Part 49 (1/2)

Eldyn held a hand to his brow; it was throbbing. ”No, you're wrong, Dercy. I know what you told me about St. Adaris, but the archdeacon is a great man. He has given me a chance-one I could never even have imagined I would get-and I have to seize it.”

Dercy was staring at him now, an expression in his sea-colored eyes that Eldyn could not name.

”Don't you see?” Eldyn went on. ”I'm weary of living my life hidden in the shadows. I don't want to merely conjure light-I want to dwell in it. This is the only way I know how-it's the only way I can build a happy future for myself and my sister.” want to dwell in it. This is the only way I know how-it's the only way I can build a happy future for myself and my sister.”

At last Dercy spoke, and his voice was low. ”I thought we were were happy. What a fool I was: a Siltheri tricked by phantasms. I see now that it was all just an illusion. And after all that I gave you to-” He shook his head. happy. What a fool I was: a Siltheri tricked by phantasms. I see now that it was all just an illusion. And after all that I gave you to-” He shook his head.

Eldyn was trembling now; he couldn't stop. Once before when he was shaking, that night after they saw Gerivel holding Donnebric's body before the Theater of the Doves, Dercy had held him until the spasms pa.s.sed. Now the other young man stood at arm's length.

”Dercy, please, you have to understand.” Eldyn took a lurching step toward him.

At the same moment Dercy took a step back.

”I understand perfectly now, Eldyn.” He let out a breath. ”To think, once I thought you were an angel standing there in the night.”

All at once the illusory lights were snuffed out so that blackness took the chamber. Eldyn fumbled, forcing his shaking hands to be steady. Only by the time he finally managed to conjure a single, wavering light, its pale blue glow revealed what he already knew.

He was alone in the room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

RAFFERDY HURRIED UP the marble steps before the Halls of a.s.sembly, his robe snapping behind him like a black sail. He wasn't certain if it was due to the fact that he had awakened late after a restless umbral, or if it was because the lumenal had dawned a good deal earlier than it was supposed to have. Either way the result was the same. dawned a good deal earlier than it was supposed to have. Either way the result was the same.

He was late.

Not that he would be barred from the Hall for arriving after the High Speaker's gavel had fallen. Members of a.s.sembly generally made a practice of coming and going at all times during the session-as well as eating, sleeping, taking tobacco, and gambling with dice in the wings. The only time it really mattered if one was on the bench was when a vote was called for. All the same, Lady Shayde had continued to observe the proceedings of a.s.sembly of late, and Rafferdy had no wish to straggle into the Hall and thus be singled out for her attention.

To his relief, the bells in the spire that rose above a.s.sembly began to ring out just as he dashed up the final steps, and he fell in with a number of other magnates who were streaming into the Hall. Doing his best to make himself anonymous within the throng, he proceeded to the upper benches where he and the other wigless young lords sat.

He found Lord Coulten already there. The other young man waved and gestured to the seat beside him, which Rafferdy took.

”There you are at last!” Coulten exclaimed.

”I'm sorry,” Rafferdy returned. ”Were you waiting for me?”

”You know perfectly well I was waiting for you.” He lowered his voice and leaned his head toward Rafferdy. ”I have been eager to know what you thought of our meeting last night. I wished to speak to you once it was over, only you departed the tavern before I had the chance.”

”I was too tired and stupid for conversation,” Rafferdy said, and this was true, if not exactly the whole of the truth. ”Besides, you seemed happily engaged in speaking with the rest of the initiates.”

Coulten grinned, then held a gloved hand beside his mouth as he spoke. ”Yes, we were all of us speculating which of the sages was Eubrey.”

”Did you determine which one he was?”

”Not at all! We could not any of us agree. I thought he was the second one from the left, for that one fidgeted a bit, as Eubrey is wont to do. But the others said it could not be second one from the left, for that one fidgeted a bit, as Eubrey is wont to do. But the others said it could not be him him, that he was too tall to be Eubrey. I suppose they were right at that.” Coulten raised an eyebrow. ”So, which one do you think was Eubrey?”

Rafferdy considered this. Last night had been the first meeting of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade since the party at Mrs. Quent's. Thus, when the notice of the meeting appeared in the black leather book he kept locked in his desk, Rafferdy had been eager for the prescribed day and hour to arrive. He had been curious himself to see if he could discern Eubrey from the other sages by his voice alone, and last night he had opened the magickal door at the back of the Sword and Leaf with great antic.i.p.ation.

In the chamber beneath the tavern, the sages had sat as they always did: in a line before the curtain that concealed the Door to the inner sanctum. Their number was indeed increased by one from the previous, but the gold robes that draped them from head to toe were heavy, so as to obscure any discernible feature. This meant the only way Eubrey might be recognized was through his voice, and Rafferdy thought attempting to do so would be an amusing game.

As it happened, neither his wish for amus.e.m.e.nt nor his curiosity were satisfied. Throughout the meeting, only one of the sages spoke, and given his sibilant, slightly lisping voice, it was not Eubrey. Rather, it was the one Rafferdy knew only as the magus of the society, his name being a mystery to all of the initiates, including Coulten.

For a long while the meeting pa.s.sed in a dull fas.h.i.+on. The magus droned on again about the Three Pillars of Magick, and how the initiates could not be admitted beyond the Door into the sanctum until they mastered them. It was only toward the end of the meeting that the magus brought up a new subject-one that had never been discussed before at any of the meetings Rafferdy attended.

The Wyrdwood.

Rafferdy, who had been drowsing in his seat, lifted his head. He listened as the magus discussed how there was no matter of greater importance facing Altania than the recent Risings. Long ago, magicians had striven against the Wyrdwood, and they had won dominion over it. However, the spells with which the ancient forest had been quelled were imperfect, and one day soon they could expect magicians to be called upon again to wield their will against the Old Trees. It was a day they must all ready themselves for. greater importance facing Altania than the recent Risings. Long ago, magicians had striven against the Wyrdwood, and they had won dominion over it. However, the spells with which the ancient forest had been quelled were imperfect, and one day soon they could expect magicians to be called upon again to wield their will against the Old Trees. It was a day they must all ready themselves for.

Eubrey had said that day at Madiger's Wall that the sages were interested in the Quelling. While Eubrey's experiment had seemed to Rafferdy to have had little point, perhaps his report had done something to encourage the sages on the topic of the Wyrdwood.

They must work against the peril of the Wyrdwood in any manner they could, the magus went on, his voice emanating out of the shadows of his hood. They must expect to wield not only the power of magick against it, but the power of politics as well. Spells might be used to defeat the Old Trees, but only if magicians were allowed by law to do so-for how could magicians approach the groves if soldiers would not allow them?

”Yet you must not worry,” the magus intoned in that peculiarly soft, lisping manner. ”Know that we have many allies in this matter, for ours is not the only magickal order that is concerned with the Risings. I can promise you, very soon this subject will be brought up in a.s.sembly by members of one such order. We will put a stop to the wood, and those who by their very nature would seek to incite it.”

The other magicians had seemed to like this statement, and an excited murmur pa.s.sed among them. Even Coulten nodded, his eyes alight, but these words left Rafferdy with a peculiar feeling. He found himself thinking of Mrs. Quent and what she had done to stop the Evengrove from Rising that day. It had been brave, and utterly remarkable. Yet if her nature was known, would she not be deemed one ”who by their very nature would seek to incite” the Wyrdwood?

The more he thought about this, the more troubled he became. Before long, the magus's voice was reduced to a wordless hissing. Rafferdy fidgeted with the ring upon his right hand, and as soon as the meeting concluded, he left the chamber beneath the tavern. All night he had tossed about on his bed, caught half in a dream in which the sheets were black branches coiling around him while Mrs. Quent watched and smiled. as soon as the meeting concluded, he left the chamber beneath the tavern. All night he had tossed about on his bed, caught half in a dream in which the sheets were black branches coiling around him while Mrs. Quent watched and smiled.

”Well, go on, then,” Coulten said eagerly. ”You look as if it's on the tip of your tongue. So which one of the sages last night was Eubrey?”

”I couldn't say,” Rafferdy said honestly, then glanced at the Hall around them. ”So where is Eubrey anyway this morning?”

Coulten grinned slyly, then he opened his mouth to speak. However, at that very moment the High Speaker banged his gavel, calling the Hall to order. Behind his right shoulder, Lady Shayde sat in her customary seat, her face a pale fog behind the veil that draped her hat.

As usual, the High Speaker's gavel had hardly ceased its clatter before Lord Bastellon was off his bench and requesting to address the Hall. This was granted, if reluctantly. Rafferdy would much rather have heard whatever it was Coulten had been about to tell him. Instead, they all had to endure yet another treatise from Lord Bastellon on how important it was, in these uncertain times, that King Rothard's writ of succession be ratified.

As the old Stout continued his exposition, the Magisters all bristled visibly, but there was nothing they could do about it. They had allowed Bastellon to open debate on all issues concerning Altania, including the writ of succession. Thus there was nothing the Magisters could do but listen as the old Stout marched before the Speaker's podium in his crooked wig and cast his words and spittle in all directions.

Rafferdy imagined Lord Farrolbrook must be particularly peeved by the situation, as it was due to his miscalculation that Lord Bastellon's gambit had succeeded. Only, when he looked down at where Farrolbrook sat with the other Magisters, he was surprised to see that the fair-haired lord was paying Bastellon no attention. Instead, he gazed at the domed ceiling above, an absent look upon his usually haughty face, all the while fidgeting with one of the many frills of his robe.

At last Bastellon seemed to have run out of his reservoir of words and phlegm, and he marched back to his seat among the other Stouts.

”You say we must honor the king's will on the matter of succession, Lord Bastellon,” spoke a loud voice. ”But is that really wise at this time?”

The High Speaker's gavel struck the podium. ”The Hall recognizes Lord Mertrand!”

The lord who sat next to Farrolbrook rose and stepped forward. He was tall and impressive in a simple but stylish black robe, and he turned slowly as he spoke, regarding the Hall with a keen, dark-eyed gaze.

”The Wyrdwood stirs as it has not done in living memory,” the tall Magister went on. ”Risings have taken the lives of men not only in Torland, but also no more than twenty miles from where we stand at this very moment. I hope it will be a long while before we have to worry about who will succeed our king, but that day will come. And when it does, despite the peril we face from the Wyrdwood, Lord Bastellon suggests that we willingly consent to put a woman upon the throne!”

At this mutters and murmurs ran about the Hall, and Lord Bastellon leaped to his feet. However, when he tried to sputter out angry words, he was drowned out by the clamor of the High Speaker's gavel.

”The floor belongs to Lord Mertrand!”

Lord Bastellon glowered at this, but he could do nothing save return to his seat.