The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (74 page)

Her elation vanished, and she sagged against the sideboard as she read on. The paper trembled in her hand like a pale leaf before a storm.

My Dearest—

You have told me you think me to be a man of good sense and solid judgment. Know that your sentiments, however lovingly intended, are wrong. I have been careless—even reckless. That I should have told you this long ago is now as plain to see as this ink upon the page.

Yet it did not occur to me that I had any need to do so! Never did I think that he would return to Invarel—not after what happened years ago. Yet he has done just that, and I have been thoughtless not to warn you. I only hope he has not approached you. Surely it would be brazen of him. He must know what risk he would expose himself to by attempting such a thing.

I reassure myself that he has no doubt kept far from you, and your father is nowhere that he might reach him. All the same, I must caution you, for I have just learned in a missive from Lord Rafferdy that Mr. Bennick has indeed returned to Invarel after many years of exile in Torland. Heed these words, dearest: you must have nothing to do with him! He is dangerous—a deceiver and a traitor. While I am to this day not certain of the particulars, I believe—no, I will say I am certain—that it is because of Mr. Bennick’s actions that Mr. Lockwell suffered his awful fate.

They had both belonged to the same arcane order of magicians, your father once confided in me. Shortly after your father fell ill, I questioned Mr. Bennick, and he was sly and secretive. Nor did he show any sort of remorse at what had befallen Mr. Lockwell, who had purportedly been his friend.

Despite his dissembling, I was able to glean a few things from him. He had been working an enchantment that Mr. Lockwell had implored him not to. However, the spell went awry, and as a result something terrible would have taken place (though what, I cannot imagine).

Before this awful happening could occur, Mr. Lockwell intervened. He managed to undo whatever it was Mr. Bennick had achieved. However, the effort required was great, and the cost to your father grievous. His mind was broken—irrevocably, or so Mr. Bennick told me. Alas, of all the things he said to me, this was the only one I fully believed as the truth!

So you see, you must have nothing to do with Mr. Bennick. He is no longer a magician—his power to do magick was taken from him by his order. Why, I do not know; as a punishment for what he did, I suppose. Regardless, you must not think because his power is gone that he is no longer dangerous. He knows other magicians, and that he might one day seek to convince them to attempt again that thing your father once prevented him from accomplishing is something I suspect.

You must do nothing that might offer him any help. If there are books or papers of your father’s he ever comes seeking, do not give them to him. My work here has been difficult, but it is at last near to its completion. There is no need to reply—I will return before any letter can reach me. Until then, keep yourself safe, dearest. I shall be with you soon, but know that either near or far, I am ever—

Yours,

A. Quent

With shaking hands, Ivy folded the letter. Dread had brought clarity to her like cold rain washing down a fogged window. One by one she fit the events together in her mind, like the pieces of one of Mrs. Baydon’s puzzles, until the picture became clear: the ring he had given Mr. Rafferdy, the article about the new planet he had sent to her, his invitation to give Mr. Rafferdy lessons in the art of magick. He was no longer a magician, but he had said himself that just because he no longer practiced magick did not mean he no longer possessed an interest in it.

The Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye had taken his magickal talent from him. Yet in his letter, her father had said he believed there was more than one traitor in the order. What if Mr. Bennick was able to deliver to them something they wanted? Were there not some in the order who might reward him by giving him his magick back?

He had told Rafferdy that, once taken away, a magician’s talent could never be restored, but Ivy could not believe that. He had only wished to frighten Mr. Rafferdy into studying with him. He had needed Mr. Rafferdy, just as he needed Ivy. He had used Mr. Wyble as a way to arrange their introduction, then had used them both in turn.

He had known Mr. Lockwell, had known about the riddle, and had sent her the article to help her solve it. Then he had taught Mr. Rafferdy the very spell included with her father’s letter—the spell that must have undone what Mr. Bennick had tried to achieve years ago—knowing that understanding it would induce them to use the key and open the door to the house on Durrow Street. Once the door was open, he would bring others from the order there, and deliver to them what they sought….

Upstairs, the music ceased. A moment later a slim figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Ivy?” Rose’s voice drifted down. “Is that you? Are you coming up to sit with us in the parlor? It was Lily’s idea to go in. It’s not our proper time, but it’s good to be in there again. It makes me think of what it was like before. Won’t you come sit with us?”

A pang passed through Ivy, then she cleared her throat and forced her voice to be light. “Not just now, dearest,” she called up. “There is…I have an errand I must do.”

Ivy put the letter in her pocket, and she felt the iron key there. She could only believe Mr. Bennick knew everything they intended. No doubt at that very moment he was on his way to the house on Durrow Street.

And so was Mr. Rafferdy.

She gripped the key in a fist. Then Ivy was out the door and into the swift-passing day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
HE BELLS RANG out with the dawn.

To others in the city they signaled the end of night, the coming again of lighted times, but to Eldyn the music of the bells meant nothing. He had not slept, and the sun—however bright its rays—had no power to dispel the darkness that pursued him. The moment he stepped out the doors of St. Galmuth’s, the shadow would be there, waiting for him.

Rosy light spilled through a stained-glass window, illuminating the small side chapel where they had spent the night, off the west transept of the cathedral. Sashie stirred on one of the pews where she lay curled up beneath Eldyn’s coat, but she did not open her eyes.

Eldyn wasn’t sure to whom the chapel was dedicated. Given the bronze staff in her hands, the figure on the altar might have been St. Alethyn, protector of orphans or cripples. Or it might have been St. Sophella, renowned for smiting infidels with her rod. Eldyn hoped it was the former rather than the latter.

Last night the rector had shown them to the chapel as darkness fell, though not before the priest at the doors of the cathedral had nearly cast them out. It seemed charity was no longer freely given at St. Galmuth’s—not when the number who needed it would have filled the catheral many times over. Dread had seized Eldyn, and he had glanced over his shoulder into the gloom behind them, looking for a prowling shadow and twin amber sparks. Sashie had whimpered beside him.

Fortunately, from his days at the church of St. Adaris, Dercy was familiar with the ancient rules. He had demanded to speak to the rector, and as they waited he instructed Eldyn on how to speak the request for sanctuary; when the rector arrived, Eldyn did so. Even so, the priest might still have cast them out, but the rector would not have it.

“I do not know how it is in the parish you came from,” the old rector had said in his thin voice, “but the laws are remembered here at St. Galmuth’s. The first soul to request sanctuary after the fall of night must be granted it for the remainder of the umbral. They will stay here tonight, and, if he will hear it, they can make their case to the archdeacon tomorrow. He will judge if their plight warrants the protection of the Church.”

Eldyn and his sister were let inside, though to Eldyn’s dismay Dercy did not come with them. All the same, as the great doors closed with a
boom,
Eldyn’s fear receded. In here, no evil could find them.

However, as the light strengthened, so did Eldyn’s dread. The old rector might still adhere to the ancient ways, but what of the archdeacon? What if he was not moved by Eldyn’s plea? Or worse, what if he would not hear their case at all? He watched the warm light fall upon the altar. Others might have seen it as a sign of hope, but to him the ruddy illumination stained the pale statue of the saint like blood.

The tolling of the bells ceased, and as their music faded he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Dercy enter the chapel. The young man held out his hand, but Eldyn gripped him close in an embrace.

“Thank you,” he said as they broke apart.

For a moment Eldyn couldn’t fathom Dercy’s expression—it seemed at once sad and hopeful—but then the young man’s blond beard parted in a grin. “It seems the time I spent at St. Adaris counted for something, after all. Brother Garus used to bore me to tears with his stories of how he was once a priest at St. Galmuth’s, but I’m glad for them now.”

“As am I,” Eldyn said. He glanced back at Sashie, then lowered his voice. “But have you heard—do you know if the archdeacon will hear our petition?”

Dercy’s smile vanished. “I don’t know. He might, but they say he is a very busy man. The good news is that you are allowed to stay until the archdeacon either agrees to hear your request or denies it, and it sounds like that could take days. In the meantime, you’ll be safe here.”

Eldyn looked again at the statue on the altar. She seemed to be gazing down, as if at someone kneeling before her, and he wondered if it was with benevolence she looked or with retribution. Yes, they were safe here, but for how long? A few days, perhaps. And even if they were granted sanctuary, how long could they dwell here in a cathedral? What sort of life would that be for Sashie, trapped like a bird in the high-vaulted church?

“I’m tired,” he said quietly.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned around. Dercy gazed at him, worry in his blue-green eyes.

“Maybe you should try to sleep.”

Eldyn shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I want to end this. I’m tired of running from him, I’m tired of letting him be the master of this game. I won’t play it anymore, not by his rules.” Strangely, as he spoke these words, his fear and weariness receded. “I don’t care how it ends, but I want this to stop now.”

Dercy gripped his arm. “Then you have to stop running. It will never end if you don’t. You can’t just keep responding to what he does. You have to be the one to take action.”

Eldyn understood. It was like the play at the Theater of the Moon. No matter how far the silvery youth ran, he could not escape the sun king. The only way to end it was to confront the king himself, to destroy his pursuer. Even if it led to his own destruction.

I would do it,
Eldyn thought.
If it would free Sashie from Westen, then I would do it, no matter the cost.

“Only how?” he said aloud. “He is stronger than I, and he can wield a gun. What power do I have against him?”

Now Dercy was grinning again. “You do have power. I’ve seen it, and so have you. He may have fists and guns at his disposal, but you have something else. If you’re going to defeat him, you have to do it in your own way.”

Eldyn looked down at his hands, and as the light turned from red to gold, he thought he knew what Dercy meant. His father had called him weak, and all these years Eldyn had believed him. Only he wasn’t weak. He just hadn’t understood the nature of his own strength.

“So how do I do it?”

Dercy studied Eldyn for a moment. Then he glanced at Sashie, still sleeping on the bench, and his grin broadened. “You do it by giving him exactly what he wants.”

They bent their heads together, whispering like the priests beneath the vaults of the cathedral.

I
T WAS AFTERNOON, and sunlight bathed the cathedral of St. Galmuth’s as one of the great bronze doors opened a fraction. A moment later a lithe figure slipped out. The young woman had dark hair and fair skin, and if any eyes saw her (and indeed, certain eyes were watching for just such a thing) they would have considered her a very pretty thing.

She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, then hurried down the steps of the cathedral to the street below. She unfurled a parasol and raised it against the brilliant afternoon sun, shading her face, then looked left and right, as if unsure of which way to go. After a moment she chose left and moved down the street with the crowds, deeper into the Old City.

Again, if eyes had been watching, they would have seen seconds later how a tall form separated itself from the dimness of a doorway and stalked down the street after her.

The figure of the young woman wove among the crooked lanes of the Old City, then passed through the Lowgate into the danker ways of Waterside. Men cast her looks as she went, as if stumbling upon a flower in the midst of a rubbish heap. Coming upon such a thing, what man would not crave to pluck it? However, it was broad daylight, and there were redcrests here and there. No one accosted her.

At last the young woman stopped before an inn on a narrow lane. The sign over the door read
The Golden Loom.
From beneath her parasol, she drew out a silk handkerchief and gave it a flutter.

It was the sign he had been waiting for. He appeared from a shadow and approached on long legs, clad in velvet and leather. His mane of hair fell over broad shoulders, shining like gold in the sunlight. She gasped as he appeared suddenly beside her, then the white curve of a smile appeared in the dimness beneath the parasol.

“I knew it,” she said, her voice very soft. “I knew if I came here you would find me.”

“So I have, my sweet. I’ve been waiting for you, and you have not disappointed me. I am pleased with you. Very pleased.” He smiled, and bent his face toward hers.

She lowered the parasol further. “Not here!” she whispered.

He withdrew, a bemused expression on his handsome face. “You are right, of course. In my delight to see you, I forget my manners. Besides, there are those who, if they noticed me, would not look so kindly upon me as you do. It is best if we go inside.”

He held out his arm, and she accepted it. Inside it was cool and dim, but she traded her parasol for a fan, using it to conceal her face as he spoke to the innkeeper. Coins changed hands. A private dining chamber was reserved. Wine was delivered, and sweet things to eat, then the innkeeper was told not to disturb them.

When they were alone again, he moved to the door and locked it. Then he poured wine for them both and handed her a glass.

“You need fear no prying eyes in here,” Westen said. “The innkeeper and I have an…arrangement. He can be trusted. Pray set down your fan and let me see your lovely face in full.”

“Draw the curtains first.”

He laughed. “What a modest thing you are!” But he did as instructed, and then she set down the fan and smiled at him. It was a lovely expression, demure but not too timid. And if her cheeks were powdered and rouged a bit more heavily than usual, and her lips painted a deeper red, he seemed not to notice. He sat beside her, took a long drink of wine, then set his hand atop hers. She started to pull away, but he clasped his fingers about her own, holding her hand in place.

“You need not fear,” he said. “No one recognized you here, not with your fan before your face. Nor were you followed from the cathedral. There is no way your brother can know where you are.”

“My brother!” she said scornfully. “How I am glad to be away from him. Would that I never saw him again!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You speak ill of him, yet I know he loves you deeply. Do you not love him in return?”

“Do I love him? Nay, I loathe him! He has been my captor and my tormentor all these months. He has imprisoned me in wretched hovels, never letting me see the light or breathe the air. If he professes to love me, then it is as a man loves a pearl he locks away in a musty box where no one can ever see it. It is a wonder I have not wasted away.”

Alarm suddenly crossed her face, and now it was she who clasped his hand tightly. “You aren’t going to take me back to him, are you? Please, I would rather you take out your gun and end my life. I won’t go back to him!”

“Now, now,” he said, lifting his other hand to her chin. “You need not speak so wildly. You are free of him forevermore—I promise you that. If ever I would ask you to go back to him, it would be only for a short time, and then only to help me punish him.”

“To…to punish him?”

“Yes, to punish him for how he has wronged you and how he has wronged me.”

For a moment she gazed at him, then her lips curved in a smile. “I like the sound of that.” She pushed his glass toward him. It was full again, and he did not seem to notice that her own glass was suddenly empty, though she had taken only the smallest sip. He raised the glass to her and tilted it back, drinking deeply.