Dercy was staring at him now, an expression in his sea-colored eyes that Eldyn could not name.
“Don’t you see?” Eldyn went on. “I’m weary of living my life hidden in the shadows. I don’t want to merely conjure light—I want to dwell in it. This is the only way I know how—it’s the only way I can build a happy future for myself and my sister.”
At last Dercy spoke, and his voice was low. “I thought we were happy. What a fool I was: a Siltheri tricked by phantasms. I see now that it was all just an illusion. And after all that I gave you to—” He shook his head.
Eldyn was trembling now; he couldn’t stop. Once before when he was shaking, that night after they saw Gerivel holding Donnebric’s body before the Theater of the Doves, Dercy had held him until the spasms passed. Now the other young man stood at arm’s length.
“Dercy, please, you have to understand.” Eldyn took a lurching step toward him.
At the same moment Dercy took a step back.
“I understand perfectly now, Eldyn.” He let out a breath. “To think, once I thought you were an angel standing there in the night.”
All at once the illusory lights were snuffed out so that blackness took the chamber. Eldyn fumbled, forcing his shaking hands to be steady. Only by the time he finally managed to conjure a single, wavering light, its pale blue glow revealed what he already knew.
He was alone in the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
RAFFERDY HURRIED UP the marble steps before the Halls of Assembly, his robe snapping behind him like a black sail. He wasn’t certain if it was due to the fact that he had awakened late after a restless umbral, or if it was because the lumenal had dawned a good deal earlier than it was supposed to have. Either way the result was the same.
He was late.
Not that he would be barred from the Hall for arriving after the High Speaker’s gavel had fallen. Members of Assembly generally made a practice of coming and going at all times during the session—as well as eating, sleeping, taking tobacco, and gambling with dice in the wings. The only time it really mattered if one was on the bench was when a vote was called for. All the same, Lady Shayde had continued to observe the proceedings of Assembly of late, and Rafferdy had no wish to straggle into the Hall and thus be singled out for her attention.
To his relief, the bells in the spire that rose above Assembly began to ring out just as he dashed up the final steps, and he fell in with a number of other magnates who were streaming into the Hall. Doing his best to make himself anonymous within the throng, he proceeded to the upper benches where he and the other wigless young lords sat.
He found Lord Coulten already there. The other young man waved and gestured to the seat beside him, which Rafferdy took.
“There you are at last!” Coulten exclaimed.
“I’m sorry,” Rafferdy returned. “Were you waiting for me?”
“You know perfectly well I was waiting for you.” He lowered his voice and leaned his head toward Rafferdy. “I have been eager to know what you thought of our meeting last night. I wished to speak to you once it was over, only you departed the tavern before I had the chance.”
“I was too tired and stupid for conversation,” Rafferdy said, and this was true, if not exactly the whole of the truth. “Besides, you seemed happily engaged in speaking with the rest of the initiates.”
Coulten grinned, then held a gloved hand beside his mouth as he spoke. “Yes, we were all of us speculating which of the sages was Eubrey.”
“Did you determine which one he was?”
“Not at all! We could not any of us agree. I thought he was the second one from the left, for that one fidgeted a bit, as Eubrey is wont to do. But the others said it could not be him, that he was too tall to be Eubrey. I suppose they were right at that.” Coulten raised an eyebrow. “So, which one do you think was Eubrey?”
Rafferdy considered this. Last night had been the first meeting of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade since the party at Mrs. Quent’s. Thus, when the notice of the meeting appeared in the black leather book he kept locked in his desk, Rafferdy had been eager for the prescribed day and hour to arrive. He had been curious himself to see if he could discern Eubrey from the other sages by his voice alone, and last night he had opened the magickal door at the back of the Sword and Leaf with great anticipation.
In the chamber beneath the tavern, the sages had sat as they always did: in a line before the curtain that concealed the Door to the inner sanctum. Their number was indeed increased by one from the previous, but the gold robes that draped them from head to toe were heavy, so as to obscure any discernible feature. This meant the only way Eubrey might be recognized was through his voice, and Rafferdy thought attempting to do so would be an amusing game.
As it happened, neither his wish for amusement nor his curiosity were satisfied. Throughout the meeting, only one of the sages spoke, and given his sibilant, slightly lisping voice, it was not Eubrey. Rather, it was the one Rafferdy knew only as the magus of the society, his name being a mystery to all of the initiates, including Coulten.
For a long while the meeting passed in a dull fashion. The magus droned on again about the Three Pillars of Magick, and how the initiates could not be admitted beyond the Door into the sanctum until they mastered them. It was only toward the end of the meeting that the magus brought up a new subject—one that had never been discussed before at any of the meetings Rafferdy attended.
The Wyrdwood.
Rafferdy, who had been drowsing in his seat, lifted his head. He listened as the magus discussed how there was no matter of greater importance facing Altania than the recent Risings. Long ago, magicians had striven against the Wyrdwood, and they had won dominion over it. However, the spells with which the ancient forest had been quelled were imperfect, and one day soon they could expect magicians to be called upon again to wield their will against the Old Trees. It was a day they must all ready themselves for.
Eubrey had said that day at Madiger’s Wall that the sages were interested in the Quelling. While Eubrey’s experiment had seemed to Rafferdy to have had little point, perhaps his report had done something to encourage the sages on the topic of the Wyrdwood.
They must work against the peril of the Wyrdwood in any manner they could, the magus went on, his voice emanating out of the shadows of his hood. They must expect to wield not only the power of magick against it, but the power of politics as well. Spells might be used to defeat the Old Trees, but only if magicians were allowed by law to do so—for how could magicians approach the groves if soldiers would not allow them?
“Yet you must not worry,” the magus intoned in that peculiarly soft, lisping manner. “Know that we have many allies in this matter, for ours is not the only magickal order that is concerned with the Risings. I can promise you, very soon this subject will be brought up in Assembly by members of one such order. We will put a stop to the wood, and those who by their very nature would seek to incite it.”
The other magicians had seemed to like this statement, and an excited murmur passed among them. Even Coulten nodded, his eyes alight, but these words left Rafferdy with a peculiar feeling. He found himself thinking of Mrs. Quent and what she had done to stop the Evengrove from Rising that day. It had been brave, and utterly remarkable. Yet if her nature was known, would she not be deemed one “who by their very nature would seek to incite” the Wyrdwood?
The more he thought about this, the more troubled he became. Before long, the magus’s voice was reduced to a wordless hissing. Rafferdy fidgeted with the ring upon his right hand, and as soon as the meeting concluded, he left the chamber beneath the tavern. All night he had tossed about on his bed, caught half in a dream in which the sheets were black branches coiling around him while Mrs. Quent watched and smiled.
“Well, go on, then,” Coulten said eagerly. “You look as if it’s on the tip of your tongue. So which one of the sages last night was Eubrey?”
“I couldn’t say,” Rafferdy said hone
stly, then glanced at the Hall around them. “So where is Eubrey anyway this morning?”
Coulten grinned slyly, then he opened his mouth to speak. However, at that very moment the High Speaker banged his gavel, calling the Hall to order. Behind his right shoulder, Lady Shayde sat in her customary seat, her face a pale fog behind the veil that draped her hat.
As usual, the High Speaker’s gavel had hardly ceased its clatter before Lord Bastellon was off his bench and requesting to address the Hall. This was granted, if reluctantly. Rafferdy would much rather have heard whatever it was Coulten had been about to tell him. Instead, they all had to endure yet another treatise from Lord Bastellon on how important it was, in these uncertain times, that King Rothard’s writ of succession be ratified.
As the old Stout continued his exposition, the Magisters all bristled visibly, but there was nothing they could do about it. They had allowed Bastellon to open debate on all issues concerning Altania, including the writ of succession. Thus there was nothing the Magisters could do but listen as the old Stout marched before the Speaker’s podium in his crooked wig and cast his words and spittle in all directions.
Rafferdy imagined Lord Farrolbrook must be particularly peeved by the situation, as it was due to his miscalculation that Lord Bastellon’s gambit had succeeded. Only, when he looked down at where Farrolbrook sat with the other Magisters, he was surprised to see that the fair-haired lord was paying Bastellon no attention. Instead, he gazed at the domed ceiling above, an absent look upon his usually haughty face, all the while fidgeting with one of the many frills of his robe.
At last Bastellon seemed to have run out of his reservoir of words and phlegm, and he marched back to his seat among the other Stouts.
“You say we must honor the king’s will on the matter of succession, Lord Bastellon,” spoke a loud voice. “But is that really wise at this time?”
The High Speaker’s gavel struck the podium. “The Hall recognizes Lord Mertrand!”
The lord who sat next to Farrolbrook rose and stepped forward. He was tall and impressive in a simple but stylish black robe, and he turned slowly as he spoke, regarding the Hall with a keen, dark-eyed gaze.
“The Wyrdwood stirs as it has not done in living memory,” the tall Magister went on. “Risings have taken the lives of men not only in Torland, but also no more than twenty miles from where we stand at this very moment. I hope it will be a long while before we have to worry about who will succeed our king, but that day will come. And when it does, despite the peril we face from the Wyrdwood, Lord Bastellon suggests that we willingly consent to put a woman upon the throne!”
At this mutters and murmurs ran about the Hall, and Lord Bastellon leaped to his feet. However, when he tried to sputter out angry words, he was drowned out by the clamor of the High Speaker’s gavel.
“The floor belongs to Lord Mertrand!”
Lord Bastellon glowered at this, but he could do nothing save return to his seat.
“Thank you, High Speaker,” Mertrand said with a nod toward the podium. “At this time I would like to relinquish the floor to the leader of my party. That is, to Lord Farrolbrook.”
These words seemed to catch Farrolbrook unawares, for he jumped a bit in his seat, then stared at Lord Mertrand. Mertrand made a gesture toward the center of the Hall, and after a moment Farrolbrook blinked, then stood and made his way forward as Mertrand retreated.
“Thank you,” Farrolbrook said. “Thank you, Lord Mertrand, I do have something I wish to say on this matter. These are indeed grave times, and I wish to say …” He drew a breath. “That is, it is my belief that …”
His words faltered and fell short, and he stood still for a moment, his head slightly tilted, as if he was listening to some far-off sound. Silence fell over the Hall as all eyes gazed at him. Suddenly he shook his head.
“Forgive me, High Speaker, I do not have anything to say after all.”
With that he turned and went back to his seat. Noises of surprise rose up all around the Hall, and the Magisters watched the fair-haired lord with looks of confusion—and perturbation. Farrolbrook seemed confused himself. He continued to shake his head as he returned to his seat. Once there, he hunched over and, in a rapid manner, turned the red-gemmed ring on his finger round and round.
“Great God,” Coulten whispered delightedly in Rafferdy’s ear, “I quite think Lord Farrolbrook has lost command of his wits! Not that he had that many to begin with.”
Rafferdy was inclined to concur. But if Farrolbrook had misplaced his wits, Mertrand retained full command of his, and he leaped back from his seat before the floor could be turned over to another speaker.
“Lord Farrolbrook is overcome with worry for our nation,” the dark-eyed lord said. “Therefore, I will give voice to his concerns—which ought to be the concerns of every man of reasonable mind in this Hall.”
He paced across the floor now, his voice rising so that it commanded attention. “Is it not enough that our nation is beset by outlaws and traitors? Shall we give them a place to harbor themselves as well? It is well known that last year a band of nefarious rebels sought refuge in a grove of Wyrdwood in the West Country. There they made a most unholy alliance with a witch, and so used the stand of Old Trees as a place to hide themselves, and a fortress from which they could strike out to commit all manner of awful crimes. Who knows what other traitors have made similar alliances and even now are concealing themselves in ancient groves, plotting against our nation?”
He turned to direct his gaze at Lord Bastellon. “We cannot know, of course. Which is why, if we truly wish to do something to address the future of our nation in these troubled times, we should not be taking up the king’s writ of succession. Rather, we should be voting on an act in favor of cutting down, burning, and forever destroying every stand, every grove, every remnant of Wyrdwood in all of Altania, down to the last tree!”
At once a great commotion broke out in the Hall. There were expressions of shock all around—though not among the Magisters, Rafferdy noted. They evinced no surprise and gazed at Lord Mertrand serenely. All except for Lord Farrolbrook, that was, who continued to slump in his seat and fidget with the ring on his right hand.
The High Speaker struck his gavel, calling for order, and Lord Mertrand spread his arms wide in a gesture that begged for silence.
“Why do you exhibit such astonishment?” he called out, his voice rising above the uproar. “It is no startling thing I suggest. What is startling to me is that we have allowed the Wyrdwood to endure for as long as we have. And why? Because the groves represent some quaint and picturesque relic of our history? I do not believe the men who died in Torland, or the brave soldiers who lost their lives at the Evengrove, would call them such. What purpose can the Old Trees serve? What benefit can they possibly bring to our nation that offsets the peril they pose? Answer these questions, and then tell me why we shouldn’t cut down the trees.”
Rafferdy had to admit, this was a question he had wondered about himself. Why had remnants of a thing that had long posed such a peril been allowed to remain over the centuries, preserved in patches behind old stone walls? Why hadn’t it all been burned and cleared from the land long years ago? Surely it was not out of some sort of nostalgia.
“Why not?” Mertrand called out again, sweeping his gaze across the Hall. “Why not cut down the last of the Wyrdwood?”
An old lord, one of the Stouts, pushed himself to his feet, his face reddened and wrinkled from years of sun and wind. “Because the more the old wood is harmed, the more it will rise up and fight us!” he shouted. “Any fool in the country knows that!”
A number of hear, hears followed this, but Mertrand gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Well, we all know there are plenty of fools in the country,” he said, his lips curving upward ever so slightly.
At this, the face of the Stout who had spoken grew redder yet, but his attempts at a rejoinder were drowned out by a roar of laughter, and he sank back to his bench
, fuming.
“Besides,” Mertrand went on, “we may soon find we have no choice in the matter. If our good Stouts have their way, and Assembly chooses to ratify the king’s writ of succession, we will one day—for only the third time in the entire history of our nation—have a woman upon the throne. We all know what is told of Queen Elsadore, and of Queen Béanore before her. Why should we imagine this queen would be different? In which case, will we not be forced to scrub all traces of the Wyrdwood from our fair island? For if we do not, how can we be certain Her Majesty would not hear its call, and perhaps even heed it, just as the only two queens before her are said to have done?”
A great gasp went around the Hall, and suddenly all fell to silence. The air became as the skin of a drum—pulled overtaught, and vibrating with even the faintest cough or scrape of a boot.
At last Lord Bastellon rose again. Previously, when he spoke, there had been something of a buffoonish air about him, in his dowdy robe and yellowed wig. But now his face was grim and anything but laughable.
“You warn us of traitors, Lord Mertrand,” he said, and for all that the words were spoken low, they carried throughout the Hall. “Now I will warn you—do not make a traitor of yourself with your words. You may speak against royal acts and royal decrees you believe to be irresponsible. That is our right, our duty even. But to speak against the royal person—by all the laws of our realm, that is a crime of the highest treason.”
Mertrand raised an eyebrow. “Do you threaten me, Lord Bastellon?”
“I threaten any who would dare to set himself up as a rebel and a traitor to Altania,” the old Stout said. “And I swear it to you, Lord Mertrand, I will do everything in my power to see them each and all hung.”
With that, he gave his wig a firm tug, then went back to his bench.
A buzzing filled the Hall, like that of a hive into which a stick has been thrust. Mertrand returned to his place in an unhurried manner, and if Bastellon’s words had affected him in any way, he did not show it. Only for a moment did the calmness of his visage alter, and that was when he cast a brief frown at Lord Farrolbrook. This look went unnoticed by its subject, however, who continued to stare at the House ring on his right hand.
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