Constructed of heavy granite blocks quarried from the northern Inselgrish hills, Fallstaff rose from the land like a craggy gray mountain sculpted into sharp angles and flat planes, topped with a black slate roof. It sat at the pinnacle of a gently rolling hill surrounded by acres of tall grass and scrubby shrubs. The Stormbournes had never much cared for palatial gardens and manicured landscapes, so my home had always looked a bit wild and elemental. Considering its inhabitants, that aesthetic seemed more than appropriate.
The last time I’d walked across my estate, a monstrous, steam-driven trebuchet had occupied the front yard. That war machine had slung explosive projectiles through Fallstaff’s walls and windows like a sewing needle through silk. As Gideon and I had raced away, I’d been certain Lord Daeg’s men would reduce my home to ashes and rubble. Now it seemed the Council of Magic was determined to finish what Daeg’s men had started.
A handful of dark figures surrounded Fallstaff, standing equidistance apart. Their clothing fluttered in a stiff breeze blowing from the north, a breeze that responded to my presence. Like a pet welcoming home its master, the winds raced to greet me, swirling around my legs and face, whipping at my cloak.
Bullets flew from the darkest shadows near Fallstaff’s foundations—armed sentries trying to hold the Council at bay. Return Magical artillery rained from Fallstaff’s windows on the first and second floors.
One Council member shouted. A volley of lights exploded from his outstretched hands and slammed against an indiscernible wall that shimmered and crackled as energy dispersed across its surface. Near Fallstaff’s roofline, one bright missile broke through and slammed into the roof, spraying shards of slate across the yard.
The sentries fired back, but their bullets ricocheted off the Council’s invisible shields. A fireball exploded from one of Fallstaff’s upper windows and crashed into a puddle of flames on the lawn. The flames grew, forcing the Council members to fall back.
“Looks like they’re nearly through Le Poing Fermé’s wards,” I said.
“Then they’ve done the hardest part for us,” Brigette said.
“Do we just stand here and wait or take advantage of this distraction?”
“What do you mean?”
I patted the air until I bumped her arm. Snagging the sleeve of her cloak, I tugged. “Follow me.”
Hand in hand, Brigette and I ran around the side of the house, making a wide berth to avoid Council Magicians, stray bullets, and patrolling sentries.
“Where are we going?” she whispered harshly.
“That last attack proved the roof isn’t warded. There’s an access door to the attic through the roof.”
We rounded the tall stone walls bordering Gerda’s herb garden. Perhaps Jackie’s cabal had restored Fallstaff, but they obviously hadn’t cared about details. Weeds and ivy overran the patches of cooking and medicinal herbs Gerda had tended with love and devotion. Maybe herbalry was too demeaning a chore for a cabal of powerful Magicians, but Gerda had used her crops to work astounding culinary and medicinal feats. It pained me to see her sacred place so neglected.
“How in the Shadowlands are we supposed to get to the roof?” Disbelief and panic filled Brigette’s voice.
“Can’t you, you know... Magic us up there?”
She coughed a harsh sound. “It’s not child’s play, Evie. You make it sound so easy. Teleportation is complicated.”
“Can you do it?”
“If I miscalculate and we hit those wards, we’ll bounce like an egg off a brick wall.”
“Eggs don’t bounce... oh, I get your point. But I have faith in you. You can get us up there, and I can get us in. The element of surprise will work in our favor.”
She uttered something Gallandic and undoubtedly rude under her breath, but she wrapped her arms around me and snugged me close. “Don’t let go, Stormbourne, or... crrrrack.”
The air pressure thickened like syrup. The darkness swirled. My stomach burbled unhappily, but before I could work up a good case of nausea, the darkness receded. The atmosphere lightened. I blinked, and my surroundings sharpened into focus. Brigette and I, still clinging to each other, had come to rest on a flat area in the center of Fallstaff’s roof. No more than five feet square, the platform offered barely enough room to open a roof hatch and step out.
I crouched next to the hatch and tugged the handle, but the door refused to open.
“What’s wrong?” Brigette asked.
“Locked from the inside.”
She grunted. Something clicked beneath my feet. “Try again.”
I tugged, and the panel swung open, revealing a gaping black hole. “A little light, please?”
She produced a small red orb and sent it through the roof opening. Following it, I climbed down a narrow iron ladder. Brigette shimmied down behind me.
“See?” I said, once we’d reached the solid attic floor. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Although I couldn’t see her, I imaged her rolling her eyes.
I felt for her hand again, found it, and towed her toward the attic stairs. We crept down to the access door leading to a narrow third-floor hallway where the staff apartments were formerly located. Le Poing Fermé had probably turned those apartments into barracks for their sentries, but I hoped the Council’s attack was keeping the guards occupied elsewhere.
“What now?” she asked as we tiptoed over the threshold and slunk down the dark hall, following her little red lantern.
I inhaled a deep breath, expecting a flood of familiar scents, but the house smelled sterile. It made my home feel like a hollow façade. An empty shadow of what it once had been—a home full of warmth, light, and sound. Music, conversation, and laughter. The smell of food in the kitchen, fires burning in the hearths, and my father’s pipe tobacco.
This version of Fallstaff was a pale imitation.
A ghost.
“Unless they’re scurrying about like rats,” I said, “there’s one place where Jackie and the others are most likely to be gathered.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the throne room.” I tugged her hand again. “Follow me.”
The term throne room was a bit of a misnomer—an anachronism from ancient times. My father had never sat upon some gilded chair perched upon a dais so he could lord over his subjects when they came in supplication, begging for some favor or mercy. Instead, the space was merely an office furnished with a big oak desk, a matching quartet of chairs arranged before it, a huge fireplace, and a pair of plush sofas squatting on opposite sides of an ornate carpet. Ancient weaponry adorned the walls, but if anyone looked closely, they’d realize the swords were dull and rust had spotted and pitted the shields, despite how carefully the house staff polished them.
