The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  Eldyn clenched his hands into fists. “I will never be a priest.”

  “No, I suppose you won’t.”

  In the chair, Dercy sagged against his bonds, his face ashen and glistening with sweat, and his chest heaving rapidly. His hair was no longer its usual bright gold, but was rather dull and tarnished. He gripped the arms of the chair with white fingers.

  A sickness spread through Eldyn. “What have you done to him?”

  “I took some of his light,” the archdeacon said, as if this was the most inconsequential thing.

  Eldyn’s brain labored to understand. He recalled his conversation with Mouse in the tavern. “But light can only be given. You cannot take it from someone.”

  “Perhaps you cannot take it, Mr. Garritt. My lord has seen fit to grant me … other abilities.”

  Eldyn took another step forward, the knife before him. “Your lord? You mean God?”

  “God?” Lemarck seemed to consider these words for a moment. “At first, I thought perhaps it was God I heard. After all, it was beneath Graychurch, deep in the crypts there, that I discovered the window. Even though it was far below the ground, a red light spilled through it, and I wondered if it was the light of Eternum.”

  He shook his head. “But it wasn’t Eternum I glimpsed through the window, and the voice that spoke to me did not belong to the God to whom this chapel was raised. No, Ul’zulgul is older than that, and far stronger. For eons he has waited for the door to open again. Now the time comes when he and the others will pass from their world into our own, and we must make certain all is ready for their coming. For if we do, we will be greatly rewarded.”

  Eldyn felt both a wonder and a horror. “You’re mad,” he murmured.

  “Am I?” The archdeacon made a small motion with his hand. “Or is it you who has lost possession of his faculties, Mr. Garritt?”

  Lemarck was no more than three paces away. Eldyn tightened his grip on the knife and prepared himself to leap forward; only then he halted, glancing downward in puzzlement.

  The floor before him was moving. Its surface undulated like the black water of a pond whipped by a wind. Even as he watched, a number of droplets splashed upon his trousers.

  Then they began to move up his legs.

  Eldyn bent to look closer, and a cry escaped him. The spots on his legs were not droplets of black water, but rather black spiders. The entire floor was covered with spiders now. They skittered over one another in a thick, writhing mass.

  He swatted at the spiders on his legs, but more of them climbed up to take their place. Eldyn stamped his feet, trying to crush them beneath his boots, but it was no use. More spiders crawled up his legs. Others swarmed down the curtains and dropped onto his shoulders and arms from above. In a panic he dropped the knife and tried to brush them off, but it was no use. More spiders crawled over him. He opened his mouth to scream.

  “Eldyn, look through it!” a haggard voice called out. “It’s not real—it’s only an illusion!”

  It was Dercy. Somehow, despite the terror that gripped him, Eldyn held out his shaking hands to look at the spiders. For all that they covered his hands, he could not feel their writhing touch against his skin. He willed himself to peer closer.

  The spiders faded, so that he could see through them. He looked at the floor, the curtains, and it was the same. If he made an effort, he could see right through the spiders as if they weren’t there.

  Because they weren’t.

  “Very good, Mr. Garritt.” Again the archdeacon made a motion with his hand, and all at once the spiders vanished. “You possess some wits. That will aid you in your service to Ul’zulgul and the Ashen.”

  Eldyn took a step back. “You’re an illusionist!”

  An expression of disgust flickered across the archdeacon’s visage. “No, I am not an abomination like the Siltheri. I was given this ability not as punishment for my sins, but rather to strive against sin.” He gestured toward Dercy. “You see, I have been shown a way to grant salvation to wicked men such as him. And such as you, Mr. Garritt.

  “When I saw you that day in Graychurch, I detected a glimmer about you. It was weak, to be sure, but I thought it possible you would do, if I had great need. Events are moving swiftly now, and I have had to labor at a more rapid pace than before. A dark time is coming, Mr. Garritt—a terrible time—and there is much to be done. There will soon be a great need for the tools that I am learning to forge here.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eldyn saw the knife on the floor no more than two paces away. “Tools?” he said. “What tools do you mean?”

  “I mean my witch-hounds.”

  Eldyn did not know what these words meant, but all the same they filled him with a foreboding. “Witch-hounds?”

  “A great peril faces Altania, Mr. Garritt. The ancient trees stir, the Wyrdwood lashes out, and it is the witches who provoke it. They speak to it, call to it, and cause it to strike out at men.” Though his expression remained calm, the light in his eyes grew brighter and hotter as he spoke. “Illusionists may be abominations, but they are nothing to witches. There is no greater evil in the world than a sibyl of the wood. Too long have we suffered them in our midst, and too long the pyres in Greenly Circle have remained unlit. Yet my lord has told me all that is about to change. And you illusionists are going to play a part in it.”

  He moved around the chair and laid a hand on Dercy’s slumped shoulder. Dercy let out a moan, as if he had been struck. His skin seemed to pale another shade.

  “After all, what is an illusionist but the son of a witch?” the archdeacon said, a fascination in his voice. “Only they are stunted. They have something of their mother’s power but cannot draw upon the Wyrdwood. So they turn their powers inward, and upon one another, in vile and depraved ways. They are pathetic, loathsome creatures. Only I have discovered something remarkable, Mr. Garritt—a way that illusionists can be redeemed.”

  These words caused Eldyn to stagger. “Redeemed?” he cried. “You mean by blinding them?”

  The archdeacon shook his head. “I remove their eyes, Mr. Garritt, but I do not blind them. Rather, once they are no longer distracted by the mundane sights of this world, they can see with far clearer vision. No witch will be able to conceal herself from them. All that will need to be done is to bring a woman before one of my witch-hounds, and in an instant he will know whether or not she is a sibyl, for he will see the telltale light around her.”

  A new horror came over Eldyn. He thought of Lady Quent, and of the green emanation he and Dercy had detected around her. Would a witch-hound raise his finger to point at her? Would she be hauled to the pyre in Greenly Circle to be burned?

  He clasped a hand to his head, for it was throbbing. “So that’s why you’ve been seizing illusionists and murdering them.”

  Lemarck squeezed Dercy’s shoulder like a father might his son. “No, it was never my intent that they should die. However, there is more that must be done besides the removal of the eyes. To become a witch-hound, the illusionist’s mind and soul must be bared to the presence of my lord who is to come, to know his mind, and to understand why all witches must be found. Not many have the strength to endure such a vision, for he and his kin are great and terrible.

  “As I told you, time grows short. It is affairs of the spiritual demesne that are of interest to me, but I am in contact with those who shape events in the temporal world. Viscount Crayford tells me my witch-hounds will be needed very soon, and I know he is wise in such matters. You see, it was he who first told me of the window far beneath Graychurch. Thus I have had to perform my work more quickly. It is regrettable that many have not been able to endure the force of their redemption, but it is a necessary cost to pay. And with each attempt, my efforts are perfected. It has taken me long to reach this point, but lately there have been a number of great successes. Indeed, they are all around us now, within these very chambers.”

  A realization came upon Eldyn. “That’s why you have the red curtain
s—so they cannot see what you are doing in here.”

  “No, it is so their vision remains keen. Does not even the feeblest light seem brilliant when you have been long in a darkened room? I wish to make certain they can detect even the faintest bit of witch light.”

  In the chair, Dercy let out a croaking laugh. “And what of your red cassock?” He raised his head weakly, and though his voice was hoarse it was defiant as well. “What other reason can there be for it except to hide what you are—that you are an illusionist just like us? I think we can guess why the Archbishop of Invarel has been having visions. Are you not his closest advisor? You are driving him mad, just as you’ve driven these poor illusionists chained down here mad. Only in the end it is you who belongs up at Madstone’s—you’re the one who hears voices.”

  All semblance of calm departed the archdeacon’s expression. “Silence!”

  “You couldn’t stand it, could you?” Dercy went on, and despite his haggardness he was grinning his old, mischievous grin. “You couldn’t bear the fact that you were nothing but a vile, wicked sinner like all the rest of us on Durrow Street. Now it’s cracked your mind.”

  “I said silence!”

  He tightened his grip on Dercy’s shoulder. Again a golden glow colored his skin, and at the same moment Dercy threw his head back in an awful scream. Then the archdeacon released him, and Dercy slumped forward in the chair, so that only the bonds prevented him from falling. His face and hair were both the color of ash; he was not moving.

  Eldyn gripped the curtain beside him to keep from staggering. He searched with his eyes for any sign of movement, then to his relief saw that Dercy still breathed. But otherwise he did not move.

  The archdeacon’s expression was no longer one of anger, but rather curiosity. “A young man such as he should have had more light to take than that. I suppose he must have been foolish enough to have already given much of it to someone. And I believe I know to whom.” Now he turned his blue gaze on Eldyn. “As I told you before, Mr. Garritt, the glimmer around you was feeble—barely enough for me to think you worth keeping at hand should I have need of another illusionist. Yet the last time I saw you at Graychurch I noticed how much brighter your light had grown. Indeed, it is very bright now, and you have conveniently seen fit to present yourself here tonight.”

  Lemarck took a step toward him.

  “I believe you will be my next witch-hound, Mr. Garritt.”

  Eldyn tried to lurch back, but he was too slow. The archdeacon moved his hand, and suddenly the curtained room vanished. Instead, Eldyn stood upon a rocky height far above the world. Beams of gold illumination streamed through clefts in the dark clouds that swept across the sky. His head dizzy, Eldyn leaned forward to peer over the edge of the precipice. In the depths below, a mass of shadows heaved and roiled like a cauldron of pitch. Even as he watched, some of the shadows broke free of the rest. With alarming rapidness, they began to scale the walls of rock.

  Shaking his head, Eldyn tried to will himself to see through the vision. For a moment he thought he caught a flicker of red curtains, and of the ghostly shape of Dercy limp in the chair. Then these things disappeared as the shining figure of the archdeacon walked toward him. He was no longer clad in red, but now in white, and he held a blazing sword.

  “This isn’t real,” Eldyn cried out. “It’s an illusion!”

  Only all he could see were the windswept clouds and the twisted forms that surged up the sharp cliffs. How much light had Lemarck taken from Dercy to conjure this illusion? The power of his phantasms could not be resisted. They filled Eldyn’s eyes, his mind.

  “No, this is real, Mr. Garritt,” the shining figure of the archdeacon said. His eyes were as bright as ice. He raised the glittering sword. “Or rather, it will be real very soon. A war is coming—a terrible war that will grip all this world in fire and blood. And if you will not fight upon the side of righteousness, then you will be cast into the pits of darkness.”

  Eldyn cried out in fear, for though he had not taken a step he was suddenly on the very edge of the abyss. The shadowy forms clawed and scrabbled just below him, reaching up with misshapen limbs, opening maws filled with jagged teeth.

  “You must choose, Mr. Garritt!” the archdeacon’s voice boomed from the sky. “On which side of this war will you fight? The side of weakness, of men? Or will you fight for the forces of strength, for Ul’zulgul and the Ashen?”

  At these thunderous words the clouds were rent open, revealing a window in the heavens through which a fierce red point of light shone. Even as Eldyn looked up, the point grew in size, becoming a brilliant crimson disk, like a terrible red eye peering down from the firmament. Eldyn shriveled under its fiery gaze, and he was laid open, as if the eye’s gaze had burned through his flesh, so that it could gaze into his very soul.

  Eldyn cried out in despair. He did not have the will to resist the archdeacon’s voice or the fiery gaze of the eye above. Who was he to question powers that were so superior to him? He could only kneel and pray. His legs buckled beneath him—

  —yet he did not fall. Something prevented him from sinking downward, like a tug upon his right arm. Eldyn looked at his hand. It was curled in on itself as if to clench something, only he could see nothing in his grip. Again he pulled his hand, and again he felt resistance. He moved his fingers, and though he could not see it, he felt it: a knot of something soft and pliable clenched in his hand. Something real …

  Shadows roiled before him, and brilliant light streamed from behind.

  “Kneel,” the archdeacon commanded. “Kneel and seek supplication!”

  Eldyn clenched his right hand into a tight fist. “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “I will not pray to your god.”

  He spun around, pulling with all his might. There was a tearing sound; he felt something heavy give way. Then he thrust his hand outward.

  The clouds and the shadows vanished; the crimson eye in the heavens blinked out. He was no longer on the high precipice, but rather in the dank chamber beneath the old chapel.

  Before him, the archdeacon struggled within the folds of the red curtain that Eldyn had cast over him. Before the archdeacon could free himself, Eldyn turned and ripped down another one of the drapes and cast it over him. The tall figure stumbled and fell beneath the tangling weight of the cloth.

  “This little play is over,” Eldyn said.

  A glint of metal caught his eye: the knife he had dropped. Quickly he snatched it up, went to the chair, and used it to slice the bonds that held Dercy captive.

  With a moan, Dercy collapsed into Eldyn’s arms. At first Eldyn thought he was still unconscious, then he saw a thin line of sea green through the cracks of Dercy’s eyelids.

  Eldyn brushed a hand over his cheek, his brow. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so, with a little help,” Dercy said faintly, then he grinned. “I’ve been wobblier after a night at tavern.”

  Possessed of a strength that surprised him, Eldyn heaved Dercy to his feet. Or was it that Dercy was so much lighter than Eldyn had expected?

  “You will be punished for these sins!” the archdeacon shouted, though his voice was muffled by the heavy folds of red cloth, just as the light of his illusions had been.

  “Perhaps you are right,” Eldyn said, “but I’ll leave it to God to judge us both.”

  He pulled down another curtain, and another and another, so that any more words the archdeacon might have uttered were muted beneath thick, stifling folds of red.

  “Let’s go,” Eldyn said, tightening his arm around Dercy.

  “What of the others?” Dercy said as Eldyn helped him limp through the labyrinth of red curtains. “We have to save them.”

  Eldyn thought of the vision he had glimpsed for only a moment: of the red eye gazing from above, stripping away everything he was, until his soul had been laid bare and quivering—a thing to be plucked, and consumed.

  We can’t save them, he wanted to say. They are already lost.

 
Instead, he said, “I will send word to the redcrests to search beneath the chapel. They will be found.”

  This seemed to satisfy Dercy, and he allowed Eldyn to lead him toward the steps. Eldyn would do as he said; the king’s soldiers would find the men chained down here. Though they would not find the archdeacon, Eldyn had no doubt. Lemarck would be long gone by then.

  Only that didn’t matter. For as they passed the red curtains draped all around, an idea began to form in Eldyn’s mind.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling Dercy with him up the steps. “We have to get to the theater.”

  “Why?” Dercy croaked the word.

  Now it was Eldyn who was grinning. “Because we have a play to put on, that’s why.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  IVY PRESSED HER hands to her ears, but still the keening of the arcane eyes pierced her brain, paralyzing it so that she could not move, could not think.

  Before her, the elegant man in charcoal gray took off his gloves, then raised his right hand. On his middle finger was a thick gold ring set with purple amethysts. He uttered several words, and unlike his previous manner of speech, which was soft and sibilant, these words had a queer dissonance. At the same time he made a sharp motion with his hand, and the gold ring flashed with a lurid violet light.

  The shrill sound ceased, and the arcane eyes above the door snapped shut. Ivy took a staggering step back. After the high-pitched din, the silence was a shocking thing.

  “How?” she managed to say at last, lowering her hands from her ears. “How did you make them stop?”

  “I commanded them with a spell,” the viscount—that was, Gambrel—said amiably.

  “But my father enchanted them to guard against …” Ivy’s voice faltered as he took a step toward her.

  “To guard against me. Yes, that’s so. However, the moment you so kindly invited me to enter, the wards that surround the house were lowered to me. Besides, who do you think helped your father to understand the workings of the house’s defenses in the first place? Those amateurs Mundy, Fintaur, and Larken? As for Bennick …” He gave a small laugh. “I’m not sure he ever was much of a magician, but it mattered not, for by then he didn’t have a spark of magick left in him.”