illusionist made a show of searching the audience and each time his gaze passed a section of women, their arms stretched higher. Finally he pointed toward the back of the tent. Khirro felt a twinge: it looked like the magician pointed at him.
“At the back. Would the strawberry-haired goddess please honor me?”
Elyea popped to her feet and skipped down the aisle, a whisper from the crowd following her as she made her way to the stage. Khirro stared after her, an unexpected finger of dread poking at his mind.
He said it could be dangerous.
“What’s your name, lass?” The illusionist offered his hand to help her on to the stage.
“Whore,” a woman yelled. The illusionist trained his gaze on the heckler, the emotionless face cast upon his mask chastising her. The audience fell silent.
“There is no judgment in this tent,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “We are all people in the eyes of the Gods.” He turned his attention to Elyea again. “Your name?”
“Elyea.”
She smiled widely looking every bit the goddess, then curtsied in the direction of the woman who’d called out the epithet. A few men in the audience snickered.
“Are you afraid, Elyea?” Her smile didn’t falter as she shook her head. “Fear is not always a bad thing. Much like the pain of a hot object keeps us from getting hurt, so fear keeps us safe from dangers.”
He grasped her shoulders and positioned her center stage facing the audience. Appreciation for the curve of her body, the fall of her hair, dulled the dread tickling Khirro’s gut.
“Fear of entering the woods at night keeps us from encountering the foraging bear. Fear of the stage keeps us from embarrassment before our peers.”
He gestured to the audience. Khirro nodded at his words—he’d become well acquainted with fear over the days since the Kanosee launched their attack against the Isthmus Fortress. And it only got worse from there.
The illusionist moved to the back of the stage, reached behind the curtain, and pulled out a velvet blanket of purple so dark it might have been black.
“But sometimes fear keeps us from experiencing new things, things that might change our lives forever.” He shook the shroud out with a snap. “Fear not, my lady.”
“Elyea.”
“Fear not, Elyea. This will not hurt. All that is required of you is stand there looking beautiful, something at which I can see you are well practiced.”
At the front of the stage, he whirled the velvet cover around his head with a flourish, showing the lighter purple lining for the audience to see there was nothing unusual about it. The muscles in Khirro’s thighs tightened, his breath shallowed.
“Close your eyes,” the illusionist instructed. “Keep your arms at your sides.”
He spun the cerement over her head and it floated down like an autumn leaf fallen from a tree, covering her completely. All movement in the tent ceased save for the illusionist stalking around Elyea’s covered form, gesturing and whispering. Women stopped fanning themselves, men leaned forward in their seats. It seemed the entire audience held its breath.
The illusionist’s gesticulations held an authenticity that reminded Khirro of the Shaman. His movements might simply be masterful showmanship, but Khirro felt there was more to it. A shiver ran down his spine as the Shaman’s pale skin came to mind, and the black sword hidden in the brush at the edge of the village. The things he’d seen would change the way he looked at the world forever.
A flutter at the right of the stage drew Khirro’s attention. He looked closer and saw the jester peering out from a crack between the canvas and the curtain.
A fellow entertainer enjoying the act or part of the trick?
He watched the illusionist more intently, glancing occasionally at the little man. The other tricks had been beyond his understanding, but perhaps he could figure out how he performed this legerdemain.
Athryn circled Elyea once more, his gestures more pronounced. With a final grand motion, he swept the cloth away. The crowd sucked in its breath with a collective whoosh and Khirro’s jaw dropped. Only empty air remained where Elyea had stood beneath the purple cover. Scattered claps broke the silence, quickly multiplying until the tent exploded with applause. The audience jumped to their feet showing their admiration. Khirro remained seated.
“Don’t bring the harlot back,” the woman in front of Khirro shouted, her words barely audible over the din.
It quickly became apparent the woman would have her wish. The illusionist spread his arms and bowed deeply three times—once to