The Master of Heathcrest Hall (14 page)

I
VY GAVE A great yawn as she climbed the steps toward the third floor. Despite the length of the lumenal, she had not taken a rest during the day. What was more, they had been longer at the supper table than she had expected, listening as Dr. Lawrent described some of his research, which he had recently been writing about in a scientific paper.

The research concerned a certain species of moth native to County Dorn, which Dr. Lawrent had learned, by looking at older samples preserved in the Royal Altanian Museum, had once possessed white wings. Yet it was the case that, over time, the color of the moth’s wings had darkened, and nowadays they were a smoky gray. Over that same period of time, the practice of burning coal to fuel industry had greatly increased in that part of the country, and the soot blackened the bark of the trees where the moths tended to alight and roost.

In the paper, Dr. Lawrent intended to propose the theory that the birds which preyed upon the moths were able to easily see and catch the white moths against the dark trees. But darker moths would have a better chance of blending in with the bark and escaping notice, and so would survive to pass their coloring on to their offspring. Thus the entire population of moths over time had gone from white to gray.

The topic was fascinating—to Ivy at least, if not her sisters—and she had asked Dr. Lawrent a number of questions about the paper, which he had been happy to expound upon.

Now, though, she was more than ready to return to her own roost. Only, as she reached the second landing, it occurred to her that she had not yet looked through her father’s journal. Ivy hesitated, a hand on the railing. It had been months since she had discovered an entry in the journal. Besides, if the umbral was as long as the lumenal had been, she would have plenty of time to look at the journal when she woke.

Except there was no guarantee that would be the case. And even if it was unlikely, due to the alterations of the heavens, that another entry would ever appear in the journal, it was a hope she was not yet ready to abandon. It would feel too much like she was betraying her father if she did.

Ivy sighed, then turned and went back downstairs.

The library was dark, so she took a candle from the front hall with her. As she entered the room, the wooden eye set into the lintel above the door watched her with (at least she fancied) an approving look. She set the candle on the writing table, opened the drawer, and took out the Wyrdwood box.

As she did, the old rosewood clock on the mantel let out a chime, already marking the end of the first span of the umbral. So it was not to be a long night after all, but rather a short one. Which meant it was well that she was checking the journal now.

Ivy opened the Wyrdwood box, took out the familiar book, and began to turn through it. She went at a fairly rapid pace, giving each page no more than a cursory glance. The night was already a third over, and she wanted there to be at least some of it remaining by the time she got to bed. She cracked a yawn, turning another page.

The flat white expanse on the desk before her suddenly grew dark, like the wings of the moths in Dr. Lawrent’s scientific paper.

The candle flame flickered, disturbed by the breath that escaped Ivy’s lips. She hesitated, then brushed her fingers over the page, as if to touch the words to make sure they were really there. So astonished was she that, for a minute, she did not even read the entry; she only stared at it.

At last the words became more than shapes, resolving themselves
into things of meaning. As she read them, a strange feeling came over Ivy, a kind of gentle yet ominous sensation of floating, as if she were drifting in a gondola down a darkened canal toward some destination she could not see.

My dearest Ivy
, the entry in the journal began.
It is about time. If you can read this, then it means you must begin to gather the others. I don’t know where they will be by now, but you must seek them out. Bennick, Mundy, and Larken may all yet be here in Invarel. At least I hope that they are, for it will make your task easier. As for Fintaur, I believe you will find his whereabouts in the city of Ardaunto, across the sea.…

Her heart beating rapidly, Ivy read the rest of the page. Then she took a pen and a sheet of paper from the desk to transcribe the entry. The umbral would be brief, and she knew by the time the sun rose her father’s words would be gone from the page.

Just as she knew that she had not a hope of sleeping that night.

T
HEIR MEETING PLACE this time was in a room beneath a pewtersmith’s shop on Coronet Street.

The smith was the cousin of one of their number and so could be trusted. All the same, a heavy black cloth draped the door, blocking even the smallest chink, and no sound could pass beyond the line made by the silver cord that lay on the floor, encircling the edges of the room. They had not told the smith why they were gathering there. Which meant that, if he was questioned, he could in all honesty tell an agent of the Gray Conclave that he had no knowledge of magicians beneath his shop—a fact which would protect him as much as it did
them
.

“The Fellowship of the Silver Circle will now convene.”

It was Coulten who spoke the words this time. By design, their
little order had no leader, no magus. Meetings were called by anyone who felt there was need and had arranged for a suitable place, and they were brought to order by the last to arrive.

“The Circle will not be broken.” The other eight men gave the customary reply.

And that was that for arcane ceremony.

“Well, what is it, Canderhow?” Rafferdy said at once, looking across the circle at the subject of his address. “This had better be worth our while. I was planning on spending a pleasant evening at my club before I opened my book and saw your notice had appeared.”

Canderhow was a plump man slightly older than Rafferdy and Coulten, being about thirty, and seemed far too mild of speech and accommodating of behavior to be a highly successful barrister—though in fact he was one. It was Canderhow’s cousin who was the pewtersmith, and it was his request for a meeting which had appeared in all of their black books at the very moment he wrote it down in his own.

“I’m very sorry to have come between you and your enjoyable evening,” Canderhow said in his characteristically sympathetic tone.

“Don’t you dare apologize to him,” Coulten said with a laugh. “I assure you, he never does anything at his club except drink brandy, take tobacco, and pretend to be interested in a broadsheet. I’m sure such pursuits are nowhere so important as anything we might do here.”

“Indeed, they are of no importance at all,” Rafferdy said, scowling at his friend, “which is precisely why they are so important to me. When all of life becomes crowded with profound and weighty matters, making time to engage in trivial things becomes an even greater priority.”

Canderhow bowed in his direction. “You argue the point cogently, and I concede that you are likely right, Rafferdy.”

While Canderhow was a barrister, and not even a baronet let alone a magnate, he did not say
Lord
before Rafferdy’s name. No titles or honorifics were allowed within the circle. Whatever the
nine of them were outside its bounds, within they were all of them equals.

“It is, in the end, the smallest delights which impart to us the greatest satisfaction,” Canderhow went on. “But for us to enjoy the littler pleasures in life, ofttimes the larger problems must first be solved.”

“In that case,” Trefnell said, “if we are quite done with the matter of apologizing for disturbing everyone’s supper, perhaps you can tell us your reason for calling a meeting, Canderhow. I presume it regards a matter of some urgency, as it was done with little notice. Though I am pleased to see everyone was able to attend.”

For his part, Rafferdy was not so much pleased by this fact as he was relieved by it. The circle of silence would be at its most powerful if the number within it was no more and no less than nine.

Canderhow gave a half bow. “I hoped, once you heard the news, you would forgive me for providing so little warning.”

“And I had hoped we were finished with apologies,” Trefnell said, raising a shaggy gray eyebrow.

Trefnell had once been a headmaster at a school for boys, and he possessed an uncanny ability to speak in a tone that was at once kindly and formidable. Rafferdy found it difficult not to immediately leap to attention when the older man spoke, harkening back to his own years at boarding school—a time during which he had earned the ire of his headmaster on more than one occasion.

“Yes, of course, I’m sor—” Canderhow shook his head. “I mean, yes, I’m quite finished.”

“Then go on.”

Canderhow did so, and the news was not good. Like Trefnell and a few other members of their little order, Canderhow occupied a seat in the Hall of Citizens, and he had a great many connections there. Through some of these, he had heard whispers that a crucial vote was to come up during the next session of Assembly.

Specifically, an act was going to be put before both Halls at precisely the same time—a measure that would call for the immediate
reduction of all stands of Wyrdwood within thirty miles of Invarel (with the exception of the Evengrove) to no more than five acres in extent. If the vote carried in both the Hall of Citizens and the Hall of Magnates, then the act would immediately become law, and all throughout central Altania groves of Old Forest that were deemed too large would be cut back to the proscribed size.

“Five acres?” Coulten said. “I confess, I have no idea how much that is, but it doesn’t sound very large.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” Wolsted replied in his typically brusque fashion. He was a red-faced man who sat in the Hall of Magnates and had once been a member of the Stouts. “I am well used to walking about the lands of my estate, and I can tell you that you could stroll all the way around a five-acre grove in ten minutes, going at an easy pace.”

“Precisely how many stands of Wyrdwood in the vicinity of the city do you think exceed that size?” Canderhow asked, as always attempting to apprise himself of the facts.

“I would say at least a dozen of them,” Wolsted said, a grim look on his weathered face.

Coulten shook his head, causing his tall crown of hair to bow and sway. “But if that many groves are cut back, won’t it only cause more of them to rise up and strike out? If their wish is to protect Altania from the Wyrdwood, it hardly makes sense to provoke it.”

“On the contrary, it would make perfect sense to the Magisters, who are no doubt behind all this,” Rafferdy said. “And I am sure their intent is anything but the protection of Altania.”

“What do you mean?” Coulten said with a frown.

Rafferdy gave a sigh. Coulten was clever, but he had a tendency to ask for explanations rather than think things through on his own, even when he was perfectly capable of doing so.

“How many Risings have there been of late?”

Coulten cocked his head. “Very few. In fact, I should say there have been none at all. Despite the loss of the lord inquirer, the other inquirers have been doing their work well.”

“Indeed. Too well, I suspect some think. Due to the efforts of the inquirers, the Wyrdwood has not been antagonized, and so
there have been no Risings. Which is why, in Assembly, there has been little impetus behind any calls for the Wyrdwood’s destruction of late. Yet given what happened, there are bound to be many who feel a reduction in the size of those groves closest to the city is a prudent measure. Indeed, so reasonable will the idea seem that most will find it difficult to oppose.”

“But it is anything but prudent or reasonable!” Coulten exclaimed. “We saw that ourselves at the Evengrove, Rafferdy. If the groves are cut back, they will surely lash out at those who do the deed.”

Rafferdy gave him a pointed look. “Precisely.”

For a moment Coulten’s expression was one of puzzlement, but then he blinked. “The Magisters want the groves to rise up. They want to make people afraid again.”

Rafferdy nodded. “There have been too many other things for people to worry about of late—the cost of goods, brigands and rebels on the roads, and the rumors that Huntley Morden is planning to sail a fleet of ships from the Principalities to Torland. No one is thinking about the Old Trees. Which means, if the Magisters are going to get an act through Assembly calling for the eradication of the Wyrdwood, they’re going to have to make people afraid of it again. Once people are rioting in the streets, calling for either the Halls of Assembly or the Wyrdwood to be burned—well, I suppose you can guess which of the two the Magnates and the Citizens would choose.”

“I suppose I can at that,” Coulten said with a sigh. “But are you certain the Magisters are behind it?”

“Of course they’re behind it,” Rafferdy said. “Or rather, the High Order of the Golden Door are behind it. I’m surprised I should even need to state it, Coulten. You know their proclivities.”

After the rumors he and Coulten had spread in Assembly that Lord Mertrand was to be avoided at all cost, Rafferdy had thought the High Order of the Golden Door would disband. Only then Mertrand was murdered, and soon after the order was revived. As far as anyone knew, nearly every Magister now belonged to the High Order of the Golden Door.