“Enough,” said Owayn. “You’re a good lad. Don’t talk that way. None of us reckoned with the consequences of Manaia. How could we? The Seers who might have helped who know more than we can … they all ran away.” He sounded resigned, maybe even contemptuous. “But you are a Seer, Julien Imara. You should have this. It was in the nets today.”
He drew something from his cloak. A flash of gold. He held it out to her in cupped hands. A torc, such as had been worn centuries before, but not since. When she took it she saw it was indeed gold, fashioned of two entwined spirals. Fingers of black-green seaweed clung to it yet. It smelled of ocean.
She hefted the torc gingerly. It had a cold weight in her hands.
“I can’t accept this,” she said, extending it back. “Your nets, your catch. Trade it for a plot of land far from here, green and safe, and start again.”
A birdcall broke the unnatural silence of the wood. Owayn said, “You are a good-hearted girl. But no.” His eyes were thoughtful. “Through the years, the sea has brought us gifts. But never like this. I believe … it isn’t meant for us.”
* * *
THAT night the old Seer, her original guide, came to her. He looked solemn in a way that twisted her heart. Until now, it was only with him that she could be without a care. The world’s sorrows had caught up to them, even here.
They were on the side of a mountain, on the path they’d taken through all the dreams. Those journeys had been conducted in sunshine; this time it was night. The trees outlined black against a starry sky. “You know what I have to do,” she said. “We can’t stay on the Isle.”
He nodded. “Your gift today should tell us something,” he said. “Let me see it.”
Julien had the torc in her hands. She handed it over. Even in the night its color flared, yellow gold.
After a moment he said, “As I thought. It comes from the west.” He looked downcast. “That is where you must go.”
“The sea from which none returns,” she recalled from her reading. “That seems … unwise.”
“You’re in danger either way,” he said. “I am sorry. I was hoping there would be time to tutor you.” Moonlight picked out the lines of his Seer’s mark. “You know why the Academy was built where it is. That place is the boundary. To the west … It is said that past the border are hidden islands. I have never seen them. This torc—”
“You believe it’s a sign,” she said.
He bent to meet her eyes. “Take care, now, child. If you and the boy take a boat out alone, you’ll be killed.”
She looked at him questioningly, hoping he could advise her further. As if in response, he said, “You have everything you need, Julien Imara. All but the wisdom of years, and no one can give you that. For that, you’ll need to live long enough. I hope you do.”
Julien Imara awoke with the torc in her hands, though it had been in the chest at the foot of her bed when she went to sleep.
CHAPTER
11
RIANNA was shining. She gazed at the result of her preparations in the mirror as a maid laced the back of her dress. She heard a stir outside. Carriages bearing guests had begun to arrive at dusk. She could picture it: lords and ladies, perhaps some merchants, arrayed in their best finery, wrapped in fur against the cold. The last of the red and yellow leaves had fallen to be muddied in the streets. Winter was here.
There had not been time to make a gown specially for the winter ball, but the wardrobe of the prior queen remained. Under Rianna’s direction, the tailor had altered a dress of silver jacquard, its embroidery like ice veins in graphite. This matched the jewels given her by Elissan Diar, a diamond collar of three tiers. It was the most valuable piece the queen had owned. To make sure it was displayed tonight, Rianna had ordered the maids to dress her hair in coils at the top of her head. Diamond earrings like raindrops, a gift that soon followed the collar, were shown to advantage too.
A queen had worn these things—the gown, the jewels. And, it seemed, a queen would wear them again. Elissan would announce their betrothal tonight.
“Leave me,” she told the maid with a peremptory nod, as if for practice. Never too soon to begin one’s reign.
Once alone, she continued to study herself in the mirror. She shone like silver and ice, but for the gold of her hair. It would do.
Her mirror now was long, silver-backed, with a gilded frame; the room reflected in it no longer the cell she had inhabited as one of Sendara’s ladies-in-waiting. This was a vast chamber with red velvet hangings, carpeted, with a great canopied bed. The ceilings were gilded, adorned with art. It was the grandest room she’d ever slept in.
There was a blemish on her left cheek, she noticed. She had a powder, mixed with an ointment, that might conceal it. Her box of paint pots was close at hand—there were layers of powder on her face already, to make her flawless.
As she mixed the ointment and powder with a stick, she recalled the night they had returned from the hunting lodge. It had been a long, horrible journey back; Marlen, unconscious, tied to the back of a horse. The bloody head of the hart slung in a bag beside him. In all that time—the hours of travel—Rianna hadn’t dared let emotion cross her face, lest Sendara notice. The princess was in a better mood since the death of the hart, as if it had renewed her sense of self. Her destiny was tied to her father; and he was destined for greatness.
Upon their return to Tamryllin, Elissan Diar had come to Rianna’s small room before she had even unpacked. She had backed from him. And she remembered how he looked in that moment, trembling, almost as pale as the Chosen.
“I did a terrible thing,” he said. “Can you forgive me?”
She could have laughed—there were so many things he could have been talking about. But of course, in his mind, the torture and imprisonment of Marlen Humbreleigh was not terrible—it was justice for an assassin. Likewise beheading the lords he considered traitors. The taking of her city, which he saw as his due.
No, he appeared to mean something else. But she needed to be sure.
She had stood there, her arms around herself. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” He didn’t try to touch her or come near. “That night … I felt that I was losing myself. Like the enchantments in me had overcome the man. I turned to you to feel right again, when I should have let you be. All I could think was—that I needed you.”
Now he was kneeling on the floor, the cold floor of her bare room. She felt she had to step forward and cradle his head. He was crying.
“I won’t let it happen again,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
“Marry me,” he said.
When he left her room shortly after, she was wearing the diamond collar around her neck. It was decided.
The temple to the Three in Tamryllin, the Eldest Sanctuary, was empowered to annul marriages. Rianna’s alliance with a traitor could be wiped clean from her life and soul as if it had never occurred.
Such annulments were usually frowned upon, and costly. The rules were different for a king.
Rianna turned away from the mirror. Her reflection was only the most apparent aspect of her days of preparation. The facade.
A knock. Rianna hastened to the door. It was one of the downstairs maids—Carille. After the door had closed behind her, the maid said, “My lady, I’ve had word.”
“Yes? Make it quick.”
Carille was very young, but clever. “It’s not good news,” she said. “He isn’t in the dungeons. Chances are he’s being held somewhere else, but Erec doesn’t know where.”
Rianna narrowed her eyes. “Well then. If you can persuade him to find out, I’ll increase your payment. A pair of sapphire earrings to match the bracelet.” They heard footsteps in the hall. Carille immediately knelt at Rianna’s feet and began to fuss with the hem of her skirts. Looking up at Rianna—her blue eyes a good match for sapphires—she said, “I’ll try.”
“Good,” said Rianna. She liked Carille, a
nd the maid’s relationship with a Ladybird was a stroke of luck. For days Rianna had watched, spying from hidden passageways, until that detail came to light. It was the only way she could think of to discover where Marlen was imprisoned. Once she knew, she still had no idea how to free him … but one step at a time.
“Thank you,” she added, loudly, just as there was a knock. “You may go.”
When Carille had gone, Etherell Lyr came to stand before Rianna. He was attired handsomely in black and silver, as became an Academy poet. On his lips a sardonic smile. “The king sent me to escort his lady.”
“That was kind of him,” said Rianna. It had, in fact, been her idea. Her words, as she recalled, had been along the lines of, Make the wastrel earn his keep. The king had laughed.
“Well,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Always with the courtesies, this one.
She bit her lip and looked down. Trailed her foot so her silver skirts swished. “I know we must. But—” She made a helpless motion with her hands.
He laughed. “Lady, if you’re trying to entrance me as you have the king, you’ll have to do better than that.”
She looked up at him with what she hoped were limpid eyes. She had bitten back a retort so violently she felt it go down her throat. “You are quite wrong,” she said sweetly. “I was going to ask—a favor.”
She saw only cold detachment in his eyes. Dealing with Etherell Lyr was interesting. Rianna was used to her beauty having an effect on men. Sometimes it made them want to mistreat her—there was that, certainly. In a man who preferred other men there might be admiration, or jealousy. Always some effect.
With him she felt she met the eyes of a snake.
Once he had frightened her. Now it was as if, after seeing Marlen tortured, she’d been wrung of fear. Or else numbed to it.
“What does my lady desire?” he said. Drawing out the last word suggestively. He imagined she desired him, she supposed. Well, that could be useful.
She affected a self-deprecating laugh. “Would you believe I haven’t danced since before I was married? My father used to give a Midsummer Ball. Before … well, it was long ago. And you know how it is—I am the king’s intended. Everyone will be watching.”
“You’re afraid you’ll make a mess of the dancing,” he said. Still with the cool look to indicate that he might believe her, but also might not.
“Will you do a few steps with me?”
“If this is an excuse to touch me, I suppose I can be generous,” said Etherell. “Let’s to it, then.” He advanced to her with an exaggerated bow. She curtsied, hoping she appeared sweet and vulnerable, not like she wanted to spit him on a nail.
Then they danced. At first she was confused—she put her arm around his waist; he disengaged and reminded her that this was, in fact, the man’s position. He placed her hand on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. He guided her through some steps. They revolved around the grand chamber, past the fireplace, past a landscape painting (undulant hills, a shepherd’s cottage). Past the mirror, where for a moment Rianna glimpsed herself, pale and triumphant.
He said, “That’ll do. Anyone watching will be satisfied that you can handle the role of king’s consort.” He smirked as if to indicate what he thought of that role, and withdrew. As ever, his motions were elegant. Almost elegant enough to obscure the odious words, that smirk.
“Now let’s go,” he said. “Elissan will think you’ve seduced me and have my head. And I don’t mean that metaphorically.”
* * *
TO reach the Great Hall they took the main staircase: wide, marble stairs in full view of everyone. A sea of guests filled the hall. Rianna was aware of stares as she descended, at a stately pace, on Etherell’s arm. She knew the sort of couple they made. Royal consorts-to-be, the two of them, both shining.
Elissan Diar’s idea to hold a winter ball had surprised her. Until she saw the sense in leading to the coronation with a display of splendor. Word would spread of the magnificence of the king and his future queen, to every corner of Eivar and across the mountains. This was no mere upstart, would be the message.
And everyone knew who Rianna’s husband was: right-hand man to the Court Poet. Here was a potent symbol of the old regime’s end, crushed beneath the heel of a new king.
Rianna’s smile, as she descended, masked these thoughts. It occurred to her that perhaps this moment, more than the intimate ones, was her most significant betrayal.
She hoped Ned’s father wasn’t here.
As they reached the final stairs, Etherell turned to her. Leaned towards her to make himself heard above the chatter. “I’m not convinced by this sudden attack of shyness,” he said. “I know what you are. Like calls to like.”
She widened her eyes at him. “What an odd thing to say.”
His cordial smile was put on for onlookers as he backed from her, and bowed. He said, almost cheerfully, “I’ll be watching.”
No doubt, she thought as he left her side. But there was little time for more thoughts about it. Elissan Diar was before her. The gold brocade jacket became him. He extended his hand to her, said, “I can scarce breathe to look at you.”
A space had cleared around them. Rianna was aware that people watched. She met his eyes with a fierceness, as if they were alone. Murmured, “Have you missed me?”
Since their betrothal—since the hunting lodge—she had not invited him to her room, and he hadn’t initiated. He’d wanted her to know his promise held; from now on, she would be the one to decide.
He didn’t answer right away. His hand encompassed hers. He said, “Dance with me.”
That was when she noticed the music. Oh, this drew her to another time, even if this palace was nothing like her father’s house. Her father did not have such a vast space as this, stairs ascending to multiple pillared galleries. But the fashionable music, played on lute and pipe, brought back to her being young, unspoiled, unbelievably carefree. When the most daring thing she could imagine was sneaking out at night to the back garden to meet her paramour, a poet. And never to do more than kiss. Darien had handled her carefully, reverently, as if she were made of glass. He had thought her delicate, breakable, and so had she. They had been right and wrong, at the same time, in ways she was still learning.
She went through the movements of the dance while her mind was, just then, in another place and time.
“What are you thinking?” said Elissan Diar. He sounded teasing, but possibly concerned beneath that. Would he worry that she was having second thoughts? Sometimes she couldn’t read him.
But she knew how he would respond if she met his eyes again, so she did. “I was considering,” she said, as they spun a turn, “that I may go to bed tonight still wearing this collar. And nothing else. What is your opinion?”
He trailed his hand down her bare back. “That depends,” he said. “I’d have to see for myself.”
She held his gaze the rest of the dance.
When they neared Etherell and Sendara dancing together, Rianna sensed it at once. The princess looked enraptured. Her partially braided hair flowed around her. Etherell seemed, as usual, distracted. Once in a while he glanced Rianna’s way. No doubt about it—she had aroused his suspicions.
She tried not to think about it. To focus instead on her response to the music, and the gaze of the man she was to marry. She saw him struggling to hide infatuation. She thought she understood why. He had his pride—vanity, really; that trail of great beauties littered in his past. Somehow this time was different. That had become clear to her the night he gave her the necklace. A development she had not foreseen. Nor, it seemed, had he.
It had to do with timing, she thought. He had met her at a time of life when all things seemed significant. It had given their meeting, in his mind, a significance. Something it would not have had if he had encountered her when he was still on his journey to the throne. She would have then been a part of that journey, not the destination. So she believed.
She wo
uld have liked to ask her mother to what extent luck, as well as foresight, played into these matters. Though her mother had met a singularly unlucky end.
Near the musicians she caught sight of Syme Oleir, sitting alone, looking dejected. Dark hair stood up from his pale forehead as if it needed a comb. He wore a lime green jacket, she noted. With any luck, he wouldn’t wander from that spot. But if her luck didn’t hold, the distinctive jacket would be a sign. Few wore that color. It was not in fashion. It had most likely been dug up by the tailor—something old no one wanted.
As she danced with the king, Rianna thought she could guess what was being whispered by the guests. Traitor. Whore.
I know what you are, Etherell Lyr had said. But he’d meant something else.
“When I first saw you on the stairs you looked pale,” said Elissan. “Do you need wine?”
She smiled. “I was nervous before so many people,” she said. “I’m all right now. Though wine … I would like that very much. Later on.”
“Later,” he said, and stroked the inside of her wrist. She shivered a little. A reminder: Not every response was in her control.
He grinned, pleased to see he could gain the upper hand. He was about to speak, but there was no telling what he would have said next. In that moment there was a shriek. Unmistakably a girl.
A shocked silence punctuated with gasps. People feared the worst. But Sendara Diar was not in the least injured. Her face was red, and she was screaming at Etherell.
He had backed from her, his face like stone. Nothing roused Etherell Lyr’s contempt, Rianna thought, like outbursts of emotion. That was true of many men, and especially of him. What he said was low, unintelligible at this distance.
Sendara continued to scream. “What is this?” She brandished something in his face. Rianna could not see it properly from here, but knew full well what it was. A white satin handkerchief, edged with lace. Saturated with a musk scent. For good measure, with a smudge of lip color on it.
The Poet King Page 13
