Maelstrom (25 page)

Whyborne

I stared at the letter for a long moment,
absorbing nothing of the content. Stanford had been corresponding
from the asylum with Bradley? But why? They hadn’t known one
another before his confinement—despite his aspirations, Bradley had
never moved in the same exalted circles as Stanford. The closest
they’d probably ever come was the night of the Hallowe’en tours,
when Stanford had threatened everyone’s life. Including
Bradley’s.

My fingers shook, but I forced myself to
read the letter. It was dated over a year and a half ago, within
two months of Stanford’s confinement. Enough time for me to have
received my new office and private secretary. For the museum
president and director to pay me the courtesies and attention
Bradley craved for himself.

Dear Dr. Osborne,

I was surprised, but delighted, to receive
your correspondence. You need not concern yourself over what you
write—the staff of this asylum don’t inspect letters either to or
from patients.

If I’d known you too were a “man of vision,”
as you so kindly put it, I would have involved you. Perhaps then my
damnable brother would not have succeeded in ruining everything.
What a different world we would have now if not for him! It pains
me even to call such a sniveling worm “brother.” I’m glad you at
least perceive him for the cowardly snake he is.

Although I’m currently in no position to
give you direct aid, perhaps we might discuss the things a man
might do for himself. Some of them take a strong heart and a steady
hand, but I’m certain you’re man enough for the task. As you saw at
the museum, sorcery is indeed real. If you wish to know more, write
back at once, and we can get started.

Yrs truly,

Stanford Whyborne

From the pleased tone, I could only imagine
what Bradley must have said in his introductory letter. Praise of
Stanford’s bold scheme and abuse of me, that much was clear.

Stanford was no sorcerer
himself. But he’d been a member of the Brotherhood alongside
Father. He knew about the
Liber
Arcanorum,
about the standing stones on the
island. About the Man in the Woods.

I began to go through the letters, more
hastily than I would have liked, but I had no time to read such a
volume of correspondence closely. Stanford instructed Bradley on
everything—obtaining the estate in secret, acquiring the tomes of
arcane knowledge written in languages Bradley could read, and
finally how to summon and negotiate with the Man in the Woods.

If only I had Bradley’s side of the
conversation, where he must have recounted the encounter. I slowed
to read Stanford’s reply in full, hoping to glean something from
his references.

To my Brother in Spirit,

You have taken a tremendous step. I
congratulate you on your fortitude. And yes, there is always a
price for power—but think of the rewards! Once you perform that
which Nyarlathotep has asked of you, you will be honored beyond all
others when the Masters return.

Masters? What the devil did Stanford mean?
What masters?

It must be fate which has put us in this
place at this time, when the stars have come right once again. You
have been chosen to take the first step toward the Restoration.

Bradley would love the idea of being the
chosen one, just as Stanford had loved the idea the prophecy
referred to him. They really were brothers in spirit.

As for the volume the Messenger referred you
to, which you don’t have in full, I would look in the libraries of
those who have had dealings with the Outside for a copy. Our mother
insisted on a family dinner after P returned from Egypt, and for
the first time I’m glad I agreed to attend. P had been injured—too
bad it didn’t prove fatal—and of course our parents wanted to hear
what had happened. He was already turning into Father’s little
favorite by then. Apparently his injuries came from the sister of
“the bitch” as you call her. She’d summoned something from the
Outside—what I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening, and can you
blame me? But if I were you, I’d see if I could find out what
became of any books she might have owned.

The graf’s donation. At Stanford’s urging,
Bradley had secretly prompted the graf to send the library to the
museum. Christine had been right, when she’d wondered if there had
been some hidden hand behind the donation.

Why had I ever told anyone about what
happened in Egypt? But Mother was in the process of learning
sorcery herself, and there had seemed to be no reason to keep the
events secret from my family. And perhaps some part of me had even
wanted them—wanted Father—to know my scars had been earned in
desperate battle, not just the bad luck of a freak lightning
strike.

What an idiot I’d been. Why had I tried to
impress my family? Had I imagined Father would suddenly decide I
was worth something after all?

I turned my attention to the rest of the
letters. I had to find out what Bradley planned. Who were these
“masters” Nyarlathotep apparently served, and how did the ritual
sites and the maelstrom connect to them? Were they who he hoped to
signal somehow?

Fragments jumped out at me.

The Masters must have true power, to have
built such a gateway...

Unfortunately, I don’t know the location of
the other sites. Prepare the one on the island first, while you try
to discover the others...

...It would seem from your studies the
number six has some significance. If so, there will be six sites
that must be activated before the signal to herald the Restoration
can be sent...

...The spell you have discovered will be the
key, then. Our bloodline means we are perfect for the task.
Widdershins does indeed know its own. P’s body has already
withstood the power of the maelstrom’s eye. Trying to dominate his
mind would be too dangerous, but this? Replacing him?

The thought fills me with joy, not only
because you will finally get your due, but because I will at last
have a true brother, matched in temperament and cause. I’ve given
it a bit of thought, and I will write to Father immediately. In the
meantime, I’ll tell my doctors that I’ve seen the error of my ways
and have no desire beyond reconciling with my dear brother.

Once P is gone, we’ll secure my release, and
the Whyborne family will finally be as it was meant to be.

My blood ran cold. No wonder Stanford had
been so anxious to see me again. The entire time, he’d been
silently gloating, knowing the fate that awaited me.

There was one final letter in the stack from
Stanford. A glance at the first few lines implied Bradley had
written him to say the plan was in motion at last. But one phrase
caught my eye.

How long have the Masters been Outside, I
wonder? Long enough the ketoi have no memory of Them.

Masters. The number six. A gateway to the
Outside. The Occultum Lapidem.

For a moment I was back in Alaska, far
beneath a glacier, within a ruined city filled with hexagonal
rooms. The Mother of Shadows spoke of an ancient rebellion against
Masters who had created both the umbrae and the ketoi, before
vanishing from the earth.

I’d assumed they died out, lost to the
millennia. But they hadn’t. They’d left our world for the
Outside.

And now Bradley meant to bring them
back.

Whyborne

How long I sat and stared at the letter, I
didn’t know. Finally, a crash of thunder roused me from my
stupor.

God. Was I right? Could Bradley truly be so
selfish as to bring these inhuman Masters back into the world?
Whatever promises their messenger Nyarlathotep had given him of
future glory, surely even he would balk at the idea.

Wouldn’t he?

I threw down Stanford’s letter and began to
sort through the smaller pile of correspondence. There wasn’t much,
and most of it seemed mundane. A letter from city hall, politely
declining to donate the surveyor’s map to the museum.
Correspondence from the new Graf de Wisborg, indicating he’d be
only all too happy to donate the library, and complimenting Bradley
on his modesty at suggesting the graf allow everyone to believe it
was his own generosity which had inspired the thought.

At the bottom of the pile was a letter from
a Franklin Osborne—Bradley’s father, perhaps? I removed it from its
envelope and unfolded it, even though I doubted it would hold much
of interest. Surely Bradley wouldn’t have confessed his plot to his
family, would he?

Son,

I received the newspaper
clipping you sent regarding the museum. Although I’m gladdened to
know you aren’t wasting
your
time at a lesser institution, I must wonder why
you felt it necessary to waste
my
time. Your name wasn’t even mentioned, nor were
you in the reporter’s sketch therein. The reputation of the museum
is meaningless if you cannot even find the wherewithal to endear
yourself to those who make its most important decisions! You should
have been included, not that Mr. Whyborne and Miss
Putnam.

“It’s Drs. Whyborne and Putnam,” I muttered
aloud. I vaguely recalled the newspaper article Bradley must have
sent, some blather about new additions to the Nephren-ka exhibit.
There’d been only the most tenuous of reasons for me to have been
included, but Mr. Mathison felt the Whyborne name might entice
wealthy donors. We’d all stood awkwardly in a group, being
photographed so an artist could reproduce our likenesses for the
paper.

I know the Whyborne name carries weight, but
just look at the fellow. He wouldn’t last ten seconds in the ring
against you! How you can allow such a limp wristed fairy to best
you at your own workplace, I cannot fathom. Needless to say, I am
dreadfully disappointed. I didn’t agree to let you study history
for this to be the outcome. I expect better from you in the
future.

Yr Father,

Franklin

Bradley had written on the letter, in the
space below his father’s signature. The reply he would never dare
send, perhaps? His pen had gouged and ripped the paper in his
anger.

FUCK YOU, Father! I’ve found a family who
sees my true worth. I can’t wait until the funeral. Watching you
cry over “my” casket, while I’m standing beside my new father, will
be sweet.

I read the words over again, feeling
something much like a heavy, smothering blanket settle over my
heart.

...a family who sees my true worth.

...my new father...

I’d assumed Stanford and Bradley alone had
been in communication. But why shouldn’t Father have been involved
as well? There were no letters from him...but unlike Stanford,
Bradley could have met with him directly any time he pleased.

It all made a terrible sort of sense.
Stanford had no way of knowing Griffin possessed an Occultum
Lapidem...but Father did. No wonder Father had been so insistent I
visit the asylum with him.

I’d failed to come to heel as Father wanted,
failed to be the son he thought I should be after Stanford was
taken from him. So he’d simply decided to replace me. Bradley’s
consciousness in my body would give him the perfect son: ambitious,
cunning, and willing to use magic to further Father’s schemes.

All those bribes to my friends: the stock to
Griffin, the wedding venue to Christine and Iskander, even the
dinner with Persephone. All meant to alienate them from me, just as
I’d guessed.

Just not for the reasons I’d guessed. When
“I” returned to Father’s side, it would seem more natural after all
his kindnesses.

Especially if they meant to kill Griffin.
Any alterations in my character would seem the result of grief. The
Whyborne heir would return home to his remaining family. Take up
the business to distract himself from his loss. Have a tearful
reunion with a reformed Stanford. Marry an heiress.

Rule the world, when the Masters
returned.

With a furious cry, I swept the letters off
the desk, scattering them to the floor. God! I’d actually thought
Griffin might be right; I’d actually believed for a moment that
Father might care about me.

I’d been such an idiot.

My knees struck the carpet,
and I buried my face in my hands. My features felt horribly
distorted to my own touch, my fingers too short, everything wrong,
wrong,
wrong.
My
father had plotted against me; my friends would think me an enemy
if I went to them now; even the police were after me. Surely
Bradley would have them post notices all over town: Wanted, dead or
alive.

I was hunted, without friends or family. I
could no longer feel the arcane fire beneath my feet, and even the
simplest spell came only with difficulty. Bradley meant to send
some sort of signal inviting inhuman creatures back into the world.
The Masters would surely destroy or enslave the umbrae and the
ketoi once again. Probably humanity as well, just for good
measure.

We were all going to die, and there was
nothing I could do in this form to stop it. Bradley had been right,
when he’d said I’d earned nothing, only been born to the right
parents. Remove my bloodline, and I had nothing. Was nothing. Just
an awkward scholar who spoke too many languages.

I didn’t know how long I sat there, feeling
sorry for myself and listening to the rain drip from a hole in the
ceiling onto the floor. I was damp and cold and utterly miserable,
and a part of me wanted to just curl up on the rotting carpet and
sleep.