The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  “Why? Because magick has been used for great ill—for perhaps the greatest ill that ever was done in all the history of this world. It was an act of great wickedness, one committed by your own forebear—the one whose name is carved upon that ring you wear now. And there are some who would use magick for ill yet.”

  An indignation welled up within Rafferdy. He thought of what he had done to help Lady Quent thwart the magicians of the Silver Eye, and what her father, Mr. Lockwell, had sacrificed to do the same. “Not all magicians would use their power for ill. What of Slade Mordigan turning back the Old Usurper at Selburn Howe? Surely some magicians have done good.”

  “I am sure that some of them have. But that does not mean they have done only good. Besides, I believe you have witnessed what power can do even to a good man. Indeed, I know you have seen it. I believed myself a good man once. I wish to believe I still am. Yet do not think I was not aware of how you regarded my decision to enclose my estate.”

  The corners of his mouth pulled down, as if he suffered some sudden pang. Rafferdy suffered one himself. As he still sometimes did, he thought of the people he had helped to remove from his father’s lands, recalling the empty looks on their faces, in their eyes. No, he had no wish to wield any sort of power. At least, not then.

  The thin lines of Lord Rafferdy’s lips drew themselves into a rueful smile. “Well, perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps my fears will not come to pass. Marsdel and Rylend always complained that I only ever saw ill ends. That’s why they called me the Black Stork. For ‘a black stork brings black luck,’ as they say in the Westlands.” A spasm erased his smile. “But then, I endured longer than either of them did, and I have seen a great deal more.”

  His hands dropped to his lap as he spoke these last words, and his fingers moved, as if he fidgeted with some object, only his hands were empty. For a long moment he was silent—so long that Rafferdy began to wonder if he was lost in some sort of daze.

  “I suppose you can only despise me,” Lord Rafferdy said at last. “Perhaps it would have been better had I never told you all this. I suppose I have not done it for your sake, but rather for my own. Come, then—I shall soon be gone, so there is no need for you to withhold the truth from me. What do you think of me now? I would hear your thoughts.”

  Rafferdy turned away and leaned on the credenza. That he should experience outrage and revulsion was more than warranted. To learn that his father had done more than merely dissuade him from proposing marriage to Miss Lockwell, but had in fact conspired for years to prevent him from meeting her, was an astonishing revelation. Outrage should have been his reaction.

  However, much had changed in the months since he had thought to make Miss Lockwell into Mrs. Rafferdy. He had changed, and time had allowed him to regard the man he had been with a degree of disinterest. Was it not the case that he had fancied Miss Lockwell not only for her great charms, but also because he had known a connection with her would never have been possible? It is easy and amusing to make promises one knows one can never keep, but to offer an oath when one knows it must be obeyed—that is courage. While Rafferdy believed he had many good qualities, he was not so deluded to believe that bravery was one of them.

  He turned around and regarded his father, willing the anger to come. However, looking at the small, spent being before him, he could summon no rage. Rather, he could feel only pity, and dread.

  “You say the motions of the planets will bring a long night,” Rafferdy said in a low voice. “If that is indeed the case, then what am I supposed to do about it?”

  Lord Rafferdy looked up. The anguish on his face had not lessened; indeed, it seemed to deepen as did the lines beside his mouth. All the same, his expression was one of gratitude. Then he shook his head.

  “Now that you have asked, I would that I could answer you. Yet both law and duty forbid me to do so. You are my son, but you are not an inquirer. Thus I cannot tell you any more than I have. Yet perhaps it is just as well. The Gray Conclave would give much to learn what we have discovered. It is only because we answer to the Crown directly that we are preserved from their interference. But Lord Valhaine’s agents are ever prowling about. If they knew that one who was not an inquirer, one who did not have the Crown’s protections, had knowledge they wished to possess—”

  Again a shuddering wracked his body, and for a moment he could not speak.

  “It is better that you remain where you are,” he finally managed to say, “apprehending only what you do. In time, events may occur that will cause you to learn everything of our labors and what we have tried to do. Until then, I ask only this of you, Dashton: that you listen to Sir Quent.”

  Rafferdy shook his head, astounded by these words. “Sir Quent?”

  “Yes, that is why I have come to you, to ask this one thing of you. I fear perhaps you owe me no debt. Yet if you never grant me anything else, I beg you grant me this. I will feel an ease, and will know that I have not abandoned you, if you have him to go to.” His eyes were shining again with a feverish light. “Swear to me, if Sir Quent has need of you, you will do everything you can to aid him.”

  Rafferdy stared. Could his father know what he was truly asking—to have Rafferdy pledge himself to the man who had deprived him of the one thing in the world he had ever truly wanted? It was too cruel!

  All the same, Rafferdy found he could not deny this wish. Besides, to aid Sir Quent was to aid her, was it not?

  “I swear it,” he said.

  At this Lord Rafferdy sighed, and he slumped back in the chair, as if suddenly relieved of a tremendous weight. “There, do you see? There is yet a reason to hope, even as the Black Stork reckons things.”

  He spoke the words faintly, and Rafferdy had the sense that they had not been directed to him. His father’s head bowed then, and he seemed to fall into a doze, exhausted from all his efforts. Rafferdy took a shawl from the back of the sofa and laid it about his father’s shoulders. As he did, he noticed that Lord Rafferdy’s right hand moved, his fingers twitching as if they sought to grip something that was not there.

  Rafferdy touched them, stilling their movements. Then he departed the parlor, leaving his father to his shadowed dreams.

  LORD RAFFERDY?”

  Rafferdy looked up, startled. The day had perished outside the window, and a gloom had stolen into the parlor of his house at Warwent Square. How long had he been sitting in the chair? This time it was not his father, but rather he who had been lost there in dark musings.

  “Yes, what is it?” he said to his man.

  “A note just arrived for you, my lord—from Fairhall Street.”

  Rafferdy took the folded paper from the silver tray. So his return to the city had not gone unnoticed! Like a spider, Lady Marsdel must have detected a trembling in her web once he entered the city. He turned the note over in his hand but did not break the seal.

  “Should I bring another brandy, my lord?”

  In no way did he need it. His head ached, and his mind felt dull.

  “Yes, do,” he said.

  After his man departed, Rafferdy rose from the chair. He set the note from Lady Marsdel on his desk, then opened a drawer and took out a book. The book was covered in black leather and bore no mark or writing on its spine or cover; it was bound with a thick silver hasp.

  Rafferdy set the book on the desk, then with a finger he drew several runes in the dust all around it. A circle of binding was not really necessary for such a small spell, but he was weary, and from what he had learned it was when they were tired that magicians usually made their mistakes. He had no wish to speak the wrong words by accident and allow something more than evening shadows to enter the parlor.

  He uttered the spell, the sharp-sounding words coming to his lips with an ease that continued to surprise him, then touched a finger to the silver hasp. The gem in his House ring flashed blue, and there was a snick as the clasp sprang apart. As always, he felt a kind of cool shimmer, as if from a passing breeze. It was not a displeasing sensa
tion.

  Rafferdy opened the book. Its pages were filled with writing penned in what appeared to be dark, silvery ink. However, it was not by means of a quill that words were entered into this book.

  The tome had been given to him upon his acceptance into the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade. Each magician in the society had a similar book. In addition, there was a master book, residing in the possession of the magus, the leader of the society. Such was the enchantment placed upon the other books that if a thing was written in the master book, then it appeared in all of the other books simultaneously, whether they were opened or closed, and no matter how far apart they were. It was by means of the books that news and messages were passed through the society.

  He turned through the book until he reached the last page with writing upon it. As he read the words, he had the uncanny sensation that they squirmed upon the page like thin, silvery serpents.

  We will gather at moonrise on the second umbral of the month. The runes for this meeting are Targoth, Aegon, and Saradir. As always, do not be late or the door will be closed to you even if you should know the runes.

  Rafferdy shut the book. So there would be no meeting of the Society tonight. It was just as well, as he felt far too stupid to learn any new runes or spells. All the same, he suffered a pang of disappointment.

  With his hand he smeared away the dusty runes on the desk, then he closed the book. The two halves of the silver hasp fit together with an audible sound, and he felt a tingling as the magickal lock was renewed. Rafferdy put the book back in the drawer, then took up the note from Lady Marsdel. He hesitated for a moment, then broke the seal. It was an invitation from her ladyship requesting his presence that very evening.

  His man returned to the parlor.

  “Your pardon, my lord,” he said as he set a full glass of brandy on the desk, “but the messenger has not left. He says that he was commanded not to return to Fairhall Street without an answer. Would you like me to inform the man that you cannot attend?”

  Rafferdy reached for the glass, then pulled his hand back.

  “No,” he said, looking up. “Tell the messenger that I will accept her ladyship’s invitation. And have the carriage brought around. I will go to Fairhall Street tonight.”

  The steward raised an eyebrow, but he only bowed and said that he would call for the carriage at once.

  Rafferdy wondered if he was mad. He was weary from his journey. However, he had no wish to remain here alone. There were too many shadows. Besides, if there was to be no meeting of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade tonight, then at least he could attend another sort of gathering and enjoy the familiar, if dull, enchantments of company and conversation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IVY WALKED IN dappled light. The long afternoon had brought with it a warm zephyr, and the leaves of the New Birch trees around her shimmered green and silver, speaking in a whispering language she felt she could almost understand.

  Like the majority of people in Altania, particularly those who dwelled in the Grand City, Ivy had seldom been among trees. She had seen them all her life, of course; elms and beeches and plane trees arched over numerous streets in Invarel, and hazel, laburnum, alder, and cherry trees could be found in abundance in the city’s gardens. Then there was the old stand of Wyrdwood near Heathcrest Hall, whose stone wall she had stood outside.

  Yet it was one thing to see a tree, or a row of trees; it was quite another to venture within a whole grove of them, to feel them close in around one, and hear their murmurings in all directions. Only once before could she remember doing so. She had been eight or nine years old, and Mr. Lockwell had taken her to Lorring Park on the east edge of the city.

  In the center of the park was a stand of New Ash. She had spent a happy hour in the green light beneath the trees, pretending she was Queen Béanore hiding in the forest from Emperor Veradian and the Tharosian soldiers, and shooting stick arrows to drive them off. At one point she had pressed her ear to a trunk near the edge of the grove and shut her eyes, wondering if trees had heartbeats like people did.

  Just when she thought she was beginning to hear something—a sort of low, thrumming sound—it was drowned out by the sound of a man’s angry voice. She opened her eyes to see a priest in a black cassock standing nearby, making motions for her to move away from the tree. Then her father was there, taking her hand and leading her away from the grove.

  And that was the last time they ever went to Lorring Park.

  Now the only voices Ivy heard besides the whispers of the trees were the sounds of bright conversation and laughter that drifted on the breeze. At Lady Crayford’s suggestion, a small party had driven again that day to the countryside beyond the city’s edges.

  As the weather was exceptional, no one could find fault with the plan. They took two curricles, one driven by Colonel Daubrent and the other by Lord Eubrey, while Captain Branfort rode alongside on a beautiful chestnut mare. Ivy’s only regret was that Mrs. Baydon was not with them. However, the party had arrived at the house on Durrow Street hardly a quarter hour after the note describing the plan. As a result, there had been no time to send a message to Vallant Street.

  In any case, there was no room for Mrs. Baydon, as the curricles seated but two each, which meant Mr. Baydon would have been required to drive his gig. That would never do, as a gig was drawn by one horse and a curricle by two, Colonel Daubrent explained, and so the gig would not be able to keep up with them.

  When Ivy suggested they might ride more slowly, Lady Crayford had laughed. Her brother could go but one speed, she said, and that was as fast as possible. Besides, Captain Branfort assured her that Mr. Baydon would never be ready to venture out so soon after the midday repose of a long lumenal, and Ivy had to concede, given what she knew of Mr. Baydon’s habits and his general difficulties in rising, that this was likely the case.

  As it turned out, Ivy was glad they had no reason to go slowly. Once they were beyond the city, the men drove the curricles at a pace that she found at once terrifying and thrilling, and she was forced to hold on to her bonnet lest it fly off her head.

  They soon discovered a picturesque spot on a rise above a little valley dotted with farms and small copses of New Trees. They spread blankets on the ground and drank wine and basked in the sun as the viscountess set up her easel and took out her brushes.

  After a time, Ivy quietly rose. While Lady Crayford painted and the men discussed the topic of hunting, she slipped away to the west, drawn by the stand of New Birches there. A compulsion had come upon her to be alone for a while. This was not because she did not enjoy their little party. Rather, it is the case that sometimes one must step outside of a joyful moment in order to truly appreciate it, and Ivy had much to be appreciative of at present.

  Mr. Quent had returned to the city last month, his work in Torland finished once again, and they had at last made their return to the house on Durrow Street. While Ivy had witnessed the regular progress of the refurbishment these last months, it was not until they again dwelled in the house that she truly realized the thoughtfulness, the extreme delicacy and care, that had guided the work.

  Everywhere she went in the house, there was some wondrous thing to discover, like how the patterns made by the light as it fell through the windows of the upstairs gallery transformed the floor into a great chessboard. Or the way the frescoes of griffins that adorned the spandrels in the front hall were painted in such a clever manner that, if one moved swiftly through the hall, the sequence of paintings blurred into a single image that seemed to yawn and stretch its wings as one went.

  That the house had been restored to the fullness of its original splendor, Ivy was convinced; indeed, she wondered if the house might now be even more glorious than it had been when Mr. Dratham originally built it. She supposed the carved eyes would know, for they had seen everything that had passed in the house over the centuries. However, as they could but watch and not speak, that was something they could not tell.

>   Ivy’s sisters were no less captivated with the house. That it would make a marvelous setting for their party next month, both of them exclaimed at once upon entering. And Lily went on to say that, now that the whole of it had been opened, it was so large they might each have their own wing. At this, Rose had expressed concern that she might get lost by herself in the vastness of the house. Ivy pointed out that she would only have to follow the sound of Lily’s pianoforte to find them, and so could never be lost for long, at which point Rose became relieved.

  There was only one thing missing that would have made their return to Durrow Street entirely complete, and that was the presence of Mr. Lockwell. How Ivy wished to be able to bring him home, to have him witness all the improvements that had been made to the house, and to be reunited there with his daughters!

  Yet it was because of Ivy herself that he was not there now; it was all her doing.

  For half a year, Ivy had wanted nothing more than to be able to remove her father from the Madderly-Stoneworth Hostel for the Deranged. Then, on the day after Mr. Quent’s return to the city, the message that they had so long awaited finally arrived. Their petition had been granted by King Rothard. His Majesty had signed a dispensation allowing Mr. Lockwell to be removed from Madstone’s; they could bring their father home at once.

  For a few moments after receiving the message, Ivy had experienced the greatest of joys. If her father was living here at Durrow Street with them, then she could never want for anything more. Only, sometimes what one thinks of as love is in truth a kind of selfishness. While having her father with them at the house was what suited her, it was not necessarily what was best for him.

  In recent weeks, each time Ivy went to see Mr. Lockwell at the hostel, she had found him improved compared to her previous visit. The application of the electrical shocks was continuing to have a profound effect upon him. His eyes were clearer; he was able to feed himself and dress more ably; he spoke more, sometimes in full sentences, and seemed to recognize her at times. While she had been horrified to learn of the treatment at first, she had to confess that her reaction had been based upon a deficit of knowledge as much as a surplus of mistrust for the wardens at the hostel.