From a drawer she took out a pen, a bottle of ink, and a fresh sheet of paper. Then, being sure she did not miss a word, she transcribed the entry. Someday I will tell you as well how the thing came to be in the house, she copied the words. Only I will save that tale for another time.…
Ivy set down her quill. She wondered if her father had ever written another entry describing how his order had come into possession of the Eye of Ran-Yahgren. All the same, even if he never did set down the tale, it was a story she now knew because of the Black Stork.
Again, she could only marvel at the events Lord Rafferdy had recounted. How much more closely bound with a history of magicians Mr. Rafferdy was than he had ever thought! And how much more closely he and Ivy were bound to each other than they could ever have suspected. Last year, after learning from Mrs. Baydon of Mr. Rafferdy’s engagement, Ivy had condemned herself as foolish to ever have wished for a connection with him.
Only it hadn’t been foolish at all; they were connected, she knew now, through the mutual history of their fathers. This was a thought that gave her real pleasure. In the end, it was utterly natural that they had become acquainted; indeed, it was likely inevitable.
Ivy looked over the words she had copied from the journal, making sure she had not missed any. As for the Eye of Ran-Yahgren, I am grateful it is well guarded by the order of magicians to which I belong.…
Only in the end, the artifact had not been safe after all. Over time, some of the magicians in the order who had sworn to protect the Eye instead came to covet it. Was it Mr. Bennick—perhaps jealous that the Eye had been given into her father’s care rather than his own—who had whispered to the others, giving the desire to use the Eye? Or was it some terrible influence of the artifact itself that had corrupted them?
Likely it had been something of both. Either way, their first attempt to seize the Eye of Ran-Yahgren was averted twelve years ago when Mr. Lockwell sacrificed himself to bind the artifact with magickal wards and seal the house on Durrow Street. The more recent effort of the magicians to gain the Eye had similarly been thwarted through Ivy’s and Mr. Rafferdy’s efforts.
Now the enchantments guarding the artifact had been renewed, and the members of the order who had tried to seize it were perished or locked up at Madstone’s. As for Mr. Bennick, he was far away in Torland, she supposed. Besides, his magickal power had been stripped from him. Without his former compatriots to aid him, what power could he have against the enchantments that warded the Eye?
Ivy sprinkled sand on the sheet she had written to dry it, then set it aside. Though she did not expect to find any more entries in the journal, she turned through the remaining pages of the book. As she did, she wondered what had become of the other magicians her father had written about, the ones in the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye he had trusted most—Gambrel, Fintaur, Larken, and Mundy.
The last one she was acquainted with, of course, for she had been in his shop of magickal books and items. At the time she had not known of Mr. Mundy’s associations with her father, and she could not imagine there was any way he had recognized her. For if he had ever seen her before, it would have been when she was very small.
It was difficult for Ivy to imagine her father having a friendship with the little toad of a man. She could only suppose the events that broke apart the order affected him gravely. Though, in the passing references her father had written in the journal, it sounded as if even then Mr. Mundy’s nature had tended toward a natural sourness.
As for the others her father had been closest to, she could not know what had become of them. At the least, Ivy knew that none of them had been among the magicians who had attempted to seize the Eye of Ran-Yahgren last year. On a recent visit to Madstone’s, she had managed to engage one of the wardens in conversation, and through flattery and a feigned interest in his work, she had gotten him to discuss the magicians who had been brought to the hostel last year.
From the warden, she had learned the names of all the magicians who had gone mad gazing into the Eye, and there was not a Fintaur, Larken, or Gambrel among them. Another of the magicians had perished that day at the house, but Ivy recalled that he had been a youngish man—far too young to have been a contemporary of her father’s.
She reached the last page of the journal. As she had expected, there were no more entries. Ivy returned the journal to the Wyrdwood box and started to close the lid, only then she paused. She reached into the pocket of her dress and drew out the piece of Wyrdwood that Lord Rafferdy had given her. As always she marveled at the pleasing smoothness of its surface.
In one of his journal entries, her father had written that he had given the key to Arantus to the Black Stork, but the triangular bit of wood hardly looked like any sort of key. If she had had her wits about her that day Lord Rafferdy came to talk to her, she would have asked him if her father had ever given him any sort of key that he knew of. Only she had not had the presence of mind to do so, and now it was too late.
Ivy sighed. She supposed it was just one more mystery her father had left for her. However, she had lost enough of him, and she did not wish to lose this thing as well. Somewhat reluctantly, for she enjoyed its touch, she put the bit of Wyrdwood inside the box for safekeeping. She put the pages she had written in the box as well and locked it in the desk.
Then she rose and departed the library, to see if her sisters needed more help.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THIS TIME, THE conflagration occurred in the dead of a long umbral. Nor was it an old war monument that bore the brunt—though this structure, too, was a thing of symbolic importance.
Just as the bells of St. Galmuth’s rang the start of the third span of the night, a gout of blue flame was observed jutting into the air from the east end of Marble Street. The fiery column rose so high as to equal or even surmount the altitude of the highest turrets of the Citadel, and it was bright enough that for a moment the whole of the Old City was lit up as clearly as if it were midday. Except the light was not warm and yellow as sunlight, but rather possessed a cold, unnatural hue. That there was some sort of enchantment behind it was rumored almost as soon as the spire of flame died away.
The precise location of the occurrence was not known at once. At first some said it was the Office of the Royal Exchequer that had been consumed by the fire, for traitors meant to cripple the nation by rendering it penniless. Others claimed it was Assembly itself that had been destroyed. However, by the time the sun rose over the Old City, turning the sky a sickly orange due to the acrid smoke that still infused the air, the truth was generally known. It was the Ministry of Printing that had been the subject of the attack.
The ministry was responsible for the publication of all official government documents, from books of laws and regulations to all manner of official bills and notices. However, there was one document in particular that these days used more of the ministry’s presses, and consumed greater quantities of ink and paper, than any other. The document was the Rules of Citizenship—that ever-present list of directives to be obeyed by every good citizen of the nation, and which by decree of the king’s Black Dog, Lord Valhaine, was posted in every shop, tavern, coffeehouse, and place of public gathering.
Such was the frequency with which the Rules were revised and expanded—as well as the frequency with which they were defaced or torn down—that a vast number of copies were required. Thus an entire wing of the ministry had been given over to the printing of this one single document, and the presses there hardly ever ceased their labors. In Altania, people might sometimes go without food or candles or a roof to cover the head, but they would never want for instruction concerning the proper and lawful way to behave.
Only now the endless flow of ink and paper had ceased. With apparent ease, the perpetrators had breached the outer wall of the ministry even though it was well guarded by redcrests. Once within, they might have taken down the entire edifice, along with the governmental buildings to either side. Yet it was only the part
of the ministry that housed the presses responsible for printing the Rules of Citizenship that was consumed in the eruption. Thus the designers of this deed had posted their own message for all to read. It was not buildings or men they sought to destroy, but rather words.
All the same, the incident had not been without a cost in both life and property. A redcrest posted outside the wall of the ministry was killed by a stone that was hurled into the sky and fell back down, dashing in his head. In addition, one of the instigators had been unable to escape as nimbly as he had entered and had also been slain by the blast. If there was any doubt, given the lurid color of the flames, that magick had been involved in the attack, it was removed by the ring that was discovered upon the corpse’s hand—a ring whose gem was said to have still been sparking with an eerie blue light when the first witnesses arrived at the scene.
Despite the late hour, a crowd soon began to assemble, but it was dispersed by a band of soldiers who arrived in the company of the Black Dog himself. The Lady Shayde was said to be with him as well, and at the sight of her pale face the onlookers quickly departed. It was said the White Lady could know a man’s guilt just by looking at him, and even men who had never committed a crime in their lives had no wish to meet her gaze. For what fellow, even the most law-abiding, had never thought about doing something wicked once or twice?
Indeed, Rafferdy was considering something wicked himself at this very moment. He noted that Mr. Harclint’s full wineglass was situated perilously close to the edge of the dining table. All it would take was a flick of a fork, a motion so slight that no one would ever notice it, and the glass would topple over the edge directly into Mr. Harclint’s lap.
It would be awful of him, of course. But desperate times required desperate deeds, and for the last quarter hour Lady Marsdel’s nephew had been plying Rafferdy with ceaseless questions about Assembly—or rather, about one specific member of that honored body. That was, how many times had he seen Lord Farrolbrook there? What laws had Lord Farrolbrook voted for? And had Lord Farrolbrook done any sort of magick?
“I cannot fathom why you would still profess an interest in this Lord Farrolbog,” Sir Earnsley exclaimed.
Rafferdy had never imagined he would ever be grateful that Lady Marsdel had invited the bluff old baronet to dinner. He was at that moment, though, for Mr. Harclint directed his watery gaze across the table.
“Farrolbrook,” he said with exaggerated enunciation. “It is Lord Farrolbrook.”
Sir Earnsley made a dismissive gesture with a capon’s leg. “Bog or brook, one is as wet as the other. Either way, I wouldn’t think after all that has happened you would still profess such a keen interest in magick.”
Mr. Baydon, who sat beside the baronet, scowled. “Why should he not maintain such an interest?”
Sir Earnsley blew a snort through his drooping mustache. “Come now, Mr. Baydon! Surely you can no longer think that your magicians are to be the saviors of our nation.”
“On the contrary, I am as convinced as ever that they will be.”
“How can that be? I have seen the stories in the very broadsheets you hew to so loyally. It was magicians who blew up the Ministry of Printing. Do not tell me you can doubt that fact.”
“I do not doubt it,” Mr. Baydon said, his tone sharp. “Magick was surely used to accomplish the deed. I can only suppose it was a band of university students who did this mischief, and nor were they very wise to have done it. Surely one of them paid a far greater price than they expected. All the same, it is hardly the first time a prank got out of hand.”
Sir Earnsley waggled the capon leg at Mr. Baydon. “So when the doers of such a deed are thought to be Morden men, they are hoodlums and traitors, yet when it turns out they are magicians, then they are merely making mischief and playing pranks. As I recall, you were greatly put out when the cenotaph in Trawlsden Square fell. Or have you changed your mind and decided that was a jolly prank as well?” He took a bite of capon.
The ever-present furrows in Mr. Baydon’s brow deepened. “And as I recall, Sir Earnsley, you have long professed that magick is no more than an affectation. Yet now you yourself have admitted that magick has power enough to bring down a building.”
“I said I did not believe in magick,” the old baronet said, his voice going low. “I did not say that I doubted its existence.”
“Well, it most certainly does exist,” Mr. Harclint sputtered, finally managing to get in a word. “Lord Farrolbrook says it is magick that keeps the Wyrdwood from rising up.”
“Does it now?” Sir Earnsley said, glowering. “And what would you say to those in Torland who lost their lives in the Risings there?”
“I would say it was their own fault!” Mr. Baydon exclaimed. “The Torlanders could only have done something to provoke the attacks. There can be no doubting the effects of the magick Gauldren placed upon the Wyrdwood all those centuries ago. Were it not for the Quelling, men should never have been able to build a civilization upon the island of Altania. We would all still be living in wicker hovels, huddled over stinking fires and trembling every time the wind shook the branches of the trees. Surely you cannot deny that, Sir Earnsley.”
The old baronet set down the capon leg, as if he had lost his appetite. “Aye, the Quelling was worked with magick. But I wonder—can magick quell those who would seek to put Bandley Morden on the throne? Or will it rather help them to do so?”
“I cannot think magicians would have any sympathy for a Morden,” Mr. Baydon said with a sniff. “It was our last great magician who drove Morden’s grandfather from the shores of Altania, as you’ll recall.”
Sir Earnsley did not answer. This prompted Mr. Baydon to give a satisfied nod, and he returned his attention to his supper. At the same time Mr. Harclint turned toward Rafferdy as if to continue his line of questions. Rafferdy edged his fork closer to Mr. Harclint’s wineglass.
Before he had need to wield the utensil, Mrs. Baydon asked Lady Marsdel what she thought of the weather of late. This elicited a lengthy discourse on the part of her ladyship, superseding all other conversation at the table. Rafferdy gave Mrs. Baydon a grateful look, and she smiled in return. Listening to her ladyship’s complaints about the dreadful quality of the air in the city was far from a pleasant entertainment, but it was preferable to Mr. Harclint’s attentions.
As Lady Marsdel went on, Rafferdy looked down at his hand. His House ring—which bore the sigil of Gauldren, the very magician who had worked the Quelling long ago—winked blue in the lamplight. By all the accounts, a similar ring had been seen upon the hand of the magician who had been found dead at the ruins of the Ministry of Printing. But for what purpose had he been there? If it was truly a prank, as Mr. Baydon insisted, it seemed a great length to go for a bit of amusement.
Whatever their reasons, Rafferdy hoped none of his acquaintances had been part of it. Certainly he had never heard anything at their meetings that made him think others in the society harbored such intents. However, in the days since the conflagration at the ministry, there had been neither a session of Assembly nor a meeting of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade.
Would that there was a meeting of the society tonight! Then he would have had an excuse to forgo dinner at her ladyship’s. He had come to Lady Marsdel’s that first evening he returned to the city on a foolish impulse to avoid being alone. Since then, each invitation had led to another, for it was not as easy to decline her ladyship in person as by pen.
That was not to say Rafferdy had submitted to Lady Marsdel’s demands for his recurring presence without a hope that he would gain some benefit by doing so. Of course, that hope had proved false. None of the times he had come since his return to Invarel had Lady Quent been here. He supposed she was otherwise occupied with her new acquaintance, Lady Crayford.
With both dinner and Lady Marsdel’s exposition upon the weather concluded, the party retired to the parlor. They were a small group that night, and so became dispersed once they attempted to occupy
the vast room. As a result, Rafferdy found himself a reassuring distance from Mr. Harclint but rather close to Mr. and Mrs. Baydon. The pair were engaged in their usual activities: she frowning over a picture puzzle while he frowned over that day’s edition of The Comet.
“I presume from his absence at table that Lord Baydon is still not recovered,” Rafferdy said.
“I’m afraid that’s so,” Mrs. Baydon said.
“How are his spirits?”
“Very high.” She turned a piece this way and that in an attempt to fit it in a gap. “As you know, my father-in-law is ever of good cheer. Each day he is certain that he will be better the next.” She sighed and set the piece aside in favor of another.
“I have no doubt that is his belief. What do the doctors say?”
“They are concerned by his continued weakness and tremblings. Yet they watch him closely, and they do not feel he is in great danger.”
Rafferdy picked up the piece she had discarded and set it into the puzzle, an act that elicited a sound of first delight, then dismay.
“I am very dull tonight!” she exclaimed. “I tried that piece a dozen times. You didn’t use magick to fit it in, did you?”
“No, I wouldn’t dare. I would not want for Sir Earnsley to call the redcrests and give them a report of magicians brandishing spells.” He took up another piece and set it into the puzzle. “Where is your captain tonight? I did not think a good soldier such as he would neglect his duties.”
“He is not neglecting his duties, Mr. Rafferdy. Rather, he is seeing to them. I have it from Colonel Daubrent that Captain Branfort had to return to the West Country to see to some matters there, but I believe he is due back anytime.”
Rafferdy raised an eyebrow. “Colonel Daubrent, you say? Have you been seeing the viscountess’s brother often of late?”
“Oh, not often,” she said, and gave a coy smile.
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