The Master of Heathcrest Hall (96 page)

From the sight, it was hard to believe that three short days ago they had all been freezing and starving. Just yesterday, warehouses down in Waterside, full of grain and other foodstuffs which Valhaine had been hoarding for his troops, had been discovered and broken into, and the goods distributed to all comers. Nor had any of Valhaine’s soldiers stopped the people in this, for there were none to be seen. Once news of Morden’s decisive victory at Pellendry reached the city, the redcrests either threw down their arms and fled, or they took off their uniforms and melded back in with the crowds in the city. As for Lord Valhaine himself, there had been no sign these last days, though rumors had raced through the city claiming he was dead—murdered sometime during the long dark at the hands of his own magicians.

Now people along the street laughed and clapped their hands and whistled. A rider had cantered by a little while ago shouting news—the moment they were waiting for was near. The long night was over, and the war as well. It was time for a new day to begin for Altania.

“Here you go,” spoke a voice behind him. “I bought one for each of us.”

Eldyn turned around in surprise. “There you are! You vanished without a word, you rascal. Where were you?”

“I went to buy you a treacle tart,” Dercy said, grinning. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

It was only then that Eldyn saw Dercy indeed held one of the sticky sweets in each of his hands. Some baker must have managed
to get hold of molasses and flour yesterday down at the warehouses and was no doubt now selling the result for an exorbitant sum.

When Eldyn was a boy, his father had taken him to see a hanging at Barrowgate, and had bought him a treacle tart. Eldyn had not been able to eat the thing for the queasiness in his stomach that day; he had been horrified at the way the people around him had laughed and jeered at the sight of a death. But now it was for something far different that the people around him were cheering.

“Go on,” Dercy said. “You could use it.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Eldyn said. “I’m sure these cost a fortune.” But he accepted the warm tart, and took a bite. The edges were crisp, and it was sweet and delicious. Surprised at his hunger, he gobbled it quickly—though no more quickly than Dercy did his.

Dercy gave a sticky grin. “Well, was it good?”

Yes
, Eldyn tried to say, but suddenly his teeth were chattering, and a violent shiver passed through him. Dercy’s smile turned into a look of concern.

“You’re half blue with cold,” he said, taking one of Eldyn’s hands and pressing it between his own.

Eldyn looked at his other hand: it was thin and trembling, and the spidery lines of veins snaked up the back. He had hardly made any illusions or impressions since making the copy of the map for Jaimsley. But it didn’t matter; even if he never expended another bit of light in his life, he would still always have the mordoth.

Dercy must have noticed his gaze. “Don’t worry, Eldyn. We’ll take care of that, you’ll see. After today, it will be safe enough to leave the city. You can be sure that
he
will have made certain none of Valhaine’s men are left lurking about. It won’t be long before you’re good as new.”

Eldyn knew that wasn’t entirely true. After all, Dercy himself was not good as new. There were still lines beside his green eyes, and a dusting of white in his blond hair and beard. Yet there could be no doubt that he was greatly recovered compared to those first
days after Archdeacon Lemarck had stolen a great quantity of his light. He had even been able to work illusions that day when he and the two magicians had rescued Eldyn from the gallows—though after he had done so, it had seemed to Eldyn that a few more gray flecks had appeared in Dercy’s beard. All the same, there was no reason to believe he couldn’t recover further, or Eldyn as well.

And it was all because of the Old Trees.

It was during his time in the country that Dercy had discovered the restorative effects of the Wyrdwood. There had been a small grove of Old Trees not far from his cousin’s house, and Dercy had found himself drawn to it for some reason. He would have his cousin drive him there in a surrey, and he would sit for hours at the base of the wall, drowsing as he listened to the murmur of the trees.

Only after a while, he realized he didn’t need his cousin to drive him there, for he grew strong enough to walk to the grove himself. And the more time he spent in the presence of the Old Trees, the more strength and energy he found that he had. It was remarkable, yet perhaps there was a sort of sense to it. After all, witches themselves had a connection with the Old Trees. So why shouldn’t their sons as well?

“We’ll take you to the Evengrove,” Dercy said. “We’ll stay at an inn nearby so we can go to the grove every day. And we’ll take Master Tallyroth as well.” He squeezed Eldyn’s hand, gently yet firmly. “We’ll make you well again, Eldyn. And then—”

But Dercy didn’t get to say what they would do next, for at that moment a great roar rose from the crowd. Eldyn looked up, and down Marble Street he saw a procession of men on horses coming, followed by soldiers in brown coats marching on foot.

The procession came nearer as the people cheered and waved their banners. At its front was a hale-looking man of middle years riding on a great bay horse. The sunlight set his hair and beard ablaze, and it glinted off the profusion of medals and bars on his green coat. One might have thought he would be solemn on such
an occasion, but instead he was grinning broadly, and as he rode down Marble Street he waved to the people thronging on either side, his arm never seeming to tire.

Eldyn was sure it was impossible—after all, he was just one person in a great crowd—but as Huntley Morden rode past, he turned his head in Eldyn’s direction, and it seemed to Eldyn that their eyes met for just a moment, and that the older man nodded. Only maybe it wasn’t impossible, for as Morden rode on, Eldyn saw him nod in a similar fashion to others, doing so again and again, as if to acknowledge each and every one of them in the crowd that day, and to thank them.

The next thing Eldyn knew he was cheering wildly, and Dercy was doing the same beside him, even as the illusion of a green hawk went speeding into the brilliant sky.

I
T WAS LESS than a month after the end of the war when the ceremony was held at the Citadel.

Ivy was astonished it was all happening so soon. Yet it was clear that Huntley Morden was a man of action. Besides, no one could disagree that the nation required every source of joy and reconciliation that could be found at present, and it was clear that Princess Layle was of the same mind.

So it was, on a mild lumenal of moderate length, that Huntley Morden and Princess Layle were married at St. Galmuth’s cathedral. After these vows to each other were made, further oaths were made binding them both to the nation, and they were crowned king and queen. In that act, what had been broken centuries ago was at last made whole. House Morden and House Arringhart were united, and so was Altania.

But it was not just these two who would rule the nation now—it was everyone. For in signing the papers for his coronation, Huntley Morden had granted broad new powers to the Halls of Assembly. As king he would be a strong guide to the nation—but only a guide. It would be for the people themselves to decide which direction Altania would go, and how to propel itself forward. Nor was the Crown the only one giving something up. In exchange for ceding some amount of his authority to Assembly, the king had extracted the agreement that the seats in the Hall of Magnates would no longer be inherited; rather, members of that Hall would be freely elected, just as they were in the Hall of Citizens.

The only thing more astonishing to Ivy than all these events was the fact that she had been invited to them. It seemed that Huntley Morden had been well aware of the Inquiry’s efforts to protect the Wyrdwood, and so in his view Sir Quent was a hero of the realm. As such, his widow was invited to attend the wedding.

Ivy might have been in a panic to go to such an affair on her own, but fortunately she was not alone. Evidently a certain captain and magician had caught Morden’s eye at Pellendry for bold and remarkable actions—both on the field of battle and off. Thus it was that Ivy found herself standing beside Lord Rafferdy throughout the ceremony in the cathedral.

It was the first time Ivy had seen him since she had taken him to the gate in the Wyrdwood. At first she had hardly recognized the tall, straight-backed man with the tanned and handsome face, for he had been so solemn. Only then he smiled, and her heart had fluttered within her, recognizing him even more swiftly than her gaze did.

There was little opportunity to speak to Lord Rafferdy throughout the ceremony—which was just as well, for Ivy hardly knew what she would have said to him. Yet to have him there was greatly reassuring—though for some reason her heart never seemed to cease in its little palpitations and flutters. Entranced, she watched as Huntley Morden and Princess Layle made their commitments to each other and to the nation. She wondered if it was possible
that they loved one another. Given that they had known each other less than a month, she supposed that was not the case. Yet it was certain they both loved Altania; and perhaps that was something from which a mutual admiration could grow. What was not in doubt was that, despite the fact that neither was in their youth anymore, they made a handsome couple as they descended the steps of the cathedral while the bells rang out.

The next day, Ivy was summoned to the Citadel for another ceremony. The new king wished to waste no time pardoning those who had been wrongly condemned under Lord Valhaine’s rule, and to make amends for those deeds. Though of course, some harms could never be undone.

At last Ivy heard her own name called, and she walked past the rows of stone columns to the thrones occupied by the new king and queen. There, on behalf of her husband, she accepted the pardon of Sir Quent for any and all crimes of which he had been accused.

This, Ivy had expected. What happened next she had not. For his heroic service and sacrifice to the nation, Sir Quent was being posthumously granted the title of earl of Cairnbridge, along with all pursuant lands and holdings. That in this same act Ivy herself was made into a countess was not lost upon her, and she might have swooned with all eyes in the hall upon her. Only then a strong hand took her arm.

It was the new king himself who steadied her. Though he was near to forty, Huntley Morden’s face had a boyish quality to it. All the same, his blue eyes were solemn as they met her own.

“Do not look so aghast, Lady Quent,” he said softly, so that in the hall only she might hear him. “Knowledge has come to me that convinces me this honor is no less fitting for the countess of Cairnbridge than for the earl. There were many battles fought in this war, and not only against Lord Valhaine’s army. Your husband’s actions helped to guard our nation against those other foes, the ones in the shadows, and I believe it is the case that your own actions did the same. If I had a medal I might give to you, Lady
Quent, I would. I hope you will accept these other things—this title, these lands—instead, and my gratitude as well.”

Ivy was beyond words. She could do no more than attempt a curtsy. When she rose again, the king had returned to his throne. But he was grinning at Ivy now, and beside him the queen was smiling as well, her green eyes alight with approval. After that, the new countess of Cairnbridge departed the hall and made her way out of the Citadel to her abode on Durrow Street.

It was time for another kind of ceremony.

Mr. Bennick and Lord Rafferdy were already waiting for her in the front hall.

“Good day, Countess Quent,” Lord Rafferdy said with a bow.

Ivy gaped at him. “You knew what was to happen today?”

He smiled slyly. “I had some idea.”

Yes, Ivy imagined that he did. And she believed she now knew how Huntley Morden had learned of her actions against the Ashen. Lord Rafferdy did not wear a fashionable suit at present, but rather a brown soldier’s coat. That said, the coat was exceedingly well tailored, and the bars on the shoulder were not those of a captain, but rather a major.

It seemed there was more she should say to him on the topic, but her mind was too agitated to think what it was. They had not yet had a chance to discuss what they had spoken of in the Wyrdwood, before he stepped through the gate. She had not yet given him an answer to his question. But did she know what that answer would be? Every time she considered it, her thoughts seemed to spin like the planets had in the heavens, trying to fall into some new harmonic after great disruption.

Before she could think what to say, he spoke again. “I fear that I am due back with my regiment by tomorrow, and so must depart the city as soon as possible.”

Ivy drew in a breath, and now only one thought occupied her mind. She looked to Mr. Bennick. “Is everything ready, then?”

“Your father is upstairs. And I have shown Lord Rafferdy the spell he must work to remove the enchantments upon the house.
I know it well, for I helped Mr. Lockwell to devise the protections myself.”