BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

appear, he said, “I speak the truth as plainly as I know how. My will is committed to serving your own. In the context of my function as an Allear, it is to assist the Authority in the detection and capture of the Music Makers. It is what I am trained to do; it is all I want to do. Your goal is mine.”

Blix studied his face, intent on reading expression in his eyes. Then it occurred to her why it was, indeed, such a struggle. She recalled what Wulfwin had said to her, how he lacked passion. No fire and fury. That was it, she realised. It was like gazing into glass marbles – lifeless orbs. Satisfied for the time being, she nodded once, then looked away, into the dormitory. “They are here because they passed the Test. If they fail to pass the training, it is because you have failed to realise their potential. If you like, their training is your Test. You are thoroughly expendable. You’ll do well to remember that.” She turned and walked slowly down the hallway.

Dent stared at her retreating form. Beads of sweat broke ranks, forming and falling down his brow. His mind scrutinised the exchange. He believed he had spoken in all honesty, expressing genuine commitment. So why do I feel like I’ve already failed? he thought.

Chapter Sixteen

Chase shuffled along with the crowd, emerging into the murky haze of dusk. Somehow, the space inside the big top had remained clear of the otherwise pervasive airborne sand. Stepping into the dust cloud was a sudden, unpleasant reminder of how difficult it had become to breathe.

“Chase?” called a voice from behind him. He turned around to see a shadow enlarge as someone approached. “I thought it was you.”

“Oh. Hello, Ursel.”

Ursel was still in costume, heavy face paint making her appear strangely unfamiliar. She had removed the long, white wig that had made her almost unrecognisable on stage. Smiling, she ran her hand through her hair, which clung to her temples, damp and compressed. “I thought I saw you in the audience. You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“It was last minute.” He faltered, thrown by a strange disorientation.

“Have you got time for a drink? We can go to the catering tent. I’ll shout you a Pyncher.”

Chase hesitated, grappling with the unexpected. Then he said, “Sure,” and followed Ursel away from the departing crowd.

She led him first to her yurt, saying, “Wait out here. I’ll be five minutes,” before disappearing inside. To Chase’s relief, she emerged looking like the Ursel he knew: stage make-up and costume removed, replaced with a simple grey tunic and a touch of eyeliner. “Come on, let’s get that drink,” she said.

The catering tent was little more than a large awning spanning several long trestle tables, banked by benches. Mismatched lengths of fabric had been pegged to the awning’s edge, creating makeshift walls, in an effort to keep out the cloud. Inside and at one end was a wooden caravan, its side opened up to reveal a basic kitchen. Before it stood a long table, behind which a man and a woman served bowls of steaming soup and fist-thick chunks of bread. Ursel walked up to the far end of the table, to a large pitcher and stacked glasses. She helped herself, filling two glasses. “Here you go,” she said, handing one to Chase, who hung behind her.

Many of the performers who Chase had just seen on stage began wandering into the tent, chatting as they queued for soup. Ursel led Chase to a corner furthest from the kitchen. They sat down, facing each other. “What did you think of the show?” she asked.

“I enjoyed it. I was surprised how much.”

“You’ve not seen The One-Legged Crow before, then?”

“I’ve not seen anything at the Circus. Although, I know the story. Everyone does.”

“Well, I hope you think we do it justice. It’s important we capture the essence. That’s the whole point. Our efforts are redundant otherwise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole idea of the Telltale Circus is to enact the crux of the tale, the kernel of truth at the heart of the story. The founders believed in the oral tradition, spreading the word to keep it alive. They recognised that the message of a folktale is just as relevant outside of the community it came from.”

“Then why did they stop travelling?”

“That’s the question.”

Chase frowned, bemused. “And?”

“I’ve yet to know the answer.” A smile crept into her eyes. “But that’s okay. A question only becomes a problem if it’s not addressed.” She tipped her head towards the tattoo on her shoulder. “As long as we keep asking ‘why’, we’ll discover the answer eventually.”

“Don’t you ever want to move on?”

“This is my home. Despite my travelling forefathers, I’ve only ever known Wydeye. And besides,” she added, lowering her voice, “there’s more than stories to keep me here.”

Chase noticed a subtle change in her expression. Her eyes turned from ebony to onyx; her lips were tight yet shaped by the faintest upturn at either end; her long, pale fingers grasped the shoulder above her absent limb. This change reminded him of the night underground – the look on her face as she watched Chief perform. At the time he, too, experienced the joy that held her in raptures. Now, sitting before her, he wished some trace of it still lingered inside him.

As if reading his mind, she said, “I know you felt something that night. It’s gone now, but I wonder if you remember what it meant to you. Even if there aren’t words to describe it.”

“I—”

“Wait, that wasn’t a question. There’s something different I want to ask you. If you can recall something of how it felt, has it changed your perception? Even if you wouldn’t do the same yourself, can you now see why some choose to participate in the Scene?”

“It…” Chase faltered and looked away, staring at a distant nothing. “It’s hard. The feeling was so strong at the time, yet I