Jaimsley didn’t finish the thought. Instead he said, “We have to get a copy of this map out of the city at once. I’m sure as this night is long that many lives depend upon it.”
“I understand,” Eldyn said, and picked up another engraving plate.
The plate slipped through his fingers and shattered as it struck the floor. Eldyn stared at his hands. They were shaking violently.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hastily withdrawing his hands. “I shouldn’t be so careless, not when these are so hard to come by.”
He started to bend down to pick up the broken pieces of metal, but Jaimsley gripped his shoulder, stopping him.
“Are you all right, Garritt?”
“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”
Jaimsley’s face was uncharacteristically somber. “Are you sure? It seems more than simple weariness that afflicts you. All these impressions you’ve been making, and your performances at the theater as well—I’ve heard it said that doing too many such things can make an illusionist sick.”
Eldyn worked his jaw, but he could summon no words to speak.
“Maybe we should take this up again tomorrow,” Jaimsley said.
Again Eldyn looked down at his hands. They seemed thinner than he recalled, and for the first time he noticed how dark blue veins mottled their backs, snaking up his wrists.
You must be very careful not to create too many impressions, Mr. Garritt, Master Tallyroth had told him that last night they had really talked. They are wondrous—perhaps the grandest sort of illusion a Siltheri can fashion. But they are costly as well.…
Yes, very costly, for Tallyroth had explained how shaping the impression rosin required an illusionist to expend some portion of his own light. And Eldyn needed to look no further than Master Tallyroth to see the effects of using up too much of one’s light. How many impressions had Eldyn made over the past month for the sake of the revolution? Twenty? Thirty? No, it was far more than that.
And each one had used up a little bit of his light, his life.
Promise me that you will only make another impression if it is for something truly worthwhile, Tallyroth had said that night.
I promise, Eldyn had answered. And he would hold true to that vow. But what could be more important than this?
“Hand me another engraving plate,” Eldyn said, sitting at the table and looking at the map, studying its lines and markings.
Jaimsley sat down opposite him, a metal square in his hand, but he did not let go of it. “Garritt, I don’t know about this.”
“You said you were sure many lives depended upon a copy of this map reaching our generals.”
“Yes, but what of your own life? I had suspected it prior to this, but now I am certain of it—making all of these impressions is killing you. Not as quickly as a bullet, mind you, but just as surely. I see how you get a little paler every time that you make one.” He leaned over the table. “Would you throw your life away in a rash moment, like Talinger and Warrett did?”
Eldyn looked up from the map. “Talinger and Warrett didn’t throw their lives away rashly. They knew exactly what they were doing that day. They were fighting for what they believed in, and what they cared about. For our nation, and for one another. How could it ever be rash to give one’s very last for the sake of such things?”
Jaimsley’s mouth pulled into a flat line. For a moment he gazed at Eldyn, his small eyes unusually bright. At last he laid the engraving plate down on the map.
“Go on, then,” he said quietly. “Make the impression.”
And Eldyn did.
ELDYN WOKE to sunlight streaming in through the window of his little room above the theater. The umbral had been so long that he had begun to despair dawn would never come again. Only it had, and the world was filled with light.
But for how long? As he pulled on his trousers and buttoned his shirt, his gaze went to the issue of The Comet he had thrown on the little table by the bed. ASTROGRAPHERS PREDICT AN UNUSUAL ALIGNMENT OF THE PLANETS, read a line of large print upon the front page. And below that in slanted type, All Citizens Should Prepare for an Umbral of Unprecedented Length.
While the broadsheet was generally thick with misleading stories full of distorted or fabricated accounts meant to shape people’s impressions, Eldyn could only believe there was truth to this particular article. If an umbral of such long duration as to seem without end was indeed to fall, and people had received no warning about it from the government, chaos would surely ensue. The very fabric of society might come apart as people rioted out of fear and desperation. Men would turn upon one another, and bonfires lit to ward off the dark and cold could leap out of control and burn the entire city to ash.
Lord Valhaine was too clever, and too desirous of control, to allow events to come to that. Over the last quarter month, soldiers had been distributing rations of candles and lamp oil and coal to people, as well as foodstuffs and blankets. These actions served to confirm the truth of the story in Eldyn’s mind, as normally such supplies would be reserved for the army. Valhaine would only give them to the common people if there was great cause.
But even without all of this evidence, still Eldyn would have believed the article in the newspaper. One only had to look up at the sky to see how, each night, the various glowing points of color in the heavens grew closer and closer to the red disk of the most recent arrival. A Grand Conjunction was indeed coming. The planets would align all in a row, and the sun would be entirely eclipsed. And just how long the umbral that ensued would last was a number the astrographers had yet to calculate. Perhaps, like some said, it would never have an end.
Only Eldyn could not believe that. No matter how dark, and how bitterly cold it became, the umbral would have to end at some point. Just like this terrible war would have to end. And then what? Dawn always followed night. But what would he do when the war was over?
A spasm passed through his hands as he attempted to fasten the last button of his shirt. Eldyn winced, then rubbed his hands together to try to warm them and ease the pain in his joints. He had always assumed he would keep performing here on Durrow Street for years to come. But would he really? After all, he could hardly perform in illusion plays for very long when he didn’t even have the strength to button his own shirt. How many more impressions did he have to make until he became like Master Tallyroth, tossing and turning in a delirium? And if it came to that—or rather, when it did come to that—what would become of him? Madame Richelour was always beside Master Tallyroth’s bed, caring for him.
But who would there be at Eldyn’s side?
He drew a breath, clenching and unclenching his stiff fingers. After that he was able to fasten the last button of his shirt and pull on his boots. Then he left his room.
Eldyn went quietly down the stairs, not wanting to disturb Master Tallyroth, or any of the other players who were likely getting much needed rest. Evidently he was not the only one awake, though, for when he reached the bottom of the steps he heard clattering and scraping noises emanating from the theater. Thinking perhaps Riethe or Mouse was up to some bit of mischief, Eldyn ducked through a side door that led to one of the wings, then stepped past a curtain.
It was not Riethe or Mouse at work upon the stage, but rather Lily Lockwell. Her red gown had been traded for a simple pink dress, and her hair was gathered in a braid behind her neck. The only paint upon her face was the same blue color as that on the brush she held in her hand. In all, the result was a youthful look more fitting for her sixteen years.
She frowned as she used the brush to make another daub at the large canvas flat before her. Then she climbed off the wooden stool she had been standing on and dragged it to another position before the flat.
“Good morning, Miss Lockwell,” Eldyn said, thinking it best to interrupt her before she had climbed back onto the stool, lest he startle her and she take a tumble.
She was indeed startled, given the expression on her face, but only for a moment. Then she smiled.
“Good morning, Mr. Garritt. Since you are here, could you give me your opinion on this? I was thinking it was silly to have Hugoth bother with conjuring ships for the seascape in the first act, for they are only ever in the background, and I was sure I could just as easily paint them. Only now that I have, I think they are rather crooked.”
Eldyn approached and regarded the expanse of canvas to which she had been applying her paints. A pair of ships rode high atop swirls of blue and green and white, their gray sails billowing upon their masts.
“They are indeed listing a bit to one side,” Eldyn admitted. “But that’s only as it should be under the force of a gale. I think they’re remarkable.”
Lily’s brown eyes lit up. “You do? Truly? And here I was fearing they wouldn’t do at all.”
“No, look.” Eldyn moved his hand and conjured a wavering blue-green light. It was a simple illusion, one that took hardly any effort. Yet the effect was to make it seem as if the waves were rising and falling upon the canvas, and that the sails snapped in the wind.
“Oh,” she said, and lowered her brush. “But that’s marvelous.”
Eldyn could not help smiling at her reaction. “It was very simple, as you had already done the great majority of work. If you keep making pieces such as these, Miss Lockwell, we will hardly have to conjure any illusions at all. Not that I am in the least upset by that idea. Rather, I thank you.”
She turned away as she wiped the brush on a cloth. “You do not need to keep thanking me, Mr. Garritt. We all have our roles to play at the theater. This is mine now.”
He hesitated, then took a step toward her. “Do you mean to try to make a life of it, then? Of this?”
Still she was turned away from him, so he could not see her face. “Madame Richelour told me that she is married to the theater. I think … or rather, I hope that it will be the same for me.”
While he could not say he was surprised by these words, still he could not help but feel a shock to hear them coming from her. “You are very young, Miss Lockwell. Your opinion in such things might change.”
Now she did turn to look at him, and while he had expected a petulant frown, her oval-shaped face was instead shaped into a thoughtful expression. “Do you think all of this is just a whim?”
He thought about it, then answered truthfully. “No, I do not think that. I think you feel very deeply about the theater, and also that your sensibilities are remarkably suited for it. And yet …” He sighed, then gestured to the shabby seats, the patched curtain. “You see this house in ill times, Miss Lockwell, but even in the best it was not much less disheveled. At night, all is beautiful beneath the glamour of illusion. But by day the blemishes are more apparent, and they are many. A life on Durrow Street is not always an easy one. It can be hard, even ugly. All the appreciation we might receive onstage does nothing to counter the contempt directed toward us elsewhere. Are you certain you would not rather give yourself to an institution that could offer you more hope of a respectable life?”
“And what institution would that be, Mr. Garritt? If you would have me wed, how can that be? I used to fancy marrying some handsome lord or earl, but I am very sure no rich gentleman would have me now. Nor do I care anymore, for I know now I could never love such a man—a man who counted coins as being more precious than the words in a poem. But those men whom I could feel such an attachment for—well, they would not wed me.”
An ache pierced his heart, and he reached a hand toward her. “Lily …”
She retreated a step. “But you must not appear so sorrowful for me, Mr. Garritt! I am sure I will be very well. A fate such as Madame Richelour’s would be perfectly agreeable to me, so that is what I will strive for.”
In that moment, Eldyn knew he had failed in his promise to protect Lily Lockwell. Yet it had been an impossible oath, for she had been lost the moment she left her house and ventured to Durrow Street. By the time she reached the theater, the damage was irrevocable. She was severed forever from a proper and respectable society, and she was already united with the theater, as surely as if her red dress had been a wedding gown.
“Besides, Mr. Garritt, it is I who should feel sorrow for you.”
He could only gape at this statement. “For me?”
“You never say his name,” she said quietly. Now she no longer retreated from him, but rather approached. “Dercy’s name, I mean. He was the one who was with you at my and Rose’s party, wasn’t he? I’ve heard others speak about him often, with much affection, only you never do. Do you miss him? Is that why you never speak about him?”
Eldyn felt himself listing to one side, like the painted ships on the canvas. “Yes,” he said, his throat suddenly raw. “I miss him so much that I can hardly bear it sometimes.”
Lily looked up at him, and despite the gloom in the theater, her eyes were bright, as if reflecting some illusory light. She lifted herself up onto her toes and leaned close. Her lips nearly brushed his, only they strayed and touched his cheek instead. Then she turned and ran from the stage, vanishing behind a curtain in the wings.
For a minute or more, Eldyn stood there, alone upon the stage. As he did, he stared at the ships painted on the canvas flat. Again he thought of his vision, of standing on the prow of a ship. And of the young man with green eyes and a short golden beard who stood beside him. Earlier that morning, Eldyn had wondered what he would do with himself once the war was finished. But he knew now.
Only why did he need to wait for the war to be over? Eldyn looked down at his hands, at the thin bones and blue veins visible beneath the skin, and he knew Jaimsley was right, that there were few impressions left in him. But he had already done his part, hadn’t he? He had aided the cause of the revolution. The map he had made an impression of was perhaps the vital link to defeating Lord Valhaine. Could Eldyn not take what little life he had left and spend it how he chose—and with whom? Surely he had earned that much.
A sudden energy filled him such as he had not felt in many days, lifting him so strongly he almost thought he would fly off the stage. Instead, he dashed up the aisle between the seats. He would go to Butcher’s Slip and tell Jaimsley his work was done, that he was going to use his illusions to cloak himself and slip past the guards at the gates. He would leave the city behind, and go to the country. And then …
“I will come to you, Dercy,” he said aloud. “No matter what it takes, I will come to you.”
He flung open the door of the theater and stepped into the street.
“There he is!” a voice shouted.
Eldyn thought he should have recognized the voice, for it seemed familiar to him. He stopped short and blinked against the glare, as the sun was in his eyes. He lifted a hand to shade them—
—and a chill descended over him, as if night had fallen again. In the street before him stood four soldiers with rifles in hand, all pointing at Eldyn. He glanced to either side, but the redcrests had left little space for egress. Nor was there any use in summoning shadows; they could not hide him in the bright morning glare.
Motion caught his eye, and he looked forward again. That was when he saw the short, roundish figure standing behind the soldiers. His blue eyes were narrow and hard behind his spectacles, and his plump face, previously so bland, was now twisted in a snarl of exultation.
“Perren.” Eldyn said the word, or rather moaned it in despair.
Yes, it was Perren Fynch—the young illusionist who had taught Eldyn how to make impressions, and whose awkward romantic advances Eldyn had rebuffed. Now the other illusionist advanced on Eldyn once again, but this time it was clearly with other intentions than stealing a kiss. He pointed a pudgy finger directly at Eldyn’s chest.
“He’s the one who made the impressions you found on that spy. I am sure of it, but if you do not believe me, you only have to compare the plates to the work Garritt did for The Swift Arrow.”
“That’s for the Gray Conclave to decide, not us,” said one of the soldiers.
Please, P
erren, don’t do this, Eldyn wanted to say. I have to go.
Only before he could speak the words, the redcrests closed in, and strong hands grappled Eldyn, throwing him roughly to the cobbled street.
A STEADY RAIN was falling as Ivy and the three soldiers walked along the summit of the ridge toward Heathcrest Hall.
The men had slung their rifles over their shoulders, but Ivy knew those weapons could be easily returned to hand in a moment if she were to attempt to flee. Then again, she could hardly see ten steps before them given how the mist was closing in all around. If she ran from them, they could hardly have readied the guns before she was lost from view. Perhaps she would be lucky, and their shots would go wide. Then she could run down the ridge and make for the east, and the grove of Old Trees. Their guns would not help them if they should choose to enter there.
Yet even as she entertained these wild thoughts, she knew there was no point to them. For even if she escaped the men, they were not likely to pursue her through rain into the Wyrdwood. Instead, they would seek out shelter; they would make for the manor house, and there they would find …
“Look over there,” one of the soldiers said—an ox-necked man with a single black brow that ran above both small eyes. “I can see a light in a window just ahead.”
… Rose. She was in the manor, no doubt wondering where Ivy was. Perhaps she had determined Ivy had gone outside, and had set a lamp in the window to help lead Ivy home in the storm. But it was other eyes that saw the light now, and were drawn by it.
“Well, then, it looks like someone’s home,” the sandy-bearded man said. He was a small, thin-shouldered fellow with a large nose and a receding jaw. By the corporal’s stripes upon his dirty blue coat, and by his manner, he was the leader of the trio. “Let’s see if they’re inclined to give us a warm welcome. I suspect they will, if they know what’s good for them.”
A knot of fear welled up in Ivy’s throat. “There are some foodstuffs in the kitchen,” she said. “And a bottle of whiskey. I can fill your packs, and then you can be on your way.”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 60