Again Rafferdy checked his pocket watch, lifting it up to read in the livid moonlight. It had been ten hours since the umbral began, and fourteen since they had stopped for anything more than a brief respite. Despite the urgency of their new orders, they could not continue on like this. Just ahead was an abandoned croft by the road, one whose roof was still largely intact. As soon as they reached it, Rafferdy raised his hand, calling for a halt.
“We’ll rest for eight hours, then march again whether it’s light or dark,” he announced.
At once the men set to making a temporary camp, and if there was a groan or grumble to be heard, it was not due to any sort of complaint, but was simply a natural utterance that occurred when unslinging a pack from a stiff shoulder or pulling off a boot from a blistered foot. As he had been ever since assuming command of the company, Rafferdy was both astonished by these men and exceedingly pleased with them. Their behavior was not at all what he had expected out of a band of rebel soldiers.
This was not to say they weren’t in general rough, poorly educated, and possessed of a deficit of manners and a surplus of superstitions. After all, they were most of them young, and up until now few had ever traveled more than twenty miles from the villages in the West Country or Torland where they had been born. Nor were any of them trained soldiers. Instead they were farmers and laborers who had taken their father’s hunting rifle from the wall, or had pilfered their grandfather’s pistol from an old trunk, and had gone off to enlist in Huntley Morden’s army.
As a result, they were a ragtag assemblage. Aside from their brown coats, hastily sewn for them by mothers or sisters before they dashed away to war, they were outfitted with a motley assortment of clothing and equipment. And their knowledge of the world, and how to conduct themselves in it, was an equally poor hodgepodge. But if the rebel soldiers were coarse and ignorant, how were they to be blamed for it? They had dwelled the whole of their brief lives in the meanest state of poverty and abjection, and so could not be other than what they were.
Rafferdy was certain, upon first glance, that most men from the city would have thought the rebels capable of achieving little worthwhile. But observing people at countless dinners, dances, and parties had taught Rafferdy the difference between glibness and intelligence, and between mere callowness and real stupidity. From the moment he was given command over them, Rafferdy made the assumption these men were capable of a great deal, if only they applied themselves.
And apply themselves they did. In fact, the more Rafferdy came to expect of them, the more they worked to exceed these expectations. In their first engagement with the enemy, they had been overeager and fumbling, barely able to load their guns or shoot in the right direction in their excitement. All the same, with Rafferdy shouting orders, they had prevailed.
That had given them a glimpse of what they could do, and after that their shoulders straightened, their heads lifted, and their coats were kept clean and patched. Their next skirmish had been more steady, their shooting quicker and more measured, as had the one after that. Now, after more than a half month together, and with five winning engagements to their credit, they were the closest thing to veterans the rebel army had.
“Are you sure we should stop, sir?” Lieutenant Beckwith said, bringing his horse close to Rafferdy’s. “The orders were to march for Pellendry-on-Anbyrn at once.”
Despite his hours in the saddle, Beckwith looked ready to ride on for hours more. He was a bit younger than Rafferdy, and always full of energy: a whip of a man with fair hair and green eyes. He might have been Mrs. Quent’s brother, Rafferdy had thought more than once.
“It will take us days to get to Pellendry no matter what, Lieutenant,” Rafferdy said. “We’d better pace ourselves if we’re to arrive in any shape for fighting.”
“Is that what you think we’re going to, then? A battle?” Beckwith in no way sounded disappointed by this.
“I’m only guessing,” Rafferdy said.
And while this was true, it was an educated guess. If Morden’s army was to win through at Pellendry-on-Anbyrn, there would be nothing to stop it. The rebels would follow the wide swath of the river valley right to Invarel, for there was no place in the broad lowlands where the royal army could make any kind of stand. They would have no choice but to retreat to the city. Of course, they could hold out in Invarel for months, and the siege could become a gruesome, protracted affair. Yet in effect it would all be over, with the war decided once and for all in the favor of the rebels.
The reverse held true as well. If Morden could not win through at Pellendry, his army would break like a wave upon a wall. Valhaine’s forces in the north and south, which had been on the retreat after much harrying, would have time to regroup and go on the offensive again. They would strike at Morden’s army from above and below, while Valhaine attacked from the side, and it would all be over for the rebels.
Well, however it turned out, that was days away. And unlike Beckwith, Rafferdy was anxious to be out of the saddle. His backside hurt more than after a day sitting on the benches at Assembly.
“If we have to make camp, we’d best do it quickly so we can be done with it and move on,” Beckwith said. He gave a jerk on the reins to keep his horse in place, though he might have had more success in calming it had he let them go slack. “I’ll make sure the men are working with some alacrity.”
“I have no doubt that they are.”
“You seem very confident in them!”
“That is because I am,” Rafferdy said. “I doubt anyone before has had confidence in these men, or believed they had any sort of worth. So they believed the same as well. But then Huntley Morden called to them, and told them they could have importance if they chose—that they could alter an entire nation with their actions. And now they’ve learned they can do it.”
Rafferdy’s gaze went past Beckwith, to the young men moving quickly in the moonlight, pitching canvas tents and starting fires. “I think Lord Valhaine never expected that. He thought all he had to do was give the rebels a kick to send them running. Now he’s discovered that he’s not facing a few dogs, but rather an army of men. And that’s why he’s losing.”
Beckwith seemed uncertain how to reply to this. The bay gelding skittered from hoof to hoof beneath him. “I’ll make sure they’re clearing the perimeter of the camp so no one can come upon us unawares,” he said, then spun the horse about and kicked its flanks.
Rafferdy sighed as Beckwith rode away. He was a fine young man, and his intentions were honorable, but he wanted things to happen more quickly than they were. From their conversations, Rafferdy knew that Beckwith was frustrated that he was still only a lieutenant. And while he had never demonstrated any disrespect, Beckwith could only be further peeved that Rafferdy, who had joined the rebellion just lately, was already a captain.
Of course, Rafferdy was rather nonplussed by this fact himself. To think, less than a month earlier, he had been fleeing the city, off to join the rebellion. And now he was a captain who had already led his company through a half-dozen engagements with the enemy.
It had all happened with a swiftness that would have exceeded even Lieutenant Beckwith’s fanciful desires. And Rafferdy had Garritt to thank for it. Rafferdy could only wonder what other secrets his old friend was hiding. First he had revealed that he was a Siltheri illusionist, and then—far more shockingly—that he was employing his talents in service to the revolution.
Rafferdy would never have thought a being so mild as Eldyn Garritt could house the spirit of a rebel. But as Rafferdy had learned, one could not safely make assumptions based on the appearance of a man or even his history; it was his actions in the present that mattered. And Garritt’s actions had saved Rafferdy that day.
As it happened, by the time Garritt brought him to a dormitory near the university, the city was already being shut. Valhaine was wasting no time, and it was happening even more quickly than Lord Farrolbrook had warned. Royal soldiers were everywhere, and the ways into and out of
the city were being closed.
Fortunately, Garritt’s compatriots had gotten wind of this, and they had arranged for a commotion at the Lowgate, in the form of a fire in a nearby tannery. Because water had to be hauled up from the river to douse the flames, the gate could not be closed, and in the chaos a number of men loyal to the rebellion were able to slip out of the city by pretending to be part of the bucket brigade—Rafferdy among them.
Before Rafferdy departed for the gate, the Morden men had given him information he could use to locate the rebels in the country, and they had told him the secret words to speak as he approached them. Of course, all of this presumed he would be able to find a way past Valhaine’s forces and slip through the front lines. He supposed it was likely he would be shot attempting to do so, but he was determined to try it. His father was dead, and Sir Quent as well; they could no longer fight for the sake of Altania. But others were doing so, Eldyn Garritt among them—and by God, Rafferdy was not going to be patriotically outdone by his friend!
First, though, there was another matter to see to.
Due to the great confusion around the city, precipitated by the news of the fall of the West Country, Rafferdy was able to walk away from the Lowgate unmolested, and he proceeded by smaller lanes into the countryside. Finding a mode of travel other than his feet was more difficult, but at last he happened upon a farmer driving a cart of cabbages toward the city. Rafferdy explained to him he would have no luck selling his cabbages that day, and instead offered him five regals for his horse. To this, the man readily acceded.
The mare was a bony, swaybacked thing. Fortunately, Rafferdy was protected from the sharp protrusions of its spine, for the farmer had carried a saddle with him in the cart. What was more, despite its scrawniness, the horse was astonishingly spry and energetic. It seemed quite eager to leave both cart and farmer behind, and it cantered unflaggingly for hours as Rafferdy urged it southward. That was his first indication that he should not judge a being’s potential by its appearance.
As he rode, Rafferdy kept to lesser-traveled bridle paths and byways, for he doubted that Valhaine’s forces would treat a lord who was fleeing the city kindly—especially one who had previously been known to practice magick and associate with traitors and witches. As luck had it, though, he encountered few souls and no soldiers. Finally, as the long lumenal was sputtering out, he passed familiar fields, then rode along a colonnade of elm trees to his manor at Asterlane.
He spent only a few hours there, but accomplished several important things. The first was to assure that Lady Rafferdy was well. His mother had continued to fade, and her eyes were as colorless as her hair now. But she greeted him with a kiss, and when he asked if she wished to go to her cousin in the east, she declined, saying she would not depart this house while she lived. Rafferdy had expected as much; nor did he think she would have been much safer elsewhere. If the rebels ever made it this far east, all of their attention would be upon Invarel, not the countryside to the south.
“But will you be staying here?” she had asked him as he met with her in a candlelit parlor. A portrait of his father on the wall gazed down at them with what Rafferdy thought was a wistful expression.
“No, I cannot,” he said. “There are things that I must do. And if you hear the voices of men speaking in the night, do not have a fear, Mother. They will be acquaintances of mine.”
She gave him a small, fond smile. “Having lived with your father, I have gotten quite used to nocturnal comings and goings. Be assured, you will not disturb me. Do whatever you must.”
He kissed her cheek, then left her in the parlor with the portrait, and he had not seen her since.
It was several hours into the long umbral when the others began to arrive. Canderhow was first, which somewhat surprised Rafferdy, for he had not thought the plumpest among them would be the swiftest. Trefnell was next, then four of the others. But two of the Fellowship never came, nor would they; for a message from Wolsted appeared in their black books, stating he and Coulten had been unable to get through the gates in time.
It is all my fault, Wolsted wrote. My gout has made me unbearably slow, and Coulten foolishly thought to come to my aid, and so was trapped with me in the city. Do not fear for us, though. We shall keep hidden, and keep watch. And we will send you what reports we can.
This had caused Rafferdy a pang. He had entertained some thought that Coulten would be game to come with him to join the revolution. Yet perhaps it would prove useful to have some members of their order still in the city—provided they could remain hidden from Valhaine’s witch-hunters and magician-seekers.
Those seven members of the Fellowship of the Silver Circle who had reached Asterlane met in the library as the night wore on, drinking brandy and formulating plans—though these were vague at best. They had prevented Assembly from passing laws to abolish the Wyrdwood, but there was nothing more they could do upon that matter now.
“Nor do I think we need to,” Canderhow said. “While the magicians of the Golden Door may wish to burn down the Old Trees, Valhaine is far too distracted with the matter of Morden to act against the Wyrdwood now.”
He spoke, as usual, with a barrister’s logic. All the same, Rafferdy was not convinced.
“That may be so,” Rafferdy had replied, “but I cannot think they did not expect this. The High Order of the Golden Door must have some other scheme in mind to address matters. Gambrel is their real magus. He’s been the one directing Davarry all this while. And from what I have learned, Gambrel is a clever and persistent man.”
Trefnell’s eyebrows had bristled in a fierce glower. “I suppose you are right. Destroying the Wyrdwood was an aim of theirs, yes, but not the final aim. There is one thing only which they seek.”
And none of them needed to speak it, for the way the darkness seemed to press in hungrily through the windows was enough. At a recent meeting of the order, Rafferdy had described his and Lady Quent’s supposition that the Ashen were preparing for the Grand Conjunction. As it happened, Trefnell’s research had been leading him toward the same conclusion. Cerephus would be at its closest proximity when the conjunction occurred, and arcane energies would be at their maximum potential. The Ashen had not yet been able to enter into the world in force, so clearly they were waiting for some event that would give them this opportunity. What else could it be other than this?
The idea filled Rafferdy with great dread when he considered it. If the Ashen indeed entered the world, how could they be fought? Yet it was not the Ashen that were currently waging war against Altania; it was Valhaine’s army. And that was something he could fight.
Weary from their flight to Asterlane, the other magicians retired, but Rafferdy remained awake. There was one more thing he had to do. He spent several hours going through his father’s things. Then, just as a crimson glow kindled in the eastern sky outside the windows, Rafferdy found what he was looking for. By means of a spell, he discovered and unlocked a hidden drawer in a table in his father’s study.
Inside was a small box, fashioned of a single piece of onyx.
After that, Rafferdy slept for a few scant hours. Then he rose and, after some quick words with Trefnell, departed Asterlane. The swaybacked nag he had bought from the farmer had been given to the stable master, with instructions that it was to be cared for most kindly. In its place, Rafferdy rode a powerful gray gelding. And while his ultimate destination lay to the west, there was one last thing he had to accomplish before going there. So it was he turned toward the sun, and rode into the morning.
Some hours later, just as a purple twilight crept over the land, Rafferdy reached Farland Park. He rode up to the front of the grand house which stood at the end of a poplar-lined road, and was off his horse before the beast had fully come to a stop. Not stopping himself, he tossed the reins to a groomsman, dashed up the steps, and into the house.
This abrupt and noisy entrance alarmed the residents, and by the time Rafferdy entered the front hall he found Mr. Baydon fumbl
ing with the flintlock on his pistol.
“Great Gods, Rafferdy, I nearly shot you!” Mr. Baydon sputtered, lowering the gun.
Rafferdy could not help a smile, noticing that Mr. Baydon had failed to properly cock the pistol. “I don’t think there was any danger of that,” he said, taking the gun and setting it on a table where it might cause no harm.
“But what are you doing here?”
“Something has happened in the city,” Lady Marsdel said, slowly rising from her chair. “Morden’s men are marching toward Invarel, I presume.”
As always, little escaped Lady Marsdel’s comprehension. Rafferdy bowed toward her. “You are correct, your ladyship. Lord Valhaine has shut the Old City. I only barely escaped its bounds before he did so.”
Mrs. Baydon rushed forward and embraced him. “It’s all so dreadful, I can hardly imagine it. But I’m grateful you were able to get out of the city. Have you come to stay with us, then?”
Rafferdy said nothing as he stepped away from Mrs. Baydon. From across the room, Lady Marsdel gave him a piercing look.
“No, Mrs. Baydon,” her ladyship said. “I believe Lord Rafferdy will soon be riding westward. In which case, I can only wonder why he’s come.”
Rafferdy’s hand went to his coat pocket, touching the hard, square object within. “I need to see Lord Baydon at once,” he said.
The others exchanged somber looks, and Rafferdy grew alarmed that he was already too late. But that was not the case, for Mr. Baydon said, “I can take you to my father. However, while you may see him, he won’t be able to see you. He is … well, you shall see.”
Minutes later, Mr. Baydon opened the door of a bedchamber. The room was bright and cheerful, for a maid was lighting candles all around against the night. She departed as Rafferdy entered.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 55