Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  “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 multiplying 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?”

  The illusionist’s sleeves were still rolled up and Khirro clearly saw the tattoos twisting across his flesh, disappearing beneath his shirt, and for a second he thought he saw them slither like snakes. The illusion quickly passed. These were no colorful decorations but flowing black letters and words in unrecognizable languages. The illusionist looked at him, the reflection in his mask distorting Khirro’s face into something both comical and hideous. He looked into the man’s blue eyes but found his gaze slipping back to examine his own twisted features.

  “Yes. She only needs to rest. It is a simple bit of entertainment, but an exhausting one.”

  Elyea’s eyelids fluttered at the sound of voices. She looked first at Khirro, then over his shoulder at Ghaul.

  “Not a bad trick, eh?”

  Khirro grasped her hand in both of his. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, only tired.”

  “How did you do it?” Ghaul asked.

  The illusionist stood and faced the warrior leaving Khirro relieved he was no longer tempted to look upon the misshapen version of himself. He felt as though the mask showed him a piece of his soul he didn’t want to know existed.

  “A craftsman does not reveal his secrets,” Athryn said moving to the exit, cape swirling with his movements. “Take care of the lady and get some rest yourselves. We will meet on the morrow.”

  Ghaul went to follow him out, but the troubadour blocked his way.

  “It is always best to do as Athryn says, yes?”

  Ghaul glowered but didn’t challenge him further.

  “We’ll be meeting with no one tomorrow,” he growled returning to his companions.

  The jester and the juggler rose and followed the illusionist out leaving only the troubadour standing watch. Elyea sat up on the divan and took her hand from Khirro’s.

  “Alicando is right. We should listen to what Athryn has to say. He may be of more help than you know, Ghaul.” She rose uncertainly, steadying herself with a hand on Khirro’s shoulder. “I have friends outside town we can stay with. We’ll be safe and they’ll give us supplies and a place to sleep.”

  She led them past the troubadour, who smiled broadly as Ghaul bumped him on the way out. For a moment, Khirro thought they might come to blows, but the singer continued grinning as Elyea pulled the soldier away.

  Who is this Athryn and what does he want with us?

  Elyea led them toward the outskirts of Inehsul to collect their armor and weapons. Khirro looked at his feet as they walked and sighed deeply. He’d soon find out if telling Elyea the truth had been the right decision or not.

  Chapter Thirteen

  To Khirro’s discomfort, but not his surprise, the place outside town turned out to be Inehsul’s version of a brothel. Three women shared the thatched-roof cottage, each of them employed in the art of satisfying men. Aryann, the youngest, was a pretty blonde with small hands and close-set eyes. Khirro doubted she’d seen her sixteenth summer.

  “She’s only had two customers so far,” Elyea explained, “and one of them asked for his money back.”

  “That’s not true.” Aryann blushed and protested. “At least, it wasn’t my fault. It was my moon time.”

  The second woman, Leigha, wore her raven hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. She looked about Elyea’s age and the formless shift she wore hid the pudginess she claimed her customers loved.

  “There’s more of me to love,” she said winking at them. “But if you want a little extra cushion, you have to come during the week: I don’t see customers on the holy days.”

  “Are you sure that’s not just laziness?” Elyea teased
.

  “Hmph. After five days of men worshipping at this temple,” she said spreading her arms, “don’t you think I should go to temple, too?”

  “Don’t believe her,” the third woman said-an older woman named Despina. “She doesn’t accept payment on weekends, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t satisfy the odd man here and there.”

  “Oh honey, there’s nothing odd about them.”

  Despina was the matron, easily old enough to be Elyea’s mother or Aryann’s grandmother. The dress cinched beyond reason at her waist struggled valiantly to contain her enormous bosom-a battle it was losing. Still an attractive woman, Khirro guessed the brown tresses spilling down her back were a wig. And she liked to talk.

  “I have customers who’ve been with me nie thirty years,” she said after the introductions were done. “I haven’t taken a new customer in years.”

  “Wow.” Khirro nodded and smiled politely, impressed she’d been in the business longer than he’d been alive.

  “Mind you, you’re the sort of lad who might tempt me into taking a new client.” She prodded Khirro with her elbow and laughed hard enough he thought her corset might explode.

  “I have someone waiting for me at home, my lady.”

  “Most of ’em do, love. Most of ’em do.”

  The women welcomed them enthusiastically, surprising Khirro: he’d thought women of their profession might be less inclined toward graciousness to men in their off hours, but they doted over them preparing dinner, providing supplies and acting genuinely delighted to do so. The sexual innuendoes and suggestive comments came fast and furious, making Khirro fidget and blush constantly, but the atmosphere looked to relax Ghaul, something he hadn’t yet seen from his companion..

  Thank goodness for that.

  They sat at the wooden table by the fireplace in the large, open room serving as kitchen, dining and living area, eating fresh baked bread and bowls of steaming stew full to the brim with bawdy tales and laughter. When they finished, their hostesses cleared away the earthenware dishes and busied themselves leaving Khirro and his companions to talk on their own.