Chapter 15 #2
‘And how are we to understand your meaning?’ Llewyn snapped. ‘That your City only binds those who want to be bound? That there is no war, save for those who seek it? Sounds a contrived way to justify horror—those who find it sought it anyway. I guarantee you, sorceress, they did not.’
‘Llewyn, enough.’ Afanan leaned close to Siwan, wiping away the girl’s tears. ‘Siwan, I have known someone from this City before. A good man, and kind. Llewyn’s fears are not unfounded—the Stones know he has justification for them—but you can trust these people.’
‘And why did you not return with this “good man” to his City?’ Llewyn demanded.
Afanan glared at him, her expression as fierce and wroth as he had ever seen it. He quailed. ‘The place proved better than I was. I have spent my life trying to become worthy of it.’
Fola arched her brow, but only watched, preferring to let Afanan argue on her behalf. It seemed to be working. Siwan studied the sorceress, weighing her options.
‘Siwan, listen to me,’ Llewyn whispered.
The words were for the girl only, not for Fola.
Not even for Damon and Afanan, though they would overhear.
Any thought, let alone any talk, that touched on Llewyn’s life before Nyth Fran raked him like raw iron.
But he had to say this, and say it now, before the girl lost herself to the promise of safety.
‘However powerful this City is, there are older, more dangerous, crueller powers in this world. Some dwell in the depths of the forest. Others dwell in the hearts of men. Men like your father. This City, no matter how good it aspires to be, will not be without its share of such men. They will see in you not a child, not a person, but a tool. I spent lifetimes as a tool. It is not a life I would return to, even if my only other option was death. It is not a life I would see you live.’
She thought for a moment, her bloodshot eyes fixed on his. ‘But this is what you wanted for me, isn’t it? To leave the troupe and go somewhere safe?’
Damon’s shoulders stiffened at that, and Llewyn felt a fresh stab of guilt. He ought to have given them a chance to say goodbye, at least, not pressed her to leave that very night, in the middle of the performance. One of many mistakes that had made their argument worse than it needed to be.
‘To get away from her,’ Llewyn said, nodding towards Fola. ‘And people like her. Not to give yourself over to them.’
‘I promise you, Llewyn, there are more dangerous folk than me about,’ Fola said.
‘Notably, a few knights of the Mortal Church, one of whom was skulking about your audience just as I was, though my man Colm chased him off. If he survives his wound, which he likely will, you will have significantly more trouble to deal with. I suggest you—’
The tent flap burst open, revealing Harwick. A few bruises showed purple through the thick hair of the strongman’s arms. His chest heaved, as though he had been rushing about. ‘Has anyone seen Jareth?’
A stone dropped into Llewyn’s stomach. All thoughts of Fola, her City and her insidious offer were stricken from his mind.
He looked to Siwan, who trembled, her grief renewed.
The thought that her episode—his fault, not hers—had cost one of the troupe his life was too much for Llewyn to bear.
He could little imagine how it tore through Siwan.
Spil stepped into the tent behind Harwick. ‘One of the horses is gone, too,’ he said.
‘He ran off, then?’ Damon said, standing. ‘That will throw a bloody wrench in the play. Assuming we’re able to perform it again at all.’
Relief washed through all present in the tent—replaced, at least in Llewyn’s case, with a bite of betrayal. Six years Jareth had been with the troupe. He’d stayed through Siwan’s first episode, in Caer Bren. Of course, back then he hadn’t been handed a hatful of gold royals.
‘An odd thing to fixate on, Damon,’ Afanan muttered. ‘There are dozens of actors gathered for this festival, plenty of whom will prove willing to join a troupe.’
‘Mayhap not one that played host to such a horror,’ Harwick observed, scratching his stubble. ‘I know it ain’t kind to say, ma’am, but I doubt anyone will be back by our pavilion after tonight.’
There were more grumblings and mutterings.
A quiet, hurried discussion of the impact of Siwan’s episode on the troupe treasury.
A pale shadow of what had happened to those unlucky folk in the audience—and a bit gauche to be discussing so soon after, with Fola, a stranger, there.
Even Llewyn had the social sense to understand that.
But the lives of travelling entertainers were precarious, meandering back and forth from plenty to poverty with the seasons, as townships and villages saw fit to hire troupers for their various entertainments.
The coronation of a new king and the ensuing festival, with the largest crowd the kingdom was likely to see for decades, had promised a rare opportunity to pad the coffers.
An opportunity the troupe had spent a great deal to pursue—new fabric for costumes, the stage lanterns, painted backdrops for sets, all expenses meant to draw the largest possible audiences from the festival.
Now, wasted money, if they became pariahs. Assuming the festival even continued.
Without a word, Fola reached into her satchel and withdrew a purse, which she tossed underhand to Damon. The boy caught it with a loud jingle and a grunt, and staggered backwards from the weight of it. He stared at the purse, then at Fola, then opened the drawstrings.
‘Well …’ he murmured, stupefied. ‘Ah … Never mind.’
Harwick and Spil leaned over his shoulders for a look. It was their turn, then, to stare at Fola in open disbelief.
‘Consider it an investment in the girl’s protection, if you’re as yet unwilling to come with me to the City,’ she said. ‘As soon as you make up your minds, let me know. My associate and I have rooms at the Garland Inn. Leave a message if I’m not there when you send word.’
‘What makes you think we will?’ Llewyn said. Fola’s ability to toss around gold like breadcrumbs might dazzle the others, but he’d not grown up in a world where it held such a hypnotic lure. To him, wealth was just another variety of power, and power was never to be trusted.
She smiled wryly and touched her forehead with the tip of her silver staff. Her bird fluttered up from the corner of the tent where it had been lurking and perched on her shoulder. It stared back at Llewyn, goggle-eyed.
‘I trust you’ve senses enough to come to them, eventually,’ Fola said. ‘Just don’t wait too long. Meanwhile, there are more layers to the mystery here, and I’m well and truly intrigued.’
The tent flap swung down as she left them with her gold and her promise of safety, and the evidence of her power—perhaps proof of her ability to fulfil her promise, but to Llewyn’s eye more a warning—charred into the rug beneath their feet.