“So, let him watch,” Blaine said, “until we decide to do something worth watching. Then we’ll lose him.”
Kestel chuckled. “I like how you think.” She gripped his arm, leaning against him as if they were a proper couple out for an evening stroll. Too bad she’s only playacting, Blaine thought, then forced his attention elsewhere.
“Butcher, baker, seamstress – or maybe tailor.” Kestel counted off the shops on the village’s main street. “Chandler, cobbler, cooper. All the essentials, no more, no less. By comparison, it almost makes Bay-town back in Edgeland look like a huge city!”
Blaine smiled. “That’s because before the supply and convict ships stopped coming from home, Bay-town played host to a bunch of hungry, thirsty, randy sailors with coppers in their pockets to spend.” He sighed and looked down the quiet street. “With Castle Reach destroyed, there aren’t traders headed toward the city anymore. Between the magic storms and the brigands on the roads, not as many travelers going anywhere, I wager.”
“Do you think it will ever be like it used to be?” Kestel asked wistfully, and Blaine knew she was thinking about the once-glittering court at Quillarth Castle and the prosperous chaos of Castle Reach’s busy streets.
“I don’t know,” Blaine replied. “Even if we can get the magic to work again, it’s going to take a lot to rebuild. I don’t imagine it will ever be quite like it was. Maybe different, even better. But not the same.”
They were quiet for a while after that. The village shops were closed. Other than the tavern and the brothel at the other end of the streets, windows were dark down on the street level, while lanterns in the windows of the upper floors signaled that the shopkeepers and tradesmen had gone home for dinner. Yet there were more than a few people about on the street. Some were headed in the direction Blaine and Kestel had come, no doubt planning to avail themselves of a good meal or some companionship. Despite the closed shops, a steady stream of people was heading toward the far end of town. Intrigued, Blaine and Kestel followed the crowd.
“There’s something going on in the village green,” Kestel said quietly.
She and Blaine edged closer, until they could see what had attracted the crowd. The village square was lit with torches on posts that stood in a semicircle to create a makeshift stage. The painted side of an enclosed peddler’s wagon read: komorok troubadours.
Despite the cold winter night, a small crowd had gathered. Two men played a jaunty tune on drum and lute while two young women danced in as few clothes as the frigid temperature would permit. A tall, lanky man dressed from head to toe in black with a high black hat stood a few paces in front of the performers, exhorting the crowd to show their appreciation for the music and barking out an invitation to any and all passersby to come to the show.
Kestel watched the troubadours with a measured glance. “I wonder where they come from?” she said under her breath, so softly only Blaine could hear. “I doubt Riker’s Ferry is big enough to support them.”
“From the look of them and their wagon, they’ve traveled the hard way,” Blaine observed.
“They look like they rummaged through the castoffs of some down-at-the-heels noble’s wardrobe,” Kestel murmured.
“Which we know something about, having done it ourselves recently,” Blaine chuckled.
Kestel jabbed him playfully in the ribs. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
Kestel’s assessment was accurate, Blaine thought. If the performers had heavy coats, they were stashed in the wagon. The two young men playing the drone and the drum wore a strange mix of shabby brocade waistcoats and frock coats over silk shirts that might once have been vibrantly colored, but were now stained and torn. Worn velvet breeches and scuffed boots completed their outfits.
“Those are the men who were at the table behind us at the tavern,” Kestel whispered. “They left just before we did, and they were wearing long coats so I didn’t notice their outfits, but I’m sure of their faces.”
The dancers wore dresses that reminded Blaine of the loose, unconstructed shifts favored by women in Edgeland, women who needed freedom of movement for real work, unconstrained by corsets, heavy skirts, and bodices. Such outfits would have raised scandal in Castle Reach, but Blaine had heard they were quite common in the rural areas. These simple shifts were a riot of piebald colors, bits of silk, velvet, and brocade stitched together in magnificent motley, with a magpie’s treasury of shiny bits of metal, beads, and common gemstones that glistened in the firelight.
Both dancers looked to be in their early twenties. One wore her long, black hair in elaborate braids that hung down her back and swayed seductively with every movement. The other woman’s dark blonde hair was pinned atop her head in a tousled pile. Both women had high cheekbones and dark eyes, with skin the color of light caramel, giving them an exotic beauty.
The dark-haired woman smiled and flirted with the crowd, but there was a wariness beneath her joviality. The blonde woman did not seem to notice the crowd at all, reacting to her companion’s comments, focused on her tasks with a dreamy, faraway expression. The men in the audience shouted their appreciation and made suggestive comments. The dark-haired woman deflected the come-ons with banter, and the blonde went about her dancing as if she did not hear the catcalls. Blaine’s attention flickered back to the two young men, who watched the crowd with caution. He was quite sure that they heard, and resented, the lewd suggestions.
Blaine followed Kestel’s glance to see that the man who followed them had stayed near the back of the crowd and now was bobbing up and down looking for them. Kestel took Blaine’s hand and led him deeper into the crowd, intentionally choosing a place to stand in front of a man who was a head taller than Blaine.
The troubadours’ leader, the tall man in black, wore a threadbare velvet frock coat over a stained burgundy vest and dark woolen pants that were a bit too short for his height. The deep-green silk jabot of a popinjay’s shirt flounced down the front of the man’s vest, matching the hatband on his tall hat, giving him a measure of disheveled dignity.
By now, a good-sized crowd had gathered, and the audience began to hoot and clap for a show. The man in black bowed low, sweeping his hat in an exaggerated arc. “Good gentles all!” he boomed. “Thank you for your esteemed presence. I am Illarion, the master of the stage, and we are the Komorok Troubadours. Tonight, beneath the torches, on this very stage, we will present feats of valor and acts of daring the like of which you will not see anywhere else! Be prepared to be astounded! Ready yourself to be amazed! Your mind will not believe what your eyes will see!”
As Illarion spoke, the drummer and the lute player set aside their instruments and stripped off their topmost garments. The two young men shared a strong resemblance, making Blaine wonder if they were twins. Both had long, dark hair and thin faces with sharp features that made Blaine think of them as a pair of ravens. Yet when they moved, their motions were as fluid as dancers’, and Blaine rethought his comparison. Not ravens, Blaine thought. More like the mountain cats that feed on the villagers’ sheep and are bold enough to steal a colt or calf. The pair separated, moving so that one stood on either side of Illarion at the far wings of the ‘stage.’
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Borya and Desya, the Shadow Twins, our master musicians and acclaimed acrobats!” With a flourish, Illarion walked backward off the stage area as Borya and Desya spun across the open space in a blur of motion, executing a series of breathtaking back-bends and aerial somersaults. Without the frock coats, the acrobats’ silks and brocades became a wild panoply of color and motion, and from the way their clothing glistened and sparkled in the torchlight, Blaine suspected that glass beads had been sewn onto the garments to further enhance the effect. Illarion had taken up the drumming, and the hypnotic beat echoed from the walls of the village buildings.
Having reached the opposite ends of the stage, Borya and Desya launched themselves into motion once more, hurtling toward each other as if they meant to do battle. At the l
ast moment, Borya leaped high into the air, landing with impossible grace on Desya’s shoulders. The dancers, who had moved to where several large knapsacks lay in the shadows just behind the torches, began to throw objects to the acrobats. Brightly colored plates, gleaming chalices, and silver candlesticks flew through the air, caught by the two acrobats and juggled into a colorful blur. Each man juggled items of his own and then began to pass items up and down to the other in patterns that were nearly impossible for the eye to follow.
Kestel elbowed Blaine. “Look at their eyes,” she murmured.
Blaine caught a glimpse of Desya’s eyes and startled. At least from where he stood, they appeared to have the narrow, vertical pupils and the yellow irises of a cat’s eyes.
“Borya’s are the same,” Kestel whispered.
Borya began throwing objects back to the dancers, who caught them with uncanny grace. He dismounted with a twist and somersault, and without a pause he caught the other man’s forearms, bracing their bent knees against each other and leaning back as counterweights. The two dancers came tumbling toward them in perfect handsprings, landing so one was atop each of the men’s shoulders. The crowd cheered, but the pose was not yet complete. The dancers leaned forward, inverting themselves so that they braced their hands on the men’s thighs, daringly straightening their legs and in doing so, revealing that their ‘skirts’ had been full, flounced pantaloons made with layers of brightly colored silks.
The crowd cheered as the performers moved into ever more complex contortions that defied gravity. Sometimes the four performers danced into solo poses, bending and twisting with such flexibility that their bones almost seemed malleable. Blaine marveled at the skill and grace of the troupe and saw that, despite the cold, the effort was raising a sheen of sweat on their faces. Their final form was a circle, with the dancers atop the two men’s shoulders, with the two couples engaged in a delicate counterbalance. As if from nowhere, the top two performers unfurled a black sheet of silk. The sheet bore embroidery in shining threads with the symbols of the gods’ constellations and with arcane runes that gave Blaine an uncomfortable jolt.
Blaine exchanged a silent, surprised glance with Kestel. The markings from the disks, he thought. This can’t be a coincidence.
A moment later, the silk fluttered to the ground and the performers exploded from their positions in twirls, somersaults, and handsprings. All of the troupe left the stage except for the blonde woman, who stood at the center. She wore a dreamy expression as if despite the cheering audience, she was in a world of her own. It gave her a vulnerable, childlike air, although Blaine guessed that she was close to the age of the dark-haired dancer.
“Kata, beautiful and dangerous as a dancing flame,” Illarion intoned. The dark-haired woman began playing a drone as Illarion remained drumming, and Borya took up the lute. Kata remained still, and then two arcs of flame soared across the air and she snatched them with effortless accuracy, revealing them to be fiery batons.
As if hypnotized, the crowd watched Kata toss the flaming batons into the air, spinning like falling stars, only to snatch them again and again and hurl them even higher. She danced as she sent the batons arcing overhead, combining graceful steps that matched the music with bends, twists, and acrobatic movements. Her face was a mask of concentration, as if she did not see the crowd and focused only on the blazing batons. Desya tossed her a ring the size of a wagon wheel with an interior, metal ring. Kata tossed the ring into the air, dropped one of the flaming batons into the snow, and used the last baton to light the outer ring.
Kata stood completely still as the ring dropped down over her and she caught it by its inner circle, then raised it overhead as she gracefully spun the fiery ring by one hand and then the other, tossing it aloft and catching it again. She bent double and lifted one long leg into the air, catching and spinning the blazing wheel, then straightened, holding her leg out in front of her and launching the ring once more. This time she caught it again with her hand, and from the sidelines flew a long, thin skewer with a thickened end. Kata lit the end of the skewer and straightened, allowing the flaming ring to fall to the ground, wreathing her in fire. She let her head fall back as she opened her mouth. The crowd gasped as Kata seemed to swallow flame, and as the skewer in her mouth extinguished, the ring at her feet flared one final time and went dark.
Illarion bounded to the center of the stage as Kata bowed and the crowd roared its astonished approval. She gave a vague smile. Illarion whispered a comment, and Kata’s smile broadened. She gave a shy wave, made a bow, then ran off the stage.
Borya moved the charred ring and burned batons to the side of the performance area as Desya brought a trunk from the sidelines and opened it so that it faced Illarion.
“Behold!” Desya intoned. “Illarion, master of knives.”
Kata began to drum as the other dancer began to play the lyre. Desya withdrew a lethal-looking, large, curved knife and blithely tossed it toward Illarion, who snatched it from the air as if it were nothing of consequence. Four more times Desya threw the knives and Illarion caught them all, keeping the other knives deftly wheeling through the air.
At first, Illarion juggled slowly, but the pace grew faster and faster until the knives blurred into a single silver ring in the firelight. The crowd clapped in rhythm to the drum, but Illarion’s concentration remained absolute.
Desya moved to stand just behind Illarion, then lay down on the ground, arms and legs splayed. Without turning, Illarion suddenly shouted, “One!” and threw one of his daggers into the air so that it arced behind him, but he made no move to catch it. The blade wheeled and embedded itself just outside Desya’s right thigh. Desya remained motionless, and Illarion appeared oblivious, but one of the women in the audience screamed and fainted.
“Two!” Illarion shouted, sending another blade up and behind him. This fell to earth, point down, to the outside of Desya’s left thigh.
“Three, four, five!” Knives flew, each in a different direction. One landed between Desya’s thighs, close enough to his groin to make Blaine wince. The last two landed just outside Desya’s shoulders, one on each side, so close they nearly pinned the fabric of his shirt to the snow.
The crowd howled in approval. Illarion gave a deep bow. “Good gentlemen and gentle ladies,” he boomed, as Kata tossed him his tall hat. “If you have enjoyed the marvels of this performance, please be so kind as to toss us a copper or two.” He spun his hat through the air and it landed at his feet, brim up.
“For those who would like a glimpse into the beyond, our charming Zaryae is also a true seer,” Illarion said, inclining his head toward the dark-haired dancer. “For a single silver coin, Zaryae will tell you the future.”
Many in the crowd surged forward to toss coins into Illarion’s hat. Zaryae came to the edge of the performance area and a few people called out to her, but no one moved to offer her the silver Illarion requested. After dropping a few copper coins into the hat, Blaine and Kestel turned to go.
Over and over again, circles and fire, Blaine thought. And symbols that match the disk. Were they mages? Blaine wondered, stealing a glance toward the performers as they eased through the waning crowd. What do they know? Or am I so obsessed with a failed quest that I see symbols and augers in the shadows?
“M’lady, if you please!” A slender hand reached out to pluck at the sleeve of Kestel’s coat, and they realized Zaryae had moved to stand beside them. “I have a reading for you, a warning from the gods.” Zaryae’s dark eyes were intelligent and canny. Up close, Blaine saw that her features were a bit too angular to be pretty in a conventional sense, though under any circumstances, she was quite striking.
Kestel exchanged a glance with Blaine, and it was clear that each wondered if the girl’s offer was a trap. “What kind of reading?” Kestel asked warily, and Blaine caught a slight motion as Kestel’s hand fell to her side, where a dagger was hidden among the folds of her clothing.
Zaryae glanced around them and pulled Keste
l and Blaine closer to the performance area and away from the thinning crowd, so that the wagon blocked them from view. “You and your friends are in danger,” she murmured. “Borya and Desya were not the only ones to notice your arrival at the tavern. A black circle haunts your dreams, and you wish to restore what the Fire took away. Please, m’lady, come to our camp with me and I will tell you there what I dare not say aloud among so many curious ears.”
“Where is your camp?” Blaine asked, moving closer to Kestel to signal that the invitation had better include him.
Zaryae gave a nod of her head toward the left, toward an open space between buildings. “By the outer wall, beyond the stables. I have to go beyond the wall to receive the messages.”
That makes sense, Blaine thought, since the village is in a null zone and whatever magic remains lies beyond.
“I assure you, m’lady, you are as safe among my friends and me as you will ever be in this village,” Zaryae said, reading the expressions of mistrust that were clear on their faces. “The dreams foretold that you would come. Please, you must hear me.”
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