by Melanie Rawn
“All right, later. Get some rest. We’re working tonight. Or did you want some bluethorn?”
“Maybe before the show. ‘Doorways,’ I think. And then ‘Feather Beds’ for the wedding feast. The clean version,” he added.
“Sounds fine.” Settling once more in a windowside chair as Cade stretched out on his bed, Rafe opened his discarded book. “I’ll wake you at sunset so you can prime the withies.”
He shifted restlessly for a few minutes, avoiding what he knew he ought to do—organize that flashing turn of foreseeing. “Rafe?”
“Mmm.”
“D’you really think she’ll chuck him?”
A brief, complex snort. “He ain’t that lucky.”
Shocked, Cade sat up in bed. Rafe sighed and put his book down once more.
“Remember what we used to say about the Ottercatch girls?”
“Wisteria,” he replied, an image of the three sisters coming back to him from their days at littleschool. “Very pretty, highly scented—”
“—and will twist and twine and strangle in the end.”
“You think she’s like that?”
“I think her mother is.” He scooted his chair around so his back was to Cade, and resolutely applied himself to the book.
Chapter 17
All in all, Cade had much too much to think about without adding Mieka’s frets and fumings to his worries. Fully aware that more than a few minutes in the glisker’s company would have him shrieking or breaking things or both, he kept to his bed all afternoon and didn’t go down for dinner. He selected a little packet of bluethorn instead, knowing it would give him the energy required to prime the withies and get through a performance.
He hadn’t quite counted on how few of the paper twists of powder were left. Nor on Mieka’s arrival just after dinner in search of the same boost.
“Will this last until we get home?” Cade asked as offhandedly as he could.
“It will if you don’t nick it,” snapped Mieka. “Who told you any of it was yours for the taking, eh?”
“I’m sorry. I ought to have asked.” He kept his voice quiet and humble, hoping the volatile Elf wouldn’t be too angry with him.
He ought to have known better.
Mieka snatched the thorn-roll from his hands. “Get your own!”
“I’m really sorry. It’s just—tonight I need some, I really—”
“What d’you know about needing anything?” Clever little fingers busied themselves preparing a glass thorn. “I didn’t want to go on this poxy trip anyway, and now look what happens! Jinsie’s ruined everything!”
“Jinsie?” he echoed stupidly.
“Stealing my letters, trying to get you to do the same—”
“Wh-what are you talking about?”
Mieka froze, then slumped a bit at the table. “Oh, fuck,” he said wearily. “I heard you. At Wistly, the morning we left. This is all her fault, I shouldn’t be yelling at you, Cade, I’m sorry—but you don’t understand! If I lose her, I’ll die.”
Cade considered his next words very, very carefully. It was difficult to do, with the thorn all ready and waiting in Mieka’s fingers—guaranteed exuberance, surefire strength to put magic into the withies for the performance. At last he said, “I think Jinsie was wrong.”
“I know. I heard.”
“I also think if it’s real and right between the two of you, she won’t throw you over for someone else.”
“Have to believe that, don’t I?” he asked bitterly. Then, rising from the table, he asked, “Want to share? There’s enough.”
“Beholden. When have you had time to use all this, anyway?”
A shrug was the only reply. A few moments later Cade felt the tiny piercing of his skin, and looked up into Mieka’s face. The misery was genuine. He did truly love the girl.
And then the warmth began to rush through him, and after a time he sat up, raked his fingers back through his hair, and said, “Right—where’d you stash the withies?”
What usually took him an hour to do required only minutes. Mieka always mucked about with “Doorways” anyhow, playing as pleased him, and poor Jeska had to react to whatever swirled through the doors. There was dialogue that went with each that Jeska could call up instantly, but the only words that really mattered were the ones at the end: the “This life, and none other” speech. If most of the audience didn’t understand it tonight, that wasn’t Cade’s problem. He primed withies with quick assurance, tossing each to Mieka as he finished. On impulse he tucked an unused glass twig, the smallest one, into the breast pocket of his jacket. Mieka and Rafe weren’t going to have all the fun tonight at the end of the show.
After he helped Mieka set up the glisker’s bench, they still had an hour before the scheduled performance. Cade went in search of food. What he found, in addition to trays of breads and cheeses left out for anyone still peckish after dinner, was Lady Vrennerie, in pale rose tonight with lots of petticoats. Her dark hair curled about her face and neck in wild defiance of the elaborate arrangement of braids popular at this court. Naturally, the instant she walked up to him, his mouth was full.
“That was a lovely gift you gave my lady,” she said. “Just a guessing, was it made by your friend wearing men’s clothes and nicer than ladies with titles?”
He chewed, swallowed, gulped some wine, and replied, “Her name’s Blye Cindercliff—no, that’s not right, her name’s Windthistle now. She got married this spring. To one of Mieka’s brothers.”
“How many does he have? And are they all doing theater?”
“Three. No, just Mieka.”
“Then it isn’t in families? Like the ears, I mean?”
“Not necessarily. Though my grandfather was a fettler. Like Rafe—the one with the beard.”
“Ah.” She frowned a little. “If it’s not a family trade, why are you doing it?”
“Because we’re good.” An arrogant statement, but he knew Touchstone had earned that arrogance. Then he heard himself say, “If you want to know the truth … it has to do with power.”
“Magical power?”
“That’s a bit of it, but not all, not by any means. Jeska does it because he likes being other people. Oh, it’s not because he doesn’t like being himself—” He laughed suddenly, mayhap a bit too loudly. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who enjoys being himself more!”
Her brows arched. “So it’s rumored amongst the maids.”
“What I mean is that he’s … secure, I guess the word would be. He knows who he is, and likes it, and that frees him up to become whatever the play calls for. It’s not the way a little boy would pretend to be a knight or a sea captain or something, playing at being grown up. For Jeska, it’s a craft. An Art.”
“And your fettler?”
“Rafe likes to be in control. So do I—I’d never write a word if I didn’t!—but for him it’s like he can put this little portion of the world in order, and keep it there. He adjusts the magic, makes sure nobody gets hurt, keeps everything organized and disciplined.”
“Could someone be hurt?”
“In the hands of a stupid or careless fettler, yes.”
“Or a glisker?”
Cade shrugged it off. “Not if the fettler’s strong enough.”
“And Master Windthistle? Why does he—?”
“Because he likes—no, he needs to feel.” His thoughts raced, and his words with them, and he listened to himself saying things it seemed he’d always known. “Elves are capricious, completely spontaneous. They let you know exactly what they’re feeling exactly when they’re feeling it. I don’t think he feeds off the magic, the way a Vampire would feed—”
Her eyes widened, and he noted the little flecks of silver in their dark brown depths. “You are having those in your country?”
“Not many. I’ve never met one, if that’s what you mean. Not that I know of, anyway. Why?”
“There’s a country to the southeast full of them. Horridible pl
ace—horrible,” she corrected herself. “Black stone mountains, black stone castles. But tell me more about your glisker.”
“Mieka … he’s more like a child playing with a shiny toy. Oh, he’s as professional as the rest of us. We’d never have him in Touchstone otherwise. Still, it’s more fun with him than with anybody else we ever worked with. He takes joy in what he does. Some of it’s showing off—‘Look what I can do!’ But he’s committed to the artistry of what he does. And he’s always challenging me to give him more to work with.”
“And that brings us to why you do what you do.”
“It’s more than the control. It’s influencing what people think about. Giving them a good show, of course—Mieka’s dead serious about that part of it, we all are. But—”
“You have things to say, and you want people to be hearing them.”
“Conceited, innit?” He grinned and took a big swallow of wine. “To believe that what I think and how I feel about it would be of any interest to anybody else? But that’s the real trick, y’see—to present it in a way that does interest other people.”
“You want to make things,” she mused.
He nodded, delighted that she understood. “Not just waft through the world and leave nothing behind.”
“To create beautiful things—not just pretty pictures onstage, but things that are true.”
His mood changed abruptly—the bluethorn, he told himself, and tried to stop his next words, and couldn’t. “Truth can be ugly.”
Vrennerie considered this, and shook her head. “Awkward, I think. Even if not comfortable to be looking at, doesn’t beauty happen when we do look at a thing and see it for what it is? When truth is accepted, no matter how ugly or painful, I think there’s a certain beauty in that, no?”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. It’s when we deflect and deny, and lie to ourselves and others, that we become ugly inside.”
They looked at each other for a time, and Cade experienced something he’d never felt before in his life: a complete harmony of thought and feeling with a woman. It occurred to him that he might have been lying to Rafe early this morning.
She smiled then, and said something about how much the ladies were looking forward to the evening’s performance. And that twisted his mood again, most unexpectedly.
“Even though it’s magic?”
Vrennerie tilted her dark head, and her hair shifted like a silk curtain. “Someone is talking.”
“Not enough. They didn’t talk much when they chased us out of a tavern, once they got a look at Mieka’s ears.” He took a swallow of wine. “What’s the Guild?”
Her generous mouth compressed into a thin, straight line. Then she shrugged. “If they have special skill, they’re registered. When someone has a problem, they’re sent for.”
“And the rest of the time, everybody pretends they don’t exist.”
“Yes.”
He wanted badly to ask, What sort of problem, besides buildings that reconstruct themselves without warning? But he didn’t ask. Instead: “You don’t seem worried by magic.”
“Or your glisker’s ears,” she agreed wryly. “When I was little, there was an old serving woman who lit the fires on cold winter nights. After we sisters were tucked up in bed and it was all warm in our room, she’d come and tell stories before she banked the fire. Once, she did it with a flickering of her hand. My eldest sister wanted to run tell our parents that there was someone doing magic, but we others shouted her down.” She gave another little shrug. “Oh, not because of worrying about the old woman and what might happen to her, but because we liked the stories. My sister tattled anyway, and it turned out that our parents knew, and we were to pay no attention. We had to work it out for ourselves, of course, that not all magic is evil. It took longer to realize what you told my lady: that it’s not magic, but the person who uses it.”
“I’m glad she has you to confide in.” Thinking, She’s going to need you.
“She’s very sweet and—what’s the word? Lacking in deceiving.” All at once she frowned and glanced away, and muttered, “Better me than Lady Panshilara.”
“Who’s that?”
“She’ll be representing my lady’s stepmother in Gallantrybanks. And then, if the Lord and Lady are merciful, she’ll be returning home. Never say I told you this, but she is not a very nice person.”
“Amazing,” came Mieka’s voice behind them, and they both turned. “He’s actually allowing you to talk. Cayden Silversun is the only man I know who can hold an entire conversation where only he speaks.” He bowed to Vrennerie. “Mieka Windthistle, and eager to know how I may please you, Lady.”
And now, Cade thought, they would be treated to a surfeit of charm, and those eyes. Lord and Lady, how he hated good-looking men. But no sooner had Mieka straightened up from his bow than Kearney Fairwalk was beside them, chattering about preparations for the performance and so exquisitely delightful to meet you, Lady Vrennerie, really truly must be getting along now, positive you comprehend.
Cade and Mieka were in the kitchen hall before they knew it. Rafe was already there. Jeska arrived moments later, escorted by Drevan Wordturner, and from the disgruntled look on the masquer’s face, he’d been interrupted in pursuit of much the same thing as Cade.
But it wasn’t like that at all, he told himself. He didn’t want to bed Vrennerie—well, he did, but that was almost beside the point. What he did want was something he had no time to think about, because they had only minutes before the show.
“—do ‘Doorways’ just as you always do,” Kearney was babbling, “only with that special someone at the ending,” he smirked, “and be sure to project the finest and most tender feelings up to the minstrels’ gallery, won’t you, Rafe? Splendid!”
Mieka had taken Jeska aside and was whispering in his ear. The masquer looked shocked, limpid blue eyes bigger than ever, but as Mieka kept insisting, he gradually developed a look of little-boy cunning. Mieka stepped back and grinned.
They were up to something. Usually it was just Mieka who fooled about with a play—he had the magic inside the withies, after all—and left Jeska to revise and cope. This time they were in it together. Cade opened his mouth to demand a confession, but suddenly they were onstage. The applause was enthusiastic; evidently the Tregrefina had let it be known that she approved wholeheartedly of Touchstone. Cade had the sudden, awful thought that perhaps Mieka and Jeska would somehow put Prince Ashgar into this after all, and in ways no one else could possibly imagine. With a few of his many, many, mistresses, perhaps.
“Hells with it,” he muttered as he took up position behind his lectern, stage right. The marriage-by-proxy wasn’t until tomorrow; if Miriuzca saw something tonight that dissuaded her from it, more power to Mieka and Jeska.
Prince Ashgar did not make an appearance in the play.
Tregrefina Miriuzca did.
Mieka had taken careful note of her face, figure, coloring, clothing. There was no mistaking the person onstage for anyone else, especially not when Jeska flung back the concealing counterpane and rose from the bed and put on a dressing gown rife with big, bright forget-me-never flowers. The gasps and cries of astonished outrage assaulted Cade’s ears and he gripped the lectern white-knuckled, suddenly terrified of what Mieka and Jeska were planning to do.
Apart from the initial shock, it was turning out rather harmless. She walked in her dream along the angled hallway that receded into the far distance; she opened door after door, and there appeared scenes Cade had gathered up from their travels and primed into the withies. Green fields, distant mountains, lakes, the great river; her father, stepmother, all those brothers and sisters; the avenue of sculpted hedges leading down to the lake. Mieka had insisted on that. But there was a fiendish glitter in those eyes that caused Cade to clench the lectern even more tightly.
The effects were delicate: a breeze, the scents of growing things, laughter, warm sunshine on the skin. The emotions were not. Cade’s
original concept was for Jeska—as a man—to look upon these scenes with delight that transformed gently into poignant farewell as each door closed. There ought to have been gratitude for the beauty seen and the people loved, then anticipation of the possibilities to come. It was intended as a search for the doorway into the future rather than glimpses into likely lives. Instead, there was impatience, even rebellion, as doors opened and scenes were revealed and left behind. Restless need seethed through the great hall, flashes of anger—all of it Mieka’s own. Cade knew very well who was provoking it. He’d seen the Elf tuck her letter into his breast pocket.
Rafe clamped iron control on the flow of magic, but Mieka was unstoppable. The final door opened onto an emptiness that swept the audience with anxiety for long moments. Nothing appeared. And then, once more of Mieka’s own making, not Cayden’s, there radiated hope and eager desire, a craving for love, a reckless certainty that “This life, and none other” would be the best of all possible lives. Jeska spoke the lines and vanished through that final doorway.
As always, Cade felt these things at a distance. The audience did not. The emotions came in torrents, though Rafe struggled to gentle the feelings, cushion them, make them bearable. As the magic faded and he used the last of it to cast soft shadows on the stage, there was a stunned silence. Cade’s fingers nearly splintered the wood of his lectern when a moody murmuring began. Rafe looked across the stage at him, visibly exhausted, visibly furious. There would be no blithe shattering of glass tonight. Mieka didn’t bother leaping over the glass baskets; he simply walked off. Jeska followed him. Unclenching his hands at last, Cade crossed the stage and grasped Rafe’s arm.
“Gonna fuckin’ murder that little snarge,” the fettler muttered.
“Not if I get to him first.”
* * *
Kearney waylaid them on the back stairs, quivering with a combination of fury and fear that effectively rendered him mute. For this, Cayden was profoundly grateful.
“You can start on us once we’ve finished with him,” Rafe snarled, pushing past His Lordship and taking the steps two and three at a time.
