Doors opened and closed, but he could detect no light, no warmth. Nothing but the icy darkness and the smell of…earth? A basement lair, then. They must be under Mrs. Hughes’s house. Knowledge that would do little good if that steel bit him.
His guide halted him. A rap upon wood, and then a returning one from the other side.
“Who comes here?”
The man beside him cleared his throat. “One who is true to our cause.”
“How is he known to be true?”
Under the blindfold, Slade squeezed his eyes shut. How indeed.
“By the recommendation of a tried Knight.”
“He can then be trusted?”
His muscles wanted to tense, wanted to coil. But he held himself perfectly still. No tells.
“Such is our belief.”
“Should he fail and betray us, he will learn the penalty soon enough. Advance.”
The door creaked on its hinges, a sound eerie enough to fit into this untold story of Poe. A few steps, and the blade touched him again, bringing him to a quick stop.
“Those who would pass here must face both fire and steel.” A new voice, and he sensed movement from beyond its owner.
“Are you willing to do so?” Hughes now, his voice pitched low.
Slade’s shoulders bunched—a normal reaction, surely. For this must be their usual induction into the circle, and this his last chance to change his mind. If only he had such a luxury. If only his brother hadn’t forced him here, with this one chance to make right all the wrongs committed in his name.
“I am willing.” Father God, help me.
“Advance.”
The blade retreated again, the hands pushed him forward, and Hughes ordered him to kneel. His knees met the icy earth. His right hand was loosed, lifted, and settled on the pages of an open book.
His fingers flexed. Thin paper, smooth and even. A Bible? Despite the freezing air that made his muscles quake, he felt a warmth within. Even here, He was there.
“You must remember every word you have uttered and will yet utter here tonight. And you must forever bar your lips against repeating them to any but a fellow Knight. If you betray us, the penalty is—”
“Death!” It came as a chant from all directions, resonant as a thundering cannon. “Death! Death! Death!”
“You will disclose no names, or you will taste—”
“Death!”
“You will always aid a brother Knight, even unto—”
“Death!”
“You will abide by all orders, carry out all objects, bear witness, and even swear falsely in order to save a brother’s life or liberty.”
Slade forced a swallow. A brother’s life or liberty. Admirable…if only those bonds meant anything. If only he had a brother, a true one, left in this life.
“The business of this new body will be preeminent before all. Before religion. Before political feeling. Before familial duty. It must be first and foremost in everything, at daylight or midnight, at home or abroad, before the law of the land or the affection of wife, mother, or child. It must be all and everything.”
All and everything—he had One of those already.
“Are you willing to abide by this obligation?”
He had nothing left to lose. “I am.”
“Brother Knights! Recall to the mind of him who now kneels here the penalty of betrayal, either by sign, word, or deed!”
Countless blades sang from their sheathes and clanged one to another. Countless voices murmured, groaned, or whispered, “Death! Death! Death!”
Chilling as the pronouncement was, worse was the silence that followed. It seemed Slade could hear his own pulse in his ears, his blood rushing to the point where the blade still rested, threatening.
“Death.” Hughes’s voice rang in a final blow. “Show him all.”
The blindfold was removed, and Slade blinked against the sudden light. Lanterns were placed at intervals along the wood planked walls. They shone on a dozen swords—all of them pointed directly at his chest, a breath away from touching. His gaze followed the blades up to the men holding them, dressed in chain mail and armor, feather-crested helmets obscuring their faces.
A glance to his side proved that the book on which he had sworn was indeed the Bible. Comforting, and yet the irony of it pierced where the swords stopped short. How could these men put their hand upon the Good Book and swear to uphold their brotherhood above its statutes?
“Rise.”
He rose, once the swords all returned to their sheaths, and accepted the shirt someone handed him, and then his frock coat. His gaze fixed upon the central Knight as he lifted his visor.
Hughes. He nodded and made a motion to the men who had led Slade in.
Surratt stepped forward and indicated a door to the left. “Through here for the meeting. It’ll start as soon as the officers take off their armor.”
Slade finished buttoning the shirt. Hopefully they hadn’t ruined his waistcoat—Ross had only commissioned him that one for evening wear. The warmth of the frock coat was as welcome as sunshine. He followed Surratt through the door and then into a chamber with dozens of men jammed within and papers tacked to the walls. A defaced poster of Lincoln drew his eye.