The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  Dercy’s eyes went wide. “By God, you’re thinking about refusing. Are you mad, Eldyn? Don’t tell me you want to be a scrivener all your life—hunched over your desk, eking out words and a meager living until your fingers are stained black and your mind is as gray as a piece of parchment that’s been sanded clean too many times.”

  “No,” Eldyn said. “No, that’s not what I want.”

  “Then what’s the matter? You should be leaping at this chance. You might not ever get another. You’re already getting old for it, you know. Most have already been in the theater for years at your age.”

  Eldyn knew he should say the words. Did he not owe Dercy that much for all the other young man had done for him? I want to enter the Church. I want to pay off the debt of my father’s sins, not compound upon them. Only his jaw would not work; he could not utter the words.

  Dercy’s brow furrowed. “Well, then? If you have something to say, out with it.”

  Eldyn could only shake his head.

  “What’s wrong? Why can’t you speak?” Dercy threw his cup on the moldy straw that covered the floor. It shattered. “Must I always tell you what to do, then, like the day I told you how to best that highwayman? You are a good man, Eldyn Garritt. But by God, sometimes you are so mild you drive me to fits. I know you have balls in your trousers, so make use of them for once. Just because you’re a Siltheri doesn’t mean you have to be a weakling.”

  At once Dercy snapped his mouth shut. That he knew he had gone too far was clear upon his face. However, the effect of his words was sudden and complete. Eldyn was no longer tongue-tied.

  “My father called me weak.” He did not speak loudly, yet he knew as he uttered the words that there was a force to them. “So did Westen. But they were both of them wrong. As are you, Dercy. I may be soft, I do not deny it, but I am not weak. And I’m not a Siltheri either—not unless I choose to be. Nor do I need anyone to make that choice for me.”

  Regret shone in Dercy’s eyes. “Eldyn, I’m sorry. I’m drunk and an idiot tonight. You have to forget what I said.”

  Eldyn shook his head. Despite what Dercy had claimed, his mind was no piece of vellum that could be sanded clean. He had had enough of run-down taverns and sour punch and illusionists. “I’m tired, Dercy. I’m going home. I must see to my sister.”

  “No, Eldyn, don’t go. Please, not like this.”

  Dercy reached out to grasp Eldyn’s arm, but his fingers closed around empty air. A shadow flickered by the tavern door, then was gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS THE morning of a middle lumenal, the day after Ivy had gone to Lady Marsdel’s for tea, when a note from Mr. Barbridge arrived at The Seventh Swan. Something had been discovered at the house on Durrow Street that Sir and Lady Quent needed to see at once.

  They proceeded to the house immediately following breakfast. All the way there, Ivy’s imagination explored the most unwelcome possibilities. Had a series of faulty beams been uncovered, or a weakness in the foundation that would require further repairs and delay?

  By the time Mr. Quent brought the cabriolet to a halt, Ivy was in a state of agitation. When they entered the house, she could not see anything that was an immediate source of concern. To her eye, the front hall was all but complete. The walls were smooth with fresh paint, and the marble fireplace at the far end had been restored to its original beauty, including the Dratham crest above the mantel.

  The double staircase was also finished and formed a sweeping centerpiece to the hall. Though one side of it was new, it had been made to look as rich and detailed as the original. The only differences were the newel posts at the foot of the old staircase, each topped as ever with an orb carved into the shape of an eye.

  Mr. Barbridge had taken seriously the command not to alter the unique and peculiar features of the house, even though it had cost him more than a few workers who became unsettled by such things. Those that stayed had evidently grown used to being observed by the house, for the eyes atop the posts were uncovered. They blinked open as Ivy and Mr. Quent proceeded upward, following the sounds of construction. The eyes glanced at them in a disinterested fashion, then snapped shut again.

  The state of the second-floor gallery was hard to judge, as it was still draped in cloths. Sun streamed through the windows, which had been greatly expanded, igniting the flecks of dust that swirled upon the air. Mr. Barbridge saw them as they entered, and hurried over. The builder’s coat was frosted with plaster dust.

  “I am glad you have come, Sir Quent, Lady Quent. I was sure the moment we found it that you would want to see for yourselves.”

  Mr. Quent regarded him. “What is it you have found?”

  “Something we should have discovered long ago, only the cracks were finer this time. It was not until yesterday that I noticed them. However, once I did, I knew it had to be there, and so I had the men tear down the wall.”

  “But what was it, Mr. Barbridge?” Ivy said, her alarm renewed by this discussion of cracks and walls being torn down.

  “Come see for yourself, Lady Quent.”

  Ivy and Mr. Quent followed after Mr. Barbridge to the south end of the gallery. The dust grew thicker as they went. She started to ask him how long of a delay he thought this would cause.

  Then she halted.

  “I see,” Mr. Quent said beside her. “So there is another.”

  “I fault myself for not realizing it sooner,” Mr. Barbridge said. “But the plasterwork covering this one is somewhat newer, I think, and so the wall has not had as much time to develop signs of weakness. Indeed, the cracks were so fine that if the men had put another coat of paint on the wall, I might never have seen them. Well, Lady Quent, what do you think? Another piece to inspire conversation, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ivy’s throat was too tight—from the dust, and from wonder—to reply. Instead, she moved closer to the wall to examine the thing the men had uncovered.

  It was another door.

  Like the first, it was fashioned of dark wood with a glossy coating of varnish. This one was not adorned with leaves like the other, on the north side of the gallery. Instead, carved upon the door was a shield and a sword. So intricately was the sword rendered that she could make out the grain of the leather binding on its hilt and fine marks along the edge of the blade as if it had been used in battle. The shield behind was adorned with a fanciful design made up of concentric and interlocking circles.

  “It’s exquisite,” she murmured.

  “I presume this one does not go through to the other side of the wall either?” Mr. Quent said.

  The builder nodded. “Just like the other. That they are a matched pair, I have no doubt. Though as I said, from the differences in the plasterwork, I don’t believe they were covered at the same time.”

  Ivy marveled that, despite the extent of the restorations, the house on Durrow Street still had secrets to reveal. She and Mr. Quent spent a little while more examining the door, fascinated by its beauty. Then, knowing they were in the way of the workmen, they bid Mr. Barbridge farewell.

  As they left the gallery, Ivy glanced at the other door, the one all carved with leaves. She had not seen them tremble again, not since the day she had seen the man in the black mask. He had not shown himself to her since then, and she was beginning to hope that he had heard the words she had spoken in her mind, and that he had chosen to leave her alone.

  “I said, Mrs. Quent, did you wish to proceed directly home, or was there somewhere else you wished to go now that we are out?”

  Ivy blinked and realized that they stood by the cabriolet.

  Mr. Quent’s brown eyes grew concerned. “Are you well, Ivoleyn? You seem very distracted.”

  She managed a smile for him. “I was just thinking about how beautiful the old doors are, and wondering what other secrets we might yet discover in the house.”

  She said he could return her to the inn, for she knew he still had work to finish at the Citadel before his journey tomorrow. As he drove,
Ivy brought up another topic that had been on her mind since yesterday. She described for Mr. Quent the impression she and Mr. Rafferdy had found in the study at Lady Marsdel’s, and how she had seen a similar image at Heathcrest Hall.

  “I am not surprised Lord Marsdel had a copy of that impression,” Mr. Quent said, his hands steady on the reins as he guided the cabriolet through narrow streets. “Earl Rylend did, and I imagine Lord Rafferdy has one as well. The three of them met when they were young men in the army, in the years following the last war with the Empire. They were close friends after that.”

  “Do you know why they called themselves the Three Lords of Am-Anaru?”

  Mr. Quent nodded. “Am-Anaru was a place where the three of them were stationed for a time. It was very remote, on the edge of the desert in the south of the continent, my father told me. He had gone there along with Earl Rylend and the others, you see. They were sent there with their companies to keep watch on the nomadic tribes that inhabited that region, to make sure they were abiding by the treaty between the Murgh Empire and Altania.”

  “Do you know if Earl Rylend ever brought anything back from the south? An artifact from the Empire, or any such thing?” Ivy described the sphinx she had seen at Lady Marsdel’s, and how Rafferdy had said his father possessed a similar one.

  “He may have. Though if so, I never saw it, and it is not at Heathcrest any longer. I would know if it was, for I made an inventory of the manor when it came into my possession.”

  It seemed strange Lord Marsdel and Lord Rafferdy would bring back souvenirs of the south, but not Earl Rylend. However, Ivy put the subject aside and asked another question that had been on her mind.

  “Lord Baydon said Mr. Bennick was often a visitor at Heathcrest Hall,” she said. “Is that so?”

  Mr. Quent gave her a sharp look. “You are very curious today.”

  “I am always very curious.”

  He smiled at her. “So you are, Mrs. Quent, and I would have you no other way.” Then his expression grew more serious. “Earl Rylend had his own kind of curiosity, for he always had an interest in magick.”

  “Indeed?” Ivy was surprised by these words. It was only recently that the study of magick had become fashionable again among the magnates of Altania. A generation ago it would have been regarded more dubiously. But then, the critiques of society could hardly be felt the same out on the lonely West Country moors as in the city.

  “Yes, he was very intrigued by magick, though I do not believe he displayed much of a talent for it himself. However, the Rylends could figure their lineage back to one of the seven Old Houses. Thus he had hopes for his only child, Lord Wilden, with regard to magick.”

  “Were those hopes fulfilled? Did Lord Wilden study magick?”

  “He did study magick. It did not turn out as Earl Rylend hoped; not long before the earl’s passing, Lord Wilden perished in a fire. We all of us believed it was magick that started the blaze—some spell Wilden had attempted but was unable to control.”

  Ivy could only be horrified at this knowledge. “His instructor in magick must have been very poor to allow him to attempt something beyond his ability.”

  “In that you could not be more correct, for Lord Wilden’s tutor in magick was none other than Mr. Bennick.”

  “Mr. Bennick?” Ivy said, astonished anew.

  “Yes, Mr. Bennick,” Mr. Quent said, and his voice became a growl as he spoke the name. “How Earl Rylend became acquainted with him, I do not know. Perhaps it was through Lord Marsdel. I only met Lord Marsdel on a few occasions, but I knew he had a fondness for famous personages, so perhaps that was what drew him to Mr. Bennick.”

  Ivy nodded. Though not famous himself, Mr. Bennick was the grandson—though illegitimate—of Slade Vordigan, who was Altania’s last great magician. It was historical fact that Vordigan used magick to help defeat the army of the Old Usurper, Bandley Morden, thus saving the nation and preserving the Crown.

  Ivy listened with great interest as Mr. Quent described how Earl Rylend had brought Mr. Bennick to Heathcrest to tutor the earl’s son, Lord Wilden. For a period of several years, Mr. Bennick was a frequent guest at Heathcrest Hall. Some of his acquaintances also came with him from time to time—men who belonged to the same order of magicians that Mr. Bennick did.

  “So that’s how you met my father!” Ivy exclaimed, fascinated to learn a bit of the history of the two men in the world she loved most.

  He gave the reins a flick. “Yes, Mr. Lockwell came more often than Mr. Bennick’s other friends, for which I was glad. Lord Wilden was of an age with me, but Mr. Bennick and his magician friends were several years older. Thus they showed me little interest or regard.”

  A grimace crossed his face, as if at some unpleasant memory. But it passed after a moment.

  “Your father, however, was always very kind to me,” he went on. “We spent many hours together rambling over the countryside, for he had a great fascination for all the plants to be found there, and for the structure of the rocks that made up the crags and fells. I had learned about these things from my father before he grew ill, and I was more than happy to share this knowledge with Mr. Lockwell as we walked.”

  These words filled Ivy with a great warmth. “I am so pleased to know that you and my father were so well-acquainted.”

  Mr. Quent nodded. “I was always grateful for his friendship, at that time and later. After my father passed, other than Mr. Lockwell, I suppose I had no real companion at Heathcrest Hall except for—”

  He swallowed, as if something had caught in his throat.

  “Except for whom?”

  “Ashaydea,” he said in a gruff tone.

  “Ashaydea,” Ivy said, repeating the name. It was beautiful, and though unfamiliar was certainly feminine. “Who was she?”

  It seemed to take him a long time to speak. “She was the ward of Earl Rylend, a bit younger than Lord Wilden and me. The earl brought her back with him from one of his trips to the Empire. She was an orphan, a child of an Altanian lord and a Murghese woman, and she had witnessed her family perish in a violent fashion. Lady Rylend never … that was, she was not pleased to have a child of foreign parentage in her house. But Earl Rylend had considered her father a close friend, and so Ashaydea stayed at Heathcrest for many years.”

  Ivy thought of the large family portrait she had seen on the landing of the staircase at Heathcrest. The elder couple in the painting could only have been Earl and Lady Rylend, and the boy between them their son, Lord Wilden. Then there had been the small figure standing apart from the others, her dark dress merging with the shadows on the very edge of the painting.

  “Ashaydea,” Ivy said again. “I saw her, I think—in the painting on the stairs at Heathcrest. She was as lovely as her name. But what happened to her after the earl and Lady Rylend passed away? Where is she now?”

  For a long moment he said nothing, then a sigh escaped him. “She is here in Invarel.”

  This statement puzzled Ivy. If his old companion from Heathcrest was here in the city, why did he not go on occasion to see her?

  Only perhaps he did, she realized with a sudden astonishment.

  What a sad and pitiful creature, Mr. Quent had said that day at the Citadel, when they glimpsed a woman in black on their way out. The woman’s hair and eyes had been dark—just like the girl in the painting on the staircase at Heathcrest Hall.

  “Lady Shayde!” Ivy exclaimed. “She is Ashaydea, isn’t she?”

  “She was,” Mr. Quent said, his voice low.

  Ivy shook her head, thinking of all she had ever heard of Lady Shayde, the king’s famed White Lady—how a look from her was said to freeze the blood and make one confess to any sort of crime. Those could only be exaggerations and old wives’ tales, of course. Yet it was a fact that over the years, no one had captured more spies or traitors to the Crown.

  “But what happened to her?”

  “Mr. Bennick happened to her, that’s what,” Mr. Quent said, his expression gr
im. “It was years ago, back when we were at Heathcrest Hall. I do not know the details of it. No one ever will, save the two of them alone. He performed some magick upon her—some ancient and abominable enchantment. It made her into what she is.”

  Ivy could only stare, shocked by this revelation. She thought of the pretty, dusky-skinned girl in the painting, and of the woman she had seen at the Citadel, whose face was as pale as porcelain. Could magick really be used to alter someone so drastically? Perhaps the stories of her abilities were not mere rumors and superstition after all.…

  Despite the warmth of the lumenal, Ivy shivered. “Why would Mr. Bennick do such a thing?”

  “Why would Mr. Bennick do anything?”

  Ivy sighed. He could only have done it to advance his own power. After all, that had to be the reason he had schemed to use Ivy and Mr. Rafferdy to gain entry to the house on Durrow Street—in hopes that the magicians of his order would give him his magick back. Similarly, he must have thought he could somehow use Lady Shayde to his benefit all those years ago.

  “Only he could not keep her under his control, could he?”

  Now Mr. Quent laughed. “No, he could not. And if he had known her then as I did, he would not have thought he could. She was never a pet who could be tamed, as Earl Rylend discovered.”

  A thought occurred to Ivy. “Is Lady Shayde one of the people you’ve been arguing with at the Citadel?”

  He raised an eyebrow and looked at her as he drove. “You are clever indeed, Mrs. Quent. Yes, Lady Shayde and her master, Lord Valhaine, have a different opinion on some matters compared to the inquirers.”

  “On some matters? You mean concerning how to approach the problem of the Wyrdwood.”

  He seemed to hesitate. “It is not the Wyrdwood that is the specific item of our disagreements, but rather those who might incite it to rise up.”