The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  “Please, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “Open the way.”

  And he did so. He spoke harsh words of magick; his ring threw off blue sparks that struck the wall, crackling over its surface. The stones began to fade away, as if they were no more solid than mist. Then, as the sparks vanished, the stones did as well.

  Now another barrier faced them, and Mr. Bennick nodded toward Ivy. She hesitated, then reached out and touched one of the massive wooden beams that had been revealed behind the stones. The wood seemed to hum beneath her fingers, still vibrating with a memory of life, even though it had been here for centuries.

  It was Wyrdwood.

  These were no mere twigs gleaned from the edges of a grove, though. These were great beams hewn from the cores of ancient trees felled long ago, no doubt with the aid of magick. All the same, shaping them was little different than opening the Wyrdwood box. She formed the thoughts, sending them outward. The beams twisted themselves, bending and growing, until they parted like a curtain to reveal a flat plane of reddish stone. The stone bore no runes or etchings. The only mark upon it was a six-sided indentation in the center of the gate.

  For a gate was precisely what it was.

  Before they descended to the cellar, Mr. Bennick had told them what they would find down there. It was the very same thing the first Earl Rylend had found when he decided to build his house upon this ridge more than two centuries ago, and dug down into the ancient rock to lay the foundations.

  Fascinated by the red slab of stone the workmen uncovered, the first Earl Rylend had undertaken a study of ancient artifacts, and this had led in turn to research into magick. Before his death, he had learned that the red stone was in fact a gate—one which led to a most perilous place—and so he labored with magicians as well as witches to erect barriers to cover it. The next few Rylend earls also maintained an interest in magick, but over time this habit dwindled in the line, eventually dying out, and the gate was forgotten for nearly two hundred years.

  More recently, after stumbling upon some papers and journals left by his ancestor, the last Earl Rylend had rekindled the family interest in the arcane. His desire to learn more about the red stone slab, and its purpose, eventually led him to become aware of the Ashen, and to discover the existence of other artifacts of the first war against them—artifacts such as the Eye of Ran-Yahgren. Earl Rylend had shared much of this knowledge with Mr. Bennick, during the time when Mr. Bennick was at Heathcrest Hall, acting as Lord Wilden’s tutor.

  Ivy had listened raptly as the former magician recounted this history. How many things had been set in motion by that chance discovery of the red slab of stone some two hundred and fifty years ago! Or was it really by chance that it had been uncovered? Perhaps it was the man in the black mask, the Elder One named Myrrgon, who had convinced the first Earl Rylend to erect his house on this ridge and so discover the gate. And perhaps it was he as well who had encouraged the last Earl Rylend to take up his ancestor’s study of magick.

  Ivy could only believe it was so. After all, Myrrgon had directed her own father’s actions, and those of Mr. Bennick. It was easy to believe he had done the same with the Rylend earls over time. The Elder One had claimed his power was limited, and that he had ever been forced to use the subtlest of means so as to avoid attracting the notice of those who served the Ashen. All the same, it was clear he had been able to influence and shape the actions of others over many centuries.

  And it had all led to this very moment.

  “The keystone, Lord Rafferdy,” Mr. Bennick said.

  Mr. Rafferdy reached into his coat pocket and drew out a red stone. It was as big as the palm of his hand, with six flat edges—a mirror to the recess in the gate before them.

  Repairing the keystone had taken little time. They had retrieved the other three fragments from the dust of Mr. Gambrel’s remains. Mr. Rafferdy had arranged them together, and had spoken the required spell which Mr. Lockwell had written down in his final entry in the journal. That was all. Now they had but to set the keystone in its place, and the gate to Cerephus, created by the first magicians eons ago, would open.

  And then …

  “This gate leads to the very heart of one of their ancient cities,” Mr. Bennick said. “When it opens, they will attempt to boil through all at once like ants from a hive.” He looked at Lady Shayde. “That must not happen.”

  “It will not,” she responded.

  “And it will likely be necessary to push the Ashen-slaves away from the gate, to clear a space. I had thought originally to have Mr. Rafferdy attempt to do this by means of magick, but he will need to be ready to speak the runes of closing. Which means it is better if you do this, Ashaydea.”

  Mr. Bennick’s dark eyes were intent upon her.

  “Yes, I will,” she replied at last.

  Mr. Bennick nodded. “Once this is done, Lord Rafferdy and I have only to heave the chest with the Eye through the opening, making sure it passes well beyond. After we do this, Lady Quent, you are to shape the Wyrdwood to block the opening and hold them back. That will give Mr. Rafferdy time to speak the words of closing to shut the gate again.”

  And then it would be over. Her father had described how it would work in that final entry in the journal. The Eye of Ran-Yahgren was itself a window to Cerephus—or a gate, really, for one could pass through a window as easily as through a door. Like the other gates made by the Ashen, the Eye had only been waiting for the moment of the Grand Conjunction to fully open.

  But when it did, it would already be on Cerephus.

  It is one of the very most basic tenets of magick, her father had written. A gate must never be made to open upon itself. You see, it would be like holding up one mirror to another. The arcane energies would be endlessly reflected—until they are released in a most terrible conflagration.

  Both Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Bennick had expounded on this, agreeing this was one of the most fundamental rules of magick. And it was a rule they were about to break in a most monumental fashion. Yet even as she thought this, Ivy realized there was one terrible flaw in the plan.

  “Lady Shayde will go through the gate, to push the Ashen-slaves back and clear a space for the chest with the Eye. But at what point does she then come back through the gate?”

  For a long moment, all of them were silent.

  “I don’t,” Lady Shayde said then.

  Ivy stumbled back, and a low sound of despair escaped her. It was, at the last, too much that this should be asked. She could only think of the pretty girl in the portrait that hung above the landing, of her almond skin and dark eyes. A child born of a Murghese mother and an Altanian lord—a being born of war, and of two worlds, herself.

  Then Lady Shayde was there, and laid a cool hand upon her arm, holding Ivy steady.

  “Do not feel sorrow for me, Lady Quent,” she said softly, her white face hovering in the gloom. “Remember, I do not feel it as you do. And this is the purpose for which I was made. I am yours to command, but all the same I ask you this—allow me to go.”

  Ivy gazed into those black eyes. At last she lifted a hand, and touched that smooth, cold cheek. Unlike Ivy’s own, it was utterly dry.

  “We should not delay,” Mr. Bennick said. “The Grand Conjunction approaches.”

  Ivy drew a deep breath.

  “Mr. Rafferdy,” she said, “open the gate.”

  LESS THAN a quarter of an hour later, they ascended from the cellar and returned to the front hall. It had grown even darker since their descent. All was an eerie purple gloom outside the windows, and the only light came from the lanterns they carried, and from the dying coals upon the hearth.

  The room was drafty, and Ivy shivered. But it was not just the chill that caused her to do so. Gazing at the embers within the fireplace was not so different than gazing through the gate after Mr. Rafferdy had placed the keystone into its niche. Beyond she had glimpsed dark shapes lit from behind by the glow of a lurid crimson sky.

  Then, like black eggs hatching
, the shapes unfurled with terrible speed and came boiling toward the opening of the gate. Yet even as they reached it, they met with another dark shape, one that moved even faster, her pale hands becoming a blur upon the air like a deadly white mist. Those shadows that came in contact with it burst asunder.

  In all, it had taken but moments. Lady Shayde had pressed through the gate, and beyond. Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Bennick had heaved the chest through the opening. Then Mr. Bennick was shouting at Ivy to shut the way. She had laid a hand upon one of the ancient wooden beams. For a moment she gazed through the gate. The last thing she saw was the white mist being enveloped by an oily sea of shadow.

  Then Ivy called to the Wyrdwood, and bands of wood wove a strong net over the door, holding back the shadows and giving Mr. Rafferdy time to speak the runes of closing. Before Ivy knew it, the three of them were moving up the stairs—three returning above, after four had gone below.

  “Will they understand what it was you cast through the gate?” Ivy said, gazing at the pulsing coals on the hearth. “Will they know the doom which the Eye represents for them?”

  “I doubt it,” Mr. Bennick said behind her. “The Eye of Ran-Yahgren was created by the Ashen. The gol-yagru will only sense the power of their masters in it, and so will do nothing against it. Even if they did realize what it meant, it would not matter. The Eye is not a thing that can be easily destroyed, and nor would they have a means to send it away from their world—not until the Grand Conjunction comes, and Cerephus draws close enough for the Ashen gates to open. And then it will be too late.”

  Ivy let out a breath. “So it is done, then.”

  “Not quite. But it will be so, when the final occlusion occurs. Though I believe Lord Rafferdy yet has something he must do in the meantime.”

  Startled, Ivy turned away from the fireplace to gaze at Mr. Rafferdy. His face was solemn in the lamplight.

  “I must get to Pellendry-on-Anbyrn,” he said. “And quickly, before the Grand Conjunction is complete.”

  She started to ask him why, only then she understood. “You described how four magicians of your order were marching with Morden’s men to find the Ashen gates and alter the runes on them. But there were five gates marked on the map, weren’t there?”

  He nodded. “The fifth is at Pellendry, but none of the other magicians were near to that place.”

  “But neither is County Westmorain!”

  “No, it isn’t. But the gate I came through to reach the way station on Arantus was.”

  At once she understood. If Mr. Rafferdy was not able to reach Pellendry-on-Anbyrn, the fifth gate would open when the final occlusion occurred, and the Ashen would come streaming through—to the very place where one of Huntley Morden’s armies was marching.

  “We must go back to the Wyrdwood at once,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, then looked at Mr. Bennick. “If I have time, that is.”

  “You have some hours,” the former magician said. “Five, perhaps six at the most. It might not be enough to find the gate and alter it.”

  “It will have to be,” Mr. Rafferdy said grimly. “Mrs. Quent, are you ready?”

  She took up her cape. “Let us go. Mr. Bennick, will you come with us?”

  “No, I believe I will stay here and watch over Lord Farrolbrook, to see if he wakes. And to be certain your sister is well.”

  Ivy gave him a grateful look, then turned and followed Mr. Rafferdy through the door. Outside, a preternatural twilight had settled over the world. Stars were beginning to shimmer in the sky. Above, no more than a thin sliver of the sun remained visible; the bloated disk of Cerephus had eaten almost all of it.

  Neither she nor Mr. Rafferdy spoke as they raced down the side of the ridge and across the moor. To Ivy, it seemed she could feel the world turning beneath her, spinning along with the other planets as they all fell in line. Despite her gasping breaths, she did not falter, and she kept pace with Mr. Rafferdy even as they dashed up the slope to the old stone wall.

  “Let me go first,” she said, breathless, then passed through the crack in the wall.

  Once through, she reached out her hands, touching gnarled branches. Let us pass, she called out. Please, we must hurry.

  Leaves rustled, like a sigh passing through the grove. In the gloaming, Ivy could make out the faint line of a path ahead. Then Mr. Rafferdy was behind her.

  “Stay close,” she said, and led the way through the trees.

  It did not take long until they reached the clearing in the center of the grove and the gate. The queer purple light filtered down through the opening in the trees as Mr. Rafferdy approached the heap of ancient stones. She waited for him to speak the words of magick that would invoke its power. Only he remained silent.

  Ivy did not understand. Was not time of the essence? Only, for some reason, she did not urge him to go.

  At last he turned around. “It is not just to the Ashen gate that I go now, Mrs. Quent. You must know, I go to war as well. It is my hope to join up with my company again, and fight with them against Lord Valhaine’s army.”

  An ache sprang up in her throat. She wished to say something, anything, but she could not. In the dim light, it was not a fear she saw on his face, but rather a firm resolve.

  “It is possible I will never see you again,” he went on. “Which is why I must tell you something. You may not welcome it. You may wish that I did not speak it. Surely it is far from the proper time for such a thing, so soon after …” He shook his head. “But I cannot be certain I will ever have another opportunity to say it, and so therefore I must.”

  Still she had not the power to speak, for suddenly she thought she knew what he was going to say.

  “I have never in my life given my heart to another,” he said, taking a step toward her. “And I may never have that chance, depending on what happens before dawn comes again—if it ever comes at all. But if it ever did come, and if I ever were able to have that chance, then I want you to know that I would give my heart to you, Mrs. Quent. Even if you did not want it, even if you would cast it aside, still I would give it to you, and gladly.”

  Her own heart was beating swiftly in her chest. Around her, the trees swayed and trembled, as if they too suffered the chaotic swirl of thoughts and feelings that passed through her. Her husband was gone. The sun perished in the sky. The Ashen hungered to consume the world. How could she possibly consider anything that had to do with light or joy or life?

  And yet—

  “No,” he said softly. “I beg you, do not answer me. If somehow I should survive this long night, if any of us should survive it, then you can tell me what your answer is. Tell me when it is day again. Until then, while it remains night, let me continue to dream.”

  Ivy let out a breath. The trees around the clearing grew still. She met his eyes in the gloom.

  “I will see you again, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “After the dawn.”

  He gave a deep bow. Then he turned to lay a hand upon the gate, and in a blaze of azure magick, he was gone.

  FIVE HOURS LATER, Rafferdy climbed out of the pit in the ground. He clambered over the heaps of dirt that had been rapidly thrown aside by a score of men armed with shovels.

  Weary, he sat down on a stone and wiped his brow. A private handed him a tin cup of water, and he drank it gladly. Around him, in the faint half light, infantrymen ran to and fro in great haste as sergeants barked orders and cavalry soldiers galloped by. It was the last press to shore up their position and form their defenses ahead of the battle.

  At least now they would have but one army to fight. Rafferdy cast a glance over his shoulder, back down in the pit. At the bottom lay the arch of reddish stone that had been uncovered, seeming to glow in the eerie light of stars and planets that fell from the sky.

  It had taken over two hours of furious digging until the first shovel struck red stone. Rafferdy had feared the men thought him mad as he barked orders, but the bright sparks thrown off by his ring had convinced him that they
were digging in the right place. And perhaps it was the ring that had also convinced the general to listen to him, and to believe the outlandish tale he had told.

  It had taken Rafferdy over two hours to reach Pellendry-on-Anbyrn, and in that he was lucky. Speaking a litany of runes, he had managed to escape the grove of Wyrdwood unharmed after appearing through the gate. After that he had started down the road to Pellendry, but he soon realized that even if he were to run the whole way, he would never make it in time. Above, the sun had become no more than a fiery corona around Cerephus. The final occlusion was approaching.

  And then something else was approaching as well, something far more welcome—a company of cavalrymen coming up on the road behind him. They stopped when they reached him, and when they saw the stripes on his coat they greeted him warmly. They were riding hard for Pellendry, and they had a spare horse. In short order he was thundering down the road along with them.

  As soon as they reached the rebel army, Rafferdy sought out the general’s tent. He told the lieutenant outside that he had crucial information about the coming battle, and at once was shown inside. There he explained to the general what had to be done.

  “If you had told me all of this a month ago, I suppose I would have had you put in confinement for a day,” the general had said, stroking his gray-shot beard. “But after some of the things I’ve seen of late—men who do not bleed, and attacks by what seem to be wolves when there are no wolves in this part of the country …” He had glanced at Rafferdy’s ring, which was even then glowing, and gave a grim nod. “Take a company of infantry, Captain Rafferdy, and do what you must.”

  So he had. And now the task was done. In the pit, timeworn symbols covered one side of the ancient stone arch, while on the other, sharp new runes marked the stones—runes carved by Rafferdy himself, copied from the symbols in his black book. The magick was done; the gate was redirected. And none too soon, given the thickening gloom.