The sorceress stood in the back of the crowd, leaning on her silver half-staff, peering through that strange spyglass.Or … No, not a spyglass, Llewyn saw now.It was only a couple of finger-spans long, unlikely to extend the reach of her vision by much.More like a jeweller’s loupe.The sorceress held it to her right eye, her gaze fixed on Siwan.With luck, it would occlude her peripheral vision on that side, giving him an angle to approach unnoticed.Siwan’s voice drifted from the stage, the key changing to minor, the metre shifting, the words a lamentation.
‘Autumn’s turn brought frigid winds,
The slow death and decay,
A rift between your world and mine,
As blue skies faded grey.’
Llewyn crept behind the crowd, inching closer to the sorceress, looking for telltale folds in her clothing where gemstones might be hidden, but finding none.There was only the silver staff, the strange loupe, and a glimmer in the lantern light on the inner edge of her left hand.Lines like silver writing, too intricate for him to make sense of at such a distance.All obviously magical, yet none like anything he had encountered before.
Looking would yield nothing.Whatever power the woman wielded, it fell beyond the bounds of Llewyn’s experience.His thumb brushed the smoothed skin of his thumb, where he had worn a silver band.The Grey Lady’s vast knowledge was lost to him.He was alone, and faced with an unknown threat.
The wise thing would be to wait.Inform Afanan about the woman.Have her place wards around the stage and the troupe’s camp.Investigate, as best he could on his own, to determine whether the best course was to confront the sorceress, ignore her, or flee.
‘I know this will come off as hypocritical, but it isn’t polite to stare,’ the sorceress said, turning to face him without lowering her loupe.A smile crept across her face.‘My,my—you’re almost as interesting as she is.Well, half as interesting, anyway.What are you, exactly, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Llewyn was taken aback, unsure of how to proceed.‘I’m sorry?’
At last the sorceress returned the loupe to her pocket.‘Never mind.We can talk about that later.My name is Fola.You are…?’
‘Lyn, of the Silver Lake Troupe,’ Llewyn said, falling back on old habits.Her genial affect had slipped past his defences and baffled his guard.
‘And what can I do for you, Master Lyn?’Fola asked.
‘I wanted to thank you for your generosity,’ Llewyn answered.‘My colleague told me of the wealth you shared with us.An unusual gift.’
She blinked at him, a slight frown of annoyance creasing her brow.‘What can I say, Master Lyn?I am a lover of the arts.’
‘There are many troupes of artists here who might appreciate your custom and attention,’ Llewyn said.‘Might I ask why you have chosen to shower so much of it on us?’
Fola seemed to consider this, then turned back to the stage.‘Your daughter is very talented, isn’t she?’
He felt his bones creaking around the handle of his sword-turned-cane, still tucked in the crook of his arm.‘She is talented, but she is not my daughter.’
‘She isn’t?’Fola cocked her head.‘I would have thought… Well, no matter.You’re welcome for the donation, Master Lyn.If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to meet this girl Siwan the Blackbird when she is finished performing.Could that be arranged?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’Llewyn glanced at the crowd between them and the stage.If he was quick, he could slash her throat before she had a chance to react, then retreat to the shadows.Assuming she was not defended by some unseen spell.‘She is a very private person.Deathly shy, in truth.Hence the mask when she goes on stage.I will convey your admiration, but I am afraid that will have to suffice.’
‘Really?’Fola seemed amused, then her mouth twisted in distaste.‘And if I doubled my donation?’
Jareth would have fainted at the thought.Llewyn thought of the druid in the clearing at Llysbryn and nearly ran the sorceress through, but stayed his hand.He would manoeuvre out of this conversation, and as soon as Siwan was finished performing, they would run.Where, he could not begin to guess, but far enough for this Fola woman to never find them.It would break Siwan’s heart to leave the troupe, the nearest thing she had to a family.She would hate him forever.Call him as cruel as the man in the song she sang.
‘Alas,’ he said, ‘not everything is for sale, Lady Fola.’
She barked a laugh, then covered her mouth and shook her head.‘An unusual attitude, Master Lyn,’ she said when she had recovered.‘At least in this part of the world.But one I can respect.Alas, if I am not to meet the young lady, I would at least like to enjoy the rest of her performance.It was pleasant to chat with you.Perhaps we will have the opportunity again in the future.’
Fola returned her attention to the stage, pointedly ignoring Llewyn.A quick blow to the back of her neck while sharpening the edge of his cane, and this threat would be dealt with.Others would follow in its wake—the four-armed companion he had seen with her in the procession, for one—but her death would buy time and an opportunity to disappear.
Afanan’s voice echoed in the reaches of his memory—‘all things deserve to live’—an ideal he had already broken once in Siwan’s defence.Fear had driven him then to the glade to put his sword through the druid’s heart and spine.‘You should be proud of yourself,’ Afanan had told him.
The fear was still there, gnawing his bones.
The Grey Lady, too, had been always afraid.
This Fola woman had no weapon drawn, no spell to hand.Killing her in cold blood would make Llewyn no better than those who thought Siwan ought to be killed for the danger she represented, whether real or imagined.No better than he had been when he was only a blade in the Grey Lady’s hand.Before the troupe.Before Afanan, who was kind to him, and who thought better of him than he thought of himself.
Fear is no easy thing to overcome.
