The two men stared at each other, their shared history of animosity momentarily forgotten, replaced by matching looks of absolute shock.
Wickham gave a disbelieving laugh. “Good God, Darcy,” he said, staring at his hand, “Is that what control feels like?”
“It is tethered to a responsibility of equal measure,” cautioned Darcy.
But Wickham was not listening. A whoop of pure delight escaped him, a sound of such unrestrained exuberance that it seemed entirely out of place in the grim landscape. Then, with a gesture of showmanship, he plunged his will into the earth. Elizabeth watched, astonished, as a cyclone of pebbles and dust erupted around him, the stones swirling in a controlled dance. It was power finally given a purpose.
They continued their practice the remainder of the day, and then the next, while the colonel made a reconnaissance mission to the three major nodes.
The initial dissonance was gone, replaced by a cautious, yet growing, confidence in their shared power. Elizabeth became increasingly comfortable with acting as a conscious conduit, a bridge between the magics of her companions, Darcy’s control, and her raw power. Within this supportive framework, they found Georgiana and Wickham could wield their own magic with a strength and precision that had previously been impossible, while Darcy could incorporate elements of magic he previously could not.
That afternoon, they gathered in the parlour to hear Colonel Fitzwilliam’s report.
“The monastery still holds,” he reported without preamble, gesturing to a point on the map. “There are even signs of new growth on the ground. It is an island of life in a sea of decay.
“The second node — the signal station — is a different matter,” the colonel continued, his expression hardening. “Ispoke with a shepherd nearby. He said the land felt clean for a day, that his flock would graze there. Now, he says, they will not go near it. The animals sense the wrongness returning. The land is fighting, but it is losing ground.”
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. “Which presents us with an opportunity. The Blight seems to be attempting to regain what it has lost there.” His finger moved across the map to the third location, an abandoned quarry. “We strike the third node while it is distracted.”
Apprehension crossed Georgiana’s face. “But our alliance is so new, and we are still learning how to combine our power,” she ventured tentatively. “Are we truly ready for a direct assault?”
The colonel offered her a kind smile. “Readiness is a luxury one is rarely afforded in war, dearest. A soldier learns to seize the advantage when it presents itself.”
“Georgiana’s caution is well-placed,” Elizabeth said, “Perhaps a less ambitious first foray would be the wiser course.”
She kept to herself the observation that this unlikely magical alliance had, until quite recently, found the simple act of existing in a room together without incident to be a considerable trial. The progression from strained civilities to a grand confrontation against a sentient darkness felt decidedly accelerated.
Wickham leaned forward towards the map. “I agree. The quarry is a formidable position. Perhaps a feint of our own is in order? Strike a lesser node, draw its attention, test its defences before we commit our full strength.”
“No,” said Darcy decisively, “We cannot keep fighting this with half-measures, retreating and regrouping, letting the Blight drain our resources and our hope.” He looked around the table, his gaze settling on each of them in turn. “We will strike the third node with all the power we can muster. A lesser strike would serve only to alert the Blight to the full extent of our capabilities.The success of this venture depends entirely upon the element of surprise; we must commit to a single, decisive blow.”
His jaw tightened. Though his eyes were on the map, Elizabeth knew his thoughts were elsewhere: on the smoking ruins of Buxton, on the crippling fine that hung over their house like a guillotine, and on the dead ley line they had left behind, now an extinguished and horrifying scar across the land. He knew only too well what he was risking with this decision.
The starkness of his words silenced any further protest. They all understood. This was not merely a battle for Newcastle; it was a battle for Pemberley, for their future. Wickham gave a grim nod. Georgiana straightened her shoulders, resolve in her eyes. Elizabeth squeezed Darcy’s hand, an affirmation of her support.
“We are agreed, then,” Darcy said, “We will strike the quarry.”
A quiet of a different sort descended then, a troubled quiet, as the full weight of their decision settled upon them, each absorbing it in the silence.
Then Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “I am aware my own talents do not lie in the arcane, and that in the fight itself I can be of little use. Nevertheless I will accompany you.”
Elizabeth studied him, and in the steady set of his shoulders and the casualness of his words, she guessed the truth of it. This was the offer of a soldier assessing a tactical risk. He was offering to watch their flank. He intended to watch Wickham.
Darcy considered the colonel, his expression unreadable. “You are right to insist, cousin,” he said at last, with a perfectly solemn delivery, “I wish to avoid the predicament of a return journey on foot. Your steady hand on the reins will be a valuable contribution to that end.”
“I — What!” the colonel sputtered.
But in the brief glance that passed between the two cousins, an entire conversation took place, one of long friendship, of aduty understood without being named, and of a trust forged over a lifetime.
And then Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression smoothed into a smile. “Very well, Darcy, I shall hold the horses for you,” he said, with a put-upon air, “But I expect to be commended for my bravery in the dispatches.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The quarry was a great, festering wound in the earth, a place of violation where the land had been torn open and left to rot. The air was heavy with the stench of stagnant water and corruption. This was the place.
They arranged themselves at the quarry’s edge, a line of four against the encroaching dark. From somewhere further behind them, the colonel waited tensely with the horses.
“Now,” Darcy said, his voice low, “Let us begin.”
