The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  Fortunately, Ivy had retained enough wits not to speak of Mr. Rafferdy’s study of magick, or the fact that he had joined an arcane order. There was one thing, though, which Ivy had inadvertently confirmed: the fact that she and Mr. Rafferdy were indeed acquainted. But then, this was not something they had ever concealed, and was likely a matter of public knowledge.

  Had that been Shayde’s real purpose that day—not to learn about Mr. Quent, but rather to discover if Mr. Rafferdy was practicing magick? Shayde had to know he was a magician, for he never made a habit of concealing his House ring. And the practice of magick by anyone other than the High Order of the Golden Door was proscribed by the Gray Conclave. Perhaps she suspected Mr. Rafferdy was in violation of that edict.

  Which, in fact, he was.

  While Ivy had told Mr. Quent about Shayde’s visit, she had not been able to tell him about the final question concerning Mr. Rafferdy. Ivy could not put Mr. Quent in the awful position of knowing that a close acquaintance of his was at odds with the law. Not that Ivy liked having to conceal something from her husband; rather, it was a cause of constant distress for her. But she knew it was right. She could not place a further burden on him, not when he was so burdened already. At the same time, she must do nothing that might endanger the work of Mr. Rafferdy’s order. For their goal was the very same as Mr. Quent’s—to ensure that the Wyrdwood did not come to harm.

  Ivy leaned back toward the balustrade again, and she risked a fleeting glance at Lady Shayde. The White Lady gazed placidly at the Hall now. Ivy supposed the magicians of the Golden Door had convinced the Gray Conclave that the Wyrdwood must be destroyed, that it was a threat to Altania. Did Lady Shayde know the truth about them—the true reason they wanted the Wyrdwood destroyed?

  No, Ivy did not think so. She could only believe that Shayde’s desire to defend Altania from its threats was genuine. But it was as Mr. Quent had said—she could not discern right from wrong. If only Ivy could tell her how she was in error, that she should not trust the magicians of the Golden Door! But to do so would require telling her how Ivy had come by this knowledge—and that would mean revealing that Mr. Rafferdy belonged to an illegal order.

  Ivy knew what happened to those who committed crimes against the nation these days; she had seen stories in the broadsheets concerning the numbers that were sent to the gallows at Barrowgate each quarter month. No, she did not dare tell Lady Shayde what she knew.

  Even as she thought this, a pair of familiar figures caught her eye. The two men were just taking their seats on one of the front benches. One of them wore an exceedingly tall wig. The other’s was more understated, but he looked very well in a simple but elegant robe of black crepe.

  The latter was Mr. Rafferdy, of course, in the company of Lord Coulten. Ivy was very happy to see him, and was grateful to know her husband would have at least one trusted friend in the audience. An impulse came upon her to raise a hand and wave in order to catch Mr. Rafferdy’s eye. Only doing so might catch Lady Shayde’s eye as well.

  Ivy kept her hands firmly clasped on her lap. The High Speaker banged his gavel, and the magnates took their places as the Hall came to order. Some various pieces of business were conducted, but in short order the Hall turned to the primary matter of the day.

  “Will Sir Alasdare Quent, if he is present, please come forward!” the High Speaker called out.

  Mr. Quent rose from a seat on the side of the Hall. Because of his forceful presence, Ivy always thought of her husband as being larger than in fact he was. But though he possessed a powerful build, he was not in any way a tall man. Now he looked suddenly small as he made his way up to the rostrum by himself. All eyes were upon him as he went—including Lady Shayde’s.

  “Sir Quent, you have been nominated for the post of lord inquirer,” the High Speaker said. “It is the right of the Hall of Magnates to advise the Crown on such matters, and to provide its consent. Toward that end, are you willing to answer any such questions as the Hall may have of you?”

  “I am,” Mr. Quent said, his low voice rumbling throughout the Hall.

  “Very well, then be sworn in.”

  The Grand Usher brought forth a copy of the Testament, and Mr. Quent laid a hand upon it as he gave an oath to speak only truth, to the very best of his ability. This done, Mr. Quent took a seat upon the rostrum, just below the podium, and without further ado, the interview began.

  It was the right of any lord in the Hall to ask a question, and a number proceeded to do so. Though what question they were asking was in general not easy to discern, for most lords seemed more inclined to make a protracted statement than pose a query to the subject on the rostrum.

  Some expounded at length on the great importance of the post of lord inquirer at a time when the nation faced many threats, including Risings of the Wyrdwood. Others recounted the excellence of the late Lord Rafferdy’s work as the leader of the Inquiry. And still other lords rose to praise Sir Quent’s long history of experience as an inquirer himself, and to recount his achievements in putting a stop to the Risings last year in Torland. For his part, Mr. Quent was able to add little to these lengthy expositions, other than to give his agreement or thanks.

  In all, it was less like an interview than a series of toasts and long-winded digressions at a dinner party. Ivy’s nervousness receded. The Hall was overly warm due to the heat of the day, and as heads began to nod and drowse around her, Ivy found herself tempted to do the same.

  “Thank you, Lord Stulwich,” the High Speaker said as an elderly lord, who had asked questions in a quavering voice that no one in the Hall could comprehend, retook his seat. “Are there any more queries to be made?”

  Other than a rustling of robes, a silence fell over the Hall of Magnates.

  “If you have a question, stand and be recognized,” the High Speaker called out, but no one responded.

  Ivy’s heart leaped. Was that all? If so, then she could not believe there was anything that could impede Mr. Quent’s confirmation to the post. For nothing had come out in his testimony that reflected even the slightest bit poorly on her husband, save that it was clear he was a modest man.

  But it indeed seemed to be over. The High Speaker reached for his gavel. “If there are no more questions, then this Hall will—”

  “Actually, I do have one more thing to inquire of our subject,” spoke a voice. “It is just a small matter, if he would be so kind as to indulge us with one more answer.”

  All heads turned toward a man who had risen from one of the front benches, opposite the Hall from where Mr. Rafferdy sat. The speaker had an unremarkable appearance, being of middle years and middle height, and not particularly thin or fat, or handsome or plain. He had a good speaking voice, though, and it carried throughout the Hall.

  The High Speaker set down his gavel. “The Hall recognizes Lord Davarry. You may address the witness.”

  “Thank you,” Lord Davarry said, and approached the rostrum.

  Ivy dabbed at her damp cheeks with a handkerchief. She had hoped the interview was over, but she supposed she could endure one more question, if Mr. Quent could do so. She hardly paid attention to the lord’s words as he went on. Only then she happened to glance down at Mr. Rafferdy, and she saw the way he sat stiffly on the edge of his bench, his eyes fixed on the questioner.

  A note of alarm impinged upon the dullness in Ivy’s brain. She looked again at the lord who was presently speaking, now paying attention to his words. As she did, her alarm rapidly grew.

  “… and I must congratulate you on your testimony so far,” Lord Davarry was saying. “It is clear you are both very well-regarded in this Hall, Sir Quent, and very well-qualified for the post.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Quent replied, as he had many times already that day.

  Lord Davarry nodded and smiled. He started to turn away from the rostrum, as if he were finished. Only then, abruptly, he turned on a heel and raised a finger.

  “Oh, that’s right, there was one thing I wished
to ask you, Sir Quent, if you do not mind. It’s something that concerns the Risings in Torland last year. You do recall them?”

  Mr. Quent nodded. “Of course, very well.”

  “I am sure you do,” Lord Davarry replied. “After all, you were very integral in bringing about their end, is that not so?”

  “There were many who had a part in achieving that—in the Inquiry, the Gray Conclave, and the royal army.”

  Davarry waved a hand. “Yes, of course, I’m sure that’s the case. I do not mean to deprive anyone of the credit they are due. But I think we can all agree that you had an especial importance in bringing about the end of the Risings. We all read the reports in the broadsheets, which described how you yourself were able to locate the sibyl who was in league with the rebels there, and who was inducing the Wyrdwood to rise up on their behalf.”

  Mr. Quent did not reply. It had not been a question, and all of this was a matter of public record.

  Lord Davarry angled his body so that he was no longer looking just at Mr. Quent, but at the Hall as well. “There’s just one thing I’m curious about, Sir Quent. The articles in the broadsheets were never clear on the specifics of how you managed to effect the capture of the witch. I can only imagine it was a difficult task to find her. How did you manage it?”

  Ivy could see Mr. Quent draw a breath before he answered in his deep voice. “Over the years, the inquirers have accumulated a large body of knowledge concerning all the groves of Old Trees in the nation—their locations and dimensions, and the condition of the walls around them. By comparing observations of various stands of Wyrdwood to their known last descriptions, I was able to determine which groves had been recently disturbed, and so was able to infer her whereabouts.”

  “How dry and tedious you make it sound, Sir Quent!” Lord Davarry said with an indulgent laugh. “You would have us take you for a clerk poring through dusty records. But you are too humble. I am sure it was quite exciting to hunt down a witch hiding among the Old Trees and no doubt guarded by rebels. Even if you knew what grove she was hidden within, how was it you managed to approach her unmolested?”

  Furrows appeared on Mr. Quent’s brow. Again Ivy could observe the way he struggled to form a careful answer.

  “I called out to her, and was able to convince her to come to the edge of the grove.”

  Lord Davarry held a hand to his chest in a gesture of shock. “You called out to her? And she came?”

  “She did.”

  “Forgive my ignorance of such affairs, but I do not comprehend this. The witch was safe within the Wyrdwood. Why should she listen to you? Unless you threatened to burn down the grove, that is.”

  Mr. Quent shook his head. “No such threat was made. To harm the Old Trees so directly could only have led to further Risings, as she would have been well aware.”

  “Then I am astonished, Sir Quent. While you have spoken very well here today, I do not discern any unusual power in your voice to induce or compel others to do your will. Or am I mistaken, and all of you have been convinced to vote aye on the matter of Sir Quent’s nomination?”

  He spoke this last to the Hall, and a round of nervous laughter rose up from the benches.

  “But with all due gravity,” Lord Davarry said, returning his attention to the witness, “how is it that you were able to formulate such a speech as would cause a witch to depart her only sanctuary?”

  The laughter quickly succumbed to a taut silence. On the stand, Mr. Quent cleared his throat.

  “I have known …” He clasped his right hand around his left. “That is, through my work, I am familiar with their ways and habits.”

  For a moment Lord Davarry said nothing. He merely gazed at the witness, a hand beneath his chin.

  “Indeed, Sir Quent,” he said at last, “is it not the case that you are, in fact, most intimately acquainted with witches?”

  The sound of gasps was audible throughout the Hall. Ivy could not prevent herself from recoiling away from the edge of the balcony. She had never met this Lord Davarry. How was it possible that he knew? A dread came upon her, a certainty that all eyes in the Hall would turn up to look at the gallery where she sat.

  Only that was not the case. Rather, all eyes were locked on the witness who sat upon the rostrum. And Ivy realized it was not to her that Lord Davarry had been referring. It was the witch in Torland. Her face hot, she leaned forward in her chair again.

  “Please take your time answering the question, Sir Quent,” Lord Davarry said pleasantly. “And I am sure I do not need to remind you that you are under oath.”

  Ivy held her breath. From her seat behind the High Speaker, Lady Shayde looked down with what appeared a keen interest.

  “Over the years, in the course of my work, I have had occasion to interact with many suspected witches,” Mr. Quent said at last.

  “I am sure you have,” Lord Davarry replied. “Tell me, what is your impression of them? How do you regard them?”

  “I should say I regard them … with much sadness.”

  Lord Davarry had been pacing back and forth, but now suddenly stopped. “Sadness? You speak as if you have a great sympathy for them. But I am puzzled. For are not these sibyls a threat to our nation?”

  Mr. Quent shifted in his chair. “It is not always by their choice that this is so.”

  “Not by their choice?” the questioner said, and now his voice rose, taking on an angry timbre. “What do you mean by that? Surely it was the choice of the witch in Torland to induce the Old Trees to lash out. Just as it was her choice to come to the edge of the Wyrdwood when you called to her. And speaking of the matter, what is the current status of the witch? Does she remain in custody of the state?”

  Mr. Quent’s cheeks were visibly flushed. It was from the heat in the Hall, no doubt, yet it had the effect of making him look nervous. “The law does not permit me to reveal the whereabouts of those detained by the Inquiry.”

  “And I am sure you are a man who understands the importance of obeying the law, Sir Quent, but that is not what I asked.” Lord Davarry’s voice rose, growing more forceful yet. “I did not ask where she was. I asked if she was in the custody of the state. Surely you can tell us that.”

  Mr. Quent drew in a breath. “No, she is no longer in the custody of the Crown.”

  More gasps and murmurs sounded throughout the Hall.

  “No longer in the Crown’s custody?” Lord Davarry shook his head. “But how can that be?”

  “She was released.”

  “Released? But who would ever release her?”

  Ivy clutched the edge of her chair, wishing in desperation he would not answer. But she knew he would, and so he did.

  “I did. I released her.”

  “You released her?” Lord Davarry exclaimed, then resumed his pacing on the rostrum, rapidly now. “But this is very grave news, Sir Quent. This was the woman who caused the Wyrdwood to rise up in Torland, the sibyl who caused the deaths of countless men, and who aided the cause of rebels. And yet you let her go? Why—why would you do such a thing?”

  Ivy shut her eyes, for they burned too fiercely to keep open. For a long moment there was no answer. Then at last Mr. Quent spoke; and though his voice had grown lower in volume even as his questioner’s had increased, still his every word reached the farthest benches.

  “Because I gave her my word.”

  A terrible silence ensued. The very air in the Hall seemed to strain, as if anxious to carry what words would be spoken next. Ivy opened her eyes. On the rostrum, Mr. Quent seemed to have shrunk in his chair; his shoulders were rounded, his face gray. Lord Davarry looked down at him with an expression that bespoke not shock but triumph.

  “You gave her your word?” he said at last. “So you are saying that you struck a deal with the witch—that you bargained with a known criminal and traitor to the realm. Do you deny this fact, Sir Quent? And may I remind you once more, you are under oath.”

  Mr. Quent looked up, and though his face remaine
d pale, there was a firm set to his jaw. “I did what was best for Altania.”

  “That was not my question!” Lord Davarry declaimed. “Speak the truth, Sir Quent—did you bargain with a witch?”

  For a moment, Mr. Quent seemed frozen in his chair. Then his brown eyes turned, looking up toward the gallery. Toward Ivy. For a moment, their gazes met. And in his, Ivy saw a grim resolution.

  No! she wanted to cry out, but she could not draw a breath.

  “I made an agreement with her,” Mr. Quent said, “that if the Risings ceased—if she could bring about their immediate end—that I would not hinder her from leaving the grove of Old Trees I found her in. She upheld her end of the matter. And so I did mine.”

  Lord Davarry gave a satisfied nod, then he turned to face the High Speaker’s podium. “You may release the witness,” he said. “I have no further questions.”

  But his words, as well as the clatter of the High Speaker’s gavel closing the session, could hardly be heard for the sudden tumult that erupted in the Hall. Everywhere lords were rising to their feet and speaking with one another. Many gazes turned toward Mr. Quent, but no one approached him as he departed the podium, save the ushers whose duty it was to accompany guests from the Hall. But even they seemed to keep their distance as Mr. Quent walked up the aisle toward the gilded doors.

  “Traitor!” someone in the throng shouted.

  But Mr. Quent did not pause in his step. He kept his head high as he went, his expression solemn.

  Ivy lurched up from her chair, and she noticed that no one seemed interested in speaking with her now. Instead, the other observers all hurried from the gallery. Ivy gripped the balustrade, for fear she might tumble over it, and looked down to see if she could glimpse Mr. Rafferdy. That he would not look at her husband with the same shock or scorn as others now did, she was certain.

  But she could not pick him out in the chaos of black robes. Nor did she see Lady Shayde anywhere. Only various lords milling about, and her husband departing stiffly through the open doors.