practice magic.
This sudden change in Church policy toward involvement with warlocks, however, was profoundly disturbing. His intention to ask if Sutton knew what could have caused such a startling reaction from his sword choked and died in his throat. He wanted to get out of here, to find a peaceful place to sit and think. He bowed. “If that is all, Your Grace. As always, I’m honored to serve the Church.”
“There’s more.”
His every instinct shouted that he would not care for the rest. Spine rod straight, Braden faced the archbishop.
His Grace hesitated, cleared his throat and then spat out, “Callington houses a coven.”
Braden’s chest clamped like a vice. Cornwall likely housed dozens of covens. What was so special about this Callington one? Why target it? Before the order came, he guessed what he’d be asked to do, and felt betrayed to his marrow by the possible reason behind it. Another warlock favor?
“Destroy that coven.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard correctly.”
“I heard destroy a coven? A coven of witches?”
“Correct.” Sutton briskly strolled around the room, appearing agitated. He should be. This order was blatantly against Church policy.
While Braden digested the dire implications of being forced to carry out such an ill-conceived command, peril shadowed the room. Just as it had tailed the church guards three centuries ago when witch hunts had been the order of the day. Until disaster struck.
They were called church knights back then, before the king summarily executed the vast majority of them for crimes against their countrymen. Only a remnant was permitted to continue serving God in the much-needed fight against evil. Renamed church guards, the king issued a directive that they were never again to involve themselves with witch-warlock matters. That strict order had never been violated. Until now.
Braden’s faith in the archbishop trembled. He staggered beneath that doubt. He might as well question if the sun would rise in the east on the morrow.
Sutton had initiated him into the church guards. He was a man whom Braden trusted to safeguard his soul.
Had trusted.
Echoes of past conversations, pages turning, ideas blossoming, faded. The walls about him shrank, hardened, roughened. The room’s familiar contours narrowed to fit his form; as if he’d been laid in a grave his size and waited for dirt to cascade over.
Setting his untouched drink on a nearby table – the vibrant amber liquid still as a corpse – Braden faced the archbishop who finally returned to stand before him. “Your Grace, church guards are forbidden to interfere in witch-warlock conflicts.”
“Must I remind you, sir,” Sutton said in a repressive tone, “that the Church is at liberty to decide on the best course for the good of Britain’s spiritual welfare without prior consultation with its guards? Remember your place. You are of a higher rank in secular life, but within the Church, you are sworn before God to follow my orders, without question.”
Stung by the reprimand, Braden winced, but this was the wrong path for the Church to take. History had proven that point. His theological teachings reinforced it. Sutton knew better. What could have brought about this policy change? Whatever the cause, Braden had to make Sutton see sense.
“Your Grace, what if the king gets word we again target more than dark creatures of the underworld? Can we afford another Bedfordshire incident?”
“I do not need a history lesson. Besides, in this instance, we are not talking about harming innocents.”
“We hadn’t meant to harm innocents then.”
“You have your orders.” Sutton finally looked straight at him, and for a moment, Braden thought a shadow of confusion skimmed the edges of His Grace’s gaze. “Go with God, my son.” He gestured the Signum crucis.
Clear dismissal. Braden was sworn to obey. He bit on the argumentative words forming in his mouth. Swallowing his unease, he bowed. “By your command.”
Down the corridor, out the front doors and across the churchyard, acid clawed at his stomach. So, the Church was to re-engage in witch hunts. Worse, they took sides in the ancient war between witches and warlocks. Why else seek to help a warlock boy while planning to raze a coven? Braden’s loyalty to the Church turned a shade darker as he crossed the tree-lined pathway.
At the gatehouse doors, he sent Garth an ominous look that widened his footman’s eyes with obvious alarm. The talkative man prudently chose to silence his questions. Nevertheless, as Braden entered the carriage, the little man muttered, “Knew no good would come from that accursed place.”
For once, Braden agreed.
Chapter 2
Exeter, Devon
Mavis, a grey mare, shifted to allow the postilion room to maneuver straps around her broad chest. A cool brisk wind fluttered her mane. “I’m glad this carriage belongs to a lady and her maid,” she said to her younger matching companion, also being harnessed. “Their conversation is bound to be more tolerable than the gentlemen’s talk we’re usually inundated with.”
“Tired of listening to naval wood construction tips, Mavis?” Sarah asked, and neighed a mischievous laugh.
Mavis gave a rude snort, her nostrils vibrating. “If I hear one more comment about the auction price of timber, I shall bolt. Wait, I think our luck’s about to improve. Look yonder at who enters the yard.”
“Oohh...he’s handsome!” Sarah said.
“The stallion or his riders?” Despite her scoffing tone, Mavis stood straighter and fluffed her mane.
“Definitely the stallion.” Sarah’s eyes widened at the black stud that strode proudly into the stable yard strewn with colorful autumn leaves. She flicked her tail in keen interest. “One of his riders is quite handsome, too. The other’s gnarled, like an old oak bent by the wind. Must have been difficult for the black to carry two.”
“They’ve ridden him hard,” Mavis said. “See his sweat marks, the caked dirt on his ebony fetlocks? You’d think someone was chasing them.”
“His breath gushes in steamy white puffs as if he were breathing out clouds,” Sarah said in a dreamy voice. As he passed their carriage, she stomped her foot to catch the black’s eye.
The stallion glanced her way and nodded his head, once, in acknowledgment.
“Oh, he’s a sweet one, Mavis,” she whispered, tossing her head in response. “Very well mannered. Look how his hoofs move, as if to music.”
“I don’t like the look of the sword the gnarly one has strapped to his back,” Mavis murmured. “Don’t see folks carrying those old-fashioned weapons anymore.”
The taller of the riders dismounted. Ignoring his smaller companion’s ungainly struggle to get down, he turned to study their carriage.
“Mavis, they’re heading this way.”
“So, I see.”
“They’re bringing the stallion!”
“And the sword. Let’s not overlook that sword. Dear, oh dear. This could spell trouble for us, Sarah. Makes me rethink my stand on conversations about the caliber of naval timber.”
MERRYN PENDRAVEN, AT eighteen years of age, walked alone along a southern Welsh road. She planned to head into Devon, and from there onto Cornwall. A long and tiring trip home. Only a few short days ago, after five long years of training, she had been thrilled to be endowed with the title, Coven Protectress of Britain, and sent on her first solo mission to Fishguard, Wales. Unfortunately, the assignment had ended up a disaster from start to finish.
First, she had been tossed out of the Fishguard coven, its sage insisting they needed no assistance there despite residing smack in the center of warlock territory. Irritated and regretting having come so far for no good reason, Merryn changed into her raven form and coasted back south, hoping to travel in the swiftest manner possible.
Then a white-tailed sea eagle, a warlock’s familiar no less, had the nerve to attack her. She couldn’t cast spells while transformed, so she swiftly landed and changed back to her human shape.
