CHAPTER SIXTEEN
B
y now, the crowd had gone, as had the man who followed them from the pub. Borya and Desya gathered up the last of the batons and other props that lay scattered across the snow, while Illarion snuffed out the torches and carried them back to their wagon. Kata led a horse from a copse of nearby trees and hitched him to the wagon. Illarion strode over to join them.
“M’lady,” he said with a deep bow to Kestel. He met Blaine’s eyes for a moment. “And m’lord,” he said. “Borya and Desya heard part of your conversation earlier this evening and told Zaryae that the watched-for ones had arrived. Helgen cannot help you in your quest, and his first loyalty is to caution. Zaryae’s gift has told her something of your burden and she can help, if you will honor us with your presence at our camp.”
“All right,” Kestel answered, with a glance to alert Blaine that she knew the risk of accepting the invitation. Blaine let out a deep breath. He had already come to the same conclusion, yet he wished there were a way to let Piran and Verran know where they were going.
Out of habit, his hand fell to the pommel of his sword.
Illarion caught the movement and a smile ghosted across his face. “You are wise to be cautious, but our camp is safe.”
Alert for danger, Blaine and Kestel watched as the performers loaded the last of the gear into their wagon. Zaryae and Kata climbed up onto the driver’s bench and signaled for Kestel to join them. With a shrug and a glance toward Blaine, Kestel swung up to the high bench, leaving Blaine with the other men who walked behind the wagon as it made its way slowly through the slush.
“Your performance was very good,” Blaine said, falling into step with Illarion. Borya and Desya walked behind them, but whether they were merely following or acting as bodyguards, Blaine could not be certain.
Illarion gave a shallow bow. “We’re thrilled to have pleased you. Our audiences are not as varied as they once were.”
Blaine raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been in Riker’s Ferry?”
Illarion gave an enigmatic smile. “Patience. Questions are best answered when we will not be overheard.”
Blaine glanced around them. A few people lingered in the streets, talking with one another after the performance, but by now the village green was deserted, and the rest of the pedestrians were hunched against the cold, hurrying to their destinations. He chafed at waiting to ask about the symbols and the recurring circles and flame but held his tongue. Laughter wafted back to them from where the three women rode at the front of the wagon, and Blaine smiled, guessing that Kestel was giving a performance of her own to win over the dancers and gain their trust.
The performers’ camp was not far. Blaine was grateful since the wind had picked up, swirling snow into the air and cutting through his cloak. Illarion offered Kestel a hand down from the wagon, which she accepted with a smile.
Blaine looked around the camp. A second wagon lay unhitched near the rock wall that marked the edge of Riker’s Ferry and the magic-null zone. The wagon was a little larger than the one the troupe had used for the performance, and Blaine wondered if it was where they slept when the weather was at its worst. To one side, a large plow horse was tethered along with two small goats. A ring of stones had been set to mark the camp, and within it was a well-used fire pit with a rudimentary spit to roast meat. In a makeshift wooden enclosure, a half-dozen chickens clucked and waddled across a cleared patch of ground. Cords of wood were stacked neatly near the fence.
“Share a meal with us,” Illarion invited with a grin and an exaggerated bow, tipping his tall hat. “Our food is plain, but our conversation is witty and you may find that which you seek.”
Kestel laughed and gave a curtsey. “We would be honored.”
Despite his wariness, Blaine could not resist the good spirits of the troupe. Zaryae and Kata began to sing as they set about readying the meal, while Borya and Desya chimed in on the chorus as they brought wood to make a fire and trudged to the well to draw water. Soon, a merry fire blazed within the fire pit, and Kata set a kettle near the flames for tea. There were five wide log segments set on end around the fire to serve as chairs. Desya went to the woodpile to bring two more for their guests.
“Come. Sit,” Illarion said. As Kata and Zaryae assembled the meal from the provisions in the wagon, the others took their places around the fire. Borya withdrew a large flask from inside his coat and passed it around the circle. Blaine took a small mouthful. The home-brewed whiskey was as strong as any distilled on Edgeland, and for a few seconds it took his breath away.
“We saw you in the pub earlier,” Kestel said, leaning forward with a look toward Borya and Desya.
Just then, Kata and Zaryae approached, each bearing two wooden bowls. One bowl held a pile of hearth cakes, small loaves of bread made of rough-ground flour and cooked on the hot rocks of a fire. There was another bowl of dried sausages, a third with hunks of cheese. With a sigh of resignation, Blaine saw that the fourth bowl was filled with pickled herring, something he had hoped never to eat again after he left Edgeland. The bread was passed around the circle first, followed by the other items, which each person took using the bread as a plate. Borya’s flask was offered more than once, but both Blaine and Kestel declined, mindful not only of the cold but also of the danger of their situation.
Finally, Illarion spoke. “You asked how long we have been in Riker’s Ferry,” he said, taking another drink from the flask. “We’ve been here for almost two months. Long enough to take the measure of this place.”
“Which is?” Blaine asked.
Illarion’s eyes lost their merriment. “As you already know, something about this land repelled magic. Before the Great Fire, the town drew those with a reason to elude magic – their own or someone else’s. Some came because they couldn’t control their powers and thought exile better than being consumed. Others came because they’d angered a mage and figured their chances to be better if the enemy had to use a physical, rather than magical, attack.”
“So why did you come?” Kestel asked. “This is a small town, and by the look of it, not prosperous. They seem unlikely patrons.”
“We barely gather enough coppers to feed ourselves and our animals in this godsforsaken backwater,” Desya said, his voice thick with contempt. He spoke with the heavy accent of the lands along the border with the Lesser Kingdoms, and Blaine had to listen closely to catch his words.
Illarion stared at the fire as he spoke. “The night of the Great Fire, the night flames fell from the skies and magic died, we were camped outside Castle Reach. One of our patrons, Lord Radenou, had been so pleased by our performance at his manor house that he had secured us a performance for the king.” His voice glowed with bitter pride. “Such an honor nearly killed us.”
Kestel frowned. “How so?”
“Because we were too close to the bloody castle when the fire-ribbon fell,” Borya said. He had the same heavy accent as his brother. In the firelight, there was no mistaking his strange cat eyes. Desya saw Kestel look at him and defiantly met her gaze, as if daring her to look away first.
Illarion resumed his story. “We were delayed by broken axles and muddy roads. As much as we cursed the mud it saved our lives. Had we arrived earlier, we might have camped even closer to the city, and we would have surely burned.”
“As it was, we still prayed for death,” Zaryae said bitterly. Kata, still humming the song she and Zaryae had been singing, wandered back toward the wagons.
Illarion’s expression grew somber. “We did not burn. But we were not entirely spared. A powerful blast of magic swept across Donderath that night, like the hand of the gods.”
“You were caught in a magic storm?” Kestel asked, drawn to look at Desya’s eyes once more.
“It came on us without warning,” Borya said roughly. “Three of our players and several of our horses died.”
Illarion continued quietly, “I can’t tell you how long the storm was upon us. It felt like hours.
”
“Those of us who survived were changed,” Zaryae said. “Our magic was gone. But it was more than that.”
“The wild magic changed our eyes,” Borya said. “Before the Fire, our magic was unusual agility. What agility remains is merely mortal. We could do so much more with magic.”
Zaryae gave a quick glance over her shoulder, as if to assure herself that Kata was out of earshot. “Kata was badly hurt,” Zaryae said. “The storm was cruel to her. It took her magic, which had given her unusual speed – quite an asset for a juggler and a dancer. She was amazing,” Zaryae said quietly. “But it also affected her mind. She’s like a child now, simple, happy for the most part, but not herself. She still loves to dance, but the Kata we knew is gone.”
“Before the storm,” Illarion said, “I was quite the minstrel. The storm took my music along with my singing voice. Of those of us who survived, I caught the worst of the storm’s fury, and it left me badly injured. Beneath my costumes, I am covered with scars,” he said sadly. “I broke enough bones that things never healed right. I used to be the third acrobat with the twins.” He shrugged. “Now, I’m lucky to walk and do a little drumming.”
“Yet you still dream prophecies?” Kestel asked, looking to Zaryae.
The dark-haired dancer drew a long breath before answering, and her brown eyes held sorrow. “Before the Great Fire, I saw visions. I could touch a person’s cloak and see his past. If I held an object in my hand, I knew the secrets of the person who had owned it. People paid well for my visions – and some paid well for my silence.” She paused.
“Illarion’s body was most damaged by the storm. Kata lost herself, and the twins were changed. But when the storm stripped away my magic, its power roared in my mind.”
Her voice faltered. “I have never felt such pain. I went mad for a time,” she said, shooting an uncertain glance toward Illarion, who nodded and gave an encouraging smile.
“All I know is that for a while, I heard the voices of the gods, and the past, present, and future swirled around me like dust in a storm,” Zaryae said. “When I finally came to myself, my dreams were no longer my own. Every night, I descend back into the madness, and every morning, I wake from it. It’s as if the wild magic rages in my mind. Within the walls of the village, I can’t hear the voices. But if I venture outside, they return. I have learned that it goes easier on me if I don’t try to hide from the dreams. So every night, for a little while, I step outside the wall and let the dreams speak.”
“And now?” Kestel asked. “You said you had a warning for me.”
Zaryae smiled. “Knowing Riker’s Ferry, one doesn’t need a seer to get a warning. This town is filled with people who are desperate to remain hidden or to keep their secrets. But this warning came to me last week, during a storm.”
“What did you see?” Blaine’s voice was quiet.
Zaryae’s eyes fluttered shut. “I saw a dark disk ringed with fire. It floated into the air and covered the sun. Then I saw symbols, but I didn’t know what they meant. The disk fell and landed beneath a gallows, at the feet of a hanged man. The man slipped the noose and took the disk.” She opened her eyes and looked at Blaine. “The man in my dream looked like you.”
“Were those the symbols from your dance?” Kestel asked.
Zaryae nodded. “We often create our performances based on my dreams. When I dream things I don’t understand, performing helps me find an answer.” She paused. “We believed it would draw the hanged man to us. Then we heard from Desya and Borya that strangers had come looking for a mage. At the performance, when I saw you.” She looked at Blaine. “I knew the message was for you.”
“You said you wanted to warn us,” Kestel said quietly. “Warn us about what?”
Zaryae met her gaze. “When the hanged man lifted up the disk, bolts of fire struck the disk, and he burned.”
Which sounds a little too close to what happened at Mirdalur, Blaine thought, remembering their failed attempt to bring back the magic. Is the dream warning me away from trying again? Or just showing something that has already happened?
“We’re grateful for your warning,” Kestel replied. “And we’ll heed it. But do you know anything else about the symbols?”
Illarion and Zaryae exchanged a glance, and Zaryae nodded. Illarion reached inside his shirt and withdrew an obsidian disk. “After the Great Fire, we took refuge in one of the manor houses that had nearly been destroyed. It was deserted, but we found shelter in the ruins. As Zaryae and I healed from our injuries, the others picked through the rubble for anything that might help us survive. Borya found this in a metal box that was hidden inside one of the manor’s walls. When the wall collapsed, the hiding place broke open. Zaryae insisted we bring it with us.”
Kestel nudged Blaine with her elbow. He drew a deep breath and drew out his own disk. “Once upon a time, there were thirteen of these,” Blaine said quietly. “They were used to harness magic on this Continent.” He looked up to meet Illarion’s gaze. “If we’re lucky, they might help us bring the magic back.”
Illarion took the disk from beneath his shirt, lifting its leather strap over his head. He handed the disk to Blaine. “Then take it.” He looked at Blaine intently. “Can the magic be restored?”
Blaine grimaced. “We think so, but we don’t have all the pieces. That’s why we came to Riker’s Ferry. Before the Great Fire, there was a mage-scholar named Vigus Quintrel. He and his students went into hiding. But he left a trail of clues. We’re trying to find him. The disks are part of that, we think.”
“You’re not the first person to come to Riker’s Ferry looking for Quintrel,” Zaryae said quietly. “Several weeks ago, another man came. He also asked Helgen about a mage named Quintrel. I had a dream where a cloud covered the black disk, and I took it to mean we should hide from this man.”
“Did he give a name?” Blaine asked, leaning forward.
Zaryae shook her head. “He said he represented a wealthy man who would reward anyone who helped him. And,” she added, “he was dead.”
“Talishte?” Kestel asked.
Zaryae nodded. “Few talishte pass through this town. I have been told that it unsettles them.”
Blaine looked at Kestel. It was clear from her expression that she, too, was thinking that the stranger was likely employed by Reese.
“We’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone about the disk,” Blaine said.
Illarion chuckled. “We’ve spoken of it to no one, except yourselves.”
“Now that you’ve found us, I’d suggest you drop the symbols from your performance,” Kestel warned. “There are powerful men who gain from keeping magic out of reach. They’ve already shown that they’re not afraid to kill. If they link us to you, you may be in danger.”
“Helgen made it clear that he wanted us to leave Riker’s Ferry tomorrow,” Blaine said.
“Helgen’s motives are often framed by what is best for Helgen,” Illarion replied. “But in this, I believe his counsel is true.” He paused. “Yet I’m curious. You couldn’t have known about us and our disk. Why did you come to Riker’s Ferry?”
Blaine paused, unwilling to admit to the existence of the maps. “We gambled that a mage or two might have sought refuge in the null places, and that perhaps those mages could lead us a step closer to Vigus Quintrel.”
Illarion nodded. “I know of no true mages in Riker’s Ferry, but then again, now that the magic is gone and mages are vulnerable, such people may not want their presence known. I can’t help you.”
“What will you do with the disk?” Zaryae asked.
Blaine shrugged. “That’s why I was hoping to find Quintrel. We made one attempt to bring back the magic. It ended badly.”
“We will also be moving on,” Illarion replied. “Where we go, I’m sure the gods will show us.” He paused. “There is something else that might be important for you to know.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve heard it whispered that long ago, a small group of mages fled for
their lives when the king withdrew his favor and betrayed them. They fled to a forsaken place where the magic was strong, a place of the gods.” He paused. “They were not the first,” Illarion said. “There were ruins of a much older city, and the legend says that the ancient city will rise again birthed in flame.”
“Where is this place?” Kestel asked.
Illarion smiled and shrugged. “No one knows. The mages, so the story goes, were never seen again. But I wonder whether such a place is real, and whether your missing mage knew the legend and followed in their footsteps.”
Without Valtyr’s map, even a place of power might remain unnoticed if it were remote enough, Blaine thought. Illarion’s story sounds awfully close to what Geir said about the Knights of Esthrane.
Their meal was long finished, and the fire was burning low. Blaine and Kestel stood. “You’ve been generous with your provisions, and with your information,” Blaine said. “Thank you. Now, it’s time for us to rejoin our friends.”
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