“Ah, but death can mimic life. The dead remember.” Kaelin’s voice echoed from the heart of the glade, though they could not see him. His voice still sounded strange.
Two cloaked figures, male and female by their shape, came from opposite ends of the glade to stand in front of the pond. They faced each other. Only visible were the skin of their hands and bare feet.
“Where is my son,” the woman cried, “my foolish, fanciful boy, who runs through the forest like a wild animal?”
“He likes to run,” hissed the man. “Loves to run away and worry his mother. What a terrible boy; he thinks the village is not good enough for him. Poor, foolish boy.”
“That’s not true,” Ruen murmured, but only Icelin could hear him above the cloaked woman’s wailing.
“Where are you, Ruen!” With her slender arm extended to the forest, the woman dropped to her knees as a blue light foun-tained from within the green pond. The light cast the ferns and the cloaked figures in glowing relief. The woman shouted, “He is doomed!”
She disappeared. The man crouched to address the audience in a stage whisper.
“But does the boy know why he is doomed? Did his mother never warn him of what lurks in the forest? Poor, poor mother. Poor, ignorant son.”
The blue light faded, and the man vanished, his cloaked form revealing a small figure sitting by the pond, his back to the audience. Lazily, he reclined on his elbows and tossed a fishing line into the water. Somewhere, a bird called, and the boy turned his head to stare at the audience.
Icelin felt Ruen stiffen next to her. She made to put her hand on his arm, but he moved away, closer to the stage.
Icelin looked at the boy. It took her a moment to realize that it was not Kaelin sitting there, but an older boy. He lacked Kaelin’s mischievous air and had an overly serious demeanor, his mouth twisted in an introspective frown.
His hair was dark, with brambles and grass clinging to its wild strands. But his eyes… they were common brown, yet so familiar.
Icelin looked from Ruen to the boy and back again. In her mind she filled in the progression of years—the widening jaw, the added height and musculature of manhood. Ruen was in his early thirties, the boy only thirteen or fourteen, but Icelin could see it. They were not so different, except for the eyes.
The boy was Ruen.
Icelin watched the young Ruen strip down to the waist and wade out into the pond. Up to his elbows in the green muck, he took swipes at the water, coming up with a bright green frog. He put it back in the water and watched it swim.
When the blue light came back, the boy didn’t see it at first. He was too absorbed in watching a dragonfly glide in dizzying circles over the water. Its wings touched the edge of the blue light. There was a flash, and the dragonfly disappeared, vaporized by the magic surge.
Seeing the light, the boy waded to the spot, his hand outstretched.
“Don’t do it,” Icelin said. “Don’t touch it, you’ll be killed!” Hatsolm and the others were looking at her strangely, but she ignored them. She looked at the adult Ruen. His body was still tight, but he watched the scene with a kind of detached resignation.
The boy stepped into deeper water. The light wrapped around him, flowing up his legs and chest until he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the brightness. Panicked, he tried to back away, but he lost his balance and fell, his head going under the water.
The beggars gasped. Hatsolm murmured, “He’s lost now. The plague’ll rot his mind.”
Icelin knew better. She waited, her hands clutching her skirt.
The boy’s head burst from the water, and he was screaming, clutching his face, and thrashing while he tried desperately to find the shore. He crawled onto the bank and collapsed in a snarl of cattails. Their brown heads quivered above him.
The blue light continued to glow, but Icelin could see the pond’s surface bubbling. The floating plants and moss shriveled up and turned black, their essences consumed by the spellplague. Soon, the water itself began to recede, pulling away from the bank and leaving behind a jagged shelf of claylike soil.
The boy rolled onto his back, his eyes staring vacantly at the crater where the pond had been. Streaks of blood ran down his cheeks. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and ran blindly into the green glade, away from the empty crater.
He stumbled and fell against the oak tree. There was a loud, sickening crack. The boy screamed and clutched his arm. He stumbled and ran on.
The boy vanished, the glade melted from green to brown, and suddenly a small parody of a village square grew from the ship’s hull. The tallest buildings stood to the port and starboard side. Each adjacent building was smaller than these, making the village appear to recede down a long tunnel.
An old woman hobbled across the dusty path down the center of the village, passing in front of a thatched house with no windows. In the open doorway, a sullen boy crouched, playing with the rocks at his feet. A dirty linen bandage covered his left eye. The other was red and swollen. He blinked rapidly when the wind kicked up.
That same wind yanked the old woman’s shawl from across her shoulders. The scrap of green fabric tumbled through the dust and tangled with the boy’s dirty feet.
Wearing an irritated expression, the boy tore the shawl away and started to hurl it across the square, but he stopped when he saw the old woman. They watched each other—the shawl dangling from the boy’s hand—each unsure what to do.
Slowly, the old woman walked to the doorway and stood over the boy. When she stretched out her hand, he put the shawl in it and started to back away, but she caught his hand in both of hers.
“I am so sorry about your eyes, boy,” she said. “My sight is failing me, just as yours is. Someday soon, we both of us will have to help each other.”
“I’m not going blind,” the boy cried. “I don’t need any help! Let go—your hands hurt.” The boy struggled to loose his hand, but the old woman clutched him tighter.
“It’s all right to be scared,” she said. “It won’t be so bad.”
“You’re cold,” the boy whimpered. His hand had turned blue in the woman’s grip. “Your hands are too cold. Get away from me!”
He shoved her. She dropped his hand and fell in the hard dirt. Her cry of pain brought more figures running from the neighboring buildings. The boy ran inside his house, screaming, “Mother!”
The old woman’s shawl drifted away on the wind. Icelin’s eyes were still following the patch of green when the scene changed again.
This time it was the smoky interior of one of the thatched cottages. The old woman lay on a bed below a dark window. Candlelight illuminated her sunken features. She was clearly dead.
Kaelin’s black-cloaked figures stood over the bed, talking in hushed whispers.
“They say he touched her, the day before she died. His hands were red and raw, like he’d been frostbitten. Frostbitten in the middle of Flamerule!”
“I say he made it happen,” a female voice whispered. “The spellplague wormed through his fingers and killed poor Megwem. Any of us could be next. Don’t let him touch you. He’s got death in his hands!”
The black cloaks melted, and the scene changed again. Another cottage, a dirty kitchen, and the boy now sitting on the floor in front of a fire pit. A woman sat on a chair behind him. She had gray hair and bony arms. She cut herbs in quick little chopping motions on a board. Every few breaths, she would look up at the boy. Her eyes were shadowed.
“Where did you go to play today?” Her voice was strained. “I told you not to stray out of sight of the house.”
“You mean out of your sight,” the boy said without looking at her.
The board clattered to the floor. The woman yanked the boy to his feet by his belt. “You will not defy your mother, do you hear? If they find out you’ve touched anyone else—”
“I didn’t kill Megwem!” He reached up to wrench her hand away, but she released him before he could touch her.
“You’re just
the same. You think I’m plague-touched!” he shouted.
“Darling, that’s not true, I only—”
“She was already dying.” Tears ran down the boy’s face. “She was going to die anyway. I could feel it.” He looked at his hands. They were still swollen. “She was so cold. How could she live like that?”
His shoulders shook. His mother turned him around and wrapped her arms around his waist. She stood behind him, rocking him slowly. The boy continued to sob, but eventually he quieted, soothed by his mother’s arms.
Arms which were very careful not to touch his bare skin. Icelin could see the fear in her eyes, the fear she tried to hide from the boy.
The cottage vanished, whisking away the boy and his mother. In their place, Kaelin reappeared on top of a rotting crate. He held a rat comfortably in his lap. The rest of the troupe was gone.
“Well played!” The beggars were on their feet, applauding and whistling as enthusiastically as the crowd at the Cradle. Icelin could only sit and marvel at how quickly the illusion had come and gone. How fast a boy’s life could change.
Kaelin slid off the crate, letting the rat run free. He walked over to stand in front of Icelin.
“Did you enjoy the show, false front?” he asked, his eyes alight.
Icelin shook her head. “You should have asked his permission. That wasn’t right.”
“Oh, but I did ask. He wanted to hear the tale of the boy lost in the wilderness. You should be grateful. He would never have told you himself.”
“You still had no right.”
“Ah well, then you have my deepest apologies,” the boy said. He didn’t sound the least bit abashed. “Perhaps I should tell him your tale, to even the ground between you.”
“I have no secrets left from any of my friends,” Icelin said. “You don’t scare me.”
Kaelin leaned down. “What about the secrets you’re keeping from yourself?” he said, his words for her ears alone. “The tower where you’ve hidden them all?”
Icelin felt a chill. “I’m not the only one with secrets,” she said unsteadily. “You are not truly a boy, are you? You are spirits imitating flesh.”
“Of course we are,” Kaelin said, sniffing as if he’d just been insulted. “But I remember what a child is, and so do they,” he said, nodding at the beggars. “Everyone knows the best liars are children, and the best storytellers are liars. I am what I am, in service to my craft.”
“So all that,” Icelin said, waving to where the imaginary glade had been, “that was a lie?”
“To the senses, it was,” Kaelin said. “As for the story itself—ask him.”
Icelin blinked, and suddenly a sleek crow was sitting on her knee. The bird cawed once, loudly, and took flight. Icelin watched it until it disappeared beyond the wrecked ship.
The crowd of beggars broke up, each going to separate nooks of the ship to sleep or talk.
“We should all be resting,” Bellaril said. She stood with Sull off to one side, where the beggars wouldn’t hear.
“You two sleep,” Icelin said. “Ruen and I will keep watch. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
“Why should it be you?” Sull said. “You both look exhausted.”
“We are,” Icelin said. She looked at Ruen, who was staring at the crates and rats. He hadn’t said a word. “Yet neither of us will sleep.”
A quiet figure crouched in the shadows of two crates and gazed down on the beggar folk. He watched them settle in after their strange audience had concluded.
Imagine, watching a cluster of crows and rats for entertainment. Tarvin shook his head. His job had shown him some strange things, but this was a story for tavern talk if he’d ever heard one.
He stood up and faced the guard who’d come bearing a load of food: bread, dried meat, and a bushel basket of nearly rotting fruit.
“A hardy feast,” he said, eyeing the fare. “I trust your master never neglects to bring the food?”
“None have died due to his neglect,” the guard said. “Did you find what you sought? My master will require word of your departure.”
“He doesn’t like having me here,” Tarvin said. “Well, there’s some satisfaction in that. Tell him I’m leaving directly. I didn’t find what I was looking for.”
“A waif of a girl, wandering Mistshore; she’s likely dead,” the guard said.
“You think so?” Tarvin said. “I hope you’re right.”
The guard looked surprised. “I thought your orders were to bring her in alive?”
“Oh, I’m quite clear on my orders. My wishes are another matter.” He crossed his arms. “I have little care whether Icelin Tearn lives or dies in Mistshore. She belongs here with the rest of the outcasts, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well then, I wish you good fortune in your diligent search,” the guard said dryly. He pushed past Tarvin and began tying rope to the handles of the baskets.
“Are you judging me,” Tarvin said, “when you’re tossing food to the diseased with gloved hands and sweating because you don’t want to get too close?” The guard didn’t respond. Tarvin grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Answer me, wretch!”
The guard shrugged his arm off and put a hand to his sword hilt. “You won’t be touching me, little watchman, not out here. You said it yourself: this is Mistshore, and we outcasts don’t like to be looked at down the nose of Waterdeep’s mighty, especially when he’s all alone.”
“Alone?” Tarvin said, laughing. “You have no idea how many of us walk in Mistshore this day. Best be holding those threats inside. You never know who might be listening.”
“Be off with you,” the guard said. He tipped the basket over the side of the ship and lowered the food. “Turn your wrath on the girl. I hope she keeps you running in Mistshore forever.”
“You can be sure she won’t,” Tarvin said. He walked away from the guard, and walked back in the direction of Whalebone Court.
She couldn’t hide for long, not with her wild nature. The burnt warehouse was just the beginning. It was only a matter of time before Icelin Tearn slipped up again and got somebody else killed.
Tarvin clenched a fist. Gods help her if she tried to turn her wild wrath on him or any of the Watch. Orders or no, he would bring her back to the Warden on a board before he let her magic kill any more of his friends.
He glanced toward the Court. He should meet up with the patrol to see if they’d gained any ground, but something held him back. His presence obviously irritated the master of the Cradle, so why not take advantage of the situation?
He settled back among the crates to watch the beggar folk a while longer. He found it strangely fascinating to see them from this distance, unobserved. Like watching the rats on a sinking ship. Except these rats were staying on board. Like the rest of Mistshore, they had nowhere else to go.
Icelin lay awake as darkness fell. She watched the stars come out, the tiny lights framed by a ship’s hull. There were no floating crags tonight. She usually only saw them from her roof, on nights like this when she couldn’t sleep. They were often illuminated in purple, their underbellies some kind of crystallized rock.
It had never occurred to her to wonder where the drifting motes came from. They’d been a part of that distant world for so long she’d never questioned what happened to them when they left Waterdeep’s view.
Just as she’d never before questioned what her dreams meant, until Cerest, and Kaelin’s whispered taunts. Now she wondered about the strange rock crags and the crumbling tower of her dreams. Why did she dream of a place she’d never been to? Why was an elf from distant lands seeking to possess her like an object of power?
“What are you thinking about?”
It was Ruen. He sat a few feet away from her in the dark. These were the first words he’d spoken since Kaelin’s strange play had ended.
Icelin shifted so she could make out his profile. “How long did you stay in the village after you’d been scarred?”
“That’s
not what you were thinking about.”
“I was thinking I should read Elgreth’s letters. I have all this time to examine them, yet I haven’t.”
Ruen turned his head. She saw the slash of red in his eyes. “I didn’t stay long. After Megwem, the whole village knew. They wouldn’t touch me. When the monks came to take me into their training, I knew she—my mother—had arranged it somehow. That was fine. I didn’t want to slip and accidentally learn or cause her death, anymore than she did. I’d rather they all died peacefully, without the knowledge of when it would happen.”
“Is it such a certainty?” Icelin asked. “It doesn’t seem possible to know when someone’s going to die, just by touching them.”
“Doesn’t seem possible for someone to have a perfect memory either,” Ruen said.
Icelin had nothing to say to that. “Were you happy with the monks?” she asked instead.
“For a time. The monks understood more than the others,” Ruen said. “All things originate from the hands, they said. The ki. It’s true. Otherwise Kaelin wouldn’t have any stories for his stage.”
“What do you mean?” Icelin asked.
“He touched all of the beggars. Not many barriers can keep the dead out, and the mortal mind is exceptionally fragile when it’s weakened by illness or infirmity.”
“If that’s true, how did he know our stories?” Icelin said. “We’re not sick.”
Ruen looked at her a long time without saying anything, his gaze burning her with its intensity. It frightened her.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
He blinked and shook his head. “Nothing. Maybe the boy could see through us because somewhere inside we wanted our stories told.”
“Yet my letters sit unopened.”
“So open them,” Ruen said, his voice rough, tired. “Even I can’t hide you indefinitely.”
But I’m afraid. “Do you already know how all this is going to turn out?” Icelin asked. “Will I… die from this adventure?”
“I haven’t touched you,” Ruen said. “Not your hands, nor any part of your bare skin. I don’t know how close to death you are.” He looked down at her, and Icelin saw him chewing something over in his mind. When he spoke, it was hesitantly. “If you’re afraid for your life, why not stop now? Turn yourself in to the Watch, and you won’t have to cast any more spells. I can see how they weaken you,” he said when she started to speak. “Why do you hold onto magic, when it brings you so much grief?”
Mistshore Page 20
