Feltheryn the Thespian, the troupe’s founder, director and star, took his place before a post that was going to become a tree as soon as the carpenters got around to it, and thumped his staff against the floor. Simpering girlishly, Glisselrand scurried across the stage after him and took his elbow.
“Tell me, my daughter, where have you come to now
With your blind old father? What is this place, my child?”
Feltheryn’s stentorian tones rang out with remarkable resonance for a monarch as enfeebled as he was supposed to be.
“It’s little I ask, and am well content with less.
Three masters-pain, time, and the royalty in the blood-
Have taught me patience-”
The stage shuddered as something large and heavy hit the floor. Feltheryn broke off and turned. “Patience!” he roared. “Gods give me patience-I have to work with fools!”
“It was the hoist,” came a plaintive voice from backstage. “It wasn’t my fault, master-the rope slipped-”
“Lempchin! You misbegotten son of a sheep-swiving Rankan!” He gathered breath, and ominous tones rolled across the stage. “What fell?”
There was a silence, and Lalo bent to gather up the brushes that had been knocked from their stand.
“It was … the thunder machine.”
“Vashanka’s rod! Do you know how much that thing cost? A gift from the Prince himself it was, and after everything-” he took a deep breath, then launched into a monologue of sorrows as eloquent as anything in the play.
Lalo found that he had put the brushes back into their case instead of on the stand, and grimaced. How could anyone be expected to painteven to paint scenery-with this sort of thing going on? Darkness had fallen an hour ago. Gilla would already be angry with him for being late, but perhaps dinner would not be completely cold. He was hungry and tired. As Feltheryn stormed backstage to survey the damage, Lalo finished capping his paints and putting them away, strapped the brush case to his belt, and headed for the door.
“Oh Lalo, are you going already?” Glisselrand called after him. He mumbled something about Gilla and continued up the aisle. “Yes, do give my love to dear Gilla-I’m working on a shawl for her-rose-colored yarn with lemon yellow and a lovely purple from Carronne. . . .” As the door closed behind him Lalo could still hear her describing the color scheme.
He shook his head. The tea cozy had been bad enough. The thought of a shawl large enough to cover Gilla. … He shuddered. And Gilla would insist on keeping it! He wondered if he could persuade her to keep it somewhere out of sight. . . . Still contemplating the horror of Glisselrand’s sense of color unleashed on something the size of a shawl, he hurried on through the darkness.
Lalo had rounded the comer of the Serpentine and was starting down when he became aware of the footsteps behind him. Close-too closethey must have been waiting in an alley, or perhaps his own abstraction had kept him from hearing them before. Reaching for his knife, he started to turn.
Shadows rushed toward him. Beyond them he glimpsed the mocking grimace of the Vulgar Unicorn on its sign as the door of the tavern opened and light streamed into the road.
“Help! Thieves! Help me!” Lalo knew the futility of his shout even as it left his throat. His knife glinted as he brought it up. He struck something soft, heard a grunt and leaned into the blade. Then a blow numbed his hand and the knife went skittering across the stones. He lifted his useless arm to guard his head. Someone laughed-his attackers, or the men who were coming out of the Unicom?
This can’t be happening now, Lalo thought in confusion as he was knocked against a wall. Not after so many years! Not so close to home-a blade flashed toward his shoulder; he dodged and felt the sting as its tip scored his arm-as if I were a foreigner or a fool!
How could he have been caught this way? Someone grabbed for the case that held his brushes and Lalo struck out, tried to duck as he sensed something falling towards him, but not fast enough, not quite fast-
The shock of the blow stopped the world.
Light and shadow, the hoarse gasps of his assailants and the shouting beyond them all faded as his senses whirled away.
Gilla, I’m sorry-
And then both regret and pain were extinguished as Lalo fell endlessly downward into the dark.
Darkness . . . a musty smell that makes the nose wrinkle. Limbs stiff from spelled sleep, stretch, lungs draw in stale air. Dust tickles dry nostrils. and Darios wakes fully with a sneeze. Ears strain, but there is only the sound of his own ragged breathing. He sneezes again.
I’m alive! I survived! Even in the darkness, Darios can feel his skin flush with pride. He remembers the panic as the defenses of the Mageguild began to unravel, remembers collapsing walls, and the roar of rioting crowds. They were all running-apprentices and masters as well. Did none of the others remember this vault beneath the stables sealed by potent magics before ever the Nisibisi rose in the North or the Beysib sailed into Sanctuary’s bay? Those magics would last as long as the Mageguild, preserve him in a timeless trance as long as-
-As long as its wards remained intact, until a ranking Hazard came to set him free. . . .
But Darios is alone in the vault, and the doors are still sealed.
He swallows, reaches out and touches cold stone. Exploring fingers find wetness. Water is sliding down the wall from somewhere above. Darios brings his fingers to his mouth, and the moisture enables him to swallow. He takes a deep breath and pronounces a Word …
But the darkness remains unbroken. For the first time, Darios feels the chill touch of fear.
From the sounds around him it must be morning. Lalo took a deep breath, winced as pain split his skull, and thought better of trying to open his eyes. But it was not the throbbing ache that came from drinking-it had been years since he had felt that particular pain-and already he was remembering swift footsteps and the scuffle in the dark.
I’m still alive! he realized in wonder.
“Are you back with us, then, you foolish man?” asked Gilla. “What were you thinking of, to take that route home at night, alone?”
Anxiety had sharpened her voice, but Lalo smiled. Even her scolding was welcome when he had not expected ever to hear it again.
“You’ve been luckier than you deserve!” she went on. “Dubro was sure you were dead when he found you with that great gash in your skull.” That was probably true, thought Lalo, remembering the blow, as if Feltheryn’s thunder machine had fallen on him. “Sit up now, and I’ll give you something to help with the pain.”
Biting his lip, Lalo got his elbows under him, and then, very carefully, opened his eyes. But he must have been wrong about the time, for it was quite dark still-
“Open your mouth-”
“Light a lamp first,” he answered. “So that I can see the spoon.”
“A lamp? I’ll open the shutters wider if you want more light, but why -” Gilla did not finish. There was a moment’s silence, then a breath of air brushed his forehead.
“Lalo-” she said tightly. “Why didn’t you blink? Didn’t you see my hand?”
“No . . .” He turned towards the sound of her voice, straining to see despite the pain that pulsed frantically against the confines of his skull. He reached out, and felt the strong grip of her work-roughened fingers clasp his.
“No. Gilla, I can’t see anything at all!”
After that, Lalo supposed he must have become hysterical, tearing at the dressings on his head until agony slammed shut the doors of consciousness again. When he woke once more, his eyes were bandaged. Blind … he thought, as memory replayed what had happened. Will it go away? What am I going to do?
For a week they waited for his head to heal, hoping that the blindness would go away. The Prince sent his own physician, who examined the wound and clucked solicitously, prattling of evil humours and the aspects of the stars until Gilla booted him out the door. Wedemir came, and came again with the chirurgeon from the garrison, a man who seemed more knowledgeable, but hardly more encouraging. He could only tell them that he had seen a blow on the head cause blindness on the battlefield. Usually sight returned in a few days.
“But not always?” asked Wedemir. Lalo could hear them whispering in the corner. They did not realize how the loss of one sense focused concentration on those that remained.
“Not always-” the soldier agreed. He did not know why Lalo’s sight had been affected, and the only treatment that he could recommend was time. “Are you coming, Wedemir?” The chirurgeon’s voice faded and then grew louder, as if he had reached the doorway and then turned.