“The Maestro found you and your mother first. He was still a member of the Blacklegs at the time and they were hired to retake Oliviamonde. When they set out they were moving very cautiously. No one knew if the Conde and his men had actually left the town or if they were lying in ambush somewhere close by so Mastroianni’s squad had to pick their way from building to building, checking for traps. Worse, parts of the town were still burning and the survivors were trying to douse the flames, which just made things more complicated. It must have been grim work.
“They didn’t get to the center of town until dusk was creeping in but he first heard you long before that. He told me later that you must have been the only orphan left in the town with the strength left to cry. So he made a note of where you were and went on. Once Oliviamonde was secure he made his way back to see what was making such a racket.
“The Maestro is a man of many talents but skill with children is not among them, as you yourself have doubtless noticed over the years. So he sent a runner that brought me to meet him near the town gates. We found you and your mother behind a small house with a leather workshop, cradled in your mother’s arms and crying your lungs out. You were much more willing to make yourself known, then. The sun had set and, though it wasn’t full night yet, the King of Stars had scattered a few of his servants in the sky to light the way.
“We took it as an omen. Your mother told us how much she had loved you, how hard she worked to keep you safe, but there was nothing left she could do for you. I took you from her and Mastroianni moved her to the square. She was buried the next day.
“Unfortunately something had cut you during your escape and the wound festered over time. For a while I thought we might lose you. When things looked desperate, I convinced Mastroianni to let me burn the sickness from you. It was touch and go for a while but you lived. I’ve often wondered if that was luck, your own vigor or perhaps something a bit more, but I suspect we’ll never know.
“After it was all said and done, the Maestro’s appetite for the life of a mercenary was sated. He mustered out of the Blacklegs and we decided to make an honest life out of it – if you can call the theater honest. The rest, I’m sure you remember for yourself.”
Andre had closed his eyes and listened to Isobela’s tale, trying to set aside his familiarity with the story and hear it fresh. When she finished he pondered her words for a moment, comparing it to what he’d heard from the King of Scars, then sighed. “Isobela, why did you never tell me my mother was dead when you found me?”
A subtle change in the air signaled a change in her mood. He felt her weight shift and opened one eye to find Isobela staring down at him, radiating concern. “Did Mastroianni tell you that?”
He sat up, shaking his head. “No, Isobela. I… it’s hard to explain. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, you were too young, at first.” She spread her hands as if asking what else he expected her to do. “We didn’t tell you about the burning of the town or her burial at first either, though I don’t suspect you remember that version of the story. We added those details when you got old enough to ask about them. Then you stopped asking for the story at all. I don’t think you’ve asked to hear it in five or six years. What brought this on?”
He ignored the question, wrestling with the thing that really bothered him. “So you lied when you said she told you she tried to keep me safe. How could she tell you anything if she was already dead?”
“Oh, Andre…” She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him from the side, a simple gesture of reassurance. “How long has this been bothering you?”
Isobela waited patiently for him to do the soul searching he needed to find an answer. “I think since I stopped asking you about her.”
“I see.” It was Andre’s turn to wait as she gathered her thoughts. “Maybe it’s hard for you to understand, being so young. Your mother didn’t have to speak words for us to understand what she was telling us. She didn’t have to know that the Maestro and I would find you to leave us a message we would understand. She put herself between you and danger. She tore her own skirt to make a bandage to staunch your cut, a wound so close to the lifeblood in your neck few would blame her if she had given up on you immediately.”
She took the blanket and gently draped it around Andre’s shoulders. “When she reached the last of her strength she swaddled you in her cloak, made sure you would still be wrapped in her embrace even when her arms no longer had the power to keep you close. It told us everything she thought louder than a town crier, screaming it from the city walls. Yes, your mother was dead when we found you but not even passing beyond the gates of Eternity could keep her from telling us how much she loved you.”
“Why -”
“It was too heavy, Andre.” Isobela shook her head, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Mastroianni and I felt the full weight of what she did for you and we feared it would be a burden that would warp you. It wasn’t just the way she died. There were portents, Andre. The way the Maestro heard your cries above all the other noise of the town, the way the stars shone early, giving us more light to find you by, the way you survived so much that should have made an end of you. It was more than a child should have to reckon with.”
“Why would the Kings at the Corners send omens for someone like me?”
She wrung her hands, clearly upset by the question, but Isobela still made herself answer. “They say everyone who dies can make an appeal to the King who comes for them and, if their case is just, they will be returned to life again. Each of us must make our case alone – with two exceptions. A husband may intervene on behalf of their wife…”
“And a mother on behalf of her child,” Andre finished.
“Yes.”
He ran his fingers along the rough edges of the scar on the side of his neck. “It seems they leave us a reminder of their generosity, as well.”
“Perhaps so.” She gave him an uncertain look. “Andre, maybe it wasn’t right for us to keep all this from you for so long. I suppose it must have made itself known somehow, lying here the last day or so with nothing but your injuries to haunt your dreams. But at the least I hope you won’t make any decisions until you’ve had a little more time to clear your head.”
Andre frowned. “What kinds of decisions?”
“Don’t play coy,” Isobela said, some of her usual fire coming back into her expression. “I know you haven’t felt comfortable with your place in the troupe. But if the last few days have inspired you to some new way of life… at least wait to start on it until you can rethink it in the light of day.”
She was expecting him to leave the troupe, Andre realized, which drew a smile out of him. “We’ll see. Do you know where the Maestro is right now?”
It turned out he was at the stern of the ship, whittling the end of a long, straight stick while watching Fionni slowly fade into the distance. When he spotted Andre picking his way across the deck he called, “Look who’s awake.”
Andre joined him at the ship’s railing, saying, “What’s the news, Maestro?”
“We’re headed towards Ansio.”
“And from there to Torrence,” Andre added. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“Our last show in Fionni was canceled.”
“Isobela mentioned that, as well.”
Mastroianni shot him a sideways look. “There were strange tales in the streets of Fionni our last day there.”
“Strange tales?”
“Of someone they called the Blacklight.” The Maestro raised his arm up in front of his face, speaking with a muffled voice like a lurking villain in a throwaway scene. “He came from underhill to burn the fortress! He despises law and order and turns criminals loose from their bonds! A truly blackhearted creature with no respect for the Magistrate!”
Andre choked back a laugh. “Well, the rumors we hear on the street are rarely true.”
“Oh?” Mastroianni lowered his arm, revealing a wide grin. “Then he did not save a princess in captivity, either? Great men owe him no debts of gratitude? He did not defy the corrupt and powerful of Nerona?”
The mirth quickly left him when he heard the Maestro’s questions. “No to all three, sir. The Blacklight isn’t real.”
“Of course he’s not.” Mastroianni stared out to sea once more, his big grin shrinking to a knowing smile. “He’s a story. A whisper of the truth we hold on to, because the full extent of what is real isn’t ours to know. The Blacklight is a part, Andre. People spread tales about him in the hope that one day they’ll know the whole.”
Andre frowned, wondering if that was why so many people wanted to speak with the Maestro after a show. “What happens when they find out the whole?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out. There’s a reason actors rarely stay in one place long.” He clapped the young man on the back and said, “That’s one of the secrets of performing! Don’t overstay your welcome.”
The impact made Andre wince but he shook it off and said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Another secret is to learn every skill your role could possibly need.” The Maestro studied the end of his stick with a critical eye then handed it to Andre while he picked up a wooden case almost as long as his arm off the deck beside them.
He opened it and extracted a spearhead with a blade so long it was almost a sword. Taking the stick back, Mastroianni slid the spearhead onto the shaft and tested the fit. Then, once he was satisfied, he took a pin out of the box and handed the container to Andre while he took up a hammer and began to drive the pin through the spearhead and shaft. As he worked, Andre asked, “What is that?”
“A memento of my days in the Blacklegs.” He tested the fit on the weapon and frowned. “It will do for now.”
“Do for what?”
“For you to start learning to conjure it.” The Maestro pushed it back into his hands and got to his feet. “Once you can conjure it I’ll teach you to use it.”
Andre stared at the weapon in shock. The Maestro had never offered to teach him stage combat, much less the real thing. “Why?”
Mastroianni looked at him in surprise. “Why? Are you going to leave the troupe, Andre?”
“No, not any time soon.”
“I didn’t think so.” The big man folded his arms over his chest and grinned at him once more. “I know a man who’s found his part better than anyone. Did you feel ready for it?”
Andre thought back to all the times he had felt the exact opposite in the last few days. “Do I really have to wait to start learning?”
The Maestro laughed and clapped him on the back once more. “Maybe not. Let’s see if the Captain can spare a place on the deck for us to rehearse.”
