Ink and Steel

Tear down the Theatre,Kit thought, shaking his head at a bit of his world gone forever. Sharp as a stone in his shoe. Murchaud did warn you the world changes, and you will not.

“Ah, there’s someone you should meet. The lady Amaranth.” Kit stole a sidelong glance at Will, whose jaw was literally hanging open. “Striking, is she not?”

“Astoundingly. Is she venomous?”

“She assures me she is. I have never sought an opportunity to discover it first hand.”

“Methinks tis probably as well.”

“Aye,” Kit said, taking Will by the elbow. “I do agree. I’ve spoken with Morgan. Thou wilt share my quarters, an it please thee. The bed’s big enough for four, and to be frank I find it strange having so large a room to myself. And it will present a barrier to keep thee from Morgan’s clutches. And perhaps buy me some peace as well.” The thought of returning to Murchaud’s bed made him sick. Rosalind. Dressed as Ganymede. Oh, Will. Oh, God in Hell.

“Amaranth,” Kit said as they came up to her. “Meet my friend William Shakespeare.”

“Will, lady Amaranth. Charmed,” Will said, and to his credit bent over her cold, scaled hand and brushed it with his lips. Amaranth’s snakes swelled, pleased, about her elfin face as she mocked a smile.

“Master Shakespeare,” she hissed. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Will glanced at Kit. Kit shrugged. “We stay current,” he said. What poem do you plan to recite?”

Will closed his eyes, as if considering. “Something you haven’t read, I think. Are you reciting Hero?”

“They’ve heard it,” Kit said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. The ragged hem of his cloak swayed against his calves. “The Mebd hinted she wanted me to play Bard, so I thought I would sing something not of mine own composing.”

“When do we …”

Kit pointed with his chin to the dais. “Go and tell Cairbre there you’re sent to claim the stage. He’ll advise you when.”

“Come with me?”

Kit smiled. “Aye, I will. Amaranth, will you accompany?”

She tilted her head in gracious refusal as she flicked herself into a tidy tower of coils. “I must seek Master Goodfellow, she said. Anon, gentle Poets.”

“Anon, my lady,” Will said.

Kit bowed slightly, but did not speak as she glided away. “She likes thee.”

“How knowst thou?”

Kit flinched as they turned toward the small stage. Cairbre had been joined by Morgan le Fey, who gathered her gown thank God she’s decently dressedin both fists as she seated herself before the virginals.

“I can tell.”

“Your Morgan plays?” Will asked in his ear, a tender thrill in his voice that drew another shiver from Kit. “Very well,” Kit answered, and walked forward.

Kit leaned against the pillar between two silk-shrouded windows, arms folded over his breast, and unsuccessfully fought a smile. Will was correct: he didn’t know this poem, and its simple style masked Will’s eternal cleverness very well. Half Kit’s mind was elsewhere, hastily revising the words of a whimsically chosen song to remove references to the Divine. But with his remaining attention, he watched Will put on a player’s confidence and take the stage like a master, broad gestures and subtle expressions as he declaimed.

… Truth may seem, but cannot be;

Beauty brag, but tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair;

For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

Applause, and Will soaked it in for a moment before doffing his borrowed hat and taking a long, savoring bow. Kit watched, his stomach still twisting. No Ned, nor will he ever be, but the man has grown. Even if he is losing his hair. Congratulations, my love: an ovation in Faerie, such as most poets only dream.

Will’s smile, when he stood, cast his face in the architecture of delight. He turned to Kit, summoning him on an airy gesture. Sweet Christ harrowing Hell, how am I supposed to sleep in a bed with that man all night after reading that play?

Kit mounted the steps, acknowledged to a ripple of applause, and leaned down and whispered in Cairbre’s ear, enjoying the expression on the Bard’s face when he said, “That Tudor song I taught you, Sir”

“Bold, Cairbre said,” and laced his fingers over the strings of his harp.

“This is not mine,” Kit said, turning to the Fae, “but is said to have been written by a King himself not known for his faith to his ladies.” He drew breath, and found Murchaud in the crowd as Cairbre and Morgan gave him the first plaintive notes.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company.

Your vows you’ve broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Now I remain in a world apart