Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,33
like virgin honey. Women dabbed the corners of their eyes as he sang; men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. One woman shouted a marriage proposal eliciting a glare from the man beside her. Khirro listened, appreciating the purity of the singer’s voice, but the heat distracted him, made him fidgety. He stole glances at Elyea watching the troubadour. She smiled, sometimes sang along, but no tears needed dabbing during the sad ballads, lust didn’t smolder beneath as it seemed to do for many of the other women. When she turned to meet Khirro’s gaze, he looked away, blushing like a child caught stealing treats.
The singer finished his act. Women applauded wildly while the men sat, arms crossed, pretending to be relieved it was over. The performer bowed deeply, feather brushing the face of a woman in the front row, then left the stage.
A minute passed as the stage remained empty. A murmur started in one corner near the stage, and spread across the crowd. Khirro fidgeted, wondering if the show was done. The minute stretched on and the whisper grew to a mutter, then a grumble, the crowd agitated by the wait and the heat, but no one got left. As the noise grew to a crescendo, a flash of light on the stage silenced the grumble. Smoke billowed, catching in the peak of the tent, then dissipated to leave a man standing stage center, back to the audience. A black velvet cape cascaded from his shoulders, brushing the floor. The tent and all its occupants waited, breathless with anticipation, until a shout from the back made them jump.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the pitchman announced. “The amazing, astounding, awe-inspiring... Athryn!”
The man spun around, arms extended, cape spread to reveal its blood red lining. The crowd cheered. Khirro stared. The wide sleeves of the man’s white shirt billowed; his blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His garb was impressive, but it was the polished silver mask covering his face that grabbed Khirro’s attention. Anyone looking at him wouldn’t see his face, only themselves, twisted and distorted by the contours of cheek and nose.
The applause continued while the man released the edge of his cape and rolled up his sleeves revealing forearms tattooed with black scrollwork. He raised his arms above his head and the crowd settled. With a flick of his wrist, a coin appeared between his fingers. He tossed the copper into the crowd causing a scuffle, then performed the same act with the other hand.
A magician!
If not for the things he’d seen the Shaman do, Khirro would have expected to go to his grave without witnessing a feat of magic. For as long as he’d been alive, the practice of magic was outlawed in Erechania, except in service of the king. He turned to Elyea.
“How?”
She shrugged. “He won’t tell me.”
“No, I mean how come he hasn’t been arrested?”
“He does nothing wrong, Khirro.” She rested a comforting hand on his knee; her touch returned the heat to his cheeks. “He does nothing but parlor tricks and illusions in public. There’s no harm in a little sleight-of-hand.” She removed her hand and the feeling of guilt and pleasure it had brought went with it.
An illusionist. Trickery, not magic. Khirro settled into his seat, relieved no one would burst into the tent to arrest the man.
For a half-hour, the illusionist made things appear, then disappear, only to pull them from an audience member’s ear or from under their seat. He tore up a sheet of paper and made it whole again. A length of rope writhed about like a snake of its own accord until he cut it with a dagger which appeared out of nowhere, then he made the cord intact again. With each trick, the audience oohed and ahhed, gasped and catcalled. The greater their reactions, the more fervent his performance. Khirro stared, awe preventing him from joining the crowd’s appreciation. It wasn’t true magic, but it was impressive.
The time came for the finale. The illusionist surveyed the audience, his mirrored mask reflecting their distorted faces back at them, and a hush fell as he spoke for the first time.
“For my final feat, I shall need the assistance of a woman of unsurpassed beauty.”
A forest of female arms thrusting into the air blocked Khirro’s view of the stage. It looked as though every woman in the tent wanted to be chosen.
“Fool yourselves not, m’ladies, this requires bravery as well as beauty. There is danger involved.”