Shadows of the Scriptures

SIX: Of Minstrels' Mageic

If only she knew the real story, Addie mused. She had assisted the woman much: saved her life, was now saving her child's. Surely if she told Nayari she was a magus, the woman wouldn't be that mad -

Don't be idiotic, her mageic nails reprimanded her. Maybe if you were a Seer, but you're not. Telling someone you're a Skiller with so many guards right near you . . . Master Harl would be furious if he knew you even had the audacity to think this.

Master Harl. The man she had begged to help hone her Skills. The man who would not let her be placated by the House of Ations like countless others after watching her strength grow exponentially in the course of less than a year. The man who would get her to the Pheeliax.

The man who sat on a trunk besides a small girl, eating dry flatbread and what had to be pork, as she approached. He grunted an acknowledgement when he saw the stalk resting on Addie's shoulder.

"No need to get up," she said sarcastically.

Nayari, the color in her cheeks somewhat settled, pulled her daughter into a rigid hug. Aeri squirmed free, eyeing nervously the arm with the lichen-patchwork drawn on it. Addie scouted the area for those two guards, and for Pedgram.

There was a hub of silent, unassuming people standing at the head of a wagon of sorts. If someone raised their voice, everybody else shushed them immediately. If someone tried to push into the line, they were pushed back also. You could cut the tension in the air with a fork.

The well's rim was a discontinuous parapet of black rock, hewn roughly in an agape ring. It stood in shambles, a borehole devoid of water. Non-coastal southern cities were in dismal need of premature summer showers. Some evacuees were leaning against the ruins of the vanquished thing, and Addie found herself worrying if they would accidentally fall in. Others were huddled around a guard astride his steed. When you couldn't afford an orrock, you had to stare at it and grit your teeth inappropriately - same with every commodity out of your budget, really. That was just the way of things.

The sun threw long shadows everywhere. There was no need for a fire, and if there had been, Addie doubted the guards would have let them have one. Smoke shows for miles, unless the pit is a deep-seated boul.

Instead of disgruntled guards, what her eyes and ears pivoted on was a greasy-haired minstrel standing by the dilapidated well, talking like the innate storyteller he was. His face was narrow and his eyes sharp, and he stood out amongst the others like an eagle in the midst of thrushes. She knew the man was a minstrel simply from his mannerisms, from the way he swayed with dialogue and buckled his shoulders in confidence. He was perhaps in his mid-forties, handsome as her knife. A small crowd was gathered before the well in a circle around the minstrel, listening enraptured.

Something tugged at her hand. Addie looked down at Aeri, her doe eyes filled with sadness and excite. "Can I go listen to the story-man?" the child asked.

Addie looked behind her. Nayari was fast asleep against a boulder shaped like a bull. Master Harl, teeth still grinding on the pork, had set down to make the ointment. A group of ten or twelve had already muddled around him to see what he was doing, chittering amongst themselves. Addie wondered what was so curious about an old man beating rect-honeysuckle leaves, poultice and tallow in a wooden mortar-pestle.

"Sure," she said to Aeri. "Stay by me, okay?"

"Okay." Her eyes twinkled as they walked closer to the well. Close enough to clearly hear the minstrel's booming voice, but not too close as to merge with the other listeners.

". . . Belraed storms into the Star Palace to face Sayle Niyardele, seated atop his gilded throne. 'O you smug swindler, you Niyardele,' Belraed speaks aloud, so that the gods can hear and justice do provide. 'You knew full well of our marriage and yet you dare fancy her. She is mine, and I am hers, and you are not to stand in between us.'