Elsewhens (Glass Thorns)

by Melanie Rawn

  “Don’t seem as wary of the magic, do they?”

  “They’re too curious. Besides, what we do is what they do—oh, stop that, you’ll have to clean the thorn all over again if you snurt all over it! What I meant was that the basics of theater are familiar to them, so we’re not threatening. They can understand what we do.”

  “But they can’t do it.”

  “But they’d like to—and that’s our way in. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

  “Oh, you mean the way you didn’t see the King’s real reason for sending us?”

  Cade looked up.

  “You want to have a care about that,” Mieka counseled. “You hang your jaw open like that in winter, your teeth will freeze. C’mon, Quill! We’re here to impress everyone with what King Meredan has at his beck and call. Magic. There’ll be no fleets sailing up the Gally River to watch from me little lair in the tower.”

  “It—it would mean using magic as a weapon of war,” Cade breathed. “Nobody’s stupid enough to do that again, or even threaten it!”

  “If you say so.”

  “Mieka … where does that come from? When you bounce about like that, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “I guess it’s just the way me brain works. You pick everything apart to find out what makes it the way it is—and see if you can change it,” he added with a shrewd sidelong smile. “I just see what I see.” After a moment, wondering if he dared, he said, “And I don’t like seeing you sad over Lady Vrennerie.”

  “I’m not. Not exactly, anyways.” He held out the thorn. “And even if I am, here’s a cure for it, right?”

  A few minutes later, they lazed together in the lower bunk, Mieka’s back against one end and Cade propped on pillows against the other, long legs bent at the knees.

  “They’re afraid of us already, so why did the King bother?” Cade said suddenly.

  “P’rhaps they’ve got used to what little magic there is here, and need reminding that there’s other, and more, and stronger. Who cares?” He stretched, the luscious sensations seeping through him.

  “This Guild I heard about,” Cade insisted. “One of the things they do is stop magic. They’re afraid of magic—afraid of light—” He broke off, his long fingers twitching.

  Mieka knew that nervous signal by now: he wanted pen and paper.

  “Those things in the water—”

  “Cayden, don’t you bloody dare put them into my head!”

  “I was thinking about the man who controls them. Or guides them, whatever he does. He prob’ly took a big chance, talking to us. They need him and what he can do, but they’re afraid of it … light, they’re afraid of the light … they use these people when they’re useful, and then forget about them.”

  “When was the last time you invited a fishmonger to dinner?”

  Cade shut his eyes. “It worries me when you make sense. Or when I think you’re making sense.” A stifled giggle. “What’d you say the green was again?”

  “Like it, do you?”

  “C’n you imagine a splinter that suddenly decides to make itself into a building? There’s something I can use and you could have fun with!”

  He sighed and scratched his ear where the woolen cap had irritated his skin. “I s’pose those things would swim anyways, right? I mean, this way, they’re useful.”

  “Thought you didn’t want to think about thinking about them.”

  “Then tell me a story, Quill.”

  He sat bolt upright, panic in his eyes. “The Treasure! I keep forgetting about the Treasure!”

  “It’s a boring story. I don’t want to hear a boring story. If you’re to be boring, I’m going elsewhere. Unless you’re about to have an Elsewhen, eh?” And that reminded him. “Why’d you look like that when I said about the house?’

  “What house?”

  “My house.”

  Greenthorn seemed no match for the emotion that came into his eyes. “I–I just—I don’t want things to change.”

  “Why would things change? Rafe got married.”

  “But everything’ll be different, and I don’t want you to change.”

  “You’re always tellin’ me to grow up.”

  “’S not what I meant.” He slumped miserably into the pillows and closed his eyes again. “I dunno what I meant. I didn’t mean anything.”

  Whatever he’d meant, and he had meant something, Mieka was sure of it, there’d be no getting it out of him. Within moments, he was asleep. Mieka sighed again, and nearly fell off the bunk when Cade spoke once more.

  “Rafe said. It’s not just me. Rafe says, too. I’m not crazy.”

  “Yeh, you are,” Mieka whispered. “Dream sweet, Quill.” Which for him meant not dreaming at all.

  * * *

  Mieka wanted to knock their audience back on its collective bum. Cade had something more understated in mind—if that was the right term for a clowning farce like “Troll and Trull.”

  “They’re used to words—those and a few costumes and backdrops are all they have to work with, yeh? So we don’t give them any words at all, or at least as few as possible. We do it all with the sights and sounds and smells and things.”

  Jeska’s moans of protest weren’t so emphatic as they might have been. He’d learned, performing for a court that by and large understood almost nothing he said, that as useful as the words and his voice were, he could produce almost the same effects just using his face and body. He’d said something once, Mieka recalled dimly, about all the facial and physical cues that people registered whether they knew it or not. It was up to Mieka and Rafe to play on those with magic, so the people in the back experienced the same things as those at the front, even if they couldn’t see every fine distinction of expression and gesture.

  Stripped of its wordplay—much of it comprised of puns a non-native speaker wouldn’t understand anyhow—“Troll and Trull” was mainly a lot of visual jokes and broad physical comedy. At the first appearance of the Troll, there was a nervous murmuring through the audience, and Mieka’s lip curled. Magic again, magical folk, what was wrong with these fools? But as he danced lightly behind a couple of chairs on which he had arranged the glass baskets, plucking up withies and feeling like a god as he sent magic out for Jeska to play with and Rafe to command, he heard giggles become howls and then roars of laughter and knew that the pair of them had decided to milk it till it mooed.

  Rather like old times, he thought, that first show in Gowerion when he’d startled and amazed them all, and found willing partners in the fun. The serious pieces challenged his skills, and he was craftsman enough—Cayden would say artist enough—to want them as perfect as he could make them. There was a deep satisfaction that came to him after a really great performance of “Doorways” or “Caladrius.” Still, gratifying as the serious pieces were, there was no more direct route to an audience’s admiration than laughter.

  Like old times, as well, when the coins started piling up onstage. Mieka vaulted over the chairs to help Jeska collect the trimmings, and knew that he had more than enough for the shopping he’d thus far neglected. Bracelets, earrings, necklets, what? He hadn’t even thought about it until he’d received her letter. But with the coins in his pockets and his hands, and the letter tucked into his jacket, he could think of nothing else.

  A few rounds of drinks distracted him. By the time they were back on board ship, and he hoisted himself up to the top bunk, he was as happy as if the greenthorn were still gliding through his veins. When Cade threw a nightshirt over his face, he laughed and threw it back at him.

  “We were good tonight!”

  “We were,” Cade affirmed.

  “Why do I always feel better after a show?”

  “Because you devour applause. It’s not just food and drink—and thorn and fucking. You’re a glunsh for adoration.”

  Mieka sat up, bumped his head on the ceiling, and looked around for something else to throw. Cade was grinning at him.

  “And you aren’t?
” he accused.

  “Oh, you wanted the serious answer! All right, then. You’re happy after a show, first, because it’s over. Second, because we did well. Third, because you love doing what you were meant to do. Fourth—”

  “Why aren’t you the sort of person who can just say, ‘I dunno’ and leave it at that?”

  “You asked.”

  “And you always have to answer.”

  “Do you want to hear the rest of it?”

  “Say on, O Great Tregetour.”

  “Fourth, because you need to work.”

  “Because I feel good after.”

  “No, because you need to work.”

  “Good Gods! This is the serious answer!”

  “I repeat: You asked. Everything I give you in those withies, you combine it with your own sort of magic and—it’s like you cribble out all the things that bother you, all the stress, get rid of it. I didn’t really realize it until just recently. But it’s why I could never be anyplace near as good as you are at glisking. You put so much of yourself into it.”

  “So do you, into the withies.”

  “But I’m not using it. That’s the difference. I don’t know how else to explain it. I think it puts you back in balance with yourself and everybody else.”

  He thought about that as he stripped off jacket and shirt. “But doesn’t the same thing happen to you with the words? When you write, I mean?”

  “Sometimes. If I’m lucky.” Cade dragged his nightshirt over his head and flopped into bed. “And if I’m not lucky soon about the Treasure—”

  “It’ll come. It always does, right?” Craning over the side of the bunk, he asked, “Want some more of that thorn on our way home?”

  “If there’s any left. I had a look in the roll, Mieka. Like I said, you’re a glunsh.”

  “Hardly the way to talk to the man with the means to make all your dreams come true, Master Silversun!” But he laughed as he said it, and then wriggled out of his trousers and dropped them onto the floor. “Second night out, then.”

  “Hang those up. If I miss my aim at the pisspot in the dark, you won’t have anything to wear tomorrow when you go into town.”

  “Want to come with?”

  “Not if I’ve written my initials on your pants.”

  “All right, all right!” He slid down, groped around for his clothing, and flung it into a corner. “Happy? And how did you know I’m going into town tomorrow?”

  “You have money. You’ll spend it. Good night.”

  “You’re a snarge when you’re smug.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  The shops were a fascinating, if frustrating, experience. He found a million things he wanted, and many things he bought for his family, but nothing that suited his needs. Trouble was, he wouldn’t know what those needs were until he found out what she wanted. He’d planned to bring home pocketfuls of gemstones and silver and gold and let her take her choice, and now he wasn’t even sure if she’d choose him. He fingered the letter he kept in his pocket as a talisman, and could almost taste her scent on his fingers. Renewed despair sent him into a tavern—with the woolen cap pulled firmly down over his ears.

  Several drinks later, he emerged blinking owlishly into the bright summer sunlight. He hadn’t gone ten paces down the street, looking morosely for more jewelry shops, when a hand tugged at his elbow.

  “Please,” whispered a voice. “Please, talk?”

  “About what?” he snarled, yanking his arm away.

  A boy of about fifteen stood before him, three friends of about the same age huddling nearby, staring anxiously. “Please—”

  “What is it?” he asked more gently.

  “I want to doing as you doing.”

  “You’re too young to drink,” he said, conveniently forgetting that he’d first got into a keg of beer at fourteen-and-a-half. His father had been cross, but agreed not to tell his mother—he’d pleaded for hours, for it had been Jed and Jez’s keg, and he’d convinced Fa that he didn’t want them to get into trouble for leaving it where he could find it. Well, more accurately, leaving it locked in a cupboard barely two days after Jez had taught him how to pick locks.

  “Not drinking.” Leaning closer, in a whisper: “Magicking.”

  Oh, shit.

  He glanced round. Nobody on the street but casual shoppers—men and women of all ages, children, everything perfectly innocent. Still …

  He crooked a finger at the boys, and they followed him around a corner into an alley that served the shops. He could see the street, but they were effectively isolated from passersby.

  “I can’t teach you magic,” he said abruptly. “You have it or you don’t, understand?”

  Another of the boys stepped forward. “I have!” he announced, and from beneath his jacket produced one of Touchstone’s own withies, six inches long and tinged a faint purple.

  “Where the fuck did you get that? Never mind—give it here!” He snatched it and stowed it up one sleeve. “Thought you’d steal some magic, did you?” he demanded, part of him panicking that he and Cade had got so casual about counting up withies at the end of a show. “Waving one of these about don’t make you an Elf, nor a Wizard, neither—nor a player. It’s got to be in here.” He tapped his own temple. “And in here,” he added touching his chest. “Understand?”

  “But—we were seeing, yesternight—”

  How did he explain it to these boys? He could scarcely explain it to himself. All he really knew was that for them, lacking the magic, it was hopeless. They could never be what they wanted so much to be. It wasn’t in them. And even if it was, they’d never be allowed to use it. Not here.

  He understood Cayden’s anger now. His sadness.

  It occurred to him that even lacking a withie, he could influence them with a bit of magic to give up their dreams. He’d worked a gentle easing of Blye’s grief last year, the sort of manipulation he didn’t use very often anymore. But their longing would only come back. There was nothing he could do to make it clear to them how hopeless it was, except to tell them the brutal truth.

  So he pulled off his cap to show them his pointed ears.

  They blanched, and stared, and two of them turned tail and ran.

  “This is what you need to be,” he said to the pair who were left. “And you’re not. It ain’t inside you. So forget about it, eh?”

  The boy who’d stolen the withie looked defiant; the other one looked crushed.

  “You can’t!” Mieka snapped, frustrated, regretting the cruelty, knowing how he would have felt if someone had said the same things to him. “Go be merchants or hack drivers or anything else you like, because you can’t be this!”

  He left them there in the alleyway. He returned to the ship, and wouldn’t tell Cade why he was so upset. He let him think it was because he’d found nothing in any of the jewelry shops. And he didn’t share his redthorn after their show that night, because he needed the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter 20

  Only one thing remained clearly in Mieka’s memory from that voyage home. The furor of the Princess’s arrival, the loading of her baggage, the incredible noise of the farewells as the ships sailed out of the harbor—these things he ignored. Or slept through. Or noticed, in the one case, only because the blast of the cannon salute disturbed him from a lovely daydream. He wasn’t seasick this time, and he didn’t even drink very much. All he wanted was for these interminable days at sea to be over, and to be home, and to find her, and to make her his and his alone.

  Only one thing did he recall, and it happened the final night of the trip. Reasoning that he needed to be alert and at least somewhat sober on the morrow, he stashed his thorn-roll in his satchel that evening after dinner, set clean clothes and the netted bag of presents for his family on his bunk, and went up on deck to let the night air clear his head.

  And there it was: moonglade.

  He watched for hours, it seemed, listening to the slap of waves on the hull and the
rustle of sails in the wind, staring spellbound at the crumpled ribbon of silver spreading across dark water.

  “I knew you’d be here,” Cayden’s soft voice said behind him.

  “And I knew you would, too—sooner or later.” He felt the warmth of Cade’s arm where he stood close beside him, and leaned a little nearer. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded, wishing he didn’t sound so much like a petulant child. “I haven’t seen you hardly at all, this whole time.”

  “I thought p’rhaps you needed your tower, or as close as could be to it.”

  “I’ve never seen a moonglade from the tower.”

  After a moment, Cade murmured, “Home tomorrow. At long bloody last.”

  “Quill … did we do right by going?”

  His answer was frustratingly oblique. “It’ll work out, Mieka.”

  “Seen it, have you?”

  “No. Not my choices to make.”

  “You’ll never tell me what to do, will you? With my life, I mean—” He chuckled. “For certes, you tell me when and how to breathe when it’s to do with one of your plays!”

  “And you do as you fancy anyhow, have from the very first, so why do I even try?”

  Mieka heard the smile in his voice. “You an’ me, we’re alike that way, y’know. Can’t nobody tell us nothin’, eh? Not that we heed, or even much listen to.” He watched the light on the water for a while in silence. Then: “Make me one, Quill. When you do your piece about people being afraid of the light, of magic—make me one of these.”

  “How did you know?”

  He bounced a few times on the balls of his feet, delighted that he’d guessed right without even being aware that he was guessing. Instincts again, he told himself gleefully, his instincts that would never steer him wrong. “Oh, I’m a wonder, I am!”

  “Shy and modest, as well.”

  “And there’s another way we’re alike!” He bumped Cade with a shoulder. “I know something else. You’ll never put on view where the light leads. Like in ‘Doorways.’ Not your choice to make, what comes of following the moonglade.”

  “Care to write it for me?”