The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  He smiled at her. “I hope we have not ever kept you up at night with any of our incantations, Lady Quent. If so, do accept my apology. And now”—he closed his fingers around the wooden jewel—“it is time for you to leave me. I have sent one of the younger initiates in my order on a little errand, and he will be ready by now.”

  “Ready for what?” she said, edging farther away from him.

  “To open a way for me, and then to be consumed by the Broken God,” Gambrel said blithely. “Neth-Bragga will be angry after eons of imprisonment, and I do not wish for him to turn his wrath upon me.”

  Despite the awful things she had heard, this struck Ivy anew. “Turn on you? Should he not reward you instead?”

  “No, that will be for the rest of the Ashen to do when they have won the war for this world. For Neth-Bragga will not endure long after he is released. Rather, he will be destroyed. But in his destruction he will work a great deed—one that will shape the events that are to come!”

  Ivy could not imagine how the destruction of the being he sought to free could possibly be of a benefit to Gambrel, nor did she ask him about it. For as he spoke, she had edged farther away from him. She eyed the distance to the door of the library, planning the steps in her mind, and how she would shut the door behind her and throw the lock.

  Before he could move, she sprang into action. She dashed across the front hall so rapidly he could not possibly have caught up to her. In a few swift strides she passed through the door to the library—

  —and found herself racing across the front hall.

  It was as if she had run into a mirror, then had come back out of it just as her reflection might have. She stumbled to a halt. Before her, Gambrel raised his right hand. The ring upon it glittered with purple sparks.

  “No, not that way,” he said. “I have arranged a little affair for you out in the garden. You may think of it as your farewell party. I trust you will enjoy it. Now good-bye, Lady Quent.”

  Before she could try once more to flee, he spoke several sharp words and made a motion with his hand.

  Again she was racing through the front hall, only this time it was not her feet that moved, but rather the hall itself. The room elongated and contracted around her in jarring spasms. Then, suddenly, she found herself standing on the step outside the front door.

  “No!” Ivy cried out.

  The sound of her voice was cut off by a thunderclap as the front door swung shut before her. There came the noise of a lock turning, and by the time she reached out to grasp the handle, it was too late.

  FOR A TIME Ivy merely stood there, staring stupidly at the locked door, as the purple air thickened in the garden behind her. She could not move, could not think; she did not know what to do and so did nothing.

  At last a sudden clatter of hooves drifted from off the street, and as if freed of a trance she drew in a gasping breath. Her heart soared. Mr. Quent had returned! She would tell him everything that had happened; he would know what to do.

  Ivy turned from the door and ran past the stone lions, down the steps. Even as she did she saw a broad figure walking up the darkened path. Relief flooded through her.

  “Mr. Quent!” she cried, running down the path to meet him. “Mr. Quent, something awful has—”

  Ivy stopped short. The moon had just risen over the roofs of the Old City, and a pale beam, tinged crimson by the light of Cerephus, fell into the garden. The short, broad-shouldered figure drew closer along the path, stepping into that sickly light.

  Ivy’s elation was replaced by fear. She took a staggering step back, then started to turn to run.

  “No, don’t go!” Captain Branfort called to her, holding out a hand. “Please, Lady Quent, I won’t hurt you, I swear it!”

  It was not because she believed these words that she stopped; rather, her eyes went to the pistol that gleamed at his hip.

  “If you mean what you say, then come no farther,” she said, trying to master the trembling in her voice.

  He stopped on the path and spread his arms wide. “As you wish, Lady Quent. As I said, it is not my intent to cause you any harm.”

  She could only be incredulous at these words. “Was it not your intent to cause harm when you went to the West Country to learn about me at the bidding of your master? Was it not your intent to harm when you deceived me as to your true intentions?”

  A grimace crossed his handsome face. “It was never my intent,” he said, his voice going low. “Yet I own that I did cause you harm, even as I harmed my own honor and reputation.”

  Now it was not fear she felt, but a most awful sorrow. She had thought him so kind, so gallant; she had thought Lily would favor him. And poor Mrs. Baydon—she was so fond of him. “Why?” Ivy said, and the word was hoarse for the way her throat ached.

  “He told me that the Wyrdwood must be destroyed.”

  Ivy shook her head; she did not understand. “The Wyrdwood?”

  His eyes were lost in shadow. “You may already know this, Lady Quent—how all of my family was lost at the colony of Marlstown. I always wondered what had become of them; I thought I would never know. That ignorance was a burden that weighed upon me. Only then Captain Daubrent introduced me to Lord Crayford. The viscount told me he had discovered the truth—that it was the ancient forest that covers the New Lands that did it, that the Old Trees turned against the colonists. Just as they’ve begun to turn against people here in Altania.”

  Ivy could only stare, unable to speak.

  “You have to understand,” he said, taking a step toward her, his arms still outspread. “I never had the chance to save my parents in Marlstown, nor my brothers or sisters. But after I spoke to Lord Crayford, I thought perhaps I could at least save others here in Altania. So when he asked me to go to the West Country, I did.”

  “You were deceived!” she cried at last.

  He gave a grim nod. “I know that now. He wanted me to learn as much about you as possible. I don’t entirely know the reason why, but he told me that it was important. And I believed him after what I learned in the West Country, what I learned about the things you did there.”

  Ivy shivered. Again her eyes went to the pistol at his hip.

  “I know what you are, Lady Quent. I heard rumors about it in County Westmorain, though I doubted its veracity at the time. Only then …”

  “Then what?” she whispered.

  His face was pale and anguished in the moonlight. The buttons of his coat glittered in the pale illumination. It was then she noticed that, while there were four buttons on the left cuff of his coat, there were only three on the right. A button was missing.

  One brass button.

  “You were there!” she gasped. “At the Evengrove. You saw Mr. Rafferdy and me at the wall.”

  He nodded, his expression grim. “I did. I looked into the passage, and I saw the way you called to the trees—and how you calmed them. Lord Crayford said that women like you were a danger, that you would incite the Wyrdwood. Only you didn’t incite. You stopped it.”

  He took another step toward her, and this time Ivy did not retreat.

  “I know what I did was a terrible thing,” he said, his face lined with sorrow. “I have wronged you in a way that cannot be forgiven, and I know now that Lord Crayford is mistaken. And I know that, whatever it is you mean to do, Lady Quent, it will never be ill for Altania.”

  An ache grew in Ivy’s heart, so that she could no longer feel fear, or sadness, or anger. He had wronged her, yes, and terribly. Yet he had been wronged himself in the most awful ways, first as a child and again by Lord Crayford. She hesitated, then slowly she lifted her hand toward him.

  Captain Branfort stared at her, his expression one of shock at first. Then it was a look of wonder that crossed his face. He took a step forward, reaching out his hand toward hers. His fingers brushed her own—

  —and a shadow rose up behind him, coagulating out of the darkness like a clot from black blood.

  He must have seen her eye
s go wide, for he frowned at her. Then he turned around to look over his shoulder. As he did, the shadow spread itself wide, then in one swift motion it wrapped around him.

  Ivy screamed.

  All her life, she had felt a peculiar dread when the day ended and night stole over the world. Sometimes she had the sensation that the darkness was a conscious thing: ancient, hungry, and possessed of a will to smother all light, all life from the world.

  As it was now smothering Captain Branfort.

  He struggled as if caught in folds of black, tangling cloth. What the thing was that held him in its grasp, she could not say, for its edges melded with the night itself. Here and there she saw a line like a gaping jaw, or a curve as of long talons, but for the most part it was formless. Or rather, its form was of such a bizarre shape, and of such hideous proportions, that her mind could make no sense of it. It was like trying to see the color of night.

  There was a bright flash, followed by a sudden deafening noise. A shriek vibrated upon the air—a quivering, loathsome sound that offended the ears as the most noisome offal might the nose. The darkness folded in on itself and slunk back, pooling like a black stain upon the ground. It seemed to absorb all moonlight and starlight that fell upon it—save for the sickly gleam of yellow that reflected off a row of jagged teeth.

  Captain Branfort staggered back, his pistol held before him.

  “Run!” he cried out.

  Ivy could not move. The shadows seemed to coil around her feet, rooting her to the ground.

  Captain Branfort looked back over his shoulder at her. His eyes were wild; a black fluid ran down his face, but she did not know if it was his blood or some secretion given off by the dark form.

  “I only have one more shot before I must reload,” he shouted. “You must get in the house, Lady Quent!”

  Before him, the shapeless thing began to stir again. It rose up off the ground, unfolding itself as it did, the edges of its form bubbling and rippling. More teeth appeared as its maw widened.

  Captain Branfort’s gaze locked upon her own. His face was pale, and there was a pleading in his eyes.

  “I beg you, Lady Quent,” he said. “You must run to the house. Now!”

  At last Ivy was freed of her paralysis. She turned and dashed back along the path. Behind her came another flash, followed by a loud report. Again she heard the thing’s awful shriek, only this time it was more a sound of fury than of pain. A moment later came another cry, and this time it was the horrible sound of a man screaming.

  The sounds behind her ceased. Ivy sobbed as she ran. She had nearly reached the front steps, only then she remembered that the door was locked. There was no safety for her that way. But where could she go? That Captain Branfort could no longer protect her, she was certain, and the shapeless thing was between her and the gate to the street.

  She cast her gaze about wildly—and saw thin, straggled shapes to her left. Only for a moment did she think about it, then she ran toward the little grove of chestnut and hawthorn saplings.

  As she went, she dared a glance over her shoulder, and a moan escaped her. A thing of darkness coiled and uncoiled itself in rapid succession, loping across the garden toward her. She flung herself forward, into the midst of the trees. As she did she reached out, gripping the nearest trunk.

  Help me! she cried out, though not with her voice but rather her thoughts. Please, help me!

  And the trees heard.

  Ivy felt anger stir among them like a wind. They knew this shapeless thing that undulated toward her. Its likes had been seen before, in the ancient war long, long ago.

  Gol-yagru, she heard the word in her mind. Ashen-slave.

  Yes, they remembered, and they knew what to do. This was their purpose; it was for this they had grown from a seed and put down strong roots. They would not let their witch come to harm.

  One more time the dark form uncoiled itself, leaping forward, its teeth glittering like the shards of glass around the casing of a broken window. Ivy cried out, flinging her hands up, waiting for darkness to enfold her in its smothering embrace.

  Instead, it was rough branches that coiled around her. The boughs grasped her like hands, tenderly yet with strength. They bore her up off the ground, and like a child she was carried through the grove, passed from limb to limb, and then deposited on the ground at its far edge.

  Ivy stumbled backward as the branches released her, and she watched the moonlit scene before her in horror and wonderment. The little trees, which had seemed so scraggly and harmless, whipped back and forth with violent force, their boughs whistling and cracking like horsewhips.

  In their midst, she could make out a ball of darkness that flung itself against them. Again it did so, and again; but it could not escape the tangling net of their branches, and their blows beat it back. Even as she watched, the thing’s outline began to fray and tatter. Still the trees whipped and beat at the black shape. Its piteous keening rose on the air, then was lost amid the cracking and creaking of branches.

  “The daemon that he summoned will not escape,” spoke a voice behind her. “You have awakened the trees. They know their purpose, and they will destroy the gol-yagru.”

  Ivy screamed and turned around. Before her stood another black form, only this one was shaped as a man. He was tall, and he was garbed not in folds of shadow, but rather ruffs and frills of black cloth. Moonlight highlighted the edges of his ebon mask; it was wrought in a grim expression.

  She swooned and might have fallen, but he gripped her arm with a black-gloved hand, holding her upright.

  “There is no time for that!” he hissed. “Gambrel has already passed through Tyberion. He will be searching for the door to the tomb of the Broken God. You must get there before him.”

  Dully, she realized he was speaking audibly, the words emanating from his black mask.

  “Go where?” she said.

  The mask twisted into a shape of anger. “Did you not hear me? Listen, child, or all is lost! You must get to the tomb before Gambrel. You must keep him from entering it.”

  She clasped a hand to her head, trying to think. “The house is locked. Even if it weren’t, he has already gone through the door. How could I catch up to him?”

  “Once he passed through Tyberion, he could no longer maintain his binding on the house. You can pass inside. Besides, you do not need to catch up to him. There is another way to the tomb.”

  Again she could do no more than echo. “Another way?”

  “Do not be so stupid! Why do you think I told you to conceal it?”

  “The other door!” she gasped, understanding at last.

  Now the mouth of the mask turned upward in a sharp smile. “There, you are not so dull after all. Now come.”

  He pulled her arm, and she started to follow; only then she halted.

  “Captain Branfort,” she said. “He is—”

  “He is beyond help. It was always his wish to save another, was it not? Do not render his deed meaningless.”

  Ivy bit her lip, for else she would have burst into weeping. She let the man in the black mask pull her up the steps to the front door. Behind them, the trees had ceased moving; the night was still.

  They reached the door. She tried the handle and, as he had said, it was no longer locked. She pushed open the door. The front hall beyond was dark and silent, and she was suddenly loath to enter.

  “You have a little time,” the man in the black costume said. “But only a little. Gambrel does not know which door on Tyberion is the one that leads to the tomb. He will have to search among them, but he is clever and knows what to look for. It will not take him long to find it. You must go through Arantus at once.”

  “Go through it? How?”

  “Think, child. Did the Black Stork not give you the key?”

  Ivy thought of Mr. Samonds’s letter. Yes, she did have the key.

  “Only where does the door go?”

  “To the moon Arantus, just as its name implies. Like Tyberion, Aran
tus served as a way point during the war against the Ashen long ago, and there are many doors upon it. Yet unlike those on Tyberion, the enemy never knew of these doors, and they were never warred over and ruined. They still retain their enchantment. You must find the right one, and go through it.”

  A new terror came upon her. Could not a magickal door lead anywhere? “How will I know which is the right one?”

  Again his mask formed into a smile. “You will know it. It is the one that will take you closest to the tomb.”

  “But I do not know where the tomb is!”

  “Then cease your interruptions for a moment and listen to me. The tomb of the Broken God lies within the Evengrove. That is the reason why so great a strand of primeval forest was allowed to exist all these centuries. That is why the great wall was raised around it—not to imprison the Wyrdwood, but to imprison Neth-Bragga.”

  A hope sprang up within Ivy. She thought of the little trees in the garden, and how they had recognized the shadowy form and knew what to do with it. Were not the trees of the Evengrove far greater, and far more numerous?

  “Surely if Gambrel frees the Broken God, the trees will turn against it,” she said. However, her relief was quickly negated by his reply.

  “Indeed, they would turn against Neth-Bragga with the greatest force and violence, and that is precisely Gambrel’s intention in freeing the Broken God. To have a powerful Ashen awaken in their midst would induce in the trees a terrible fury such as the world has not seen since ancient days. Already calls go out in Assembly for the Evengrove and the Wyrdwood to be destroyed, and this after only a few, pitifully small Risings. Imagine what demands would be shouted if the entire Evengrove were to rise up and throw down Madiger’s Wall in a rage to destroy Neth-Bragga?”

  Ivy stared at his onyx face, and a coldness gripped her. “It would be burned down,” she whispered. “All of it.”

  He nodded. “That is what Gambrel wants, for that is what the Ashen want—for men to cut down and destroy every last Old Tree, until there is not a scrap of Wyrdwood left in all of Altania.”