Thornlost (Book 3) by Melanie Rawn Page B

once likened the art of glisking to a river, in which one must be careful not to drown an audience. One slid emotions, sounds, tastes, sensations into that river—Mieka always thought of them in terms of colors added to clear water, or pinches of different spices that subtly altered the taste of a sauce—and blended them together. But all at once it was as if the fear he had just conjured was a trickle ofbitter blood seeping into a stream, and something—someone—beneath the surface was sucking it away with a ravening thirst. Sometimes a few people in an audience clutched at an emotion, so impatient to feel more or so empty of feeling themselves that instinct yearned beyond their controlling. Mostly they grasped at love, or happiness, or giddy laughter; at times there would be someone eager to experience the thrill of more brutal emotions, and this was why a fettler exerted such powerful control on the magic. But this was different. This seized on the fear and demanded more. He’d sensed something akin to it in only one place before: that weird old mansion outside New Halt. Twice now Touchstone had performed for an audience of a single mysterious person swathed in furs, but the feeling of being devoured was the same. Odd, though, that it was only fear that was so fiercely consumed.
    He was too good at his work to allow this to distract him. As the piece ended, he paused to catch his breath. Then, as the applause swelled, he found the peacock feather and broke it off up near the eye, tucked it behind one ear, and leaped over the glisker’s bench to join his partners.
    Cade flinched back like a spooked colt. “What in all Hells—?”
    “Later,” he replied as they took their bows. He found the tall blue figure next to the short pink one, and chuckled; the Queen was applauding politely, but Princess Miriuzca was jumping up and down and clapping her hands like anything. It occurred to him that this was the very first time she’d ever watched a play from somewhere other than behind a screen or up in a minstrels gallery. He made sure their next group bow was directed right at her, and wished his ears were sensitive enough to hear that deep-throated laughter.
    Briuly ended the evening with a lovely lullaby as the ladies left the Pavilion and Touchstone packed away their glass. Miekahad just finished nesting the second crate of baskets when he heard Cayden say, “Hope you enjoyed it, sir.”
    Mieka glanced up to find one of the Stewards nearby—not the white-bearded one whose wife had knitted him, though equally old to judge by the wrinkles all over his paper-fine skin. He was leaning on two intricately carved canes, and so bent in his spine that he had to twist his neck awkwardly to look up at Cayden.
    “Always do, my boy,” the man rumbled in a voice surprisingly powerful for one so frail. “Always do. Knew your grandsir, I did.”
    “Cadriel Silversun?”
    “Well, him, too—I meant your lady mother’s sire. Lord Isshak Highcollar.” As Cade gave a little start of surprise, the old man went on, “Last of his line. Fine man.”
    Husband of Lady Kiritin Blackswan, she who had invented new and horrifying ways to use glass withies in war. She was the reason glasscrafting was forbidden to Wizards. Mieka gulped and bent over the crates, and tried to pretend he wasn’t listening.
    “Good man,” the Steward was saying. “Got the children spared—though you’d know all about that.”
    “Yes. I know all about that,” Cade said in the rigidly controlled tone that meant he wanted to smash his fists into something.
    “Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “Splendid to see the talent in you, boy. Excellent show tonight. Well-played. The ladies were impressed—or would have been if they were ever officially here, what?” He wheezed a conspiratorial laugh and limped away.
    Mieka bit both lips together over the questions that stung his tongue. This was the Elsewhens all over again, he thought resentfully. Cade had