The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  And so they would, very soon. For now, she reluctantly allowed the warden to lead her from the room. Ivy cast one more fond glance at her father, who still gazed out the window at the gathering clouds.

  The next time I come, it will be to take you home! she said silently, as if her father might somehow hear her.

  Then the iron door shut with a clang.

  LOUD WHISTLES and jeers filled the Theater of the Moon, drowning out the voices of the actors upon the stage.

  Eldyn hesitated, waiting for the noise of the audience to die down, but the roar only continued. He repeated his line, speaking it at the top of his lungs. Only it was no use; his words didn’t have a chance of carrying over all the shouting and catcalls. Then came a crash as a bottle flew from out of the darkness and smashed upon the stage.

  Another bottle came hurtling after the first, and this one struck Hugoth on the side of the face, causing him to stagger back. A moment later, a red line appeared on his cheek, and a rivulet of blood snaked down to mingle with his crimson-dyed beard.

  “Curtain!” Eldyn heard a voice calling from the wing nearest him. It was Master Tallyroth. “Draw the curtain, Riethe!”

  Offstage to the right, Riethe leaped at the ropes and pulled hard, working them with his strong hands and arms. Moving so fast they conjured a wind, the red curtains sped shut across the proscenium arch. And not a moment too soon, for the thick cloth was momentarily dimpled as several more objects struck it.

  At once Eldyn dashed across the stage to Hugoth. Mouse and Merrick, who had been conjuring an array of stars and comets in the background, had already reached him, and they were steadying the older illusionist as he pressed a hand to his cheek.

  “Hugoth, are you all right?” Eldyn said. The roar of the audience continued, but the curtain blocked some of the din, so that he could actually hear himself speak. “How badly are you hurt?”

  Hugoth grinned through his red beard. “I’ve had worse reviews for a performance than that,” he said as blood seeped between his fingers. Together, they helped him to the wing and sat him down on a box of props.

  “Move your hand and let me see,” Merrick said.

  Hugoth did so, then winced as Merrick dabbed at the wound with a handkerchief.

  “It’s not too long of a cut,” the tall, thin illusionist said, his expression even more somber than usual. “But it’s going to need a stitch or two to keep it closed. And it’s going to leave a scar.”

  “Luckily you’re an ugly bastard, Hugoth,” Mauress said cheerfully, “so it won’t really matter.”

  “Mouse!” Eldyn said admonishingly, but Hugoth only laughed.

  “You’ve heard the definition of an ugly Siltheri, haven’t you, Mouse?” he said. “It’s any illusionist past his thirtieth birthday. So you’ll be joining me before too long.”

  Mouse giggled in response, and Eldyn was glad that Hugoth was able to make light of the situation, for it meant he couldn’t be too badly hurt. Of course, Hugoth was not really old, nor was he ugly. But youth and beauty were prized among the Siltheri, and as a man of average looks and forty years, Hugoth was far from the popular ideal on Durrow Street.

  Not that any of them was very popular with the audience at the moment. The cacophony had not ended on the other side of the curtain; rather, it had only grown in volume and force. The house was nearly full with soldiers from the royal army that night, and they were now stamping their boots, so that the entire theater groaned and shuddered.

  “They’re not leaving,” Mouse said, peeking through the thin slit at the edge of the curtain.

  “I think we knew that already, Mouse,” Riethe said. He rubbed his hands; they were bright red from pulling the rope so quickly. “And they’re going to bring the whole place down around our ears if they keep that up. What do we do now?”

  He looked to Tallyroth. The master illusionist’s face was whiter than could be accounted for by a coating of powder alone. He shook his head as he gripped his cane.

  “We must give them what they want,” Madame Richelour said loudly as she hurried across the stage from the opposite side, the feathers sewn to the shoulders of her purple gown fluttering behind her like wings. “They have come here for one thing tonight—because the Theater of the Veils went dark and cannot give it to them. And so we must provide it instead.”

  Master Tallyroth gave her a startled look. “Are you certain, madam?”

  She laid her hand atop his as it gripped the cane. “I know it is not what you wish. Nor do I wish it myself. But we have no choice. If we do not, they will ruin the place, and we do not have the funds to repair it. We will be bereft of any sort of livelihood.”

  The madam of the theater and the master illusionist gazed at each other for a long moment. To Eldyn, it seemed an unspoken message passed between them. Tallyroth briefly pressed his other hand on top of hers. Then he turned toward the illusionists who huddled in the wing.

  “We will perform the scene with the torch maiden,” he said.

  “But that scene doesn’t come until the second act,” Merrick said.

  Tallyroth thumped his cane on the stage. “Not tonight. We perform it now. Only let there be several maidens this time. What’s more, you must make them all lively and buxom, and bare their breasts. Leave not one thing to the imagination.”

  They all stared at him.

  “Are you sure?” Riethe said.

  Tallyroth frowned at him. “Come now, Riethe, I’m sure a lewd scene is well within your capabilities. Quickly now, take your places.”

  He struck his cane against the stage again, and they all leaped to action. Even Hugoth.

  “Are you well enough?” Eldyn said to him, concerned.

  He nodded, holding the handkerchief against his cheek. “Conjuring the shadow army doesn’t take any great skill, so Mouse and I can manage that.”

  “Hey!” Mouse exclaimed.

  “You and Riethe and Merrick conjure the maidens,” Hugoth went on, ignoring Mouse. “They need to look as fetching as possible, and you’re the best three for the job. The rest can conjure horses, along with a fog to hide us all on the stage.”

  Eldyn nodded; it was a good plan. The illusionists all dashed back onto the stage. The curtain continued to ripple as it was struck by various objects on the other side, and the soldiers beyond stamped their boots, demanding to be entertained.

  As he took his position, Eldyn cast a glance back at the wings. He could guess how difficult this was for Madame Richelour and Master Tallyroth. Both of them had always been against putting on this sort of burlesque at the theater, and instead insisted on only staging plays of artistic quality, even if it meant less take in the money box after each performance. But they both wore expressions of grim resolve now.

  “Scene!” Tallyroth called out, and he and Madame Richelour worked the curtain ropes themselves. The noise of the audience rushed over the players as the folds of red cloth parted.

  And the show went on.

  IN ALL HIS TIME at the theater, Eldyn could not remember a performance that had felt as interminable as this one. For what seemed many hours (though was in fact a trifle less than one), he conjured a voluptuous maiden out of light and air and paraded her upon the stage as Riethe and Merrick worked the same trick beside him.

  The soldiers applauded as the torch maidens first swooped down upon their winged horses, then let out cheers and whistles as an illusory breeze blew their hair back, revealing the pale, large, and improbably pert globes of their breasts. Riethe caused his maiden to rock back and forth lustily in the saddle as her horse galloped through the air, and given the positive reaction this won from the audience, Merrick and Eldyn hastily followed suit.

  After that, the scene proceeded much as in previous performances, with the maidens defeating the shadow army meant to represent Huntley Morden’s men. This evoked more cheers, but when it was finished, it was clear from their whoops and yells that the soldiers were far from sated.

  Concealed in the gray f
og that flooded the stage, Eldyn quickly whispered an idea to the others, and so the scene continued in an impromptu fashion. Their work done, the three maidens came to a forest fountain, and there they dipped themselves in the water to wash away the stains of battle. For a while they scrubbed one another, splashing as they did, and this bit of business proved popular with the audience.

  Yet in time the soldiers grew restless again. There was a sound of shattering glass somewhere in the theater. Riethe hastily whispered another idea, and the scene took a more salacious turn as a trio of goat-legged satyrs crept from behind a tree and spied upon the maidens.

  The satyrs wore dirty green coats, a clear signal to all that they were meant to represent Morden men. Their shaggy legs were trouserless. Thus the evidence of their lust was quickly apparent, and this was no less improbably proportioned than the feminine attributes of the maidens—a fact which caused howls of laughter from the soldiers in the audience.

  The maidens looked up to see the satyrs. But by then the three goat-men had extinguished their torches, which they had left outside the fountain. Bereft of their powers, the maidens could do nothing as the satyrs picked them up and carried them off, no doubt to ravish them.

  Before this could be achieved, however, three tall men in golden armor and blue cloaks appeared with swords in hand—gold and blue of course being two of the national colors of Altania. With the maidens temporarily out of view, Eldyn, Riethe, and Merrick took over conjuring the satyrs, who engaged the warriors in a battle which spared no sight of blood or gore; and this display of violence met with as much approval from the audience as the sight of the maidens’ nakedness.

  At last, with the beasts slain, the golden soldiers sheathed their swords, and the maidens returned. They ran to the warriors, knelt at their feet, and clung to their legs, looking up in adoration. The men bent down to kiss them, a gesture which the maidens gustily returned. At this, a number of the real soldiers in the audience called out lewd comments and encouragements. It was clear they wished to see a consummation.

  However, by then, all of the illusionists were spent. Eldyn’s hands trembled as he kept weaving and shaping the light, concentrating with all his ability to prevent the phantasms from dissolving. He knew that, by now, he was drawing on some of his own light to achieve this, but he had no choice; weaving his own light required less focus and will, and it was the only way to keep the illusions from failing.

  Yet even with the help of his own light, he was growing too exhausted to maintain such a high level of clarity and detail. Already the maiden’s form was growing softer and more vague. The same was true for the other phantasms on the stage. Next to him, both Riethe and Merrick wore expressions of pain, their jaws clenched, a slick of sweat upon their brows. They were all of them about at an end.

  The illusionists had no choice but to let the maidens and their rescuers sink down to the stage as the fog enveloped them—though by the rhythmic motions of their misty silhouettes, Eldyn hoped it was clear what act it was they were engaged in as they did, and that this would be enough to satisfy the soldiers in the audience.

  Then, as the figures vanished into the fog, the curtains sped shut.

  At once, all of the phantasms ceased existence. For a full minute the illusionists simply sat upon the stage, staring at one another, too fatigued to move or speak. Eldyn listened, waiting to hear the noise of shouts and jeers resume on the other side of the curtain, and for the red cloth to ripple as it was struck with empty bottles.

  Instead came a low murmur of voices and the shuffling of boots. Mouse crawled across the stage and lifted the hem of the curtain to peer out.

  “Thank God, they’re leaving,” he said, then flopped onto his back and let out a groan.

  Eldyn sighed and mopped his brow with a hand. Either the play had finally sated the appetites of the soldiers—or it had whetted them enough that the men were off in search of real rather than illusory flesh to continue their entertainment. Either way, they were departing the theater. Which meant it was finally over.

  “Good riddance,” Merrick said, his arms around his knees as he sat on the stage. “To think, these are the men who are supposed to preserve our nation from hoodlums. How can they, when they act like hoodlums themselves?”

  “I know their type,” Riethe said as he gained his feet. “They’re simple men, is all, many of them just off the farm, away from their mothers and in the city for the first time. It’s their commanders you can blame. They set the example the men follow, and I spied more than a few coats with lieutenant’s and captain’s bars up in the boxes.”

  Riethe extended a hand down to Merrick and then to Eldyn, who gladly accepted it. Once standing, he went to the curtain and parted it a fraction to peer out. Mouse was right; the soldiers were leaving. Only a handful remained, snoring in their seats.

  “It looks like there’s a few drunks we’ll have to clear out, but that’s all.”

  Riethe nodded. “We’ll toss them out in the gutter to sleep it off. And then I’ll be ready to sleep myself.”

  Mouse gaped at him. “But you always want to go to tavern after a performance.”

  “Not tonight,” Riethe said. “And thank God we’re dark tomorrow. I don’t think I can do this again any time soon.” He held out his hands before him. The fingers of one were still a bit crooked from being broken last year, and both were visibly shaking.

  “Well, you’ve earned your rest,” Hugoth said, clapping the big young illusionist on the shoulder. “And Eldyn and Merrick as well. To conjure such a finely detailed phantasm for so long—now that’s a feat.”

  Eldyn looked at Hugoth. The wound on his cheek was covered with a dark crust, but was still oozing.

  “You were amazing, too,” Eldyn said, and meant it. “And so was Mouse. I don’t know how you found the wherewithal to conjure the golden soldiers right after the satyrs.” He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “But who conjured the third?”

  He, Merrick, and Riethe had been fashioning the maidens, and helped with the satyrs during the battle with the golden warriors. But other than Hugoth and Mouse, there was not another illusionist at the Theater of the Moon who could craft illusions of such complicated, humanistic figures. That was, no one except …

  Eldyn turned to stare at the right wing of the stage. He was not the only one who had come to that conclusion, for the others did the same. Then as one they rushed to the shadows at the side of the stage. Merrick conjured a dim, wavering light, and Eldyn felt his heart stutter in his chest.

  Master Tallyroth lay upon the floor, his cane fallen several feet from him. The master illusionist’s mouth was open as he panted for shallow breaths, but his eyes were half shut. His thin fingers tapped out a faint, chaotic rhythm against the wooden planks of the stage.

  “No,” Mouse said, the words going hoarse. “He didn’t … but he’s not supposed to …”

  He fell silent as Madame Richelour looked up at them. She knelt on the floor beside Master Tallyroth, the feathers sewn into her shoulders quivering as they betrayed her quiet sobs.

  “Riethe,” she said, tears making tracks through the thick coating of powder on her cheeks, “help me carry him upstairs.”

  ELDYN WOKE to hot sun on his face.

  Groggily he sat up in his bed, pushing dark, damp coils of hair from his face. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping. Last night, it had taken him and the other illusionists hours to clean up the theater. Normally they would have gone to the Red Jester to drink and laugh after a performance. But by the time they finished hauling out the drunk soldiers, setting all the seats aright, sweeping up the broken bottles, and throwing sawdust in the corners where men had relieved themselves, the sky was growing light with a fast-coming dawn.

  They had already been weary from their efforts on the stage. Now utterly exhausted, going to a tavern had been the last thing on their minds. Eldyn had stumbled up the steps to his room and flopped into bed. So weary had he been that he had forgotten to draw
the shutters. Now the hot, white light of day spilled through, and the room was stifling.

  Unsteadily, he got up from the bed, groaning as he did. His head ached as if from the worst hangover, though he hadn’t drunk a drop last night. It was the aftereffects of conjuring so many illusions, he knew, and drawing upon his own light. It had left him hollow and shaky.

  Well, coffee was cure for a hangover, so he could hope it would help this condition as well. He went to the window, squinting against the glare. Outside, the sun was high in the sky. The day was nearly half over; though whether the morning had been long or short was impossible to say. He drew the shutters, then put on his boots. There was no need to bother with anything else, for he had not taken his clothes off last night.

  Downstairs, the rooms behind the theater were quiet. He went to the large room where they gathered before performances and to take meals, but there was no sign of the woman whom they hired to cook and bring in food for them. There were dirty dishes upon the table, though, and several coffeepots, but they were all empty. So he was one of the last to rise, then.

  The others must be back abed, or out and about in the city, or perhaps already at the Red Jester by now. Eldyn almost considered going there to see if that was in fact the case, only it was not rum he needed, but coffee. And it looked like he would have to find it himself.

  He headed to the rear entrance of the theater. As he passed the foot of the stairs, he thought about going up to the second floor, to Master Tallyroth’s room, to see how he was doing.

  Last night, just as they were finishing up their work to restore the theater to order, Merrick had come down to tell them how Master Tallyroth was faring. The good news was that Madame Richelour had gotten him to drink an elixir—one of her own fashioning, made with wine and honey and herbs. This had eased his pain and spasms, and he was sleeping now.

  “And the bad news?” Riethe had said, setting down a bucket of sawdust and wiping his hands against his trousers.

  Merrick’s face was even longer than usual. “Crafting the phantasms has aggravated his mordoth. It appears to have undone all the progress he’s made since he stopped working illusions, and he is more ill than ever.”