Chapter Twenty-One Playacting #3
Five seconds later the point was rendered moot—my lungs weren’t working. Beyond the velvet curtain, I could see the grand stairwell—and Sybil Delling upon it.
She walked behind Edora Eichel, no longer clad in the plain woolen clothes they’d given her in the Peaks, but wearing the Chiming Wood’s ceremonial garb.
A long silk dress the color of birch leaves, the yellow fabric fitted along the bodice and upper arms, then loose and free around her wrists, her waist, her legs.
The sleeves hugged the impressive muscles along her arms and the bodice held tightly to the curves of her breasts—the contours along her abdomen and shoulders and back.
Lovely and formidable, she was the beauty who lay in the shade of the tree, then rose to snap off a bough with her bare hands.
I watched through a cloud of smoke, hot in the chest, unable to look away.
Sybil spoke to Edora and several other prominent folk of the Wood at the bottom of the stairs. It was hard to see where her eyes were behind her veil, but I knew what it felt like when she looked at me, and I knew it the second she spotted me across the room.
Sybil lifted her chin. Nodded twice to Edora, excused herself, and walked to the edge of the great hall, trailing its perimeter until she stood at the brink of my alcove.
I caught her arm. Pulled her toward me and slid the curtain over the mouth of the alcove, plunging us into darkness but for the yellow light that came from the tip of my idleweed and the silver glow of moonlight from the casement window.
Sybil wrenched up her veil. Cupped my chin in her palm and brought my mouth to hers. When I exhaled, smoke slid from between my lips, and Sybil breathed it in. “Where’d you get the idleweed, knave?”
“Stole it.” I held it out to her, my voice full of gravel. “Have more. It’ll help with the discomfort. With the pain.”
Sybil’s mouth twitched in a way that made my heart stumble. “Aren’t you in pain, too?”
“Near you? Always—”
She kissed me. I dropped the idleweed, thoughtless.
“You will be.” Sybil’s hand was on her abdomen again, just above her wound. “Soon, without spring water, you’ll feel what it’s like, slowly turning to stone.”
“No doubt. But until then—” I bit the inside of my lip. Hard. Tasted blood. “Permit me.”
Sybil’s nostrils flared. She leaned in again, and I took her by the nape of the neck, pulling her recklessly toward me.
Our mouths collided. Sybil let out a low sound of pleasure that vibrated up her throat and into my mouth, rooting itself in every part of my body.
She ran her tongue along my bottom lip—pulled it into her mouth and pressed her teeth around it, earning herself more blood and me another delicious sound from her throat.
A violent, magnificent ache took hold of my chest. My blood smeared over her mouth, and we kissed with abandon, the moonlight in the alcove growing hazy as our torrid breaths put fog over the casement window.
The sounds in the hall grew louder, voices pressing against the curtain.
“They’ll look for me,” Sybil whispered over my lips. “The spectacle never ceases, does it, Myndacious?”
“Two more events.” It was getting harder and harder to put that veil back over her face. “And we won’t be strangers, Sybil Delling.”
When her veil fell, a tiny spot of blood stained the gossamer that sat over her lips.
Sybil squeezed my hand and exited the alcove first. I followed a minute later.
The crowd was beginning to disperse, pushing itself against the walls, the floor taken over by a quartet of strangely dressed folk.
One carried a lute, and the three others wore face paint.
Actors—and the same minstrel who’d performed in the other hamlets.
Benji was still standing near the fire, Sybil and Tory and Samuel at his wings. When he saw me, he waved me over. “Come, knave.”
I made my way through the crowd, enduring awestruck stares and reaching for my visor—only to realize I’d left my helmet on the alcove floor.
By the fire, Samuel was explaining to the king the history of the playacting society in the Chiming Wood. Caught between an eye roll and a yawn, Benji coughed. His gaze snagged on Sybil. “I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable on the journey from the Peaks.”
He peered at her yellow dress. At her veil. “I must say you look well.”
Sybil kept her gaze on the performers in the center of the room and ignored him.
“Wine,” Benji told Samuel, and the knight disappeared into the crowd.
Tory, scowling, glanced at me, then Sybil. “Edora Eichel wants a word with you, Diviner.” She grasped Sybil by the elbow. “It won’t take long.”
I knew better than to watch her go. Still, I dropped my hand as Sybil passed, heartbeat pounding as she dragged her knuckles over my gauntlets.
Warmth touched the corner of my lips. My bottom lip was still bleeding. I brought it into my mouth, slicking blood away with my tongue. When I looked at Benji, he was already watching me. “What do you think of Eichel House? Not as grand as Petula Hall, is it?”
“I’ve no memory of Petula Hall, sire.”
“Oh, yes.” He sipped his wine and nodded at the actors. “Apparently they will be reimagining the tournament. Are you familiar with playacting, knave?”
I shook my head.
The king’s smile was thin. “This should be a treat for you, then.”
“Here.” Samuel Eichel was back, squeezing his unwelcome ass next to me and holding out a silver goblet. “There’s to be a toast at the end.”
The minstrel lifted his lute and began to play, and the actors spun around him. The performance had started.
“A colorful dream,” he sang, “the bright land of Traum, where the wind on the moors hums a tune. Where the holloways lead you awry and along, and the gowans are always in bloom. But mind the streets when the water is high, and look out for mountainous shale. The earth does tremble from time to time, and the trees in the Wood have turned frail.”
Folk shared glances, and the minstrel strummed on. “Still—wherever you ramble, from woodland to sea, pray find the young king on your way. I lent him my axe, and he counted my gold, and to his queen, the Diviner, did I pray.”
The audience clapped. Benji’s cheeks reddened, and he opened his arms, smiling and accepting the applause.
The actors moved about, pulling props from a wooden box.
One spread rouge on his cheeks and nose and placed a paper crown over his head, no doubt meant to be Benji.
In his hands was a bowl of grain. He stirred it greedily, smiling and cackling to himself.
Then he donned a helmet and took up a stick, and so did a second actor, the two of them dancing in absurd leaps as if mounted on horseback.
“The joust did begin in the great Coulson Faire, where merchants and brigands do quip. Neither jouster nor horse was hurt by the lance, but the king’s precious gold got the tip!”
The actors volleyed toward each other, and the one playing Benji was struck with a stick. He threw himself backward, falling dramatically on the floor, knocking against the bowl of grain and spilling it.
The crowd chuckled.
“Next was the melee in the city, the Seacht—a battle of wits on display!”
The jousters threw down their sticks, ran for their box of props, and withdrew a wooden mace and a hammer. They swung wildly at each other while the actor playing Benji put on his crown once more and took up an overflowing glass of wine, laughing and pointing.
“A great pity then that no wits could be found—the king lost a knight for a knave.”
Next to me, Benji was smiling, only now his mouth seemed frozen that way.
The actor with the mace fell to the ground and flopped, and the king in the paper crown spilled his wine down his tunic. Folk in the great hall were laughing now, some even applauding.
One of the actors threw off his helmet and donned a gray cape, crouching and waddling, grunting and groaning, pretending to be a gargoyle as he and the other actor threw paper rocks.
The minstrel sang louder. “And lo, what next? The great feats of strength, held high where the Tenor is fed. Muscle and vigor are qualities fine—”
The actor playing Benji threw a rock. It struck an actor, who fell to the ground and writhed. The play king looked at the audience and shrugged. “What a shame I took off his head.”
Folk guarded their laughter behind their hands. And Benji—he wasn’t smiling now.
The tune slowed, the actors joining the minstrel in a line. “And so, dear folk, we come to the hunt, where ne’er was an axe that was beaten. Look out for the sprites, and keep a sharp eye—lest one, maybe both, are eaten.”
Applause rang. The minstrels and actors were given goblets the same as the rest of us. They raised them high. “To the hunt!”
“To the hunt!” echoed the call. Everyone drank, even Benji. I threw my head back, swallowed the wine.
And coughed.
A horrendous taste coated my tongue, bitter and rotten. I knew what it was the second I choked it down. Ox-eye.
Blood draining from my cheeks, I whirled on Samuel. “What is this?”
The knight’s hand was on the hilt of his sword. “King’s orders.”
My vision winked, my senses already dulling from that vile poison—my skull felt too large, too heavy, a pounding headache starting behind my eyes.
“Since we are in the spirit of playacting and revelry,” Benji called, his voice distorting in my ears, “let us have one more reenactment for your pleasure.” He turned to me, lips thin. “This one shall be of myself and the knave, when he graciously challenged me to spar.”
Three knights seized my arms, and Samuel ripped my sword from its sheath. But the amount of ox-eye they’d given me was far greater than what I’d had in the Peaks—I was swaying on my feet. Hardly able to walk. It took all three of them to move me forward.
The knights led me to the heart of the room. The actors scurried away, leaving the box of props. Benji rummaged through it. Found the wooden stick they’d used as a lance and threw it at my feet. “Come now, knave,” he said. “Show everyone what a talented fighter you are. Give them a proper show.”