The Master of Heathcrest Hall (85 page)

“Get on up there, then,” one of the redcrests barked, prodding Eldyn’s back with the barrel of his rifle. “We don’t have all day. Some of us have dice to roll, you know.”

Eldyn stumbled, for the manacles around his wrists and ankles were heavy and painfully tight. What’s more, his arms and legs had grown numb from laying for long hours in a black cell, unable to move for the chains that bound him to a ring in the floor. When the soldiers had come for him, it had been a relief. At least he was out of that fetid hole now, and would get to breathe fresh air and see light one last time before the end.

Again Eldyn tripped, but rough hands gripped him from behind, pushing him up the last wooden steps to the platform that
surmounted the gallows. He was placed in position atop the trapdoor, along with the three other prisoners. A noose was roughly slipped over his head and cinched around his throat so tightly he was already half-choking.

A priest in a grimy frock approached the prisoners. He mumbled some slurring words while making a few perfunctory waves of his hand before Eldyn, then moved on to do the same for the others. Once this was done, he tottered back down the wooden staircase, no doubt to return to the bottle he surely had been nursing.

The soldiers descended to the foot of the steps, while the hangman, wearing his customary hood, took his position at the lever. A scattering of onlookers, some of them swaddled in grimy rags, approached the gibbet. The prisoner to Eldyn’s left was moaning some wordless plea. By the odor, the one to his right had pissed his pants.

For his part, Eldyn felt a peculiar resolve. This was not to say he was not without fear. Every man was afraid to die, in the end. And, indeed, his heart was beating wildly in his chest. He could not help wondering how much pain there would be, and what would await him when it ceased, if anything at all. Whatever it was, he doubted he would find himself in the marble halls of Eternum. Yet he did not really think he would see the fires of the Abyss, either. There would be a dark room, he supposed, and nothing more.

One feeling he did not suffer was regret. Ever since he became an adult, he had wanted nothing but to make something of himself. It was, he supposed, to compensate for how little his father had thought of him when he was a boy. To that end, Eldyn had first schemed to regain the Garritt family fortune, and then to enter the priesthood. Those endeavors had failed utterly. But they had helped lead him to the discovery of his talent as a Siltheri.

For a while, at the Theater of the Moon, Eldyn had thought he had finally found his place and purpose in the world. Yet it was only in the course of this last month that he had realized this was
not so—that becoming an illusionist had been just one more step toward the role he was really meant to play. For though illusions were beautiful, lately he had been doing work that was of even greater importance. He had employed his talents to aid the cause of the revolution, and to help preserve the lives and freedom of others. What endeavor could have been of higher worth—or more at opposition with the way in which Vandimeer Garritt had lived his life?

There was none, and so Eldyn was without regret. He did not mind that he had given up so much of his own light and life to make all those impressions to support the cause. Nor did he lament that he would not be able to see the revolution through and be there to witness its end. After all, he had known from the moment he joined the rebels that he could be caught, and his life forfeited, at any moment.

Then again, Eldyn had never suspected his capture would be due to another illusionist. That Perren was a petty, selfish, and even vengeful man had already been revealed by his actions. But that he was also cruel and devoid of any sort of sympathetic feelings for other people were traits that had remained hidden. That soft, round face and those bookish spectacles had been an illusion Eldyn had not seen through.

Until yesterday, that was. Within an hour of being captured by the soldiers in front of the theater, Eldyn had been hauled before a court of the Gray Conclave. He might have expected to wait his turn behind a long line of other accused traitors to the nation, but that was not the case at all. Indeed, the proceedings moved so swiftly and efficiently—unburdened by any irksome requirement for fact or corroboration, and propelled by the cheerful clatter of the judge’s gavel—that it was easy to see how a dozen trials could be held in the interval between luncheon and tea.

The captain who had arrested Eldyn presented the case against him, and called such witnesses as were required. First was a man who owned a printing company, and who had grown suspicious of the large number of engraving plates being purchased by individuals
who were not known to work for the one remaining broadsheet,
The Comet
. The man had remarked upon this fact to another of his customers—one Mr. Perren Fynch.

After this, it had been Perren’s turn to take the stand, which he did only after treating Eldyn to a hateful glance. He described how he had taken the information he learned to an agent of the Gray Conclave. What’s more, he had reminded the agent of the ability of illusionists to create impressions. Having created such things in the past himself, Perren had described the exact manner in which impressions were made.

It was because of this, that when a spy was recently apprehended and found to be carrying metal plates, they were recognized for what they were, and were brought at once to Perren. He was able to process the plates in time, and pull prints from them, thus revealing the manner in which secret information was being smuggled out of the city and handed over to rebels. What was more, by careful study of the impressions, Perren had been certain he knew the identity of the very illusionist who had made them.

“I have brought copies of two of Eldyn Garritt’s impressions that were published in
The Swift Arrow
,” Perren had said to the court, a smug look upon his puffy face. “You have only to compare their details to the impressions taken from the spy to know they were made by the same man.”

The judge accepted the prints, but hardly glanced at them before bringing down his gavel and pronouncing the verdict. The evidence was overwhelmingly damning. The sentence was death.

“Thank you for your efforts, Mr. Fynch,” the judge had said as Perren departed the stand.

“I was only doing my duty,” Perren had replied with a bow and a self-satisfied smile.

“Indeed,” the judge went on, “it is good to know that, abominations though they all are, at least not every illusionist is a traitor to the nation.”

That had wiped the smile off Perren’s pudgy face. He had cast
a furtive look back at Eldyn, and Eldyn had returned this with a slow nod, as if to say,
They know what you are now, and they will not forget
.

Perren had scurried from the chamber then, and what had happened to him after that, Eldyn neither knew nor cared. He himself was put in chains and taken away to Barrowgate, where he had spent an untold number of hours in the dank and dark. It might have been days, though he could not say for certain.

Now here he was. He supposed everyone at the theater wondered where he was. Though they would find out soon enough when they read the lists of the executed in the newspaper tomorrow.

If there would be a tomorrow, that was. For while the cool air and low angle of the sun suggested it was morning, a pall of gloom draped over the city. The sun appeared dimmer than it should have, as if something obscured part of it. In contrast, the new red planet shone more brightly than ever, as if stealing some of the sun’s glow for itself.

Eldyn noted these things only passingly. Mostly he faced forward, ready to bear his fate and be done. Yet in these final moments, he realized he did hold one regret after all. And that was that he would never get to see Dercy again. He would never again look into those sea green eyes, or embrace Dercy tightly as they kissed. If he could have had any wish in the world, it would have been that.

All at once a queer feeling passed through Eldyn. He gazed down at the square below the gibbet, and he could only think that the hangman had already pulled the lever, that he was even at that moment dangling at the end of the rope while his dying brain conjured hallucinations—a few final illusions to ease his expiration.

Yet when he glanced to the side, he saw that the hangman still stood with his hand upon the lever; he had not pulled it. Indeed, he stood stock-still, just as did the three soldiers at the foot of the steps. In fact, the only people besides Eldyn who were moving
were the three ragged figures before the gibbet. One of them glanced up again, and as he did he cast off his filthy cape and hat, throwing them down to the cobbles.

Eldyn could only stare, as if he had been frozen himself. No, it hadn’t been a hallucination or a figment of a dying mind. The green eyes were faded, the gold of the beard was mingled with silver, but Eldyn could never have failed to recognize that beloved face.

“Dercy,” he said, though the word barely had any sound to it, for the way the noose constricted his throat.

That Dercy was somehow, impossibly here was not the only cause for wonder. The two men beside him had cast off their own ragged mantles and hats. One was a younger fellow with a very high head of frizzy hair, while the other was a stout older man with ruddy cheeks and a frill of lace at his throat. The two of them held their hands out before them, muttering queer words. All of this gave Eldyn the impression that these two represented the reason why the soldiers and the hangman now stood as still as statues.

This was as much as confirmed when Dercy bounded up the steps and reached Eldyn.

“We have to be quick,” he said, loosening the rope and slipping it over Eldyn’s head. “Coulten and Wolsted told me they cannot work their magicks against twice their number for long. In a minute or two, the soldiers will be able to move again.” He grasped Eldyn’s arm and pulled him toward the steps.

“But what about them?” Eldyn said, glancing back at the other prisoners.

“By Eternum, you’re still the angel, Eldyn Garritt!” Dercy exclaimed. But he grinned and hurried back to the others, removing their nooses. “Go!” he told them. “Be quick about it!”

This was easier said than done, for like Eldyn the men were still shackled, and they could do little more than hobble. Only then the younger of Dercy’s two companions made a motion with his hands, and he spoke several sharp words. Red sparks sizzled around the iron manacles that bound Eldyn’s wrists, then all at
once they sprang open and fell away. The shackles about his ankles did the same, as did those binding the other men.

The three prisoners did not hesitate, and scrambled down the steps. Eldyn and Dercy hurried after them. As they descended, Eldyn noticed that the soldiers appeared to have altered their positions, and their rifles were held a fraction higher, as if they had been able to move for just a moment. But the younger magician with the tall head of hair had turned his attention back to them, and the redcrests were as statues once more.

By the clenching of the young man’s jaw, and the perspiration upon his brow, the effort was costing him. The older magician seemed in similar straits, for his face was growing redder by the moment.

“Hurry,” Dercy said.

There were so many questions Eldyn wanted to ask, but instead he gritted his teeth against the pain in his arms and legs, which was considerable now that his bonds had been removed, and clambered down the last of the steps. So weak and numb were his legs that he nearly collapsed at the bottom, but Dercy grasped his arms, preventing him from falling.

“Thank you,” Eldyn said, clutching Dercy in return. “I’m not quite at my strongest at the moment.”

Dercy’s grin vanished, and his eyes grew solemn. “Yes, and I know why. Your hands, Eldyn—look at them. They were always so beautiful, but now they’re like the hands of some old slag on Durrow Street who’s on his next to last phantasm.”

“I know,” Eldyn said and shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Dercy, but I had to do it. I had to keep making impressions. It was for the sake of the revolution.”

“No, don’t be sorry. If you had done any different, you wouldn’t have been you. Besides, you don’t need to worry about this.” He stroked Eldyn’s thin hands. “I know what to do about it now.”

Eldyn was astonished by these words. But he could only believe they were true, for despite the silver in his beard and the lines around his eyes—characteristics a man in his middle twenties should hardly possess—Dercy looked exceedingly well. Certainly
he appeared far better than in those first days after Archdeacon Lemarck had stolen a great quantity of light from him, and the mordoth had afflicted him.

“Pardon my interruption, but may we go now?” the younger magician uttered through clenched teeth. His hands were vibrating before him. The other prisoners were nowhere in sight.

“Yes, let’s be off,” Dercy said, his grin returning. “We have what we came here for.”

“Thank goodness,” said the older, red-faced gentleman, and he let his hands drop.

Atop the gallows, the hangman staggered. He jerked his head back and forth, then he pointed down at Eldyn and let out a cry.

“Run for it!” Dercy shouted.

Eldyn ignored the pain in his stiff legs as Dercy pulled him along after the two magicians. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the hangman rushing down the steps of the gallows. The three soldiers were moving again as well, freed from the spell that had held them. They fumbled with their rifles, then lifted them, preparing to fire.

Dercy waved a hand, and a curtain of darkness fell down, intervening between them and the soldiers. Three shots rang out, but none of the bullets found a mark. Then the four turned down a side lane, and there before them was a black carriage. A driver sat waiting on the bench, looking rather alarmed.

“Go!” the younger magician called to the driver as they all climbed inside. “And do not spare the whip!”

The carriage lurched into motion before they had shut the door or settled in their seats. They tumbled around the interior for a moment, then managed to pull the door closed and set themselves aright on the benches. Eldyn turned around to look out the back window in time to see the three soldiers appear at the mouth of the lane. They raised their rifles. Then the carriage rounded a corner, and the redcrests were lost from view.