Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(53)

The boy swept the cards together and shuffled them again, staring straight out in front of him. The pouch had disappeared. Destin sat down in the chair Garren had vacated.

All of Destin’s skepticism had disappeared in the face of the seer’s performance. All he had left was a crowd of questions. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

The boy turned his eyes to him. He flinched back a bit, as if startled. Collecting himself, he said, “Foreseeing is an art, not a science. Sometimes you get nothing, and sometimes you get a very . . . clear . . . picture.” By now the cards had disappeared into the sleeve of his jacket, and then the boy was standing. “By your leave, my lord.” He bowed deeply, and made to turn away.

“Wait!” Destin commanded. “Sit a while. I want to know more about this . . . foreseeing.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. It is past my time. I need to get some sleep. I work the mines, and we start early.” He smiled apologetically. He really did look dead on his feet, drained, in a way.

“You have the day off tomorrow,” Destin said evenly. “On my authority. Now sit.” Reaching, he gripped the boy about the wrist, careful this time not to grip too hard, or allow any flash to penetrate. The bones were delicate under his fingers, the kind that might be easily broken. Lyle sank back down into his chair. All traces of the trance were gone, and his face had gone pale, as if he suddenly realized his peril.

“Please, my lord,” he whispered. “I meant no harm. Just entertainment, to draw the people, earn a little extra money. I will return the lady’s purse, if you like.”

Destin kept hold of the boy’s arm, studying him. Lyle Truthteller wore no telltale glow of magic, and he could feel no seepage of it through his skin. “I think she got her money’s worth. Though not everyone would reward that kind of news.”

“Yes, well.” Lyle’s gaze dropped to the tabletop, and it was as if the lights were dimmed. “That happens. These days, it is not uncommon to be punished for telling the truth.”

“Is the magic in the cards?” Destin leaned forward slightly. “Or in you?”

Lyle didn’t look up, but shook his head. “Magic, my lord? I want nothing to do with that. The Fathers say that mages are idolaters and devils.” Then the boy looked up at him and colored. “I meant no offense to you, sir, I . . .”

“Why would I be offended?” Destin’s voice came quiet. “Do you take me for a mage?”

Now Lyle was trembling. “I’m sorry, sir, it was presumptuous of me. I misspoke. You . . . you looked like a mage, that’s all.”

So the boy was not a mage, but he could spot one. Strange. Was that part of his gift, along with truthtelling? Destin’s natural curiosity was piqued. Could this boy be of some help in finding the magemarked girl?

“Lieutenant.” A stocky man with a snow-white apron stood at tableside. A ring of keys at his belt signified that he was the innkeeper. His face was heavily lined with age, and his hair had gone white, but he looked sturdy and deep-rooted, like an old tree. “Is this boy annoying you?” He was looking at Destin’s hand fastened about Lyle’s wrist. Destin released his grip and sat back.

“No, innkeeper. Not really. I’d like my fortune read, is all. Can we use the back room?”

The innkeeper stiffened, looking from the truthteller to Destin. “I run an honest house here, my lord, and I look after the help. I won’t countenance anyone taking advantage of this boy.”

Destin raised both hands. “I want my fortune read. That’s all. In private. Would you countenance that?”

The innkeeper studied him a moment, as if to be sure, then nodded, as if resigned. “The back room is free,” he said, and returned to the bar.

Lyle spoke up then. “Please, sir. I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” Destin put on his friendliest look, which Lyle didn’t see because he was looking down at the table. “Tell my fortune and I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I . . . I don’t trade the truth for dinner. Only for money. And it’s dangerous for someone like me to read the cards for someone like yourself.”

Destin reached out and lifted the boy’s chin until he had to look him in the eye. “And why is that?”

A few freckles stood out against the boy’s pallor. He shifted in his chair, ran his tongue over colorless lips. “You . . . you may not like what I have to say. I may be wrong, and you might not like that. Or I may be right and you might not like that, either.” His voice faltered. “I don’t want to bet my life on figuring out what you want to hear.” And then he covered his mouth, as if to take back the words. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in his whispery voice. “I don’t always think before I speak.”

Destin smiled. “Let’s cut to it. I’m not so much interested in my future as interested in you. I’ll just ask you a few questions and you can be on your way. How does that sound?”

From the expression on Lyle’s face, it didn’t sound good at all, but he gave a quick nod and said, “As you wish, my lord.”

Destin followed the truthteller into the back room, shutting the door behind them. He motioned to a table by the fire, one with two chairs drawn up. Destin sat, with his back to the hearth, and the boy sat opposite him, watching him warily, the firelight exposing the planes and angles of his face.