The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (78 page)

“There you are,” he said, looking relieved. He nodded toward the stairs. “I don’t know what’s happening down there. I don’t hear anything anymore.”

The house had fallen silent. Perhaps there was still time.

“Here,” she said, handing him the paper.

“But this doesn’t look like ink. How did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, grabbing his elbow. “Hurry—you have to work the enchantment.”

Together they ran back down the corridor, into her father’s magick room and the chamber beyond. The crystal orb still seemed to expand and contract, an eye opening wider each time it blinked. The crimson light pulsed on the air. Ivy took out the parcel she had purchased from Mr. Mundy and gave it to Mr. Rafferdy. He poured out the various powders, tracing three concentric circles around the artifact, then with a finger drew the prescribed runes.

“I think it’s ready,” he said, rising.

Ivy examined the runes; as far as she could tell they looked correct. Holding the paper, Mr. Rafferdy faced the orb. His face looked pale in the lurid illumination.

“Now, Mr. Rafferdy,” Ivy said, breathless. “Work the enchantment.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said a low voice behind her.

It felt as if she were moving through water. Slowly, Ivy turned around. As she did, a man in a black robe entered the room. Two more came with him. She could see another pair of dark figures through the doorway.

“Mr. Rafferdy, speak the spell!” she cried.

“I wouldn’t advise that, Mr. Rafferdy,” the magician said, his voice calm and even. “If you speak one word of magick, I assure you that Mrs. Quent will be dead before you can utter a second.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Mr. Rafferdy said. “Magick is for opening and binding things. Your own Mr. Bennick taught me that.”

The dark cowl moved as the magician nodded. “Yes, for binding things.” He reached out a hand. “What if I were to bind her lungs so that they could not draw a breath? Or her heart so it could not beat?”

Mr. Rafferdy clenched his jaw but said nothing. Despite her fear, an anger rose in Ivy. Who were these men to threaten her so?

“If you take one step nearer, he’ll knock it down,” she said. “What magick will there be in the orb when it lies in a heap of broken shards? Do it, Mr. Rafferdy. If they come closer, push the stand over.”

Beside her, Mr. Rafferdy hefted his cane.

The magician gestured with a hand. “Please, do break the crystal, Mr. Rafferdy. Strike it with your cane, knock it over, and see what comes through. Except you won’t see a thing. For the moment you touch it, you’ll be dead. The binding on the eye will see to that.”

Mr. Rafferdy tightened his grip on the cane. “You’re lying.”

The black hood tilted to one side. “Am I? Why do you think we’ve been waiting all these years for the enchantment to weaken? Only we won’t have to wait much longer. Even now it is near to opening. When you unlocked the house, you also weakened the binding. For that we owe you our thanks. So you see, Mr. Rafferdy, there’s no need to expend your life. The eye will shatter very soon now. And when it does, they will come through.”

Mr. Rafferdy scowled. “Who will come through?”

“The Ashen,” Ivy said quietly.

The magician nodded to her. “You know much, Mrs. Quent. Yet you know so much less than you think you do. Nor do I have the time or desire to explain it to you. Now, both of you, please stand aside.”

Ivy started to protest, but Mr. Rafferdy took her wrist and pulled her back. “We can’t,” he murmured. “There are too many of them, and they have magick.”

Anguish filled her, but he was right. Together the two retreated deeper into the room, to one side of the artifact. The other two came in, and the first three who had entered approached the sphere. As they did, they pushed back their hoods. All were men. Ivy recognized none of them.

“The Eye of Ran-Yahgren,” one of them said, a man with a thin nose and a thin, sharp mouth. “God in Eternum, it’s real.”

“Of course it’s real,” the first magician said, a note of disgust in his deep voice. He was dark-haired and his countenance stern, even lordly. “And its existence has nothing to do with God—at least not the God to whom the priests in St. Galmuth’s mumble worthless prayers. It is a far older deity who should be thanked for this wonder.”

“It’s beautiful,” said the third magician, a man who looked little older than Mr. Rafferdy. He approached the orb, and the crimson light bathed his face. “I can see something inside!” he exclaimed.

He bent closer, peering into the crystal sphere. Ivy started to say something, but Mr. Rafferdy squeezed her wrist, and she bit her tongue. The dark-haired man exchanged a look with the thin-nosed one, but neither of them said anything.

“It’s huge,” the young magician said, his face close to the artifact. “The sun looks so huge there, and the land—I can’t even see it. It’s covered with—but it’s them, of course. It has to be. I can see them moving past one another, over one another. There are thousands upon thousands of them. How can they survive? What do they possibly consume for nourishment? Unless it is—wait, there is one nearby. I think one of them can see me. I believe it’s moving closer.” He lifted a hand. “Yes, it’s coming this way. It’s almost—”

As once before, a shadow filled the orb, as if something had drawn closer to its inner surface. At the same moment the young magician screamed. It was a shrill sound. His hands curled back from the artifact, clawing at his face, his eyes.

“It saw me!” he shrieked. “No, it saw
inside
me, and there was nothing there!”

He staggered back, his hands still scrabbling at his face. To Ivy’s horror, she saw blood oozing from between his fingers. The other magicians reached for him, but he twisted his way past them.

“There was nothing!” he shouted again. Then his cry became a wordless scream. He ran out of the room, through the chamber beyond, and into the corridor. A moment later there came a thudding noise, and the screaming ceased.

Ivy watched as one of the magicians left the chamber. He returned a minute later, leaning his hooded head toward the dark-haired man.

“His neck was broken,” the magician said. “He fell down the stairs.”

“More likely he threw himself down,” the dark-haired man said with what seemed the trace of a smile. “It’s just as we were promised. Their power is great indeed.”

The other man licked his thin lips. “Are you certain we—that is, surely they would not harm
us
?”

“On the contrary,” the dark-haired man said. “They would eat you from the inside out until you were nothing more than a husk, one they could climb inside and do with what they wished—but only if we were to allow it. All we have to do is call the circle of power, and any that come through when the enchantment is broken will be bound to us as slaves. Then we will put a new binding on the eye—one we can open and close as we wish. We will not be denied our servants this time.” He cast a sharp look at Ivy. “Not as we were once before.”

The magician walked around the artifact. “How good of you to draw the circle of power for us, Mr. Rafferdy. You’ve made our task easy indeed. I have only to correct a few of the runes you drew improperly…” He knelt, tracing a hand through the powder on the floor. “There, it is ready.”

“What should we do about them?” the thin-nosed one said, pointing to Ivy and Mr. Rafferdy.

“Bind him. He’s a magician.”

“Are you fools?” Mr. Rafferdy said, stepping in front of Ivy. “That man was one of your own. You saw what just looking through that thing did to him. It’s madness to open it. You have—”

Several of the magicians raised their hands and spoke guttural words. At the same moment Mr. Rafferdy ceased moving, his body going rigid. His eyes stared blindly. Ivy let out a cry and touched his arm. It was as hard as stone. She studied him and after a moment could detect that he was breathing. Only the breaths were so slow, so shallow.

She looked up, glaring at the magicians. To her eyes, the ruby light in the room was tinged with emerald.

“What of her?” the man with the thin nose said.

The dark-haired one shrugged. “What can a woman do against us?”

The other nodded. Then the four remaining magicians arranged themselves in front of the crystal sphere, and washed in its impossible light they began to chant in a language older than mankind itself. The symbol drawn on the floor glowed blue. On the stand the artifact shuddered and swelled—a red eye gazing in a baleful stare.

A green veil seemed to descend over Ivy’s vision. She let go of Mr. Rafferdy’s motionless arm and stood straight. Fear departed her. Who were these men to presume that they could undo what her father had given so much—the very essence of himself—to achieve? She did not know what the place she could see through the orb was or what the things there were. All she knew was that if these magicians—these
men
—wanted something, then it could not be allowed.

What can a woman do against us?
their leader had said.

Ivy took a step toward the artifact. Jagged lines of blue light snaked across the suface of the sphere like cracks. Enrapt in their spell, the men did not seem to see her. Her lips curved into a smile, and she took another step closer. Yes, she would show them what a woman could do.

Ivy shut her eyes.
Grow,
she said silently.
Grow wild once more.

The sound of chanting ceased, replaced by muffled cries and choking sounds. Ivy opened her eyes.

It had happened even more quickly than she had thought. The legs of the wooden stand twisted and thickened, sinking roots into the floorboards. At the same time, green tendrils rose up out of the floor, tangling around the feet of the magicians, coiling up their bodies, around their arms, their necks, into their mouths. The men gagged, struggling and reeling.

“Grow,” Ivy spoke the word aloud this time.

The Wyrdwood listened. The tendrils thickened into stout cords, binding the men so they could not move, could not speak. The braided frame holding the sphere rippled like a mass of brown serpents. Ivy could sense the tendrils weaving together, pulling the surface of the orb inward, preventing it from expanding. Inside the crystal, furious shadows writhed.

Ivy moved forward. Branches draped from the ceiling, caressing her gently as she went. She stopped in front of the dark-haired magician. His lips curled back from his teeth in pain and disgust, and his face had gone a dusky color. He spoke a word, and though there was no breath or sound to it, she knew all the same what it was he said.

Witch.

She looked up at him. “You seek to know what is beyond the doorway. Why don’t you look, then? All of you.”

The magicians struggled, but they could not resist as the cords bent and straightened, dragging them toward the artifact. Vines pulled back their hoods and held their heads, forcing their gazes toward the opening. When they tried to shut their eyes, small tendrils forced their lids back open, so that they had no choice but to look as their faces were bent nearer to the orb, and nearer yet.

One of them screamed. Another followed suit, and another, letting out wordless sounds of despair. The last was the dark-haired man. Now that he was forced to look, he seemed to do so eagerly, drinking in the sights through the crimson eye. For a moment an expression of wonder crossed his face.

“By God, they are glorious,” he said.

Then his jaw yawned wide, and he was screaming like the others, over and over until red trickled from the corners of his mouth.

At last, one by one, the magicians fell silent. They stared mutely now, their faces slack, their eyes devoid of any thought, any feeling. A weariness came over Ivy, and she staggered back from the artifact. With a whisper the branches fell away from the men, uncoiling, sinking back into the floor, retreating into the ceiling. The wooden stand shrank back upon itself, so that in moments it looked as it had before. On the floor the magickal circle faded, then went dark. At the same time Mr. Rafferdy drew in a shuddering breath. He stood up straight and raised his cane before him.

“—to see that it is folly to open it!” he cried. Then he blinked, taking a staggering step forward.

The magicians continued to stand before the artifact, staring, their faces as pale and blank as masks. However, the surface of the crystal orb was moving again, expanding outward as dark things swarmed within. The red glow pulsed on the air.

He looked at her, astonishment on his face. “I have no idea what just happened.”

Ivy leaned against the wall. She was tired, so tired. All the same, a warmth filled her, a feeling of fulfillment such as she had never known. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “I believe you should speak the spell now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
HE CROWD BEFORE Barrowgate was larger than usual that morning. But then, it was not every day that a notorious highwayman met his fate.

Everyone had read the stories in the broadsheets: how the villain had planned to murder a magnate who was known to be an important servant of the Crown; how an unknown patriot had somehow discovered the plot and informed the magnate of the plans; and how, when the highwayman and his compatriots attempted the crime, they found a troop of the king’s redcrests lying in wait for them.

Several of the traitors were shot dead in the battle that ensued, but three were caught and hauled to jail, including the highwayman himself—the very same fellow who last month had brutally murdered a guard while escaping from Barrowgate. The trial had been swift and the judgment final. None would be escaping this time. All three were to hang.

Eldyn moved through the crowd, seeking a clearer view of the gallows that had been erected in the square before the black stones of Barrowgate. He passed jugglers and musicians and men hawking ale and sweets. People danced and laughed. It looked like a festival.

Indeed, it was a sort of celebration, was it not? No matter that, until a few days ago, the exploits of the highwayman in question had been glorified in
The Fox
and other broadsheets favored by simpler folk. However, there was one thing people loved more than raising a hero up for his daring successes, and that was casting him down for his public failures. That the people who once drank to his name were the same people who now clapped and jeered and threw taunts at the gallows, Eldyn had no doubt.

Nor did the thought trouble him as it once had. He had once worried about the wisdom of the common folk—that, if given the chance to choose for their country, the people of Altania could not be trusted to choose well. Yet as he pressed through the throng and felt the glee, the outrage, the desire, he knew he had been wrong.

It was not for their wisdom that crowds were important. The people were not the head of Altania but rather its heart. It was their task to feel in a way that Assembly and the Crown could not: to laugh, to want, to lash out in anger or fear without reason or warning. A man might use logic to try to decide what was best, but without feeling—without craving or dread or revulsion—how was he to truly know what to do or feel pleased when it was done? Tomorrow it might be something else they wanted, but today the crowd wanted death.

And they would have it.

A roar went up in the square. The iron door had opened, and three men were led out, their hands and wrists in shackles. Two of them hung their heads as they went, but the third stood tall, a smile on his handsome face, his gold hair shining in the morning sun. He raised up his bound hands as if in a gesture of victory.

Hisses and cries of
murderer!
sounded all around. Someone threw a rotten cabbage, and it struck the tall man in the face. After that he lowered his arms, and he did not smile as the guards led him and the others up the steps of the scaffold.

Eldyn slipped between two groups of men and reached the front of the crowd, just below the gallows. The last time he saw Westen, the highwayman had looked at ease and assured. Now, despite his earlier display of bravado, he no longer appeared so confident as the hangman slipped the noose over his neck. There was a light of fear in his tawny eyes. All the same, he kept a proud face, his shoulders back and his head up.

After leaving the highwayman that day, Eldyn had written a letter to Rafferdy, explaining the danger to Lord Rafferdy and Mr. Quent and giving all the particulars of the highwayman’s plan. He had signed it only,
A friend.
He knew the letter might be greeted with some suspicion but also that it could not be ignored and that Lord Rafferdy would see to it there were soldiers at the ready.

Thus it was that Lord Rafferdy and Mr. Quent were delivered to the exact place, at the precise time, that “Sashie” had promised to Westen. And thus it was, when the highwayman and his compatriots prowled from the shadows (though in some accounts it was dogs who were with Westen, not men), guns fired, and the soldiers fell upon them. According to the stories in the broadsheets, the battle lasted only a few moments, and neither Lord Rafferdy nor Mr. Quent was injured in any way.

An energy moved through the crowd. Atop the platform, the nooses had been tightened around all three necks. The moment had almost come. Nearby, Eldyn saw a cart selling sweets. He went to it and bought a treacle tart. On the gallows, the hangman began putting hoods over the heads of the prisoners.

“Nothing stops today!” the highwayman called out, his voice rising over that of the crowd. “It cannot be stopped. The wind changes, and a storm comes. When it does, Altania will rise! Altania will—”

Catcalls and jeers drowned out his voice. His face went red as he tried to shout over the noise, but it was no use. Then the hangman came and put a black sack over his head.

Yes, a storm did come, Eldyn thought, but right now the sun was warm and the sky a flawless blue. Later he would head to St. Galmuth’s and meet Sashie. Since their ordeal, she had taken to going there every day to offer a prayer. She had been very sweet to him of late, plying him with frequent kisses on the cheek and always bringing him a cup of wine when he returned to the inn after a day of work at his new clerking position.

His sister had mentioned Westen only once since the night they fled from Lowpark.

“I thought his words meant more because they were whispered,” she said one day as they walked along the Promenade in their finest clothes. “And that his gifts, because they were secret, were all the more precious. However, I know now that real love does not come in shadows. It shows itself every day, in bright light for all to see.”

She had taken his hand in her own then, and as they walked through the greatday afternoon, he could not remember a time he had thought her so pretty or himself so blessed as a brother.

Today was his free day, so after going to St. Galmuth’s, he would seek out Dercy. There was time for a drink before tonight’s performance, and Dercy had promised to teach him some new tricks. However, there was no hurry. It looked as if the hangman had been bribed, for he had tied the ropes short. There would be no quick deaths today; the people would not be denied their entertainment.

Eldyn took a bite of the treacle tart. It was sweet and good. And when the hangman pulled the lever, he cheered along with the rest of the crowd.

T
HE PARLOR AT Lady Marsdel’s house on Fairhall Street was pleasantly quiet as its usual denizens amused themselves in their customary manner. Mr. Baydon read through the latest issue of
The Comet
while Lord Baydon sat on the sofa, hands resting on the expanse of his waistcoat, snoring softly. Nearby, Lady Marsdel fanned herself along with the bit of white fluff that served as her dog, for the afternoon had grown sultry. At the table, Mr. Rafferdy helped Mrs. Baydon fit together a puzzle.

Not that he was being of much assistance, she informed him at frequent intervals. Why, now that he was a magician, he could not simply work a spell to find the most confounding piece she was missing, she did not know. She could only imagine he enjoyed making it difficult for her.

“Isn’t that the point of a puzzle?” he asked her. “I thought it was supposed to be difficult.”

“Really, Mr. Rafferdy, for a clever man you seem to have a difficult time grasping the simplest things. One only wants puzzles to be difficult after they’re finished. That way one can feel proud of one’s accomplishment. However, while we’re in the act of doing them, it’s preferred that they are easy.”

He could not help smiling. “I believe that the most difficult puzzle in the room is yourself, Mrs. Baydon.” Then he picked up a piece and set it in place, much to her delight.

“I see you’re still wearing that awful ring,” she observed. “Though I suppose you have to if you’re going to be a magician. Still, it’s quite hideous. How unbearable it must be for you to wear so unfashionable a thing! Everyone must stare.”

Rafferdy lifted his right hand. The gem set into the ring sparked with blue fire, but it was only the sunlight glinting off the facets of the stone. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really care what others think of it,” he said. “I’ve rather grown to like it.”

Mrs. Baydon looked at him.

“Now it’s you who’s staring,” he said. “Do I have a bit of jam on my face or something?”

“You really have changed, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “And it’s not just when you’re wearing that new solemn look of yours. It’s the air about you. I suppose we’ll all have to start taking you seriously now.”

“Please don’t,” he said emphatically. “If you do, I’ll have to find others who will see me for the silly, worthless son of a lord that I am.”

“Every man has worth, Mr. Rafferdy. The only question is, how much?” With that she directed her attention back to the puzzle.

Rafferdy opened his mouth to utter a smart rejoinder; however, none came to him. He picked up a piece of the puzzle and turned it over and over in his fingers. The ring on his right hand shimmered as he did, and the thought came to him:
She would say you have worth
. Nor was it Mrs. Baydon this thought concerned.

The moment was still vivid in his mind: the thrum of the ancient words of magick as he spoke them, the sapphire light that welled up from the circle of power to encapsulate the crystal orb, and the feeling on the air as if lightning were about to strike. He had always believed that power was the last thing in the world he desired. However, as he spoke the spell, he had wanted nothing more than to feel his own will at work.

And it
had
worked. By the time the blue light faded, the sphere no longer expanded like a widening eye. Instead, it had shrunk in on itself and had gone dark. The only light within it was a single dim spark of crimson. The binding had been renewed.

So the spell had worked, but why had he been given the opportunity to speak it at all? The magicians had entered the room, they had bound him so that he could not move, could not see or hear. Then the next thing he knew Ivy was calling to him, and the magicians had stood before the artifact, their eyes, their expressions, empty.

He could not help a shudder as he recalled the looks on their faces. It was clear they had gazed through the eye and that their minds—indeed, their very souls—were gone. But why? They had seen what happened to the one who looked through earlier; surely they had known not to repeat his folly.

Mrs. Quent had said only that they had been forced to gaze into the eye. How, he did not know. Perhaps, as the binding upon it weakened, it was the artifact itself that had drawn their gazes against their will. One thing he did know was that, whatever its origin and nature, the eye was a thing of unsurpassed evil. Mr. Lockwell had understood. That was why he had sacrificed himself to keep other members from the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye from opening it.

What would
he
have sacrificed to prevent its opening? Rafferdy hadn’t been forced to answer that question, a fact for which he was glad. Nor would he have to answer it in the foreseeable future. The binding on the artifact had been restored, and none of the magicians would ever come again to try to open it, for they were all up at Madstone’s now.

Yet they were not the only ones who knew about the Eye of Ran-Yahgren.

What had become of Mr. Bennick, they did not know. They had not seen him at the house on Durrow Street after working the spell, and he had not shown himself at Lady Marsdel’s since that day. Perhaps he had returned to his manor in Torland. Even if he remained in the city, there was nothing he could do to open the doorway himself. He was not a magician.

Yet whether or not he could do magick, there was no doubt he was still a dangerous man. Mr. Quent’s letter had made that clear. And while it was only a feeling, Rafferdy could not dismiss the idea that he would see Mr. Bennick again one day. Indeed, he counted upon it.