The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  The Fool leaned over Lord Herron’s shoulder as the other man tried to eat. He jeered, “What price your loyalty? A penny? A florin? Perhaps a little dance?” And then, just as the lord seemed about to faint with terror, Syme danced away with a wild laugh. He was nimble, spinning once on each foot, by turns, until he had reached the dais. Climbing the stairs, he went to drift about the king, singing to himself, a burbling murmur. A parody of a poet’s song.

  Elissan paid no attention to any of this. What Syme got up to was none of his concern.

  Rianna paid little attention as well. Sometimes she wondered why Elissan felt the need for entertainment from a deranged boy. She kept her eye where it mattered—the high table.

  She was probably not supposed to spot the note pressed into Sendara Diar’s hand by a servitor. It happened fast. Even from a distance, and in torchlight, Rianna saw the girl’s cheeks redden as she hastily tucked the note away.

  Details like these could be insignificant. In fact that was likely. Rianna found that much of her time doing the sort of things Ned had told her about—observing, cataloguing information—often led nowhere. It was part of the work. It was only in panning through worthless stones, he’d told her, that one might on occasion discover gold.

  In a palace there was one thing more precious than gold and jewels, and that was information.

  When the meal was done, those at the high table were first to leave. Elissan Diar passed Rianna’s seat, though it was not in his way. He said, “You belong at the high table. With me.”

  He’d murmured in her ear, feather-soft. No one heard. Rianna kept her head down. But she felt the stares. And something more. Ned had been gone a long time.

  * * *

  LATER that night, Rianna brushed out Sendara’s hair again. The girl did not complain this time. She held still, slender in her lace nightdress, as Rianna divided her hair into plaits. It was perhaps because Rianna had hair like this, though not nearly as long, that she’d been delegated this task. She knew what to do. Knew the oils to apply, when needed; how to part the tresses so they ran smooth.

  It was not her job to brush down her lady’s dress, laid out on a table, before it was put away. That was typically assigned to one of the other women. But tonight, Rianna had smiled sweetly and offered to take on the task herself. After Sendara retired to her bedchamber, Rianna reached into the skirt pocket and found the note. Unfolded it before returning the paper to its soft hiding place.

  It was as she thought.

  There was a passageway behind Sendara’s rooms, as there were behind many rooms in the palace. They were cleverly concealed, but Ned had told her the signs. This passageway was hidden by a cabinet that appeared heavy but wasn’t, at all. It came loose if you turned one of its handles backward, the wrong way, with a bit of force applied. Rianna had been using this tunnel for some time. She had not dared look for passageways beside Elissan Diar’s chambers—not yet. She didn’t know what his gifts for magic might detect. But his daughter was a different story.

  The tunnel was low and cramped. Rianna had left a tinder box and wax candle at the foot of the stairs. As she climbed the stairs, shoulders hunched to avoid the ceiling that encroached, she tried to keep her breath soft.

  The note had been a scrawl, one word: Moonrise.

  As she crouched in the tunnel, Rianna wondered if her mother had ever been in here, knelt in this spot. There was no way to know—the tunnels that riddled Tamryllin Castle were innumerable. Rianna’s mother, Daria Gelvan, had served as a spy for King Harald’s father. A thing even her own husband had not known while she was alive.

  In the end it had killed her.

  The spyhole was too small to see anything through. There was only a spot of half-dark; Rianna guessed Sendara had kept a candle burning. A light no one would see under the door.

  It was a long silence and once or twice Rianna thought she heard Sendara sigh. Her mind drifted. She thought of the south where her daughter and father were; where the weather would yet be mild, vineyards newly harvested. There would be autumn rains, that once she had liked to listen to by the fire, reading across from her father.

  She thought of Kahishi, a place she’d never been—had once longed to see—and now hated. An hour might have passed. By the time she heard a distinct rapping, three short knocks, it was likely the moon rode high. No way to know for sure; the dark was timeless.

  She heard a male grunt, heard Sendara murmur, “Let me help,” then a thump. A soft laugh, definitely a man. He said, “You see what I’ll do for you, my lady. Even climb in the window like some desperate swain.” His voice deepened. “After all, it’s been too long.”

  A gasp from the girl. Then, “We have to be quiet.”

  “Yes.” A honeyed sound. “It’s not like the Academy, Sendara. People here watch, and listen. I can’t make a habit of visiting.” He laughed again, softly. “You like that, do you? When I use my fingers. You were so ready for me.”

  The girl was trying not to moan. Etherell went on, a murmur, as if to gentle a horse. “You must be patient. Soon we will be married. After the coronation, once it is proper. And then it won’t just be my fingers, Sendara. I’ll make you mine in all the ways. Again and again until you’re exhausted. And then some more. The whole castle will hear your ecstasy, and envy you.”

  She choked, tried to speak. Tried again. “I don’t … want … them to hear me.”

  He laughed. “You won’t care. You’ll only want it to never stop.”

  Now there was silence, or almost a silence, but Rianna thought she heard a suppressed, frantic squeal, like a mouse. A moment, and the sound of Sendara’s breathing resumed. There was just that, for a while. Then she whispered, “Why can’t it be soon?”

  “Your father must be crowned first. Have patience, my dear. Think how beautiful a bride you’ll make in the spring.”

  “Are you sure … we are safe? What if the Court Poet returns? No one knows where she is. What if she’s waiting … to attack?”

  “Oh, you’re worried about that? Poor dear.” He sounded indulgent, yet something in his tone made Rianna shiver a little. “I wish you’d said so before. There is no need to worry. Your father is clever … I would not be at his side if he were not.”

  “What if the Chosen are not enough?” Sounding like a fretful child. “It is said Lin Amaristoth has great power.”

  “I doubt that. Alone, there is little she can do against the force your father commands. And the Chosen are not the only weapon your father has. In fact…” He lowered his voice. “You must promise to say nothing of this. Just know … he has at his disposal a magical weapon. Greater than anything anyone in this land has ever seen.”

  “He does? Where?”

  “Here. Hidden in rooms far beneath us. So you see, we are well protected. But you must not tell.”

  * * *

  RIANNA imagined herself soundless, invisible in her grey dress, as she made her way down the carpeted hallway from Sendara’s rooms to her own. It was a route to which she’d grown accustomed. She knew the tapestries along these walls that depicted tales of the Three—she’d searched behind each of these for passageways. There was a painting, too, a work more recent than the tapestries. A lady in gold silks and sewn diamonds, hair in elaborate chestnut curls. This image drew Rianna’s eye more than the rest. Hypnotic, when Rianna recalled how close she’d come to being that woman. The lips were curved in an alluring smile, with a touch of mischief at the corners of the lips. The dimples. Even so, Rianna thought the smile just a shade inane. To imagine oneself powerful due to fast-fading allure. There was a hard truth to it, and a stupidity—both at once.

  The artist had made the woman’s face and hair, the embroidery on her gown immortal. But her name was forgotten. His was not.

  That painting hung near the end of the hallway. There, the turn to her room, where the carpet ended and the floor and walls were bare.

  Something new was there this time, however. Three Chosen stationed at her door
. She rounded the corner and froze, seeing them. Just as their heads turned toward her, with unnerving synchronicity, in a gaze as if to bind her fast. “Rianna Alterra,” said one. “You must come with us.”

  There was nowhere to run. No choices here. The dagger concealed in her garter belt would hardly avail with three armed men. She fell in step with them. Two flanked her, one close behind. Her heart pumped fiercely but she let nothing show on her face. She recalled Lord Derry, how he’d met his end. How before his beheading he’d made a jest. “That blade?” he’d said, as the executioner neared him with the sword. “I can lend you one better.”

  There was no mirth in Rianna, no heart for mockery. But as she kept her tread measured to the pace of the men alongside—neither a slow trudge nor a scurry—she thought about dignity and the life she’d lived.

  Now the paintings, the tapestries they passed, seemed to have eyes that were watching. Gods, goddesses, nobility of the past. They had seen much and would remain here long after Elissan Diar, his daughter, their golden descendants had been swept away by mortality. So it went.

  The room to which they brought her was of a grand size, bright-lit. After the dimness of the hallway Rianna felt herself at a disadvantage, blinking. Coming toward her, more of his Chosen surrounding, the imposing figure of Elissan Diar.

  “Rianna,” he said. He was smiling.

  “Why do you summon me so late?” A steely voice. Her last defense. “It is an impropriety. People will talk.”

  This took him aback. Which in turn surprised Rianna. She didn’t think herself capable of throwing Elissan Diar off his guard. “You’re right,” he said, surprising her further. “I should have considered my lady’s reputation. But I have news I didn’t think should wait.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face.

  “Tidings from afar.” Syme Oleir, from a corner. He was standing on his head, gilded shoes pointed in the air. His face was purple. Abruptly he tumbled upright. “Tidings, tidings, turning and turning. And we, with them. Turning and turning.”

  “Hush, Fool,” said Elissan, and turned back to Rianna. “It’s not your daughter,” he said. “Look, Rianna. A message for you from your husband. He is alive, in Kahishi. Or was, anyhow, at the time of writing.” Now she saw. He held the paper in his hand. It was unfolded. Almost Rianna thought she could recognize, even from here, Ned’s graceful hand. “I had to read it, my lady,” said Elissan. “Any word from Kahishi is intelligence I cannot ignore. For that breach of privacy, please know that I am sorry.” He held the paper outstretched. In a movement that seemed slow to her she reached for it. Strove to hide the dizziness that made the floor tilt and weakened her knees.

  Ned.

  She felt as if she watched herself from a distance. As if someone else held the note with steady hands; someone else leaned back against a couch armrest to read with greater ease.

  “You need not read it here,” said Elissan. He sounded kind.

  “Turning and turning,” Syme murmured from his corner, as he did a forlorn twirl on his pointed shoes.

  She ignored them both. Her eyes swam, then cleared. She read. She took her time, allowing her eyes to linger on each line. In the room had fallen a hush. Even the Fool said nothing more.

  As she finished reading, Rianna became aware of the only sound: the fireplace, a dance of warmth on an autumn night.

  She strode to the hearth. Without a word or change of expression, she tossed Ned’s note to the fire. Watched those graceful lines curl and blacken. Turned away again. “I am tired, my lord Diar,” she said. “Thank you for conveying this news to me.”

  He was watching her. His eyes were blue, matching the star sapphire ring on his right hand. He said, softly, “Why destroy it?”

  She held his gaze. “You know what he did.”

  “He denies it. He speaks of his love for you.”

  “The words are fine.” In the low, clear voice she heard something unfamiliar; a woman much older, weary from knowledge. Which perhaps in a short span of time she had become. “If I cared for words, I’d have married a poet. Words may not mend a broken bridge. Nor heal an ailing child.” She shrugged, as if to dismiss her own words as an outburst. “If you don’t mind, my lord, it is late.”

  The Fool spoke, sing-song.

  “Late the hour,

  Late the day,

  Late in life,

  To see my love once more.”

  Elissan still looked at Rianna, his expression one of concern. But he only said, “My guard will escort you.”

  In silence those same three Chosen emerged to take her back. Rianna felt as if she walked on air as she returned the way she’d come, oblivious to the men surrounding her. Eyes sightless as her feet found the way.

  Later she would think about Ned’s letter. Later. For now, she had to focus on what mattered.

  A magical weapon. Etherell’s voice, cool and precise. Somewhere here—in the castle beneath their feet. The cellars and cold storage rooms that extended in a circuit of tunnels underground, or so she’d heard. A part of the castle she knew nothing about, where not even Ned’s tales might cut a path for her. His work had been carried out aboveground, in council chambers, bedchambers, courtyards. She possessed no guide, no map for the task to come.

  Her father’s face before her, his stricken gaze as he implored her to flee with them. Ending in that question, “Why?”

  Rianna Gelvan had tried to respond with gentleness despite what she was feeling. “Don’t forget,” she’d said to him. “I am my mother’s daughter.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  THE winds were furious that night. Rain drove at the shutters. One shutter needed mending, for it kept up a persistent bang that every now and then, when he forgot, could make his heart race. For all that he’d been undisturbed here so far, the old Seer could not be sure he was safe. Each night, the groan and creak of the cottage settling its old bones brought fresh terrors. Each tap of a long-fingered branch against the window.

  The idea that they’d come for him. Those boys with their lightless eyes.

  Tales from Tamryllin made their way even to this valley. The world was not what it was.

  His hands shook as he fed another log to the fire. As he took out the poker to stir the logs, watched the dance of sparks. Their hiss his company.

  He was not that old, in truth. It was a feeling. To be an exile was to feel cast off, spent. With nothing to show for it. Here in this remote valley where there was little arable soil, the grass punctuated with shale patches. Walls of bramble tangled up to the scree. It was not desirable land.

  He had never thought to return to it.

  His cottage nestled in an alder grove. Lately when he walked among the skeletal autumn trees, he felt akin to them. He, too, had been stripped bare. And now was always cold.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  He froze. It was not the shutter. There was the cry of wind, the patter of rain. And another sound. The door.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Fatalism gripped him. If they’d found him, so be it. Living in fear was no way to live. His friend would have said so. His more courageous friend, now dead.

  The Seer opened the door.

  Cold spilled in with the night. Then a voice. “Cai Hendin.” A woman. She lowered her hood and he saw an angular face; dark eyes. “I apologize for the hour. May I come in?”

  The absurdity of her politeness as she stood in a dripping cloak, the winds pouring in, were eclipsed for him by relief. Hendin—he who had once been an Archmaster of Academy Isle—shut the door behind her. “Welcome, Seer,” he said formally. “My lady. I’d feared you were dead.”

  She stood before him in a dark dress, her bag slung over her shoulder. She set it down, then handed him her wet cloak to spread beside the fire. She said, “You may well ask why I am here so late. Too late to save—our friend. Too late for everything.”

  He felt it like a blow. “No,” he said. “No one knew what was coming.” She was silent.
He couldn’t tell if she waited for him to go on, or was too overcome by her memories to speak. “I am glad you are here,” he added. At once, he felt self-conscious. That she saw how he lived. She, who had been the Court Poet. In this hut in a desolate valley. An inheritance from his family, allowed him by his brother. A far cry from the Archmaster he’d been. “I have,” he said hesitantly, “a little wine.”

  Lin Amaristoth waved away the offer. He was struck by how she carried herself. A manner of standing that made her taller. But there was something strange, he saw, as she sat in one of his plain chairs by the fire. In the firelight the backs of her hands gleamed. Strands of gold, like veins in marble. She saw him look. Flung back her sleeve so he could see how the gold veins traveled up her arm. A shimmer of all her skin. “My new … adornment,” she said. “But that’s a tale for later on.” She spread her fingers towards the hearth to warm them. On her right hand, a dark gem that contained a profusion of colors.

  There were tales of a gem like that—what it meant. And no Seer on record who had worn it.

  He wanted to say, What are you?

  “Cai,” she said. “I want to keep you out of danger. You were dear to Valanir Ocune. He’d want you safe.”

  “You must think me a coward.”

  “No.” She shrugged. “This—all that’s happened to me—” She looked at her hands. “If I could do it again, I don’t know what I’d do. A peaceful life … it is of value. He—our friend—would want that for you.”