replied,
signaling the driver to continue on. “She was one of your distant
cousins, Whyborne.”
He looked at me in surprise. “A ketoi
hybrid?”
“Yes.” I glanced at him. I’d grown used to
the sight over the months, the odd feeling that the untameable
spikes of his hair would suddenly become tentacles, or I’d tug his
collar down and discover gills beneath. “More human, though.”
“Do you think they’re involved?” Christine
asked, twisting around to peer back at the farmhouse.
“The Robinsons or the ketoi?” Iskander
asked.
“Either.”
“No,” Whyborne said firmly. “That is, I
can’t speak for the Robinsons, but Persephone would never sanction
murder.”
“I would never cast aspersions on
Persephone,” I said carefully, “but Lambert’s odd episodes...”
“Were nothing like those the dweller caused
in me!” he exclaimed. “You said so yourself! And do I have to
remind you that Persephone is my sister?”
“I know.” I held up a hand for peace. “And
Persephone risked her life to stop war with the land. I haven’t
forgotten. But not all of the ketoi wanted that peace. It’s too
early to discount any possibilities.”
Whyborne folded his arms over his chest,
back to sulking again. I resisted the temptation to roll my
eyes.
Cows watched us pass from behind a fence,
their dark eyes mildly curious. Their animal scent perfumed the
air, mingled with sweet hay and sun-kissed grass. It brought back
unexpected memories of my youth in Kansas: muscles aching from a
long day of hard work, the feel of warm hide beneath my hands, the
clang of the bell summoning us to dinner.
“It seems a well run farm,” I remarked. My
voice came out slightly thicker than I’d intended. Whyborne caught
it, of course, and cast me a concerned look.
“If you say so,” Christine said. Like
Whyborne, she’d lived her life in cities. Or in tents in the wastes
of Egypt. But Iskander looked nostalgic; perhaps he thought of the
rural estate in England where he’d grown to manhood.
The lane grew more rutted the farther we
went. We left the cows behind, and soon I spotted the hill Mrs.
Robinson had mentioned. An enormous oak sprouted just short of the
crown, spreading its hoary arms wide.
Whyborne shaded his eyes against the
westering sun. “Look, at the hill crest. Are those the stones we
saw in the background of the photograph?”
Something about their shape seemed horribly
familiar...but no. Surely I was simply being paranoid.
“This is as close as I can get, sir,” the
driver said as the carriage creaked to a halt at the foot of the
hill.
“Thank you,” Whyborne replied as he climbed
out.
“Should I bring my camera?” Iskander asked,
gesturing to his bag at his feet.
I scanned the area carefully, but there
looked to be nowhere for any attackers to conceal themselves.
Likely whoever had done this was long gone. “Yes,” I said. “But
bring your knives as well. Just in case.”
We started slowly up the steep hill.
“There’s a line of arcane power here, isn’t there?” Whyborne asked
when we were halfway to the crest.
I nodded. It burned in my shadowsight, a
wide swath of blue fire, feeding into the great vortex that lay
beneath Widdershins. “Yes.”
The stones cast long shadows across the
grass, and the late sun stained them orange, save where blood had
lent them a darker hue. Some of the stones had fallen long ago, but
the rest of the menhirs stood higher than a man. At the eastern end
of the circle lurked a rough stone block—the altar Mrs. Robinson
had referred to, no doubt.
Centuries of weathering had blurred the
figures carved thereon, but I made out hybrid abominations
reminiscent of the terrible Guardians that Blackbyrne and his ilk
had raised. On another face, what could only be ketoi swam
alongside a tentacled titan.
All boiled and pulsed with the same blue
fire as the maelstrom, as if its power had been drawn up into the
stones somehow.
“I wish you could see this,
signaling the driver to continue on. “She was one of your distant
cousins, Whyborne.”
He looked at me in surprise. “A ketoi
hybrid?”
“Yes.” I glanced at him. I’d grown used to
the sight over the months, the odd feeling that the untameable
spikes of his hair would suddenly become tentacles, or I’d tug his
collar down and discover gills beneath. “More human, though.”
“Do you think they’re involved?” Christine
asked, twisting around to peer back at the farmhouse.
“The Robinsons or the ketoi?” Iskander
asked.
“Either.”
“No,” Whyborne said firmly. “That is, I
can’t speak for the Robinsons, but Persephone would never sanction
murder.”
“I would never cast aspersions on
Persephone,” I said carefully, “but Lambert’s odd episodes...”
“Were nothing like those the dweller caused
in me!” he exclaimed. “You said so yourself! And do I have to
remind you that Persephone is my sister?”
“I know.” I held up a hand for peace. “And
Persephone risked her life to stop war with the land. I haven’t
forgotten. But not all of the ketoi wanted that peace. It’s too
early to discount any possibilities.”
Whyborne folded his arms over his chest,
back to sulking again. I resisted the temptation to roll my
eyes.
Cows watched us pass from behind a fence,
their dark eyes mildly curious. Their animal scent perfumed the
air, mingled with sweet hay and sun-kissed grass. It brought back
unexpected memories of my youth in Kansas: muscles aching from a
long day of hard work, the feel of warm hide beneath my hands, the
clang of the bell summoning us to dinner.
“It seems a well run farm,” I remarked. My
voice came out slightly thicker than I’d intended. Whyborne caught
it, of course, and cast me a concerned look.
“If you say so,” Christine said. Like
Whyborne, she’d lived her life in cities. Or in tents in the wastes
of Egypt. But Iskander looked nostalgic; perhaps he thought of the
rural estate in England where he’d grown to manhood.
The lane grew more rutted the farther we
went. We left the cows behind, and soon I spotted the hill Mrs.
Robinson had mentioned. An enormous oak sprouted just short of the
crown, spreading its hoary arms wide.
Whyborne shaded his eyes against the
westering sun. “Look, at the hill crest. Are those the stones we
saw in the background of the photograph?”
Something about their shape seemed horribly
familiar...but no. Surely I was simply being paranoid.
“This is as close as I can get, sir,” the
driver said as the carriage creaked to a halt at the foot of the
hill.
“Thank you,” Whyborne replied as he climbed
out.
“Should I bring my camera?” Iskander asked,
gesturing to his bag at his feet.
I scanned the area carefully, but there
looked to be nowhere for any attackers to conceal themselves.
Likely whoever had done this was long gone. “Yes,” I said. “But
bring your knives as well. Just in case.”
We started slowly up the steep hill.
“There’s a line of arcane power here, isn’t there?” Whyborne asked
when we were halfway to the crest.
I nodded. It burned in my shadowsight, a
wide swath of blue fire, feeding into the great vortex that lay
beneath Widdershins. “Yes.”
The stones cast long shadows across the
grass, and the late sun stained them orange, save where blood had
lent them a darker hue. Some of the stones had fallen long ago, but
the rest of the menhirs stood higher than a man. At the eastern end
of the circle lurked a rough stone block—the altar Mrs. Robinson
had referred to, no doubt.
Centuries of weathering had blurred the
figures carved thereon, but I made out hybrid abominations
reminiscent of the terrible Guardians that Blackbyrne and his ilk
had raised. On another face, what could only be ketoi swam
alongside a tentacled titan.
All boiled and pulsed with the same blue
fire as the maelstrom, as if its power had been drawn up into the
stones somehow.
“I wish you could see this,
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