The Magicians and Mrs. Quent
Page 63
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really.” It was true. She did feel fine. Even now she could sense the soothing presence of the wood taken from a grove of ancient forest. She could tell that it had been cut, not picked up as deadfall, yet she could sense no resentment from it. Indeed, she had the feeling it had let itself be taken willingly….
“Now that’s peculiar,” Mr. Rafferdy said as he walked around the artifact.
She looked at him. “What is it?”
“Watch it for a moment. Don’t gaze into it, but just look at the edges of the crystal. Do you see it now—the way it’s moving?”
A bit of the sick feeling sank back into Ivy’s stomach. Mr. Rafferdy was right. The motion was subtle but unmistakable; even as she watched, the surface of the sphere expanded inward and outward, growing and shrinking by turns. She started to draw near, to examine the effect closer.
A shadow passed inside the orb, dimming it, and the whole thing shook. The shadow vanished as whatever had cast it moved by, and the artifact settled again upon its stand—though it continued to grow and shrink.
“The spell,” she said, turning toward Mr. Rafferdy. “I think you should speak the spell to renew the binding.”
He swallowed. “I believe you’re right. Give me the paper, then.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry?”
“I said give me the paper.”
“What paper?”
“You know, the paper with the spell—your father’s letter.”
“I don’t have it.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean you don’t have it? Of course you have it.”
“You have your own copy of the spell. Surely you took it to Mr. Bennick’s.”
“No, I was starting to grow afraid he’d discover me looking at it. I left it because I knew you’d bring your father’s letter with you.”
“But I didn’t bring it! It’s still at—”
A loud noise echoed up from below, as of something cracking apart. They exchanged wild looks.
“You’ll have to speak it from memory.”
He took a step back, alarm on his face. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” she said, advancing toward him. “I know you can.”
“You’re wrong. I don’t dare. If I were to make a mistake—”
“You won’t. You’ve spoken every part of the spell over and over.”
“Not the last lines. I don’t know them by heart—not like you do.” He looked at her. “That’s it, Mrs. Quent. You know the last phrases of the spell—you can tell them to me.”
“No, I can’t,” she said, despairing. “I can’t speak them at all.”
“But you could write them down, couldn’t you?”
For a moment she stared at him. Then she was running. Ivy dashed from the room, out the study door, and down the corridor. She went from room to room, ripping the cloths from the furniture until, in the third room, she found a desk. A quick search revealed a few sheaves of paper in one drawer and a pen in another, but that wasn’t enough. She opened more drawers, rummaging through their contents.
Her fingers closed around a hard object at the back of one of the drawers, and as she pulled it out she felt a spark of triumph: it was an ink bottle. She opened the bottle, dipped the pen, and set its tip to the paper.
It did not leave a mark. She dipped it again, but it was no use. With growing dread she turned the ink bottle over. Nothing came out. It had dried up long ago.
A sound like thunder rattled the house. Only it did not come from the clouds but rather rose up from the first floor.
“Mrs. Quent!” she heard Mr. Rafferdy’s voice call out from the corridor. “Where are you?”
“I’m coming!” she called back. “Just a moment.”
There was no time to look for more ink. For a second she held her breath, steeling herself. Then with a quick motion she jabbed the nib of the pen into her fingertip.
She had worried it would be hard to draw blood, but her urgency had made her blow more vigorous than intended, and a steady flow of red oozed from her fingertip. Hissing against the pain, she squeezed her finger, directing the trickle of blood into the bottle. Then she dipped the pen and, at a furious pace, began to write.
“Mrs. Quent!” came Mr. Rafferdy’s voice again. She concentrated, writing the last few words, making sure they were correct. Then she ran out into the corridor, sucking her wounded finger as she went.
“There you are,” he said, looking relieved. He nodded toward the stairs. “I don’t know what’s happening down there. I don’t hear anything anymore.”
The house had fallen silent. Perhaps there was still time.
“Here,” she said, handing him the paper.
“But this doesn’t look like ink. How did you—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, grabbing his elbow. “Hurry—you have to work the enchantment.”
Together they ran back down the corridor, into her father’s magick room and the chamber beyond. The crystal orb still seemed to expand and contract, an eye opening wider each time it blinked. The crimson light pulsed on the air. Ivy took out the parcel she had purchased from Mr. Mundy and gave it to Mr. Rafferdy. He poured out the various powders, tracing three concentric circles around the artifact, then with a finger drew the prescribed runes.
“I think it’s ready,” he said, rising.
Ivy examined the runes; as far as she could tell they looked correct. Holding the paper, Mr. Rafferdy faced the orb. His face looked pale in the lurid illumination.
“Now, Mr. Rafferdy,” Ivy said, breathless. “Work the enchantment.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said a low voice behind her.
It felt as if she were moving through water. Slowly, Ivy turned around. As she did, a man in a black robe entered the room. Two more came with him. She could see another pair of dark figures through the doorway.
“Mr. Rafferdy, speak the spell!” she cried.
“I wouldn’t advise that, Mr. Rafferdy,” the magician said, his voice calm and even. “If you speak one word of magick, I assure you that Mrs. Quent will be dead before you can utter a second.”
“No, you can’t do that,” Mr. Rafferdy said. “Magick is for opening and binding things. Your own Mr. Bennick taught me that.”
The dark cowl moved as the magician nodded. “Yes, for binding things.” He reached out a hand. “What if I were to bind her lungs so that they could not draw a breath? Or her heart so it could not beat?”
Mr. Rafferdy clenched his jaw but said nothing. Despite her fear, an anger rose in Ivy. Who were these men to threaten her so?
“If you take one step nearer, he’ll knock it down,” she said. “What magick will there be in the orb when it lies in a heap of broken shards? Do it, Mr. Rafferdy. If they come closer, push the stand over.”
Beside her, Mr. Rafferdy hefted his cane.
The magician gestured with a hand. “Please, do break the crystal, Mr. Rafferdy. Strike it with your cane, knock it over, and see what comes through. Except you won’t see a thing. For the moment you touch it, you’ll be dead. The binding on the eye will see to that.”
Mr. Rafferdy tightened his grip on the cane. “You’re lying.”
The black hood tilted to one side. “Am I? Why do you think we’ve been waiting all these years for the enchantment to weaken? Only we won’t have to wait much longer. Even now it is near to opening. When you unlocked the house, you also weakened the binding. For that we owe you our thanks. So you see, Mr. Rafferdy, there’s no need to expend your life. The eye will shatter very soon now. And when it does, they will come through.”
Mr. Rafferdy scowled. “Who will come through?”
“The Ashen,” Ivy said quietly.
The magician nodded to her. “You know much, Mrs. Quent. Yet you know so much less than you think you do. Nor do I have the time or desire to explain it to you. Now, both of you, please stand aside.”
Ivy started to protest, but Mr. Rafferdy took her
wrist and pulled her back. “We can’t,” he murmured. “There are too many of them, and they have magick.”
Anguish filled her, but he was right. Together the two retreated deeper into the room, to one side of the artifact. The other two came in, and the first three who had entered approached the sphere. As they did, they pushed back their hoods. All were men. Ivy recognized none of them.
“The Eye of Ran-Yahgren,” one of them said, a man with a thin nose and a thin, sharp mouth. “God in Eternum, it’s real.”
“Of course it’s real,” the first magician said, a note of disgust in his deep voice. He was dark-haired and his countenance stern, even lordly. “And its existence has nothing to do with God—at least not the God to whom the priests in St. Galmuth’s mumble worthless prayers. It is a far older deity who should be thanked for this wonder.”
“It’s beautiful,” said the third magician, a man who looked little older than Mr. Rafferdy. He approached the orb, and the crimson light bathed his face. “I can see something inside!” he exclaimed.
He bent closer, peering into the crystal sphere. Ivy started to say something, but Mr. Rafferdy squeezed her wrist, and she bit her tongue. The dark-haired man exchanged a look with the thin-nosed one, but neither of them said anything.
“It’s huge,” the young magician said, his face close to the artifact. “The sun looks so huge there, and the land—I can’t even see it. It’s covered with—but it’s them, of course. It has to be. I can see them moving past one another, over one another. There are thousands upon thousands of them. How can they survive? What do they possibly consume for nourishment? Unless it is—wait, there is one nearby. I think one of them can see me. I believe it’s moving closer.” He lifted a hand. “Yes, it’s coming this way. It’s almost—”
As once before, a shadow filled the orb, as if something had drawn closer to its inner surface. At the same moment the young magician screamed. It was a shrill sound. His hands curled back from the artifact, clawing at his face, his eyes.
“It saw me!” he shrieked. “No, it saw inside me, and there was nothing there!”
He staggered back, his hands still scrabbling at his face. To Ivy’s horror, she saw blood oozing from between his fingers. The other magicians reached for him, but he twisted his way past them.
“There was nothing!” he shouted again. Then his cry became a wordless scream. He ran out of the room, through the chamber beyond, and into the corridor. A moment later there came a thudding noise, and the screaming ceased.
Ivy watched as one of the magicians left the chamber. He returned a minute later, leaning his hooded head toward the dark-haired man.
“His neck was broken,” the magician said. “He fell down the stairs.”
“More likely he threw himself down,” the dark-haired man said with what seemed the trace of a smile. “It’s just as we were promised. Their power is great indeed.”
The other man licked his thin lips. “Are you certain we—that is, surely they would not harm us?”
“On the contrary,” the dark-haired man said. “They would eat you from the inside out until you were nothing more than a husk, one they could climb inside and do with what they wished—but only if we were to allow it. All we have to do is call the circle of power, and any that come through when the enchantment is broken will be bound to us as slaves. Then we will put a new binding on the eye—one we can open and close as we wish. We will not be denied our servants this time.” He cast a sharp look at Ivy. “Not as we were once before.”
The magician walked around the artifact. “How good of you to draw the circle of power for us, Mr. Rafferdy. You’ve made our task easy indeed. I have only to correct a few of the runes you drew improperly…” He knelt, tracing a hand through the powder on the floor. “There, it is ready.”
“What should we do about them?” the thin-nosed one said, pointing to Ivy and Mr. Rafferdy.
“Bind him. He’s a magician.”
“Are you fools?” Mr. Rafferdy said, stepping in front of Ivy. “That man was one of your own. You saw what just looking through that thing did to him. It’s madness to open it. You have—”
Several of the magicians raised their hands and spoke guttural words. At the same moment Mr. Rafferdy ceased moving, his body going rigid. His eyes stared blindly. Ivy let out a cry and touched his arm. It was as hard as stone. She studied him and after a moment could detect that he was breathing. Only the breaths were so slow, so shallow.
She looked up, glaring at the magicians. To her eyes, the ruby light in the room was tinged with emerald.
“What of her?” the man with the thin nose said.
The dark-haired one shrugged. “What can a woman do against us?”
The other nodded. Then the four remaining magicians arranged themselves in front of the crystal sphere, and washed in its impossible light they began to chant in a language older than mankind itself. The symbol drawn on the floor glowed blue. On the stand the artifact shuddered and swelled—a red eye gazing in a baleful stare.
A green veil seemed to descend over Ivy’s vision. She let go of Mr. Rafferdy’s motionless arm and stood straight. Fear departed her. Who were these men to presume that they could undo what her father had given so much—the very essence of himself—to achieve? She did not know what the place she could see through the orb was or what the things there were. All she knew was that if these magicians—these men—wanted something, then it could not be allowed.
What can a woman do against us? their leader had said.
Ivy took a step toward the artifact. Jagged lines of blue light snaked across the suface of the sphere like cracks. Enrapt in their spell, the men did not seem to see her. Her lips curved into a smile, and she took another step closer. Yes, she would show them what a woman could do.
Ivy shut her eyes. Grow, she said silently. Grow wild once more.
The sound of chanting ceased, replaced by muffled cries and choking sounds. Ivy opened her eyes.
It had happened even more quickly than she had thought. The legs of the wooden stand twisted and thickened, sinking roots into the floorboards. At the same time, green tendrils rose up out of the floor, tangling around the feet of the magicians, coiling up their bodies, around their arms, their necks, into their mouths. The men gagged, struggling and reeling.
“Grow,” Ivy spoke the word aloud this time.
The Wyrdwood listened. The tendrils thickened into stout cords, binding the men so they could not move, could not speak. The braided frame holding the sphere rippled like a mass of brown serpents. Ivy could sense the tendrils weaving together, pulling the surface of the orb inward, preventing it from expanding. Inside the crystal, furious shadows writhed.
Ivy moved forward. Branches draped from the ceiling, caressing her gently as she went. She stopped in front of the dark-haired magician. His lips curled back from his teeth in pain and disgust, and his face had gone a dusky color. He spoke a word, and though there was no breath or sound to it, she knew all the same what it was he said.
Witch.
She looked up at him. “You seek to know what is beyond the doorway. Why don’t you look, then? All of you.”
The magicians struggled, but they could not resist as the cords bent and straightened, dragging them toward the artifact. Vines pulled back their hoods and held their heads, forcing their gazes toward the opening. When they tried to shut their eyes, small tendrils forced their lids back open, so that they had no choice but to look as their faces were bent nearer to the orb, and nearer yet.
One of them screamed. Another followed suit, and another, letting out wordless sounds of despair. The last was the dark-haired man. Now that he was forced to look, he seemed to do so eagerly, drinking in the sights through the crimson eye. For a moment an expression of wonder crossed his face.
“By God, they are glorious,” he said.
Then his jaw yawned wide, and he was screaming like the others, over and over until red trickled from the corners of his mouth.
“—to see that it is folly to open it!” he cried. Then he blinked, taking a staggering step forward.
The magicians continued to stand before the artifact, staring, their faces as pale and blank as masks. However, the surface of the crystal orb was moving again, expanding outward as dark things swarmed within. The red glow pulsed on the air.
He looked at her, astonishment on his face. “I have no idea what just happened.”
Ivy leaned against the wall. She was tired, so tired. All the same, a warmth filled her, a feeling of fulfillment such as she had never known. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “I believe you should speak the spell now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE CROWD BEFORE Barrowgate was larger than usual that morning. But then, it was not every day that a notorious highwayman met his fate.
Everyone had read the stories in the broadsheets: how the villain had planned to murder a magnate who was known to be an important servant of the Crown; how an unknown patriot had somehow discovered the plot and informed the magnate of the plans; and how, when the highwayman and his compatriots attempted the crime, they found a troop of the king’s redcrests lying in wait for them.
Several of the traitors were shot dead in the battle that ensued, but three were caught and hauled to jail, including the highwayman himself—the very same fellow who last month had brutally murdered a guard while escaping from Barrowgate. The trial had been swift and the judgment final. None would be escaping this time. All three were to hang.
Eldyn moved through the crowd, seeking a clearer view of the gallows that had been erected in the square before the black stones of Barrowgate. He passed jugglers and musicians and men hawking ale and sweets. People danced and laughed. It looked like a festival.