“IT is the strangest thing.” Elissan Diar, a glass of wine in hand. He sat at the fire. Across from him, Etherell Lyr. Sendara and her ladies on a couch nearby, embroidering the princess’s coronation gown. About them in various parts of the Great Hall ranged the Chosen, still and silent. They had taken the midday meal. Outside it was raining, one of those steady autumn rains that seemed to put the world at peace.
Etherell was studying his wine at eye level, as if intrigued by its color. He did not speak. He allowed the king to go on.
“Yes, very strange,” said the king, sounding thoughtful. “They say Lord Aeghar of Hambley, in the north, was murdered in his own halls. You know of Aeghar, don’t you? Repulsive fellow. Used to torture animals for entertainment. Someone decided to do the same to him. Crept into his bedchamber at night, tied him to the bed, stuffed cloth in his mouth so he couldn’t scream. Silk, as irony would have it. And then … well, word is they found him … everywhere in that room.”
Several of the women gasped.
Etherell Lyr sipped his wine. “An odd tale.” Then he smiled. “Though perhaps better suited for late at night by the fire, not in plain day. There’s naught to gain from scaring the ladies now.”
Some giggles at this. Sendara looked cross. Rianna allowed herself a lifted eyebrow.
“I’m surprised,” said the king, “that I heard nothing of this from you, Etherell. Weren’t you up that way, a fortnight past? Hunting, didn’t you say?”
“I was indeed,” Etherell said comfortably. “Quite lost in the pleasures of pursuit. Otherwise no doubt I’d have heard … such a dreadful story.” Now he looked direct at his lord, his eyes bright.
“I see,” said Elissan. “Did you catch your quarry, then?”
“I did.”
“And you are—satisfied?”
For the first time, Etherell showed emotion—he looked surprised. “I was,” he said. “I am. My focus has now—entirely returned to me. And to your service.”
“Then I’m pleased,” said Elissan, and drank.
Rianna looked down, resumed her sewing. She had given a shudder, but did not think anyone saw.
Then it came: a rapping at the front doors. A burst of cool air as the Chosen opened one of the doors to a man who said, “Thank heaven your guards let me in. I have come a long way.”
Rianna knew the voice. And then in the Great Hall, cloak dripping and his hair plastered to his head, stood Marlen Humbreleigh. He shook droplets from himself like a wet wolf.
Elissan Diar looked annoyed. “Now is not the hour we receive. What did you tell the guards, that they allowed you entry?”
“Only the truth,” said Marlen, and dropped to one knee before the hearth. “That I am Marlen Humbreleigh—the traitor, the Snake. Here to offer my sword in service to his excellency.” He lifted his head, dared a smile. “And thereby, perhaps, make amends.”
* * *
THEY had talked about it the night before, sitting on the servants’ stairs. Marlen had decided that knocking about invisibly as he’d done, though amusing, was not profitable in the long run. “It’s marvelous, the things I’ve witnessed,” he said. “Did you know that one of the kitchen maids has two lovers—a gardener, and a manservant—and neither knows about the other? But unfortunately that’s not the sort of information that will get me far. I need to be near Elissan Diar. As much in his confidence as can be.”
“I’m already working on that,” said Rianna, irritated. “And probably better placed for it than the traitor snake.”
Marlen grinned at this. “Not at all. You’d be surprised. Everyone is a little intrigued by evil. Especially if they know it won’t bite. No one here has reason to think I’d turn traitor again. My interests clearly lie with the Poet King—not with the Court Poet in exile.”
“You say that and then expect me to trust you.”
“It’s not always in our nature to follow our interests,” said Marlen. “Or … I should say, being honest … at times our interests run counter to reason. From a reasonable point of view, I should offer my services to Elissan Diar. It is a new chance for me. Yet Rianna—you don’t know this, and I don’t expect you’ll believe it—I am sick at heart.” No hint of mirth to him now. “I destroyed the lives of good men. By rights I should be dead. By doing this, I might believe there is still some purpose for my life. Even if I can’t ever make amends, not really.” He grinned. “So you see. I am being selfish, when you get right down to it. And you—you, who Darien loved—” His voice faltered. “I will aid you as best I can. It is the only way I might imagine myself less perverse. Do you see?”
She cleared her throat. For a moment she had been near tears, his words returning her to a pain near-forgotten. “I am sorry I doubted you.”
“But you must,” he said. “You can’t afford to trust one such as me.”
“All right,” she said. “Bear in mind, then, what happens to men who betray me.”
Marlen sighed. “Ned always was a lucky sod.”
* * *
HE was so aggravating, Rianna was thinking the next day, as she watched Marlen settle luxuriously in a chair beside the fire. He was wrapped in a fur blanket and looked utterly content. He had been led away to change into dry clothes; now he was back, a glass of wine in his hand. Etherell Lyr eyed him with a veiled expression, something between alertness and amusement. But now she had reason to think there was much that Etherell concealed. Perhaps he suspected in Marlen Humbreleigh something of himself.
Rianna did not think much could frighten her anymore, beyond threats to her daughter. But when the king had recounted that story, of a man mutilated in his bed, she had been watching Etherell. She still felt unsettled when she recalled the look that had wandered, briefly, across the young man’s face.
It was not in truth that Marlen was being aggravating, Rianna had to concede. More, she thought, that he was able to settle in so quickly and be treated as an honored guest. Rianna had to sew and dance attendance on the princess. Her one advantage was that—for now—the king looked approvingly on her face and figure. She felt disgusted with her position and envious of Marlen. But knew it was not his fault.
The women were more than a bit interested in this new addition to the court. Not only was he handsome and famously skilled at arms, but there was the mystery of his traitorous past. So they murmured to each other as they worked—the things they’d heard, the tales they could scarce believe. Marlen Humbreleigh had been involved in dark magic. More—he was said to be partnered with a demon woman. Where was that woman now, they wondered. Had he banished her to hell—perhaps repented before the gods for his misdeeds?
When she thought no one was watching, Rianna rolled her eyes.
The mystery was only accentuated by Marlen’s refusal to accept the harp that was offered when he first returned to the fire, lordly in his dry clothes. With the air of an obliging host, Elissan Diar asked for a song. “It is rare,” the king said, “for the lords who swear fealty to me to be skilled at music.” He was being magnanimous here—Marlen was a younger son, disinherited since his disgrace. Unlike Lord Rovere, he brought nothing with the oath of loyalty but his sword.
The king motioned to the gold harp on the mantelpiece. It was a great honor he offered—for Marlen to play the king’s own instrument.
“Truly, there is nothing I’d refuse your excellency,” said Marlen. “But I beg you not to ask this of me. As penance for my treachery against poets, I’ve renounced the harp. Traded it forever for the sword.”
A shrewd move, Rianna thought, and wondered if that would occur to Elissan Diar as well. Music led—these days—to enchantments, which held dangers. These were clear everywhere one looked, in the dead eyes of the Chosen.
Whatever he might have intuited, Elissan Diar said, “I would not see a man’s oath forsworn. And I hear that few in Eivar can best you at the sword, Marlen Humbreleigh.”
The women’s attention was now fully focused. Life in this castle was dull for them, wit
h the young men at a chill remove. In a typical court there would have been gaiety, flirtation; this one saw precious little of either. And now here was a handsome newcomer who would not be partaking in the enchantments that had unmanned the rest. Rianna thought, wryly, that Marlen had better bolt his door at night.
He issued a humble half-bow from his chair. “I am eager to prove myself,” he said. “By any means necessary.”
Any means.
That night on the stairs he had told her why he was here. Why Lin Amaristoth had sent him. “There’s been a prophecy,” said Marlen. “I don’t know whether I put much store in such things, but our Court Poet does. Ramadian Magicians foresee a dark fate—even for themselves—unless we stop it.”
“Stop what?”
Marlen looked grim. “Coronation day.”
* * *
HER head rested near his as they sat together on a couch. His hand had found hers, early on, and captured it. As they read a book together, the king did not let go.
It had been Elissan’s idea, to read a book together in the closeness of his chamber as rain fell outside. They took turns reading passages to one another—his turn, now. He read in tones that brought to life the verse. They were alone. It occurred to Rianna that she could kill him with the knife strapped to her thigh. Which would lead to her own execution. So it seemed she preferred to live. It was, she thought as Elissan’s fingers caressed her palm, an interesting context for finding out she wanted life. There was no fanfare, no burst of realization; just quiet certainty as a man recited poetry to her, stirred her blood with the touch—admittedly, the skilled touch—of a hand.
She had once imagined herself experienced with men. When the fact of her liaison with Rayen Amaristoth made her feel ravaged, knowledgeable beyond her years. That night, its aftermath—these had left Rianna feeling as if she’d lived a hundred lives. She had come to her wedding feeling that way—ready to close a chapter that seemed bitter and long. Certainly if anyone had told her she was still innocent, only beginning her journey, she would have laughed. Or been deeply offended, as only the very naïve can be offended when confronted with the facts.
Now she saw that while the time with Rayen had changed her—diverted the path of her life when she was a girl—it counted little against the accumulation of years. She’d been insulated from the world since her marriage, stifled since the birth of her daughter. There was more, she knew, to what she’d shared with Ned, but he was gone and it was hard to keep from resenting him. He was gone.
All this, as they read the tale of Asterian, the poet who had journeyed to the Underworld to retrieve his dead paramour, Stylleia. A tale well-worn, but this version was recent, in verse that sang to Rianna’s ears. Or that might have been the smooth voice, the expert cadence of Elissan Diar. She wondered what Darien had thought of the story. There had been something of Asterian in him, after all—a poet who ventured into dark, not fully comprehending what he undertook. Or the cost.
Though if you thought about it, was that not true of most heroes? Rianna closed her eyes a moment and leaned her head against the back of the couch. He had begun on the inside of her wrist.
“What are your thoughts, Rianna?” Elissan asked suddenly, as if unaware of her responses. As if all they did, right now, was sit and read companionably, as grey light from the clouded sky filtered through the windowpanes and storm winds sighed.
Asterian was by this time in the Underworld, at its outer edge, before crossing the black river that surrounded the Isle of Souls. He encountered a creature, neither of flesh nor of the dead, who posed him a riddle. There were differing opinions of the creature—in this version, it was a gryphon. But black, with fervid red eyes and a voice like millstones. A creature of the Underworld.
If the poet answered the riddle correctly, he would gain entry to the inner sanctum of the dead. Its repository of souls. But if he guessed wrong, Asterian would be reduced to ash down to his soul, to churn on the winds of the Underworld in ceaseless torment or oblivion.
Everyone knew how the story went. That with his knowledge of the world’s fashioning—the lore of poets—Asterian guessed the answer to the riddle. He would pass the portal of that bleak gate, the first living being to do so. Beneath the earth and beyond life a poet might conquer, where even a great warrior might have failed.
And yet. “It is strange, I think,” she said. “In this moment of the tale, we feel his triumph. He endures so much to reach Stylleia. Has earned this happiness, one would think. Yet at the end, after all he has sacrificed—he can’t help himself. He looks back, and loses her. All he has fought for, lost in an instant.”
“It is terrible, in this version,” said Elissan. “They are, by that time, joining hands. He looks back to see her face. After all his tribulations, and believing her lost, he is so hungry for that—to see her again. And it’s the last of her he ever sees.”
“In this life,” said Rianna.
“True,” said Elissan. His fingers threaded with hers. “They may have found each other again in the lands beyond. But from what is said … I doubt that is the same, or anything like. This blaze of life—we only experience it the one time.”
Rianna smiled. Now she could withdraw her hand, casually, and smooth the hair back from her face. In expressing a sentiment so transparent—however neatly phrased—he had freed her. Besides, she wanted to see what he would do, if denied. A curiosity she could not explain.
It turned out not to be complex. He reached for her, a single hungry motion like a cat with its prey, and began to kiss her. Rianna only resisted for a moment. She was aware of the silence of the room, the quiet rain. But more aware of the way she responded, curving toward and against him. She buried her hands in his hair and began to tug it mercilessly, as if to inflict pain.
He pulled away after a moment and laughed. “You like violence, don’t you?”
Her eyes were wide. She did not know how to answer. Was not even sure she knew.
He reached for her again and they kissed for a time. Her hands still buried through his gold mane to his scalp.
When they separated again he said, “That is perhaps enough for now. I will not fail so quickly in my experiment.”
Without thinking, Rianna grabbed him hard at the groin. “Is that what I am,” she sneered. “An experiment?”
But he was unfazed by this. He laughed down at her. “Perhaps,” he said. “Or a future queen.”
* * *
THEIR predetermined meeting place was by a fountain in the gardens; the time, an hour after sunset. Rianna and Marlen had planned to meet there as often as they could, at the appointed hour, so they might speak privately. Marlen happened to know, from his time in service to Nickon Gerrard, that this fountain was positioned out of sight of the palace. It was concealed by a wall of hedges on one side; on another, by a row of cypress trees.
By day the autumn trees were splendid. These faded as darkness grew, were further obscured by the mists that rose after rain.
Rianna had drawn up the hood of her cloak. Against the chill, and in case they were seen. She was not supposed to be on good terms with Marlen Humbreleigh, let alone meeting with him in private. In the moments they had faced each other in the dining hall that evening, she was cold to him. She had every reason to hate him, after all. Not everyone would remember that the drama that had played out between fox, hound, and snake had involved Rianna Gelvan. But it was certainly no secret.
She had cut out from a side door to be less conspicuous. At the time she went out, a flaring remainder of sunset still lingered. That vanished quickly, night pouncing with a suddenness she did not expect. The year was getting on towards winter.
The gardens of Tamryllin’s palace were varied yet orderly, divided into sections by way of hedges and trees. In spring and summer, these hedges enclosed swaths of flowers. Red and white rose trees might share one space, the white planted in a spiral amid the red; and one section made a home for daffodils of yellow and white, standing in concentric
circles around a spreading oak. The Sun Garden, it was called. Around this oak was a charming circular bench of imported teak where courtiers might play cards, embroider, read to one another, and sing.
No one here now, in the cold and dark. And many who had frequented this spot were gone, to exile or beheading.
The gardens this time of year held an expectant silence. As if one could sense the life that awaited beneath the earth. The green in every tree.
She took a narrow path between hedges. On her way she got lost. Marlen had given her instructions, but she had never been to this fountain. And the mist distorted her sense of direction. She took a wrong turning and ended up in a clearing with two fruit trees. So she thought they were, though they were bare. Beneath these—she caught her breath.
Peacocks roamed this garden—she had seen them herself: the males with their jeweled wings, females dull and pallid alongside. This one, she had not seen before. It was white, but in no way dull. In the emerging dusk the bird shone, its furled tail a plume of frosted silver. The crest on its head like a tiara of ice. She met the bird’s eyes; they were black, long-lashed, and in that moment seemed to her endless.
After one glance the bird turned away, head erect, and drifted into the shadow of neighboring spruce trees. A departing wink from silver eyes at the uttermost edge of the furled tail, and it was gone. She stood alone in a clearing where resided two bare fruit trees and a wrought-iron bench. Rianna shook herself, feeling as if she had been freed from some spell, and went on.
Marlen was there when she arrived. The fountain, a delectation of white marble nymphs, was silent. At the start of the cold season, the fountains of the garden were shut off. Dead leaves pocked the water.
“I have it,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “And you—”
“I’m all right.” From her cloak she brought out a silk drawstring bag. “I hope this is enough.”
“I was told it need be only a few hairs.” He opened the bag. “Yes. This will serve. And you are sure—forgive me, but you are sure they are his?”
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