Page 68 of Envious Of Fire
Markadian rises, strolls to the edge of the stage in front of Kaleb, extends his hand. Kaleb stares at the hand for five long, bewildered seconds, then finally takes it. Markadian’s skin is sosmooth, it’s velvet to the touch. When he pulls, Kaleb is amazed by the man’s strength, hopping up with ease. The spotlight blinds him, so he keeps his focus on Markadian as the man leads him to the center of the stage. In the spotlight, the rest of the world vanishes into darkness—the seats, the walls, the doors from which Kaleb entered, all gone. Only the two of them exist now.
“This is a … a very nice … a very impressive …” Kaleb has a hard time finding words tonight. Is it the wine? Did he drink too much? “It is an impressive stage, nice and wide and, uh …”
“Yes, it is,” agrees Markadian, who gently lets go of Kaleb’s hand, then stands before him. “You enjoy being on a stage?”
“I, um … I’ve never really …”
“You’re a violinist. A performer. The stage should be your second home.” Markadian slowly begins to circle Kaleb, poring over him like a fascinating book, turning his pages.
Kaleb stays in place, staring ahead, feeling tingles all across his body as Markadian’s eyes run over him, examining him. “I suppose you’re right. I never had many, um … opportunities to perform on a stage.”
“You have one now.”
“Oh.” Kaleb glances at the empty auditorium. He sees only darkness, still blinded by stage light. Markadian says nothing as he continues to circle him, excruciatingly slow. “I don’t have—”
“Here,” says Markadian, handing him a violin and bow.
Kaleb, too flustered to even ask where the violin and bow came from, takes them with unsteady hands. Markadian smiles gently, continues to circle him. Kaleb peers down at the violin. “Do you, um—Is there a favorite, uh—” Really, where did the violin come from? “Do you have a favorite composer?”
“You have familiar eyes.”
Kaleb peers halfway over his shoulder. “I do?”
“I never forget eyes.” He comes around from the other side.“I never forget faces.”
“Who do I remind you of?” Kaleb decides to ask.
“Someone I hate.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t fret,” says Markadian, continuing to circle him. “It’s only the eyes. As far as I can tell, you’re nothing like him. And why would you be? He is gone. He is nothing. He bores me. But you?” He comes around to the front again, stops. “You are not.”
Kaleb stares into Markadian’s eyes, silent. He finds himself thinking of Raya’s warning suddenly, to be wary of the brother and sister and their immortal bond, how he should never forget his place in this House, never grow too comfortable, should see this as a contract he can unknowingly break at any time. So why, in the presence of Markadian, does Kaleb feel no danger at all?
“Would you like to play something for me?”
Kaleb blinks. “Play …?”
“Play.”
Markadian calmly waits. Kaleb lifts the violin to his chin, then the bow to the violin, and after a moment’s thought, begins. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the music as he so often does when he plays. His only priority in the world becomes the melody as it surges to life, as if the violin itself draws breath, the strings as well, and it is less Kaleb making music and more the violin singing from its very soul, filling the auditorium with its sorrow.
When the melody ends, Kaleb opens his eyes. Markadian is before him. “Are you aware,” he asks, “of my fine ability to create illusions? And are you aware that some of the clothes that occupy your wardrobe are also a product of my magnificent power?”
Kaleb is confused by that, then peers down.
And finds himself naked—completely naked.
He lowers the violin at once, covering himself with a start.Markadian clicks his tongue. “No, no,” he says, “there is nothing to be ashamed of. Do you not know your own beauty? Oh, this is adorable.” He fights back a laugh, comes closer. “Lift your violin. Back to your chin. Don’t be shy. Your music pleased me.”
“I—um, y-yes, sir. I mean Markadian.” Kaleb quickly lifts the violin to his chin, absolutely awkward. The bow scrapes the string unintentionally, startling him. He doesn’t know what to play.
Markadian brings a hand to Kaleb’s shoulder, his fingertips grazing, as if brushing off lint. He smiles. “One should understand one’s own beauty. It’s important to use it, too.” He starts circling Kaleb again, only this time, it feels different, calculated somehow. “See how you have me completely enraptured? See how you have me spellbound? Tell me to do something, I may yet indulge you, anything you wish for. A bigger room? Done. A hundred violins? Done. A hundred thousand dollars? Done.”
Kaleb doesn’t believe a word of it. How could he? This is the Lord Markadian, the superior of the gods and goddesses here, the one in control, the one with ultimate power.
With the violin still raised, Kaleb says, “I would never … I would never use my … my looks to …” How does he say it? “I don’t think I’m the, uh, kind of guy who’d—”
