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

of the drug as low as you dare, while still achieving the desired effect. The citizens will be none the wiser. And many of our colleagues are already medicated to varying degrees.” She glared at Wulfwin. “This goes no further. That’s an order.”

Chapter Thirty

In the pale light of dawn, the Troubadours stood on the brow of a steep hill, each gazing out in a different cardinal direction. They had long since walked free of the cataract cloud that still blinded the city. With the benefit of clear air and an elevated vantage point, they surveyed expansive horizons.

Below them, hidden beneath a wooded dell’s dense canopy, lay their temporary camp. Players and their retinue slept, recovering from the exhaustion of a hundred-mile hike. Beside them, four horses held their noses to the ground, feasting on the lush grass that flourished under the trees’ shade. Four small carts stood beside them, heavily laden with the players’ instruments and stage gear. Dangling from the sides like ballast were cloth sacks containing the troupe’s scant possessions.

The Troubadours stood, assessing terrain.

“I say west,” said Pale Dexter.

“And I say east,” said Chief.

“If only we had a map,” said Bend Sinister, shaking his head. “Or better still, the memories of our long journeys that led us to Wydeye. We each arrived from a different direction; we have a collective experience of the terrain in all but one. Alas, two centuries is a long time to remember the features of our passage.” He turned and gazed down into the dell. “Our troupe are already weary.”

“We had to push on,” said Pale Dexter. “The Heights were crawling with troopers. Any one of them could have caught sight of our escape and followed close on our heels. At least our people sleep with some degree of confidence that the A are not on our tail.”

“Agreed,” said Chief. “It was arduous, but necessary. However, with the tonic of food and rest, they will wake restored. I say we rouse them now and resume our journey.”

“Now?” said Bend Sinister. “Surely we afford them longer? Our players can keep pace, but we have a retinue of followers to consider, some of an age we’ll never know. We must take their different needs into account, else we shall find ourselves with an exhausted troupe, too weary to make the distance.”

“They know the danger,” said Pale Dexter. “They made the choice. Whilst they may lack our endurance, I have faith that they will discover reserves of energy from which to draw.”

“I hear your concern, Bend Sinister,” said Chief. “However, I fear it’s a case of needs must. We should continue on our way.”

A noise from behind startled them and they each spun around. A player appeared, scrambling up the hill, breathless. “What is it?” said Bend Sinister. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone approaches. A man. Running.”

Without a sound, the Troubadours fell to a crouch and followed the player down the hill, into the cover of the dell. They were met by wide-eyed stares of the entire troupe. Breaths were held. Ears trained on fragile silence.

Into the camp stumbled a man, who collapsed at the feet of Bend Sinister.

“Water, quick,” said Bend Sinister, turning to his players.

His bassist rummaged behind them and returned with a canteen. He slowly approached the stranger, who lay sprawled on the ground, face down.

Bend Sinister stepped forward and took the canteen from his wary bassist. He knelt beside the man, gently rolling him over onto his back and lifting his head. The man’s lips were cracked dry, his chest heaving. He choked as the water trickled into his parched mouth.

A follower stepped forward. “I can attend to him,” he said, his tone a blend of reverence and fear.

“No,” said Bend Sinister, cradling the man’s head, coaxing him to swallow. “No. I must.”

Pale Dexter stared in horror. “Have you forgotten yourself? What is this?”

Chief stood beside him, her mouth agape.

“I know this man,” said Bend Sinister. “As do you.”

“I hardly think so…” said Pale Dexter.

The stranger looked up into Bend Sinister’s face, his eyes bloodshot and near-blind. Tears welled. He tried to move his swollen lips, croaking a whisper, barely audible.

Bend Sinister leant forward, bringing his ear to the man’s face. He heard the words and shook his head. “Enough,” he whispered gently. “Speak no more. You must drink. Let’s get you well.”

“Bend Sinister?” said Chief. “Are you going to share what only you appear to know?”

Bend Sinister looked up, his eyes welling. “After… After all this time… He’s finally returned. My drummer.”

Chief and Pale Dexter stared at the broken man. There was a sharp intake of breath among the players as they shuffled forward, peering at the stranger in desperate hope, searching for confirmation that this was, indeed, their long-lost brother.

All Dent Lore could do was breathe. He had run over a hundred miles. Twelve hours, without food, water or rest, fuelled only by the desperation to be reunited with his chieftain. Exhausted and dehydrated, he clung on to consciousness by relief’s weak grasp. His chest burnt no more; the agony that had tortured his body slipped away. There was no space to feel. All he could think was, I’ve found him.

It was some time before Dent was able to speak. Two followers had propped him up against a tree. He sat, legs out, arms limp. Bend Sinister and his players knelt beside him. Pale Dexter and Chief stood apart, separated by scepticism’s wary distance.

“I didn’t know I was lost,” said Dent in a quiet, hoarse voice. “I don’t know who I am. All I know is that I know you.” He looked up at Bend Sinister, then slowly, at the wide eyes of the players. “All of you.”

“When I saw you at the Contest, you were in military uniform,” said Bend Sinister.

“I am… was, an Allear.”

Players gasped.

Pale Dexter said, “Perfect,” and crossed his arms, teeth clenched.

“Hear him out,” said Bend Sinister, sensing the antagonistic glares of his counterparts. He nodded to his drummer. “Go on.”

“My name is Dent Lore and I work