Will of Shadows: Inkwell Trilogy 2 (The Inkwell Trilogy) Read online

  Will of shadows

  The Inkwell trilogy 2

  Aaron Buchanan

  Prologue

  The Dryads were barking again. There were not the real Dryads, but he named each one of them after woodland nymphs from myth: Dryope, Eurydice, and Phoebe. They were not actual dogs, either, rather spirits called forth from the Earth who could mimic them. They were his sentries and his only companions. They did not have the affectionate temperaments of most canines, but they were loyal, and they were aware of the movements of the air in ways dogs were simply not attuned. Dead things. Dark things. And the other members of The Triginta were what he most feared. So far, they had kept him safe.

  They played fetch with him, though he was certain they were humoring him rather than actually being amused. In a way, it was good to know the Green Mother acknowledged his need for companionship while she also kept him safe. They were totems of the earth that required no food other than sun and soil. Meanwhile, Lou limited his interactions with humans to only a few times a year—five at most, depending on snowfall—when he went to town to resupply. He knew some of The Triginta—The Thirty—by face; others by reputation. Some, he did not know at all. The fewer faces he came into contact with, the better off he would be.

  After 106 years, the Green Mother still sustained him and kept his body moving, his heart pumping. Lou could even still chop trees and split his own firewood. Though, the past decade had seen less spring in his step and shakier swings of his axe.

  The human body could only withstand so much life.

  Eurydice was the one who first brought his attention to the magic reverberating through the earth: someone was trying to find him. Someone among the other 29 was seeking him out. This was almost certainly not good news. Lou tired of people entirely a short time after he returned from the Great World War. He was one of the casualties. That is, he is certain he was one, until the Green Mother raised him from the mud outside Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. He was one of the 101st Airborne back then and everything from before his resurrection was like a painting onto which someone had poured thinner. The images were there, and if he stared long enough, grasped hard enough, he could pull some of the memories out of the slick mess…but Lou would not ever connect to them.

  It was a different life thereafter and over time he became a sort of living anachronism.

  The Geomancer found him there, in Belgium, shortly after his rebirth and showed to him the bosom of the Green Mother and how he, himself, would serve as the next caretaker of the world. Old as he was, the Geomancer was ready to move on. Besides, there could only be one mage of the earth.

  Lou’s master was much older than he. Yet time had not been overly kind to Lou and he felt that his own was meant to be shorter than his master’s. He knew the bits and pieces that made up his body were starting to short-circuit, even decay. The shakes had gotten so bad in the past eight months that spellcraft sapped his will more than it had at any point in his life before then. Once, back in September, he shook so violently he found himself sprawled in the mud in front of his chalet. When he came to, he was back at Bastogne, sucking wet earth into his lungs, remembering. Remembering…

  That was A War to End All Wars. If they only knew. If they only knew what was coming for them.

  “It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.

  The human spirit must prevail over technology.”

  —Albert Einstein

  “I do not understand technology very much; nor social media. Though, I’ve come to learn that our species’ biggest fear in this age is a computer screen’s blinking cursor. It is a reflection of incompleteness that is only made worse by the mountain ranges of information on the internet. It serves to make me realize that we have computers, phones, email inboxes full of words that amount to so very little.”

  —Grey Theroux

  Bar Sinister 1599

  “Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?”

  Richard Burbage, as Brutus, moved toward his brother clumsily, slicing through the air with his wooden dagger. “Speak, hands for me!”

  “Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.” Cuthbert Burbage fell into a lump as a dead Caesar. He was not dying. There was no invocation of suffering. Just a pile of limbs and torso covered in a toga. It was not the dignified death William imagined or directed.

  “Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!” The actor playing Cinna paused, looked to Cuthbert, then back to the pile of Richard Burbage at his feet. He had forgotten his line.

  Run hence, proclaim… William Shakespeare tried to impose his words into the actor with an evil look alone. Remember…

  The opening of the Globe Theatre was to be a momentous occasion. So far, it was an unmitigated disaster, owing to the events of the previous few weeks.

  Even his Caesar, Cuthbert, was unconvincing this evening—flubbing lines, ad-libbing; even his physicality betrayed how frayed his nerves were.

  Then, he was the first one attacked. Each subsequent occurrence only made him increasingly nervous.

  The peculiar occurrences seemed to be happening more and more.

  There was something askew in the world, though William was only beginning to learn just how out of balance matters were. William even consulted his former master, Edward Kelley, who, he was pained to learn, fell victim two years ago.

  The rigors of the stage were his new life, even if he was the most powerful logomancer Kelley had seen or heard of.

  It was almost too natural for William to conjure magic from his words. It lent itself to his current craft, but it was not his passion.

  Now, however, William was reconsidering. John Dee, Sir Edward’s dear alchemist friend, was, to his knowledge, still living. Dee would know whence these dangers came. All William had to do was just get through opening night.

  “Run hence, proclaim!” Simmons finally spoke the line.

  William surveyed the audience to gage reactions. They all let out an audible sigh of relief. There was someone in the audience who caught his eye. A woman, dark-skinned, though fair and altogether stunning.

  Like some kind of incantation, it conjured something deep within him.

  In that instant, he knew there was something otherworldly about her; that her beauty was both exotic and savage. Her appearance could not be pure chance. She may have been human. She may have been something else or something in-between. William was drawn to her. But more than that, he was compelled to study her.

  If it meant some carnal studying, all the better.

  Who could this Dark Lady be?

  “’Silence like a cancer grows.

  Hear my words that I might teach you,

  Take my arms that I might reach you."

  But my words like silent raindrops fell,

  And echoed

  In the wells of silence

  And the people bowed and prayed

  To the neon god they made.

  And the sign flashed out its warning,

  In the words that it was forming.

  And the sign said, "The words of the prophets

  Are written on the subway walls

  And tenement halls."

  .

  “Sounds of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel

  Chapter 1

  Near the Dutch Windmill in Golden Gate Park is a path that winds and curves through woods and bushes and eventually leads a person to a footpath or even paved road, or to the windmill itself. If you’ve ever had the chance to go there, this is the far western portion of the park that goes along The Great Highway that borders the beach and the Pacific Ocean. It took me getti
ng turned around several times, losing my bearings at least five or six times, then stumbling over a few of the homeless before I found the entrance. Twilight was closing in and I was beginning to fear that I would stumble over more haphazard camps with less forgiving vagrants when I finally found a path I had not yet (I was sure) traversed. The sunlight was fading over the treetops, so ascertaining my direction was difficult. The light of the setting sun elongated the shadows, yet they seemed longer here; light did not seem to measure commensurately with the shadows behind objects.

  I was exhausted already, but more due to the events of the last week and a half than because of my supposed trail-blazing (or trail-stumbling). This was my first time to the Shadow Mill. I had only just learned of its existence. In learning of this place I also came to learn much more that my father’s parting gift—the book sealed in the compartment of my basement—only hinted at. I used to think that the lack of specificity was not any fault of his, but more in the circumstances of his initial apprenticeship under, presumably, my grandfather. Nevertheless, filling the gaps in knowledge had little to do with the reason I flew out to San Francisco.

  I had come to San Francisco alone. Joy felt it in her best interest to continue her language studies while there were, in fact, some spare moments. I could not help but agree. We had the feeling that we should take advantage of the current calm to shore up defenses. And our offense

  Finding Gavin had become my priority in the months since Cevennes; the Well of Gods. The months have been exceedingly difficult: not physically, but emotionally, mentally. The other burden weighing upon my psyche, however, had to do with the discovery that my father seemed to have set me up for failure. The book he left for me and for Joy was too little, too late. A great many mysteries were revealed, but it alluded to mysteries he never told me; the book elucidated my own ignorance. It was a bitter pill to swallow. At first, my denial let me retain faith in my father’s judgment, but I have cooled to my father’s supposed plans.

  I was on my own.

  Well, Joy and I were on our own. Maybe that was his plan, but if it were…it was a shit plan.

  That’s how I have been operating: from the hip and in the dark. Plans were clearly overrated.

  The idea galled me. This was not my modus operandi. For me, information, knowledge was to be harvested, examined, ground, percolated, and poured into my consciousness. This process served me well in the past. Now, it appeared as if my typical methods were a colossal weakness. It required time, but that came at a premium.

  Coming to a clearing, I realized the twilight had diminished completely. I was looking at a version of the Golden Gate Park windmill, but it was markedly different. So far, the shadow-pocket looked like a dark version of our world. I was partly expecting it to be like staring at a photo negative, but it wasn’t that either. I was correct in everything looking sinister, however. This was confirmed upon looking at the windmill. There was no illumination from the moonlight. In fact, there was no moon. There may have been one hiding behind a thick cover of clouds. Yet there was some light—as there were shadows. The shadows were longer, deeper, spreading across the windmill arms and structure like a disease. However, the past several hours clumsily padding around for this place lessened my fear based on spite alone. I did, though, feel nervous apprehension.

  I did not see the doorway to go inside and found only hedges and thorns crowded up against the building in the immediate view. I wondered if there even was a door or if I’d have to practice some sort of magic to have the windmill give up its secrets. I balked at the idea. Somehow, I knew that would not work. Not in this place.

  I walked the circumference of the building, illuminating my palm with my logomancy: a Sharpie and words for light in a few Romance languages written triangularly.

  Nothing that resembled an entrance. Nowhere to simply go up and knock, at least without getting caught in the thicket. Frankly, given the darkness surrounding the location, I wasn’t entirely sure the shrubbery wouldn’t strike back at me should I brave my way through it.

  There were, thankfully, rocks and pebbles by my feet. Maybe…

  The earth here was wetter than it should have been. Almost spongy. Still the stones came up easily and I began hurling them at the windmill. If the arms were rotating at all, I’d have made a game of trying to hit them. Still, I was feeling a little guilty, as if I were vandalizing the landmark. Though, there was no glass to break and the stones bounced harmlessly off the wood.

  I knew he was in there. I was assured he was in there. He had to hear me.

  I found bigger rocks to throw.

  Persistence finally paid off. I moved up to a large enough rock that I had to shotput it into the structure. There was no echo (which itself was disconcerting), but it was loud.

  I was inspecting around my ankles when I heard the shifting of plant life ahead of me. Almost feeling as if I were in trouble, I looked guiltily toward the source of the noise. While my eyes had adjusted to the ethereal gloom, when I looked up I was staring at figure in black.

  A large caliber pistol was pointed at my face, hammer cocked. From beneath the hood, there was only a low rumble; the viscera of a starving beast emerging into a growl.

  This was not at all what I was expecting.

  My expectations were not very lofty, but an alchemist playing a rabid Dirty Harry did not make the list.

  “My name is Grey Theroux. I am a logomancer. I am the Keeper of the Well of Gods. I…”

  “Need to go away,” the hooded figure said, depressing the trigger.

  Surprisingly, I did not inhale sharply when I awoke. I immediately recognized the fact that I was still among the living, and though I was startled, my initial reaction was to drop from where I was laying onto all fours and survey the area.

  The overall effect of the scene was, apparently, quite comical, as my host laughed until he gagged. It was an unnerving laugh, though nothing diabolical: it was the wheezy laugh of someone who has smoked for many years and whose lungs miraculously—or magically—refused to stop working. Even still, it sounded sick.

  The inside of the windmill was lit with lanterns and candles, though the shadows remained overly long, leeching light and making the room feel dense, claustrophobic.

  “You are safe,” the alchemist rasped. “For now.” At least he had removed his hood, though he kept the robe, giving him a monastic look. His hairline had long since receded from his forehead, though what he did have was black, but it was almost certainly dyed that way. His pallor seemed congruous to the voice. Though he was bearded, the graying whiskers were scraggly and betrayed his health that much more. The alchemist was certainly suffering from some deadly ailment. Cancer? Sick and desperate, what might he do to me? Or did he think I could help him and that was why I remained alive?

  While I took a seat back onto his futon, I looked around for an exit. It was out of sight—hidden just as it was on the outside. Despite the current predicament, I did not believe he meant me harm in the short or long term. I also did not believe I could retreat from the reason that brought me here to him. “So you are aware of what has been going on? With the gods? REvolve? The Triginta?” I was fishing. I had no idea who or what the Triginta were, only that they were somehow involved in what was happening. Maybe I’d get some of those answers that remained elusive…

  “No. I do not know anything about current events with all them. But I do read the tea leaves, as it were,” he answered.

  “Literal tea leaves,” I inquired, more by way of conversation than curiosity.

  He sipped a steaming beverage and then coughed, the sound of which made it seem like he was moving phlegm around his throat. “No. Of course not. Tasseomancy is not a legitimate form of magic. Surely you’ve been taught this.” As he spoke, I noticed a slight accent. Something northeastern. New York, maybe?

  I was not, in fact, taught this, however it was a conclusion I had drawn myself: the magics consist of words, numbers, and science. Those three disciplines gave
substance and fuel to magic. Tea leaves were, by their very nature, just tree leaves and flowers. “It is something I have learned, yes.” Scooting to the edge of the futon, I continued, “It’s actually what brings me here. My father died before he could,” I struggled to use words that might sting less, “inform me fully. I have a book about my duties as Keeper of the Well of Gods. And while my apprenticeship was complete, I am finding that, for whatever reason, there are tremendous gaps in my knowledge…”

  “Gaps you think I can fill?” the alchemist said, looking skeptical. The current demeanor actually made his eyes look more sunken into his skull. I thought if I had arrived here at the Shadow Mill any later, my host might have been dead.

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “And no. I don’t expect you to fill me in on everything, but I do know that the magoi were allies more often than they were not. And maybe you would at least put me on a path to knowledge if you could not answer the questions I have of you.”

  “I have never worked for free, logomancer,” his voice low.

  I expected this. Zala—the Slovenian spirit I maintained an odd and uneasy friendship with—could not tell me much about this alchemist, other than where he was and some stories of his exploits that may or may not actually be related to him. She had heard a rumor that in a former life—that is before he took on alchemy—he was a hitman for the mob. And that he might be more than a little unstable. So far, his accent confirmed he might be from New York. On the other hand, he seemed perfectly lucid. At the moment. “I can repay you in information. Or…” I wondered if I should offer, “or I could help you. I know you’re sick. I might be able to ply my magic.”

  This was not the fee for which he was looking. His face contorted into one of magnificent rage as he stood up and through his mug down to the floor, shattering it. “YOU THINK YOU ARE A MORE CAPABLE MAGE THAN I? WITH YOUR PETTY WORDS?” he was apopleptic, spitting on me as he yelled. “WORDS ARE NO MATCH FOR THE POWER OF THE UNIVERSE! BEFORE THERE WERE WORDS, THE UNIVERSE WORKED ITS OWN MAGIC. YOURS IS NOTHING!”