Touchstone (25 page)

“Fuck you!”

He reached down and his left hand fisted in the stained white shirt. He hauled the Elf vertical and didn’t let him go as his right hand lifted once more—and descended again and again and again and again—}

Cade covered the few seconds of the turn by reaching for the teapot. He hoped the tremor in his fingers would be attributed to his hangover. He half-expected to see Mieka’s blood on his hand.

“I see you noticed my face,” Mieka said ruefully. “There were a few more stairs than I thought, on the way back up here last night. But I remember what the ladies did for Jeska and—oh Gods, I almost forgot! It’s not just the ladies who want to see us perform! Prince Ashgar’s man came round this morning, we’ve a command to the castle! Nobody gets two invitations at their first Trials, Quill,
nobody
!”

Cade stared at him, trying to drag his weary brain back from the frightening image of himself beating Mieka senseless, trying to understand what he was being told. Two shows? They were bidden to the castle twice?

Sharing the news had restored Mieka’s spirits; he bounced onto his own bed, grinning. “You can break my fingers
after,
” he teased. “And if you’re feeling tolerably sane again, we ought to decide what we’ll be doing for the ladies tonight. C’mon, Quill, finish your tea and let’s get to work!”

Chapter 12

Not a doubt of it: the waking turns were more frequent and more severe. Cade didn’t want to believe that this coincided with Mieka’s arrival in his life, but had to admit it was true. His only recourse was to intensify practice of the disciplines Sagemaster Emmot had taught him. That there was another alternative—getting rid of Mieka—didn’t deserve an instant’s thought.

Mine he is, and mine he stays.

No matter how many different kinds of trouble he caused.

A thornful of whatever painkiller Jeska had used was enough to dull his hangover, and enabled Cade to face the late performance for the ladies of the Court. It also allowed him to think clearly enough for long enough to decide that he’d have to let Mieka in on his secret soon. Perhaps if the boy understood how drastic the consequences of his actions could be, it would tame him a little, cause him to think about what he did before he did it—

Lord and Lady, what was he contemplating?

“And what would you tell someone like that? ‘Live your life the way
I
need you to live it! Don’t be yourself, make your choices according to what
I
want!’ Oh, you could make that person feel guilty enough to get the results you want. You could make a free and independent soul into a slave, frightened of setting a foot outside the door in case it produces an unpleasant future. Or you could keep your silly mouth shut and not burden other people with the foreseeings that burden you.” Emmot smiled with mirthless irony. “Your choice, Cayden. Always your choice.”

It was obvious to Cade that he didn’t get angry at other people quite as often as he used to. This might have been attributable to growing up, realizing that success was at last within reach, learning that his work really was as good as he hoped it was. The truth, though, was that much of the annoyance provoked by others was now being directed at Mieka, who was capable of making him more angry than anyone else he’d ever known. He’d felt it that first night, hadn’t he, when the tryout with a new glisker had resulted in astonishment after astonishment? He’d thought at first that it was only because he hadn’t scripted the changes Mieka had made in “The Sailor’s Sweetheart”; he knew himself to be that arrogant about the work, and that domineering. But once it had become clear that, as Rafe had said, Mieka
fit
with them, he’d begun to trust the Elf. For all his mad whimsies, Mieka cared deeply about the work. It was his life, just as much as it was Cade’s and Rafe’s and Jeska’s.

No, it wasn’t Mieka’s unpredictability onstage that so infuriated Cayden—though the shattered withie at Trials had been a reminder that he was likely to do almost anything if the impulse struck him. Instead, Cade remembered the snow and the streetlamp, and the words he’d never said—and the uncanny echo of the foreseeing in real life:
“It’s not in you to be wicked, Cade, nor cruel.”

And yet—hadn’t he seen himself slap Mieka so brutally that it knocked him to the ground? Hadn’t he beaten him bloody?

He would have to control his temper. That was the start and the finish of it. No matter how angry he became, and no matter how much the Elf deserved that anger, Cade could not give in to it. If he sometimes just had to succumb to the urge to hit something, the world was full of walls and doors, furniture and glass windows—and other people. But not Mieka. It was too dangerous for reasons he would never, could never, explain.

Thus settled in his mind, Cayden could relax and enjoy the torchlit walk to the castle that night—especially as the ladies had sent three liveried pages to carry the crates and withies and Rafe’s new oakwood lectern that had been his parents’ gift on making Trials. Trusting the security of Mieka’s cushioning spell, Cade had no qualms about letting the boys take charge of the glass baskets. But Mieka was oddly reluctant to part with the black velvet bag of withies. Cade couldn’t make out the expression on his face—it was there and gone even faster than usual—before he gave an awkward little laugh and told the lad to have a care.

“If the glass breaks, all the magic will escape,” he confided, “and you might end up crying all night, or laughing into the middle of next week, or with a stiffcocking you won’t be able to ease for a month—”

“Leave off,” Rafe chided, adding to the saucer-eyed boy, “He’s not serious, don’t worry.”

Looking none too reassured, the page gulped, nodded, and clasped the velvet bag to his chest with both arms. Had it been an infant, it would have suffocated.

The pavilion where Touchstone would perform unofficially for the ladies of the Court turned out to be a hammered copper roof balanced on thirteen pillars with seating beneath for approximately five hundred.

Torches lit the path through the castle precincts. Past little walled gardens they walked, glimpsing paved courtyards that featured potted specimen trees from distant lands, fountain pools, knot-gardens, and fish ponds. After a long walk across an expanse of close-clipped grass, the players were led to the pavilion by the little redheaded lady who still hadn’t mentioned her name. When Cade at last saw the circular copper roof half-embraced by a grove of beeches and poplars, he nearly tripped over his own feet. The thing was gigantic. Worse, it was outdoors. They’d never played an outdoor site—though there were several on the Ducal and Royal Circuits, and one reason for starting out on the Winterly was to provide groups a look at where they’d perform if they made it up a notch in the next Trials.

Lady Redhead, as Cade had no choice but to call her, stopped at the short steps leading to the stage. “Here’s where I leave you—but not for the whole of the evening, I hope,” she added with an eloquent glance up at Cade. “I’ll look for you after.” And she melted away into the chaotic crowd.

“
He
won’t be comin’ home tonight,” Rafe advised Mieka.

“All the more privacy for me!”

Jeska shook his head. “Oh no, mate. The Trollwife was specific—no girls in our rooms. That means you’ll have to find someplace else.” Then he winked and whispered, “The hayloft will be free tonight.”

Mieka sniggered. “Chose a sneezer, did you? Or does she just want something a bit less rustic?”

“Will you shut it?” Cade demanded. “Where do you want to set up? Stage forrards or stage back?”

They arranged themselves a bit farther to the front than usual, considering the size of the place and the lack of walls. Rafe paced back and forth across the stage, calculating the potential rebound off the support pillars and high, peaked copper roof. Mieka joined him on two of these surveys, then helped Cade set up the glass baskets. Cade looked out at the casual jumble of chairs, wondering helplessly how to signal that they would soon begin. But Lady Redhead had been watching, and came forward and lifted both dainty little hands.

It took a few moments, but the two hundred or so ladies found seats and quieted down. A tremor of expectation and excitement rippled through the crowd. And abruptly Cade realized that for the first time, they were standing in front of an audience composed entirely of women.

Should it make a difference? They hadn’t really discussed it, not in direct terms. They’d chosen two standard pieces, both of them liberally rewritten by Cayden over the last months. The first was quite short, the second rather longer. Jeska had wanted to do two cloyingly romantic playlets; Rafe had snorted his opinion of this, Mieka had shrugged indifferently, and Cade had said, “The idea is to make them remember us, and talk about us—and anybody who thinks the ladies stay silent and keep the so-called secret of these shows is a shit-wit. So let’s give them things they’ve never even thought about before, eh?”

Accordingly, when Lady Redhead turned and smiled up at him, he nodded, stepped forward, and announced simply, “‘Caladrius,’” and effaced himself to his side of the stage.

“Once there was a great white raven, a solitary raven, a lonely raven called Caladrius, that kept to itself, not mingling with its kind.”

The tale went on to describe the bird in detail, and as Jeska spoke the lines, Mieka fashioned the huge snow-white raven and set it to preening itself where it perched on a castle windowsill. It was a very pretty bit of magic, that slender stone tower and arched window, and Cayden was very proud of it.

The first half of the story had Jeska gradually sprawling into a chair—a real one, which Mieka disguised as a one-armed sofa covered in plain blue silk—sickening unto death, increasingly hoarse-voiced. He wore his own splendid face and form; Mieka and Cade knew without having to mention it that Jeska’s looks would have every woman in the audience just that much closer to tears as he failed and faltered. So young, so beautiful, and dying … When the white raven rose up and flew in a great circle round the whole pavilion, the ladies all gasped. It came to rest on the end of the sofa, tilting its head as Jeska grated out words of despair—and sudden hope, as he recognized the white raven for what it was: the Caladrius, bird of healing. Should it look away from him, he would die—but if it gazed steadily into his eyes, the malady would be taken into the bird and flown to the highest heavens to be burned away by the sun.

“Look at me,” Jeska pleaded, “look at me, I beseek, and do not look away!”

Shining gold eyes regarded him for a long, long moment. The audience held its breath, trembling as Jeska trembled, afraid to hope—and then crying out with happiness as the wide wings spread and the yellow-orange mists of the illness seeped from Jeska’s eyes into the bright eyes of the bird. Then the white raven launched itself into the air, spiraling upwards and vanishing into a wayward cloud.

Cade was pleased with that cloud, too; he and Mieka had worked on it for hours, while Rafe experimented with increasing the sensations of well-being as Jeska “healed” and finally leaped from the sofa, shading his eyes to look at the place where the white raven had flown up to the sun.

But where most tregetours would have ended it there, simply telling the legend of the Caladrius, giving the audience pain and fear and then joyous relief, Cade had different ideas.

Jeska turned back to the chair, and in the time it took him to sit down he had acquired the smug face and dark green robes of a respected physicker with a thriving practice. He used one finger to twirl the point of a fussy white beard—crimped, scented, edged around his cheeks and lips with excruciating precision. After the delighted relief of healing that still lingered in the air, the amused condescension he emanated brought a few low mutters from the audience. Cade hid a grin. Men or women, it didn’t matter who was watching; the reactions were the same. Touchstone was that good.

“Oh, have they started?”

Piercing as a swordthrust to the magic as well as the ears, the woman’s voice echoed off the copper ceiling and off every single one of the thirteen columns. Cade pushed his fury into a box and locked it, frantically assisting Rafe in the redistribution of energy and sensation Mieka had only just conjured. Jeska’s guise didn’t waver for an instant, and he gave a casual, commanding gesture that drew people back into the playlet, but the flow of mood was ruined. As Cade helped Rafe reestablish the environment, he was marginally aware of the rustle of gowns and the scrape of chairs as the woman found a seat proportionate to her importance.

Cade knew who she was. It had been over seven years, and she was masked now as she had been then, but he knew her by the flower she wore: not a real flower, but a famous and fabulous jewel worn sometimes as a cloak pin, sometimes as a pendant necklace, and tonight as a decoration in her coiled black hair. Each petal was a pearl—not the round or teardrop shape favored by other ladies, but eight long, thin, curving chunks tinted the yellow of a ripe pear. In the center was a thumbnail-sized yellow diamond. The whole was set in a spray of gold and silver leaves. It was well-known of her that she couldn’t resist wearing this flower, even when supposedly in disguise, for she would never tolerate being treated as anything other than what she was: Princess Iamina, the King’s sister.

Cade helped Rafe and Mieka use the time she wasted finding a chair to rebuild the atmosphere in the pavilion. At length she was seated to her satisfaction. One of her attendants lifted a gracious hand in a
Do go on
wave. Touchstone would now be allowed to continue.

Jeska fiddled with his beard a little longer, then spoke into the almost-silence. Gently, as if speaking to a backward child, but scarcely able to hide his scorn for such superstitions, he explained that if the sick man sees the white raven and the bird turns its head away, the person is thus filled with despair and loses hope, and with it strength, and sickens worse, and dies.

“Yet should the Caladrius look keenly upon him with its bright golden gaze, will the sick man not take heart, and strengthen, and heal? So you see, the question is: Does the white raven heal the man, or does the man heal himself through what he believes about the white raven?”