The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (55 page)

“What makes you think they were looking for
me,
Mrs. Quent?”

I thought of the things I had heard in the village and what Mr. Quent had told me. “You had something they wanted. It was in your coat—a letter, or money. Something to help those who plot against the Crown. You are one of the common thieves who stalk the highway and aid them.”

“On the contrary,” he said with another grin, “I am a most uncommon thief. Indeed, I can guarantee you, Mrs. Quent, that you could ride all across this county and the next and not encounter a highwayman like myself.”

I gasped and tried to retreat, but he reached out and caught my hand in his own. He bowed and touched his lips against it.

A shudder passed through me. His grip was gentle, yet I knew it could tighten cruelly in an instant. “Why have you come?” I whispered.

“You know why I’ve come.” He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. “Tell me, has Mr. Quent returned from his journey yet? No? Perfect—I did not think so. But he is due to return very soon, is he not? In which case we must be ready for him. We cannot let him arrive before we have made our…preparations.”

I shook my head. I could utter no sound but a moan of dread.

He placed his free hand against my cheek. “Hush, now. Do not fret. It will be quick as a wink. He will make no struggle. Indeed, I am sure he will give himself up freely. What man would not do the same for the sake of his lovely new bride?” He bent close, so that his lips brushed my ear. “And you are indeed lovely, Mrs. Quent.”

His breath was warm against my cheek. His hand slipped from my cheek, down my throat—

There was a bang in the entryway behind me. The door had flown open, striking the wall. I tried to turn my head. Had the wind thrown it open, or was it a figure I saw amid the lashing rain?

“Jance!” I cried out. “Don’t come in! He is a brigand and a rebel! You must tell—”

He let out a hiss and thrust me down to the floor. My words ceased as the breath rushed out of me. I heard him go by; then came the sound of the door slamming. I had but a moment. Clenching my teeth against the ache in my chest, I rose up and ran across the front hall.

I heard his shout behind me, followed by the gunshot sound of his boots against the floor. However, I did not look back. I ran up the stairs and along the corridor on the second floor. I could hear him behind me. I had only time to dart through the nearest door and shut it. Even as I turned the lock, the door shuddered from a great blow.

“That was very clever of you, Mrs. Quent,” he called out. “But you cannot think you are safe in there.”

Again the door shook.

No, I was not safe. However, there was a side door in the room that led to a sitting room. I went through, again latching the door behind me, crossed the sitting room, and passed through another side door, which I also latched. I found myself in a dim chamber filled with furniture draped in sheets, like a silent chorus of ghosts.

I went to the door that led back to the second-floor corridor and pressed my ear against it, listening. I had to wait for the right moment. I heard another blow strike the door of the room into which I had first fled, and another. With this last blow came the sound of wood cracking and hinges crying out.

I did not hesitate. Even as that other door burst inward, I opened my door and dashed out into the corridor. I risked a glance to my right and saw the broken door hanging ajar. He had gone through, but he would discover my trick in a moment. There was no time to head for the main staircase; that would lead me past the broken door. Instead, I made for the servants’ stairs and dashed up them.

At the top of the staircase I halted, waiting for his shout of anger and the sound of his boots coming up the stairs. A minute passed; two minutes, three. I heard only my own ragged breathing.

He must have thought I fled downstairs. Soon enough I must. I could not stay here; I had to go to the village, to find Mr. Quent before he returned. My best hope, I decided, was to take the servants’ stairs down to the kitchen and go out that way. Only, what would I do outside? It was raining, and night drew near. I would perish of the chill before I reached the village if I went out unprotected.

My room beneath the eaves, which I had continued to inhabit in Mr. Quent’s absence, was near the top of the stairs. I went there quickly, without sound. I took my cape from its hook and threw it around my shoulders, then retrieved my bonnet. Both were gray. The fog was thick outside the window; I would fade into the mist. I turned to make my escape.

He stood in the open doorway, a smile on his handsome face.

“She told me your room was up here.”

The bonnet dropped from my hands. I stumbled back against the bed and sat down. Mrs. Darendal had told him—she had told him everything about the house. Then she had gone, leaving him to his dark work. She had betrayed us. She had betrayed Mr. Quent.

Now that all chance of flight was gone, I felt a strange calm descend over me. “Does your mother know what you intend?”

His only answer was a sly look. He made an examination of the room, walking slowly around, even stopping at the table to read some of the pages I had written to you, Father. All the while I looked at the open door, but I knew there was no hope. The room was small. If I moved, he would have me in an instant.

“A modest chamber,” he said. “But charming. Like yourself, Mrs. Quent. I can see why you chose it over the grander rooms below. The view to the east must be excellent in fine weather. True, it’s a bit chilly up here, but you have your cape on. How fortunate! This strikes me as a good place for us to wait.” With that he sat in the bent-willow chair, leaned back, and put his boots up on the table.

I lifted my chin and looked at him directly. “What of the preparations you said we must make?”

“They are already under way.” He laughed at what must have been my look of astonishment. “What? Did you think I had come alone? There—look out the window. You can see them now.”

The calmness I had felt drained away, leaving a cold hollow inside me. With great effort I moved to the window and looked out.

“Do you see them?”

I saw nothing but shadows flitting below. I started to say this, then gasped. The shadows did not move with the swirls of fog but rather stalked and prowled around the house. The mist parted before them and closed behind. Never could I see them in full—it was too dim, the fog too thick—but here and there I saw crooked limbs, sinuous backs. At times they seemed to walk upright, and at others they bent low, as if going about on all fours.

“What are they?” I said, falling back from the window.

“They are Altania.”

I turned to look at him. “Altania? What do you mean?”

“The land is rising up.”

“The Wyrdwood, you mean. It is the Wyrdwood that rises.”

“No, not just the Wyrdwood. The entire land of Altania. The Wyrdwood is just one part—the oldest part. It will suffer those who wall it in, who rob and ravish it for their own profit, to tread upon it no longer. And they—” He nodded to the window. “They are its willing soldiers.”

“You mean they are rebels and traitors. They are men!”

He shrugged. “They went to the Wyrdwood, and they gave themselves to her there. They are the defenders of Altania now.”

The mist seemed to have crept into my mind. His words made no sense. All the same, I could only think of Deelie Moorbrook’s cow, torn apart by a beast. A greatwolf, Jance had said. Only there were no greatwolves anymore. There hadn’t been in two hundred years.

“You said they gave themselves to her. You mean Halley Samonds.”
The witch,
I wanted to say but could not. “What did she do to them?”

“She opened the way so they could pass, that was all.” His gaze went to the window. “And the Wyrdwood made them into what was needed.”

“But you…you are not like them.”

Again he gave me that sly smile. His hair seemed longer than I remembered, wilder, but it was only from the chase he had given me through the house. He leaned back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head, even shutting his eyes. However, I did not think for a moment that I could get past him. His head was cocked; his nostrils flared with each breath.

I sat on the bed again and watched him. As I did, my fear gave way to a new sensation: anger. What right had he to do this? He said his compatriots were soldiers of Altania. I did not know what had happened to them in the Wyrdwood, but they were still criminals. He spoke of those who robbed for their own profit, but had he not done the same? What authority did he have to speak for Altania, to say what was best for it? What audacity, to think that
he
spoke for the land!

I felt my cheeks glowing. He said the witch had opened the way for them. And so? Had I not once made the ancient trees do
my
bidding? I had told myself it was a gust of wind that freed the children that night when the branches entangled them by the Wyrdwood. That was not true. I knew it then, and I knew it when Mr. Quent asked me how we escaped that night. Only I had not dared to admit it, not to him, not even to myself.

There was no use in such ruses now, not after what I had seen. Halley Samonds had been called to the Wyrdwood, and so had the first Mrs. Quent, but they were not the only ones. I thought of the painting in the cellar, and the tiny girl with green eyes. Eyes like those of the woman in the trees, like those of Mrs. Quent in her portrait.

Eyes like my own.

I looked at Westen and then at the willow chair he sat in, fashioned from fallen branches Mr. Samonds had gathered at the edge of the Wyrdwood. The branches had been woven together into the form of the chair. What if they were woven into another shape?

I did no more than envision it in my mind, yet such was the force of my fury that it was enough. Westen’s eyes flew open. He let out a cry and tried to leap up from the chair.

It was no use. Some of the branches that formed the legs had already coiled around his ankles. Twigs rose from the arms like brown snakes, encircling his wrists, binding them. Several stems looped around his chest, twining themselves together as they went, forming a strong band.

He let out a shout, followed by a slew of curses as he strained against the chair. Such was the force of his rage that I leaped up, afraid he would break free. His face grew red. His hands were fists, and the cords of his neck stood out in sharp relief.

The bonds held. Tendrils thrust down between the floorboards, rooting the chair in place. He slumped back, panting. I thought it would be good if the cords pulled tighter. Even as I considered this, they did. He let out a hiss, and a grimace twisted his face. However, a moment later he laughed—though the sound was shallow for want of breath.

“Now that,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I had not expected.” His grin broadened, though pain still registered on his face. “But then, I don’t think you expected it either, did you, Mrs. Quent?”

The switches were still moving, wrapping around him. One slid around his throat.

He sucked in a tight breath. “Careful, Mrs. Quent. You don’t want to overdo it. I don’t know that Mr. Quent would be willing to remain married to a murderess
and
a witch.”

I hardly heard him. In books, I had read that people saw red when they were angry. To my eyes, everything was tinged green.

“I’m going,” I said, and picked up my bonnet.

He laughed, though it came out as a choking sound. “I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, Mrs. Quent. Do remember—the front door wasn’t locked.”

I went to the door, then turned to look at him. His breaths were quick and shallow. His face had gone from red to purple.

“This spell…” he said. “It will…not hold me for long once…you are gone.”

I did not need long. I had only to get outside, to get my horse, to ride to the village.

His grin had become a rictus, his lips curling back from this teeth. “You cannot stop it,” he said. “Even if you…warn him. No matter what…you do, the land…will rise.”

“You do not speak for Altania,” I said.

Before he could answer me, several tendrils wove across his mouth. His eyes bulged from their sockets. I turned and left the room.

I
RETURNED TO THE servants’ stairs and went down to the second floor. As I was about to descend to the kitchen, I heard a sound below like men talking, except the speech was low and growling and I could make out no words. Then came a noise like knives being dragged across the slate floor. I turned and ran down the second-floor corridor, past Mr. Quent’s study, then slowed my pace, creeping toward the main staircase.

Whuffling breaths rose up from below, and shadows undulated on the walls.

They are men,
I told myself.
Rebels, to be sure, and dangerous, but they are only men. It is the queer light that makes them appear strange, and the fog that mutes their speech, that is all.

All the same, I turned and fled down the corridor, back toward the servants’ stairs, but even as I set foot on the top step, the sound of baying echoed up from the kitchen.

I could not think. There was nowhere in the house to go except up. But
he
was still there in the attic. Then I thought of Mr. Quent’s study and the ivy that obscured the window. A wild plan formed in my mind to open the window and climb down the vines.