The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  Now all he had to do was seek out his company, which had to be here somewhere, and lead them into battle. It was rash, of course. Even without the Ashen involved, the odds were likely to be against them. Yet running headlong toward a line of Valhaine’s soldiers seemed positively sane compared to what he had done in the grove of Wyrdwood near Heathcrest. What had he been thinking, to speak to Mrs. Quent like that?

  Except he knew the answer. A soldier could only throw himself into the fray, no matter how mad it seemed, when it was for a cause he believed in with all his being. If he became a casualty as a result—so be it.

  “Captain Rafferdy?”

  He looked up, thinking the private wanted the tin cup back. Only, by the bars on his coat, it was a lieutenant.

  “Yes?” Rafferdy said.

  “The commander wants to see you, sir.”

  Rafferdy nodded and followed after the lieutenant. It was only when they approached the large tent that he realized this was not the place where he had spoken to the general. A banner with a green hawk hung by the door. That should have been warning enough for Rafferdy. But such was his weariness that it wasn’t until he stepped inside that he realized it wasn’t a commander who had summoned him.

  Rather, it was the commander.

  He turned from the table where he had been poring over maps of the battlefield. In the lamplight, he looked a little older and more careworn than Rafferdy expected. His red hair was touched by gray at the temples, and silver flecked his copper beard. He was not so tall as Rafferdy, though he was broad and powerfully built, and he moved with an assured and easy strength. In no way did he look like a man who had been coddled in the court of a foreign prince. This was someone who had spent his entire life preparing for war. For this war.

  “I am told you were digging for something, Captain Rafferdy,” Huntley Morden said, his voice low and touched by only the slightest Torland accent. “Did you find it?”

  “We did, sir,” he said, not entirely certain how to answer. “It was …”

  The other man sensed his hesitation. “You may speak freely with me, Captain. I would be aware of all things that occur under my command, and I will never fault a man for speaking the truth.”

  Rafferdy nodded. “It was a gate, sir—an artifact of magick.” And he explained, as clearly and succinctly as he could, what the gate was, how it functioned, and how he had come to learn of it.

  As he spoke, Huntley Morden’s gaze had returned to his maps. For a long minute he was silent. “I have heard of such things,” he said at last. “My grandfather used to tell me tales of shadows that prowled at the edge of the world, and of a hungering darkness from across the void—one that could never be sated. I used to think they were simply stories meant to frighten a young boy.”

  “And what do you think now, sir?”

  The other man looked up. “Now I am no longer a boy, and I know that we should indeed be frightened.”

  Rafferdy swallowed. “Yes,” he said, “we should.”

  Huntley Morden nodded. Then, all at once, he grinned. “I imagine you are anxious to join your company, Captain Rafferdy. I believe my lieutenant can tell you where to find them. I trust you and your men will help me send Valhaine’s soldiers running from the field.”

  Rafferdy found himself grinning in return. “With their tails tucked between their legs, sir.”

  Morden held out his hand. Rafferdy shook it and thought, I am shaking the hand of the next king of Altania.

  Then he left the tent and went to find his company, and to find a gun, and to fight for king and country.

  EVEN AS, when the hands align themselves together on the face of a clock, an hour is struck, so it was in the heavens. The celestial spheres turned one last fraction of a degree. The twelfth planet—dim Memnymion—stood in line precisely with the others. After ten thousand years, the cycle had reached its terminus. One after the other, a shadow fell upon each of the great orbs, casting all but one of them in absolute darkness.

  Only the newest wanderer, the one called Cerephus, remained alight in the firmament, and it burned like a hot coal in the void: an eye gazing with a ravenous hunger at the other worlds arranged before its gaze—particularly the orb that was closest. The umbra cast by Cerephus reached out, closing around that small, green-blue world like a burnt fist. And then …

  The red eye flared suddenly, its crimson light now tinged with blue. For several minutes it blazed so brightly that it shone like a violent sun, drenching that little orb nearest it with a livid illumination.

  Then the red eye blinked, and went dark.

  At the same time, on a small green island on the small green-blue planet, the few stands of ancient forest that still remained awoke from their slumber. The trees recognized the shadows which had abruptly intruded into their silent groves. They knew these things—and they remembered what to do.

  For many hours the long night endured, well after the forest groves fell still once again. A rime of white ice tinged the little green-blue world, like frost upon a windowpane. Then, at last, the celestial spheres turned another tick. The first of the orbs to have fallen into line, capricious Eides, was the first to break the ranks. The others followed suit.

  The long night was over.

  THE SKY WAS A COLD, crystalline blue that day.

  Eldyn stood amid the throngs of people on the edges of Marble Street, not far from the Halls of Assembly. He was glad for the press of bodies around him, for despite the sunshine a chill yet hung on the air. Three swift days had come and gone since the long, terrible night ended, but still the world had not fully grown warm again.

  For a while, Eldyn had feared it might freeze solid altogether. He and the other illusionists had huddled in the parlor above the theater as the darkness went on and on. They stoked the stove with coal, but it hardly seemed to make a difference. Soon they could see their breath fogging on the air, like illusory clouds, and they could not stop shivering.

  Still the night continued. After thirty hours of darkness, the coal for the stove ran out, and the frost was a half-inch thick on the windowpanes. They began breaking apart wooden props and pieces of scenery to feed into the fire. Forty hours passed. Fifty. The shouts and distant screams they had heard outside ceased. To venture outside would be to perish in minutes.

  The world grew utterly still, and they began to run out of stage props to break apart and burn. Sixty hours of darkness. Seventy. The final hours found them silently pressing around Master Tallyroth’s chaise, attempting to keep him—and themselves—from freezing. Then, abruptly, a pink glow touched the windowpanes. Eldyn thought at first it was some trick of Mouse’s. Only as the glow brightened, he saw it was no phantasm.

  Dawn had come at last.

  How many people in the city had perished from the frigid cold was still not truly known, though the number could only be very high. Despite this, a carnival atmosphere now filled the city. People jostled along the street, trying to get a better view down the broad avenue. Makeshift banners of hastily dyed green cloth fastened to broomsticks snapped in a crisp wind.

  From the sight, it was hard to believe that three short days ago they had all been freezing and starving. Just yesterday, warehouses down in Waterside, full of grain and other foodstuffs which Valhaine had been hoarding for his troops, had been discovered and broken into, and the goods distributed to all comers. Nor had any of Valhaine’s soldiers stopped the people in this, for there were none to be seen. Once news of Morden’s decisive victory at Pellendry reached the city, the redcrests either threw down their arms and fled, or they took off their uniforms and melded back in with the crowds in the city. As for Lord Valhaine himself, there had been no sign these last days, though rumors had raced through the city claiming he was dead—murdered sometime during the long dark at the hands of his own magicians.

  Now people along the street laughed and clapped their hands and whistled. A rider had cantered by a little while ago shouting news—the moment they were waiting for was nea
r. The long night was over, and the war as well. It was time for a new day to begin for Altania.

  “Here you go,” spoke a voice behind him. “I bought one for each of us.”

  Eldyn turned around in surprise. “There you are! You vanished without a word, you rascal. Where were you?”

  “I went to buy you a treacle tart,” Dercy said, grinning. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

  It was only then that Eldyn saw Dercy indeed held one of the sticky sweets in each of his hands. Some baker must have managed to get hold of molasses and flour yesterday down at the warehouses and was no doubt now selling the result for an exorbitant sum.

  When Eldyn was a boy, his father had taken him to see a hanging at Barrowgate, and had bought him a treacle tart. Eldyn had not been able to eat the thing for the queasiness in his stomach that day; he had been horrified at the way the people around him had laughed and jeered at the sight of a death. But now it was for something far different that the people around him were cheering.

  “Go on,” Dercy said. “You could use it.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” Eldyn said. “I’m sure these cost a fortune.” But he accepted the warm tart, and took a bite. The edges were crisp, and it was sweet and delicious. Surprised at his hunger, he gobbled it quickly—though no more quickly than Dercy did his.

  Dercy gave a sticky grin. “Well, was it good?”

  Yes, Eldyn tried to say, but suddenly his teeth were chattering, and a violent shiver passed through him. Dercy’s smile turned into a look of concern.

  “You’re half blue with cold,” he said, taking one of Eldyn’s hands and pressing it between his own.

  Eldyn looked at his other hand: it was thin and trembling, and the spidery lines of veins snaked up the back. He had hardly made any illusions or impressions since making the copy of the map for Jaimsley. But it didn’t matter; even if he never expended another bit of light in his life, he would still always have the mordoth.

  Dercy must have noticed his gaze. “Don’t worry, Eldyn. We’ll take care of that, you’ll see. After today, it will be safe enough to leave the city. You can be sure that he will have made certain none of Valhaine’s men are left lurking about. It won’t be long before you’re good as new.”

  Eldyn knew that wasn’t entirely true. After all, Dercy himself was not good as new. There were still lines beside his green eyes, and a dusting of white in his blond hair and beard. Yet there could be no doubt that he was greatly recovered compared to those first days after Archdeacon Lemarck had stolen a great quantity of his light. He had even been able to work illusions that day when he and the two magicians had rescued Eldyn from the gallows—though after he had done so, it had seemed to Eldyn that a few more gray flecks had appeared in Dercy’s beard. All the same, there was no reason to believe he couldn’t recover further, or Eldyn as well.

  And it was all because of the Old Trees.

  It was during his time in the country that Dercy had discovered the restorative effects of the Wyrdwood. There had been a small grove of Old Trees not far from his cousin’s house, and Dercy had found himself drawn to it for some reason. He would have his cousin drive him there in a surrey, and he would sit for hours at the base of the wall, drowsing as he listened to the murmur of the trees.

  Only after a while, he realized he didn’t need his cousin to drive him there, for he grew strong enough to walk to the grove himself. And the more time he spent in the presence of the Old Trees, the more strength and energy he found that he had. It was remarkable, yet perhaps there was a sort of sense to it. After all, witches themselves had a connection with the Old Trees. So why shouldn’t their sons as well?

  “We’ll take you to the Evengrove,” Dercy said. “We’ll stay at an inn nearby so we can go to the grove every day. And we’ll take Master Tallyroth as well.” He squeezed Eldyn’s hand, gently yet firmly. “We’ll make you well again, Eldyn. And then—”

  But Dercy didn’t get to say what they would do next, for at that moment a great roar rose from the crowd. Eldyn looked up, and down Marble Street he saw a procession of men on horses coming, followed by soldiers in brown coats marching on foot.

  The procession came nearer as the people cheered and waved their banners. At its front was a hale-looking man of middle years riding on a great bay horse. The sunlight set his hair and beard ablaze, and it glinted off the profusion of medals and bars on his green coat. One might have thought he would be solemn on such an occasion, but instead he was grinning broadly, and as he rode down Marble Street he waved to the people thronging on either side, his arm never seeming to tire.

  Eldyn was sure it was impossible—after all, he was just one person in a great crowd—but as Huntley Morden rode past, he turned his head in Eldyn’s direction, and it seemed to Eldyn that their eyes met for just a moment, and that the older man nodded. Only maybe it wasn’t impossible, for as Morden rode on, Eldyn saw him nod in a similar fashion to others, doing so again and again, as if to acknowledge each and every one of them in the crowd that day, and to thank them.

  The next thing Eldyn knew he was cheering wildly, and Dercy was doing the same beside him, even as the illusion of a green hawk went speeding into the brilliant sky.

  IT WAS LESS than a month after the end of the war when the ceremony was held at the Citadel.

  Ivy was astonished it was all happening so soon. Yet it was clear that Huntley Morden was a man of action. Besides, no one could disagree that the nation required every source of joy and reconciliation that could be found at present, and it was clear that Princess Layle was of the same mind.

  So it was, on a mild lumenal of moderate length, that Huntley Morden and Princess Layle were married at St. Galmuth’s cathedral. After these vows to each other were made, further oaths were made binding them both to the nation, and they were crowned king and queen. In that act, what had been broken centuries ago was at last made whole. House Morden and House Arringhart were united, and so was Altania.

  But it was not just these two who would rule the nation now—it was everyone. For in signing the papers for his coronation, Huntley Morden had granted broad new powers to the Halls of Assembly. As king he would be a strong guide to the nation—but only a guide. It would be for the people themselves to decide which direction Altania would go, and how to propel itself forward. Nor was the Crown the only one giving something up. In exchange for ceding some amount of his authority to Assembly, the king had extracted the agreement that the seats in the Hall of Magnates would no longer be inherited; rather, members of that Hall would be freely elected, just as they were in the Hall of Citizens.

  The only thing more astonishing to Ivy than all these events was the fact that she had been invited to them. It seemed that Huntley Morden had been well aware of the Inquiry’s efforts to protect the Wyrdwood, and so in his view Sir Quent was a hero of the realm. As such, his widow was invited to attend the wedding.

  Ivy might have been in a panic to go to such an affair on her own, but fortunately she was not alone. Evidently a certain captain and magician had caught Morden’s eye at Pellendry for bold and remarkable actions—both on the field of battle and off. Thus it was that Ivy found herself standing beside Lord Rafferdy throughout the ceremony in the cathedral.

  It was the first time Ivy had seen him since she had taken him to the gate in the Wyrdwood. At first she had hardly recognized the tall, straight-backed man with the tanned and handsome face, for he had been so solemn. Only then he smiled, and her heart had fluttered within her, recognizing him even more swiftly than her gaze did.

  There was little opportunity to speak to Lord Rafferdy throughout the ceremony—which was just as well, for Ivy hardly knew what she would have said to him. Yet to have him there was greatly reassuring—though for some reason her heart never seemed to cease in its little palpitations and flutters. Entranced, she watched as Huntley Morden and Princess Layle made their commitments to each other and to the nation. She wondered if it was possible that they loved one another. Giv
en that they had known each other less than a month, she supposed that was not the case. Yet it was certain they both loved Altania; and perhaps that was something from which a mutual admiration could grow. What was not in doubt was that, despite the fact that neither was in their youth anymore, they made a handsome couple as they descended the steps of the cathedral while the bells rang out.

  The next day, Ivy was summoned to the Citadel for another ceremony. The new king wished to waste no time pardoning those who had been wrongly condemned under Lord Valhaine’s rule, and to make amends for those deeds. Though of course, some harms could never be undone.

  At last Ivy heard her own name called, and she walked past the rows of stone columns to the thrones occupied by the new king and queen. There, on behalf of her husband, she accepted the pardon of Sir Quent for any and all crimes of which he had been accused.

  This, Ivy had expected. What happened next she had not. For his heroic service and sacrifice to the nation, Sir Quent was being posthumously granted the title of earl of Cairnbridge, along with all pursuant lands and holdings. That in this same act Ivy herself was made into a countess was not lost upon her, and she might have swooned with all eyes in the hall upon her. Only then a strong hand took her arm.

  It was the new king himself who steadied her. Though he was near to forty, Huntley Morden’s face had a boyish quality to it. All the same, his blue eyes were solemn as they met her own.

  “Do not look so aghast, Lady Quent,” he said softly, so that in the hall only she might hear him. “Knowledge has come to me that convinces me this honor is no less fitting for the countess of Cairnbridge than for the earl. There were many battles fought in this war, and not only against Lord Valhaine’s army. Your husband’s actions helped to guard our nation against those other foes, the ones in the shadows, and I believe it is the case that your own actions did the same. If I had a medal I might give to you, Lady Quent, I would. I hope you will accept these other things—this title, these lands—instead, and my gratitude as well.”