The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  “The magus warned you to prepare for what?”

  “The Altanian army suffered a severe defeat by Morden’s forces. The whole of the West Country is now considered lost. As a result, Lord Valhaine intends to tighten his hold upon Invarel. What’s more, he is going to dissolve Assembly. In its place, he will assume the establishment of all law as Lord Guardian of the realm and commander of the army.”

  Rafferdy felt as if he had been struck across the cheek. Only it was not so much due to the actions that Valhaine was taking as it was the fact that he was doing all this in response to Morden’s victory at Baringsbridge. So there really was a hope, then! Yet there was no use becoming too elated, for the news of Valhaine’s plans was dire.

  “He is going to close the city completely, isn’t he?” Rafferdy said.

  Farrolbrook nodded. “Yes, the gates will be sealed so that no one can enter or leave Invarel. It may happen as quickly as tomorrow. The city will be closed to protect its people against the advancing rebels.”

  “Or so Valhaine will claim,” Rafferdy said darkly. “Though the city’s people will not be wards of the state, but rather hostages should Morden ever make it this far. I am sure that many a rebel has a relative here in the city.”

  Farrolbrook reached up a gloved hand, touching one of the dangling wisteria blooms, as if fascinated by it. “I suppose you are right. At any rate, the magus was giving members of the order advance warning in case any of us might wish to depart ahead of the closure. Though, for his part, he stated that he and the sages will not be leaving Invarel.”

  So Lord Davarry was going to stay in the city—presuming that Davarry was in fact the magus of the High Order of the Golden Door. They all guessed that he was, but even Farrolbrook did not know for certain. It was the custom for the magus of an arcane society to always wear a heavy cowl to keep his identity a secret from all but the sages.

  “Well, some of the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door may be staying, but there is no point in any of us doing the same,” Rafferdy said. “If Valhaine is to dissolve Assembly, there is nothing more we can achieve here in the city. Not that we have achieved much to date, save to bear witness to the awful things that Valhaine has wrought.”

  “That is not so,” Farrolbrook said, releasing the wisteria bloom. “Your actions caused great delay to their plans before Valhaine seized power. And by then, Morden had landed and the rebels were on the march. The Wyrdwood might already be burned to ash if you had stood by and done nothing.”

  Rafferdy could not help thinking that perhaps there was some fragment of truth to this, and he stood up a bit straighter. “Well, if we hope to have any further influence upon matters, we must all of us get out of the city at once. I will send a message to the other members of the Silver Circle, telling them to depart Invarel at once.”

  “Yes, that is wise. You should all make haste to leave.”

  Rafferdy arched an eyebrow at the way this was phrased. “And what of you? Surely you are leaving as well, Farrolbrook.”

  The other man tilted his head, his gaze distant, as if he were listening to some far-off sound. “No, I must …” He shook his head and sighed. “That is, I am not yet certain what I will do.”

  This response concerned Rafferdy. What if the High Order of the Golden Door were to discover Farrolbrook’s duplicity? There would be no one to aid him and no place for him to flee. Rafferdy considered making an argument to convince him to leave the city—then dismissed the notion. It was not his place to advise another man what to do. Especially when he could not truly know how Farrolbrook was suffering.

  “Thank you,” he said instead, and held out his hand. “I must say, you have been of great help in all this.”

  Farrolbrook hesitated, then extended a gloved hand. “You sound surprised.”

  Rafferdy could not help a grin. “That’s because I am.”

  Farrolbrook smiled himself as they shook hands, though the expression changed after a moment to a grimace, and he pressed his hand to his chest, as if he felt some pain there.

  “Good-bye, Lord Farrolbrook.”

  The other man nodded. “Do not sound so final, Rafferdy. You may yet see me again.”

  Rafferdy could not help gazing at the blotches and sores visible beneath the layer of powder on his face.

  “I hope that is so,” he said, and then he turned and walked along the path, leaving Lord Farrolbrook beneath the wisteria tree.

  LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Rafferdy made ready to depart his home on Warwent Square. He had instructed his man to put a few clothes and a bottle of whiskey in the four-in-hand. Anything else he might have need of was already at Asterlane.

  There was only one other item he needed to take. Rafferdy went to the writing table in the parlor, unlocked the drawer, and took out his black book. He opened it with a muttered spell, then turned to the first blank page and hastily penned a message.

  Lord Valhaine is to declare martial law and close the city, he wrote. You must all leave Invarel at once. Make for my estate in Asterlane, if you have no other place to go. I will meet with you there.

  He waited a minute for the ink to dry, then he shut the book, put it in his coat pocket, and departed the house. Whether he would ever see it again, he did not know.

  “I will drive with all haste to Asterlane, sir,” the driver said as he started to close the carriage door. “If the day is as long as it looks to be, we will arrive there before the umbral falls.”

  “Very good, but do not make for Asterlane yet,” Rafferdy said. “There is one place in the city we must go first. Take me to the east end of Durrow Street, to Lady Quent’s abode.”

  The driver nodded and closed the door. A moment later, the carriage started into motion. Rafferdy sat upon the edge of the seat. He did not know exactly what Sir Quent had said to his wife in the cell beneath Barrowgate, for she had been in no state to speak afterward. But it was his hope Sir Quent had been able to convince her to depart for the country. For if Valhaine closed the city, and then loosed his witch-hunters within the walls …

  No, he would not consider such a possibility. He would urge Mrs. Quent and her sisters to leave for Asterlane with him and would not accept any refusal on the matter. Resolved, Rafferdy leaned back against the seat—

  —then sat forward again with a start. He had felt a peculiar twitch within the folds of his coat, as if some living thing had crawled into a pocket and now sought an escape. Again he felt something give a slight jerk. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out an object.

  It was the gem, the twin to the one he had given to Sir Quent. While previously it had been dim and cloudy, now it emanated a bluish light, and it was hot even through his glove. The gem twitched again. He tightened his grip upon it, then brought it close to his face. The center of the gem was no longer clouded. Rather, it was utterly black, as if he were staring through a hole into a lightless space.

  Abruptly the image of a hand filled the whole of the gem’s interior, then quickly it shrank in size. Of course—the hand must have been holding the gem, which was why it had been dark. Only then the hand had placed the gem somewhere and had let go of it. Now that the hand had pulled back, Rafferdy could see its owner—or the owner’s silhouette, at least, for the image remained dim. Still, Rafferdy did not need to see the other clearly to know who it was. The stoop of the thick shoulders and the outline of a shaggy beard were enough for that.

  It was Sir Quent. He must have tapped the gem three times in quick succession, just as Rafferdy had instructed him, to invoke its enchantment. Had he done so in order to send Rafferdy a message? There was no way to speak through the gem, but surely using pantomime Sir Quent would be able to communicate some meaning. Perhaps he had rethought his situation, and there was some way after all to win his release. If that was the case, Rafferdy would send Mrs. Quent and her sisters to Asterlane and remain in the city. He would do so gladly, no matter the risk, if there was any chance of freeing Sir Quent.

  Raff
erdy brought the gem closer to his eye. By the perspective of the image within, it was his guess that the gem’s twin had been stuck into a crack or crevice midway up a wall. He waited for Sir Quent to do something, to make some signal.…

  Within the gem, the image of Sir Quent turned away, so that all Rafferdy could see was his broad back. This seemed odd, for how could Sir Quent send a message when facing away? Then the gem brightened as a figure carrying an oil lamp appeared beyond the bars of the cramped cell. The light illuminated Sir Quent’s dirty white shirt and his shaggy hair, but the figure itself could not be seen as anything more than a slender shadow. Sir Quent clearly recognized the visitor, though, for he nodded and stepped away from the bars. The door opened, and the other entered the prison cell.

  Rafferdy swore an oath, then clamped his jaw as if the people in the gem might hear him—though of course that was impossible. The woman holding the lamp was dressed all in black, so that her form merged with the darkness, and her white face seemed to float upon the air like the visage of a ghost. Again Sir Quent nodded, as if he had been expecting her. Lady Shayde glided farther into the cell, and the iron bars closed behind her.

  Something that is horrible can also be fascinating, and so it was that Rafferdy could not look away from the scene in the gem. Lady Shayde moved in a slow circle around Sir Quent; or rather, she prowled. It appeared she was speaking something, though of course Rafferdy could not hear what it was. Yet by the smile upon her black lips, and the drooping curve of his shoulders, he thought he could surmise what it was. She was gloating in her triumph over him. For long years had the Gray Conclave been at odds with the Inquiry, but now Valhaine’s victory over the inquirers was complete.

  At least, that was what Rafferdy believed. Only then the scene in the gem changed, and he no longer knew what to think. By the movements of his hands and shoulders, Sir Quent spoke something, and Lady Shayde’s expression was altered. She retreated from him, her arms folded tight over her black dress, her lips formed into a grim line.

  Now it was Sir Quent who moved. He approached her, and with what could only be perceived as the gentlest motions, he reached out and touched that white face, tilting it upward to gaze at his own. For a long moment they gazed at one another. At last she gave a stiff nod, as if some agreement had been made between them.

  Now such things occurred within the gem as to make the hair on the back of Rafferdy’s neck stand on end. Deliberately, Sir Quent lowered himself onto one knee, and then to the other. He bowed his shaggy head, as if in prayer. Or in surrender. Lady Shayde gazed down at him, her face a white mask without expression. Then, like two black snakes, her arms lashed out, coiling around Sir Quent’s head and turning it in a swift, violent motion halfway around upon his neck.

  Sir Quent slumped limply to the floor and did not move.

  “Great God, no!” Rafferdy cried aloud.

  He gripped the gem in a white-knuckled hand. The scene within it could not be believed. Except Rafferdy knew the twin gems did not have the power to fabricate visions, only to take what light fell upon the one and pass it through the other. Which meant what he had witnessed had indeed just occurred. Impossible as it seemed, there was no denying it.

  Sir Quent was dead, murdered by Lady Shayde.

  Only then an even more terrible thought came upon Rafferdy. Had it truly been murder? There is yet one thing I may do, Sir Quent had said yesterday when Rafferdy spoke to him beneath Barrowgate. I have a favor I can call in—an old debt if you will.…

  Though it hardly seemed possible, Rafferdy’s horror increased. Within the gem, as if to confirm his dreadful conclusion, Lady Shayde knelt beside the body of Sir Quent. She turned him over, and brought his head around to stare lifelessly upward. Slowly, she brushed a pale hand over his worried brow and bearded cheeks.

  Then she bent down and pressed her lips to his.

  What he was witnessing now was beyond Rafferdy’s comprehension. But he did understand that, somehow, this was the favor Sir Quent had referred to yesterday. This was how he had assured Mrs. Quent would never become the wife of a convicted traitor to the realm. Sir Quent would never face trial now, and so he could never be convicted. He had given everything, his very life, to preserve Mrs. Quent.

  But that did not mean she was now safe.

  No, it was quite the opposite. Within the gem, Lady Shayde rose to her feet. She turned from the body on the floor of the cell—then halted, her dark eyes narrowing. She took several steps, and suddenly her face waxed larger within the gem like a gibbous moon. That visage was without line or crease, as always, but the hard line of the mouth bespoke anger. A white hand appeared, consuming the whole of the scene.

  The gem twitched in Rafferdy’s hand, then went dark.

  “Sir?”

  Rafferdy blinked, then realized the driver was at the carriage door. He hadn’t felt the vehicle come to a stop.

  “I heard you call out, sir. Do you have new directions for me?”

  Rafferdy turned the gem in his fingers. Its center was cloudy once more, but its work was done. Sir Quent had used it to send a message after all, and Rafferdy understood what it was. He slipped the gem into his pocket.

  “No, continue on to Durrow Street,” he said to the driver. “And for God’s sake, be swift about it, man.”

  IVY LEANED FORWARD upon the bench of the cabriolet, as if she could will the carriage to go faster. There was some commotion in the streets—soldiers going this way and that, and people and horses crowding about—but Lawden expertly maneuvered around all such obstacles, guiding the cabriolet swiftly through the Old City.

  Fleetingly, Ivy wondered at the cause of the turmoil, if it had something to do with the war. Only her brain could not retain its hold on such thoughts; for that organ was all in turmoil as well, filled with images of the dead warden, and the blood spattered around her father’s room at Madstone’s. Mr. Lockwell was gone; Mr. Bennick had stolen him away. But why? Why had Mr. Bennick simply not murdered him like Mr. Larken and Mr. Fintaur? And where had Mr. Bennick taken him?

  To the house on Durrow Street. It was the only answer of which her fevered mind could conceive. Mr. Bennick needed Mr. Lockwell to gain his piece of the keystone, and so had taken him to Durrow Street to get it. Hurry, Ivy tried to tell Lawden, but her throat was so constricted she could not speak. Then, as the cabriolet clattered along the street, a familiar sight hove into view: a large house of red stone beyond a wrought-iron fence.

  Ivy leaped out of the carriage before it had fully stopped moving. Either this action startled the horse, or something else had spooked it, for suddenly the beast let out a whinny and reared up, so that Lawden was forced to leap down himself and grapple for its bridle in an attempt to calm it. Ivy did not wait for him to do so; instead, she pushed through the gate and hurried up the walk to the front steps.

  The stone lions to either side of the door yawned, baring white marble fangs, and shook their moss-stained manes. Ivy let out a cry, nearly falling as she stumbled back down the steps. Then, as comprehension came over her, she turned around. By then the man in the black mask was already stepping from among the little grove of stunted trees.

  As he drew near, she saw that his state was similarly disheveled as that of the little hawthorns and chestnuts. The black costume was rumpled, the heavy black cape frayed on the edges. His mask was slightly askew, so that she could see a thin line of pallid skin and a few long strands of gold hair. It was strange that his hair should be that color and not gray, given that he had first appeared to her own father so many years ago. How could he endure so long without showing signs of age or decrepitude?

  Except, it did not seem that he was in fact enduring. There was a weakness to his gait, like a limp or shuffle, and an unpleasant odor emanated from him. It was a sickly smell, like that produced by rot or disease. Despite this, she did not shrink away, but rather hurried to meet him on the path.

  “Help me, please,” she said. “Mr. Bennick murdered a warden and took my f
ather from the hostel. I think Mr. Bennick is going to bring him here, to retrieve my father’s part of the keystone.”

  “No, you are mistaken.” His words were somewhat muffled, for they did not sound in her mind, but rather came through the onyx mask. “Bennick will not bring your father here. Lockwell’s piece of the keystone is not in the house. Rather, it is with him, just as it has always been, and now the two of them are no longer in Invarel. Bennick has taken your father beyond the city walls.”

  Ivy’s shock was so great she could hardly breathe. Yet by what means could her father’s piece of the tablet be with him? She could not comprehend how that could be. All the same, there was one thing she did understand.

  “We must go after him. Mr. Bennick will murder my father to gain his fragment of the keystone, just as he did Mr. Fintaur and Mr. Larken.”

  The mouth of the onyx mask twisted in a smirk. “As I said before, you are clever, but not always so clever as you think. It was not Bennick who took the lives of Fintaur and Larken, and so took their portions of the keystone. No, it was Gambrel.”

  Ivy gaped openly. Surely she had misheard him. “Mr. Gambrel? But it cannot have been Mr. Gambrel! We locked the door to Tyberion, and all the gates beyond it were destroyed. He was trapped there forever.”

  “Only a very few things are forever,” the masked man said, gazing down at his black gloves. “The gates that were part of the ancient way station on Tyberion were all broken, it is true, but not all of them were entirely destroyed. And there is no man more resourceful than one who is desperate. Gambrel searched among the gates until he found one that yet retained a spark of magick. He reassembled its stones, and mixed his own blood with the dust of that forsaken place for mortar, and etched runes upon it.”

  Now he looked up, and his black mask was wrought into a queer expression, like a sort of admiration. “By the time bright threads of magick crackled over the stones, Gambrel was all but dead. He flung himself through the gate, and so he escaped the prison you made for him. Still, he would have perished then, but he had had the wits to direct the gate to a place where he knew he would find aid—that is, to his estate in the east of Altania. And there he did find one who preserved him.”