Rafferdy found himself in shock for a moment. To think of Mrs. Quent as a mother was—well, he did not know what it was he thought, but all the same it left him unsettled. Yet that was a vain and inconsiderate notion, and it was quickly dismissed and replaced
by real concern. To have Sir Quent taken from her was a grave sorrow, but it had not been her first of late.
“I am very sorry,” he said quietly.
“It was to have been a boy. But I am … that is, I think you must understand, Mr. Rafferdy, that it is not likely I will ever be mother to a son. And if by some chance I ever were, then he would almost certainly be …”
He would be like Eldyn Garritt
, Rafferdy wanted to say.
And that is far from a terrible thing
.
But that was not his news to impart, so he remained silent.
“As grieved as I was by what happened, I was comforted by the belief that we would still have a child someday, a bright little daughter to delight us both.” Now she looked, not at Rafferdy, but at the iron door in the opposite wall. “But I must wonder if that will really happen, if I will ever in my life know the joy of being a mother.”
Rafferdy wanted to speak, but to say what? How could he assure her that she could anticipate such a happy future when he still had no idea how to free Sir Quent from this place? Yet why were they here at all, if they did not have some hope?
“I do not know what will come to be,” he said at last. “But I do believe that there is yet joy in your future. I cannot say I have ever believed much in my life, but I do believe that.”
Still she kept her gaze fixed on the door, but her hand slipped from her gown and found his where it rested on the bench, gripping it tightly. He hesitated for only a moment, then he clasped that small hand in return, and he could not help noticing how fine and light it was.
With a clanking of metal, the door in the far wall opened. Rafferdy rose to his feet, as did Mrs. Quent beside him. Then Corporal Lewell stepped through the door.
“The prisoner is ready to be interviewed, sir.”
Rafferdy turned to Mrs. Quent. “Let me go first. Then when all is ready, I will call for you.”
He did not know if it was the graveness of his voice, or if it was
that she understood his concern, but this time she did not insist on going with him, and only nodded. Rafferdy gave her a look he hoped was reassuring, then he went to the door and stepped through.
The slab of iron shut with a clanging behind him.
As it was his desire to speak to Sir Quent in private, Rafferdy was relieved to see the corporal had not followed him through. What was more, his relief was compounded as soon as he set eyes upon Sir Quent himself.
They had placed him in a chair which was bolted into the floor, and had bound his wrists and ankles to it with manacles. This was a hard sight to bear, but it was ameliorated by Sir Quent’s appearance. He looked pallid, as was to be expected from a deprivation of sunlight, and his hair and beard had been allowed to grow to a rather wild state. But other than these things, he appeared well. His face was clean, as were the gray shirt and breeches they had clothed him in. True, he seemed somewhat thinner than before, but he was in no way emaciated, and in the light of the oil lamps mounted on the wall his eyes were bright and clear.
“Great Gods, sir,” Rafferdy found himself saying as he rushed forward, “but it is good to see you.”
That tangled beard split in a broad grin. “I can claim the same with regard to you, Lord Rafferdy. I was told only that a magnate wished to interview me, so you can imagine I was looking forward to the occasion with little relish, even though I was glad enough for a chance to leave my prison and move a bit. But to see it is you who have come …” Now that grin faltered, and his eyes grew brighter yet. “I am grateful beyond words. But please, can you tell me, how is Lady Quent?”
That Sir Quent’s initial concern was not for the fact of his own imprisonment, but rather for the state of his wife, was no surprise to Rafferdy. Another chair had been arranged some distance from Sir Quent’s. Rafferdy dragged it closer and sat.
“She is grievously distressed, as you can imagine, and so are her sisters. Yet she bears it all with remarkable fortitude and composure, as you can also imagine.” Despite the grim environs, he
could not help smiling. “But you will be able to see for yourself, for she is here, just beyond that door.”
Sir Quent’s expression was one of great bewilderment, as if he hardly comprehended what Rafferdy had said. Then, gradually, a look of wonder crept across his visage.
“Ivoleyn is here.” He spoke lowly. “I had not believed such a thing possible. I had resigned myself to it. But now … is it so? Will I truly be able to see her once again?”
Rafferdy laid a hand on his shackled arm. “Yes. I had only wanted to make certain that …”
“That my appearance was not too shocking,” he replied, meeting Rafferdy’s gaze. “Yes, that was good thinking. But for all that I am rarely let out of the little chamber I am imprisoned in, and there are few comforts to be had within it, my treatment here has not been overly cruel. Therefore I trust I am not too dreadful to behold.”
“Not at all,” Rafferdy said. “You look remarkably well. I will go fetch your wife at once.” He started to rise from the chair.
“Wait for a moment, Lord Rafferdy.”
These words were spoken in a deep and solemn rumble. Rafferdy hardly knew what to think of them. Sir Quent’s lovely and utterly remarkable wife was just beyond that iron door. That he should seek to delay his reunion with her was inconceivable.
“Was there not something else you and I needed to discuss before I see Ivoleyn?” Sir Quent said.
Yes, there was. Rafferdy had become so caught up in the idea of reuniting Mrs. Quent with her husband that he had forgotten what other business they needed to conduct. Slowly, he sat back in the chair.
“I have some thoughts on the matter of your situation,” he said, with urgency now. “I would call them notions, really, for they are not well formed and are based on conjecture. You are more familiar with the methods of the Citadel than I, and I can only guess at the workings of the Gray Conclave. But I have some abilities I can bring to bear in Assembly. We have not yet foregone all of our old rules! Some due must be paid to them for Lord Valhaine’s authority
to have any semblance of credibility. If I describe my thoughts to you, then you can add your insight to them, and so we might form them into a plan to effect your acquittal before the Hall of Magnates.”
Rafferdy leaned forward in the chair, eager to explain the obscure rules he had discovered and the procedural gambits they might permit, but before he could do so, Sir Quent shook his head.
“No, Lord Rafferdy, that is not what I meant. You and I could easily discuss such matters on our own. But even if there was any use to such an exercise, that cannot be why you brought
her
here.”
No, it wasn’t.
“It is dangerous for Lady Quent to remain in the city at present,” Rafferdy said, getting right to the point. “It is no longer a rumor that the Black Dog has formulated a method of detecting whether a woman is a witch or not, but rather a fact.”
Sir Quent’s face blanched another degree, but all the same he nodded. “I have suspected for some time that Lord Valhaine sought such a thing. He has increasingly spoken of the Wyrdwood as a grave threat to Altania.”
“I believe in that he is only echoing the opinions of his magicians,” Rafferdy said. “The High Order of the Golden Door are surely in league with those who dread the Wyrdwood and what it might do.”
Sir Quent nodded. “I believe you are correct, Lord Rafferdy. And you are correct as well that my wife is in peril so long as she remains in Invarel. You no doubt wish for her to go to the east, to stay with Lady Marsdel I presume, if her ladyship has retreated there by now. But Ivoleyn will never consent to leave the city while I am imprisoned here. And so you brought her to me, so that I could convince her to depart the city.”
“Yes,” Rafferdy said plainly.
Sir Quent gave a firm nod. “Good man. And yet … you must know that peril could easily follow Lady Quent into the east, or anywhere she might go—at least so long as she bears that name.”
Rafferdy did not understand; or rather, perhaps he did not wish to. “What do you mean?”
Sir Quent let out a deep breath. “You know what will become of her as the wife of a confirmed traitor to the nation. If I face trial, and if I am convicted of this crime, then everything that is mine—every coin and inch of land—will be stripped away and returned to the government. She will be left with nothing. She and her sisters will be deprived entirely of support.”
“Lady Quent can want for neither thing so long as she has friends such as Lady Marsdel and myself.”
“But she will be deprived of these as well! To shun her will be required by law. To aid her or take her in will be to bring the wrath of the government upon you. Could you allow such a thing to happen to Lady Marsdel?”
No, he could not, Rafferdy knew. “But still I would help her.”
“Yes, I know you would, Lord Rafferdy. Or that you would try. But could you bear up to the scrutiny on the part of the government that such an act would surely bring upon you?” His gaze went to Rafferdy’s right hand, to the ring they both knew lay concealed beneath the kidskin glove. “You are the son of the former lord inquirer and a known magician. What would happen once you provide aid to the wife of a convicted traitor? How much more suspicion need be cast upon you before you find yourself situated just as I am now? Not much, I would think.”
Rafferdy wanted to counter these words, but before he could think how, Sir Quent went on.
“You know that I am right in this. To help her after I am convicted would only assure your own doom. And so she would have no one at all in the world to protect her. She would be utterly alone and in ruins. That is something I will not allow.” He clenched his hands within the manacles, and his voice grew so low it was as if he were speaking to someone other than Rafferdy. “I failed to protect Gennivel, to keep her safe when it was my duty. I will not fail to do the same for Ivoleyn.”
Rafferdy did not even attempt a response to this. He knew the
story of the first Mrs. Quent, and how she had died years ago trying to climb the wall of a stand of Wyrdwood.
“You must work to get Ivoleyn out of the city at once, Lord Rafferdy,” Sir Quent went on, addressing him now. “I will do my best to convince her to leave. Yet, in the end …” A visible shudder passed through him. “In the end, I believe there is one thing only that will release her and permit her to go.”
Rafferdy stared, a creeping feeling progressing up his neck. “What do you mean?”
The other man looked down for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. Or perhaps his courage. Then, at last, he raised his head.
“Tell me, Lord Rafferdy, what are your feelings for Ivoleyn? Are they similar to what you might feel for a friend, such as Mrs. Baydon? Or are they perhaps something more than that?”
Rafferdy leaped from his chair, and his face stung as if he had been struck a blow. “She is your wife, sir!” he exclaimed.
“A fact of which I am well aware. And if you think I do not treasure her as jealously as any king ever did a jeweled treasure … but no, I see that you do know this. All the same, if your feelings for her are something other than what you would profess publicly, or might even admit in private, then I wish you would speak them to me now.”
Rafferdy might almost have thought he was being mocked or tormented except for the solemn light in the other man’s brown eyes. Still he said, “Even if it were true, why would I ever confess to such a thing as that?”
“Because it would give me assurance that she will be cared for. In the times that come, she will have great need of something more than an acquaintance or friend can give. But I will not be able to provide that for her. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, Lord Rafferdy, and I do not doubt your cleverness. But be assured that any scheme you might try in the name of freeing me will prove futile. I know Lord Valhaine well. The Black Dog does not bite without sinking in his teeth.”
With a look and a flick of his finger, he silenced Rafferdy’s retort.
“It is a fact, Lord Rafferdy. There is nothing that can be done for it. If I am brought to trial before the Hall of Magnates, I will be convicted. And as I told you, I cannot permit that. Above all else, I cannot let Ivoleyn become the wife of a confirmed traitor to the realm.”
“But then what can you do?” Rafferdy managed to say at last.
“Do not worry, Lord Rafferdy. Lord Valhaine has always thought me stolid and dull, but I am not without my own ability to scheme. There is yet one thing I may do.”
“And what is that?”
“You need not know the particulars. Suffice it to say I have a favor I can call in—an old debt, if you will. So that is resolved. But one thing is not—you have yet to answer my question.”
Rafferdy wanted to believe he had no idea what sort of debt Sir Quent intended to collect, and how he planned to avert his conviction before the Hall of Magnates. Only that wasn’t so; he did have an idea, a most terrible idea. And knowing that, how could he answer with anything but the truth? Throughout his life, Rafferdy had always been quick with a glib falsehood if it suited his purposes. But he could not lie to Sir Quent—not here and not now.
“Ivoleyn is the most beautiful and remarkable woman in all of Altania,” he said, his throat so tight the words inflicted a pain upon him, but he forged on all the same. “I admire and love her to the fullest extent I am capable. I have ever since meeting her, though I was too stupid to understand at first what it was I felt. And once I did, I was too cowardly to make a stand for it.”
Rafferdy’s hands made themselves into fists at his sides—then he forced them to unclench. If Sir Quent could bear his fate resolutely, then at the least Rafferdy must bear this.
“So you see, even if she had never made your acquaintance, Sir Quent, still I would not have won her for myself. I know what I am. I may be clever, as you say, and I will allow that of late I have
done some things which have been of use. But I can assure you that this Lord Rafferdy is no more worthy of Lady Quent than Mr. Rafferdy ever was of Miss Lockwell.”