by Bruce Blake
“Let them know I’m ready to break my fast,” Therrador snapped. The soldier saluted and hurriedly pulled the door closed.
“What did the man mean, Da?”
Graymon’s head peered from behind the tapestry, blond locks tussled. Therrador slumped into the chair and gestured for his son to sit with him. When the boy climbed onto his lap, the nearness of him quashed a chill threatening to creep up his spine.
“Nothing, son. A jest, nothing more.”
It would be hours before the vision of Suath’s naked eye socket left his mind. Part of him wished never to see it again, but there would be at least once more. If anyone in the land could return the vial to him, Suath could.
The thought did little to make him feel better.
Chapter Twelve
The scent of cloves and garlic mingled with the smell of fresh baked bread. Tomatoes, melons, carrots and peppers arranged in colorful patterns occupied bins sitting on the ground and atop makeshift tables. The marketplace at Inehsul was larger than in Khirro’s village, with more variety of wares and many more people. Men called out from stalls, beckoning passers-by to peruse their selection of cloths and perfumes. Other booths offered trinkets and beads, clothing, and housewares. One displayed charms and amulets promising health, wealth, or love—a long line of desperation led to that one.
Khirro adjusted the tunic Elyea had acquired for him. It hung too long on him, didn’t fit in the shoulders, and he found himself missing the reassuring weight of armor. Funny how quickly one gets used to something after a few days and a little danger. Elyea had suggested that wandering Inehsul dressed as soldiers would attract unwanted attention, so they’d left their arms and armor hidden amongst a stand of pines.
“Where did you get these?” Khirro asked pushing up the sleeves of the tunic.
A sly smile crept across her face. “It’s my job to talk men out of their clothes.”
As they wandered the market purchasing food to fill the packs Elyea had brought, Khirro still wondered if telling her had been the right decision. Beyond Ghaul, he didn’t know how to tell who to trust. The effort she put in—acquiring clothes and packs, paying for much of the food—eased his concern a bit.
Only time will tell.
A canvas tent, larger than all the others, blocked the road at the far end of the marketplace. A pitchman standing on a crate shouted above the din of people milling about the tent’s entrance, hollering about the juggler, the jester, the troubadour and the story spinner, and a man called Athryn who would perform wonders to leave the crowd astounded and amazed. Elyea weaved her way through the marketplace crowd toward the tent while Khirro and Ghaul hurried to follow.
“Where are we going?” She didn’t answer Khirro’s question, though he was sure she heard.
“What are you doing?” Ghaul demanded, as anxious as Khirro to leave the village and its possibility of discovery. “We have no time for foolishness.”
“There’s always time for entertainment.”
She grabbed Ghaul by the wrist, pulling him along until they stood beside the pitchman. Khirro followed, forcing his way through the crowd, apologizing as he passed.
“Child,” the man roared, abandoning his pitch to favor her with a broad smile. “We haven’t seen you in so long.”
“Too long.”
He bent down to speak into her ear and whatever he said made her smile. She whispered in response, the man nodded, and Elyea kissed his cheek. Waving her in with a sweep of his arm, he pulled aside the tent flap and she pulled Ghaul through while beckoning Khirro to follow. Some of the people waiting to gain entrance noticed them bypassing the queue.
“Whore,” one woman muttered.
“Slut,” called out another.
“Who do we have to fuck to get into the show?” a man said.
Their comments made Khirro’s cheeks burn, but Elyea either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Either way, she appeared to be well known in Inehsul.
They entered into air thick and hot, rank with the smell of canvas and the stink of sweat. People sat on rows of creaking benches, fanning themselves with anything they could find: hats, skirt hems, work gloves. Elyea guided her companions to a spot in the last row where they squeezed into a space meant for two. The man beside them grumbled about his lack of room. Elyea smiled sweetly and he said no more.
Khirro shifted in his seat attempting to keep his knees from pressing into the back of the woman seated in front of him; the rows of benches were packed so tightly the front row’s knees pressed against the low stage erected there. Atop the platform, a child clad in bright colors and odd patterns cantered about.
Someone should get him down before the performance begins. He glanced around and saw there were no other children in the tent. I won’t let my child act like that.
As Khirro watched, he realized the person in piebald clothing and shoes with bells on the turned up toes was no child, but the smallest man he’d ever seen. All his parts were proportionate, nothing misshapen or stunted, the jester was simply a small man. He wore a constant look of surprise as he ran about the stage, tripping over one unlikely object after another, or sometimes nothing at all. The audience cheered each pratfall, hooting and hollering and calling the jester names. Khirro smiled at the little man’s antics. It felt good to smile.
He overheard Ghaul ask Elyea: “How did you get us in?”
“The doorman is a friend of mine. I traveled with the troupe a few times.”
Khirro wondered what she meant by ‘traveled with’. Ghaul put words to his thought.
“As their courtesan?”
“No.” She slapped his thigh playfully without taking her eyes from the performer. “I performed. I’m a dancer.”
Khirro thought of the graceful ease she showed navigating the forest, traversing tangles of branches and twists of brambles like it was second nature. He could easily see her gliding across the stage, the antithesis to the clumsy jester.
“But why are we here? We should move on.”
Someone shushed Ghaul, but the warrior’s angry look made the man cower. The jester didn’t speak as he stumbled about, his body hitting the stage the only noise he produced, and Khirro wondered why the man would bother telling Ghaul to be quiet.
“Have patience, Ghaul,” Elyea replied. “Enjoy the show.”
Ghaul looked as though he would say something else but relented. Khirro smirked. He imagined Elyea often got her way.
The little man’s performance ended as he blundered from the stage to raucous laughter and applause. Next came the juggler: a tall, slender man with dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He began his act tossing about three bean bags, then five, then ten, using every part of his body to keep them in the air: hands, feet, back, head. He graduated to sticks and rocks, then knives. For his finale, he juggled a double-edged axe, an egg and a lit torch. The audience gasped and oohed as the items spun and flew; Khirro gasped and oohed along with them, the performance making him forget their journey. The torch licked the roof of the tent on a final high spin and the man caught it with a flourish and a bow, ending his performance. The crowd cheered and Khirro clapped while Ghaul sat silent on the other side of Elyea.
A man with a lute in his hands and a purple feather bobbing from his felt hat took the stage, his features delicate enough he might pass for a woman but for his whip-thin mustache. The crowd went silent with the first chord he strummed. He sang of knights and dragons, maidens and heroes, of loves won and lost and regained again, all in a voice smooth and sweet like virgin honey. Women dabbed the corners of their eyes as he sang; men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. One woman shouted a marriage proposal eliciting a glare from the man beside her. Khirro listened, appreciating the purity of the singer’s voice, but the heat distracted him, made him fidgety. He stole glances at Elyea watching the troubadour. She smiled, sometimes sang along, but no tears needed dabbing during the sad ballads, lust didn’t smolder beneath as it seemed to do for many of the other women.
When she turned to meet Khirro’s gaze, he looked away, blushing like a child caught stealing treats.
The singer finished his act. Women applauded wildly while the men sat, arms crossed, pretending to be relieved it was over. The performer bowed deeply, feather brushing the face of a woman in the front row, then left the stage.
A minute passed as the stage remained empty. A murmur started in one corner near the stage, and spread across the crowd. Khirro fidgeted, wondering if the show was done. The minute stretched on and the whisper grew to a mutter, then a grumble, the crowd agitated by the wait and the heat, but no one got left. As the noise grew to a crescendo, a flash of light on the stage silenced the grumble. Smoke billowed, catching in the peak of the tent, then dissipated to leave a man standing stage center, back to the audience. A black velvet cape cascaded from his shoulders, brushing the floor. The tent and all its occupants waited, breathless with anticipation, until a shout from the back made them jump.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the pitchman announced. “The amazing, astounding, awe-inspiring... Athryn!”
The man spun around, arms extended, cape spread to reveal its blood red lining. The crowd cheered. Khirro stared. The wide sleeves of the man’s white shirt billowed; his blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His garb was impressive, but it was the polished silver mask covering his face that grabbed Khirro’s attention. Anyone looking at him wouldn’t see his face, only themselves, twisted and distorted by the contours of cheek and nose.
The applause continued while the man released the edge of his cape and rolled up his sleeves revealing forearms tattooed with black scrollwork. He raised his arms above his head and the crowd settled. With a flick of his wrist, a coin appeared between his fingers. He tossed the copper into the crowd causing a scuffle, then performed the same act with the other hand.
A magician!
If not for the things he’d seen the Shaman do, Khirro would have expected to go to his grave without witnessing a feat of magic. For as long as he’d been alive, the practice of magic was outlawed in Erechania, except in service of the king. He turned to Elyea.
“How?”
She shrugged. “He won’t tell me.”
“No, I mean how come he hasn’t been arrested?”
“He does nothing wrong, Khirro.” She rested a comforting hand on his knee; her touch returned the heat to his cheeks. “He does nothing but parlor tricks and illusions in public. There’s no harm in a little sleight-of-hand.” She removed her hand and the feeling of guilt and pleasure it had brought went with it.
An illusionist. Trickery, not magic. Khirro settled into his seat, relieved no one would burst into the tent to arrest the man.
For a half-hour, the illusionist made things appear, then disappear, only to pull them from an audience member’s ear or from under their seat. He tore up a sheet of paper and made it whole again. A length of rope writhed about like a snake of its own accord until he cut it with a dagger which appeared out of nowhere, then he made the cord intact again. With each trick, the audience oohed and ahhed, gasped and catcalled. The greater their reactions, the more fervent his performance. Khirro stared, awe preventing him from joining the crowd’s appreciation. It wasn’t true magic, but it was impressive.
The time came for the finale. The illusionist surveyed the audience, his mirrored mask reflecting their distorted faces back at them, and a hush fell as he spoke for the first time.
“For my final feat, I shall need the assistance of a woman of unsurpassed beauty.”
A forest of female arms thrusting into the air blocked Khirro’s view of the stage. It looked as though every woman in the tent wanted to be chosen.
“Fool yourselves not, m’ladies, this requires bravery as well as beauty. There is danger involved.”
A few hands dropped. The illusionist made a show of searching the audience and each time his gaze passed a section of women, their arms stretched higher. Finally he pointed toward the back of the tent. Khirro felt a twinge: it looked like the magician pointed at him.
“At the back. Would the strawberry-haired goddess please honor me?”
Elyea popped to her feet and skipped down the aisle, a whisper from the crowd following her as she made her way to the stage. Khirro stared after her, an unexpected finger of dread poking at his mind.
He said it could be dangerous.
“What’s your name, lass?” The illusionist offered his hand to help her on to the stage.
“Whore,” a woman yelled. The illusionist trained his gaze on the heckler, the emotionless face cast upon his mask chastising her. The audience fell silent.
“There is no judgment in this tent,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “We are all people in the eyes of the Gods.” He turned his attention to Elyea again. “Your name?”
“Elyea.”
She smiled widely looking every bit the goddess, then curtsied in the direction of the woman who’d called out the epithet. A few men in the audience snickered.
“Are you afraid, Elyea?” Her smile didn’t falter as she shook her head. “Fear is not always a bad thing. Much like the pain of a hot object keeps us from getting hurt, so fear keeps us safe from dangers.”
He grasped her shoulders and positioned her center stage facing the audience. Appreciation for the curve of her body, the fall of her hair, dulled the dread tickling Khirro’s gut.
“Fear of entering the woods at night keeps us from encountering the foraging bear. Fear of the stage keeps us from embarrassment before our peers.”
He gestured to the audience. Khirro nodded at his words—he’d become well acquainted with fear over the days since the Kanosee launched their attack against the Isthmus Fortress. And it only got worse from there.
The illusionist moved to the back of the stage, reached behind the curtain, and pulled out a velvet blanket of purple so dark it might have been black.
“But sometimes fear keeps us from experiencing new things, things that might change our lives forever.” He shook the shroud out with a snap. “Fear not, my lady.”
“Elyea.”
“Fear not, Elyea. This will not hurt. All that is required of you is stand there looking beautiful, something at which I can see you are well practiced.”
At the front of the stage, he whirled the velvet cover around his head with a flourish, showing the lighter purple lining for the audience to see there was nothing unusual about it. The muscles in Khirro’s thighs tightened, his breath shallowed.
“Close your eyes,” the illusionist instructed. “Keep your arms at your sides.”
He spun the cerement over her head and it floated down like an autumn leaf fallen from a tree, covering her completely. All movement in the tent ceased save for the illusionist stalking around Elyea’s covered form, gesturing and whispering. Women stopped fanning themselves, men leaned forward in their seats. It seemed the entire audience held its breath.
The illusionist’s gesticulations held an authenticity that reminded Khirro of the Shaman. His movements might simply be masterful showmanship, but Khirro felt there was more to it. A shiver ran down his spine as the Shaman’s pale skin came to mind, and the black sword hidden in the brush at the edge of the village. The things he’d seen would change the way he looked at the world forever.
A flutter at the right of the stage drew Khirro’s attention. He looked closer and saw the jester peering out from a crack between the canvas and the curtain.
A fellow entertainer enjoying the act or part of the trick?
He watched the illusionist more intently, glancing occasionally at the little man. The other tricks had been beyond his understanding, but perhaps he could figure out how he performed this legerdemain.
Athryn circled Elyea once more, his gestures more pronounced. With a final grand motion, he swept the cloth away. The crowd sucked in its breath with a collective whoosh and Khirro’s jaw dropped. Only empty air remained where Elyea had stood beneath the purple cover. Scattered claps broke the silence, quickly multiplyin
g until the tent exploded with applause. The audience jumped to their feet showing their admiration. Khirro remained seated.
“Don’t bring the harlot back,” the woman in front of Khirro shouted, her words barely audible over the din.
It quickly became apparent the woman would have her wish. The illusionist spread his arms and bowed deeply three times—once to the right, once to the middle, once to the left—then exited through the center of the curtain at the rear of the stage.
Khirro looked at Ghaul, a concerned question forming on his lips, but it never left his mouth. The pitchman from the entrance leaned in and whispered something to Ghaul who nodded and rose. Khirro scrambled after them, pushing by the still clapping crowd as the man led them from the tent, past the dissipating mob that had crowded the doorway when they arrived, and around to the back. He lifted a flap and ushered them inside but didn’t follow.
The backstage area was small and only slightly cooler than the front. Ornate rugs covered the ground; the only piece of furniture was a cushioned divan upon which Elyea lay, eyes closed and face pale. Khirro’s heart jumped in his chest when he saw her and he moved forward, but the troubadour stepped in blocking his way.
“You must be Elyea’s friends, yes? I am Alicando.” He doffed his hat and bowed, the great purple feather sweeping against the ground. “Welcome.”
With the man standing so close, Khirro felt anything but welcome.
“Let them through, Alicando.”
The illusionist crouched at Elyea’s side swabbing her brow with a damp cloth, his cape splayed on the floor beneath him. Beside them, the little jester sat cross-legged as the juggler wrapped a bandage around his forearm. A trickle of blood ran from under the cloth, snaking down his wrist and between his fingers. The singer stepped out of their path, his dainty lips turned up in a grin. Ghaul glared at him as they moved past, but the smile didn’t falter.
“Is she all right?”
