Company of Wolves

Chapter 1

Conner eased the hammer back, wincing as it locked into place with the barest of clicks. He sighted down the end of the rifle. At the far end of the courtyard below strode a tall figure.
“Come on, look at the pretty lady you lanky bastard,” he muttered.
Conner imagined the square had once been busy, but he had never been to London before the war, he’d only heard of it from his mam. Why would he? It was full of French. He’d have preferred the English to the Fey though.
The Fey warrior picked its way daintily through the debris, it was clearly wary. Word had spread.
Rising in the thick of the debris was a statue of Venus, her alabaster skin bright in the afternoon gloom. An observer might think it miraculous the statue had escaped the devastation it’s surroundings had suffered. They would not have seen Conner and a couple of the lads haul it from some toff’s house in Picadilly. That was when Conner had been visited by the angel of inspiration..
“It’s not working,” said a voice beside him.
“It’ll work, it worked on the last four,” said Conner.
“Don’t be daft. They’re learning, they’ve worked you out.”
“Shut your beak and pay attention, Siobhan” snapped Conner.
Siobhan fell quiet.
The Fey took a few steps nearer. It stooped, pressing its face nearer to the statue.
“Now!” hissed Siobhan. The flint snapped against the flashpan, the faintest moment before the gunpowder sparked. The rifle spewed fire and the acrid smoke filled the little hiding hole. He ignored the sting of the powder-burn against his face, waving away the smoke.
“Did you hit it?” asked Siobhan.
Conner peered through the smoke and cursed. The shot had struck low, spinning the Fey like a child’s top. It lifted itself on its hands, fighting to get to its feet but its legs spasmed. Conner swore.
“Conner, time to go.”
“Just a minute,” said Conner. He reefed the loading stick from its hoops and reached into his cartridge magazine. The paper satchel tore in his teeth and he stuffed it down the barrel.
“He’s getting up, we need to go,” said Siobhan.
“Shut-up, I know,” Conner hissed between clenched teeth.
The Fey’s head jerked towards Conner. For a moment, he swore their eyes met. He marked the moment by swearing aloud. He rammed the rod into the barrel, pushing the bullet down the rifling. The air started to bend with heat like a desert horizon. His ears buzzed and he could feel the hair on his arms prickle. The courtyard became saturated with a sienna hue. Words rolled over the Fey’s head, written in the air with fire.
“An elementalist, hurry!”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Conner growled. He tossed the rod to one side and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Wings flapped beside him. He placed the barrel over the figure and yanked back the hammer. For a heartbeat, he stared into the Fey’s eyes. Where it had fallen was a hundred yards away at least. Still, he felt the bright pupils, flaring from the expense of magic. Conner squeezed the trigger. The powder flashed in the pan and the shot echoed across the courtyard.
Conner lowered the rifle and sighed as a wave of relief washed over him.

The broken remains of the Fey lay twisted beneath the statue. Its magic had burned out and air was thick with an oily smoke, like the smell of a kerosene lamp. It clung to the air, still warm.
The Fey was a creature of nightmares, simultaneously beautiful and evil. Like most of its kind, the Fey was tall with long, straight limbs and lean muscle. Its skin was pale white, like the alabaster statue it had stopped to admire. It’s face was finely chiseled and long, silvery hair fell like gossamer, stained by its blood. Conner whistled through his teeth. It’s armour was impressive, even by the standards of the Fey. Delicately wrought plates of mail contoured to the creature’s body, each interlocking but cut so as not to impede the creature’s movement. The plates were etched with strange characters. It was strong enough to almost stop the first shot, but the second had removed the side of its head.. A crow flittered through the air, clumsily alighting on the Fey’s chest.
“I told you it would work,” said Conner.
The crow scoffed, or at least in its own fashion. “You were lucky, I guess this one was a young one,” it said. Conner laughed.
“Siobhan, you’re an idiot,” he replied. Siobhan skipped from foot to foot, shuffling asided as Conner stooped over the Fey.
“Anything good on it?" he asked
“I doubt it,” came Siobhan’s reply.
“As optimistic as ever,” said Conner.
“No, I’m just a realist. It’s a good thing you’ve got me,” said Siobhan.
Conner ruffled through the Fey’s pockets. They rarely cared much, though this one had a few a few pouches. Two of them contained nothing but junk. Some powders and strange trinkets, though nothing useful. There was also a small triangle of food, some sort of cheese or cake that Conner was not foolhardy enough to try, he’d heard stories of people who had. Something else caught his eye. On one of the long fingers was a thick ring. A signet resembled one of the hooked Fey swords. Beneath it was delicately wrought lettering that swam across its surface, shifting beneath the signet like water under a bridge. Conner tried to focus on the characters, but they continued to shift away from his vision. After a few moments he gave up trying. Siobhan watched him with the mad curiousity than only a crow could muster.
“Conner O’Hanlan, you’re not thinking of taking that thing. Have you taken leave of your senses?” he asked.
“I thought you liked shiny things,” said Conner.
“Very funny,” came the dark reply. “Now be rid of that thing and away with you, before it’s friends come looking.
"Alright, stop pestering me. Bloody hell, you look like a crow but you nag like an old hen," said Conner. Siobhan's feather's ruffled.
Conner stooped by the body. He pinched the Fey's ear between his fingers, it was long and pointed. He pressed the tip of bayonet behind it. "What a mess," he mumbled to himself.
A huntsman’s horn warbled through the streets, a little less distant than Conner would have liked. Siobhan cawed, then took to wing.
Free from her scrutiny, Conner weighed the ring in his hand, bounzing it in his palm. His fingers closed over it and he felt the metal, still warm. He tucked it into a pouch.

Durand slapped at the table, in the process nudging the heavy tome that had been holding the corner of the map. He snatched the book, the magnum opus Don Quixote, and pitched it to the far corner of the room.
"Merde," he swore. Having escaped his wrath, the moth drifted towards the ceiling.
Hargrave raised his brow. "You've no appreciation for the classics, capitaine," he said.
Capitaine Durand scratched at his face.
"I hate this shitty weather and I hate these shitty maps, the second coming of the saviour could not find his ass with this rubbish," he said. Hargrave grinned.
"You can blame the Fey for both," he said, and ignored the Frenchman's curses. Durand took a bayonet that rested on the table, they had used it to share their dinner of near rotten apples, and plunged it into the table, pinning the map beneath it's point. Durand studied the map for a moment, then crafted an extensive litany of curses. Hargrave was impressed. Before he was in trousers, his tutor had taken to beating the language into him. He might have taken more interest had Father Allen shared the same vocabulary as Durand.
"Look at this, this is your city, you tell me you can't read it?" Durand demanded.
Hargrave snorted. "I told you, I'm from Bradford, and I spent most of my commission in Nova Scotia. London is about as much my city as it is yours, god forbid," he said.
Durand shook his head. "This is a disaster," he said. Hargrave agreed.
"Halloway," Hargrave called. A heavy-set Englishman appeared in the doorway.
"Sir?"
Hargrave was surprised. The man looked as though he had barely seen a bunk his bunk in a few days, it was like looking into a mirror. His face was gray and eyes tired. A livid scar scored the side of his face, the result, Hargrave learnt, of an altercation with a dryad. Durand detested the man for his appearance and his nose wrinkled at the sight of the segreant. Hargrave was more forgiving. The sergeant had earned the scar saving his life.
"Sergeant, what have the other skirmishers reported?"
Sergeant Halloway hesitated.
"You heard your major, soldier, what is wrong with you?" snapped Durand. The sergeant's eyes flitted between the two officers.
"Sir, only two of the skirmishers have returned, O'Hanlon and McLean," he said. This was met by a considered pause. Hargrave sighed.
"Then have them report, sergeant," he said.
"Begging pardon, major, but McLean came out pretty bad. The pickets found him, sir, god only knows how he made it that far, he's in the infirmary," said the sergeant.
"Have Renault look at him immediately, I know the doctor already has his hands full but let him know this order comes directly from on high," said Hargave. He glanced at Durand who nodded, adding his authority.
Renault was his ship's physician. In the exploratory party, Hargrave was responsible for the platoon and Durand for the Mitraille's crew. It was an awkward alliance, and despite the nominal separation of their commands, Hargrave was acutely aware that that Durand out-ranked him. Fortunately, after three weeks in the Mitraille the two had formed a comfortable comraderie, he only hope that the men under their commands had discovered the same. He was not greatly optimistic.
"Yes sir. I'll have O'Hanlon report directly sir," he said. He fired a sharp salute at both officers and turned on his heel.
It was ten minutes before the sergeant returned, time that Hargrave spent pouring over the map.
The joint forces, mostly British and French with a small contingent of Prussians, had taken up residence in what had once been the Royal Academy. It was poorly suited to the job, but there had been little choice in the matter. Hargrave's platoon had been one of three brigades, comprised of the remnants of the human nations. It had been the real offensive against the Fey after the Vienna Accord and certainly the most ambitious. A British commodore by the name of Nelson had found the map on one of the Fey corsairs after the Battle of Gibraltar. It offered the one ray of hope for the humans, but it had also proven the most perplexing. Whatever secrets it hid, the council was clear in its decision. The key rested in London's ruins, the heart of the Fey domain.
After the Battle of the Thames, Hargrave's platoon and Durand's crew had been the only ones to survive. Durand had seen them into the longboats, quietly rowing up the Thames. The Mitraille erupted into a great gout of flame when the fire reached her magazines, lighting up the sky. There could well have been more survivors out there, but after three days his optimism was flagging. Trapped inside the Fey's domain with little hope of escape or reinforcement, Hargrave studied the map while each day his numbers dwindled, marveling that the Fey had not wiped them out days ago. A polite rap on the door announced Sergeant Halloway's return. Hargrave allowed himself a moment before looking up. He found himself mildly surprised by the disheveled figure that appeared.
"You were in the 60th. I didn't know there were any of you greencoats left." said Hargrave. He sat, crossing one leg over the other. He tried to place the rifleman's face, but failed. "O'Hanlon. Weren't the 60th all German?"
"Mother's name, sir, my father was in the regiment," Conner replied.
"A soldier's wife, or former wife then. What happened, didn't enjoy being married to the regiment?" Hargrave asked.
The rifleman stiffened. "He was killed in Ireland, sir, at the start of the war."
"And you had the poor sense to follow in his footsteps?" Hargrave asked. He grimaced, then beckoned to Conner. "Come on then, boy, let's see what you've got for me."
Hargrave could see him swallow and wondered if the boy would hold his tongue. Irish and German, and a colonial to boot. He ferreted in his bag, then extracted a bloodied cloth. He dropped it on the table before the major. Hargrave reefed the bayonet from the table and, using its tip, daintily peeled back the edge of the cloth. Despite himself, he sucked his breath between his teeth. He quickly reassembled his composure.
"I count nine here," he said. Conner nodded. "I thought the good lord had graced the Fey with symmetry. The rules are clear, two ears for one bounty. Is there a pissed off Fey running around out there with one ear? Mark my words lad, if another comes claiming a bounty for the other ear, you'll both feel Monseur Girard's lash.
The rifleman scowled. "If'n I had time to find the other ear, it were smeared across the ground," said Conner. Sergeant Halloway fell on him like a vengeful harpy.
"You'll feel my boot fairly up your arse if you forget who you're addressing again boy," he bellowed, inches from Conner's face. Hargrave watched the rifleman's face with interest. He could see his tempers shuffling into place.
"Begging pardon, sir," he said. Hargrave grunted.
"You can draw rations for the other eight, not this one," said Hargrave.
Conner trembled with rage. "Begging the major's pardon again, sir, but it were one of them fire-chuckers this one," he said, stabbing a finger at the ear. Hargrave fixed him with a long, studied glare.
"Do you mean to tell me, private, that you killed an elementalist?" asked Hargrave. Conner hesitated, but only for a moment. He nodded. Hargrave cast a sidelong glance at Durand. "That's quite a claim, do you care to tell me how you accomplished that feat?"
Conner blinked nervously. His fingers fondled his pouch. His nervousness twisted into a scowl.
“Bait and wait, sir,” he said.
“Bait and wait,” Hargrave repeated.
“Sir, it’s a trap. It’s when you set something they want and wa...”
“I am familiar with the concept, private. Would you care to elaborate?”
“Used a statue, sir, Atkins said it was called Venisdamilo,” said Conner.
Hargave’s glare was long and hard. “Venus de Milo?” he asked, enunciating each syllable with care. Conner shrugged.
“She’s bare-chested without arms, sir. Me and Atkins found it in some house around the ways. We saw it when we was foraging two days before. He and Collier helped me haul it out to some square, then I just waited.”
“And you’re sure it was an elementalist?”
“It was reciting some gibberish, sir, then fire was around its head. I could feel the air baking around me. I felt like a spitchcock on the sorn. Sorry sir, like an oven,” he said.
Hargrave thought for a moment. He exchanged a meaningful look with Durand. He stabbed at the map with a finger.
“Show me where,” he commanded.
Conner looked hesitant. He peered at the map for several moments before shaking his head. “Sorry sir, it don’t mean much to me. It’s just a bunch of lines. Durand scoffed.
Hargave pinched his nose. His patience was wearing thin. Even the small fragments of sleep he had chased were riddled with lines and street names. He had stared at the blasted map so long, it had tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. It was enough to drive him to end it all in a final charge, like Marlborough had. His eyes snapped open. He looked straight at Conner.
“But you could lead us there,” he said.
“Of course, sir, weren’t far,” the rifleman replied.
“Halloway, pass my complements to Mister Oates. Have him assemble as many of the 36th as he has ready, I have a dirty, thankless job for them. Skirmishers too, those due for the next rotation,” Hagrave ordered. The sergeant nodded, but was slow to move. “Don’t let my lack of decorum confuse you, sergeant, this is still the King’s army and that was an order.”
“Sir,” said Sergeant Halloway, snapping off a salute.
Hargrave gestured towards Conner. “Take him with you. Three days billet for you if you lead us to your elementalist, my lad. Now you’ve seen my generosity. You don’t want to see its other side, but I promise you will if you can’t.”
Durand waited until they had left before he spoke.
“Your sergeant worries he’ll be forced to save his major from the Fey again,” he said.
“He’s getting sentimental in his old age,” Hargrave replied, glibly.
“I am neither sentimental nor old, major, but I find I must agree with him. Who knows how long ago this boy of yours killed the cracheur de feu? One, two hours maybe?”
“You think the place will be thick already with the Fey,” Hargrave said.
“Experience has not taught you this?” asked Durand.
“Then it is better to act fast. Now is a time for action, capitaine,” he said.
“Action, maybe, but not brashness.
Hargrave shrugged. “Then be it on my head, but something must be done. We sit here while our supplies dwindle and the blasted Fey pick off our men. It is a miracle they have not killed us already.” Hargrave attached his sword, a heavy claymore of Scottish make, though it was forged in a foundry outside of Orleans. He recognised its uselessness against the Fey, but the solid weight always made him feel more comfortable and it was certainly better than any sabre.
“Take care, major, for it will be on your head, and so will the lives of the men you take with you,” said Durand.
Hagrave stopped in the doorway, turning back to Durand. “How will that be different from any other day,” he said, and waved his hat in a theatrical flourish. “Je dois regagner mes penates, capitaine.”


Hargrave was agog.
“Good god man, this is St James’s Square, where were you holed up?”
Conner studied the buildings, then pointed. “Up there, sir,” he said.
Hargrave peered down the length of his finger. “That’s the Earl of Chatham’s house.” Hagrave mumbled with disbelief.
“Sorry sir, never heard of him.”
“You might have heard of his son.”
“I might sir?”
“I presume even you know the current prime minister,” Hagrave said drily.
The redcoats edged warily through the rubble. The square was broad, flanked on each side by the homes of Britain’s aristocracy, what was left of it. The facades were scarred from the first Battle of London. After the wealthy had fled, looters had pillaged what they could, leaving the buildings hollowed and broken. Hagrave had heard of the looters, former merchant crews that trolled the remains of Britain of the coasts of France and Spain, he had seen them on the voyage from Cadiz. They sailed from north Africa mostly, Durand told him. The European frigates paid them little heed, though orders from the joint admiralty were to sink them on sight. The job would be done soon enough if the Fey corsairs found them.
The approach of a British officer heralded the end of Hagrave’s musing. The tall captain strode over the rotted remains of a lounge, lazily lifting a hand in salute as he neared.
“Major, the square is clear sir. The skirmishers have been through most of the buildings, seems there is no sign of the pointy-ears,” he said.
Hagrave’s eyes drifted to the captain’s pistol. It was in his hand, the doghead cocked.
“Very good, Mister Oates,” he said. “Well O’Hanlon, don’t disappoint,” he said to Conner.
“She should be over here sir.”
The Venus statue was perched on the lip of a basin that must have once made an elegant feature. The water was green and rank cluttered with plants, frogs and any manner of rubbish. The statue rose from the filth like a goddess from the sea and at its altar, the mangled combination of a bureau and a chair, was the Fey.
“God Almighty,” whispered Hargrave. He shuffled closer, peering at the body. Was it not for the gaping wound in the side of its head, it might have been beautiful. He hated from the very deepest core of his being. “ You’re lucky, O’Hanlon, your worth just rose a little. This is fine work,” he said.
Captain Oates sucked the air through his teeth. “Blessed Virgin, that’s a fire-chucker,” he said.
“Yes it is, Mister Oates, yes it is.” He pretended to ignore the panic that struck the captain, stooping to study the writing inscribed on the Fey’s armour.
“We’re in the open here, we can’t have long,” said the captain.
Hargraves was not listening. He frowned, tracing the inscriptions with a finger.
“Major, you know how the pointy-ears are about their dead, and this is an elementalist,” the captain insisted.
“I’m aware of that. Do you have something to write with? Some charcoal or some paper?”
“What?”
Hagrave turned sharply on the man. “Something to write with, Mister Oates, get me something now!”
A frantic search produced a worn letter and a worn stick of writing lead. Hargrave took a moment to examine the writing lead. He held it between thumb and forefinger. “This is quite naughty, from Cumbria?”
The captain smirked, but only fleetingly. He hefted the pistol nervously at his side. By chance, his eyes drifted to the sky.
“Sweet merciful mother,” he said.
Hagrave scratched furiously, the characters tracing on the paper. “Almost finished,” he muttered, but the captain did not respond. Hargrave felt, rather than saw the shadow fall over him. It was heavy and oily. He looked up.

Conner kicked at a cabinet, using the toe of his boot to poke through the rubbish. Looters had long ago sifted through the detritus, but you never knew. Besides, after the he had led the mad major to the fire-chucker, he had lost all interest in him. Instead, he prowled the edge of the square, wondering if the major was good for his promise of three days billet. When the crow landed near his foot, he glanced anxiously at the others. No-one had noticed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed.
Siobhan tapped at the door of the cabinet, then cocked her head to the side.
“What if someone sees you?”
She cocked her head at him. “What? What are they going to think? They’ll just think ‘Oh, here’s another crow’ – not like there’s any shortage of them here,” she said.
“Then why don’t you go bother them for a change, do you know what they’ll do to me if they find out?” asked Conner.
“Conner, you need to get out of here,” she said.
He flashed a glance to either side. “Are you mad? What am I going to tell the major?”
Siobhan cawed out loud, then shook her ruff angrily. “Conner O’Hanlon, look up you idiot.”
He did. It had already been overcast and the sunset approaching fast, but not this fast. The clouds visible boiled in the sky, darkening in thick plumes of orange that rolled across the sky.
“What the hell is that?” muttered Conner.
“Nothing good, time to go!” said Siobhan and took to wing.
“Harbinger of bad bloody news you are,” hissed Conner. He pranced through the wreckage of furniture, darting for the cover of one of the former home of some Earl or another. Behind him grew an angry buzzing, like a million angry hornets. He dived through the doorway.

Hargrave watched in horror as the captain’s flesh flayed then disintegrated in the air, leaving only his bones, still fully dressed. The pistol dropped from his fingers before the skeleton crumbled to the ground. The major snatched the paper, shoving it beneath his jacket, then plucked the pistol. A figure emerged, floating high over a building. It dropped into the square, then drifted toward him. Hargrave levelled the pistol and squeezed the trigger. It belched smoke and the figure lilted. Hargrave scrambled to his feet and fled. More shots fired out, pummelling the figure. The Fey caster gestured lazily and torrent of some arcane power whipped the soldiers from their feet. One was hurled bodily into building thirty yards away. The unfortunate soul bounced over the ground like rotten fruit.
The Fey drifted nearer, delicately alighting on the ground. Without breaking speed, it strode toward the major. Hargrave drew his own pistol and pointed it at the Fey. It shook its head and held out a hand. The priming powder sparked and the weapon exploded in the major’s face. He grunted, instinctively shielding his face, falling over backwards in the process. The Fey towered over him. It’s face was long and elegant, more beautiful than a greek statue. The magic flared in its eyes, whipping fine strands of hair from its face. Hargrave flinched as he felt his temples itch.
“Thomas Hargrave, Major, once of the town you called Bradford,” it said. Its voice thrummed. It peered at Hagrave and he felt it reach inside his mind.
I am Rees Andet, it said.

Chapter 2

The world was flooded with light. For how long? An eternity and a heart beat. It was all that was known and nothing was realised until the light slipped away. There had been everything and nothing, harmony, then there was only existence, the contrast of opposites and the variations in between. I am a she, she thought, and her mind filled with the contrast. She started to remember and she felt... cold. She was falling.
Her chest filled with pain, forcing her to open her mouth and suck at the air. She remembered more and felt naked and exposed, very exposed. She felt the weight on the left side of her body, it was the floor. Cold hard slabs of stone pressed against her bare skin. She needed to stand, to breathe. She fought to push herself to her feet, feeling the hard pain of the floor against her palms. Her legs kicked, but she was weak. A sharp edge broke scratched her leg and she yelped in pain. The sound exploded in her ears and she became aware for the first time of noise. It was sound and it buzzed around her, echoing off the walls. They shaped in her mind and thoughts poured into her own, like warm water into a cold torrent. Her mind soothed. Father, she thought, or rather, felt, and let her consciousness ease into his. She first became aware of him standing over her and he felt his energy flow from her mind into her limbs.
Where is this? she asked.
A question. A good start, but not the right one.Feel the medium, show neither over-effort nor under-effort, but feel the harmony, said her father's thoughts.
She fought for control, desperate to grasp at a handle on her world.
Not like that, do not strive, came her father's thoughts again.
It was difficult and she fought for calm, and again her father soothed her.
It is natural, everything is natural. Ease yourself and invite your nature.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, she let go and she felt it. She was within the world, she was outside the world, she was the world. Flashes of memory stabbed through her mind, like looking through small, unbroken shards of a shattered mirror. Understanding and control eased into her consciousness and she reveled in their comfort. Almost as fast, they evaporated, but it was enough.
She huddled on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.
I am, she thought.
Yes you are, child. Thank-you for your kindness in choosing us. She felt formality of the words, acknowledging their role as ceremonial.
How much do you remember?
So little, she felt, and explored her feelings further for memories. One was sharp and sudden. A beautiful image, haunting in the tenderness and sincerity of its creation, yet crude and vulgar in in its execution, a task of physical action, rather than the shaping.
You remember the shaping, came her father's thought, and she felt his satisfaction. He was proud.
She did remember the shaping, the natural flow between destruction and creation.
Destruction, came her thought. An explosion of pain, of the physical violently disrupting her physical being. The hot lump of metal, another creation of physical labor, but not with the beauty of the other. It was devoid of emotion and so it was soulless. She felt anger and fear, stemming from her pain. A human had struck her, its body squat and bloated, its body rotting with the slow decomposition of ageing. So crude were its feelings, yet so strong. It's disharmony permeating from its body like a rotten stench. She could feel its fear, feel its panic. Balance its disharmony, let the powers be felt and the flow between contrast be open. Hot and cold, then so cold it is hot and so hot it is cold. Something is different about his one. She has restored the disharmony of so many of these humans, yet this one conduits harmony. She hesitates. It lifts its weapon. Too late the emotionless metal arcs towards her. She watches it but is powerless, her harmony is broken and then...
She shrieked with the pain of her physical being. Remembering it, her new body wracks with pain.
Good, rest daughter, comes her father's thoughts. Her consciousness calls for sleep and she is tired. She submits to her nature and allows her body to curl up and sleep to flow over her.
My magic sustains you, but I am weary, rest now child.

Eili's eyes fluttered open. It was the third or fourth time in the last couple of hours. The bed was so soft, but this time there was no sleep left. She stretched and rolled onto her side, allowing her eyes to stare listlessly at the wall while her mind raced. She could feel her father's presence long before he spoke.
"You've found yourself," he said aloud. It was strange to hear him aloud. As though reading her thoughts, he laughed. He clapped a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it in a strange show of physical affection.
"I am exhausted from the shaping, the whole of the conduit are, it took a lot to bring you back," he said. She rolled back to him.
"You used the whole conduit?" she asked, surprised. He concealed his emotion from her, but she noticed the flicker in his eyes.
"How was the dreaming? What name have you taken?" he asked.
"Eili Kushati," replied, and he nodded.
"Can you tell me, why a woman?"
Of course it made no difference, but she had always shown a predilection for the masculine forms in the past. She shrugged. She could not be sure, but the image of the statue was still in the forefront of her mind. Could it have shaped her dreaming? It seemed unlikely.
"Koller Rieselow," she said and he nodded.
"You're memories are restored to you," he said and she could feel the naked relief in his voice. It was quickly replaced with disappointment and... to her surprise she felt a sliver of his fear, as she shook her head.
"I'm sorry, but everything it... fragmented," she said. He could not read her feelings, not well. Until she was clearer on her her own being that was the way she wanted it to remain.
Koller forced a smile and patted her arm, but his eyes were downcast. "It is still early and you were drawn from the dreaming early, perhaps it will take time," he said. She could sense that he yearned to ask her more. A question pressed urgently on his mind, but he suppressed it from her so she pursued a different tact.
"Father, where is this place?" she asked.
He raised his arms and clapped them together. "You can't feel it? Then your memories truly not recovered yet."
"Of course, it is as I said. Why would I say otherwise?" she asked, a little irritably. Perhaps sensing her sincerity, his mask slid a little and she felt again the same small sliver of fear. This time she was prepared and she knew it for its source. He needed something she had known, something she would know when her being had fully emerged from the dreaming. It was important and perhaps the question that weighed on his mind.
Koller stood and clasped his hands to his back.
"The British humans and their subjugates called it the Collegiate Church of St Peter at Westminster," he said
She found herself nodding. "Westminster Abbey," she said, surprising herself.
"Yes, perhaps more colloquially, that sounds as the British would shorten such a name," he said.
They shared the silence, an awkwardness that spread thickly through the room. Already she knew his question before he asked, she could read him better than her own being and it troubled her. She saw him hesitate and felt the question coming, but blurted out, interrupting him.
"The reliquary ring, did it work?" she asked.
He studied her for a moment. "I had hoped you would tell me," he said.
"Is that why you hastened my summoning?" she asked, and he shook his head.
"Though it is important, but no. Try to remember, what did the ring record?" he asked.
"I told you, I don't remember," she said irritably. She waved a hand dismissively. "Why don't you check the ring for yourself," she asked, then sensed his uneasiness. She turned sharply on him. "The ring, was it not recovered? It was with my body" She saw his face. "My body! Where are my remains?" she demanded.
"They were found, but not by us," he said softly. For the first time his eyes met hers and they locked. "Rees Andet has them," he said. "I pray to the creator that it was not successful. Rees will find it if it is to be found. He has discovered its purpose, I am sure. If it shows him the resting place of the wyrmstone then it is our end."
His blasphemy stunned Eili. She had not realised how serious their situation.
"The Witch King has heard?" she asked.
"The Witch King knows everything," Koller replied flatly. "His Divinity has busied himself with the Qing, leaving the question of Europe to the four houses."
"So the task of finding the Wyrmstone falls on you?"
"On the Conduit, but Andet has taken it upon himself. Andet thinks our efforts to eradicate the humans to be moving too slowly," he said. Eili could feel his weariness like a heavy blanket falling over his shoulders. Her brow furrowed.
"Why does he care? The humans will be purged, but they are still creatures of the Creator, studying their art brings us closer to the Creator's mind," she said. Koller shrugged.
"I'm afraid Andet sees them as little more than monkeys, worse in fact, because they have sullied the scriptures with their own."
"It is amazing that they have achieved that," Eili replied tartly. Her father rubbed his eyes.
"You surprise me, daughter, you sound like a sympathiser," he said. Eili scoffed. Standing, she crafted a gown from the ether, relishing the act a the fine fibres wove over her skin.
"There is more, you know what will happen if he finds your ring?" said Koller. Eili tried to ignore him, but the question dangled in front of her like bait on a lure. Finally she sighed, unable to ignore her father's patient scrutiny.
"He will press for union, I know. Then I had better find it first," she said.
"You're not going out there now! We believe the Jean-Baptiste Bessières will be able to unite nearly three thousand of the human soldiers, and the corsairs report that their Nelson sails from Cadiz to reinforce his Admiral Hood."
She shrugged. "That is little next what Andet could muster and nothing next to the Conduit."
"But still much more than my daughter, freshly gleaned from the dreaming," he said. He thought for a moment. "There is something else, we have sensed a small watercraft sailing from Scotland. We believe them to be the remnant of the British 60th Regiment."
Eili stopped. "The Wolf Company?" she asked.
"Perhaps, the sentries were... unsure."
"You mean they didn't recover in the dreaming," she said, and he nodded. "Even if they have come south, they cannot be this far deep into London."
"Who is to say daughter. The kindred have been periodically disappearing near here, you yourself one of them. They could just be looters, but perhaps one of the human ships alighted down the river while we busied ourselves with their fleet." Koller crossed to a window, staring from its broken archway. "It would be terrible timing, but there is no way the humans could know."
Eili placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling his weariness. "We will prevail, we are the creator's favoured," she said. Her father did not reply.