“Hush, Mouse!” Dercy said, glaring at the smaller illusionist. “That’s not the sort of talk we need tonight. We’re here to celebrate. No one wants to hear your morbid ramblings.”
“I have a right to say what I want,” Mouse protested.
Riethe jerked a thumb at a piece of paper tacked to the wall. “Not according to the Rules of Citizenship, you don’t. I believe Number Seventeen prohibits acting like an utter prat. You don’t want us to call for the redcrests and have them haul you to Barrowgate, do you? I’m sure the Black Dog could use a hot poker to prod all sorts of interesting secrets out of you.”
Mouse scowled and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything more, Merrick looked up from his drink.
“Mouse may be a prat, but what he heard is true. Teodan and Jerris did quit, and now the Theater of Emeralds is down by four players. I’ve heard they might have to shut their doors.”
Riethe let out a snort. “Surely they have understudies. And they can always find another player if they have to.”
“Can they?” Mouse said, crawling past Riethe onto the table and taking up the pitcher of punch. “New players of quality are hard to come by. Why do you think Madame Richelour was so keen to nab Eldyn? Besides, everyone knows that the master illusionist at the Theater of Emeralds has fallen deep into the grips of the mor—”
“Mouse!” Dercy said, angrily this time. “I said, enough. We’re here to make merry. Understand? So get to it.”
Dercy wrested the pitcher of punch from Mouse, filled a cup, and thrust it into the young man’s hands. Mouse made a mocking bow, then sat cross-legged on the table and took a deep draught. As he did, long whiskers sprang outward from either side of his nose and a thin gray tail uncoiled behind him. This resulted in a burst of laughter all around.
With that, the ill mood was dispelled. More punch was called for, and before long a number of the young men were belting out bawdy songs, proving they were not nearly as skilled at singing as at making illusions. After some encouragement Eldyn joined in, and he found himself singing about less than savory ladies and sailors with unusual appendages. It was only after some time that he thought to glance across the tavern at the place where the three illusionists from the Theater of Emeralds sat.
The table was empty; the three young men were gone.
ELDYN AWOKE TO moonlight.
He turned his head on the pillow. Dercy lay next to him on the narrow bed, one arm flung above his head. The wan illumination washed all color from his skin and hair, and he might have seemed a thing carved of marble were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Moving quietly, Eldyn sat up against the plain wooden headboard. Some hours ago, having conjured an excess of heat, they had thrown open the shutters of the one small window in Dercy’s room. Now the air flowing through the opening was cold against Eldyn’s skin.
He slipped from the bed and moved to the window to close the shutters; then he paused. The moon was full, shining in the firmament like a silver coin that had just been minted. Despite the chill, he basked in its light and beauty.
It had been less than a year since he’d first seen an illusion play at the Theater of the Moon. Now he was performing there himself. Nor did finding out what went on behind the curtain in any way lessen the wonder of the play for him. Rather, it was all more marvelous than ever.
With only the slightest flick of his finger, Eldyn brought forth an illusory dove. The bird perched upon his hand, its feathers exquisitely formed and as luminous as the moonlight itself. He could not help a pleased smile. For some reason, illusions were always especially easy for him to summon after he and Dercy had amused themselves upon the bed.
Eldyn tilted his hand, and the dove hopped down to the windowsill, puffing its chest as if readying itself to burst into song. Though of course that was not possible; the Siltheri had the power to conjure illusions only of light, not sound. Instead, the illusory dove stretched its wings. As it did, a slight tinge of crimson colored its white feathers.
Eldyn looked up. The heavens had continued their ceaseless turnings, and now another body had appeared in the sky, glowing a rusty red. The new planet, Cerephus, had grown so close that even to the naked eye it could be perceived as a tiny disk rather than a single point. Its proximity was what had caused the lumenals and umbrals to go all mad, and had made a jumble of the timetables in the almanac.
Well, at least there was an explanation for the increasing unpredictability of the length of days and nights. Yet what was it that was making everything else go mad these days? It seemed that every day brought a fresh report of rebels or traitors being shot down in some skirmish in the Outlands or getting hanged by the neck right here in the city. Yet it was paradoxical that the more traitors to the realm that were dispatched, the more of them there seemed to be. It was similar to the way the broadsheets continually reported shortages of land and work and food and candles, yet there never seemed to be a shortage of ink or paper to print grim news upon.
That’s why the work we do is needed more than ever, Dercy had told him the other day when Eldyn, gloomy from looking through a copy of The Fox, had expressed these thoughts. People need something to help them forget all the darkness, and to remember how to see light and beauty.
Eldyn wanted to believe that was true. After all, when his own life was not so happy as it was now, illusion plays had allowed him to escape his troubles, at least for a time. Yet if the world needed illusionists so much, why were they being found bloodied on the steps of abandoned chapels and floating in the waters of the river?
He shivered, then gave his finger a flick, and the dove sprang off the sill to wing into the night sky, heading upward until the white bird was lost against the white moon. In the play, in the scene when Eldyn summoned the birds, the Moon was able to escape his captors. Yet his escape was only temporary; in the end, the Sun King still caught up to him.
Eldyn thought of the twins who had left the Theater of Emeralds and had returned to the country. Had they really escaped? Who was to say they would not be discovered for their nature there, and find themselves in the power of those who did not care for their kind?
Well, he hoped that would not be the case, for them or any others. In the meantime, Eldyn would be careful himself, and he would make liberal use of shadows if he was ever alone in unsavory places. Then, soon enough, when he had earned his and Sashie’s portions, he would leave Durrow Street behind to take his place in the Church, and there, within those blessed walls, it was impossible that any harm should ever come to him.
“What are you doing over there?” spoke a sleepy voice.
“Just closing the shutters,” Eldyn said softly. “The night is long, and has gotten cold. Go back to sleep.”
“Great God, it is cold,” Dercy said, shuddering as he pulled up the bedcovers. “I can half see my breath. Come back here, will you?”
Eldyn pulled the shutters closed. Now only a thin sliver of moonlight passed into the room. In the gloom he returned to the bed and climbed beneath the covers. But though he willed them to do so, his eyes did not shut.
Dercy leaned up on an elbow to look down at him. “Are you certain you’re all right? I know that look—the way that small line appears just above the bridge of your nose.” He yawned, then touched Eldyn’s brow with a finger. “Something is troubling you, isn’t it? Well, go on, then, tell me what it is. You know neither of us will get another wink until you do.”
Eldyn could only concede this was true, for he knew Dercy would not stop pressing him until he confessed to something. However, he didn’t want to talk about the missing illusionists.
“What was Mouse talking about back at the tavern?” he said instead.
Dercy frowned. “Why should you care about anything Mouse said? If he utters a thing, then it can only be nonsense.”
Eldyn sat up, trying to recall the little man’s words. “He said there was something the matter with the master illusionist at the Theater of Emeralds.
He started to say what it was, only you interrupted him.” A thought came to him. “It’s the same thing that’s wrong with Master Tallyroth, isn’t it?”
Dercy didn’t answer right away, and by that Eldyn knew he was right. “What is it?” he said. “Master Tallyroth can only walk with the help of a cane. His hands are always shaking, and I never see him craft an illusion.”
With a sigh, Dercy laid back down on the pillow and stared up into the darkness. “You’ve had enough to think about these last weeks, what with learning the craft and then taking to the stage. I didn’t want you to be bothered by thinking about it. But now that you’re Siltheri, you have to learn about it eventually.”
“I have to learn about what?”
“About the mordoth.”
The window was fast shut, but all the same Eldyn shuddered. “The mordoth,” he murmured, the word strange and unpleasant on his tongue. “What is it?”
“It’s an affliction. Some call it the Gray Wasting.”
“I’ve never heard of an illness called that.”
Dercy let out a snort. “That’s no surprise. Nobody but illusionists speaks of it, because nobody but an illusionist can be affected by it.”
“It is very contagious, then?” Eldyn said, his chest growing tight.
“No,” Dercy said firmly, sitting up. “No, it’s not contagious. You can’t catch the mordoth from anyone else. Which means it’s nothing you need to have any worry about—not if you’re careful.”
“What do you mean, if I’m careful?”
Dercy leaned back against the headboard and seemed to think for several moments; then he looked at Eldyn. “When you conjure an illusion, do you know where it comes from?”
Eldyn considered this; it was a question he had wondered about this last month. “I’m not really sure. It feels like I’m gathering the light around me and shaping it into something.”
“That’s right. Even at night, here in this room with the shutters closed, there is light for me to shape.” He held out his hand, and a ball of soft blue illumination appeared on it. “There’s the moonlight and starlight seeping through the crack in the shutter, and a bit of light from the streetlamps making its way in. But even if you were to seal the window, and cover it with a black cloth, and plug every chink in the wall so that not the slightest beam of light could enter, and the room was utterly dark—even then you would still be able to conjure an illusion.”
Eldyn reached out, taking the glowing ball of light into his own hand. Now he was sustaining the phantasm, not Dercy. “How is that possible? How can I shape an illusion when there’s no light to shape?”
“Because there is always light in here.” Dercy tapped a finger against Eldyn’s chest. “Or rather, there is a power that can become light. It’s the same power that causes your heart to beat and your lungs to draw breath.”
“It’s life, you mean.”
Dercy nodded. “Yes, it’s the force of your life. And every time you create an illusion, like that light you’re holding there, you must give up a portion of that power—but only the tiniest bit. Think of an oyster making a pearl. Just like an oyster can only form a pearl around a grain of sand, so you must give up a fragment of yourself around which to fashion the phantasm.”
These words astonished Eldyn. “You mean I must give up some part of my life every time I make an illusion?”
The sphere of light wavered on his hand. It would have sputtered and gone out, only Dercy took it back, and it resumed its soft, steady glow.
He gave a low laugh. “Come now, don’t look so shocked. Doesn’t everything that is good in this world come at a price? Besides, it takes only the littlest amount of your power—a single grain from a mountain of sand. And you’re young, so you’ve got plenty to give. If it means you might endure a handful fewer years in your decrepitude when you are an old man, what of it? Is that really too much to give up in exchange for all this?”
Dercy tossed the ball into the air. It split into a dozen tinier spheres, and they floated gently above the bed like fairy-lights.
In the gentle glow, Eldyn looked down at his hands. Instead of smooth, he imagined them thick-knuckled and knotted with veins. It was not a pleasant exercise. To see his hands—and the whole of his body—wither with age was not an idea he relished. If he could exchange the final few years of his life, which were sure to be plagued by pain and decay, for the power to craft illusions now, was that not a fair bargain?
He closed his hands and looked up at Dercy. “If it’s normal for illusionists to give up a bit of themselves when they craft phantasms, then what’s the mordoth?”
“It’s what happens to Siltheri who are not careful. It only takes a tiny grain for an oyster to make a pearl—as long as you are patient. Just so, it only takes a bit of your power to make an illusion. However, you can give it more if you want to. Much more.”
“I don’t understand. Why would someone do such a thing?”
“It takes hard work to learn to shape light properly.” Dercy flicked his finger, and the fairy-lights danced and wove in the air above them. “And the bigger, brighter, and more elaborate the phantasms, the more time and practice it takes to learn how to conjure them. It’s easier to shape the light that comes from within you compared to the light around us—because it’s your own light after all.”
Eldyn felt a pang of horror. “You mean some illusionists use up their own life just to make grander illusions?”
“They do,” Dercy said, his voice going low. “I think you can understand the temptation. On Durrow Street, to conjure the grandest illusions is to win the greatest accolades—and the most gold regals. You might even become a master illusionist. But as with all things, there is a cost to be paid. Some use up too much of their own light too quickly in their pursuit of greatness. They become spent and weak; they begin to waste.”
“And if they keep conjuring illusions?”
“Then they die.”
Eldyn hugged his knees to his chest. “There is no cure,” he said, not really asking a question, for he thought he already knew the answer.
“No, there is no remedy. A man only has so much light, so much life, within him. Once it is spent, it is gone forever.”
They were quiet for a minute, and Eldyn tried to comprehend what he had learned. Illusions were so beautiful—how cruel that to create them should cost so much! Why would God grant a man such a wondrous ability and then punish him so terribly to use it? It seemed the most awful sort of jest.
All the same, the cost did not have to be so great. Dercy had said that only the foolish squandered their own light when conjuring illusions. Skill that could have been properly earned through diligent practice was instead bought in the most cavalier fashion at the cost of one’s own life. It was madness, of course, but men did many mad things for money or glory.
“Only, I can’t imagine Master Tallyroth being so foolish,” Eldyn said. “How could he have been one who fell prey to such temptation?”
Dercy gave a sigh. “Sometimes knowledge is won only at great cost. Master Tallyroth is wise now, but he was not always so. From stories I have heard, as a youth he was a libertine who led the most profligate sort of existence, and he likely would have died very young had it not been for the influence of Madame Richelour.”
A sadness filled Eldyn, and he wiped dampness from his cheek. “I do not care what Master Tallyroth did when he was young. He is good now, and I do not want him to die.”
“There, don’t be so glum,” Dercy said, circling an arm around Eldyn’s shoulders. “What’s done is done, so there’s no use mourning it. Master Tallyroth knows that better than anyone does. Besides, Madame Richelour is watching over him. She convinced him to give up crafting even the smallest illusions, which means he’s bound to endure for years and years.”
Eldyn had more questions to ask—how much light did he have, and how would he know if he was using too much?
Dercy touched a finger to his lips. “Come now, we’re wide a
wake and the room is cold. We might as well warm it up.”
After that, they had no breath for words. Instead they bent all their attention to conjuring different sorts of wonders while the fairy-lights danced above them in wild circles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NO, ROSE, YOU’VE got your trident all crooked,” Lily said. “Hold it straight beside you. And lift up your chin! No one will be able to see your face if you keep staring at your feet like that. Remember, you’re a princess.”
Rose shook her head. “But I’m not really a princess.”
“Yes you are, as long as you’re in the tableau.” Lily adjusted the tiara made of pasteboard and tempera that crowned her head. “Now hold yourself in a way befitting a daughter of the sea king.”
Rose adjusted the white sheet that draped her shoulder and drew herself up, looking at once pretty and awkward, and thus also very sweet. Ivy put a hand to her mouth to conceal a smile, for she knew her sisters were being quite serious about this business.
Indeed, the industriousness Lily had displayed regarding the affair of the tableau had astonished Ivy. That morning, upon rising in the dark toward the end of an umbral that was a bit too long to sleep all the way through, Ivy had gone downstairs to find Lily already risen and poring over a book of Tharosian myths by candlelight. Rose appeared soon after, and they had hardly finished their breakfast when, at Lily’s command, the two of them proceeded up to the second floor gallery to continue their work.
While Lily and Rose had been laboring over their tableau for nearly a month, there was already some degree of concern that the scene would not be done in time for their party. For one thing, they had lost a number of lumenals making attempts at other scenes. After some initial effort was put in, Lily had found a flaw with each one. The illustration was not dramatic enough to sustain a tableau, she decided, or the theme had the proper weight and effect but did not lend itself to being presented with the materials they might reasonably obtain.
The House on Durrow Street Page 42
