Chapter 48
After Reed left, Darlington took the stairs down to the treasure room.
Penny was waiting at the iron doors. “Sorry about the ambush,” she said. “Reed loves a little cloak-and-dagger.”
“He really does,” Darlington replied easily, trying to hide his worry and his anger.
He wanted to be done with this errand and back at Il Bastone.
He wasn’t sure if Reed had been issuing a warning or merely making an offer, but Darlington knew he hadn’t come out the victor in their exchange.
To Alban Reed, he was a tool, an ambitious college kid unsure of what might come next, another Penny who needed his favor.
He supposed that was all true. But right now he was playing for higher stakes.
Penny unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he lied. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”
So far, the names of the artifacts had all been bits of wordplay and “the Head of the Dragon” had seemed an easy solve to him.
Scroll and Key was steeped in Arthurian legend and King Arthur’s father had been named Uther Pendragon.
Basic knowledge for any child raised on stories and yearning to play knight.
“Sure about that?” She flicked a switch and fluorescent lights buzzed to life high overhead.
“You might have mentioned this society is really just a bunch of hoarders.”
“We’ve been around for over one hundred years. People gift cartouches to Wolf’s Head and old femurs to Skull and Bones. They bring us armor.”
The room was narrow and Dawes would have been appalled to discover that, based on the damp in the air, it was not climate-controlled.
The walls were lined with steep shelves piled high with shields, bracers, swords, lances, spears, visors, greaves, bowls full of metal odds and ends, and a maddening number of helms. He’d landed in a magical junk heap.
“Shall I wait?” Penny asked.
“Best not to.”
He could tell she was stung, but she would survive it. He’d felt guilty for lying to Penny, but now she’d lied to him, so he supposed they were even. She had been happy to set him up and he was happy to let their history remain just that.
“I’ll be upstairs,” she said. “But remember—you can’t take anything out of the tomb without written permission.”
“Of course,” he replied, though he had prepared an obfuscation spell for just that purpose.
When she was gone, he stepped back and reassessed the room.
There was a time when he would have relished a challenge like this.
He had intended to spend his life devoting himself to such pursuits, and that was certainly the future Alban Reed had envisioned for him—hunting down artifacts, writing papers, finishing his magical map of New Haven.
But he found himself asking the same question Dawes had: Did any of it matter?
He would always love history, antiquity, the profound sense of knowing a thing that research could provide.
Now he wondered if that sense of knowing was an illusion, if it was enough to go searching for old riddles when the riddle of the world and the people in it lay before him.
None of this had troubled him before Alex Stern had crashed into his life.
She had upended every table, knocked over the shelves, demanded that he poke and prod the truth of Lethe until it revealed itself.
He found he couldn’t love what lay beneath the dust and books and protocol.
The room was all chaos—or so it seemed. But the pilgrims had hidden their artifacts away a century ago and they wouldn’t have just thrown them on a heap of spare parts.
Some of the shelves had been built into the stone, but the cases on the north-facing wall were wood, more recent additions, and possibly put there to hide objects of greater value.
He slid his hands along the seams of the shelves, then began to trace the rough stone.
He closed his eyes, letting touch detect what his eyes couldn’t, and—there, a smooth spot, nearly invisible, worn away by years of seeking fingers.
He pressed, and the shelf released a soft sigh. A narrow space appeared between the wood and the wall. He wedged his fingertips into the gap and pulled.
Instantly he knew he was in the right place. These original shelves were far less crowded and better organized. One level contained spears, the next gauntlets, and so on. There was an entire row of helms wrought in steel and bronze, each of them behind a glass door covered in symbols.
He upended a crate full of rusted shields and dragged it over to the shelves so he could stand on it.
Up close, he recognized Druidic runes of protection on one glass door, the lines of a Ptolemaic system on another.
But only one bore the shape of a knot—and, oh, what a glorious knot it was.
Both demon and scholar inside him rejoiced at its lines.
He knew this design, taken from Dürer’s collection of six engravings originally created by Da Vinci.
There were theories that Da Vinci had layered a similarly complex nugatory knot into the Mona Lisa’s clothing as a visual signature.
Darlington shook a bit of the dust he’d used for the mummy case at Wolf’s Head over the glass and declared, “You have to show me.”
The glass sparked red. It was enchanted but it had no hinge or lock on it. That meant he would need a code or incantation to get past it.
The pilgrims had left the Hand of God in the Lethe armory, complete with falsified provenance.
Lionel Reiter had placed the Feet of Clay in Skull and Bones.
Hector would have hidden the Heart of Gold at his society, Wolf’s Head.
That meant Daniel Arlington, his own great-grandfather, cowardly second and prince of New Haven, had placed the Head of the Dragon here at Scroll and Key.
He had stood on this very spot, probably thinking he’d never actually have to return to it.
So, what would he have chosen as a word to get past this kind of magic?
Arthur had supposedly worn the helm, but it had originally belonged to his father, so the pilgrims wouldn’t have referenced Idylls or Le Morte Darthur.
But Geoffrey of Monmouth had told the story of Arthur’s conception in his History of the Kings of Britain.
“Tintagel,” Darlington attempted, naming the castle where Uther had seduced Igraine. “Gorlois.” The king he had pretended to be to bed her.
The history had originally been written in Latin, so king might simply be rex. Then there were countless theories about where Geoffrey had come from. Brenin in Welsh. Roi in French.
But what would Darlington himself have chosen?
Something stranger, more obscure. The pilgrims had still believed they were playing a game.
They hadn’t been to hell yet, hadn’t “bloodied their hands.” It was still supposed to be fun.
And who was Daniel Arlington II? Yes, he was the prince, but Kittscher had given him a name to mock him, to make sure he didn’t forget where his money had come from.
Nice boots. Had Kittscher the man still been buried somewhere in the demon Darlington had met in a house by the shore? Had he been jeering at the great-grandson of the man he’d known? Or had he been trying to tell him something more?
“Caligae,” Darlington whispered. Latin for boots.
The glass dissolved.
He reached for the helm. It was heavy steel, engraved with dragon scales.
Deiniol, son of Avalon. Countless lifetimes have I passed awaiting your return. Kneel and accept your rightful inheritance, you who possess the blood of kings.
The voice boomed through his thoughts and Darlington gave his head a shake.
This had to be part of the enchantment, common as a form of protection for valuable artifacts—and it was a clever one.
What child didn’t dream of drawing the sword from the stone, of being filled with secret purpose, revealed in a shining moment as far more than anyone had expected?
Children are wise. Children see the world as gods do, as a plaything. It is only in age that their power slips away. Tell me you did not know you were destined for more. Tell me you have not spent your life preparing for it.
He had believed it, of course. But at some point he had understood that life wasn’t made of secret lineages and magical benefactors, that Black Elm was his only inheritance.
Have I arrived too late? Has all your magic been squandered?
Did you really think you were the only one who didn’t possess an extraordinary gift?
The girl of stars, born of forbidden magic.
The son of truth, from an ancient line of seers.
The witch of fire, descended from spellworkers who met their end at the gallows.
And you, Deiniol, the boy born of dragon’s blood.
Maybe his hope had never really died, the dream that there might be something special in him, something deserving.
You bear a weight no man should. You need carry it no longer. The helm will purge you of hell’s power and you will be a man once more. Your greatness will belong to none but you.
Could Arthur’s power burn the demon out of him? Rid him of its base appetites and longings? Give him back his humanity?
Kneel and let the helm be placed upon you. Rise a king, never to kneel again.
Even as he felt his legs bend to comply, he knew this wasn’t right. Yes, he’d wanted to believe there was more to him than an extensive knowledge of the arcane and a crumbling house. Black Elm had been the answer. Then Lethe had been the answer. And now here was magic, offering him a crown.
But he knew who he was: not a king, but a knight. Her knight.
Darlington straightened and pushed backward, heard the clang of metal as the helm struck the floor. He was alone in the treasure room.
What would have happened if he’d placed the helm upon his head? Would he have fallen into a coma? Vanished entirely? Maybe that hunk of metal would have proven he was heir to all of Britain and a mighty king.
He shoved the helm under his coat, laden with obfuscation charms. None of it mattered. His queen was waiting.