by Bruce Blake
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.
“Your friends are wonderful,” Khirro commented. “And good cooks.”
Ghaul grunted agreement as he watched Aryann cross the room to the doorway, water bucket in hand. She smiled at him as she exited.
“I doubt that.” Elyea nudged Ghaul playfully; he grinned. “More likely everything was taken as payment. Times are lean when men are off making war. One can’t afford to refuse a customer, whether they pay with cash or bread.”
“But what of the men in the clearing?” Khirro asked. “Shouldn’t they have been off making war?”
“I didn’t ask why they were here. A deserter’s coin is as good as an honest man’s.”
What about a coward’s coin? Is it as good?
“In my trade, you learn not to ask questions. It’s best that way.”
“That wasn’t the case with us, though, was it?” Ghaul scoffed. “We couldn’t stop you asking questions.”
“There was no danger you were customers, they’re rarely so chivalrous.”
She smiled and Ghaul chuckled, but Khirro had trouble finding the humor. What kind of life was it to sell yourself and live in fear of those buying your services? People buying his produce never caused him anxiety; he never worried someone would beat him over a potato.
After the dishes were cleared, Leigha disappeared into the lone room at the back of the hut and Despina whistled as she tidied the pantry. Ghaul pulled dagger and whetstone from his belt and began sliding the blade along its rough surface. The grating sound set Khirro’s teeth on edge.
“What of this Athryn?” Ghaul asked as he honed the knife. “What’s his interest in us?”
“It’s not my place to say.” Elyea leaned back in her chair and the thin material of her dress pulled tight across her breasts; Khirro glanced once, then looked away, silently chastising himself. “I’m sure he’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“And if we decide not to go?”
“What do you have to lose, Ghaul? If he offers nothing of interest, we go on our way. But if he proves useful...”
“She’s right,” Khirro said as he watched Ghaul store the honing stone and twirl the knife in his fingers. “It can’t hurt.”
He could imagine the warrior's thoughts: ‘You’ve already revealed our
secret to one person too many’. His eyes had carried the accusation since they met Elyea, though he hadn’t said it. Not yet.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t.”
He jabbed the point of his knife into the table as Aryann struggled through the door, both hands grasping the handle of the pail as water splashed over the edge. Ghaul rose to help, dagger wobbling in the table top. She smiled and the corner of his mouth twitched. Despina strode across the room, cloth in hand.
“It looks like Aryann will get some much needed practice tonight,” she said pulling Ghaul’s dagger from the table and brushing away the crumbs left from dinner. Aryann shot her an embarrassed look, then broke into a bigger smile. “That solves part of our sleeping arrangements. I’ve decided I’ll sacrifice—you can sleep with me, Khirro.” She winked at him and Elyea laughed.
“Very kind of you, my lady. I’d be honored, but there’s Emeline to think of, and my child.” Khirro shifted in his chair, the muscles in his neck tensing as he waited to see if he offended his hostess.
“This Emeline must be quite a woman for you to pass this up.” Despina cupped her enormous breasts and jiggled them at him.
Quite a woman. He turned his eyes toward the table, picked at the grain of the wood with his fingernail rather than look at the others. She deserves better than the likes of me.
Leigha reentered the room, saving him from further embarrassment and interrupting his guilt.
“Leave the poor man alone, Despina. Can’t you see you’re scaring him?”
The tight bun was gone from her hair, leaving her tresses hanging to her waist; she must have chosen the dress she wore for the way it showed her generous curves. She crossed the room and threw her arms around Khirro’s neck, brushing his cheek with hers.
“You can take my hammock. I won’t be needing it tonight.”
She kissed him hard on the cheek then released him. Unconsciously, Khirro’s hand went to the spot she kissed and the corners of his mouth struggled into a smile.
Leigha waved her fingers as she sauntered out the door, hips swinging a wide arc. “See you in the morning.”
“Bah,” Despina said with a laugh. “I guess I’ll be sharing my bed with you again, Elyea. You best behave yourself, trollop. No freebies for the likes of you.”
“And none for you either, old one. Don’t think I owe you because you fed me.”
Khirro and Elyea helped Despina finish tidying while Ghaul and Aryann retired to the only private room. When he finally lay down in the borrowed hammock, sleep didn’t come immediately, though Khirro was as tired as if it was the middle of harvest season. Too much had happened in the last few days for sleep to be easy: too many worries, too many questions about Elyea, Athryn, and what lay ahead. As he finally quieted his racing mind and started to doze, the hut’s thin walls proved his nemesis. Aryann sounded to be taking full advantage of the opportunity to practice, and made no secret of it. Khirro lay in the dark, listening, partly curious, partly embarrassed. Khirro shifted onto his side, facing the wall, and put his hand to his ear and allowed memories of Emeline to claw his heart.
Someone quite cunning had taken great pains to hide the building. They were only a dozen yards from the windowless stone walls before Khirro noticed it.
The plain gray walls rose unexpectedly out of a stand of cottonwood trees shedding their fibers in a soft white veil dancing in the sun. Branches nuzzled the keep’s walls in the slight morning breeze, each movement of leaf and twig giving the illusion the structure disappeared only to reappear again a second later. Khirro blinked hard to dispel the illusion, but it remained until they drew closer. Elyea led them toward the south wall which showed no window or door.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“This is where the cult of magic resides.”‘
Khirro stopped in his tracks.
“There’s no such thing.”
Besides dragons, giants and ogres, the bedtime stories Khirro’s mother told her young son had included wizards and the cult of magic. But they were stories, tales of renegade practitioners hiding their talents from the law as they performed evil acts against the innocent.
“Yet, here we stand.” Ghaul pulled him by the arm. “Let’s go. You’re the one who said it couldn’t hurt to come.”
Khirro resisted, thinking of the things little boys had been turned into in his mother’s stories: frogs, lizards, goblins, stone. They were fanciful tales and myths but, in his heart, he believed a little. Bushes rustled a few yards from them, startling Khirro. He tensed, expecting a wyvern to take flight, or an ogre to charge them, but it was a partridge breaking cover, making for the blue sky. He took a couple of hurried steps to catch up to his companions.
Pitted by time and blackened by flame, the huge oak door set in the center of the wall hung on brass hinges showing a patina of verdigris. Khirro clenched his teeth, jaw muscles knotting. The door wasn’t there a moment ago.
How can a door appear out of thin air? The small part of him that believed his mother’s stories stirred.
The strange appearance didn’t give Elyea a moment’s hesitation as she stepped up to the door, placed her hand on a stone to the right of it, and closed her eyes. Birds chirped, the air stirred. Nothing happened for ten seconds, then wood grated against stone and ancient hinges creaked. The door swung inward onto a dark hall where there stood no one to pull it open.
“How did you...?” Khirro began.
“I’m no magician, Khirro. I asked the door-keeper for entrance and he granted it.” She patted the rock upon which her hand still lay. “We are old friends, he and I.”
“But there’s no one here.” Khirro rubbed his temple, his fingers finding a droplet of sweat.
Elyea stepped through the doorway. “There is, but he’s not what you’re used to. Imlip has been door-keeper so well for so long, he has become one with the stone. He gave his life to protect this sanctuary.”
She held her hand out, beckoning. Ghaul stepped across the threshold, but Khirro hesitated.
“Come, farmer. There’s nothing to fear but your own thoughts.”
Not long ago, being called ‘farmer’ had made him proud, but the word felt different now, made him bristle with feelings of inadequacy. Had he changed so quickly? Or was it because the words came from her?
He stepped up to the doorway, staring hard at the stone to the right. It was gray and coarse and unmoving like every other stone in every other wall. As he moved through the door, he brushed his fingertips against the spot where Elyea had laid her hand. His fingers found the surface fleshy and soft but firm, and it was warm—not like it had been warmed by the sun but as though heat radiated from within. He pulled away with a gasp and stepped through the doorway to retreat from this Imlip. The old hinges creaked shut, trapping them in the dimly lit hall.
Chapter Fourteen
Elyea led them down the hall and through another oaken door into a sparsely furnished room lit by an opening in the ceiling forty feet overhead. Shadows crouched in the corners where the sun didn’t reach, making Khirro uneasy.
They moved to the sunlit center of the room where the illusionist lounged on an overstuffed couch, a white cloth with holes cut for eyes and mouth covering his face instead of the silvered mask he wore during his performance the previous day.
Why doesn’t he want anyone to know who he is?
The little man sat on a wool rug at the illusionist’s feet, quill in hand and a pot of ink at his side as he scribbled on a piece of bark. He wore doeskin breeches and a loose cotton shirt instead of a jester’s motley; he didn’t interrupt his task to look up at them.
“I am Athryn. The little one is Maes,” the illusionist said rising from the sofa and crossing the room to Elyea, embracing her. “You were wonderful yesterday, little bird. As always.”
“It was fun.” Elyea smiled and stepped aside, moving like she’d introduce her companions, but Athryn spoke before she could.
“Let me see it, Khirro.”
; “How do you know me?” Khirro stepped back, hand moving unconsciously to his chest.
“I have known of you since you made company with Bale. And I know what you carry.”
“Bale.” Khirro spoke the word as though it was foreign. A vision of the Shaman’s blood-spattered, ashen face flashed through his mind. “The Shaman.”
Athryn nodded. “Yes, the Shaman. We were friends once, fellow students, but our paths diverged.”
“How do you know all this, devil?” Ghaul grasped the hilt of his sword.
“There is no reason to fear, Ghaul. I am a friend.” His eyes narrowed as he watched for further movement from the warrior but Ghaul neither released his sword nor drew it. Athryn turned his attention back to Khirro. “Let me see the vial.”
A corner of Khirro’s mind told him he should fear this man, but his heart wouldn’t allow it, though he didn’t know why. A pulse of warmth touched his chest, as though the king’s blood in the vial hidden there spoke to him, giving permission to reveal it to this man. He looked at Elyea, who nodded softly, then at Ghaul whose eyes didn’t shift from the illusionist. Athryn waited patiently, the long sleeves of his shirt hiding the tattoos slithering up his arms as the mask hid his face. Everything about the man was enigmatic, mysterious, yet Khirro still reached beneath his jerkin and pulled forth the vial, holding it out for the illusionist. Athryn made no move to take it.
“Maes,” he called.
The jester abandoned his writings and rose from the rug. He didn’t trip or stumble as he walked to the illusionist’s side and Khirro felt silly this surprised him—of course he wasn’t a clumsy oaf, but a performer, like Athryn. Maes held out his hand. Khirro looked down into kind, dark eyes and a face framed by thick black hair. The day before, the patchwork costume had overshadowed the man’s features. As Khirro handed him the vial, he realized he hadn’t noticed the labyrinth of scars on his forearm, either.
What happened to him?
“No,” Ghaul said. “We don’t know if we can trust them.”
He loosened his sword in its scabbard and this time Athryn’s body tensed, but Khirro saw no weapons on either him or Maes.