The Master of Heathcrest Hall (93 page)

“It was during this same period, this first war against the Ashen, that Gauldren learned something remarkable. He had come, in his way, to care for one of the women whom he had taught to wield the forest—one of these first witches. Previously, we had found that if any of us were to lie with a female of this world, while in the
guise of one of their males, it would mean her death. For she would inevitably conceive, and the foreign nature of the life growing within her would be as a poison to her body, and so destroy her.

“Only, in this particular case, Gauldren found this was not so. We had observed the capability of the trees to withstand the powers of magick, and it turned out the same was true of the women who had an affinity with the forest. The witch that Gauldren had foolishly cast his affections on conceived, only she was able to carry the child, and in time to give birth to it.

“As he held his infant son, and studied it, Gauldren realized the truth: here was a physical body in which was united the power of both worlds. It was a form he might inhabit without fear of it rejecting him and decaying as he dwelled within it. And so, his current form failing, Gauldren did enter into that body. It grew rapidly, far faster than a usual child. And in that form, he was able to truly live again, reborn as a man of this world—able to bind himself to any woman, to father children who looked like any others, to eat, and speak, and breathe.”

Here the man in the mask paused, and Mr. Bennick spoke in turn. “So that is how House Gauldren was founded. And how the seed of magick was embedded in that line. But what of the other Old Houses? What of the rest of you?”

The man in the black garb lifted his beringed hand to the black mask as if to conceal his face, even though it was already covered. He did not answer Mr. Bennick’s question. But he did not need to, for Ivy knew the answer. She had seen it herself in the dream.

“You deceived them!” she cried, and the words burned hotly as she uttered them. “You sought out some of those first witches, and you used them in the most dreadful way to make sons for yourself—sons you could steal from their mothers, and whose bodies you could inhabit without fear of pain or decay, just as Gauldren had done!”

She fell silent; she could say no more. Her horror, her fury, had made her mute; her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice a rasp coming through the slit in
the mask. “We did just as you said. We sired the first offspring of a witch and a magician this world has ever known, and entered into those forms. But they were the last such offspring as well. For you see, we had taught the forest, and the witches, too well. In our new mortal forms, we found we could father sons—sons who inherited some of our own magickal ability. But never could we do this with a woman descended from those first witches. Their ability to fight the forces of the arcane had been increased, while our own power had been diluted. As a result, the witch’s body was always able to reject the seed of magick within her. A witch could only bear a son if the father was not one of our descendants, if he had no element of magick in him. Even then, such sons of witches were not common, though they were unique in that they were males who possessed something akin to, if different than, a witch’s power. Siltheri, you call them now—illusionists.”

“But you can do illusions yourself!” Ivy exclaimed. “I have seen you make statues seem to move, and other such things.”

He nodded. “Yes, I can do such things. After all, I am the son of a witch. But unlike all Siltheri today, I am also the son of a magician. And it is only the son of a magician and a witch who can provide a suitable vessel into which we can be reborn. But no witch has borne a son to a magician since that very first time eons ago. So it was we lived our lives, and died as mortal men do, and became things of spirit again—conscious, but not really alive.” He spread his trembling arms. “Oh, from time to time we could steal into mortal form, as you see me doing now. It was easiest to enter one of our own descendants, but still they would decay. In time we wearied of it, and it became harder and harder to hold the essence of our beings together. One by one, the others began to fade away: Gauldren first, then Baltharel, Xandrus, Vordigan, and the others. One by one, they all dissipated into the aether and were gone. Of them all, of all my race, only I now remain.”

Still Ivy could not speak, gripped now by sorrow from all she had heard. She could only think of the young woman in the dream. Only it hadn’t been a dream at all. She had really lived by the sea long, long ago. Layka.

“So why do you remain?” Mr. Rafferdy asked, ending the silence. “Why are you still here, when all the others have gone?”

“Because there is no one else to undo the wrongs my race has committed,” he said, his voice fainter now. “In our arrogance and cruelty, we created the Ashen. In our fear and weakness, we used your world as a tool to help us battle our own terrible creation. But you should not have to suffer for our errors and failings, that much I learned. That much Gauldren taught me before he faded.

“So I endured, and over the years I have labored in the shadows. Sometimes I would retreat for a millennium, only to return and sow little seeds where I could. This was not easy, for I diminished as time passed. I had to achieve things in what feeble ways I could, and always through the actions of others. I could not always find a form suitable to enter, and then was limited to go where it might, and would sometimes have to rest for centuries when I had expended too much of myself.

“Beyond that, I was forced to approach people furtively, in the most secret fashion, and give only hints and clues rather than clear answers, for fear that it would become obvious to those who awaited the return of the Ashen that I endured, and what I was scheming. For there have long been magicians who had discovered ancient artifacts from the time of the first war, or who had stumbled upon some forgotten tomb containing a daemon, and so had learned of the Ashen, feeling their power—and then, twisted by it, sought to clear a way for them when in time they came again.”

He took a halting step toward Ivy. “And now the time for which I have so long labored is here. You have only to do as your father instructed you in his journal, and it will be done.”

He turned the dark mask to the corner where Lady Shayde stood, her dark gown melding with the shadows. “I see you forged a White Thorn, just as I advised you to do, Mr. Bennick. That is well, for you shall have need of her.”

“I do not serve him,” Lady Shayde said coldly.

The black mask tilted slightly to one side. “Then whom do you serve?”

For a moment Lady Shayde was motionless, as if once again she was bound by a spell. Then, slowly, her gaze turned toward Ivy.

The man in the mask nodded. “Very good. That is what your kind were first created for. That is your purpose.” Clumsily, he sat down in a chair. “And now the hour is finally upon us. I will depart this form, and I will not come to you again. But know that I will be watching until it is done, and then I will fade away like the others. And know also that I thank you, and all your forebears who have ever aided in this endeavor over all the long years of this world. You deserve a better fate than what we forced upon you. It is my hope that, after this, you will discover what it is.”

He gave a sigh. Then his head drooped forward, and the black mask fell to the floor, where it shattered into pieces.

Ivy clasped a hand to her mouth.

“Is he … is Lord Farrolbrook dead?” Mr. Rafferdy said, taking a step toward him.

Mr. Bennick bent over the chair. “No, he breathes yet. He but sleeps now, I think.”

Ivy sighed and lowered her hands. She realized she could hardly see them before her. The fire had died low again, and the gloom in the hall had thickened. Outside the windows, the sky was the hue of a blackening bruise. She could make out a few cold pinpricks of stars.

“Time grows short,” Mr. Bennick said. “We must go.”

“Go where?” spoke a querulous voice.

They all turned to see Rose standing in the open door of the parlor. Throughout all of this, Ivy’s sister had remained locked in the parlor—for which Ivy was grateful. But now she took a few steps into the front hall, her face pale in the gloom, the porcelain doll held tight in her arms.

“Where must you go?” Rose said.

“Don’t worry, dearest,” Ivy said, taking a step toward her. “We just need to go into the basement below the house. There is something we need to do there. But it won’t take long, I promise.”

“It’s getting dark,” Rose said. “Are you sure it’s safe down there?”

Before Ivy could think of what to say, Lady Shayde moved toward Rose, closing the distance between them in an instant.

“Do not worry,” she said to Rose. “I will be with them. Wait for them in the parlor. They will return soon.”

At this Rose smiled and nodded, the fear gone from her face. Then suddenly she held out the doll. “You never did get to hold her. Would you like to, before you go?”

Lady Shayde—or rather, Ashaydea—seemed frozen for a moment. Then, slowly, she reached out hands that were as pale as those of the porcelain child. She cradled the doll awkwardly, gently. For a few moments she stroked its face, its hair, its blue-black dress. Then she held it out again.

“Thank you,” she said.

Rose nodded once more, taking the doll, adjusting its ribbons. Then Lady Shayde turned her black gaze toward the others.

“I am ready,” she said.

M
INUTES LATER, they descended the stairs that led from the kitchen to the cellars. Ivy and Lady Shayde held hurricane lamps, while Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Bennick carried the wooden chest between them. In the darkness of the cellar, the line around the lid glowed a hot red, as if the chest was filled with some molten material.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, then moved across the cellar to the farthest wall. There the rough-hewn walls gave way to smooth, black stone. Only once before had Ivy ever ventured so deep into the cellar, over a year ago, on the day she had found the painting made by the first Mrs. Quent—the one which depicted Ivy as a small child with her mother in the Wyrdwood.

Since her return to Heathcrest, Ivy had avoided coming down to the cellar, and when she did stayed close to the stairs, for the darkness below the house always weighed upon her in the most oppressive manner. It did so now as they drew close to the far wall. Its glossy surface reflected the lamplight like dark water, and a palpable chill emanated from it.

“This stone is imbued with a spell of binding and concealing,” Mr. Rafferdy said as he and Mr. Bennick set down the chest. He approached the wall and ran his right hand across it. His House ring flashed a brilliant blue as he did.

“It knows your touch,” Mr. Bennick said, “but that is no surprise. Both House Rylend and House Rafferdy are descended from House Gauldren. That is one reason I sought you out, Lord Rafferdy. I knew it would require a magician of that line to one day remove this barrier.”

“And here I thought it was because of my charming wit,” Mr. Rafferdy quipped.

Astonishingly, Mr. Bennick laughed, the sound echoing around the cellar.

“Earl Rylend had hoped his son would be the one to do this,” Ivy said then. “Didn’t he?”

Mr. Bennick’s laughter ceased. “Yes, such was Rylend’s hope. While he had little magickal talent himself, despite being descended of one of the Old Houses, his interest in the arcane was deep. It was his research that led him and his companions to the cave in Am-Anaru where they discovered the Eye of Ran-Yahgren. What was more, from his studies, he was convinced the Eye had some important role to play should the Ashen ever threaten the world again. It was his wish for his son to do what he could not, and become a magician who might be able to master the power of the Eye. But I knew from the first day that I tutored Lord Wilden in magick that he would never be the one to do this. While he possessed some talent, he had petty wants and interests, and was both impatient and easily bored. More than that, Lord Wilden was a young man possessed of both a weak character and a weak will.”

“Come now, Mr. Bennick,” Lady Shayde said coolly, “should you really speak so of my foster brother, and of Lady Quent’s father?”

Ivy would have thought, after all that had happened that day, that she would be beyond shock. All the same, she was forced to reach out and grip the cold stones.

“Is it true?” she finally managed to gasp, looking at Mr. Bennick.

Slowly, the tall magician nodded. “Lord Wilden had a reputation for going to Cairnbridge or Low Sorrell, drinking too much wine, and harassing the young women of the village. When Merriel Addysen had a child out of wedlock, it was rumored the little girl was his. Looking at you now … at the shape of your face and eyes, I can only say it must be so.”

Ivy felt her legs go weak, and she sagged against the cold stones to keep from falling. Only then Mr. Rafferdy was there, holding her arm and providing a warmer source of support. She drew in a breath, then after a few moments she felt steady enough to gently disengage his arm.

“Please, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “Open the way.”

And he did so. He spoke harsh words of magick; his ring threw off blue sparks that struck the wall, crackling over its surface. The stones began to fade away, as if they were no more solid than mist. Then, as the sparks vanished, the stones did as well.

Now another barrier faced them, and Mr. Bennick nodded toward Ivy. She hesitated, then reached out and touched one of the massive wooden beams that had been revealed behind the stones. The wood seemed to hum beneath her fingers, still vibrating with a memory of life, even though it had been here for centuries.

It was Wyrdwood.

These were no mere twigs gleaned from the edges of a grove, though. These were great beams hewn from the cores of ancient trees felled long ago, no doubt with the aid of magick. All the same, shaping them was little different than opening the Wyrdwood box. She formed the thoughts, sending them outward. The beams twisted themselves, bending and growing, until they parted like a curtain to reveal a flat plane of reddish stone. The stone bore no runes or etchings. The only mark upon it was a six-sided indentation in the center of the gate.