“Well argued, sir,” Rafferdy said, then smiled. “Fortunately, I’ve brought just such an advantage with me tonight.”
Much to his pleasure, the other eight men all looked at him with apparent surprise and interest.
“An advantage?” Coulten said after a moment. “Well, then, don’t keep us on tenterhooks. What is it, Rafferdy?”
“Not what, Coulten, but rather who.”
This won several frowns, but before anyone could speak, there came a rapping at the chamber door. The others’ surprise was renewed as they all looked at the door.
“Ah,” Rafferdy said nonchalantly, “that must be him now.”
Coulten looked ready to blurt out a question, but Rafferdy went to the door, and in so doing stepped beyond the line made by the silver cord on the floor, breaking the circle of silence. Coulten snapped his mouth shut, and the room went quiet, save for the creak of hinges as Rafferdy opened the door. A tall figure dressed in a ruffled black coat entered the chamber. He removed his hat, releasing a cascade of pale hair.
Coulten leaped to his feet, though neither he nor the others spoke until the door was shut and Rafferdy stepped back over the silver cord.
“Him?” Coulten exclaimed when the circle of silence had been restored. “He’s your great advantage?”
Rafferdy raised a finger. “Manners, Coulten. Allow me to present my guest. Lord Farrolbrook, this is the Fellowship of the Silver Circle. I believe you are already acquainted with more than a few of its number.”
Farrolbrook nodded, his expression placid. “I am.”
“This is outrageous, Rafferdy!” Wolsted said, his face assuming an even deeper shade of red. “We all agree that we must keep our actions secret from the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door, then you let one step right into our meeting. And for what reason, I cannot presume. Why do you think he would ever help us?”
“Because he already has,” Rafferdy said.
The others stared at him.
Rafferdy had expected this revelation would cause a strong reaction, and he could not say he did not enjoy being the cause of this little spectacle. All the same, it was best not to draw out the torment for the others. A few of them, like Wolsted, might be liable to burst a blood vessel.
“How do you think it was,” Rafferdy went on, “that I was able to make a message appear in the black books of all the members of the High Order of the Golden Door?”
Coulten scratched his head, driving his tall crown of hair to even greater heights. “I don’t know. I just assumed you’d devised some clever trick that you’d reveal to us when you were ready to gloat over it.”
“And so I am,” Rafferdy said and gave a smug bow.
When he rose again, he saw Trefnell gazing at him. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Rafferdy, for if you’re wrong, then you’ve just signed nine arrest warrants—one for each of us. He may have helped you once. But if he’s played traitor to his own order, what’s to stop him from betraying us?”
“No, I didn’t betray them,” Farrolbrook said, his voice so soft they were all forced to lean in toward him to hear. “They betrayed themselves. They have given themselves to an awful cause. Some out of desire for how they might be rewarded if they do, and some out of fear for what reprisals they will suffer if they do not.”
“And what about you?” Trefnell said slowly. “Why have you not given yourself to this same cause—to the cause of the Ashen?”
Farrolbrook did not look at the other men. Instead he gazed out the darkened window, into the night. “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps they are wise to ally themselves with what is surely the greater power. Those who aid the Ashen are likely to soon rule over us all. I only know that it …” He rubbed one gloved hand with another. “It feels wrong to me, the idea of joining them. It induces a nausea in me, like the idea of willingly drinking a deadly poison in the misguided belief it will make one strong.”
Wolsted gave a great snort into his handkerchief, then wadded it up as he glared at Rafferdy. “The rumors say that he lost his position as head of the Magisters party for being half mad. In which case I’d say the rumors are only half right. It seems to me that he cracked after they discarded him, and now he’s grasping for revenge in any way he can.”
“I don’t blame you for thinking little of me,” Farrolbrook said, looking at Wolsted and the others with what seemed a feverish light in his eyes. “After all, they do—the Magisters, and the High Order of the Golden Door. But what I’ve told you is the truth. There is much I don’t comprehend. In fact, it seems these days there is less and less that I do. But I know that the members of my order must be prevented from doing what they are trying to do.”
Rafferdy could not help shivering a little. That Farrolbrook was crazed was something he had considered himself. Yet there was a conviction to the way the fair-haired lord spoke that Rafferdy could not believe was feigned. Nor could he forget the paintings he had seen in Farrolbrook’s parlor once—the brilliant landscapes marred by blotches of black paint—or the drawing of the twisted trees in his sketchbook.
Rafferdy had brought the sketchbook with him to the meeting. He took it out now, and handed it to Farrolbrook. As he did, he once again caught the faint, sweet odor of decay.
“And what is it they are trying to do now?” Rafferdy said. “You hinted at something the last time we met, but you did not say what it was.”
“That was because I did not know, not for certain. But I do now.”
“Well, if you’ve come all this way to tell us what it is, then out with it,” Trefnell said. “Are they planning another vote on the Wyrdwood?”
Farrolbrook opened the book in his hands and flipped through its pages. He passed the sketch of the tangled branches, then opened to a stark drawing that depicted the silhouette of a man atop a high crag, raising his arms toward black clouds that billowed and roiled above.
“No, it is not to be a vote on the Wyrdwood,” Farrolbrook said, touching a finger to the drawing. “Not this time. Rather, claiming it to be for the salvation of Altania, the Magisters are going to cast down the Crown. In its place, they will raise up a new ruler—not a monarch, but a Lord Guardian of the realm. He will be granted all powers that he deems necessary to assure the safety of the nation. His authority in all matters will be absolute, and his word will be no different than law.”
“But that’s madness!” Wolsted exclaimed, sputtering. “Why would they ever grant a single man such power over all things?”
“Because they hold power over him.”
At last Rafferdy understood. “Lord Valhaine,” he said, grimacing as the sour wine he had drunk curdled in his stomach. “That’s who they’re going to raise up as Lord Guardian. He is already under the influence of the High Order of the Golden Door, which is one and the same with the Magisters. If they control him, then they will control the nation.”
Silence stifled the air of the chamber. The other men gazed uneasily at one another.
“But this plan has not yet come to fruition,” Trefnell said at last. “Surely there is a way to put a stop to it.”
“No,” Farrolbrook said quietly. “You can’t stop their plan.”
“But why not?” Coulten said, his voice quavering.
Farrolbrook shut the sketchbook and looked up at them. “Because it has already been set in motion.”
THE UMBRAL had been swift and short, allowing the world little time to throw off the swelter of the previous day, and by midmorning the lumenal had already become hot and stifling.
Ivy had chosen the lightest gown she could that was still appropriate for the occasion—a dress of dove gray silk with lace at the neck and wrists—but even so she felt overly warm in the closed air inside the four-in-hand. She had bound her hair up beneath her hat, but stray curls kept finding their way free and clinging to her damp cheeks and neck.
In contrast, on the carriage’s facing bench, Mr. Quent appeared to be quite cool despite his heavy suit of charcoal wool. Ind
eed, while Ivy felt flushed, her husband’s usually weather-tanned face had a pale, even grayish look to it. It was, she supposed, a different sort of oppressiveness than the heat which he felt at the moment.
“How long do you think will be required to give your testimony?” she asked, even though she had asked this same question last night.
His answer was the same as well. “I cannot say. I hope it will not be very long, but it is entirely up to the members of the Hall of Magnates.”
“I should think they would have a great deal of other business to attend to, and so would not seek to make this a protracted affair.”
“So you might think,” he replied. “But the minds of lords do not always function in the same manner as those of lesser men, nor do they always arrive at the same conclusions.”
Despite the trepidation she presently suffered, Ivy smiled. “Is that so? Then I suppose I must prepare myself for a sudden change in your manner of thinking if you are confirmed for the post and made into a magnate. Though I do hope you will not rethink too many of your previous conclusions, as I have no wish to alter the curtains in the house or the style of my gowns.”
“I cannot make promises about the curtains,” he said gruffly. “What I preferred as a baronet I may find odious as a lord. But there is one matter on which I will never change my mind—that whatever dress you wear, Ivoleyn, it will be the most beautiful and fashionable gown in all the nation because it has the happy circumstance to adorn you.”
Now Ivy felt a different sort of flush upon her cheeks. She reached across to take both of his hands—the one that was whole and the one that was not—in her own. “Now I truly wish that this testimony does not go on for long, so we might return home as quickly as possible.”
At last a bit of color did appear on his cheeks, and a spark shone in his brown eyes. “Why, do you wish to interview me again, Lady Quent? I thought I answered your concerns very thoroughly on the last occasion.”
She merely arched an eyebrow and smiled, while in return he let out a great laugh.
After that, the air seemed a bit less stifling as the carriage continued to slowly make its way down Marble Street. Ivy looked out the window, wondering if she could tell if the lumenal were to be long or not, for she had forgotten to look at the rosewood clock before leaving, to see how quickly the disks were turning. There was another reason to hope Mr. Quent’s interview before Assembly did not require the whole of the day, as she had not yet been able to go back to Mr. Fintaur’s bookshop in Greenly Circle.
She had wanted to go the lumenal before last, but Lawden had said the horses had become too rattled and spooked by the violent storm, and it would be too dangerous to attempt it. Besides, Ivy had been rattled herself by her conversation with Lady Shayde. By the time the storm and the agitation of her nerves subsided, Mr. Quent had returned home, and her priority then had been to tell him of Shayde’s visit that day.
It had been some time since she had seen Mr. Quent angry, but he had been so then, looking much as he had during her first months at Heathcrest Hall, his eyebrows drawn down in a fierce glower.
“She has no right to come here,” he had said, making his left hand into an imperfect fist and pounding it against the right. “She may ask me what she wants. She may make investigations into my doings as she wishes. But she does not have the right to approach you, Ivoleyn. She does not!”
It had taken Ivy some time to calm her husband. For several minutes he had continued to rail against Shayde, pacing back and forth across his study like a wolf defending his den. Finally Ivy had gotten him to sit and take a glass of whiskey, and with her fingers she had stroked his head, his neck, his broad, stooped shoulders. At last he had grown quiet, and had reached up to take her hand, pressing it against his cheek.
“Forgive me,” he had said, his voice low and hoarse. “It is only that … I cannot trust Ashaydea. Or rather, I could trust Ashaydea, but not Shayde. She has a powerful intellect—she always did. But the threads of sympathy and morality, which bind most people to one another, have in her been irrevocably severed. Shayde thinks what she does is right, but in fact she is blind to what is right and what is wrong. She can no longer discern between the two, for in granting her other powers, Mr. Bennick took that ability from her. She believes Lord Valhaine is a good man, and so by her logic anything that he commands her to do must be for the good as well, and so she does it without question.”
“But is Lord Valhaine not in fact a good man?” Ivy had said, startled by his words. “Surely he wants what is best for the nation.”
Mr. Quent had nodded. “Yes, I believe that he does. But even good men may commit errors, Ivoleyn. And there is no one more perilous than a man who is so certain of his own benevolence, taking it as a matter of fact, that he never pauses to consider if his choices are in fact for the greater good.”
This reply had fascinated Ivy. She had wanted to ask him more about Lord Valhaine, and about Lady Shayde. Or rather, about Ashaydea. What had she been like before Mr. Bennick had altered her? And how had Mr. Bennick worked this transformation? Had it been an occult ceremony such as she had read about in Mr. Fintaur’s book, the one that had turned the merchant’s daughter into a creature they called the White Thorn?
Only she had not wanted to agitate her husband further. Nor had there been time to go to Mr. Fintaur’s shop after that, for the day was failing. There had been no opportunity either on the following lumenal, for they had been consumed with anticipation of today’s events.
The four-in-hand came to a halt, and Mr. Quent helped Ivy out of the carriage. The white towers of Assembly soared above, and for a moment she felt dizzy, grasping Mr. Quent’s arm to steady herself. There was a great roar of noise from all the people, but a wall of soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder, kept the throngs of people at bay, so that Ivy and Mr. Quent were able to proceed up the steps unimpeded.
As they went, cheers and applause rang out. Many let out a call of “Sir Quent! Sir Quent!” And Ivy even heard a few instances of “Lord Quent! Lord Quent!” That her husband was still regarded as both a famous personage and a hero of the realm was evident.
Yet, as they went, Ivy heard jeers and whistles as well. And there was one voice, so shrill it rose above the others, that cried, “Witch lover!”
Ivy turned her head, to try to see who had shouted. As she did, she caught her foot on the edge of a step and would have stumbled, except Mr. Quent held her arm tightly, supporting her.
“Do not listen to them,” he said in a low voice, only for her.
She kept her face turned forward, and at last they reached the top of the steps and passed through the gilded doors, into the Hall of Magnates. The din was hardly any less in here than upon the steps, for everywhere men in black robes, many of them wearing white wigs, were milling about and speaking with one another. Ivy looked around, wondering if she might catch sight of Mr. Rafferdy, but if he was here, she could not pick him out.
“These are the stairs to the upper gallery,” Mr. Quent said, leaning his head toward hers. “Would you like me to accompany you to your seat?”
Ivy managed what she hoped was a brave smile. “I am sure I can find my way by myself.”
“I have no doubt of that, Ivoleyn. How often you have had to do for yourself without my help when I have abandoned you.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “You have never abandoned me. Anytime you have been gone, it has only been because your work required it.”
“Yes, it has been required. I have been so often at the Citadel of late because I know what it is they discuss there. And I have done my best to bend that conversation away from any direction which might lead to actions being taken against the Old Trees. The Wyrdwood must not be harmed, especially not now—that is something Lord Rafferdy believed, and I believe it as well.”
Ivy looked up at him, meeting his somber eyes. “And I believe that your words are being heard at the Citadel. Why else would you have been nominated for this post?”
By then there were several lords pressing in toward them, and it was clear she could no longer keep Mr. Quent to herself. She wished him luck, and dared to give his cheek a fleeting kiss, before leaving him to the men who were to interview him.
Unaccompanied, Ivy made her way up the staircase to the gallery. She found that a seat had been reserved for her at the front of the balcony, which permitted a full view of the rostrum below. The chairs around her own were already occupied, and as soon as she was seated, she found herself returning the greetings and well wishes of many gentlemen and ladies whom she had never met. Her nervousness began to subside; it was clear that her husband still garnered much goodwill in the nation.
Then, just as Ivy’s heart had begun to beat at a more usual pace, it quickened again as a figure came into view below. The woman might have been lost amid all the lords, for she was draped in black just like they were, but the sea of robes parted before her as she moved, then closed in behind her once she passed. From above, it looked like the pattern of ripples made by a black stone dropped into a pond.
Languidly, as if the opening of the session would naturally wait on her, Lady Shayde ascended to a seat on the rostrum, above and behind the High Speaker’s podium. She arranged the stiff black folds of her gown, then lifted the veil from the brim of her hat, exposing the perfect whiteness of her visage. Her black eyes made a survey of the Hall, then turned up toward the gallery.
Ivy shrank away from the balcony, but not before she felt that cool gaze touch upon her. Several times in the days since Shayde’s visit, Ivy had gone over the conversation in her mind, trying to remember if she had given away anything to the White Lady that she should not have.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 27