The House On Durrow Street Part 59

Her statement was obviously absurd. How could he not be afraid when he was being torn limb from limb by trees that could move of their own will? Only, he realized then, the branches weren't pulling him into pieces. Rather, he was being held up in the most careful manner. Indeed, the less he struggled, the more gentle the motions became.

Now his fear was replaced by amazement. "Are you doing this?" he called out to her.

She smiled at him. "Brace yourself, Mr. Rafferdy."

And all at once they were moving as they were pa.s.sed from branch to branch and carried along the treetops.

Rafferdy cried out again, only this time it was not due to fear but rather exhilaration. The night air rushed past them, and he and Mrs. Quent sped across the tops of the trees like flotsam blown upon an emerald sea. He did not fight against the motions of the branches, but rather moved with them, s.h.i.+fting his weight from one to the next as they carried him along. That they were moving far faster than a horse could run, he was certain. from one to the next as they carried him along. That they were moving far faster than a horse could run, he was certain.

Soon he became aware that he was grinning like a mad fool, only he could not help himself. As strange as this was, for some reason he could not name, it felt peculiarly natural as well. It seemed to him that there was a kind of rightness rightness to the notion of a witch helping to bring a magician to a place deep in the Wyrdwood. to the notion of a witch helping to bring a magician to a place deep in the Wyrdwood.

Suddenly a glint of blue caught Rafferdy's eye, and he looked at his hand. The gem in his magician's ring was glittering with an interior light. Before he could wonder why, he felt himself being carried downward. The stars vanished as branches closed around him. Then, a moment later, he felt a hard surface beneath his boots as he was deposited upon the ground.

The branches raised themselves up to reveal Mrs. Quent standing beside him. Even in the gloom he could see that her gown was askew and her hair was a gold tangle.

"Are we there?" he said.

She shook her head. "I don't know. The trees...they were reluctant to take us any farther."

As she said this, he saw the line of red stones upon the ground, leading forward. "This way," he said.

This time it was he who went first as they walked down the stone path. After no more than a dozen paces the trees gave way to either side, and they found themselves on the edge of a vast clearing in the forest. The clearing was at least a furlong across, unnaturally circular in shape, and entirely devoid of trees. The ground within the circle was black and barren, and the trees along its edge all leaned away from it, as if unwilling or unable to grow another inch nearer. Rafferdy was loath to enter the clearing himself. His ring continued to throw off blue sparks, and the air was thick and foul with, it seemed to him, a terrible power or presence.

Just then the moon sailed higher in the sky, edging over the crowns of the trees. By the pale flood of its light they could see that the clearing was not empty. Rather, a ma.s.sive structure hulked in the very center of the circle. It was a sort of pyramid shape, like something that might be ill.u.s.trated in a book concerning the ruins in the deserts of the Murgh Empire. However, its sides were tilted at such a bizarre angle that the structure was discomforting, almost painful, to gaze upon. It was fas.h.i.+oned of stone that, even in the moonlight, was the color of dried blood. the very center of the circle. It was a sort of pyramid shape, like something that might be ill.u.s.trated in a book concerning the ruins in the deserts of the Murgh Empire. However, its sides were tilted at such a bizarre angle that the structure was discomforting, almost painful, to gaze upon. It was fas.h.i.+oned of stone that, even in the moonlight, was the color of dried blood.

"That has to be the tomb you spoke of," he said, only he winced as his words died upon the preternaturally still air.

Next to him, Mrs. Quent only nodded, as if she was loath to break the awful silence.

Rafferdy took another step along the path. How long had this pyramid stood here, concealed in the center of the ancient grove of trees? Many eons, he supposed. Yet here it was, no more than twenty miles from the greatest city in Altania, and no one had ever known about it.

Except that was not true. There were some who had in fact known about it-the magicians who built this path, and who put the door in the wall. And perhaps the emperor who built the wall in the first place. He took another step along the path, moving farther into the clearing. As he did, he realized that Mrs. Quent was still behind him. He glanced back. Her face was wan and tight in the moonlight.

"Come along," he said. "Gambrel can't have come through yet, or there would be an awful commotion here. He must still be on Tyberion, looking for the right door. Which means we still have time."

Mrs. Quent started to take a hesitant step, then stopped and shook her head. "I don't think I can, Mr. Rafferdy." Her words were faint and breathless. "There is something here that...I cannot say what it is. But I do not think it will allow me to enter the circle."

Rafferdy stared at her. Yet, after a moment, he thought that perhaps he should not be so astonished. After all, some dreadful magick prevented the Wyrdwood from encroaching upon the circle, just as the Old Trees disallowed it from escaping. Her natural abilities could only be at odds with the arcane energies that permeated this place.

"Go on," she said, her voice strained. "You have to shut the door before Gambrel can come through it."

Now his shock was renewed. The idea of entering the clearing and approaching the tomb by himself was one that caused him to shudder. He wanted only to dash along the path through the forest, to find his way back to the door in Madiger's Wall.

"Please, Mr. Rafferdy," she said, meeting his gaze with her own. "I know it is within your power. Only you can do it."

Despite the chill dread that pooled within him, he felt a sudden spark of warmth in his chest. He squared his shoulders and gave a crisp bow. "As you wish, my lady," he said.

Then, gripping his cane, he turned and made his way along the path, deeper into the clearing. At once his confidence wavered, and the warm spark in his chest was snuffed out. The air grew thicker and more oppressive with every step he took, and colder as well. He began to feel a queer tickling in his chest, a sensation that crawled up into his throat, until he was forced to clench his jaw to resist the compulsion to scream.

The moon rose higher still, and by its light he saw it standing there in the shadow of the pyramid: a stone archway, perhaps ten feet in height. The path led directly toward it, and as Rafferdy took several more reluctant steps along it, he could see that the stones of the arch were carved with runes.

That it was the door, he had no doubt.

Pus.h.i.+ng his cane against the ground with every step, Rafferdy slowly approached the arch. The pyramid loomed above him, and an awful presence emanated from the structure-an energy that spoke with such force and malice that it had become a kind of constant shrieking in Rafferdy's brain. On his right hand, his ring flickered with azure fire.

At last, with one final push of his cane, he reached the arch. Now a new dread came over him-a fear that at any moment the door might sparkle with arcane power and Gambrel would step through it. However, all Rafferdy could see through the stone arch was blackness. The door had not opened. And he would make certain it never did.

The runes carved on the stones were dark and sharp in the moonlight. He circled around the arch and saw there were runes on the other side as well. As quickly as he could, he made an examination of the ancient writing, and gradually he began to understand the function of the arch.

A spell of opening was inscribed upon each side of the door. If entered from one direction, he surmised, the door could be used to travel to the way station on Tyberion, while pa.s.sing through the other way would take one into the pyramid itself. But for the door leading into the tomb to function, it appeared that the door on Tyberion would have to be activated as well. Which meant one could only get to the tomb by coming from the way station on Tyberion. No doubt the magicians who had built the pyramid had put these precautions in place to make the pyramid difficult to open. Even if an enemy gained control of this door, it would still not be enough to open the tomb.

Yet difficult was not impossible, and according to Mrs. Quent, Gambrel had already reached Tyberion.

Hurrying now, Rafferdy returned to the front of the arch, again reading the runes there. As he had learned from Mr. Bennick, a spell of opening could also be used as a spell of closing and binding. Only what was the proper order to speak the runes in? If he spoke them incorrectly, he could fail to bind the door shut. Even worse, if Gambrel had already activated the door on Tyberion, Rafferdy might inadvertently open the way into the pyramid and set the Broken G.o.d free, just as Gambrel intended to do. For a moment a panic seized Rafferdy. He could not move.

Only then he thought of the way Mrs. Quent had regarded him at the edge of the clearing, and the confidence in her expression. If she believed it was within his power, then it had to be so. After all, she was the sensible one, not he.

Rafferdy drew in a breath, then lifted his cane and pressed the tip against the arch. As quickly as he dared, he uttered the runes carved upon the stones. As he spoke them, a faint purple glow appeared within the blackness of the archway. The light rapidly brightened into an amethyst sparkle, and in its midst was a shadow, almost like the silhouette of a man. At that moment, Rafferdy uttered the final rune. His ring let off a brilliant flash. Blue sparks coursed down the length of his cane and struck the arch, sizzling as they spread out across its stones. shadow, almost like the silhouette of a man. At that moment, Rafferdy uttered the final rune. His ring let off a brilliant flash. Blue sparks coursed down the length of his cane and struck the arch, sizzling as they spread out across its stones.

There came a deafening crack crack. Black lines appeared upon the stones and snaked across their surfaces. The arch gave a violent shudder. Then, all at once, it collapsed in a heap of rubble, throwing up a cloud of dust. Rafferdy stumbled back, then stared at the pile of stones. Gradually, a comprehension of what had happened came to him. The arcane power that suffused the air in this place had made his enchantment far stronger than he had intended, and his spell of binding had instead become a spell of breaking.

It was just as well. Now it was a.s.sured that Gambrel could never pa.s.s through the door. The Broken G.o.d would remain asleep in its tomb-and the Evengrove would continue to guard its secret.

His task finished, Rafferdy turned to start back down the path. Now that he was moving away from the pyramid, he found that he could not go swiftly enough. He broke into a run, not caring one whit how undignified it might make him look. At last, his heart beating rapidly, he reached the edge of the clearing.

And there she was, standing among the trees, smiling at him.

"Oh, Mr. Rafferdy!" she cried, and she took his hand, squeezing it tightly. As she did, he felt an energy that had nothing to do with magick run tingling up his arm.

"It is done," he said, surprised at how haggard his voice sounded. "Let's leave this place, and may we never return."

She nodded, her face still pale and drawn.

"You had better take me back to the door in the wall," he said. "I fear Coulten will wake soon, if he already hasn't by now, and I don't want him to get in trouble with any soldiers."

She placed a hand on the trunk of a tree, then looked at him. "Are you ready, then?"

"Very ready," he replied.

And this time, he was not the least bit shocked when the branches reached down and plucked him up off the ground. Rather, despite the awful nature of this place, he laughed out loud. In moments the two of them were lifted up to the crowns of the trees, and there they were propelled along at a thrilling pace while the moon and stars glittered above. branches reached down and plucked him up off the ground. Rather, despite the awful nature of this place, he laughed out loud. In moments the two of them were lifted up to the crowns of the trees, and there they were propelled along at a thrilling pace while the moon and stars glittered above.

All too soon, Rafferdy caught a glimpse of a thick gray line through the branches. They had reached the wall. The branches slowed their motions, lowering him to the ground, and there released him. However, they continued to twine about her, holding her aloft a dozen feet off the ground.

"I think it is best if I return through the door to Arantus," she called down to him. "If Lord Coulten is awake, it is perhaps prudent that he does not see me."

"I think he would be struck unconscious again if he did!" Rafferdy called back brightly.

Cane in hand, he moved to the wall. As he did, the branches lifted from the mouth of the pa.s.sage, clearing the way. He turned, looking up at her, and gave a nod.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Quent."

"Only for now, Mr. Rafferdy."

She smiled down at him, a stray moonbeam illuminating her face. And as she floated there amid the branches, like some ethereal being, he thought that he had never in his life seen a woman more beautiful.

Then came a rus.h.i.+ng noise, like a wind, and she was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

ONCE AGAIN, THE illusionists joined hands on the stage and bowed as thunderous applause shook the theater. The house had been full that night, as it had been every night of late. These days, there was not a person who came down to Durrow Street with a quarter regal in hand who did not want to see the illusion play at the Theater of the Moon.

The play there had already been the talk of Durrow Street for the past month. However, when a new scene was added, its first performance caused a sensation to sweep along the street and into the city at large. The broadsheets quickly printed stories about it, and by the very next lumenal it was a matter being discussed in every tavern, club, and house in the Grand City of Invarel-even by those who would never think of doing something so scandalous as to attend an illusion play.

The scene in question had appeared at the very beginning of the second act. Usually, at that point in the play, mercenaries in the employ of the Sun King pursued the youthful Moon through locales in the far south of the Empire. However, as the red curtain opened that night, it was not an exotic Murghese city that the audience saw. Instead, it was a perfectly wrought scene of Invarel, and the soldiers who pursued the silver-faced youth were a band of redcrests clad in blue coats.

In the center of the stage were two churches, and for all that they had been shrunk to fit within the confines of the proscenium, they retained their imposing presence. On the left soared the pale, graceful spires of St. Galmuth's cathedral, while on the right sulked the charcoal walls of Graychurch.

It was to St. Galmuth's that the Moon went. He pounded upon its doors, calling out for sanctuary. After a moment those doors opened, and he was let inside.

Just then the soldiers who had been pursuing him arrived. They shouted out, demanding to know where the Moon was hiding. In response to their words, the doors of both churches opened, and a figure appeared on the steps of each. Before St. Galmuth's on the left, dressed in a snowy robe, was an old man with a long white beard and an angelic expression on his face. While on the right, upon the steps of Graychurch, was a tall figure with fierce blue eyes, wearing a ca.s.sock of livid crimson.

At this a murmur ran through the audience, and many s.h.i.+fted uneasily upon their seats. That the man in white was meant to be the Archbishop of Invarel, while the figure in red was the Archdeacon of Graychurch, was clear to everyone. However, so fascinating was the scene that all in the audience watched with hardly a blink or breath.

Again the soldiers shouted out, demanding that the Moon be surrendered to them. The priest in red claimed he was not in Graychurch, so the soldiers advanced toward the steps of St. Galmuth's. As they did, the cleric in white held up a hand. You shall not bring your swords within these holy walls You shall not bring your swords within these holy walls, he said, for he has claimed sanctuary here for he has claimed sanctuary here.

So rebuffed, the soldiers could not enter. However, at that point the priest in red scowled and rubbed his hands together. He descended the steps of Graychurch, and now the scene s.h.i.+fted and moved around him as he walked across the stage, and by the sights flickering behind him all could see that it was down Durrow Street he walked.

Now the audience's nervousness was released in peals of laughter, for the actor who played the priest in red made him at once a sneering and foppish figure. He used a handkerchief to bat away soiled urchins who begged for coins, plucked fastidiously at the hem of his robe as he stepped over drunks and offal in the gutter, and recoiled from voluptuous women who batted their eyes at him, as if they were the most hideous things.

At last the scene changed again, showing a dilapidated chapel that rose on a hill above an unsavory street. In the way that only illusion could manage, the scene rippled and blurred, following him as he went into the chapel, down to the crypts, and below, to a labyrinth walled by red curtains.

There he came to a place where several men sat bound to chairs, heads drooped as if in slumber. The priest took a crystal orb out of his red robe. Then he went to one of the men and, with a motion such as one might make when pulling a thread out of a frayed seam, he pulled a silver cord from the man's brow, then touched it to the orb. The man screamed, then fell still. The priest went to the next man, and the next, pulling a silver cord from each one's head and touching it to the orb.

At last he laughed, holding up the orb. Through the power of illusion, the orb grew for a moment, until it seemed to fill the stage, and all could see the hideous scenes that flickered within it: images of fire and blood, fear and death, and lumbering, monstrous forms. They were nightmares, all knew at once, taken from the dreams of the men and placed in the crystal.

The orb shrank to its previous size, and the priest ascended from the maze beneath the old chapel. The scene changed once more, so that the forms of St. Galmuth's and Graychurch once again dominated the stage. Still the soldiers stood before the cathedral, rebuffed by the white-robed cleric.

Only then the priest in the red ca.s.sock approached, and he ascended the steps of the cathedral. He smiled, an awful expression, and held out the orb of crystal to the other priest. The white-bearded man smiled in return, then looked into the orb.

His expression became one of horror. Silver threads sprang outward from the crystal, pa.s.sing into his forehead. Then he turned and rushed down the steps, his eyes wild, his hair standing on end. For a minute he ran to and fro upon the stage, clutching his head, raving about the scenes of doom and destruction that had been revealed to him, and the audience gasped, for they knew he had been driven mad.

Upon the steps of St. Galmuth's, the priest in red smiled again, and he tucked the orb into his robe. Then, gesturing for the soldiers to follow him, he walked through the doors of the cathedral. and he tucked the orb into his robe. Then, gesturing for the soldiers to follow him, he walked through the doors of the cathedral.

At the same moment, the silver-faced figure of the Moon appeared from behind the cathedral; he had slipped out the back. He looked both ways, then dashed offstage. After that the play continued just as it always had. However, throughout it all the audience whispered about the scene they had watched, and their whispers became a roar as they left the theater.

By morning, the rumor was being repeated all over Invarel, from Waterside to Gauldren's Heights to the New Quarter: that the Archdeacon of Graychurch was some manner of sorcerer, that it was he who had caused the Archbishop of Invarel to become insane, and that he had done this so he could become archbishop himself.

These charges were as astonis.h.i.+ng as the fact that the play at the Theater of the Moon had intimated them. While it was not uncommon for a play to lampoon or tease a famous figure for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the audience, to so clearly imply one had committed a heinous deed was another matter altogether, and usually a theater would have been shut down by the Crown for such libelous acts.

That might have happened in this case, except that Lord Valhaine, no doubt in an effort to dispel the rumors, dispatched a few soldiers to investigate beneath the old chapel at High Holy. There they found horrible things: a labyrinth of red curtains, and men who were chained to chairs, some long rotten, others alive but quite mad, and all with their eyes burned or plucked out. At the same time, a number of receipts were delivered to the publisher of The Swift Arrow The Swift Arrow by an anonymous hand. The receipts were for the purchase of red curtains, and they were all signed by Archdeacon Lemarck. by an anonymous hand. The receipts were for the purchase of red curtains, and they were all signed by Archdeacon Lemarck.

After this story was published, the Black Dog himself went to Graychurch, and the archdeacon was led away to the Citadel to be questioned. He was kept there for several days, and though he confessed nothing, it was noted by the priests at St. Galmuth's that during this time the archbishop's condition rapidly improved. His eyes grew clear, he became lucid, and he no longer claimed to see any sort of visions. It was as if he had awakened from a nightmare, he was reported to have said. eyes grew clear, he became lucid, and he no longer claimed to see any sort of visions. It was as if he had awakened from a nightmare, he was reported to have said.

Previously, the archdeacon had been known to visit the archbishop at least once each lumenal and umbral. Now, after just a few days without these visits, the archbishop's madness had ceased.

As if this was not d.a.m.ning enough, just as this news reached the Citadel, one of the soldiers guarding the chamber where the archdeacon was being held suddenly turned upon his fellows, hacking at them with his saber, shouting that there were shadows inside them he had to cut out. He slew two men before he himself was shot dead.

No further proof could be needed. Upon Lord Valhaine's order, the archdeacon was swaddled all in red cloth, with a red bag covering his head, and was hauled to Barrowgate. He was placed in a cell deep in the bowels of the prison, in a room with no windows, into which not the faintest sc.r.a.p of illumination might seep. It was utterly lightless. These things were done, it was said, based upon advice received from a number of illusionists on Durrow Street.

There the archdeacon had been left to await his trial. However, earlier today, a new and shocking story had appeared in the broadsheets. When the door to the archdeacon's cell was opened to deliver food to him, he was found not to be moving. At last the prison's guards dared to light a candle, and what they saw was a gruesome scene. Archdeacon Lemarck was dead, his flesh gray and sunken against his bones.

The broadsheets stated that the cause of the archdeacon's demise was a mystery. Only it was no mystery to any illusionist on Durrow Street. Down there in the dark, he had been unable to resist the temptation to conjure visions for himself. Or perhaps he had simply gone mad and could not help summoning phantasms. Either way, the results were the same. As there had been no light in the cell to draw upon, he had instead drawn upon his own. He had used every last bit of his light, until it was utterly gone, and so the Gray Wasting had taken him.

Throughout all these investigations, the play at the Theater of the Moon only increased in popularity; everyone wanted to see for themselves the scene that had incriminated the vile Archdeacon of Graychurch. Tonight's audience was no different. However, after today's grisly news, Eldyn knew that tonight's performance of the scene had been the last.

The players stepped back as the red curtain closed. Merrick, Mouse, Hugoth, Riethe in his red ca.s.sock, and all the other men embraced and laughed, and they shouted out in delight as Master Tallyroth and Madame Richelour appeared from the wings to share the largesse of that night's bulging receipts box.

Eldyn did not take part in the merriment. Instead, he slipped quietly away. He paused for a moment before a mirror, using a cloth to wipe away the silver paint from his face. Then he climbed upstairs, to one of the small rooms above the theater. The door was ajar. He hesitated a moment, then he knocked softly and entered.

Dercy looked up from the chair where he sat. His beard-its bright gold now flecked here and there with gray-parted as he smiled. "Well," he said, "how did it go tonight?"

Eldyn smiled in return. "It was a great success, of course. Madame Richelour could hardly carry the moneybox. Everyone loves your scene."

Dercy made a dismissive gesture with a thin hand. Eldyn could not help noticing the way the back of it was traced with blue veins, and how it trembled as he moved.

"It's not my scene," Dercy said. "It was your idea to do it."

"Yes, but it was you you who schemed up how we would accomplish the staging." who schemed up how we would accomplish the staging."

"Well, I suppose so. But the embellishment and execution were all yours yours, Eldyn. And it was brilliant. I could never have given so great a performance."

"Yes, you could have," Eldyn said. He went to Dercy, knelt beside him, and gripped one of his hands, stilling its trembling.

Dercy started to protest, only then a cough wracked him. At last his paroxysm subsided, and they were both silent for a time.

"You won't be doing the scene again, I suppose," Dercy said at last. He glanced toward a broadsheet that lay on the bed. ARCHDEACON OF G GRAYCHURCH M MEETS G GHASTLY D DEMISE, the headline read.

Eldyn shook his head. "No, I don't think we will."