The Master of Heathcrest Hall (72 page)

Since coming back to Heathcrest, Ivy had not gone up to the
attic, or to the little room she had once occupied when she was a governess. She did not quite know why. Perhaps it was due to the memory of her confrontation with the highwayman Westen there, or perhaps it was simply that she did not like to be so far from the first floor, for fear she would not be able to hear if Rose called out for her.

All the same, she now found herself going to the foot of the servants’ stair and climbing up the narrow steps. She made her way along a cramped corridor down which she had once fled from Westen, then passed through a door that yet stood ajar.

A pang touched her heart. The little room under the eaves was cold and drafty, but was otherwise just as she remembered it. There was the sleigh bed, and the old Murghese rug, and the little table where she had sat alone by candlelight, penning a letter to her father—one he would never read, but which had been for herself as much as for him.

Near the bed was a heap of splintered wood—the remnants of the chair of bent Wyrdwood that Mr. Samonds had made as a boy, and which Ivy had used to entrap Westen, thus effecting her escape from the highwayman. She picked up one of the broken sticks. It was dry and lifeless in her hand. She let it fall back to the floor.

It would be better if she went downstairs, Ivy admonished herself. This was a place that could only inspire melancholy thoughts. How much she had gained since she first set foot in this room, and how much she had since been deprived of! Yet still, she endured. And she knew now that was what Mr. Quent had been trying to tell her in the dark cell beneath Barrowgate, when he related to her the story of how long ago he had given up part of himself in order to escape the Wyrdwood.

He had been telling her to let him go.

Yet Ivy wondered—was it worth giving up anything in order to survive, no matter how precious it was? What if you gave up so much of yourself that there was nothing left of who you truly were?

She hesitated, then went to the bench below the little window, sat, and looked outside. For the first time since the lumenal began, the rain had ceased, and the clouds were lifting. Pale rivulets of fog ebbed upon the landscape, flowing down from the rocky fells and pooling in low places on the moors. As the clouds broke apart farther, a dark, uneven crown appeared upon the brow of the ridge to the east of the manor.

It was the old stand of Wyrdwood, which Ivy and Rose had found themselves within after stepping through the gate on Arantus. A compulsion came over Ivy, to go to the trees and slip through the crack in the wall. It was not to step back through the gate that she wanted to do this; there was no use in such a thing, for she was certain Mr. Rafferdy would have locked the door in the gallery on Durrow Street. Rather, she wanted to touch the rough bark of their trunks, and to tangle her fingers among the crooked branches. Her father had not yet spoken out of the past to tell her what she must do now. But perhaps the trees would know. They were ancient, and they had seen the Ashen before. How else could the Old Trees have recognized their slaves, and known to fight them?

Yes, the Wyrdwood would know what to do.…

She started to rise from the window seat. At the same time, a dark flutter of motion caught her eye. It appeared for only the briefest moment below the window, a little distance from the house: a shadow that slipped away before it could really be seen. It made Ivy think of some lurking animal that had been unexpectedly revealed by a break in the fog, and had fled again for cover.

A dread came upon her. She had just been thinking of the
gol-yagru
, the Ashen-slaves. Was one prowling about the manor?

No, she could not believe that. The trees upon the eastern ridge stood motionless against the sky, and she could not believe that would be the case if a thing of Ashen-kind was near. More likely it was a fox slinking about.

All the same, she spent several minutes watching to see if she
would spy the shadow again. She did not. But there was something else Ivy saw as the fog lifted further: the jumble of fallen stones at the far end of the ridge on which Heathcrest stood. She had read once, in a book of history, how some of the old elf circles that scattered the countryside were arranged so that their massive stones aligned with various objects in the heavens. Perhaps that had been true of this circle of stones as well; and she supposed its position on the edge of the ridge would afford it a sweeping view of the sky.

There was one way to find out for sure. Ivy rose from the window seat and departed the little room. Taking the servants’ stair, she descended to the kitchen, then let herself out through the rear door. She had not stopped to put on her cape and hood, but while the air was damp and chilled, the rain had ceased, and the wool gown Rose had sewn for her was warm.

Quickly, Ivy started away from the house. She passed the well, then kept walking, following a well-worn path. As she went, she cast frequent glances around her, but she saw no other living thing. Soon she reached a solitary stone, about breast high, which stood by the path. Long ago, someone had scratched the word Heathcrest onto its pitted surface. When approached from a certain angle, the stone took on the aspect of a grotesque face gazing out over the moor.

Ivy did not stop to regard it now. Instead she kept walking while the manor dwindled in size behind her, until at last the path ended in a profusion of fallen stones.

It was the old elf circle. Despite their common name, the elf circles did not owe their origin to fairies or other fantastical beings; rather, they had been erected by the ancient people who inhabited the island long before the first Tharosian ships ever landed on these shores. For what purpose the stone circles had been raised, no one could say for certain. Yet it was clear there was some purpose or power in their arrangement; after all, it was this very place where Mr. Bennick had chosen to work his enchantment that transformed Ashaydea into a White Thorn.

Ivy picked her way through the ruin, wanting to get as close to the edge of the ridge as possible, so as to have the clearest view of the southern sky. The great slabs of stone lay strewn about, and some were cracked or broken, as if they had been scattered by some terrible force.

But had it been a natural power that had wrought such havoc, or something other? The stones bore a dark, weathered patina, and only faint remnants of the original swirling patterns carved on them remained. Yet in the places where they were broken, the stones bore rougher edges. And here and there she glimpsed symbols etched into them that were sharper and paler than the ancient, circular patterns.

Ivy reached the center of the fallen circle. She took a breath of the moist air, then looked up to see what view she now had of the southern sky. Even as she did, she felt something give a twitch in the pocket of her dress. Startled, Ivy let out a gasp. Again something twitched, as if a mouse had found its way into her pocket. Only, as she reached within, it was not warm fur she felt, but rather warm stone. She drew out the gray gem and cupped it in her palm. As she watched, it gave another jerk.

Were there still some remnants of magick here within the stone circle—faint echoes which resonated with the enchantment of the gem? Perhaps, but if so they were not so strong as to awaken the stone, for it remained dark. But she knew how to awaken it herself, didn’t she? Mr. Rafferdy had told her what to do, only she had been too afraid to do it. Yet Mr. Quent had always displayed unwavering courage in the face of all things. It was time Ivy did as well. She drew in a breath.

Then, with a finger, she tapped the gem three times.

Ivy gazed down at the stone and saw that its center was no longer cloudy. Instead, it had become clear and deep, and there was movement within it—or rather, beyond it. She lifted the gem closer to her face. It was like gazing through a tiny window of beveled glass into a small, dim chamber. Only she was not seeing things that were happening there, but rather things as they
had
happened.

Horrified, fascinated, Ivy watched the minute figures in the polished facets. So this was what the gem had witnessed: a bearded man with a noble, furrowed brow, and a woman in a black dress, her face white as bone. Some agreement seemed to pass between them. The man knelt before her and bowed his head. The woman reached out her hands in what almost seemed a tender embrace. And then—

Now it was Ivy who had become a standing stone. She was rigid as a few final flickers of movement occurred within the gem. Then the gem grew dim and cloudy again upon her hand.

Still she stood there in the old elf circle, motionless. The clouds thickened again, lowering themselves toward the ridge as a mist began to fall, but she was oblivious to it. At some point, as it became slick with rain, the gem slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground, but she did not bend down to pick it up. Instead, she would stand here like the stones forever, and let the wind and rain slowly dissolve her away.

At last a sound jarred her from her stupor. It was a rhythmic, grinding noise. For a wild moment she believed it was the sound of a horse riding toward her, and she jerked her head up, thinking,
He has come!

It was not the sound of hooves she had heard, though, but rather the noise of boots against the graveled slope of the ridge. Even as she realized this, the fog swirled and parted, and three men crested the edge of the ridge not ten paces away from her. Their boots were muddy, and moisture beaded upon their patched and dirty blue coats. Rifles were slung over their backs.

They saw her barely a moment after she saw them. The closest of the three gave a start, no doubt surprised to come upon her standing there among the stones. Then a smile parted his straggly blond beard.

“Well, good day there, ma’am,” the soldier said. And he reached for the rifle on his back.

T
HEY HAD BEEN MARCHING in the dark for nearly ten hours, according to Rafferdy’s pocket watch, but still the men pressed onward.

Other than themselves, and the sound made by forty pairs of boots, the countryside through which they passed was empty and silent. A bloated moon, stained by the proximity of the red planet, was slung low in the sky. By its light they could make out the empty husks of farmhouses to either side of the road, and fields that had been reduced to ash. Here and there they passed the ruin of some cart or wagon, both its contents and horses missing, and the spokes of its wheels shattered.

At one point they encountered a lone cow, a sickly thing lowing piteously in a barren plot bounded by stone walls. One of the men shot it in the head with a pistol, and they carved what scant meat they could from its bones before marching on. But other than the cow, they saw no other living thing, nor any other foodstuffs or supplies they might have used to sustain them. Valhaine’s men had burned and destroyed everything they could as they retreated east, and while their effectiveness upon the battlefield could be questioned, in this they had been remarkably efficient.

The umbral gave no sign that it was drawing to a close, and the darkness seemed only to thicken as the hours passed. Despite this, and the protracted length of their march, Rafferdy did not call for a halt. Just two days ago, they had been halfway from Baringsbridge to Dunbria in the north, pursuing the remnants of a company of soldiers that had been separated from the rest of the royal
Altanian army after a skirmish at Strayn’s Fold. Then, even as Rafferdy was certain they were closing in on the fleeing men, a courier on horseback caught up to the rebel company.

The courier’s brown coat was gray with dust, and his horse’s flanks were flecked with lather, for he had been riding hard all over County Baringham and its surrounds in search of any men he could rummage up. By order of Huntley Morden himself, all companies were to march for Pellendry-on-Anbyrn, some sixty miles to the east of Baringsbridge, with all possible haste. He showed them a gold seal imprinted with the silhouette of a falcon, in case they had any doubt of the veracity of the command. They did not.

After delivering this order, the courier paused only to drink some water, as well as a swig of whiskey from a bottle one of the men had removed from a corpse on the battlefield. The courier took these refreshments in his saddle. He said he was determined to ride until he had mustered every company of Morden men remaining in fifty miles, or the horse dropped dead beneath him. With that, he dug his spurs into the poor beast’s sides. It gave a scream, then lunged forward, and in a cloud of dust he was gone.

At once, Lieutenant Beckwith had expressed eagerness to turn back and make for Pellendry-on-Anbyrn. During their brief acquaintance, Rafferdy had not observed Beckwith to be possessed of a great capacity for patience, though there surely was not an officer to be found who was more fervent in his loyalty to Huntley Morden. Beckwith was from an old family in Dunbria that had gone in for Bandley Morden seventy years ago, and they had been stripped of title and lands after the elder Morden’s defeat. Only in the last generation had the family been able to rebuild its wealth through favorable business dealings, and they now owned nearly all of their former lands.