The Order of the Eternal Sun Read online

  Also by Jessica Leake

  Arcana

  Copyright © 2016 by Jessica Leake

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Talos Press, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Jason Snair

  Print ISBN: 978-1-940456-42-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-940456-43-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my mom, who has been my biggest fan since day one—and who should probably get paid to be my publicist for all the marketing she does for my books!

  ONE

  London, England, 1908

  I’VE learned two things fencing with Monsieur Giroux: go immediately for the kill and never let your guard down.

  Today, I am failing miserably on both counts.

  I tighten my grip on my foil sword and lunge, my black skirt swishing against my knees. Monsieur Giroux retreats, and before I can advance on him again, he lunges. The blunt tip of his foil touches the red appliqué heart sewn onto the chest of my blouse, and I let out my breath in a rush.

  “Touché,” he says and pulls his mesh mask off. I do the same, and I feel my hair tumble down my back. He eyes me appraisingly, his slim mustache twitching. “You are distracted, Miss Sinclair.”

  I glance at my sword, chagrined. “My apologies, Monsieur.”

  “Always, your mind must be on the match at hand. If I retreat, you must already be advancing. If I advance, you must already be retreating. Yes?”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” I say, but I can already feel my mind slipping away again—far away from the polished marble floors beneath our feet and the tall columns around us. The sunlight spills in from the wall of windows, splashing onto my white sleeves. Energy swells within me, its golden warmth spreading all the way to my fingertips.

  I drag my attention back to Monsieur Giroux, who is now scowling. “Your apology is meaningless if you do not correct the behavior,” he says. “Ready?”

  I pull my mask back down over my face and nod. “Ready.”

  “En garde,” he calls, and we both sink into our defensive stances: knees bent, right foot forward, left foot back.

  I advance, leading with my right foot, gliding across the floor. It is not enough. He lunges, landing the tip of his foil in the middle of my chest.

  “Touché.” This time he rips off his mask. “I would not be upset if I hadn’t seen you do far better.”

  “Then perhaps I could be of assistance.”

  I freeze at the sound of the painfully familiar voice. We both turn.

  Monsieur Giroux’s pinched mouth spreads into a smile, but I am left standing rather dumbly, my heart pounding.

  “Monsieur Thornewood,” Monsieur Giroux says. “How good it is to see you.”

  They clasp hands, Monsieur much happier now that his favorite pupil has arrived.

  “Hello, James,” I force myself to say. I should have known he’d come to town for my debut ball. Memories of the last time I was with him threaten to overwhelm me: the feel of his lips on mine, the strength of his arms around me, the pain that sliced through me when he said he had no interest in me romantically.

  “Hello, Luce.” His gaze meets mine, and I give in to a compulsive urge to smooth the skirt of my fencing uniform. “It’s so good to see you.”

  His dark hair is mussed as though he has just been for a drive, and his grin is as boyish and charming as ever. A flush creeps up my neck. Last I’d seen him, I’d been a smitten sixteen-year-old girl.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Monsieur Giroux asks, dragging my attention back to the present.

  “My brother has sent me on an errand—as usual,” he says, “though this is one I was quite happy to do.” He pulls out a polished wooden box he had tucked under his arm. He opens it to reveal two daggers nestled on a bed of black velvet. “He has asked that I school you in self-defense, Lucy, and since you can’t very well walk around town carrying a sword, a dagger is the best way to go about it.”

  The challenge of learning a new weapon is admittedly appealing, but I cannot think of a more uncomfortable situation than having James teach me. As merely standing in the same room with James has me blushing, I can’t imagine how my body will betray me when he is instructing me.

  “An excellent idea,” Monsieur says before turning to me. “Perhaps a little practice with something that can actually maim you might finally capture your attention.”

  “Daydreaming again?” James asks.

  His eyes are warm with his teasing, and I dart my gaze away. I focus on the contents of the box instead. The hilt of one dagger is encrusted with a smattering of jewels—small diamonds and an emerald the size of a marble. The other is much plainer, but still lovely, with a filigree pattern tooled into the blade. “The daggers are quite … beautiful,” I say hesitantly, “but why did he ask you, James? Surely that is insulting to Monsieur Giroux.”

  Monsieur snorts. “I should say not. I despise short blades. They lack the graceful dance of swordplay.” He points to the foil sword still in my hand. “If you will kindly hand that over, I will put it where it belongs. And Mademoiselle Sinclair,” he says after I’ve handed over the sword, “I will expect you to be fully present and prepared when next we meet.”

  “Yes, of course, Monsieur,” I say, vowing to myself that I will be. Ordinarily I am eager to fence—the movements remind me of dancing, and I do so love to dance—but today it seems I have no control over my mind. “I apologize again for my distraction.”

  “Very good, then. Monsieur Thornewood, be sure to come fence while you are in town. You and Mademoiselle Sinclair always did make excellent partners.”

  “I’ll be sure to make the effort,” James says with a smile that I struggle to return.

  Monsieur Giroux nods. “I will plan accordingly then.” With a bow to us both, he says, “Adieu.”

  Silence descends upon us the moment Monsieur leaves, and I have to fight the urge to wring my hands. It hadn’t always been this way between us. There was a time when we got along famously. But that was before he returned to Oxford, before I was painfully reminded of just how young and naïve I was. His parting words of two years ago drift through my mind:

  I cannot tell you how flattering it is to know you care for me, Lucy, but truly, I don’t deserve your admiration.

  A gentle rejection, but a rejection nonetheless.

  After a moment or two of silence, James clears his throat. “To answer your earlier question, he asked me because I’m rather good at it.” He hands me the dagger with the emerald on its hilt.

  The weight of the dagger is heavier than I anticipated, more substantial than the light, flimsy foil. I touch a finger to its blade and can feel even through my glove how sharp it is
. I frown. “Surely this is too dangerous?”

  He twirls his own blade in one hand, his familiarity with the weapon evident. “Perhaps, but it’s less dangerous than being caught by a member of the Order of the Eternal Sun with no means of protecting yourself. Colin has decreed you should carry a dagger everywhere with you beginning immediately, which means you don’t have time to practice with training blades.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. It’s been three years since the brotherhood had posed a threat to my family; three years since my sister Katherine barely escaped having her power drained. In my mind, I can see Katherine telling us everything she’d learned about them: well-connected men and women who delved in the dark arts, who could take our arcana—the power that is our life’s blood—by force, using it to prolong their lives like their own personal Fountain of Youth.

  James steps closer. “Shall I give you a lesson on the basics?” A smile touches his lips.

  I hesitate. Find a means to escape, my head tells me, while the rest of me longs to stay. For the truth is, in spite of everything, I’ve rather missed him.

  “Very well,” I say, “but only for a little while. My celebratory ball is this evening, after all.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m looking forward to it.” James reaches out and adjusts my grip on the dagger, his hand warm on mine. My whole body stills. “Your presentation at court went well, I take it?”

  Stop blushing, I tell myself firmly, cursing my fair skin. “Yes, very well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I would have been there, only … it’s a terribly dull affair,” he says with a wide grin I used to know so well.

  I laugh in spite of myself. “I suppose an endless procession of ladies clad all in white may be a tad dull, but I found it exciting to be presented to the king and queen.”

  He raises his eyebrows imperiously. “Ah, but if they only knew who they were being presented to, my otherworldly friend, perhaps they would have bowed to you.”

  My eyes widen. “Don’t tease me so. What a terrible thought.”

  He laughs, obviously delighted at my discomfort. “Very well—enough teasing. Shall we begin?”

  “If you insist,” I say, the feel of the dagger in my hand still unfamiliar.

  “The most basic thing to learn is that a dagger shouldn’t be used for stabbing—” he pauses to mimic the downward motion. “But rather for slicing across an opponent’s targeted area.” He makes a smooth slicing motion in the air. “Doing so will give you a much greater chance of actually connecting with your opponent and wounding him. I believe a demonstration is in order.”

  He sinks into a defensive position, and reluctantly, I mimic him. “Good,” he says with a nod. “I’ll start by showing you everything in slow motion.” He steps forward and arcs the blade just in front of my chest.

  Unfamiliar with my short blade, I am at a loss as to how to block his attack. Consequently, I stand rather uselessly as he pretend-slices me with his dagger. “And how am I to stop you?”

  “Excellent question,” he says. “That’s where feinting and dodging come in. But first, I want to see you try to attack me.”

  I copy his movement, arcing my blade in front of his chest, but he shakes his head. “This isn’t a sword, Luce. You’re much too far away.” He reaches out and pulls me closer. I stiffen.

  Again, I arc the blade across his chest, this time only a mere inch away. “Close enough?” My sarcasm earns me an arch of his eyebrow.

  “Well done,” he says. “On to feinting and dodging. Feinting is important in confusing your opponent; dodging is necessary to avoid being cut. Try that last move on me again, only faster.”

  I frown. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite.”

  I step forward and slice with my blade in one smooth movement. Even so, he dodges away from it, pivoting on his back heel fluidly. I am grudgingly impressed. “Ah, yes,” I say, “I see how that would be better than physically blocking the attack.”

  “Are you ready to give it a go?”

  “If you swear you won’t wound me. I wouldn’t want blood on my dress later tonight.”

  He smiles. “Then you’d better dodge my attack.”

  His attack is sudden, but my reflexes are sharp. Despite his speed, I dance agilely out of the way. Again and again we practice our attacks until it begins to resemble true combat. A bead of sweat trails down my spine, my long-sleeved blouse absolutely stifling.

  Just when I believe I’ve almost become rather proficient, James feints to the left and immediately attacks to my right. I try to dodge but am not fast enough. But before his dagger can pierce my skin, he spins behind me and pulls me to his chest. It is hard and unyielding against my back, and I let my breath out in a rush. Instantly, I’m transported to the last time his arms were around me, holding me close as he kissed me tenderly.

  “You have excellent defenses, Lucy,” he says. “You must learn to use them.”

  His natural charm is pulling me in like the moon does the tide, so I do the only thing I can do: retreat. I push away from him harder than I intended to and spin to face him. “Thank you for the lesson today, James,” I say breathlessly—more from my heightened emotions than from physical exertion. “But I really must insist we stop for the day.”

  “Of course,” James says. “Please allow me to give you a lift home in my motor car, it will be—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” I interrupt. “A carriage is already waiting for me.”

  He looks a little taken aback, as though surprised by my abrupt tone. Does he even remember the last time we were together? This thought alone embarrasses me more than anything else, and I redouble my efforts to extricate myself from the situation.

  “Lucy, I—”

  “Thank you again for the lesson,” I say. “I shall see you later this evening.”

  I walk away before he can respond and pray that a few hours will be enough time to learn not to be so self-conscious in his presence.

  After my mentally and physically draining instruction with James, I collapsed on my bed as soon as I returned to Lord Thornewood’s townhouse.

  Now, refreshed and freshly bathed, I can think of no better way to relax than to draw: the soothing sound of a pencil scratching across paper, the lead sliding smoothly across the fibers, the smell of crisp paper. Some people journal with words to help remember events in their lives; I journal with my drawings.

  Before I arrived, Colin thoughtfully had an oversized escritoire moved into my room so I could draw in solitude if I so chose. Ordinarily, I enjoy drawing in the presence of my family, but with James possibly roaming the rest of the house, my room seems a much safer choice.

  I pull down the writing panel of the desk and spread my big leather-bound sketchbook upon it. I can feel my arcana quivering just beneath the surface of my skin, waiting to be called forth, but I hold back for the moment. I let my mind wander to the night of my debut, to the opulent throne room where I was presented before the king and queen.

  My presentation lasted only a few minutes—only a short procession and a few curtsies, really—but I could have wandered around the richly decorated throne room for hours. If I hadn’t been sure the royal guards would forcibly remove me, I would have carefully examined every inch of it.

  I think of the intricate details of the room: the leaf filigree upon the molding, the detailed plaster frieze of the War of the Roses bordering the ceiling, the glittering crystal chandeliers. Arcana flows over my hand and down to the paper as I sketch, turning my casual drawings into vivid images. I have a natural affinity for drawing, but it’s my arcana that truly breathes life into my sketches with color more vivid than any paint. The filigree shimmers in its golden hues as though I’d transported a sample of it onto my paper. The soft light of the chandeliers glows from the center of the paper, illuminating the sketch of the plaster frieze—just one piece of the whole that represents the War of the Roses. The throne room is the color of crimson, but strangely, it d
oesn’t seem garish—only impressive, as I’m sure it’s meant to.

  Soon, my muscles relax, and all thoughts of James get pushed to the back of my mind. I draw more and more of the room until the creamy paper is filled with vivid sketches—details of the room, but also random pieces of jewelry I admired, or even an elaborate up-do a countess wore.

  When the sketches begin to overlap each other, I turn to a fresh sheet of paper. A smile touches my lips as I think of my grand entrance, even as soft flutters of residual anxiety fill my stomach. I will draw my favorite scene: curtsying before the queen as my family looks on behind me.

  But as I set pencil to paper again, a strange compulsion overtakes my hand. No longer do I see the crimson walls, the golden chandeliers, the soaring ceilings of the throne room; instead, my head fills with detailed images of a ruin of stones. My jaw set in determination, I try to wrest control of my thoughts, but the rune remains.

  Without conscious decision, my hand returns to the paper and draws the stones exactly as I see them in my mind: gray and pitted by centuries of wind and rain. All rough-hewn edges, they make a crude bridge, though this particular bridge leads to nowhere. They have an almost eerie quality, as though one can sense they are much more than a simple rock formation.

  They are, of course. This is the gateway to Sylvania.

  Years ago my sister stood in this very spot. Her blood—our blood—had the power to open the portal.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I whisper, though I’m not sure to whom my question is addressed. This isn’t the first time this has happened—where I set out to draw one thing and end up with this rock formation instead.

  The stones shimmer before me, and I concentrate harder, blocking out the sensations of my body: the soft rug beneath my feet, the press of the desktop against my arm, the pencil gripped in my fingers.

  Flashes of light, so brief it’s hard to believe I see them at all, appear the longer I stare at the stones on my paper. In those flashes are brilliant colors, tempting me to look closer. They seem so much more vibrant than the colors I’m used to; verdant shades of green, reds and blues richer than any gemstone, and silver—silver everywhere.