I Loaded the Occult Panel

Room 4 was at the far end of the second floor’s eastern corridor.

Richard carried his suitcase down the hallway, hearing the rustle of rummaging from the other rooms as he passed. The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open.

The room was small, even narrower than his bedroom back home. A brass bed sat against the north wall, its headboard posts polished smooth from use.

A folded note lay beneath a pitcher of hot water on the small bedside table, right beside two hard biscuits wrapped in wax paper.

Richard pushed his suitcase into the corner. He walked over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. It faced east, overlooking a stretch of stone wall at the edge of Whitcom Village. Beyond the wall lay a vast expanse of low shrubs and rolling highlands.

The sun was already dipping west, dyeing the wilderness a deep rust-red. A distant river valley was faintly visible; according to the map, that was the direction of Whitcom Mill.

He left his gun case and Enchanted Bullets in his backpack, setting it right beside the nightstand within easy reach. He placed his notebook and inscription materials dead center on the writing desk. Once that was sorted, he hung his coat on a hook inside the wardrobe door.

Downstairs, several more people had gathered at the long table. The first to spot him was a young man in a black clerical robe.

The youth stood up. He was slightly taller than Richard, with neatly trimmed golden-brown hair. His light brown eyes met Richard’s gaze steadily, lacking any aggression.

”You must be Richard Williams?””You know me?”

”Mr. Hutton mentioned you’d be arriving today.” The young man extended a hand. ”Edmund Wycliffe, Order of Saint Peter, School of Theology, Scholar path.”

Richard shook it, sensing that the man’s Micro-circulation had been operating stably for more than a year.

Following the other’s lead, he introduced himself in the same format. ”Greenwood School, Scholar path.”

”I know Greenwood,” the novice cleric nodded. ”I grew up in Briston too.”

”You’re from Briston?” Richard was surprised.

”Just three blocks down from Central Avenue is Cornwall Road. My house is right behind the small church there.”

Richard vaguely remembered the area. The church on Cornwall Road wasn’t large, but the building was very old.

”Is your father a deacon there?”

”The parish priest. He’s been there for twenty years.”

”Before I went to the School of Theology, Mr. Hutton tutored me for a while,” Edmund continued. ”I was only fourteen or fifteen at the time.”

”He’s never mentioned his former students.”

”He wouldn’t.” Edmund smiled. ”Mr. Hutton never uses the past as a conversation piece.”

Richard silently agreed. Mr. Hutton almost never spoke of his own history.

”The year the School of Theology was recruiting, my father told me to give it a try,” Edmund said. ”Admissions for the Order of Saint Peter don’t just look at academic grades. Between my family’s clerical background and a recommendation letter from Mr. Hutton, getting in was fairly smooth.”

”They teach this kind of stuff at the School of Theology?”

”They do, but only a specific branch.” Edmund spoke with a hint of caution. ”As for which branch exactly, we can discuss it when we sit down later.”

Another person stood up from behind Edmund. He was shorter, about half a head shorter than Richard. His brown hair was as stiff as a brush, and he wore a suit vest that was clearly a size too small.

”Theodore Hargreaves.” The boy’s voice carried a mining district accent at the end of his sentences. ”West Yorkshire, Secret path.”

”I don’t have a formal lineage. Mr. Pembroke just plucked me straight out of the horse stables.”

”Mr. Pembroke?”

”He’s a shareholder in my family’s stables,” Theodore explained. ”His family has produced two Minor Adepts, and he himself is a Senior Practitioner on the Secret path.”

”How did he pick you out of a stable?”

The stable boy grinned, revealing two slightly yellowed front teeth.

”When I was twelve, I was squatting in the barn delivering a foal for an old mare. Mr. Pembroke was passing by and asked if the horse would make it. I told him yes. He asked how, and I said the foal’s legs were backward in the womb—I had to turn it around before pulling.”

”You actually turned it around?” Richard asked, hooked.

”Turned it right around,” Theodore said. ”The foal lived, and so did the mare.”

”And then?”

”Mr. Pembroke asked how I knew its legs were backward. I told him I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.”

”And that’s why he picked you?”

”He found a few more excuses after that, having me do little tasks right under his nose,” the boy recalled. ”One time he pulled a copper whistle from his pocket and asked me to tell him what was different about it.”

Richard understood perfectly now. That entire process sounded just like the Inspiration test Old Biggs had given him.

Seated a little farther away with a teacup in hand, Mr. Hutton spoke up. ”Pembroke and I apprenticed together in the Imperial Capital back in the day, and we’ve kept in touch ever since.”

”Unfortunately, his health has always been poor. He couldn’t make the trip to this freezing, godforsaken place.”

Why would a practitioner on the Secret path apprentice alongside Mr. Hutton? Richard was a little puzzled but didn’t ask.

The third person to speak was a girl with red hair woven into two thick braids. She had a few faint freckles and plain features. Wearing a heavy wool dress, she was huddled beside the fireplace, looking very sensitive to the cold.

”Maggie MacPhee. I’m a local here in the Gaelic Highlands, Scholar path.”

She offered only the bare essentials before shrinking back into her spot.

Hearing that she was a local to the Gaelic Highlands reminded Richard of another red-haired girl. Maggie might actually recognize the Blackwood name.

The four Newcomers exchanged pleasantries for a while longer before the seniors at the other end of the table chimed in.

Mrs. MacNeil was the first to speak.

”Sit down, sit down, no need to stand around.” She gestured for everyone to take a seat. ”The innkeeper kept a pot of hot ginger tea warm for us. Those of you who traveled today, have a cup to warm your stomachs.”

The innkeeper brought over a tin pitcher from behind the bar. The tea was packed with ginger slices and coarse sugar.

Richard took a sip.

The spicy kick of the ginger hit his throat first, immediately followed by the rush of sweetness. That single mouthful chased away much of the lingering chill he’d accumulated on the road.

”I’ll be acting as the leader for this mission,” Mrs. MacNeil said, folding her hands in her lap.

”Though everyone calls me Mrs. MacNeil.”

She made a point to add, ”I’m actually unmarried. ’Mrs.’ is just an honorary title in this line of work. Don’t go looking for a husband who isn’t there.”

A few people around the table chuckled.

It wasn’t quite dinner time; the clock above the bar read five-twenty.

The four Newcomers were left at one table while the seniors moved over to a small round table on the other side of the hearth.

”Getting to know each other is important.”

Theodore broke the ice.

”Out of the four of us, whose background is the most unique?”

The question instantly livened the mood.

”Who do you think?” Maggie glanced up.

”I say it’s the Church guy.” Theodore tipped his chin toward the novice cleric. ”The three of us are tied to the government, academies, or the Civilian Guild in some way. But I’ve never genuinely brushed shoulders with the Church.”

”What are you curious about?” Edmund didn’t seem offended. ”Ask away.”

”I’ll go first.” The stable boy set down his teacup. ”Do they teach actual mysticism at your School of Theology, or just theology?”

”They do, but only a specific branch.” Edmund picked up the thread of his earlier conversation with Richard. ”Specifically...”

”The School of Theology teaches ’ritualized mysticism’.”

”Ritualized?” Maggie looked puzzled.

”The ’mysticism’ you talk about every day—including divination, Spirit Vision, Spell Formulas, and sealing—is all translated into an extension of liturgical rites within our seminary system.”

Edmund spoke with a measured cadence, sounding genuinely like he was giving a sermon.

”You call it ’divination,’ we call it ’sacred revelation’.”

”You call it ’Spirit Vision,’ we call it ’holy presence’.”

”You call it ’sealing,’ we call it ’saintly ward’.”

”You say ’Spell Formula,’ we say ’sacrament’.”

”The actual mechanics are mostly identical. Only the names have been swapped out entirely.”

Theodore was blunt. ”So it’s the exact same thing in a different package?”

”Form over substance,” Edmund didn’t deny it. ”But for the Church, the form itself is extremely important.”

”Why?” Maggie asked.

”Because of jurisprudence,” Edmund hit on the crux of the matter. ”The Church can’t admit to practicing ’mysticism.’ It can only admit to engaging in ’faith practice’.”

Richard caught his drift.

”You mean the Church isn’t allowed to publicly operate in the occult?”

Edmund glanced at him, a hint of approval in his eyes.

”It’s a historical holdover.”

He scooted his chair a little closer.

”Over four hundred years ago, Henry VIII broke with the Roman Catholic Church, declared the independence of the State Church, and established himself as its head.”

”Anyone who’s ever opened a book knows that,” Theodore said. ”The textbook version says Henry VIII fought with Rome just to get a divorce.”

”What the textbooks skip over,” Edmund continued, ”is the other event that happened at the exact same time.”

He didn’t keep them in suspense.

”At the same time, Henry VIII ordered the ’Great Dissolution’ of every monastery across the country.”

”The Great Dissolution?” Maggie poked her head out from her thick sweater collar.

”In two years, over eight hundred monasteries nationwide were forcibly dissolved.”

Edmund said, ”Their lands, wealth, and archives were entirely confiscated by the Crown. Clergy were dismissed, and those who resisted were executed. The few institutions that survived were converted into bodies under direct royal control.”

”Over eight hundred?” Theodore instinctively tried to calculate it. ”How much money was that?”

”Nearly a third of the nation’s landed wealth at the time,” Edmund replied.

”A third...” The stable boy sucked in a sharp breath. ”No wonder.”

”The textbooks claim the Dissolution was about ’religious reform’ and ’stamping out corruption’.”

Edmund explained, ”Both were valid, but there was a third reason they left out of the books.”

He paused, letting the group turn it over in their minds.

”Sealing?” Richard was the first to connect the dots.

”Exactly.” Edmund nodded. ”Out of those eight hundred monasteries, several dozen sat directly atop major sealing nodes. The monastery that originally oversaw Whitcom Mill just happened to be one of them.”

”Once the monastery was dissolved, its priests were driven out. Some were executed, and others fled across the channel.”

”The seal was left unattended.”

”Left to run wild?” Theodore scratched his head.

”Right.” Edmund nodded. ”Ignored for about twenty years.”

”And nothing went wrong in twenty years?”

”A few minor incidents cropped up over those two decades, but the locals managed to hush them up. The Church and the Crown spent that whole time bickering, neither side willing to take responsibility.”

”The Church said, ’You disbanded us, so why should we keep maintaining it?’”

”The Crown said, ’We don’t understand that mystical nonsense; make your people do it.’”

”They squabbled back and forth for twenty years until they finally struck a compromise.”

”The Church was allowed to reorganize, but strictly beneath the banner of the State Church; it could no longer call itself Catholic.”

”Monasteries couldn’t be rebuilt on a large scale, but a handful of ’Orders’ were permitted to remain, with strict limits on their size.”

”The duty of these Orders was to take over the ’special affairs’ that the pre-Dissolution monasteries used to manage. That included maintaining the seals.”

”Isn’t that a good thing?” Theodore still couldn’t wrap his head around it. ”Just a new name for the same job.”

”In theory, sure.” Edmund laid out the harsh reality. ”But the Orders belong to the Church. Where does the money for the Orders come from?”

”...The Church?”

”The Church lost more than half its lifeblood during the Great Dissolution; it could barely look after itself. So, the Crown carved out a portion of its budget to fund the Orders every year.”

”Since the Crown foots the bill, the Crown has the right to intervene in the Orders’ affairs.”

”The Orders are Church personnel, but they take Crown money.”

”With both sides meddling, it’s essentially the same as neither side taking charge.”

”...” Theodore finally grasped the central contradiction of the system.

”Consequently, the maintenance of seals like Whitcom Mill has constantly changed hands amid endless bickering.”

”When the Church steps in to handle it, the Crown refuses to release tax funds.”

”When the Crown tries to send its own people, the Church refuses to share the ritual details with outsiders.”

”As a result, the maintenance work has grown increasingly half-hearted.”

”This current loss of control over the Whitcom seal is really just the bitter fruit of all that tug-of-war.”

”That’s why this round of seal maintenance was flat-out outsourced to the Civilian Guild. Mrs. MacNeil is leading the mission, and Ms. Sarah is outside muscle she brought in through her personal network. The academic system sent Mr. Hutton as a consultant, the military dispatched Captain Field for armed support, and the Church sent me to observe.”

”Just observe?” Theodore keyed into the word sharply.

Pausing here, Edmund offered an unprompted clarification.

”I really am just here to observe and learn. The Order sent me, so naturally, I have to write them a report, but the contents of that report won’t include anything that happens at this table tonight.”

”How come?” Maggie asked.

”Tonight is about us Newcomers getting to know one another,” Edmund said. ”I consider this private time.”

”Alright then.” Theodore was easygoing. ”I’ll consider tonight private time too.”

”Me too,” Maggie chimed in.

The innkeeper’s wife emerged from the kitchen carrying the first course—a thick mushroom soup. The conversation at the Newcomers’ table naturally died down as the tureen was set before them.

Next came the roast leg of lamb, a signature dish of this Whitcom inn, charred on the outside, tender on the inside, and rich with aroma. The sides were roasted potatoes and tossed cabbage, along with a basket of freshly baked crusty bread.

The seniors at the other table shared some local malt whiskey. No one at the Newcomers’ table drank alcohol; Mrs. MacNeil had explicitly asked the innkeeper to bring them another pot of ginger tea instead.

The second pot of ginger tea arrived. It was darker and sweeter than the first.

The stable boy took a sip and narrowed his eyes.

”Highland ginger, sugar, and tea,” he critiqued. ”None of these three are proper.”

”What do you mean, ’not proper’?” Maggie bristled instantly.

”Everything from your highlands is too aggressive,” Theodore said. ”Our Yorkshire tea puts you to sleep. Your Highland tea makes you want to step outside and pick a fight.”

”Are you looking for a fight, then?” Maggie cracked her knuckles.

”Sure,” Theodore admitted openly. ”But I’m not gonna fight you.”

”Why?”

”Your dad is a Hunter, your mom is a Hunter, your brother is a Hunter, and your aunt is a Hunter.”

Theodore counted them off on his fingers.

”If I throw one punch at you, your four family members will hit me back a hundred times. My family doesn’t know any Hunters. Who am I supposed to ask for backup?”

”Therefore, I won’t fight you,” he concluded. ”Sane people don’t do stupid things.”

As dinner wrapped up, Mrs. MacNeil rose to her feet.

”That’s all for tonight.”

”Head back to your rooms. Tomorrow, the two senior Hunters will assign your tasks. We’ll meet at this table for breakfast at seven in the morning. Get some sleep.”

”Goodnight,” the Newcomers chorused.

”Goodnight,” Mrs. MacNeil replied.