At these words a relief flooded through Eldyn. He leaped to his feet. “We will be careful. We’ll make sure you do nothing that might cost you any light at all.”
Dercy drew in a breath. Then, slowly yet deliberately, he rose from the chair. “No, Eldyn. We won’t be careful. I will. It’s up to me, and to me alone. I will take care not to do anything that might worsen my mordoth. But you—you have many illusions yet to conjure.”
Before Eldyn could ask what these words meant, there was a knock upon the door. He turned to see one of the stagehands standing there.
“The hack cab is here for you, Mr. Fanewerthy,” he said. “I’ve handed your bag to the driver. He is ready to take you to the station to catch the post.”
“Thank you,” Dercy said. “I’ll be down at once.”
The man nodded and left. Dercy took up a wooden cane and, leaning upon it, started toward the door.
“What are you doing?” Eldyn cried out in shock.
Dercy did not look at him. “I’m going to the country to live with my cousin for a time. He is the vicar of a small parish and has the living there. I wrote to him, and he told me I could stay with him as long as I wish.”
“You can’t leave,” Eldyn said, and madly he searched for a reason why this was the case. “It’s dark out there.”
“The stagecoaches care not if it is an umbral or a lumenal,” Dercy said. “They always keep to their timetables.”
Then Eldyn spoke the one reason that mattered to him. “But I don’t want you to go! I want to be with you.”
Dercy turned to look at him, and in his sea green eyes was an expression of sorrow and affection. “I want to be with you, too, Eldyn. More than anything. But I can’t. If I stay here, if I stay with you, the temptation to work illusions will be too great. I know myself. I’ll tell myself I’ll behave. Only I’ll see what you and the others are doing, and I won’t be able to help it in the end.”
Eldyn took a step toward him. “I’ll give you my light, then.”
Dercy smiled. “I know you would, Eldyn. But you’ll need it all yourself, to do the great things that I know you’re bound to do.”
Eldyn opened his mouth, to speak the words that would convince Dercy to change his mind and compel him to stay. Only, he could not think of what those words might be.
With halting steps, Dercy came to him. He brushed his lips against Eldyn’s cheek, so that Eldyn felt the roughness of his beard, and the warmth of his breath.
“Well,” Dercy said, “my coach is waiting.” Leaning on his cane, he walked slowly through the door and was gone.
Eldyn went to the bed, and he sat there for a time in the moonlight that spilled through the window, trying to decide where he should go. He could not return to the apartment in the old monastery. It had been granted to him as part of his remuneration for working at Graychurch, but he did not work there anymore. It was strange that, as a Siltheri, he had been so beguiled by illusions himself, but he had seen through them now. Just as Vandimeer Garritt had said, his son would never enter the Church.
But his daughter would.
The day after the events beneath the chapel in High Holy, once he was certain Dercy was out of immediate danger, Eldyn had gone to the apartment, thinking his sister would be worried that he had been away all night, and that she would be relieved and thankful to see him. Instead, the rooms were empty. There was only a note upon the table, penned in her childish hand.
She had sought sanctuary in Graychurch, Sashie had written. She now knew the truth of what he was, for at her request Father Prestus had followed him one night, and he had seen everything. As a result, Sashie wanted nothing to do with Eldyn ever again.
You need not pray for me, brother, she had closed the letter. I do not know what will become of me, but I will trust my fate to God. And for my part, I will not pray for you, for I know that you are beyond the help of any prayers now.
For a long time Eldyn had sat there, staring at the letter. At last he set the paper down, then went into his room and, from a hollow in the wall behind the headboard of his bed, he withdrew the box where he kept his savings. After that he went back to the outer room, sat at the table, and composed a letter himself.
To the rector of Graychurch, it began. Enclosed is a sum of a thousand regals to pay the portion to the Church on behalf of one Sashie Garritt, lately a frequent visitor to Graychurch, that she might enter whichever nunnery is deemed most in need of her devotion and service. If Miss Garritt should ask where the funds for her portion came from, tell her only that it came from an unknown benefactor who wanted to do good.
Eldyn read back over the letter. Then he dipped his pen and signed it, An Anonymous Soul.
He folded the letter and placed it in the box, then left the apartment just as dusk was falling. Cloaking himself thickly in shadows, he crossed the street and one last time passed through the doors of Graychurch. Moving unseen, he stole down the stairs to the rector’s office, slipped through the door, and set the box on Father Gadby’s table while the portly priest’s back was turned. Then, like some ghost exiled from the kingdom of Eternum, he crept from the room above crypts and drifted from the church.
What exactly would happen to Sashie, and where she would go, Eldyn didn’t know, but it was no longer his concern. His sister was in God’s hands now.
As for the matter of where he should go himself, Eldyn supposed this room was free now. He looked around the little chamber, and a faint smile came to his lips. It was small, and rather bare, but it was as good a place as any. He would speak to Master Tallyroth in the morning, and ask if he could stay here.
Even as he thought this, there came the heavy sound of boots. He looked up and saw Riethe standing in the doorway.
“There you are, Eldyn! Everyone’s wondering where you went. We’re all off to tavern, and our pockets are full of regals!” The strapping young illusionist frowned at him. “Well, what is it? I can’t wait here all umbral. Are you in or are you out, Eldyn Garritt?”
Eldyn reached in his pocket and drew out a penny. He ran his thumb over it, then he flipped it in the air, and by the time he caught it, the coin had turned from copper to gold.
He looked up at Riethe, then laughed.
“It looks like I’m in.”
THE HONEYED LIGHT of a long morning filled the parlor at Rafferdy’s house in Warwent Square. He glanced out the window and saw his driver was already waiting with the carriage. It was past time to put on his robe and go. A session of Assembly was convening that day, and he knew that there would be a great amount of discussion and debate, as it was the first time the Hall of Magnates would come to order since the murder of Lord Bastellon.
All the same, he did not put on his robe just yet. On a sudden whim he had sent his man out on an errand that morning, and Rafferdy was waiting for his return.
To pass the time, he sat at his writing desk and looked again at the note that had arrived for him several days ago. It was written in a careful yet lovely hand. He smiled as he read the final words.
I hope we can indeed go walking together soon.…
She must have written it that very same day, before Gambrel came to her house, and even as Rafferdy was chasing after Coulten to Madiger’s Wall. Little did he know, when he set off that afternoon for the Evengrove at a mad pace in his cabriolet, that he would see Mrs. Quent that very night. While it was not precisely a walk, they had in fact gone on a sojourn together—one of a most extraordinary character.
“I hope we can indeed go for another walk soon, Mrs. Quent,” he said, and smiled.
Rafferdy set the note down. Then, from his desk he took out a book bound in black leather and opened it with a whispered rune. As he suspected would be the case, no new words had appeared on its pages.
A few days after their return from the Evengrove, Rafferdy and Coulten had dared to go to the meeting chamber beneath the Sword and Leaf. It had been empty. The curtain that always before had concealed the way to the inner sanctum was
askew, and the Door itself had been open. They had passed through, feeling a cool shiver on their skin as they did, stepping into a room that Rafferdy knew was located not beneath the tavern, but rather beneath Mrs. Quent’s house.
The chamber was empty save for a circle of power etched in silver on the floor. He had imagined the sort of rituals that had been conducted here, and he’d shuddered. That Gambrel, as magus of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade, had been the prime instigator of it all, Rafferdy did not doubt. Only he had needed others to help work spells in the name of the Ashen, and so the other sages—and even other magickal orders—had been enlisted to aid him. What had Gambrel promised them? Power, most likely, and money.
Who they were, Rafferdy did not know—with one exception. Rafferdy did know the name of one of the men who had aided Gambrel. In Assembly, he and Coulten had already begun to circulate whispers among the younger magicians that Lord Mertrand and the High Order of the Golden Door were to be avoided at all cost. However, the sages of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade were still at large. And there may well have been other magickal orders allied with Gambrel. Which meant more young men might yet be tricked by promises of wealth and power.
Well, if Rafferdy and Coulten could not prevent such things from happening, they could at least prevent them from happening here. They shut the door to the sanctum, binding it with the most powerful spells they could manage. They bound as well the two doors that led to the meeting room—the one from Durrow Street and the one in the rear of the Sword and Leaf. Then they sat in the tavern to have a drink, and to raise a glass in memory of Lord Eubrey.
Now, with a sigh, Rafferdy returned the black book to the desk. He rose and put on his robe, then he took up a pair of gloves.
Since the attack upon Lord Bastellon—an act obviously worked with magick—magicians and arcane societies had come under even further scrutiny. It was said that Lady Shayde had made an appearance at Gauldren’s College, and that agents of Lord Valhaine had been asking questions about the city, seeking information concerning secret magickal orders. These days, it did not seem like a prudent thing to go about with a magician’s ring in plain view on one’s hand.
Rafferdy started to put on the gloves, only then he drew them off again and set them back down. Despite his father’s words, he could not believe that magicians could only be wicked. After all, without magick, there would have been no way to thwart Gambrel’s plan. He had wished to free the Broken God from its tomb, to provoke the Wyrdwood to rise up so violently that men would become determined to cut it all down. After what Rafferdy had seen, he knew that could not be allowed, that the Wyrdwood had to be preserved, for there was some innate property in it that allowed it to resist the power of magick, and of the Ashen.
Only now Lord Bastellon was dead, and over these last several days Rafferdy had wondered who in Assembly would stand up to Lord Mertrand and the Magisters. Who would take to the floor of the Hall of Magnates to challenge the calls to destroy the Wyrdwood and argue forcefully against them? Then, just as Rafferdy was taking his breakfast that morning, an idea had come to him.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and his man rushed into the room, a box in his hands.
“I was able to find what you wished, Lord Rafferdy,” he said breathlessly, and he set the box on the desk.
Rafferdy clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Tell the driver I’ll be out in a moment.”
His man nodded and hurried from the parlor. An eagerness filled Rafferdy. He found he was now very anxious to get to Assembly that day. He could not wait to see the look upon Coulten’s face. And perhaps he would suggest that they not sit upon the very back benches this time, but rather, closer up front.
With this in mind, Rafferdy opened the box. He took out the powdered white wig that lay within and put it upon his head, tugging it firmly into place. Bastellon was no more, but Rafferdy would make sure there was at least one lord in Assembly who would argue against the Magisters. He glanced in a mirror to make sure the wig was square upon his head. Then, satisfied, he turned and departed the room.
It was high time Lord Rafferdy got himself to the Hall of Magnates.
THIS TIME IT was Ivy who slipped from bed in the gray light before dawn, while Mr. Quent still slumbered.
She drew a light robe around her shoulders against the slight chill in the air, then departed their bedchamber. It was not a noise that had awakened her. Her sleep had not been disturbed by the sound of voices these last umbrals, and while from time to time she still heard a faint soughing like a far-off wind, even when the trees were motionless in the garden, this caused her no distress. She would simply shut her eyes and imagine stone archways through which green leaves fluttered.
Now the house was silent as she moved down the stairs to the second floor gallery. She went first to the north wall, touching the carved leaves upon the door there, and she smiled. To her great relief, it had still been open when she passed through the door from the Evengrove back to the way station on Arantus. She had hurried across the impossible moonscape and with a sigh stepped into the warm familiarity of the gallery. Magicians might think nothing of going this way and that through doors, but she found it all rather disconcerting.
She had shut the door and removed the leaf-shaped key, which she put back in the Wyrdwood box in the library. Arantus was locked once more. Yet it pleased her to know that, perhaps one day, she would open it again, and gaze through the doors at other stands of Wyrdwood—that she might even step through into those whispering groves. For now, she was content to think of the door as merely a beautiful object to gaze upon.
Ivy turned and proceeded to the other end of the gallery. There she saw that Mr. Barbridge and his men had done their work well. The construction had been completed just yesterday, and the wall at the south end of the gallery was now smooth and unbroken. Nor was there any sign that a door had ever been there.
She had told Mr. Barbridge simply that she found the design upon the door to be too martial in nature for a room intended for parties and balls, and she wanted it covered again. If he had wondered why she did not simply hang a curtain over it, but instead had him layer upon it brick and lath and plaster, he did not ask, and he performed the work as instructed.
Ivy pressed her ear to the wall, listening. Once or twice, before Tyberion was covered, she had thought she heard sounds through the thick wood of the door: muffled shouts, and a distant knocking. Now all she heard was the sound of her own breathing. She would speak to Mr. Seenly later that day, and tell him to hang a painting here.
A pale apricot glow colored the windowpanes, and Ivy went to one of the windows to gaze down at the garden. The crooked branches of the hawthorn and chestnut trees were still. However, it was not hard for her to picture them whipping and cracking with motion as they had that night. Her father had placed many magickal protections on this house, yet she could protect it in her own way, she knew now.
Several times over these last days, she had gone into the garden and had searched for any signs of the struggle that had happened there. Exactly what the shadowy being had been, she was not certain. The man in the black mask had called it a gol-yagru, a daemon. To her it had looked like the hideous black forms she had glimpsed through the Eye of Ran-Yahgren. They had swarmed over the crimson face of Cerephus, devouring one another, their number beyond counting.
This one could not have come from Cerephus, she was sure. If a door to that place was open, then there would have been far more than a single daemon. Rather, the creature must have been a remnant of the ancient war of the Ashen, imprisoned in some tomb or chamber from which Gambrel had freed it, just as he had wished to free the Broken God.
The daemon was not so great and terrible a being as Neth-Bragga, of course. All the same, the thing would have destroyed her if it had not been for the trees in the garden, sprouted from the seeds of Old Trees. Now that she had felt their fury and hatred for the gol-yagru, she could understand why the Ashen desired to have th
e Wyrdwood burned down.
Which was why those scant fragments of the ancient forest that remained had to be preserved. Ivy would never again complain when Mr. Quent was forced to stay late at the Citadel, or to go off into the country in his duties as an inquirer. His work was more important than ever. The people of Altania must not be made to fear the Old Trees!
Despite her time spent searching in the garden, she never did find any sign of the gol-yagru. The trees had utterly destroyed the daemon. Nor did she find any traces of the other for whom she searched, except for a single brass button lying upon the ground. It had been crusted with a dark stain. However, she had carefully cleaned and polished it, and now it resided in the Wyrdwood box, along with the button she had found at the Evengrove.
Mrs. Baydon had been greatly distressed at the sudden disappearance of Captain Branfort, but Ivy had decided there was no purpose in telling her friend of the way the captain had deceived them all. Instead, she had told Mrs. Baydon that Captain Branfort had no doubt removed himself from Invarel due to the scandal surrounding Lady Crayford and Colonel Daubrent.
The news of the unspeakable crimes committed by the Archdeacon of Graychurch had been the subject of much print in the broadsheets of late, and once the ink began to flow, it soon stained other people. Lord Valhaine seized the archdeacon’s papers, and once these were gone through his association with several other important personages in the city was exposed. Chief among these was a relationship with Lord Crayford. Servants at the viscount’s house were questioned, and several confessed to having seen a priest in a red robe there on several occasions, often in the company of illusionists, and their descriptions of the priest matched those of the archdeacon.
The viscount’s abrupt disappearance from the city only served to incriminate him further. He could only have fled the country, the stories in the broadsheets speculated, and in all likelihood he was now in hiding in one of the Principalities. Until he could be apprehended, he could not be properly charged and brought to trial. Thus, Lady Crayford continued to dwell in her husband’s house in the New Quarter.
The House on Durrow Street Page 73
