Except it wasn’t the same. Several times, as she walked through the city, Ivy had seen a pale stump in front of a house where previously there had stood a graceful elm or ash. And there were other signs that things were altered from before. She unfolded the broadsheet Mrs. Seenly had left on the table. REGULAR PATROLS CONTINUE AROUND THE EVENGROVE, read the title above a small article at the bottom of the first page.
Ever since the events in Torland, stories about outlaws causing troubles in the Outlands had been markedly less frequent. It seemed that putting an end to the Risings had been a blow to the cause of rebellion. When considered, this made sense. As Ivy had witnessed herself in the West Country, with the aid of witches, rebels had been using stands of Wyrdwood as places to conceal themselves and plan their traitorous activities.
It was the work of the inquirers to keep watch over the Wyrdwood and prevent anyone—man or woman—from trying to disturb the ancient groves. Now, through their efforts, the Wyrdwood in Torland had been quelled. And as it was Torland that had offered the greatest source of agitators, rebellious activities had become far less common in recent months.
All the same, the broadsheets must find something to print on their pages, and fewer articles about rebels and outlaws left more space and ink for stories about the Wyrdwood—the location and size of the stands nearest to Invarel, who was watching them, and what works were being undertaken to strengthen the walls around them.
Ivy took a sip of tea, then read the piece that had caught her eye.
Though it is fifteen centuries old, the story began, Madiger’s Wall remains a formidable barrier around the Evengrove, which is the largest grove of Wyrdwood in all of Altania, and also the closest to Invarel. Some hold it was into this vast stand of ancient forest that Queen Béanore fled long ago rather than let herself be captured by the forces of Tharos. Erected at the command of the Tharosian Emperor Madiger during the—
A great crashing sounded from above, and the ceiling shuddered. Lily let out a cry, and Rose dropped her teacup. It cracked apart on the table, letting loose a flood of tea.
“It’s ruined,” Rose said. She looked up, her eyes wide. “Is this the bad luck that the black storks brought?”
Ivy set down the broadsheet. “No, I believe this was brought by workmen, not birds. Lily, ask Mrs. Seenly to come clean up the table. I’ll go see what Mr. Barbridge and his men have accomplished.”
While Ivy had kept her tone light so as to not worry Rose, she felt some degree of alarm as she exited the parlor and hurried up the stairs. As she reached the gallery on the second floor, she found the air thick with plaster dust. Through the haze she glimpsed Mr. Barbridge and several workmen on the far end of the long room.
Mr. Barbridge bowed as she approached, his face and coat white with dust. Ivy saw a heap of rubble at the base of the wall and bare wooden beams. A discussion with Mr. Barbridge soon gave her an understanding of what had occurred. The men had been repairing the wall, removing the plaster where it was crumbling and then patching it. However, the wall had not been as sound as they thought, and when one of the workmen took out a piece of plaster, an entire section had collapsed.
“Do you know what made the structure so weak?” Ivy said, concerned that the entire wall would need to be rebuilt, and already tallying the cost in her mind. “Is the wood rotten?”
“No, Mrs. Quent. The beams in this part of the house are good and solid. It’s not rot that caused the problem.”
“Then what do you think caused it?”
“I can’t rightly say just yet. Sometimes there are cracks too fine to see. Or sometimes it’s something deeper than that. A wall is only so strong as what’s behind it, you see.”
These words did not particularly reduce her apprehension. Mr. Barbridge assured her that they would proceed with greater caution as they refurbished the gallery. Ivy looked around, hoping the room was not beyond repair. It was a large space with tall windows and handsome woodwork, and their intent was to make it the main parlor of the house—a place for gatherings and music.
Mr. Barbridge cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Quent, we’ll be about our work, then.”
“Of course,” Ivy said, realizing she was in the way. She started to remove herself from the gallery, then paused. “Mr. Barbridge, did Mrs. Seenly speak to you about the birds in the north wing?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the builder said. “My men will glaze the window. The storks won’t be bothering you again.”
Ivy thanked him, adding, “I confess, I’m a bit sad to have to force them out of a home. However, I am happy knowing I won’t ever have to be disturbed again by the sound of their voices.”
Mr. Barbridge frowned, the action drawing creases in the white dust on his face. “Their voices, Mrs. Quent?”
“Yes, I was awakened by them last night. The noises they made sounded almost like people talking. I will be relieved not to hear that again.”
The builder shook his head. “I’m not sure what it was you heard last night, Mrs. Quent—I know better than most how old houses can make all manner of queer sounds—but, begging your pardon, it wasn’t the storks you heard. Black storks have no voices, you see. I used to have a nest of them up in my own attic, so I know for a fact that they’re mute, but you can ask anyone as knows birds. Now, if you’ll pardon me.” With that he bowed, then put on his hat and returned to his men.
Ivy was suddenly mute herself. No doubt Mr. Barbridge thought her a silly young woman alarmed by the natural noises of an old house. Yet it had not been creaking floorboards or settling beams that had awakened her. It had been the sound of voices whispering outside her door.
Only, if it was not the birds she had heard, then what was it? Ivy’s head felt light. It was the dust; she had breathed more of it than was good for her. She turned and descended the stairs to the front hall.
And for once she was glad of the cloth that draped the knob of the newel post, so that its wooden eye could not watch her as she went.
CHAPTER TWO
YOU’RE TRYING TO force it again,” Dercy said, his voice echoing out across the empty theater. The young man leaned against the edge of the proscenium and crossed his arms over his black jacket. “Remember what I told you yesterday. Light is like quicksilver—the more you try to grasp it, the more it will break apart and chase away. So stop trying to make a tree, because you can’t make one. Instead, just see it.”
“But I can’t see it,” Eldyn said, standing alone in the center of the barren stage. “I can’t see anything. That’s the problem—my mind is all dark.”
Dercy’s short blond beard parted in a grin. “Is that so? Then maybe we drank too much at the tavern last night.”
Eldyn put a hand to his temple. “Or maybe we didn’t drink enough.”
But no, he had drunk too much last night. After the performance at the Theater of the Moon, which Eldyn had watched from a seat in the balcony, Dercy had dragged him to an unsavory tavern perilously close to the edge of High Holy.
The patrons there had been a rough lot. At first, given the hard looks he and Dercy had received, Eldyn had feared for their lives, but his apprehension dissipated a bit each time Dercy refilled their cups. Before the night was done, they were barely able to contain their mirth as flowers appeared in the hair of some pock-faced fellow, or a man with a murderer’s look suddenly bore rouged lips and painted cheeks—all to the confusion of the others in the tavern.
By the time the source of these tricks was discovered, Eldyn and Dercy had already been on their way out. Dercy had thrust out his hands, throwing a flash of blinding light back into the tavern, and the two had fled into the dark, holding on to each other and laughing as they ran.
Now Eldyn’s head throbbed from the aftereffects of overindulgence. Even so, all he wanted was to go to the Sword and Leaf and order a pot of punch. Why was he trying to do this anyway? He was a clerk, not an illusionist—as today had indelibly proved. For the last three hours he had attempted to evok
e the illusion of a tree, but he hadn’t made so much as a leaf appear.
Eldyn didn’t know why he couldn’t do it. He had mastered any number of small glamours—making a glass appear full when it was empty, or turning a rose from white to red. He had even achieved greater feats. After all, it was illusion that had saved him from a violent fate at the hands of the highwayman Westen. Eldyn had woven the light around himself, making him appear to be his sister, Sashie. Thus he was able to dupe Westen and lead the highwayman into a trap—and so to the gallows.
However, that had been months ago, and in the time since Eldyn hadn’t worked a single illusion of any real significance—and certainly nothing worthy of being performed at a theater on Durrow Street. Each time he tried to envision a grand sculpture of light, all he saw was blackness. It was as if he stood behind a curtain, and no matter how much he searched and groped, he could not find the seam in its heavy folds.
Eldyn gave Dercy a weak smile. “I believe the only phantasm on this stage is the notion that I could ever be in a play. It’s all right; I don’t mind. You’ve been amazing to try to help me, but it’s time I faced the fact that I’m not like you, Dercy. I’m not an illusionist.”
At once Dercy’s grin vanished, and he crossed the stage to Eldyn. “That’s not true. You are an illusionist. If you weren’t, how could you hide yourself in shadows the way that you can? Besides, wasn’t it illusion that got us our drink last night? I saw you turn a copper penny into a silver half regal before giving it to the tavern keep.”
“Yes, I can do those things,” Eldyn said reluctantly. “But they’re tricks, that’s all. You told me yourself that it’s easiest to make people see what they expect to see. But you’re also the one who told me that conjuring a vision from thin air, shaping something out of light itself, is the real mastery of illusion.” He gestured to the empty stage around them. Nothing floated on the air except dust. “And that’s something I can’t seem to do.”
Concern shone in Dercy’s sea-colored eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then pressed his lips into a line. What could he have said? It was the truth. Eldyn shared something of the same power the Siltheri possessed, but it was a fraction, nothing more.
Eldyn regarded his friend. “I’m a clerk, Dercy. No, don’t shake your head—it’s true. And it doesn’t bother me. After all, it was not all that long ago that I thought I wanted to be a lord, to reclaim the Garritt family fortune, and to sit in the Hall of Magnates like my grandfather did. Now that was truly a phantasm.”
He couldn’t help a rueful grin. Had he really been so artless as to believe that was possible—that the penniless son of a debtor drunk with a few drops of nobleman’s blood in him could climb his way to the heights of society? Well, he didn’t think about being a lord these days. His friend Rafferdy was going to be sitting in the Hall of Magnates soon, and that was as close to Assembly as Eldyn was ever going—or ever needed—to get.
“Then what exactly do you want to be?” Dercy said. He spread his arms to encompass the stage. “If not this, then what?”
Eldyn turned around. He looked at the rows of rickety chairs, at the cracked frescoes of nymphs and fauns and grape vines that adorned the ceiling. By day, the Theater of the Moon looked exactly like what it was: a cramped, shabby playhouse on the far side of Durrow Street. It was only at night that the work of the Siltheri turned it into a place of wonder. And even if he couldn’t work those wonders himself, it didn’t mean Eldyn couldn’t still enjoy watching them.
He returned his gaze to Dercy. “I want to work and make a little coin for a change—real coins that don’t turn back to copper after a minute. I want to improve my lot, and put away something for my sister’s future. I want to see a play now and then.” He reached out a hand and gripped the other man’s shoulder. “And as often as possible, I want to go to tavern and get pissed with my most cherished friends.”
Eldyn spoke those last words in a light voice, in an effort to dispel a little of the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the stage, and Dercy’s lips did indeed curve in a smile. Still, there was a look in his eyes that Eldyn had seen on occasion—a look that seemed at once bright and regretful. Eldyn didn’t know why Dercy gazed at him that way sometimes.
But Eldyn did know there was no point in indulging in any sort of regret. “I’m a scrivener, Dercy—an excellent one, when it comes down to it. I think it’s time to stop playacting and be what I truly am.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if you don’t know what you truly are?”
“I do know, Dercy. I’m a clerk. I work in the office of the rector of Graychurch, and let me tell you, the Church of Altania has more money than all the trading houses in Invarel.”
Dercy took a step back so that Eldyn was forced to let go of his shoulder.
“You think that’s what you are,” Dercy said, his expression solemn. “Only you’re wrong. Whether you ever set foot on this stage again, whether or not you ever work another glamour, you are an illusionist, Eldyn Garritt. We Siltheri always know our own kind. Once you know how to look for it, all it takes is a glance, and I knew it the first night I saw you outside this theater.”
“Well, what use is an illusionist who can’t work illusions?” Eldyn said. He tried to make a joke of it, but the words sounded flat. It didn’t matter—he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Besides, he had promised Sashie he would be back by dark.
He told Dercy he had to go, but that he would arrive at the Theater of the Moon, if not in time for the rise of the curtain that night, then at least in time for its fall, and he secured a promise that they would go to tavern together after the performance. Reassured by his friend’s willingness to commit to such a plan, Eldyn bid Dercy farewell. He left the dusky theater and walked out into the gold of late afternoon.
And if a few bits of shadow followed after, clinging to him as he went, then surely it was only from longtime habit.
THE BELLS OF St. Galmuth’s were tolling by the time Eldyn approached the doors of Graychurch.
The lumenal had sputtered and extinguished even more swiftly than he had thought. Hadn’t the timetables on the front page of The Fox said that the day was to be eight and a half hours? Surely he had not been at the theater that long. All the same, the sun had slipped behind the rooftops of the Old City, and in the thickening gloom, the appearance of Graychurch was well in accord with its name.
Situated no more than a hundred paces from St. Galmuth’s cathedral, Graychurch was often forgotten in the shadow of the grander, paler edifice. With its graceful buttresses, its windows of lustrous glass, and the wings of its transepts spread wide, the cathedral seemed ready to leap off the ground, as if it were constructed not of stone and iron, but of air and light.
In comparison, Graychurch was stunted and hunched, its walls hewn thick and its windows cut narrow for want of flying buttresses, which weren’t invented until long after its construction. Its beetle-browed portico frowned toward the street, and it was surmounted by a tarnished bronze dome like a dour hat on an old dame.
As if the smaller church were indeed so unfashionable, the cathedral angled away from it, turning a shoulder to its elder. Guided by a new understanding of the workings of the heavens, St. Galmuth’s builders had aligned the cathedral with the four cardinal points. However, Graychurch had been raised in a different era, by men who still thought more of the history of the Faith than its future, and so they had turned the church’s face not to the east, but rather south of west, toward the memory of Tharos.
That St. Galmuth’s was inordinately more splendid and more beautiful, Eldyn would not deny. To tread beneath its lofty vaults was to stand beneath the foundations of Eternum itself. Yet for him there was a sort of elemental appeal to Graychurch. Perhaps it was because it did not seem like a thing built to inspire awe. Rather, it looked like a fortress: a place hewed to protect something fragile and imperiled and precious.
The last traces of color faded from the sky. Eldyn dashed up the
steps, scattering a group of pigeons, and pushed through a heavy door into the dimness of the church.
He found his sister in the little apse off the chapel of St. Amorah, just as he had expected. Eldyn paused in the doorway, watching as she lit a candle on the altar before a statue of the chapel’s namesake. The light bathed her face, so that it seemed as smooth as that of the marble saint.
Perhaps it was fitting the two appeared so similar. After all, St. Amorah was the patroness of unmarried women, and she was celebrated for her fabled beauty as much as for her legendary piety. Pursued by many eager suitors, the story went, she cast herself off a cliff rather than let herself be despoiled before she was married. As a reward for her purity, God reached down and caught her before she could strike the sharp rocks at the foot of the cliff and bore her directly up to Eternum.
Which meant it was He who had won her over all other suitors, Eldyn thought, and could not suppress a soft laugh at the notion. Sashie looked up at the sound, then saw him in the doorway.
“And might I ask what amuses you so, dear brother?” she said. “I can only suppose my bonnet is askew or I’ve blackened my nose with soot from a candle. Do I look so very odd, then?”
“In fact, you look charming.”
Sashie smiled at him, an expression as beatific as any saint’s, and set down her candle.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, entering the apse. “The day was shorter than I thought, and I spent more time than I meant trying to work a … that is, at my business. I hope you’re not angry with me for leaving you alone for so long.”
She gave a pretty frown. “Alone? I don’t know what you mean. I am far from alone here. I have St. Amorah to converse with. And if she grows weary of listening to me, then there are St. Devis with his lamb and St. Vanrus the Younger in the next chapel over, and I find them to be amenable to long discussions of the most cheerful sort.”
The House on Durrow Street Page 3
