by Bruce Blake
“It’s all right,” Khirro said.
He heard Elyea suck breath in through her teeth as the little man rolled the vial through his fingers. Khirro saw scars marring his hands; two of his fingers were without nails. Maes held the vial up and peered through the translucent fluid for a few seconds, then replaced it in Khirro’s hand, nodded to Athryn and returned to his spot on the rug. With the vial back in Khirro’s possession, Ghaul released his sword. Tension drained from Athryn and Elyea released her held breath.
“It is true, then,” Athryn said as Khirro replaced the phial in its hiding place. “You carry the fate of the kingdom at your breast.”
“What’s your interest in all this?” Ghaul growled, but Khirro barely heard.
The fate of the kingdom.
Here, in this room with a hole in the ceiling, the enormity, the importance of the task with which he was cursed struck full force. The weight of the sky pressed down upon him and the room wavered before his eyes. His companions, the gray walls and scattered furnishings were replaced by a crowd of people dressed in tattered clothing; a tide of soldiers clad in black mail splashed with blood and red paint swept through them, slashing and chopping; fields and villages burned in the background as women and children were put to the sword. Among them: his parents, Emeline, and a child he would never know.
He carried their fates in a vial pressed against his heart.
Through a fog he heard Ghaul and Athryn exchange words but they meant nothing to him. The room dimmed, he swayed on weakened legs. For a moment he expected everything to disappear and hoped for darkness. If it did, perhaps he’d wake in his own bed at his own farm and find this all a bad dream. A hand at his elbow dashed his hopes and brought him back to the room with the hole in the ceiling. More words, this time Elyea’s voice.
“What?”
“I asked if you’re all right.”
Khirro closed his eyes and wiped the back of his hand across his brow. It came away damp with sweat. He breathed deeply and opened his eyes to find a distressed look on Elyea’s face. Her concern warmed his heart.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll sit a moment, though.”
Elyea glanced at Athryn and, with his nodded consent, led Khirro to the settee behind Maes.
“What’s the matter, Khirro?” Ghaul asked.
“I... I felt a little light headed. I’m fine now.”
“Keep an eye on our guest, Maes,” Athryn said. The little man nodded, his shirt shifting with the movement, and Khirro noted more scars—fine white lines on his neck, disappearing beneath the cloth. Khirro shuddered.
No one spoke. Elyea stood at Khirro’s side, her hand resting on his shoulder making him feel both comforted and uncomfortable at the same time. He fidgeted beneath her touch. It seemed natural for her to lay her hand upon a man, but it was anything but to him. Athryn clapped his hands sharply, startling Khirro from Maes' scars and Elyea’s touch. A man appeared from behind a tapestry that Khirro wouldn’t have guessed hid a doorway.
“Prepare horses for everyone,” Athryn said to the juggler when he entered the room, his long dark hair loose about his shoulders. “And food. We leave within the hour.”
The illusionist’s words didn’t surprise Khirro. The thought of Athryn joining them caused peace in him instead of the trepidation he felt at revealing their intent to Elyea, though he didn’t know why. Safety in numbers, perhaps. Or maybe because of the illusionist’s connection to the Shaman. No matter the reason, Ghaul didn’t share his ease.
“We appreciate the use of your horses,” Ghaul said, the forced restraint in his voice too obvious to fool anyone. “But our party has already swollen to one more than it should be. We have no room for a performer of parlor tricks.”
“I am no mere illusionist, and you will be joined by two of us. I go nowhere without Maes.” The little man halted scribbling and looked up.
The muscles in Ghaul’s jaw knotted, his fingers curled into fists. “You don’t even know where we go, prestidigitator.”
“Lakesh. You seek Darestat to raise the king and deliver Erechania.”
Ghaul glanced at Elyea, eyes smoldering. Her gaze held steady, neither confirming nor denying his thought.
“She did not tell me, nor did Khirro.”
“Cease your trickery and lies, illusionist. We have no need of your company, or that of a clumsy midget.”
The warrior’s words finally affected Athryn and he threw back his cape, exposing the sword hidden beneath. Ghaul’s hand went to his weapon and he freed an inch of steel from the scabbard. The air in the room suddenly grew heavier and Khirro worried he might lose touch again.
“Wait,” Elyea said. “There’s no reason for this.”
“Sit down, harlot,” Ghaul growled.
“Enough, Ghaul,” Khirro said taking offense at his words even if Elyea didn’t. He leaned forward on the couch. “This journey is mine, and I say they can join us.”
The warrior’s eyes flickered from Athryn to Khirro and back. “It may be your journey, but it is my life. And look at you: you’re not well.”
“I’m fine. My strength has returned.”
“But what of him?” Ghaul gestured toward Athryn with his free hand. “Do you expect me to trust a man who doesn’t reveal his face in the privacy of his own residence?”
Khirro pushed himself up on shaky legs, looked at Ghaul and Athryn, then Elyea and Maes, hoping someone would do or say something because he didn’t know what to do next. Athryn must have seen the desperation in his eyes.
He raised his hand, gripped the white cloth mask and pulled it slowly from his face with a performer’s dramatic flair. Elyea sucked in a surprised breath; Ghaul’s stern look softened; Khirro felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach. Only Maes didn’t react as Athryn revealed that he didn’t wear the mask to disguise his identity but to hide the pink scar covering most of his features. The flesh around his left eye was all that remained untouched, the single eyebrow the only hair on his face, as the smooth, shiny skin stopped short of the blond hair he wore in a ponytail as he had the day before.
Athryn said nothing as they stared. His piercing blue eyes glowed, gauging their reactions. Khirro felt he should say something, but nothing came to mind. Elyea finally broke the tense silence.
“How did this happen?”
“Dragonfire.”
Khirro saw Ghaul’s expression shift again, this time to disbelief. “Dragonfire? If you speak the truth, prove it.”
The illusionist said nothing as Khirro looked questioningly at Ghaul. The warrior folded his arms across his chest.
“A man who survives the touch of dragonfire retains a portion of the dragon’s magic. If Athryn speaks the truth, he should be able to show us more than hiding coins on the back of his hand or making a woman disappear through a trap door.”
“I didn’t—” Elyea protested, but Athryn held up his hand to stop her.
“Let him show us,” Khirro said, curiosity making him forget his bout of vertigo.
Athryn nodded. From the corner of his eye, Khirro saw Maes lay his quill and bark aside. The illusionist closed his eyes, head bowed. His lips moved whispering words Khirro had never heard before. A chill crawled up his spine.
The air in the chamber stirred and a gentle draft touched Khirro’s skin as though a door was left ajar. He ignored it, but as Athryn’s words continued, the draft became a breeze. Khirro looked around the room. The door remained closed, the tapestry didn’t move. Overhead, the branches stretching across the hole in the ceiling didn’t sway.
How...?
A movement drew Khirro’s gaze away from the illusionist. Maes had stood, a dagger in his hand. Khirro’s heart jumped.
Ghaul was right.
He wanted to warn the others but couldn’t find his tongue. The breeze intensified, concentrating in front of Athryn at the center of the room, swirling into a whirlwind, flapping his cloak about his body. The temperature dropped and the illusionist’s breath became visible as his
whispers continued, words drowned by the howling wind. The whirlwind became a tornado, spinning in place, intensifying until it became opaque. Khirro looked from Athryn to Maes—the small man had made no move toward him or his companions.
The wind stopped abruptly and Athryn’s cloak fell back to his sides, yet the tornado remained. Khirro squinted.
No, not a tornado.
Something solid had replaced the tornado, spinning in place like a coin set on edge. Khirro gaped. As the revolutions slowed, it resolved into the shape of a shield. Ghaul stretched out his hand but pulled away like a man who’d touched fire when his fingers brushed it. The disturbance set it wobbling and it clattered to the floor. Tentatively, Ghaul reached out again, but this time didn’t draw away when he touched it.
“It’s real.” His fingers touched bands of hammered copper and bronze criss-crossing the surface of the oval shield. “Did you create this?”
“No.” Athryn’s eyes were open. He pulled the cloth mask back into place as he answered. “I brought it here, but I did not create it.”
“How?” Khirro managed to ask.
“I cannot explain, but it should quell your concerns.” He picked the shield up from the floor. “This is for you, Khirro.”
When Khirro could only stare at the offering, Maes took it from the magician and brought it to him. The small man no longer held the jeweled dagger; a trickle of blood flowed down his arm from a cut on his left bicep.
“What happened to you, Maes?”
Elyea pulled a cloth from her bodice and dabbed the cut on Maes’ arm as Khirro accepted the shield, but the jester didn’t respond. The shield was real—heavy and solid. It held no warmth or vibration, nothing to make him believe it a magic shield.
“It is necessary,” Athryn answered on his behalf.
“What do you mean?” Ghaul shifted to look at the wound on Maes’ arm.
“Magic requires payment. Energy drawn requires energy paid.”
Khirro looked from the little man’s bloody arm to Athryn, the blood draining from his face. All those rumors and stories dismissed as flights of fancy instantly became true, shifting his life into another dimension. A life of potatoes and beans sounded less complicated than one where wizards and dragons existed, but now it felt so far away.
“All is ready.” The troubadour parted the tapestry and entered the room. “Shall I be coming with you to sing a traveling song?” He eyed Elyea and smiled.
“Not this time,” Athryn said. “We leave immediately.”
Khirro looked at him, his head spinning. This display, this new reality, left him with no words to speak, no idea what to do. He glanced at Ghaul.
“Why do you wish to accompany us?” the soldier asked.
“I dreamed a future without the king and it is not one I desire to live.”
“But Braymon outlawed magic,” Ghaul pointed out. “Why would you want him back if it means living a lie?”
“His law was a facade to placate the people and discourage show-offs. The cult of magic exists everywhere, meeting secretly, but Braymon knew and let it be thus.” Athryn adjusted his mask and brushed wind-thrown dirt from his cloak. “In Kanos, Healers, Shamans and Sorcerers not in the employ of the Archon are hunted down and drowned like rats. An Erechania ruled by the Kanosee becomes a dangerous place for the likes of me.”
Khirro nodded. Ghaul shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“It sounds like you’ll be joining us,” the warrior said begrudgingly. Khirro wondered why. “We should go.”
“Yes.” Athryn moved toward the oaken door; Maes followed, leaving his writing implements scattered on the floor. Khirro glanced at them and saw the letters he’d scrawled on the light brown bark resembled the ones covering Athryn’s arms. “We have a great distance to travel.”
“I have a bad feeling,” Ghaul said when the performers had left the room. “I’ve never trusted magicians.”
Before the Shaman, Khirro had never known a magician, so he didn’t share Ghaul’s sentiment. Something felt right, even comforting, about the two men joining them. The vial of blood warmed against his chest as they followed the magician and jester from the roofless chamber. The dimness of the hall didn’t quash his good feelings and, when they emerged into bright sunlight to find Athryn and Maes standing with horses readied, hope flooded Khirro. With Ghaul’s blade and Athryn’s magic on their side, perhaps they had a chance to succeed.
Or, at the very least, survive.
Chapter Fifteen
In the week since leaving Inehsul and the strange keep in the woods, there had been no particular need for a magician or a very small man, but Khirro still felt thankful Athryn and Maes had joined them. More travelers meant shorter watches and more plentiful sleep, though the performers always took watch together. Khirro felt better for the extra rest.
The magician knew the area, leading them along little used paths and around towns and villages to avoid attention. With a day’s ride left to the Vendarian border, one town remained between them and Erechania’s southern neighbor. The war raging in the north meant they couldn’t know what reception might await across the border, so it wouldn’t be safe to resupply in Vendaria. Neither was Tasgarad a safe haven, but it was their last opportunity before leaving the kingdom. As the headquarters of the border patrol, the town would be crawling with whatever Erechanian troops hadn’t been called to war at the Isthmus or to reinforce the Sea Wall.
“Care will be needed,” Athryn said as Khirro readied himself for sleep the night before their arrival in Tasgarad. “We will be better off to get in and out unnoticed.”
Khirro nodded and laid his head down, listening as Athryn and Ghaul planned the best route in and out of town and where to cross the border. He listened a minute, disappointed they didn’t seek his opinion even knowing he had nothing of value to add. What did a farmer know of such things?
Nothing.
He put it from his mind and turned his attention to sleep. Not so long ago, fear might have caused him to lay awake, tossing and turning the entire night, but not this night. Sleep claimed him and dreams usurped fear’s power.
His dreams began as they did most nights, as he willed them to: a fall harvest, a babe in his arms and Emeline at his side. But this dream faded, replaced by one new and unfamiliar. Huge trees towered about him in an unknown forest. Night enveloped him and dense foliage deepened the darkness so he saw nothing more than limbs and trunks. He didn’t know where he was or why, only that he shouldn’t stay. Feet heavy with fear, he pushed his way through the brush. Twigs snapped under his footsteps, leaves rustled past his face, all startlingly loud in the silent dream forest, but he pushed on, less concerned with the noise than with finding a way out. The underbrush neither thinned nor became more dense; all the trees looked the same.
Am I going anywhere?
He stopped, took a moment to search for his bearings. The rustle of leaves continued after his movements ceased. A spear of panic lanced through his chest, so severe his sleeping body jerked with it. This was no echo or trick of the wind.
Something in the forest followed him.
Khirro pushed on, moving more quickly. He cast a look over his shoulder and a gnarled root sent him tumbling to the ground, his fingers sinking into earthy smelling loam. He scrambled to his feet, stumbled forward, the sound louder, closer. Limbs whipped his face and grabbed his clothes, holding him back, impeding his escape. Now he heard breathing behind him, closing in. Ahead, a sliver of light through the trees beckoned. He ran for a long time, his pursuer gaining ground as the light drew no closer. Finally, he burst from the forest, the last tangle of underbrush snagging his foot, sending him to the ground again.
He came to rest on the rocky shore of a pristine lake. The moon reflected on its smooth surface, cutting a yellow crescent across the otherwise featureless lake. The instant he saw it, Khirro recognized his surroundings. He’d seen this lake when the Shaman gripped his hand.
Lakesh.
He
had no time for despair as the brush shivered and shook, pulling his attention from the beautiful scene. He reached for his sword, but found an empty scabbard at his side. He scrambled away, stopping when his hand touched cool water. Breath held, he awaited his pursuer, the damp lakeshore soaking his breeches. In a dream, especially a dream taking place in Lakesh, anything could come out of the trees.
An animal Khirro had never seen before emerged from the forest. Muscle rippled beneath black and white striped fur and a tail equal to the length of its sleek body trailed behind. Yellow eyes stared from a huge head topped by pointed ears. Here stood another creature from his mother’s stories, though this one he always dreamed to be real, living in one of the southern kingdoms he’d never visit. Before him stood a tyger: beautiful, ferocious, an eater-of-men. Khirro shifted, water lapping up the back of his hand, and wondered if the beast could swim.
The big cat approached, its lips pulled back revealing pointed teeth designed for tearing flesh. Khirro reached for the dagger at his hip, then the dirk in his boot: neither were there. His dream had left him unarmed in the presence of a monster. It moved forward, halting a yard from Khirro, and settled on its haunches. It regarded him with eyes that might have been human, save for the color and the head holding them.
“Fear not, Khirro.”
The voice startled him. His eyes flitted around him, searching for the source, then flickered back to the beast. There was nothing there but the tyger, the lake, the moon, and the trees. None of them could have spoken.
“I’ll not harm you.”
He realized two things at once: the voice was his own, though he hadn’t spoken, and his mind heard the words, not his ears. He shook his head, attempting to shake the voice from it. A breeze sent wavelets rolling across the lake.
“Wh... who are you?”
“I am the reason you’re here.”
The tyger’s intense eyes seemed to look right into him, and the feeling of it chased fear from him. He suddenly knew the beast meant no harm. He pushed himself to a sitting position, withdrawing his hand from the lake. The sitting tyger’s head stood higher than his.