The Master of Heathcrest Hall (76 page)

After several hours they came to a division in the road, with one branch going direct toward Pellendry-on-Anbyrn, while the other turned due east. It was this latter route which Rafferdy chose, and the men marched after him.

A minute later Beckwith came thundering up beside him on the lively bay mare that he rode. “Shouldn’t we have taken the other way?” he said. “Going by this road will take us many hours longer, and we are to get to Pellendry as quickly as possible.”

“As quickly as possible,
and
prepared for a fight,” Rafferdy said. “Before we came north, I was given a report about a cache of weapons and other goods that was hidden near Brushing Cross, in the stand of Wyrdwood there. We did not have the time to stop for it on our way north, as the soldiers we were pursuing had struck off in a different direction. But it is only a little out of our way now, and we could do with several more rifles. What’s more, we are exceedingly low on powder and shot.”

“True, but these things will avail us not at all if we are late to whatever is to occur at Pellendry.”

“On the contrary, the most important guests are always late to a party,” Rafferdy said lightly. “And they always make sure to equip themselves in all their finery before they arrive. We will do the same.”

Beckwith seemed to struggle in deciding whether to laugh or frown. At last he said, “I’ll tell the men to increase their pace.”

“Their pace is fine as it is, Lieutenant,” Rafferdy said, then noticed the agitated manner in which the young man squirmed in his saddle. So Rafferdy continued, “But if you would like to ride ahead to Brushing Cross and scout out the location of the Wyrdwood there, and make sure no enemy are about, you may take a man and one of the extra horses to do so.”

“Will there be a witch there to let us enter the grove?”

“I don’t know,” Rafferdy said, thinking back to the report he had read. “I know that a witch helped our men enter the grove, as it was all done under cover of night. But that was before the front pushed eastward. I would think the witch has moved on since then. But the cache is said to be just over the wall, so if we wait until daylight, we should have no fear retrieving it. The trees will not disturb us then. The Quelling will keep them subdued—as long as we do not venture within the grove and disturb them ourselves.”

Beckwith’s face suddenly looked a bit paler than usual in the moonlight. But he only nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

Then he wheeled his horse back around to the main company. A few minutes later, Rafferdy watched Beckwith and another man, mounted on one of the spares, canter eastward down the road.

Had it been any farther to Brushing Cross, Rafferdy wouldn’t have allowed Beckwith to go. But he estimated it would only take the rest of them two hours to march there. And given how far eastward the front had moved, Rafferdy had no real fear Beckwith would encounter an enemy. Besides, this way Rafferdy could ride in peace until they reached the Wyrdwood.

Not that he wasn’t anxious to arrive himself. Back in the city, Rafferdy had read in the broadsheets the rumors that rebels were
making use of groves of Old Trees to cover their actions moving arms about, but he had not truly believed it until he joined the rebellion himself. Since then, he had met several officers who had spoken of retrieving weapons and supplies that, prior to the outbreak of war, had been hidden in stands of Wyrdwood in the West Country. It was these stores, cached in strategic places, which had helped the rebels advance so quickly once Huntley Morden landed in Torland.

Even more remarkable was the fact that, in each case, a witch had aided the rebels in hiding the weapons within the Wyrdwood. For this work had to be accomplished at night so it would not be seen, and that was when the Quelling was at its weakest—and the Old Trees their most restless. The presence of a witch helped to soothe the trees so the men could hoist crates of weapons and barrels of powder over the stone wall and hide them under the eaves of some grove of Wyrdwood.

Rafferdy had always thought people in the country feared both the Wyrdwood and witches. Now he understood that wasn’t entirely the case, at least in Torland. Rather, the folk there had a wariness of such things, one that came from historical knowledge and direct familiarity. Yet there was also a respect for the Old Trees, and even a peculiar fondness and admiration. So it was, in the West Country, witches were tolerated, and even sought out to aid the cause; while in the city they were likely being hunted down, and perhaps being taken to the gallows. If Rafferdy needed any further reassurance he had joined the right side in the war, this fact was more than sufficient.

To Rafferdy’s relief, as he rode and the men marched, the horizon ahead of them began to lighten, first from slate and then to pewter. By the time they passed the first cottages on the outskirts of Brushing Cross, the stars were fading, and a rose-colored glow welled up from the horizon. After some thirty hours of darkness, dawn was coming at last.

They proceeded through the desolate village, breath fogging upon the air, not seeing a living soul as they went. Once on the far
side of the houses, they caught sight of the Wyrdwood: a ragged line upon the top of a rounded prominence some half a mile eastward.

Rafferdy accompanied the men to the foot of the ridge, then told them to halt and take a rest—a command to which they gladly assented. Spurring his gelding, Rafferdy proceeded up the slope. As he did, the eastern sky continued to brighten, turning a brilliant magenta. The trees tangled up before him, and with the ruddy light of dawn filtering through their branches, it seemed almost as if they were afire.

Perhaps he should have taken that as an omen. At that moment, though, fearing nothing was amiss, he rode right up to the wall that enclosed the grove. It was a dozen feet high, constructed of fieldstone that was thick with moss and lichen. Rafferdy could only concede that it was clever of the rebels to hide their supplies within stands of Old Trees. Nothing could be seen beyond the walls, and nor was anyone likely to climb over them—not after the stories of the Risings in Torland.

Seeing no sign of Beckwith or the other soldier, Rafferdy kept riding along the wall. As he did, a morning wind whipped up, stirring the dry grass in circles, and causing the branches that hung over the top of the wall to quiver and toss. Then the breeze dwindled and died, and the grass fell still.

But the trees continued to thrash and shudder, emitting creaking and groaning noises as they did.

Rafferdy knew at once what was happening, but still he could not react quickly enough. A branch lashed downward, snapping like a whip. It did not make any contact with him, but at the sudden sound and motion his horse gave a scream and reared up violently. Rafferdy had to leap off, or he would have been thrown from the saddle.

He staggered as his boots struck the ground, letting out a grunt of pain, then managed to catch himself. Looking up, he saw the gelding racing away down the hill, heading back in the direction they had come. His instinct was to start after it, only then he heard a voice shouting behind him. He turned and saw, just ahead, the
figure of a man near the wall, beating back a twisted branch with a saber.

It was Beckwith.

Rafferdy ran forward, reaching him just in time to grab the collar of his coat and jerk him away from the wall. A moment later several branches—far more than could have been fended off with a saber—reached out over the top of the wall, groping and clutching at the spot where Beckwith had been.

“Don’t be a fool!” Rafferdy cried out over the noise of the trees. “You can’t stop them. It’s a Rising. We’ll have to abandon the supplies.”

Beckwith shook his head, his face the color of ashes. “No, we can’t leave. Corporal Hendry is in there!”

Rafferdy felt as if one of the branches had struck him in the chest, even though the two men were out of reach of the trees.

“Hendry is in the wood?” he shouted, incredulous. “Tell me how in the Abyss is that possible?”

“I gave him a leg up over the wall, and he was able to climb over.”

“I don’t mean the method that was used—I can imagine that. I mean, why in the name of Eternum would you do such a thing? I told you we had to wait until it was daylight to try to enter the wood.”

Beckwith was shaking; he looked as if he was about to be ill. “We waited for an hour, and then it was very nearly dawn. I thought if we could locate the cache of weapons, we could begin retrieving them as soon as you and the men arrived, and so make our delay as short as possible.”

Rafferdy swore. Damn Beckwith’s unvarying impatience! He was tempted to strike the lieutenant a blow across the jaw, but instead tightened his grip on the collar of his coat.

“When did the trees start to move?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Not long after Hendry went over the wall. I heard … I think I heard him cry out. But I’m not sure. The noise the trees make—it’s awful.”

Rafferdy supposed there was a good chance the corporal was
dead already, but until they were certain they could not abandon him. He swore again, and this time it was for himself, not Beckwith. The night had been long enough to be considered a greatnight. He should have known the trees would be more restless than usual, and more easily agitated, after such a long span of darkness. But he had been dull-headed from weariness and had not even considered it.

“I’ll ward off the branches to the right,” he said. “You keep watch to the left. We’ve got to get to the wall to see if we can spot Hendry.”

Beckwith nodded and gripped his saber, looking steadier now that they had a plan of action. The young lieutenant was inexperienced and overeager, but he was loyal and no coward. For his part, Rafferdy felt anything but brave; he eyed the gnarled branches, which thrust and swiped with a power and speed that was surely enough to crush bones. But this was not the first Rising he had seen.

And besides, he had powers of his own.

Drawing his saber, he spoke several runes of warding, and his House ring blazed to life. Crackling blue threads of light coiled around the hilt of his sword and snaked down the length of the blade. Beckwith’s eyes grew wider yet at this display. Before the lieutenant could say anything, Rafferdy raised the glowing saber and started toward the wall. Beckwith hurried to keep up with him, and both men held their swords ready, prepared to strike at any branch that bent toward him.

None did so. Instead, the groaning noises abruptly ceased as the trees grew still. Dead leaves made a soft rustling sound as they settled all around like black snow, then came silence. Why had the grove become quiescent again? Then, as Rafferdy looked up, he understood. A thick tangle of branches unwound themselves and withdrew from the top of the wall, revealing a figure who had been hidden among them.

So, she had not moved on after all.

The branch she had been standing on bent down, and she
stepped from it, alighting onto the top of the wall. She wore only a simple pale frock, and her feet were bare beneath its hem. Leaves and twigs tangled in her fiery hair. She was, Rafferdy guessed, no more than twenty.

“Good God, who is she?” Beckwith exclaimed.

“She’s a witch,” Rafferdy said, then took a step nearer to the wall.

“Come no closer!” the young woman spoke. Her voice was peculiarly deep for one so small and slight of figure, and there was an echo to it, a queer sort of multifariousness, as if it were a chorus that spoke rather than a single voice. “I see the metal blade that you carry. I see the blue fire upon it. And I know who you are.”

Slowly, Rafferdy lowered his saber, and he released the spell with a whispered rune. The threads of blue light were extinguished at once. But his House ring continued to throw off sapphire sparks.

“Who is it you think I am?” he called out.

“You are the ax in their hand,” she said, her voice becoming a hiss. “You serve the ravenous ones—those who come from the empty place far beyond the night. They fear our branches, they know we are strong. But you would cut us, and burn us down, so we cannot stand against them.” As she spoke, a black branch coiled around her waist, then snaked up and around the bodice of her gown, as if caressing her.

Rafferdy was at once horrified and fascinated.
We
, she had said, rather than
I
. The witch’s eyes were the color of moss, and in them was a light, and a depth, far beyond that of any twenty-year-old woman. How long had she hidden there in the grove, waiting for the rebels to return for their supplies, listening to the trees? Long enough that she had lost herself, and had become like a tree in a forest: one of many.

A shudder passed through him. Was this what would have happened to Mrs. Quent that day at the Evengrove, had she not been able to prevent her own thoughts from being drowned out by those of the trees? Would she have writhed among the branches,
and have spoken with a voice—with many voices—far older than her own?

He sheathed his saber, and held up his empty hands. “No, we do not serve the Ashen. We would fight them, like you.”

“If that is truth, then why do you speak in their tongue?” she cried. “Why do you wield their power as your own?”

Their power? He did not understand. It was magick he had been wielding. But it did not matter. The first rays of sunlight fell upon the stone wall, a warm blush upon the cool stones. Dawn had finally come.

“Please,” Rafferdy called out. “We have no wish to harm you, or the trees in the grove. We only wanted to retrieve some things that were hidden beyond the wall—things which were hidden with your help. But they aren’t important anymore. We only want to fetch our friend who climbed over the wall and to leave.”

She gazed down at him with those ancient green eyes. “You do not lie? You will take the man and then you will go?”

“Yes,” Rafferdy called out. “I promise it!”

The witch was silent for a long moment as she stroked the branch that coiled around her. Then, at last, she nodded. Her lips parted to speak.

Whatever it was she said was lost in a clap of thunder.

A puff of smoke obscured Rafferdy’s vision. Then it dissipated, and a horror gripped him. Atop the wall, the witch stared forward with wide eyes that were no longer the color of moss, but rather the dull gray of stones. A crimson circle stained her pale shift, rapidly expanding outward. For a few moments more she remained there atop the wall. Then the branch that had held her uncoiled and slipped away.