Fallon’s father talked happily of friezes and columns all through the afternoon. It was the most like his proper self Fallon had seen him since Auri’s miscasting, and he had to wonder at the transformation. One thing everyone said of Kellian was they hardly spoke, and it was difficult to imagine the taciturn Lord Surclere in lively conversation about art. But probably Fallon’s father had done most of the talking.
It wasn’t possible. The plan had never included leaving the city. Certainly hadn’t envisaged a teacher as burdened as he, the power of her focus lost, her casting limited by a physical fragility which surpassed Fallon’s own. And no plan could ever involve leaving Father at risk of exposure.
After achieving what he’d thought impossible, Fallon would have to give it up.
Chapter Six
Rennyn felt like a child sneaking a tart from the pantry, and realised that seeing The Black Queen was the first true indulgence she’d managed since being injured. Tomorrow they’d leave on the Uncle Hunt, but she felt she’d earned at least a night to pander to her curiosity.
It had gone very well so far. They had arrived nearly late, and walked unremarked through a rapidly emptying foyer. Rennyn was dressed in some of Seb’s clothes, with her hair caught into a tail, and her brother had added the most minor of illusion spells to make her look more like a boy.
The door that belonged to Captain Medan’s key was up only one flight of stairs, and the little cup-shaped balcony beyond was conveniently toward the back of the playhouse, away from the glow of the stage. Seated in the rear pair of the four chairs, they were in no danger of catching a casual eye and were comfortably out of the heaving press below.
The strange, tall room throbbed with excitement, rowdy but good-humoured, and Rennyn could not even regret that her first time at the theatre was to see a play that was sure to annoy. Her main concern was being able to hear anything, as a flushed man came onstage to welcome everyone only to be drowned out by jeers and cheers and the shout of someone objecting to a shower of peel tossed down from above. The man bowed and left to be replaced by the first two actors, and thankfully the hubbub dropped to a dull murmur when the pair began to speak.
Solace Montjuste-Surclere and her Eferum-born son Helecho, discussing their plans to escape the Eferum and claim Tyrland. Neither of the actors looked like their subjects and Rennyn was more interested when those two left and a bit of painted canvas moved aside to show a woman curtseying before another on a throne. Lady Weston bringing news of the Grand Summoning, and of a strange woman who had warned of an incursion in Asentyr. Rennyn thought it very clever that the canvas returned to hide the throne as the pretend Lady Weston crossed to the other side of the stage, moving to a different place and day. Someone behind the scenes was playing with mageglows, and everything became a lot darker as four more people stepped into the remaining pool of light.
The gold-worked insignia of a famous uniform blazed, the Montjuste phoenix appearing to move on its own, but then the four loosened their high, concealing collars and became Sentene preparing for battle. Two looked like they’d had a sack of flour dropped over them, which was a far from accurate way of illustrating the effect of light on Kellian, but Rennyn supposed it got the point across. One was meant to be Illidian, and the other Sarana Illuma, and it was disappointing that they hadn’t even tried to reproduce the attenuated quality of a Kellian’s voice, though the crisp discussion of preparations for an incursion of Eferum-Get inside the city’s protective circle was very typical.
Beside her, Illidian straightened, and she looked up, trying to make out his expression in the gloom. Kellian were very difficult to see in dim light, but she could feel a tension in him.
"What’s wrong?"
He didn’t answer immediately, then sat back as all the people on stage ran off in response to a shout. "Parts of that were word-for-word," he replied, not sounding pleased. "From the meeting we had earlier that day."
"Oh." This could grow complicated. "One of the Sentene helped write this?"
"Or the Ferumguard." He let out his breath, and then curled his fingers over her nearest hand. "More a breach of courtesy than of the rules that govern our service. I could wish that whoever it was had taught them to hold their swords less haphazardly."
Rennyn had no idea of the proper way to hold a sword, and so was more than content to lean against Illidian’s arm and watch the actors pretending to fight shadows as the room filled with the sounds of musket shot, clashing metal, and a monstrous howling.
The whole attack had been a disaster. No preparation could have anticipated the hundreds of creatures that had escaped into the city. Rennyn had heard it called the Black Night, or the Night of Claws, and she felt in the hush that fell over the room her own dismay at the deluge. There had been no containing so many, and there were sure to be more than a few here who had lost those they knew and loved, or been attacked themselves. The crowd grew stiller and ever more silent as desperation crept into the Sentene’s hard-pressed battle to save the city.
The woman who stalked out onto stage spoke some of the words Rennyn had said, and pulled the Eferum-Get back to be killed as Rennyn had done. The dress she wore revealed a lusher figure than Rennyn possessed, and she did not look particularly like a Surclere, but if she was trying to live up to the Surclere reputation for arrogance she succeeded. She was rude to simply everyone, particularly the Kellian. Especially Captain Faille.
"There’s not very much of Solace in this."
"Cause, not subject."
Very true. The Black Queen might lie behind events, but the play was about an accomplished soldier whose world was turned upside-down. First by a woman he did not want to admire, and then by the denial of his people’s humanity, and a threat to their very selves. Rennyn had been worried that parts of the play might upset Illidian, since they were sure to at least touch upon the injuries the Black Queen had inflicted. She had not imagined that her husband would be publicly dissected.
The story of a hero: not wholly inaccurate, and far from uncomplimentary. The audience had been raptly attentive since the battle in Asentyr, and Rennyn could feel their response to each setback. Whoever was behind this had a very real understanding of the Kellian, but a sympathetic portrayal did not leave Illidian any less exposed. He was a hard man to upset, but the muscles in his arm had not relaxed since she’d commented on the play’s name, and she thoroughly regretted her indulgence even before the woman pretending to be her struck a pose and asked the crowd: "How can I in conscience want such a man?"
Rennyn was so focused on Illidian’s feelings that her own reaction blindsided her. They had reached that final day of the Grand Summoning, and her Wicked Uncle had said: "Wake up, cousin" to bring her out of the sleep casting he’d used to subdue the city. Rennyn listened to the actor gloating, wondering if the audience would be confused by the way he called her cousin because it was easier than many-times great-niece. And then the woman who was not her was pretending to be bitten and suddenly Rennyn couldn’t look, couldn’t breathe. She turned her head and hid her eyes against Illidian’s arm, blood pounding in her ears in response to remembered pain, the disgusting noise he had made as he drank, and a sense of being crushed, of being invaded by something trying to force her into a different shape, and then the wrench of power going awry, laying an extra level of sickness on top of hateful touch—
Shuddering, Rennyn realised she’d been moved, pulled into Illidian’s lap so he could hold her to his chest and stroke her back. She could not catch her breath, could not hear over the roaring in her ears or even control her trembling, could only stare at the creature she’d become: so vulnerable and so weak.