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Welcome to stories from among the stars. You're listening to the book eaters by sun yi dean. Narrated by katie ehrich.
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Chapter 14 the Princess and the Ogre Six years ago, the princess was all alone again. To make matters worse, her father promised her hand in marriage to an ogre who had agreed to give the king 50 wagons of silver in return. The princess was horrified when she heard what her father had done and begged him to change his mind. But her father was determined to carry out his bargain. Charlotte Hook, Princess Furbal There was a kind of peace in surrender. Though it shamed her, a part of Devon embraced the relief of simply giving up. The only path back to her daughter was also the path of least resistance. And so, seven months after her failed escape, Devon did not fight when the Fairweather aunts came to prepare her for a second wedding. Breathe in love, aunt Beulah said, fingers against her ribcage. The marrying doesn't last forever. Stay strong and stand tall. Devon sucked in and stood straighter. It was the same heavily embroidered Romanian dress that she'd first been gifted more than four years ago, only now it was tight across the bosom and hips, and they had to fight with the fabric a little. These things were to be expected. She was older and had birthed a child. Her daughter. No, don't think of Salem. Strong hands pulled the laces taut, and Devon imagined that she was allowing her heart to be laced into her body. Keep it together. Another marriage, another child. Then she'd be able to petition to see them. Inwardly, she was already making arguments. She could ask Phaedra for advice if she ever saw the other bride again. Did Phaedra want to see her children? Did she care? She'd seemed bleak at Devon's wedding. On reflection, they were princesses of a kind, and this was how princesses lived. Safe in towers, married to men who competed for them one way or another. Even in the happiest fairy tales, princesses did not usually have much choice. They were prizes to be won or given away, and there was no other context in which she could understand her life. On a too hot July afternoon, Devon left her childhood home for the second time. Her departure went unheralded on this occasion, the aunts hiding in their rooms, the uncles steadfastly ignoring her. Maybe there was no longer any need for the pretence, or else they were just genuinely embarrassed. Either way, Devon was grateful. A family send off for a second unwanted marriage would have felt cruel beyond bearing. Instead, she was bundled into a much smaller limousine with a pair of knights for her entourage, one of whom was Ramsey himself. The last time she'd seen her brother, he'd been standing over her in a wintry forest, weapon pointed at her head. After you, ramsey said, and even smiled. Sort of. Devon shuddered and got into the vehicle. She ended up squashed between Ramsay and another knight named Paulton. Ike sat across from them. A single dragon loomed in the next seat, soft hands tucked between large knees and unknowable face hidden by a motorcycle helmet. Told you I'd make it for your second wedding, ramsey said, and laughed like he'd delivered a joke. Have you been did? Devon pressed her lips together and stared at the floor. She could not bear to make friendly conversation. The drive from Yorkshire to the Norfolk coast took considerably longer than the drive from Yorkshire to Birmingham. Lulled by the motion of the vehicle and disinterested in the landscape outside, she dozed off for real, only to be shaken awake what seemed like moments later by Ramsey saying, we're almost there. Devon nodded, remembered that she hated him now, and looked out of the window to avoid his gaze. Her brother stifled a yawn. Easterbrook Manor was like no other house that Devon would ever again visit. She sat in subdued silence as they drove over a well paved road through the family grounds, stunned by the gardens, working orchards, small organic farm, and a bizarre series of moving structures that Ramsay informed her were windmills. Windmills, she said, curiosity briefly overpowering her hatred for electricity. Yep, Electricity is sellable. The Easterbrooks have successfully leased much of their land to human businesses. Seasonal fruit pickers move through the fields, working and caring for them. Tractors potted in methodical rows. The workers were poorly dressed and many seemed tired. I thought we weren't supposed to interact with humans, devon said. And why are most of them women? I would have thought women wouldn't want such jobs. Better field labour than brothel labour, said Paulton. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Brothel unease coiled in Devon's belly. She understood the idea of brothels from her scattered reading, but what that had to do with family she didn't grasp. Aye, it's a roulette of bad choices, paulen said. Farm hands if you're lucky. Brothel if you're not. Organ harvesters if you're too old for either. It's a grim business. Interaction is fine. Integration isn't, ramsey said, ignoring his colleague's interjection. The Easterbrooks don't integrate with humans. No humans are employed inside the actual house. In fact, most of these people aren't employed at all, strictly speaking, because they're in this country illegally and are just grateful for whatever pay they can get. He rolled down the window, hanging an elbow out. It's a good racket. Aside from a couple techies, most of the Easterbrook boys are stewards and landlords. Paulton snorted. That's one word for it. Who take enough of a cut from the farms and energy mills to keep the house going, Ramsay went on, giving him a hard glare. And in turn that means they spend less time among the local population than lads in other houses. Your last husband, in comparison, had to be very careful to stay out of close human contact. In his job, it's dirty money. Maids would suffer in I can't believe the patriarchs allow it. Honestly. Paulton looked aggrieved. My house? The Gladstones don't do anything of that sort. The air inside the limousine seemed to be growing thicker and warmer. Eh, come on, it's only humans, ramsey said, sounding annoyed. Not like they're trafficking in other book eaters. Trafficking? Transitive or intransitive verb. The word had a number of definitions, but none of them made sense in the context her brothers were using. What was so bad about transporting people? Wasn't that what trains and cars did? Don't be obtuse, paulton said. Sure, they're only humans, but have you seen those hellholes they keep the girls in? I wouldn't put a dragon in one of those. Ramsey started laughing. Since when were you such a fucking softie? Enough, Palton, ike said. I'm Ramsey. Act your age and station, for heaven's sake. At me age? Ramsay still sounded amused. How about you mind your own business and keep your mouth shut, you decrepit old fuck. Knights don't take orders from you. His easy contempt startled Devon. It startled Ike, too, his hands fluttering and he blinked owlishly. Besides, Paul and I are only joking around, aren't we, lad? Ramsay jostled the other man's shoulder. Paulton pulled a face, muttered something unintelligible. Ike, to Devon's astonishment, said nothing at all. Gravel crunched as the car ground to a stop. Ike opened the door, still silent, and ducked elegantly from the car. Devon dragged herself out and stood to stiff attention. Princesses behaved politely always, and this was her role. She didn't have Ramsay's freedom to be rude to their uncle, Father. Easterbrook Manor was old fashioned, kept in its original Tudor design, but the interior was painfully modern, and bright lights flooded the entry hall, and everything from the internal doors to the chandeliers seemed to be set with glass quartz chips refracted in sparkles from the red marble floor. White shelves discreetly filled the alcoves, the books upon them arranged by colour and size to create an undulating rainbow of spines, a crisp bibliosmia scent of freshly printed paper with a faint undercurrent of petroleum. Devon wrinkled her nose. Modern books had good stories, but she hated the oily taste of glossy pages. Celebrations were already underway. A handful of people drifted past, laughing and drinking from flutes that refracted yet more light. All in formal dress and all wearing jewellery. Sparkles and shine everywhere. Devon put a hand to her head, overwhelmed by the glittering. There you are, Ike. Mattley Easterbrook came down the main stairwell with casual confidence, two other men at his heels, all three of them in pale suits. Matley was younger than Lewton, though still older than Devon, taller than Lewton, though still shorter than Devon. Sepia skin and dark, tightly curled hair spoke to their Mediterranean heritage. Book eaters often had complex and convoluted ethnicities. The different households across different continents had long ago blended with lineages, bolstering failing lines on all sides. Only delaying the inevitable, she thought. Increasingly there were just fewer bookeater families to merge with, and those who survived in other countries were harder and harder to access. Passports, immigration paperwork, visas, and all that official stuff made cross continental marriage almost impossible to arrange in modern times. Always a pleasure, Ike had recovered his poise. He wore a wide, toothy smile that he reserved only for other men of the families and had never shared with her. I am pleased to introduce you to Devon. Every eye fell on her and she stiffened under the onslaught of attention. Hello, kid. Matley was difficult to look at. That pearl coloured suit turned him into a blazing beacon in their overlit house. Good Lord, you're a tall one, aren't you? He gave her shoulder a squeeze. Gripping much too hard, Devon steeled herself into not flinching. Showing weakness to this man would invite derision, she felt. Luton had been cold and indifferent. Matley, she suspected, might be actively unpleasant. The kind of man, in fact, who trafficked humans without a whisper of remorse. When he got no response, Matley wheeled away and said, these are two of my brothers, White and Jarrow. Congratulations on your wedding. Cousin White picked a cuticle on his nails. His real attention was on the party happening in the reception room. Congratulations, Cousin Jarrow echoed awkwardly. He looked even younger than her and she was only 23. Happy returns. Thanks. The banality of the exchange grated on her. Very kind. Matley swept his arm to one side. White, please escort the knights to the barracks where they can check in their dragon. Jarrow, if you'd be so good as to escort our bride to the celebrations. He offered a twisting smile to Ike. And Cousin, if you'd like to come with me to the office, we can finish discussing the business side of things. Ramsey and Paulton left, with White Dragon trailing after them. Ike disappeared with Matley, none of them so much as glancing her way. Devon stood in a daze, feeling as if nothing about the day were real or tangible. Get through the wedding, she reminded herself. One day at a time. Wedding, marriage, child. Then Salem. Eventually there was nothing else she could do. If you'll follow me, Miss Fairweather. Jarrow's strong Norfolk accent clagged her ears. We've a party on for you. I'm looking forward to it, she said almost truthfully. At least the party will be a distraction with plenty of alcohol. Devon thought she understood Feder a little better these days. The other woman's smile, so cheerful at the time, seemed brittle and forced on reflection. As they approached the reception room, a pair of young men pushed past in a rush, carrying stained glasses. One of them shoved the dining room door wide, and as it swung back, the figure of Lewton Winterfield was briefly visible, laughing and joking. Devon froze in place. Cold, sick built up in her stomach and threatened to rise in her throat. How dare he come here, be here, torment her again, see her like this when he had her daughter, beautiful Salem, tucked away in no. Her feet wouldn't move. She could not face Salem's father, Salem's kidnapper. Jaro paused. Is something wrong? I changed my mind. I don't want to celebrate. I don't want to be here. Her voice seemed to echo in the waiting room, ricocheting off the stupid glass, everything and the two bright lights. He tugged at an earlobe. You don't want to go to the wedding celebration? I thought brides liked the parties. She was supposed to say something, a chance to recover the facade and pretend everything was fine. Submit, be passive, be cowed and give no threat and earn the chance to see Salem again. Somehow she managed to stutter out the words. They're very noisy. Too many people. Stupid. Like she was a small child frightened by lightning. Except she was afraid of this Easterbrook boy whose family trafficked in lives, even if they were human, of Matley, cruel and arrogant, whom she would have to marry if Jarrow took offence in her words, she would be in trouble. But even as she filled her lungs with breath to say, all right, let's go in now. Luton half turned to address someone else. And Devon's resolve crumbled afresh. She pressed up against the wall where he wouldn't see her. The door slowly drifted shut again, obscuring the room. Gero said, was your first husband in there? His guest skewered her, she realized too late. She was nodding, tried to shake her head. Instead. The room spun, the light searing inside her head. Why was everything so sodding bright? Sorry. I just need a moment and then I can go in. Lying, lying, lying. Her courage was dropping second by second. He astonished her by saying, do you like video games? The question dispersed her mount in distress with its sheer unexpectedness. Video game Noun, devon said, struggling to keep her composure as she confusedly rifled through her internal dictionary. An electronic game in which players control images on a video screen. She frowned. What does that even mean? Jarrow broke into a grin. You had to eat dictionary pages, too. Glad I wasn't the only rebel child. Which one did they give you? Erm. Merriam Webster? She wondered if she should specify the addition. Decided it didn't matter. Her heart rate slowed, the heat inside her chest dying down a little. Ah, we eat Oxford in this house, but only those of us who ask too many questions too young. He pointed toward the stairs so recently descended. Come on, I'll give you a little tour of the house and introduce you to some games. Might not be your cup of tea, but it's probably better than gnawing on your own nerves. Right? Right. Sure. Anything to stave off the misery of her own wedding for a few moments. Anything to avoid being reminded of how far she was from Salem, how long it had been since she'd seen her daughter. Jarrow led her up two floors down hallways lined with postmodern art and chandeliers that sprouted from the ceiling every five feet. The carpets squished like mulch under her ballet flats and the air reeked with faux floral scents. Several more hallways later, they fetched up in what was apparently the gaming room. It was like she'd stepped into a parallel universe. She stared at, dumbfounded, at the large entertainment centre that covered one entire wall. It housed an equally large television screen connected to a small grey box trailing wires, one of which ended in a strange curved device covered in plastic buttons. Devon had never seen anything like it before. Her own manner eschewed modern nonsense, as Ike would have phrased it. This is my PlayStation, Jarrow said, as if that information were illuminating. He passed her the knobby curved device. Here, have a controller and take a seat. She sat on the large red sofa holding the thing in her palms. What does it control? No lights in here, except for that which poured from the screens, blissfully dark. The game, Silly. Hold it like this. He arranged her inflexible fingers into a counterintuitive position. Devon did her best, the controller sitting awkward in her palms, fingers at strange angles. Maybe you'd better take it, she said, handing the thing back to him. I'm not sure it suits me. Just takes practice. Jarrow took the controller off her and pressed buttons on the PlayStation. The screen changed. You want a bear before we start? He pronounced beer like bear. Erm. Devon had never drunk beer. Pronounced bear or otherwise. Yes, I'd love one. Tar Cool. He disappeared out of her sight toward a storeroom at the back. The words Tomb Raider appeared on screen, along with some credits and an opening sequence. A dark haired woman in a blue top with a crisp queen's English accent started speaking to an American man. She appeared to be some kind of spy. Devon, who had never seen a film or cartoon or television of any kind, let alone a video game, gaped at the screen in spellbound astonishment. It was the closest thing she'd ever seen to real magic. Jarrow came back, put down two cans of beer, and dropped next to her on the couch. You ready? He'd taken off his smart jacket and already seemed happier, more at ease. How come only your house gets this stuff? Devon tipped back her beer. It hit far less hard than wine and, though sour and yeasty like one of Uncle Romford's military fiction novels, went down easily enough. I love games already, and we haven't done anything yet. He laughed. Watch me for a bit and I'll show you how to play. Only one person can use the controller at a time, so we'll have to take turns. Devon sipped from her beer. Her beer. She watched him play and listened to his explanations, drinking in the details, fascinated by the technology. This was not how she expected her day to go. Not that she was complaining. After the first level, she said, can I try again? Jarrow seeded her, the controller with polite reluctance. Devon died in game almost immediately, laughed out loud, and restarted for another attempt. The game was simply another medium for stories, much as books were, albeit electronic instead of paper based. She let herself forget about the wedding and the old country dress that squashed her ribs. Lara Croft's struggles to run, jump, shoot, and solve puzzles became Devon's struggles, and that suited her fine because Lara's problems were far more fun than Devon's own. A revelation struck her and she hit pause, thunderbolted by an idea summit. Wrong, jarrow said. She's a princess. He shot her a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. Er, kind of, if you take a really loose definition of the word. Lara is aristocratic gentry, I suppose, which is pretty similar. Devon barely heard him. She could only look at the choppy blue shirted woman on the screen. A princess who rejected her castle in favour of adventures and muddy boots. Who went treasure hunting with a gun strapped to her thigh and fought bag guys. I don't understand, she said. Why can't I be a Lara Croft kind of princess? Why am I like this? The controller sat heavy like a misshapen stone. Her eyes grew hot from a toxic potion of beer and mixed emotions, too many for her to process or name, even with the help of a dictionary in her brain. Jaro tugged at a curl. I the door banged open, making both of them jump. Matley Easterbrook walked in to the sight of Devon sitting startled and drunk, and Jarrow next to her, jacketless and guilty. I've been scouring the house, matby said, jabbing a finger. Have you both been here the whole time? It's my bad, jaro said quickly. I asked if she wanted to try a gaming console for two hours. You had one task to take her down the hall. The fault is mine, devon cut in. We don't have games in Fairweather Manor. My family is a little old fashioned about human tech. I was just curious. Matley shifted his gaze. Your uncle's having a fit girl. He thought you'd done a runner again, since apparently you have a history of that kind of thing. But here you are, hiding away with my little brother. He sniggered. So juvenile for a grown man of his age. Any other bloke and I'd be questioning your fidelity. Devon blinked, confused. Jarrow had gone beet red. The context was missing, but Matley was either mocking her or Jarrow, or both. Anyway, you're here and not gone walkabout. He crooked her finger as if she were a dog. On your feet, love. The night's only getting older. A buzzing filled her ears and her peripheral vision seemed to fall away. She could only see Matley, framed by long hard lines and too much light. There would be no drink or drugs to mask this encounter. Those small kindnesses Lewton had carelessly offered her newest husband would be a thing to endure, not experience. Devon stood up, swept with sudden nausea. Catch you later, she said over her shoulder and strode from the games room. At Matley's side, held upright by the laces of her dress, Jarrow gave a tight nod from his place on the couch, ensconced in silence and staring at the controller in his lap. Act 3 Witching Hour Chapter 15 Ramsay and the Mountain of Light Present Day There's a point, you know, where treachery is so complete and unashamed that it becomes statesmanship. George MacDonald Fraser Flashman in the Mountain of Light Ramsay had found the emergency stop easily enough and cut the wiring that controlled the lights. Most were out, the rest on the blink. The 10:15 to Edinburgh had become a long stretch of dark, unmoving carriages. He darted down the aisles, blade in hand and perfectly comfortable in the shadows that obscured human vision. A slice, a nick, A few close shaves. Screams and shrieks. A couple dozen humans bleeding lightly, badly frightened. The ensuing stampede was pure delight. He'd discovered as a young man that humans, and indeed many eaters, had a propensity to take the known for granted, to believe that events or experiences would continuously remain predictable. Ramsay had learned to abuse this assumption. When he broke their expectations spectacularly, it was easy to seize control. Like tonight, for example. A practical and reasonable thinker would pinpoint that a single man with a knife was hardly a threat to an entire carriage, let alone a whole train. If they tackled him en masse, he'd be done for, even with superior eater strength. But by acting unexpectedly, he had upended their faith in events, remaining logical. Rationality always went up in smoke at that stage. I peeked through the window, Devon loping off into the fields, Hester and Kaya to sighed. Job done then. No need for excess violence. Better make himself scarce before the chickens grew courageous. They did outnumber him significantly, even if they had forgotten that. Ramsey backtracked toward the nearest exit, partially retracing. Devon's footsteps pushed through screamers and criers. Revolting cowardice, he thought. Outside, finally. Some humans out here, but not as many. Not so packed in. The air was refreshing and crisp, a break from the meaty smell of crowds. He took a good lungful, stashed the knife back in its leg holster. Felt good there. Carrying a short blade was gentlemanly. Something caught his eye. Strewn on the trampled ground. Ramsey walked over, nudged it with his foot. A purse. One he recognised. Hester. Raven's car had been carrying something similar. Could be hers. Expensive leather rubbed slick and dry beneath his hands as he picked it up, rifled through it gently. Cold metal. Aha. He withdrew the pistol, stared at it. A five shooter. It had been reloaded. Who kept a gun in their purse? Someone who wanted to conceal it not on the body. Who would leave it behind? Someone in a hurry. Definitely Hester. We're sure of that now. He turned the thing over, examining. Expensive and old. Custom, yes, but based on a standard revolver. He recognised the emblem burned into the half too. Three red stars and a thick red line sitting above a stylised lion. The motto In Defiance. He grinned. The raven's car crest. Turn the gun over. On the pistol butt, very subtle, were engraved the initials wr. Interesting indeed. He guessed that was too weak a word. He'd have staked a lot of fucking money on it. That this gun had once belonged to Weston Ravenscar until he'd been violently removed by his own offspring. Aloud to the world at large, Ramsay said, musing, did he give this to Hester or did she take it from his corpse? Why does she have it instead of Killick? And then listened intently as if someone might answer. No one did, of course. The humans on the train were still busy being noisy little brats, only slightly calmer now that their attacker was apparently no longer among them. Someone had found the lights and fixed them, which abated their fear. Intriguing, but you are not a question I can pursue at this point, Ramsey informed the gun, then slung the whole bag over one shoulder. He had nothing better to carry it in and wasn't daft enough to shove a loaded weapon into his waistband. The train tracks stretched tediously. Best start walking or he'll be here all night. There was a lot to do before anything further could happen with his sister or the Ravens cars. Ramsay had business with his own knights to settle first. The gun had given Ramsay ideas. He set off, heading southwest, not due west, as Devon had realised he was hungry. Been a long evening. He rested free his emergency book stored in the same body pouch as the transmitter. Flashman novel, his favourite kind of comfort food. Bit through a corner, pleased by the creamy texture of the pages. Gunfights and sex sizzled on his tongue. The six families did not discriminate by skin colour, so neither did Ramsay. Couldn't afford to when their population was barely sustainable. But the inherent racism and bawdiness of these Flashman books had always struck him as flavourful and fascinating all the same. Self hate was intrinsic to the entire human race. He'd come to that conclusion after his various dealings with humans. When they could not find enough to dislike in their own selves, human folk went looking for flaws in their neighbours. Delicious, that tendency. A buzzing against his hip, Ramsay glanced down the rattlesnake hiss of a mobile phone going off in his pocket, swallowed a last mouthful of book and pulled out his phone, pressed the green answer button. Rams. Elan sounded stressed as usual. Where the hell have you gone? You're all over the news. We are all over the news, thanks to Kinsey. Couldn't keep the tartness out of his voice. I'm somewhere between Newcastle and Berwick. Where is the commander? Still in Newcastle. He's not best pleased. Not pleased at all. Elan's voice dropped to a semi whisper. Says your spies betrayed us. I think he's dead set on pinning the blame for tonight's disaster on you. Is he now? Stay cheerful, Ramsey thought. Stay unruffled. Stay in control of the conversation. That's funny, because my spy, as he calls her, has done nothing of the kind. Devon and Hester Ravenscar are travelling to the Ravenscar hideout. Couldn't ask for a better solution. I caught breath. Are you sure you all saw Hester there? And I spoke to Devon on the train. They got off before Berrick and she'll be in touch shortly. Wants us to send a knight to check in on them by following a phone signal. Well, that changes everything. I'll let Kinsey know. No, ramsey said. Say nothing to Kinsey. A confused silence, but Ramsay altered his tone, sweetened it. E. You've been a good friend. Trust me or don't. On this one I won't judge. But I haven't got time to explain. Only I think it's better I deliver the news in person. Then what do you want me to tell him? That I'll be waiting for him and all the rest of you at St. Michael's Church just outside? Arnic checked his writ. Watch. Scan the sky. ETA three hours. Damn rams. When you say waiting for him, a muttered phrase that wasn't audible, followed by fuck it, I'll pass on your message. Can't guarantee how he'll react. Cheers, mate. Ramsey hung up, mentally picturing the commander's face as he stuffed the phone away. The sullen, deep lines. Knightly life had been a shock to Childe Ramsay. Training was harsh, and the older knights let their youths sort out any aggression or disagreements among themselves, meaning the youngest and smallest suffered the worst. Ramsay, proud and young, had suffered spectacularly. The first night in Oxford, Kinsey Davenport had taught Ramsay the secret of fear and power by locking him in a room with a live, ravenous, hungry dragon and waiting till it nearly killed Ramsey before giving a command word at the last moment to keep it in check. Afterward, while Ramsey curled on the floor of his new home and cried like a girl, Kinsey had Bent down and said, you will never have to fear what you have mastered. The words meant nothing at first. He hadn't understood at the time, but had remembered the words all the same. Every month or so, in between the trainings and beatings, in exhausting regime, Kinsey would repeat the exercise, putting Ramsay back in that room with an unleashed dragon. Learn to handle your fears. All the young men went through it, still dreamed of those encounters. But he got older and learned to fight and memorised command words. Soon those sessions did nothing at all to spark fear in Ramsay. Until at last, at the age of 24, he got bored and killed the fucking dragon. Broke its head against the wall and screamed at it while it bled to death. Because he could afterward. Such stillness, the silence shocking. Kinsey coming in hand, landing heavy on Ramsey's shoulder in that gravel grinding voice saying, you will never have to fear what you have mastered. Only this time Ramsay had understood it. Banish fear by dominating what you fear. Simple enough. Amazing he'd not thought of such a self evident truth on his own. Some things had to be experienced to be understood. Though as a lad, Ramsay had cursed the man for dragging him out of Fairweather Manor and upending his life as an adult, he was thankful. Cruel training had hammered strength into his spine, lent a cold speed to his actions, sharpened his raw edges. Violence, he came to realise, had only happened to him because he had once been the kind of person to deserve it. These days he was another kind of person. One who metered violence out instead of suffering it. He would not feel guilty for causing harm any longer. If the people he hurt didn't like being hurt, they should never have been weak in the first place. So Kinsey taught him. And so Ramsey had learned. But Kinsey had forgotten all the things he'd taught others. Become weak. Become the kind of person who made mistakes. The kind of person who deserved to be hurt. At present, Ramsay had some new thoughts about that. A couple hours of walking and he finally washed up in some suburb or another. Wasn't Arnick, though. Checked his watch, looked around. It was 2am on Christmas Day. No buses, no taxis. He'd left his motorbike in Newcastle. For the sake of speed, Ramsey decided he'd have to nick a vehicle rather than walk and be late. The nearest house had a car parked in the garage. Toyota Prius, red, newish. That would do. Only he needed a key for the car and that meant breaking into the house to find it. Front doors were easy to jimmy. He had no trouble. Gripped the handle wrenched until the internal mechanisms snapped, wrestled into a family home strewn with toys and Christmas Eve mess. He sniffed at the smell of cold goose, curled a lip at the unwashed flute glasses still pulled from last night's champagne gone flat. Now some families celebrated Christmas, some didn't. The Fairweathers had with their usual Romanian customs, the knights hadn't. Ramsay remembered liking the festive fun but could no longer enjoy the memory of anything fair weather related. Not anymore. Told himself to focus, then rifled carefully through the kitchen until he found the car keys hanging on a hook. Got it. He turned to go. A small girl was peeking around the corner wearing unicorn pyjamas. Morning, little one. No need to alarm or harm the kid, he decided. If she started howling he could always reassess the situation. What are you doing out of bed, Eh? I heard you come in, she said self importantly, then added with a suspicion he found extremely admirable, you don't look like Father Christmas at all. I'm one of his elves, he told her, cheeky on a whim. Can you keep quiet till I'm gone? She did keep quiet, only giggling a little bit when Ramsey walked out of the front door and unlocked the red Toyota Prius. Merry fucking Christmas. He gave the girl a grin and a wave, then put the car into fifth gear, roaring down the icy roadway with indifferent abandon. Street signs pointed toward the town he wanted. He followed. Less than 45 minutes till the rendezvous. Plenty of time and then his own personal reckoning with Kinsey Close. He could sense it, the make or break moment of their order. Transformation or disintegration could go either way. He was excited by either prospect, satisfied he'd been a major player regardless. Without the knights the families might have died out, too self serving and small minded to arrange fair marriages and keep the lineages from collapsing. They should have all been on their knees with gratitude for the knights ruling and protecting and serving. Instead the patriarchs spoke of disbanding and redundant organisations in casual tones. The family didn't care, saw the knights as finished, superfluous in the face of fertility treatments. No arranged marriages with reluctant houses meant no need to internally enforce those monetary agreements and keep lines of succession flowing. No more heavy handed knight commanders wielding more power and influence than any non patriarch was ever supposed to do. And the dragons, long a source of contention the patriarchs could not form a consensus on could be disposed of entirely. Not acceptable. Not to Ramsay. He cared intensely whether the knight survived, found himself appalled by the idea they might be disbanded. The dissolution of their order predicted a kind of dissolution of himself. Night was all that he was, and without that identity or purpose he might disappear into the ether. So he felt anyway. And he didn't fear that disillusion exactly. He feared almost nothing anymore. But he did object to it. Fertility treatments on the horizon meant nothing. Marriages would still be fraught, still need arranging. Dragons were still useful in a myriad of ways. He saw no reason those things should change, but without redemption it would be impossible to maintain their power. And so the quest for redemption mattered to him, because the knights mattered to him. Make or break. Indeed. Add to that the problem of Kinsey. Mentor, commander, father figure, frightful bastard. All good things. Except now he was an incompetent old man, brain bogged down from years of book eating, making decisions too slowly, fearful in his old age, mastered by worries instead of mastering them. The patriarchs ran circles around him. He thought of tonight's bloodbath. All because Kinsey had feared the situation and striving to control it. An admirable goal, except he'd lost control of it instead giving it away to a junior officer rather than staying involved himself or staying on top of things. That was the clincher and the nuance. Dominate what you feared, sure. But the commander had confused, lashing out blindly with taking decisive action. Ramsay wouldn't make that mistake. He wouldn't forgive Kinsey for it either. In this buzzing mode of sleep deprived, adrenaline fueled anticipation, he arrived at last in the market town of Arnic carrying no other possessions beyond some cash, a long distance bomb transmitter and a purse with its unexpected gun bullets jingling in the inner compartment. A far cry from several days ago when he'd driven to Newcastle with a full squad of knights, a hefty suitcase and his favourite dragon. On the other hand, he was one step closer to salvaging the future of his order and likewise his place within it. Ramsay considered the trade off more than adequate. Sentimental hat tip in Devon's direction for her role in that like so many places in the north, Arnic was all history and no future. Gardens and castles for tourists, dwindling high streets and rising unemployment for locals. He skirted the town centre, parked his car on a quiet road and got out, leather bag in tow. Left the door open with the keys still in the ignition. Someone else would nick the car and cover his fingerprints with their own. He walked the remaining distance to St. Michael's Church. Seven motorbikes were parked around the church. Men would be waiting inside. His watch read 3am the witching hour. Oddly appropriate. Ramsay smiled, jaunted through the crumbling gravestones enjoyed the atmosphere, enjoyed the cool and quiet place that the whole world became when all the humans had fucked off to bed. And then he stopped in front of the doors, contemplating. A tiny part of him was still afraid of Kinsey. A facing him down. He could admit it, just for a moment. Fear was a long lived enduring thing. Up until the very last moment when you mastered it, this was normal. A deep breath. He ducked into the church. Seven Nights stood in shadow, clustered at the front. One was Eland, a good friend. The rest were familiar too. Llanfor, Prescott, Ashby, Wick, Stalham. But Ramsay didn't care about them. Someone had knocked over the podium to create more room. Dramatic moonlight, like a film. Flashman would have approved. Merry Christmas, one and all. Ramsay Fairweather walked up the aisle like an abandoned groom, still in the ticket collector's jacket and cap, ill fitting too tight, a woman's leather handbag slung from one shoulder. He'd never felt more confident and more anxious, save the niceties. Kinsey stepped forward with a well disguised limp, Kane scraping and dragging on the echoing floor. Today has been the ruination of us. If the night Commander ever wore a colour other than black, Ramsay had never seen it, could not envision the man as dressed any other way. Head shaved, close, smart cap, black gloves, and now, with the onset of years, a black cane. That wide shoulder frame, once so menacing to a much younger Ramsay, had stooped and caved with the years, the muscular weight of him withering into bony gauntness. Ramsay made a deferential salute. Well, you would know, sir. The past year has been a disaster under your leadership. Uneasy silence. Eland looked sick, the other knights merely surprised by Ramsay's reckless tendencies. Your spy is gone and the Ravenscar with her, when we could have had them both. Kinsey so angry and leery, and you lay the blame at my feet. The Ravenscar patriarchs were notoriously careful with their secrets, Ramsay said blandly. We have no reason to assume they shared their scientific knowledge with a woman. Not when Killick is still alive and there are plenty of other sons in the house. Seizing Hester and might have lost us the Ravens cars forever. The commander hesitated, off balance. That pissed Ramsay off. Younger Kinsey would never have shown such weakness. The old man was cracking. The other knights saw it, exchanged anxious glances. Ramsay could see them adjusting, weighing, considering the situation as it changed, a hint of respect for his brass. We don't know the status of the other Ravens cars, kinsey said at last. We have no guarantees that any of them are still alive. If we lose that trail, if we cannot track your sister to her destination, then we are done and dusted. For all any of us know, Killak could be dead. Or Hester living apart from the others. See this? Ramsay withdrew the embellished pistol, held it high so they could see the crest plain in the moonlight. This gun belonged to Western Raven's car, the same one Hester was using at the train station. I got it off Devon. A slight lie, a simplification of events a few hours ago. The surviving Ravens cars are alive and well. Killoch specifically is alive and well. Keep our cool, follow the trail, and we'll have what we're looking for. Kinsey glowered and extended a hand. Let me see that. As you like. Ramsey levelled the pistol and fired. The bullet blew out the back of Kinsey's head. Gore showered the podium and Ramsay took a large step back, revolver sweeping the room. Having a gun was every bit as fun as he'd hoped. Christ, all these sheets, Ramsay. What the fuck? All of them shouting and talking. Hands go into hips where hidden blades were carried. Except Eland, surprised yet resigned. Calm too. Good oldie, ramsey said, gun still held level. This operation has been a shitshow from start to finish. Kinsey got four of us killed tonight because of his own irrational fears, and that's far more than we could afford to lose. Bury this bastard, follow my lead, and in two days we can have redemption again. Start producing it within our base. Even paused to let them process that. Gentlemen, we've succeeded in our mission. Two years of work and the restoration of our order is in sight. All that's left is to track Devon's location. Gestures, frantic glances, hissed communication as seven men wrestled with the power shift proposed to them. Ramsey waited. They would either kill him or follow him. Kinsey on the floor in front of him, a heap of flesh and crumpled clothes, the veins turning to dust and the skin to parchment as they watched, finally resembling what he'd been for years, a flimsy thing made of paper. You will never have to fear what you have mastered. You know I'll follow. Elan spoke first, his boots still stained with the commander's dried out inky blood. But did you have to kill him? He was killing our order with his idiocy, ramsey said, gaze straying to the soup clothed bundle of papery flesh. Men leaving in droves. Do we even have knights left down in Oxford? More shuffling feet, and then Llanfour said, guarded. Six knights returned to their families yesterday. Abandoned their posts on the assumption that we're disbanding. Six yesterday, four today. Ten nights gone in a weekend. Ramsay grimaced. What's our total remaining? Ashby answered. This time. Less than 20 men, including us. He was looking any and everywhere except at the dried out corpse. About eight dragons. Kinsey kept putting them down to conserve redemption, say the afterthought of sir. But with their ex commander so recently dead, Ramsay felt it was a good sign. Yes, he had just committed a one man coup, but he'd done so efficiently and with purpose. Armed with evidence and a plan, they clung to his confidence, his competence as he stepped into a self created power vacuum. Promising all around. Tough, but we can work with that. Ramsey put a booted foot on Kinsey's papery corpse, crushed the chest to dust, the once beating heart to powder. He looked up, smiled. File out men. We have a raid to plan and some prodigal ravens to catch.
- [51:36]
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