He shook his head solemnly. “On the contrary, nothing could be more important than calling on you, and your husband and sisters. Yet it is often the case that matters less important but more pressing distract us from the things that press less upon us but are far more important.”
“If that is the case, then perhaps I should harry you more to come to visit us, so that you give the matter the proper urgency,” she said, smiling.
Rafferdy laughed for what seemed the first time in days, though he kept the sound of it low. “I wish that you would.”
“I will,” she promised, and then her expression became serious. “But I would never wish to take you from your work at Assembly. In times such as these, I am sure it cannot be more vital.”
“Nor would I want to distract your husband in any way, for his work is even more so. I have heard he has been nominated for the post of lord inquirer, and that he will soon come before the Hall of Magnates to testify ahead of his confirmation.”
“I do hope you will not be too hard on him in your questioning, Mr. Rafferdy.” She spoke this as a jest, though he thought he saw a hint of real worry in her expression. Nor could he say that such a reaction was entirely unfounded.
“I fear that Sir Quent must expect that some will indeed attempt to make the interview difficult for him, due to the nature of the post itself.”
Now the concern was open upon her face. “He knows this. There are those in the government who do not see the work the inquirers do with the Wyrdwood in a favorable light.”
Rafferdy could only be astonished by these words, for her understanding of matters was clearly deeper than he had thought. But now that he considered it, why shouldn’t it be so? Given the work her husband had done for years, as well as her own nature, it was likely she knew far more about the matter of the Wyrdwood than Rafferdy did himself.
Yet there were things he knew that she could not. He hesitated for only a moment, then dismissed any uncertainty. There was no one in all of Altania he could trust more than Mrs. Quent.
“You are right,” he said. “There are those in the government, within the very Hall in which I sit, who seek to do all they can to disrupt the work of the Inquiry—or even to undo it. But know also that there are others who do not intend to make this an easy task for them.”
Her green eyes grew wide, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“I have joined another arcane order,” he said, whispering himself. “It is a small order, only nine in number, but our purpose is to prevent any law that might cause harm to the Wyrdwood from making its way through Assembly. Just recently, we were able to thwart an effort to pass an act calling for those stands of Old Trees nearest Invarel to be reduced in size.”
Her voice quavered with what might have been dread or excitement, or perhaps both. “Then you performed a great good for the country, and surely prevented more Risings—and so more reprisals against the Wyrdwood. But I can only admit that I am astonished by this news. Isn’t it more perilous than ever to belong to an arcane order, Mr. Rafferdy? All have been forbidden, save the one sanctioned by the Gray Conclave. I fear that you place yourself in grave danger with your actions.”
Rather than any sort of alarm, her words filled him with a powerful satisfaction; and if he sat up straighter, and thrust his chest out a bit, it was not something he could help.
“There is danger in it, I concede. All the same, it must be done. There are those in the very order you mentioned—the one sponsored by the state—who seek to cause some of the smaller stands of Old Trees to rise up, so that people will then call for the destruction of all of them. Yet you and I know that must never happen. We have seen the way the Old Trees have the ability to fight against them.”
He cast his eyes upward for a moment, as if they were outside and the red planet glowed in the sky above.
“The Ashen,” she murmured, almost without sound. “These men who seek to harm the Wyrdwood … they are aligned with them somehow?”
“How can they not be?”
Before she could respond, it impinged upon him that the parlor had grown suddenly quiet. Mrs. Baydon had ceased her playing. Even as Rafferdy realized what this portended, there came a sharp snap that could only be the sound of Lady Marsdel’s fan closing.
“Lord Rafferdy and Lady Quent, I observe that you are being very selfish in your conversation,” her ladyship called out, and if her voice had sounded weary before, it in no way lacked force now. “Either attend to Mrs. Baydon’s playing in a courteous fashion like we all are doing—or, if what you are saying is of such grave importance that it cannot wait, then do share your thoughts with the room.”
There was no more opportunity for words, but the look he and Mrs. Quent exchanged was enough. She gave a small nod, her green eyes shining; and for his part, Rafferdy could not help being exceedingly pleased.
Together, they turned their attention to Mrs. Baydon.
DARKNESS PROWLED at the door of the library, kept at bay by the light of the several candles Ivy had lit. They were burning low now; it was past time to retire upstairs. All the same, she did not rise from her chair. It was not as if Mr. Quent was waiting for her, as he was once again late with his work at the Citadel.
Besides, she was nearly finished with the book.
Ivy turned another page of The Towers of Ardaunto, reading as quickly as she could by the dim gold light. She had not had time to finish the story on her return from the bookshop near Greenly Circle, for it had been difficult to read as the cabriolet jostled along the streets of the Old City. Even if she could have, there still wouldn’t have been time, for there were more pages remaining than she had thought there would be. Whoever had excised the pages from the copy left on the doorstep (and who could it have been but the man in the black mask?), he had removed a number of them.
Once back at the house on Durrow Street, there had been no time to read more of the book, for she had found an invitation from Lady Marsdel waiting for her in the parlor. Evidently Mr. Rafferdy had written a note to her ladyship as well as to Ivy, and here was the result.
In the note, Lady Marsdel invited Ivy to dine at her abode that evening. She also urged Ivy to bring Mr. Quent and her sisters with her. But as it turned out, only a little while before, Lily and Rose had received an invitation to a dance at one of the few households that they were acquainted with and which remained in the city, and they had accepted.
Though her sisters leaned toward breaking the engagement, for the affair had been very suddenly and hastily arranged, Ivy told them they should never break a promise, even one just made. Besides, they would no doubt have much enjoyment at a dance.
“I’m sure Rose might, but I shan’t,” Lily said. “I only accepted the invitation for her sake.”
Rose looked up from petting Miss Mew, who was curled up on the sofa beside her. “But I don’t like to dance at all! You know that, Lily. I only said I would go because you were going. I’m sure I won’t be able to move if someone asks me to be his partner. So you must dance, for both of us.”
“I don’t know,” Lily said, and played a somber chord on the pianoforte. “It seems very ill of us to be making merry here in the city, when so many soldiers are going off to fight in the Outlands. I wish we could offer them some amusement, rather than simply amusing ourselves here.”
Rose bit her lower lip. “I don’t understand. I thought the soldiers were fighting to keep the rebels away from the city so we could all continue to live as we were. So how can they be offended if we do?”
Ivy could not help smiling. Once again, in her simple way, Rose had stated a truth that more complicated arguments could only fail to do.
“You’re right, Rose,” Ivy said, sitting beside her. Miss Mew let out a great yawn, and Ivy stroked the little tortoiseshell cat. “The soldiers must believe they have someplace good to come back to when their battles are done. We must do our best to show them that their efforts are for a purpose, and that they have preserve
d the spirit of our city and nation.” Now she looked at Lily. “Besides, it is far from impossible that there will be some lieutenants or captains there, in the city on leave for a little while. In which case, you can provide them some amusement—by dancing with them.”
Lily did not agree with this statement, but nor did she immediately counter it, and this gave Ivy some relief. She remained concerned by what she had seen in Lily’s folio the other day—the many drawings of dramatic scenes upon a stage, and the handsome actors who all tended to have dark eyes and dark, flowing hair.
Previously, she had believed Lily had gotten over her infatuation with Mr. Garritt, as well as her fascination with illusion plays, but the sketches in the folio showed that was far from the case. Indeed, Lily had somehow conflated the two; though why that was so, Ivy could not guess.
Ivy had still not had an opportunity to discuss the matter with Mr. Quent. Then again, she had not seen Lily working in the folio since that day. Perhaps the discovery, though awkward and painful on both their parts, had made Lily reconsider the wisdom of her actions. At the very least, it was an encouraging sign that she was willing to go to the dance that evening, and Ivy could hope that some handsome young man of station might catch her eye and cause her to forget her other preoccupations.
Once it was resolved her sisters would attend the dance, Ivy might have had some time to read more of the book. Only a glance out the window showed that the day was suddenly failing, and then all of them were in a great rush to ready themselves for their evening engagements. As she dressed, Ivy hoped Mr. Quent would return from the Citadel so he could accompany her; but all that arrived was a note from him, stating that he would be very late, and that she should not wait for him.
Ivy’s disappointment at Mr. Quent’s absence, while not forgotten, was at least ameliorated by the party at Lady Marsdel’s, which while small in size was of the best quality. (Though she was concerned to see Lord Baydon looking in such poor health, despite his usual good cheer.) She was particularly happy to encounter Mr. Rafferdy there, for it had been some time since she had seen him.
And now she knew why, for he had joined up with another arcane society!
Ivy did not know whether to be thrilled at the idea or worried. Perhaps both reactions were justified. It was perilous indeed for him to be a member of an occult order. Unsanctioned societies were now expressly forbidden by the Gray Conclave, and to be caught as a member of one was a crime against the nation. Nor could Mr. Rafferdy expect that his status as a magnate would preserve him from a trial or conviction were his actions to be discovered. Just that morning, Ivy had read an article in The Comet concerning a lord who was found to have been sending missives, about the size and condition of ships in the royal navy, to the Principalities—where they were likely passed to agents of Huntley Morden. That the lord in question would hang for treason was almost certain; his title would not preserve him.
Yet despite this, Ivy felt an excitement at Mr. Rafferdy’s news. What he was doing was perilous, but it was worthy as well. And while the Gray Conclave might brand it a crime, Ivy knew otherwise. No doubt most people who called for the destruction of the Wyrdwood did so out of simple fear. But what if there were those who knew what Ivy and Mr. Quent and Mr. Rafferdy did—how the Wyrdwood could fight against the power of the Ashen? If there was a magician in Assembly who was beholden to the Ashen, would he not seek to pass laws to have the Old Trees cut down and burned?
Ivy could only believe that was the case. Thus she was grateful that Mr. Rafferdy and his compatriots worked to prevent the passage of such laws. And she was astonished as well. She knew that Mr. Rafferdy was brave; she had witnessed that firsthand when they confronted the magicians of the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye, and again at the tomb of the Broken God within the Evengrove.
Yet it was largely due to her actions that he had been placed in those situations, and she had to confess, she tended to think of Mr. Rafferdy as a man preoccupied with himself and his own people rather than society at large. She had not known he was capable of acting in such an entirely selfless manner—to willingly place himself in a position of harm for the sake, not of himself or someone he cared for, but of the country.
Well, she had misjudged him. And now that she knew what he was doing, Ivy could only feel an even greater pride and affection for him. She had an urge to tell Mr. Quent about it. At the same time, she was not certain this was wise. True, Mr. Quent was a defender of the Wyrdwood. Yet Mr. Quent was an agent of the government as well, and was often in communication with members of the Gray Conclave. Would he not be bound by oath and duty to report Mr. Rafferdy’s doings—or be complicit in the crime if he did not?
If so, then it would be exceedingly wrong of Ivy to place him in such a position. She thought about the matter during the entire drive from Lady Marsdel’s, and by the time the carriage reached Durrow Street she had come to a conclusion. While the idea of keeping a secret from Mr. Quent pained her, holding Mr. Rafferdy’s confession in confidence was the only way she could protect both her husband and her friend. To do anything else would put both men at risk. Whatever distress keeping the secret might cause her, it was nothing to the anguish it might cause if she did not.
Resolved in the matter, Ivy entered the house on Durrow Street and discovered that neither her sisters nor Mr. Quent had returned. Which meant she at last had time to finish The Towers of Ardaunto.
Now, as the candles burned low in the library, Ivy turned the final few pages, at once fascinated and horrified by what she read. When she first found the book, she had thought it to be a romance: a fanciful tale of two lovers. How wrong she had been!
After witnessing the occult ceremony, the young gondolier had leaped into the room at the top of the tower. It had been his crazed thought to wrest his beloved free of her father. Yet before he could reach them, the merchant flung out a hand and shouted harsh words of magick. At once the gondolier became as a statue, unable to move or speak. He could only watch, mute and powerless, as the merchant led his daughter from the chamber.
As they went, she cast a look over her shoulder. Her face was as white and hard as porcelain, but in her now-black eyes he thought he could still see a glimmer of the same regret and sadness he had perceived in them that day they first met. Then she turned, and the two were gone.
Hours passed, and at last the gondolier could move again. He staggered down the steps of the tower. He found the door at the bottom open to the night, and there was no trace of his beloved or her father.
The pages that followed described the young man’s effort to find his beloved, in hopes he could undo the transformation that had been wrought upon her by her father and the magicians. His search lasted many years, becoming an increasingly fevered hunt—one that took him deep into the Murgh Empire, across the ocean to the island of Aratuga, and to the frigid and desolate realms of the far north. Always he sought out and followed the trail of father and daughter, never ceasing no matter how scant the clues or how perilous the routes along which they pointed.
At last he came to Altania, following whispers and rumors to a half-ruined castle in the rocky northwest of the island. By then, he was much transformed himself. No longer was he a handsome young boat keeper from the canal city of Ardaunto. His travails had left him gaunt and scarred, and his obsession to find his beloved had descended into a form of madness.
He entered the keep and went down to the crypts below, to a vaulted sepulcher, and there he came upon a terrible scene. Thirteen men lay sprawled dead, their blood and mangled limbs obscuring the arcane lines and occult runes which had been drawn upon the stone floor. Among them he recognized the corpse of the merchant, his once dark hair now a stark white.
Then the gondolier heard a whisper of cloth behind him, and when he turned he saw her there—his beloved. Unlike him, she appeared just as she had that night in the tower years ago: her skin a flawless white, her hair and eyes as black as polished onyx.
“I have found you at la
st!” he cried.
“So you have,” she replied, her voice clear as the tone made by striking a crystal goblet with a knife.
“But what happened here?” he said, unable to keep his eyes from roving to the maimed and torn bodies of the magicians.
“They attempted to open a gate.”
“To open a gate?”
“Yes.” She stepped over one of the bodies with a murmur of black silk. “For long years they have sought to open a door, a way leading to great power. All my life my father labored toward this purpose. It is why he did everything. It is the reason I was born—and why this was done to me.”
She lifted a black-gloved hand and touched her face, her dark hair. Anguish filled the gondolier, so that his knees buckled, and it was all he could do to keep his feet.
“But why?” he said, staggering a step closer to her. “Why did he need you to be a part of this awful endeavor?”
“It was my purpose to protect them, so that they might pass through the gateway unharmed. Their White Thorn, they called me.”
His gaze flickered down to one of the twisted corpses. “But they were harmed after all.”
She gave a small shrug. “And why should I have protected them? Why should they have been rewarded after what they made me into, after what they made me do?”
A moan escaped him, and he could only wonder what terrible deeds they had forced her to commit over the years, to temper her like a weapon for their intended use.
“Yet such was the enchantment they had placed upon me that I could not turn against them directly,” she went on. “So all these years, I let them believe that I would do as they wanted, that I would use the unholy abilities they had granted me to protect them from what waited beyond the gate. And when at last they were able to open the doorway”—her dark lips curved in a smile—“I did not lift a finger, save to protect myself, until they were all of them dead, and the gate was closed again.”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 20