Shadowplay (20 page)

Cyan was lost in the memory, her eyes unfocused. “They bought me chocolate limes. I remember the flavor. They took me to the Temnian Temple, and I prayed… I prayed so hard…”

She swallowed. I covered the back of her hand with mine.

“I fainted in the temple when it happened. And when I woke up, I ran back to the circus, leaving my parents behind.

“It happened just as I’d seen it. Liam was dead, mauled by his lion. He loved that lion. Called him Pip. Pip was dead as well. They’d shot him, I think. They lay side by side, their bodies still warm.”

Another flash of an image. Cyan, crying, her hands entangled in the lion’s tawny fur. A man and a woman pulling her away. My headache worsened.

“My parents realized what had happened.” Her words thickened. “They said as soon as they could, they’d book passage back to Southern Temne and leave this godless land.”

“So that was why you ran away.”

She nodded.

“Why come to Maske? He said you came to him just after you left.”

“Did he?” She stared into the distance. “Can you keep a secret?”

My mouth twisted. “I’ve had a fair amount of practice.”

“After Liam, my mother and I fought. And I heard what she was thinking.”

I said nothing, waiting for her to gather the courage to go on.

“She thought that it was all my father’s fault, that it served her right for sleeping with a magician, to birth a cursed babe.”

I blinked. Opened my mouth to ask the question, but she cut me off with a nod. “I don’t look half-Elladan. Maske doesn’t know.”

My head spun. I thought back to Drystan’s hints that Maske had been a different man at the height of his power. “Well.”

“Well indeed.” She chewed her lip.

I searched for something to say. “Are you… different?” I asked.

“Um. Were you not listening? I just told you I can read minds.”

“Well, yes. But what about physically?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“How often do you fall ill?”

“Hardly ever. My f–father used to say I was hearty as an ox.” She smiled, but it faded. “Why?” She shifted closer on the bed, her dark eyes peering into mine. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You might…” I swallowed. “You might be different from other…” I trailed off, not quite sure how to finish.

“From other what?”

“From other… humans.”

She blinked. She started to laugh, and stopped when I didn’t join in.

“Am I lying to you? You can check.” The thought of her peering into my mind frightened me, but I knew it was the only way she’d believe me.

She closed her eyes, and I followed suit. I sent a small tendril of thought toward her that I knew she’d hear.

We are Chimaera
.

I opened my eyes. She was staring at me, her lips parted. Her eyes rolled up in her skull and she fainted.

The threatened headache bloomed in my skull, and I followed her into the dark.

16

THE NEW WAGER

 

Jasper Maske’s personal diary.

 

I awoke before Cyan did, clutching my head. I’d never fainted before coming to the theatre and now I’d fainted twice. After a few minutes, I felt better and splashed water on Cyan’s face and tapped her cheek gently. When she did not awaken, I went to fetch Drystan, terror growing within me. He was reading the history of the Great Grimwood. He closed the book when I entered, his fingertip marking the place.

“Cyan’s fainted and she’s not waking up,” I said, dread rising in my stomach at the words. What if she was trapped in a vision? Or the vision had affected her physically? I followed Drystan up the stairs, feeling strange. I stumbled over a step. My stomach was in knots of fear for Cyan and yet almost… excitement.

I might not be the only person who could do things that no one else could. And if Cyan and I were different, there were most likely others. I felt heady with the possibilities.

Drystan knocked at Maske’s workshop. The sound of drilling ceased. Maske came to the door, pushing a pair of greenish goggles up on his forehead. His face was smeared with black oil. I searched his face for echoes of Cyan’s features, and I found them in the line of his nose and the curl of his lip.

“Yes?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption.

“Your medic bag is still in the kitchen, right? Where is it again?”

“The cupboard to the right of the cooker. Why?” He peered at us.

“Nothing to worry about,” Drystan lied smoothly. I wondered why he lied. Perhaps not to worry him? “Cyan’s delicate derriere needs the bruising cream.”

Maske chuckled. “Well, let me know if it grows worse. It’s my fault she was hurt.” His face creased. “I’ll be down soon for tea. My turn to scrounge something up, more’s the pity for you all.”

“I’m sure we’ll survive, at least,” Drystan joked. While Drystan and Maske spoke, I craned my neck, trying to see past Maske into his workshop. He spied my blatant attempt and raised an eyebrow, leaning back to show me. Mirrors. I should have known they would still be there. He smirked and closed the door. The drilling resumed.

“I still want to know what he’s doing in there,” I said as we trotted down the hall.

“And you’ll find out when he’s ready, Micah. How many times have I said this to you now?”

I snapped my mouth shut. He didn’t usually snap at me – he was definitely cross with me for being so frank with Cyan.

Grabbing the medic bag, we dashed to the loft. Cyan lay on my bed, arms akimbo, hair tangled about her face.

Drystan peeled an eyelid back, showing the whites of her eyes. Plucking the smelling salts from the medic bag, he waved them under her nose. She groaned, turning her head away.

He tapped her lightly on the cheeks. “Come on, Cyan. Wake up now.” To me he said, “What happened?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” he asked, more to himself than to me.

Cyan’s eyes fluttered. Drystan helped her sit up and passed her a glass of water, brushing the hair from her face.

Her forehead crinkled. “My head,” she moaned, pressing her hands to her temples. “Are you meant to dream when you faint?”

“What did you dream?” I asked, alarmed. Drystan noticed the sharp tone of my voice.

“I dreamed of a woman with great dragonfly wings. Tattoos on her face and hands. She was crying. She missed someone. Wanted to find him. More than anything…” She shook her head. “It’s fading, like water through a sieve. Just a dream. But it was so clear… it was almost as though I
was
her…”

My blood drained from my face. Drystan mouthed “damselfly” at me, and I shook my head, as though I were just as confused as he was. I glanced at where the damselfly disc lay hidden beneath the loose papers on the table by my bed.

Maybe Anisa wanted to sway Cyan to her cause as well, whatever that may be.

“I’m fine. How embarrassing, to faint!” She laughed, unconvincingly. She smoothed her crumpled skirt with her hands. “I think I’ll go to my room. You’ve given me a lot of think about, Sam. Or should I call you Micah? Or Gene?”

“Either Sam or Micah,” I said, ignoring the way Drystan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not really Gene. Not anymore.” My throat closed. Was that girl who climbed trees and shirked piano lessons well and truly gone? Debutante turned runaway turned murderer.

Cyan moved like a drunken woman, stumbling and holding onto the wall for support. At the door, she paused, as though she would say something. But she carried on, leaving us in silence.

Drystan crossed his arms.

“There’s no point in being mad. It’s already done. And we can trust her. She knows some of my secrets, but I’ve learned some of hers as well.”

“And?”

“And they’re not mine to tell. Had you stayed and told her something of yourself, you’d know them too.”

He waved a hand. “So you’re saying we shouldn’t worry about her?”

Only if she invades our thoughts
. I tried sending the thought to him, wondering if he would hear it.

Drystan frowned at me.

“Why are you squinting at me like that?”

I sighed. “Never mind. No, I don’t think we need to worry about her. She’s lost everything, as we have. She’s merely trying to pick up the pieces.”

“If you say so,” he said, folding me into his arms. I rested my hands on the wings of his shoulder blades and he placed his chin on my shoulder. He did not say anything, and after a time, I met his lips with mine.

This thing between us was still so delicate, just blossoming and seeking the light. We still did not give it a name – no declarations of love, no promises. Though kisses always felt a little like a promise of what could be. A wordless reassurance of trust and longing.

We heard the distant ding of the doorbell.

“Cyan or Maske will get it.” Drystan nuzzled my neck.

Any thought of leaving vanished. Small shivers ran down my spine.

Drystan’s hands pressed against the small of my back. A tip of his finger rested on the bare skin where my shirt rucked up about my waist. The front of his thin white shirt was open, and I rested a palm against his chest, feeling the ropes of muscle just under the skin from years of tumbling and hard circus work.

Someone knocked on the door. We broke away.

“Yes?” I said, my voice strangled.

Cyan poked her head into the room. She was still pale but more alert. She did not seem to notice our flushes or the sly way we rearranged our clothing.

“What is it?” Drystan asked.

“That magician Taliesin is here.”

 

There were three men in the parlor. Maske sat, every muscle tense, pointedly staring at the younger man and not his age-old rival, Pen Taliesin.

Maske, though in his late fifties, never struck me as middle-aged. Taliesin may have won the old feud between them, but he had lost against time. Deep lines engraved his face, and his back was humped underneath a rich mink coat. Golden rings bedecked his long, gnarled hands, which shook badly. The whites of his eyes had aged to the yellow of old parchment. He looked like a man twice his age, held together with string and matchsticks, as though a strong wind could blow him away.

The other man next to Taliesin, by contrast, was all straight lines and calm stillness in his smart suit and expertly folded green cravat with an emerald pin. His sideburns and waxed mustache were of the latest style, and he had the long fingers of a magician.

“Good evening,” the coiffed man said. “I am Christopher Aspall, the representative of the Collective of Magic of Ellada. I am the solicitor of the organization, and a retired performer myself.” A thin leather briefcase leaned against his shin. “I am here,” Aspall continued, “to deduce if you are violating the terms of your legal agreement between one Jasper Maske and one Pen Taliesin, signed by both parties on the fifth of Lylal, 10846.”

Maske’s eyes snapped to Aspall’s face. “I have not violated the agreement.”

“Horse piss,” Taliesin spoke. Most of his teeth were gone, the rest ruined gravestones in his mouth. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing here? Why did you hire these pups?” He gestured at Drystan, Cyan, and me, clustered at the séance table in the corner of the room. “You’re recreating our show!”

“You know full well no performances have been held at the Kymri Theatre in these many years.”

“But you’re planning to.” Taliesin pointed a shaking hand at Maske. The teeth, the shaking, the unnatural brightness in his yellowing eyes: Taliesin was truly one of the Delerious – a Lerium addict.

“Per our agreement, I’ll never perform magic again. But, if you recall, the wording did not ban me from teaching magic and allowing others to perform, even in this building.”

Taliesin sputtered. “It is your magic they’ll perform, and your magic cannot go on the stage.”

Aspall cleared his throat. He brought a legal folder from the leather briefcase, opening it to reveal the printed and signed contract between Maske and Taliesin. He made a great show of reading it over silently before he spoke. Showmen. They never lose their taste for the dramatic.

“While I have come here at Taliesin’s behest, I am impartial.” He gave the last word the slightest emphasis. “I am here to represent the Collective of Magic’s best interests. And, after much careful study of the syntax of the agreement, the Collective’s official announcement is that…” He paused again for dramatic effect. We leaned forward in our seats.

“Jasper Maske is not violating the terms of this contract. As long as the performers are not performing the exact same tricks that were well-known to be Jasper Maske’s and Pen Taliesin’s when they were in business as Specter and Maske.”

Taliesin gave a wordless cry of rage. “This is not what I wished.”

“What you wish does not matter in this case,” Aspall said, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He was not as impartial as he pretended to be. Disgust and pity coursed through me as well. How could that old man have been a performer? Everything about him looked twisted – his features, his spine, his grin and his scowl. I would bet that if souls were visible, his was as twisted as they come. Every fiber of my being wanted to lean away from him. He could not have been like this when he performed. Had the drugs transformed him so completely? What would Taliesin be like now if Maske and he had never parted ways?