The Sleeping Life

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.

It seemed a long time before she could hear, and then she listened to Illidian’s heartbeat, ignoring the noises from the stage. When her shaking had gone as well, he stopped smoothing his hand down her back.

"Shall we leave now?"

"Yes." Her voice was very small, and she wondered if Illidian would ever tire of the work she involved.

Kellian strength made it easy for him to carry her to the landing outside, where she made an attempt at standing, and found that she could stay reasonably upright clinging to his arm. A muffled roar broke as they reached the entrance, and she realised it was applause. Then they were out on the street, with all the traffic of the Crossways to deal with, but Illidian signalled and the coach he’d arranged to collect them was fetched from around the corner.

The journey back to barracks escaped her entirely, but she opened her eyes again when Illidian put her down in his quarters. "Something warm to drink," he prescribed, and the idea was a reviving one. Feeling more like herself, she managed to get herself to the privy down the corridor, and even warmed a bowl of water so she could wash before dressing for bed. It was the only time she’d cast that day, and she thought about that until Illidian returned from the kitchens.

He’d found some syrupy Kolan kur, and even dosed it with a tiny amount of spirits, which was something she couldn’t drink in any quantity. But they sat together and it warmed her.

She leaned against him again. "I didn’t know I could fall apart like that."

"Reaction from the attack." He took her empty cup and put it on the floor. "At the time, you pushed it aside. And then you were injured, and when you at last had the time and energy to think, that was not something you wanted to dwell upon. You haven’t had to face the memory until now."

He touched her cheek, then bent his head to kiss her properly for the first time since that one night they’d spent together two months ago. Rennyn was considerably startled, since Illidian had made clear that the thought of hurting her while making love wasn’t something he could bear, and until her ribs had strengthened he’d not risk more than the lightest touch. But he did not draw back, and she was more than happy to keep going, to try not to breathe deeply while Illidian shook with the effort of being entirely slow and gentle. The whole thing was awkward, and probably not very satisfying for either of them, but she didn’t care. She’d hated that they hadn’t been able to consummate their marriage.

"What changed your mind?" she asked, when they had finally settled curled together, breathing unsteadily.

He kissed the top of her head, but took his time answering. "I hadn’t realised how deeply his attack had wounded you," he said at last. "I’ve only been thinking of your physical injuries. And haven’t trusted myself."

Rennyn curled a little closer, aware of both release and conflict in him. That first time they’d made love, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he had struggled with emotions that had knotted his muscles. She never doubted that he loved her, that he was passionately attracted to her, but theirs was a relationship that would always be hopelessly complicated by the power she had over the Kellian, by the nightmare she represented. She was so glad they were at least moving past the constraints placed on them by her injuries.

"Do you think that play will be popular?"

"Very." He sounded resigned. "A number of the scenes are exceptional, and it captures the…distress Tyrians have suffered, that they needed to have spoken aloud."

"Is it better to have a very good play about you that everyone will see, or a very bad play that they will forget?"

"Neither? It makes our departure fortuitous. By the time we return it will be last season’s sensation. To which point, it is past time you slept."

That made Rennyn laugh, and she was even more pleased when her ribs raised no protest. "Do you really think I’ll last more than a few more sentences? Perhaps I should try one of those crowd-stirring speeches." She smiled, thinking of the way the actress pretending to be her had kept stopping in the middle of battles to have little debates with herself, or to be lofty and dismissive to the Sentene.

"So unlikely…" she murmured, blinked, and realised he had moved, had settled in the chair beside the bed to read, as he did every night after she fell asleep because he tried very hard to sleep as little as possible, because he dreamed of horrors and would not risk injuring her waking in fright. That, at least, was something no-one knew to put in a play: that her husband wouldn’t sleep with her.

The evening’s gloss dimmed, she drifted off again, wishing the good things between them could banish the nightmares.