"That’s what Lorelei thought. But as he watched, she spoke the rune with the last of her breath. It lit up with silver, and in front of Lorelei’s eyes the terrible wound sealed itself. Colour returned to her cheeks. Lorelei had saved his love."
"That’s magic," one of the children said.
The old storyteller smiled, "It is indeed. I will continue the story after a short break."
He rose and bowed. The audience clapped, and he left the stage.
Killian couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He looked around him. The people chatted, some hefting large jugs of wine to refill empty glasses. No one seemed to be giving him any special attention. The old man was nowhere to be seen.
Killian stood abruptly, attracting some sideways glances from the other patrons. He left the table and walked to the bar.
"The storyteller, where is he?"
The barman jerked his head towards the back of the room. Killian pushed open a heavy door and entered the kitchen. He was greeted by warm smells of roasting meat, but there was no sign of the old man. There was a second door at the back. He opened it and blinked in the glare of the sun. He was back onto the street, in a dusty alley.
Suddenly he saw the white uniforms of a group of templars on the street, at least three of them. "Woah there," a deep voice said. Killian flattened himself against the wall.
"What is it?" it was the voice of the storyteller.
"We hear you have been peddling blasphemous stories in the taverns."
"Peddling stories? Well, I haven’t asked anyone to pay for them yet. More’s the pity."
"You’d better come with us."
Killian crept forward and poked his head around the corner of the street. He could see four templars. They had started to encircle the storyteller. Killian couldn’t let them catch the old man, he knew what would happen. He knelt down for a moment.
Without dwelling on what he was about to do, he darted forward and grabbed the storyteller by the hand. He thrust out his other hand and threw a handful of dust at the templars, aiming for the eyes.
"Wha—?" the old man said.
Killian pulled him along. "Come with me, old man. You don’t want to know what they have in store for you."
"Argh!" one of the templars cried. "The Evermen curse you, stop right there!"
Killian didn’t turn around.
He led the storyteller back through the door and into the kitchen. He heard the door thud a second time behind him as the chase began. The old man seemed surprisingly spry. Killian pulled down the shelves of pots and pans behind him, ignoring the shrieks and calls that followed him. He grabbed the handle of a huge bubbling pot and pulled it onto the ground behind him, barely avoiding being scalded himself.
He had to find out about the old man’s story — and no one was going to get in his way.
He pushed open the door leading into the dining hall. The patrons were looking at the kitchen with wide eyes. Killian pushed away the clutching hands as he ran, whisking the storyteller through the crowd.
"Stop him!" he heard from behind him.
He pushed open the tavern’s front door. He was back onto the street. The door swung closed behind him. Killian looked left, and then right.
"What are you doing?" the old man panted.
"Saving your hide!"
He looked Killian up and down. "Head left, I know a safe place."
Without pausing to question the old man, Killian started to run, the storyteller beside him. A large crash from inside the tavern spurred his steps.
"Turn left here!" said the storyteller.
They dashed into a side street. It was a plush quarter, where visiting nobles lodged and spent their leisure.
Killian felt resistance and turned to see the old man had stopped outside an ornate wooden door, unmarked and unsigned.
"What is this place?"
"The finest guesthouse in Salvation."
"We can’t go in there! Look at you..."
Then Killian looked at the old man. Gone was the faded white priest’s cassock, it had been replaced with a flowing red coat. He wore a ruby earring with a matching ring. Below the waist he wore leggings of a rich brown material. His boots were high, with a steel buckle. He looked every inch the wealthy merchant.
"How did you do that?"
"Illusion," the man grinned.
"Illusion?"
"It’s a long story. Wait a moment." He took out a white kerchief and dusted off Killian’s coat. "That will have to do. They will think you’re my servant. My badly treated servant," he chuckled. "Come."
He pushed open the door.
Killian’s jaw dropped at the opulence of the entry hall. A thin man in black silk strode up to them, bowing low. "Welcome. Welcome to the Wrenly."
"Thank you," said the storyteller in a pompous voice.
"Do you require lodging, or will you be enjoying your lunch with us today?"
"Lunch for a start, and as for enjoying it, my stomach will be the judge of that," the old man chuckled.
The thin man smiled politely. He looked at Killian, but quickly disregarded him. "Please, come this way." He cleared his throat. "How many should I set the table for?"
"For two, I am in a generous mood. My servant will be joining me."