Only it wasn’t simply that she
looked
more mature. As had often been the case over the course of this last month, Eldyn was at once bemused and impressed as he watched the youngest Miss Lockwell move among the illusionists upon the stage, a basket looped over her arm. She had heartening words for each of them, and everything she said was tailored for the recipient as carefully as her red gown had been for herself.
“Your fiery crown was so bright I had to shade my eyes with my fan to look at it!” she told Hugoth, who often expressed a fear that his illusions had dimmed as he had aged. This caused him to lift his head and give a weary smile. To Riethe she said chidingly, “I believe the winged horse that bears your maiden will no longer be able to fly if her bodice should expand any farther.” Which of course only made Riethe grin like a fool.
One by one, the others all received a similar compliment. “I am sure I could count every feather in the wings of the steed you conjured,” she told Merrick, who was always very precise about
things. And to Mouse, who was especially fond of flattery—the more grandiose the better—she said, “Your ocean was such a perfect hue of aquamarine that I hardly drew a breath, for fear that I should drown!”
This caused the small illusionist to leap to his feet. “No, for I would have conjured a crystal sphere to protect you!” he proclaimed. This won a groan all around, but Lily laughed and gave his scruffy cheek a fond pat.
“You always help raise their spirits,” Eldyn said quietly when at last she drew near to him. “You’re marvelous at it, really. Thank you.”
Her coral-tinted lips curved upward, but she shook her head. “No, it is you who must be thanked, Mr. Garritt. I adore all of the illusions the others conjure. They’re wonderful. But the phantasms you create …” She gave a sigh. “Sometimes when I watch them, I think it is your illusions that are real, and that everything else I can see or touch is what is false.”
Like her compliments to the others, he might have thought these words were especially crafted just to please him. Yet such was the earnest light in her brown eyes that he could only think she truly meant what she said. But then, maybe she had truly meant what she said to each of them.
“Here, take this,” she said and handed him a warm, damp cloth from the basket she carried.
She had been giving the cloths to each of the men so that they might wipe their faces. Eldyn lifted the cloth to his cheek. A pungent herbal scent emanated from it. He breathed in the heady aroma and immediately felt invigorated.
“What is this?” he said, astonished.
“It’s hyssop,” Lily said. “I read in a book that in ancient Tharos, athletes would put hyssop leaves on their arms and legs to ease their aches after a competition. And conjuring illusions seems at least as hard as running a race or jumping a vault. I searched all over until I found some growing by a grave in Duskfellow’s. I knew it was hyssop at once, because it looked just like the picture I saw in the book.”
Again Eldyn was astonished, but less happily this time. Despite her womanly gown, and her motherly tending of the illusionists, she was still just sixteen, and given to indulging her whims without proper thought—just as she had the day a month ago when she arrived unexpectedly at the theater.
“It was very kind of you to want to find something to help us,” he said, “but you know it is dangerous to venture out into the city, especially so far from the theater as Duskfellow’s graveyard.”
She merely shrugged. “I am sure I was in no great peril. It was daylight, and there were plenty of soldiers about. Besides, Riethe came with me. I knew that even if I picked a cartful of hyssop,
he
would be able to carry it.”
So that was where Riethe had been earlier that day. This fact reassured Eldyn, but only to a degree. Riethe’s height and bulk would have dissuaded anyone from trying to accost Lily, but what if a witch-hunter had seen them? Given his appearance and manner, few tended on first glance to think Riethe was a Siltheri. Nor had Eldyn observed the light he emanated to be particularly bright; it was, like Riethe himself, goodly and expansive, but a bit dim. In broad daylight it would have been difficult to detect. But not impossible, and if a witch-hunter had paused to study him …
But that hadn’t happened; they had returned to the theater without issue. All the same, Eldyn would have a talk with Riethe about being a willing party to such schemes. Eldyn had promised Lady Quent that he would take care of Lily, that he would see to her safety and well-being.
Only hadn’t he already broken that promise? He regarded her red dress, her painted lips, and he could only believe it was so. Here Miss Lockwell was, dwelling in a theater full of Siltheri, and watching from the wings as they performed illusion plays populated with buxom women, lustful soldiers, and battles awash in illusory blood.
Of course, it had not taken long before she was doing far more than merely watching the performances. One umbral, shortly after Lily’s arrival at the theater, Master Tallyroth had been gripped by particularly violent spasms, and Madame Richelour had been reluctant
to leave his bedside, for she was always better able to soothe him than anyone else.
Customarily, the madam of the theater made a survey of the players before the curtain went up, and personally made any final adjustments to their makeup or costumes. That night, they presumed they would not have the benefit of such help. Only then, to Eldyn’s great surprise, Lily was there. She moved among the illusionists as if this was entirely expected, retying laces, adjusting stiff paper helmets, or smoothing the greasepaint upon their faces. And while her touch was not as experienced as Madame Richelour’s, her fingers were deft, and she possessed a natural flair.
While it had been gradual, ever since that night, Lily had taken on more and more of Madame Richelour’s duties—even as she had begun to wear more of the madam’s gowns, jewels, and face-paints. She would aid the players with their costumes before each performance started, if Madame Richelour could not, and would come to praise them when it was done.
Before long, she was assisting with the staging as well. After observing how weary the illusionists were becoming, it had been her idea to manufacture new props that could take the place of phantasms. Stars and comets needed to be conjured, but waves could be made with sheets of blue fabric undulated by the actions of people offstage. Trees could be fashioned of wood and canvas, and the same was true for mountains or castles. Once these were varnished with an illusory glow, they were nearly as beautiful and convincing as if they had been conjured entirely from light.
By means of these and other creations, the burden upon the players was lessened, and they were able to keep up the pace of the productions. It seemed nearly every performance Lily had fashioned some new piece for them to use onstage—something onto which they needed only to cast a glamour of light in order to give it the proper look. More than once, Eldyn was reminded of the tableau Lily had created for her and Rose’s party last year. The tableau had been so well executed that all it took was a bit of pearly light summoned by Eldyn and Dercy to make those in attendance gasp in wonder.
It was the same here at the theater. Eldyn had observed Lily to have a remarkable aptitude for using mundane materials—paper and paste and paint—to craft astonishingly realistic pieces of scenery. He had always known the youngest Miss Lockwell had an artistic nature, but he had not realized how profound her ability was. And perhaps she had not known herself, for sometimes she gazed upon something she had made with a look of wonder that was not unlike what Eldyn had felt upon seeing the first illusions he had conjured himself.
But then, were not her creations a form of illusion themselves? Certainly by means of
her
labors,
their
work upon the stage was made easier each night. As a result, it did not take long before the other players grew used to Lily’s presence at the theater, and then came to rely upon her. As for Eldyn himself, any fear he might have had that Lily’s nature was akin to his own sister’s had long been dispelled. While Sashie had possessed a similarly impetuous nature, she had never demonstrated such cleverness and industriousness, or such a finely developed sensibility. Nor was he the only one with such an opinion.
“Lily is the most remarkable young woman!” Madame Richelour had exclaimed to Eldyn more than once since Lily’s arrival. “I have seldom seen such a theatrical eye and a gift for staging, let alone in a person of such few years. And she has such a spirit! She lifts us all up just by being here. I wonder how we managed without her. I doubt we could have done so for much longer.”
That Madame Richelour had an especial fondness for Lily was evident in all their interactions. That very first day, the madam of the theater had acted as if Lily were a foundling who had been left upon the step, and had proceeded to lavish every sort of motherly affection upon her. Not that Eldyn was entirely surprised by this. Madame Richelour had never married, and so she had no children of her own. She had always mothered the young men who worked at the theater, of course, but Eldyn could imagine how she might have longed for a daughter. Now, at last, she had one she could call her own.
For her part, Lily received these affections freely and gladly.
While Madame Richelour had never had a daughter, Lily herself had been deprived of her own mother not long ago, and so their pairing was in every way natural. What was more, knowing that Madame Richelour cared for Lily reassured Eldyn to some degree, and allowed him to believe that the theater was not an entirely unwholesome place for Lily—even if Lily’s change in attire and appearance was largely due to the madam’s influence.
Despite the bias that naturally arose from her affections for their foundling, Eldyn was beginning to think that Madame Richelour was right, and that they would not have endured much longer had it not been for Lily’s presence. It wasn’t just her work upon the set pieces, or the way she had taken over some of the duties of the madam of the theater, so that Madame Richelour could spend more of her time tending to Master Tallyroth. Rather, it was Lily’s spirit that buoyed them and kept them from sinking.
It was with this thought that Eldyn let go of his worries regarding the secret expedition for hyssop, and instead wiped his face with the warm cloth, letting the sharp scent clear his mind.
“Where is Madame Richelour?” he asked as he handed the cloth back to Lily.
“She is upstairs with Master Tallyroth.” The pink smile on her lips faded. “He is caught in a delirium again.”
Eldyn gave a sober nod. Delusions were a symptom of an advanced state of the mordoth. He had been having more and more of late.
“I’m glad she is with him,” Eldyn said.
Lily sighed. “I wish I could have seen him perform. The tales Madame Richelour tells of the days when he was onstage all those years ago—it must have been magnificent to behold!”
Eldyn was sure it would have been. But it was because of the magnificence of those performances that he was in the state he was now. He had used up too much of his light, too quickly.
But all he said was “I’m sure his performances were a marvel.”
Her smile returned, then she moved on to attend to the remainder of the illusionists. They were all of them grateful for her
attentions, and some gave her kisses upon the cheek in return—though these were of course no more than brotherly in nature. While Lily might have been shocked to burst in upon Eldyn and Dercy that night at her party, she now seemed to understand and accept the direction in which the romantic attentions of illusionists lay—Eldyn’s own included. At least, since coming to the theater, she had given no indication that her affections with regard to him were anything other than what she might have for a dear friend.
For that, he was very grateful. And while associating with illusionists might bring some discredit with it, at least her honor as a young lady could not be feared for here. Rather, she now had many elder brothers who would go to great lengths to protect her.
E
LDYN SHOULD have been asleep like everyone else.
God knew, he was more than tired enough. All the same, he had not even let himself lay down on the narrow bed in his chamber, for fear he would fall asleep. Instead, he read a copy of
The Comet
, searching for any small kernels of truth among the falsehoods printed upon its pages. Only he saw nothing about how Huntley Morden’s troops continued to advance in the West Country, or how here in the city redcrests had fired into a crowd of people when stones were thrown at them.
Nor was there any mention of Princess Layle, who had not been seen in over a month. Last Eldyn had heard, she was being kept in the Citadel—supposedly for her own protection. More likely she was being imprisoned. Eldyn could only wonder if Valhaine’s witch-hunters had been brought to her room, and what they saw when they did.
Among all the worthless reports in the newspaper, though, there was one story that did win Eldyn’s interest enough for him to read it all the way through. It was an advertising piece regarding the colony that was to be established in the New Lands. While no ships could pass eastward over the ocean at present, due to the
war, reports from the initial scouting party had made it back to Altania just before the coasts were blockaded.
According to the advertisement, a suitable place for the colony had been located upon the edge of the new continent—a fecund landscape characterized by a temperate climate and vast quantities of fish, fowl, and timber ripe for the harvesting. As soon as the current conflict was concluded, the article promised, ships would be sailing for the new colony.
Once again, Eldyn fancied himself standing upon the prow of a ship, facing into a bracing wind, a lush green line thickening upon the horizon ahead. Only this time, in this vision, he did not stand alone. Rather, Dercy was there by his side, his arm draped around Eldyn’s shoulders, his hair and beard as gold as when they had first met, not streaked with pewter as they had been after Lemarck had stolen his light beneath the chapel in High Holy. There was a mischievous grin upon Dercy’s handsome face, and as he gazed forward, his eyes were as green and bright as the sea itself.…