“I’ll also admit to the fact that certain arcanists occasionally use prepared candles or torches to impress gullible townsfolk,” Ben said, clearing his throat self-consciously.
My mother laughed. “Remember who you’re talking to, Ben. We’d never hold a little showmanship against a man. In fact, blue candles would be just the thing the next time we play Daeonica. If you happened to find a couple tucked away somewhere, that is.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ben said, his voice amused. “Other signs…one of them is supposed to have eyes like a goat, or no eyes, or black eyes. I’ve heard that one quite a bit. I’ve heard that plants die when the Chandrian are around. Wood rots, metal rusts, brick crumbles….” He paused. “Though I don’t know if that’s several signs, or all one sign.”
“You begin to see the trouble I’m having,” my father said morosely. “And there’s still the question as to if they all share the same signs, or have a couple each.”
“I’ve told you,” my mother said, exasperated. “One sign for each of them. It makes the most sense.”
“My lady wife’s favorite theory,” my father said. “But it doesn’t fit. In some stories the only sign is blue flame. In others you have animals going crazy and no blue flame. In others you have a man with black eyes and animals going mad and blue flame.”
“I’ve told you how to make sense of that,” she said, her irritated tone indicating they’d had this particular discussion before. “They don’t always have to be together. They could go out in threes or fours. If one of them makes fires dim, then it’ll look the same as if they all made the fires dim. That would account for the differences in the stories. Different numbers and different signs depending on how they’re grouped together.”
My father grumbled something.
“That’s a clever wife you’ve got there, Arl.” Ben spoke up, breaking the tension. “How much will you sell her for?”
“I need her for my work, unfortunately. But if you’re interested in a short-term rental, I’m sure we could arrange a reas—” There was a fleshy thump followed by a slightly pained chortle in my father’s baritone. “Any other signs that spring to mind?”
“They’re supposed to be cold to the touch. Though how anyone could know that is beyond me. I’ve heard that fires don’t burn around them. Though that directly contradicts the blue flame. It could—”
The wind picked up, stirring the trees. The rustling leaves drowned out what Ben said. I took advantage of the noise to creep a few steps closer.
“…being ‘yoked to shadow,’ whatever that means,” I heard my father say as the wind died down.
Ben grunted. “I couldn’t say either. I heard a story where they were given away because their shadows pointed the wrong way, toward the light. And there was another where one of them was referred to as ‘shadow-hamed.’ It was ‘something the shadow-hamed.’ Damned if I can remember the name though….”
“Speaking of names, that’s another point I’m having trouble with,” my father said. “There are a couple dozen I’ve collected that I’d appreciate your opinion on. The most—”
“Actually, Arl,” Ben interrupted, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say them out loud. Names of people, that is. You can scratch them in the dirt if you’d like, or I could go fetch a slate, but I’d be more comfortable if you didn’t actually say any of them. Better safe than sore, as they say.”
There was a deep piece of silence. I stopped midsneak with one foot off the ground, afraid they’d heard me.
“Now don’t go looking at me like that, either of you,” Ben said testily.
“We’re just surprised, Ben,” came my mother’s gentle voice. “You don’t seem the superstitious type.”
“I’m not,” Ben said. “I’m careful. There’s a difference.”
“Of course,” my father said. “I’d never—”
“Save it for the paying customers, Arl,” Ben cut him off, irritation plain in his voice. “You’re too good an actor to show it, but I know perfectly well when someone thinks I’m daft.”
“I just didn’t expect it, Ben,” my father said apologetically. “You’re educated, and I’m so tired of people touching iron and tipping their beer as soon as I mention the Chandrian. I’m just reconstructing a story, not meddling with dark arts.”
“Well, hear me out. I like both of you too well to let you think of me as an old fool,” Ben said. “Besides, I have something to talk with you about later, and I’ll need you to take me seriously for that.”
The wind continued to pick up, and I used the noise to cover my last few steps. I edged around the corner of my parents’ wagon and peered through a veil of leaves. The three of them were sitting around the campfire. Ben was sitting on a stump, huddled in his frayed brown cloak. My parents were opposite him, my mother leaning against my father, a blanket draped loosely around them.
Ben poured from a clay jug into a leather mug and handed it to my mother. His breath fogged as he spoke. “How do they feel about demons off in Atur?” he asked.
“Scared.” My father tapped his temple. “All that religion makes their brains soft.”
“How about off in Vintas?” Ben asked. “Fair number of them are Tehlins. Do they feel the same way?”
My mother shook her head. “They think it’s a little silly. They like their demons metaphorical.”
“What are they afraid of at night in Vintas then?”
“The Fae,” my mother said.
My father spoke at the same time. “Draugar.”
“You’re both right, depending on which part of the country you’re in,” Ben said. “And here in the Commonwealth people laugh up their sleeves at both ideas.” He gestured at the surrounding trees. “But here they’re careful come autumn-time for fear of drawing the attention of shamble-men.”
“That’s the way of things,” my father said. “Half of being a good trouper is knowing which way your audience leans.”
“You still think I’ve gone cracked in the head,” Ben said, amused. “Listen, if tomorrow we pulled into Biren and someone told you there were shamble-men in the woods, would you believe them?” My father shook his head. “What if two people told you?” Another shake.
Ben leaned forward on his stump. “What if a dozen people told you, with perfect earnestness, that shamble-men were out in the fields, eating—”
“Of course I wouldn’t believe them,” my father said, irritated. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it is,” Ben agreed, raising a finger. “But the real question is this: Would you go into the woods?”
My father sat very still and thoughtful for a moment.
Ben nodded. “You’d be a fool to ignore half the town’s warning, even though you don’t believe the same thing they do. If not shamble-men, what are you afraid of?”
“Bears.”
“Bandits.”
“Good sensible fears for a trouper to have,” Ben said. “Fears that townsfolk don’t appreciate. Every place has its little superstitions, and everyone laughs at what the folk across the river think.” He gave them a serious look. “But have either of you ever heard a humorous song or story about the Chandrian? I’ll bet a penny you haven’t.”