They did not talk much. Occasionally, Daana ap Dhyrrin leaned over to say something to the ailing king, but Doran ap Mennix only stared ahead into the hall, as if lost in a world very far away from this one.
The one thing the king paid attention to was his jester, Gusteffa the dwarf, a mage-bent jester of the second order like me. The little man was extremely skilled, tumbling, twisting and performing a set of elaborate tricks in the space between the stage and the table where I sat. The court were clearly used to him and ignored his antics, but I watched rapt as he went through the classic iterations without putting any real effort or thought in. Such ease is the mark of a master. He did not deserve to be ignored, and when he finished I clapped him enthusiastically. He gave me a smile, though no doubt those around me thought I was a gauche country boy who was easily impressed.
The room had slowly become thicker with noise and the scent of people. The stink of urine floated through the air and the blessed’s love of kilts was explained. Men and women staggered to the edge of the room to piss in the rushes; waiting slaves would run in and gather up the fouled reeds for disposal. As the light died more slaves appeared, candles were lit, bathing the room in a warm glow, and their smoke mixed with incense to create a thick fug in the air.
Amid the hubbub my master appeared on the floor in front of the stage. She had used a trick, the Simple Invisibility, in which she melted in with the people around her before throwing off her cloak so it seemed she suddenly appeared from nowhere. She was knelt, knees bent, one slim hand on the floor and the other arm pointing up to the ceiling with her fingers extended as if she strived to touch the candelabra far above. Few noticed at first—they were too caught up in conversation and drink—but people slowly realised something was happening and silence settled on the room like snow. My master did not move while she waited for absolute quiet. Gusteffa, in a piece of excellent comic timing, pretended to take a jealous kick at my master and missed, falling on his back and causing a burst of uproarious laughter. The dwarf got up and stalked away as if disgusted at this interloper but he shot me another smile and a wink.
Slowly the laughter died away until there was only the fuzzy hum of whispered conversation.
My master did not move.
It was as if she were frozen, and from her an icy cold spread discomfort across the room: people stopped talking, stopped eating, stopped drinking. Servants and slaves ceased their constant to and fro. When the room was utterly silent my master rose from her position of introduction so all could see her. She wore a single, loose-fitting garment of shiny black slit along the arms, legs and chest to show flashes of the white material beneath. On her head she wore a hat—black, soft and sewn into a long tapering point that fell down her back to end in a small bell which tinkled softly as she moved her head. Her face was painted black, highlighted with white around the orbits of her eyes, her nose, mouth and the line of her jaw. As she surveyed the room with wide eyes she looked like an animated skeleton, causing an excited intake of breath throughout the room.
She jinked, bringing her arms up and bending her left leg so she almost fell to the side, catching herself at the last minute and freezing in an odd, lopsided, position. The room exploded into chatter, “Death’s Jester!” repeated again and again. My master stayed statue-still until silence ruled the room again. Then she went through a set of the iterations, the same tumbles, steps and jumps Gusteffa had been doing earlier but the alchemy of her talent transformed them from something merely amazing into something truly spectacular. The room filled with applause. Clapping hardest of all were Gusteffa and myself because there is a great joy in seeing something you love done well.
When the noise died down my master assumed the posture of the teller: feet together, hands held palms together in front of her chest with her elbows sticking out.
“Gentlefolk, fear no horror or hedging, for I am Death’s Jester.” Her voice filled the room though she spoke quietly. “I am brought here to honour the Festival Lords and the coming of Festival to this ancient castle.” She jinked again, one leg bending and her hands coming up to either side of her face, framing an exaggerated look of surprise. Somewhere behind me a woman squeaked. “To honour them I will dance a story, and the one I have chosen is as ancient and venerable as this castle. I will dance for you. I will dance, Why Xus the Unseen No Longer Shows his Face.”
Another collective intake of breath followed by a burst of noisy chattering. My master stayed still until the room was silent again, though it took far longer this time. This dance was rarely performed as it was seen as ill-omened. While waiting for the noise to die down I watched the faces of those on the top table. None looked happy; Queen Adran looked ready to rip my master’s head from her body, but the king?
The king was smiling.
Why Xus the Unseen No Longer Shows his Face
Before there was imbalance and sourings there was balance and happiness and the gods were as familiar to men as misery is now. The Queen of the Gods, Adallada, held the land in her hands and her consort, Dallad, held the scales that kept the land in balance. Each year the harvest was enough to feed all without surplus or waste. For each drop of rain there was a beam of sunlight. For each hour of darkness there was an hour of light. For each tear there was a smile. For each fortune a misfortune. For every death a birth.
Torelc, the god of time, moved forward but never made any progress. There was the same merry-go-round of seasons: yearsbirth, yearslife, yearsage and yearsdeath going around and around and around. Torelc longed and planned and schemed for change. He saw the magic beneath the land and the power it had, but whenever it seemed like the Adallada would free enough magic to make a real difference she would check her consort’s scales and stop the magic flowing.
So Torelc spoke to Xus, the god of death, who was his brother and friend. He said, “Xus, are you happy?”
“Yes,” said Xus.
“I would have thought you would be lonely,” said Torelc.
“Lonely?” said Xus. “I am never lonely. I am surrounded by people.”
“Yes,” said Torelc, “I suppose you are. But they are never happy to see you.”
“No,” said Xus “they are not. They are always surprised to see me, and sometimes I am unwelcome, but, with time, they understand.”
“But then they leave you and return to the world,” said Torelc.
Now, as time passed, Xus could not stop thinking about what his brother had said. Whenever he turned up to take a life back to his dark palace he saw their misery and he saw the misery of those around them. This hurt him. It was the first time he had felt pain and he did not like it. He could not understand how the mortals coped. With Xus’s understanding of loss came an ache, and Xus, the god of death, sought out Torelc.