The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  It was an honor that chafed. It had come to Muiwiyah only after he’d surrendered his claim to the throne. There was simply no standing against Yusuf Evrayad. But the emasculated elder son, Eldakar—that was another matter. And the attacks from the north, culminating in the destruction of the Zahra, had presented the perfect opportunity.

  Muiwiyah’s castle was decorated with the banners of East Province, the silver gazelle on a field of green. The sight of them gave Muiwiyah stirrings of discontent: as king of all Kahishi, his banner should incorporate elements of all the provinces. He’d give orders to the seneschal to procure cloth for the tailors, and to have them come up with new designs. Whoever created the design he most liked would receive some sort of favor. As Muiwiyah rode across the drawbridge he reflected on this with a newly satisfied smile. There would no longer be provinces at all, when he was done with Eldakar. That had been Yusuf Evrayad’s grand mistake—imagining unity could exist in Kahishi so long as it was divided.

  Yusuf’s other mistake had been allowing his eldest son to marry that whore. But it all worked to Muiwiyah’s benefit now. The whore who ruled in Majdara—who would soon be dealt with—had made Eldakar Evrayad deeply unpopular, distrusted.

  Muiwiyah smiled a little as he thought about Eldakar’s whore. She was very toothsome. She had turned out to be capable in battle, as well—but that would only make his conquest the sweeter. A wildcat that would not be tamed might still be brought to her knees. Muiwiyah had ideas of what she might do for him, on her knees.

  With attendants at his heels, he made his way to his chambers. He felt a vast relief when he arrived here, at his personal sanctuary. After weeks of living in a tent, it was a balm to his heart to be back—to be home. Each piece of armor his attendants removed, each weight, was like removing a weight from his spirit. He had been under so many pressures, between the battle to the west and the siege of Majdara. He felt these lift away with his armor, then his clothing, and he gave a great sigh as he settled into his bath.

  It was pleasant, then, to recline in the water, as servants poured ewers of scented water over his shoulders and back, and imagine the things he would do to Rihab Bet-Sorr. The servants were discreet, making no comment on whatever acts Muiwiyah felt compelled to as a result of these imaginings. They simply continued to bring the ewers, massage his shoulders and head, and wash his hair. The sensations, coupled with a more intense pleasure, were delightful.

  He was a proud man who didn’t care what his servants thought. He was handsome, still, despite being past middle age. And active among his concubines. The aura of power he projected, his skill in battle, had carried him far—until he’d hit a wall. That damnable wall of Yusuf Evrayad’s victories. So he had accepted the appointment of Vizier of the East Provence, and awaited his moment.

  That moment was fast approaching, Muiwiyah thought as the attendants toweled him dry. He gave an involuntary groan of contentment when they slipped on his silken robe, at the feel of it against his skin. How good it was to have grown sons now, who would endure the privations of war instead of him. He was done, at least until it was time to bring the full weight of their forces against Majdara and the whore. He wanted to be the one to crush the capital, to lead the march into the city. To look Rihab Bet-Sorr full in the face as she knelt in the dirt, her eyes a mixture of pride and fear. He could see it already. If he had been younger, the thought would have made him hard all over again.

  It was said that Rihab consorted with Fire Dancers and thieves. That she’d taken over the criminal element of the city and trained them in battle. A strategy that could only last as long as Muiwiyah’s forces were preoccupied with Eldakar on their western flank. Once Eldakar was dealt with and Muiwiyah brought the full weight of his forces to bear on the city … he predicted it wouldn’t last a week.

  Now it was time for his meal, which he had looked forward to as much as the bath. Though he had been given the best of what was on offer on the battle lines, it was pitiful fare. The covered dishes that the servants brought forth now, the birds and goats’ flesh slathered in spiced sauces prepared specifically to Muiwiyah’s tastes, made him close his eyes in anticipation. Perhaps it was worthwhile to go away, to experience hardship for a time, as a means of savoring common pleasures once more.

  A profound thought, he decided, and considered calling a minstrel to note it down. But the repast beckoned, and wine. These were more pressing than posterity.

  “You have another message from Ramadus, your excellency,” said one of the servants, from a kneeling position, his forehead to the floor.

  It was irritating. He was trying to enjoy his dinner. “I know what it says. Leave it and go.”

  The servant deposited the scroll, sealed in a leather case with the insignia of the court of Ramadus, on a silver tray beside Muiwiyah’s couch. He did so with his eyes lowered, and without raising his eyes backed from the couch until he reached the threshold, and only then turned to go.

  Muiwiyah was chewing morosely now. He’d been so looking forward to his dinner. Ever since departing the camp, in all the hours of riding through cold and rain. But if he didn’t read the message now, it would prey on his mind, even though he knew what it said. They were all the same these days.

  He tapped the scroll from its case into his palm. Unrolled it. Sure enough, the same song as ever. The Magicians of Ramadus saw a great darkness approaching from the west, so on and so forth. It was essential for Kahishi to cease its battles and unite.

  Whatever their game, it was a pathetic one. If they were allied with Eldakar Evrayad, some tale spun of a prophecy was hardly going to work on Muiwiyah. And if not—well, the country would be united once he crushed Eldakar, wouldn’t it? The South Province waited, deliberately neutral, to see who would win. They would join Muiwiyah once he demonstrated his superior strength. Kahishi would find new inspiration behind a leader like Muiwiyah. It had been weakened from its core by a sapling coward like Eldakar.

  Either way, Muiwiyah was doing the best possible thing for the country. And once he was king, the Ramadians would have no choice but to treat with as him. They put on a show of strength, but trade with Kahishi was as important to them as it had ever been. Some of the world’s finest olive oil came from groves near Majdara. Ramadian princes were eager to wrap themselves in crimson, a rare dye produced from beetles that lived in particular trees south of the River Gadlan. For all the noises the Ramadians made about war, war was expensive. Muiwiyah was not convinced that Ramadus wanted war, not if there were other ways to access the riches of Kahishi for themselves.

  Alliances were key. When Muiwiyah won the throne, he’d marry one of his sons to a Ramadian princess. That same marriage Eldakar Evrayad had spurned—a diplomatic disaster. Muiwiyah was his country’s savior—that was clear. His one regret was that Yusuf Evrayad would never see it.

  That night he had a girl brought to him—a new slave from the east, luscious and golden-haired. She looked nothing like Rihab Bet-Sorr but Muiwiyah was a man of diverse tastes. He appreciated life’s finer pleasures—in food, women, and wine. This particular girl was more subdued than he usually liked, but in some ways that was ideal after the rigors of the road. She did what was expected of her and he didn’t have to think. In that way it was similar to his bath, an uncomplicated indulgence. Before he slipped into sleep he allowed her to stay—the girls brought to him were searched thoroughly, and there was the chance he might awaken with new appetite in the night. Especially after a long time away.

  Muiwiyah did awaken in the night. It was very late. The moon was high, light angling through the windows. The girl lay still beside him.

  That was when he saw she lay atop the covers and that her wrists and ankles were tied. Her mouth bound with a gag.

  When he tried to scream he realized two things: He was gagged, and someone held him from behind. The knife flashed as it sank into his throat, screaming pain. Shock of red, of his own blood. His life.

  A man stood before him now. A man in simpl
e clothing, pale by moonlight. An Eivarian, said Muiwiyah’s fevered thoughts. The man said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. My name is Ned Alterra. That was for Myrine, daughter of Sicaro, queen of Majdara.”

  Muiwiyah tried to speak. Nothing came. His body canted sideways on the bed.

  The man went to the window as he cleaned his knife, a motion deft and fastidious. He seemed to have forgotten the vizier whose life bubbled away on the bed. He spoke to himself or the moonlight. “After all,” he said, “I hate traitors.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  MIDNIGHT of the winter solstice a procession was seen passing through the streets of Tamryllin. Seen, rather than heard; it was nearly silent. Those who observed the procession, and could tell of it afterward, watched through the slits of drawn shutters. Or rather, caught a glimpse; anyone who watched longer than a moment would not tell of it, for those people—men, women, even children—would stumble out in the night, stumble in silence after the silent procession of armed men. These in turn guided, at their head, by a majestic figure in white. It was as if the moon itself passed for a moment before each window, if moonlight could leave a lingering chill behind.

  The people who glimpsed this, and did not look for more than a moment, shivered in their blankets and prayed.

  Everyone had shut themselves indoors directly after what had happened at the palace. There had been a single, unifying compulsion, stronger than panic, to seek shelter. Forgotten were the planned revelries of solstice night; the rejoicings for a new king. Everyone in the city, from the wealthiest aristocrat to the lowest pauper, was gripped by the same terror. The poor, if they had no homes, took refuge in temples, where priests wandered with eyes like the damned.

  Those who took refuge lay on benches, gazing upward in supplication at the marble or painted eyes of gods.

  The taverns that had meant to be open all night for the celebrations closed immediately, opening doors only to entreaties from those who sought shelter—often people from the castle. No one could imagine staying in that castle tonight, perhaps ever. Those who had not seen what happened to Elissan Diar still knew, without the doubt or distortion associated with rumor. As if the knowledge had been passed without need for speech. As if they themselves had been witness. And now would never forget.

  Those left in the streets would end up joining the procession, which was increasingly ragged at its edge, as it wound through Tamryllin from the castle, through streets, and at last to the gate. They were soon lost to the night, but the residents of Tamryllin nonetheless kept to their homes, temples, and taverns afterward and huddled there past daybreak, sleepless.

  The next morning the people of Tamryllin found that, overnight, the fine blanketing of snow from the day before had frozen into a coating like glass on the paving stones. That roofs and windowsills dripped shards of ice. Frost made glittering spirals on the windowpanes.

  That morning everyone would know of someone who had gone missing. These were permanent losses. Those who followed the White Queen on solstice night were never seen again.

  * * *

  AFTER the tolling of the midnight bell, after the castle fell silent, Rianna directed them to an underground chamber. But when they reached the doorway she found she could not go in, as if something pressed against her and held her in place.

  “Rianna.” Lin Amaristoth, coming up beside her.

  Rianna turned to her. It was all a haze, suddenly. For so long she’d been expecting to break; was this what it felt like? “I can’t do this,” she said. “It’s my fault.”

  “No,” Lin said coldly. “It’s mine.” She advanced to the cot where Marlen Humbreleigh lay outstretched. His boots dangled over its edge. He’d been so tall.

  Rianna could not bear to look. His words came back to her. You’re a cold bitch who can bear anything. He’d said it to make her strong, she knew that, but she also thought he believed it. And he was wrong. She couldn’t bear that he’d been near for so long while she ate and slept and danced upstairs. That he’d died alone in the dark.

  “We have to bury him,” she said.

  “We must do something,” said Lin. She had knelt beside the bed. She bowed her head. “It must have happened … he must have gone … not long ago.”

  Rianna couldn’t bring herself to look directly at the man on the cot. Didn’t want to see his face. There were already so many images that haunted her, awake and in dreams. Nonetheless, she knew she must be present here, not a coward. She watched the proceedings from the corner of her eye.

  Lin Amaristoth bent and put her lips to his forehead. Then stood. As Rianna watched from the doorway, Lin removed her black cloak from her shoulders and laid it over the body. Then the Court Poet raised her arms. Very softly, she began to sing.

  Rianna found herself shivering. She wanted to ask what the point was of covering him, of singing, but could not speak. She saw as Lin’s sleeves fell back to reveal her arms that they were veined with gold.

  Syme Oleir, looking timid, crept past Rianna to stand near the strange tableau at the cot. Rianna had forgotten about him. The gold light from Lin limned his features as he looked up at her.

  When Lin lowered her arms and fell silent, Syme spoke. “No songs, no love, no life.”

  The Court Poet put her hand on his shoulder. “It feels that way.” She turned her gaze to Rianna. Her eyes seemed darker, like caves, with a spark of life within. “On my travels something happened to me,” she said. “I am still not sure what it is. One thing I know is that I feel … a kind of affinity … with the dead. I think I can stop his body corrupting. Until we honor him with a resting place. We’ll come back for him, Rianna. When this is over.”

  Rianna raised her head, defiant. And angry. “If we can.”

  Lin spread her hands. It seemed an eastern gesture to Rianna, and evasive. “Yes.”

  This reminder of Kahishi sparked Rianna’s anger even more. But she recognized that for what it was. She knew it was a defense against breaking. That she was angry because for all the Court Poet’s enchantments, she could not revive the dead.

  Rianna said nothing more, only took Syme’s arm so he’d move again.

  They departed the cell. For a time they were silent in the corridor that would take them to the stairs.

  In all her nights in this place, Rianna had never known it to be so quiet. Not even the call of a bird outside, nor wind in the chimneys.

  As they neared the stairs, Syme spoke up. His voice scaled to a whine. “You promised blackberry jam.”

  Lin looked to Rianna with a raised eyebrow. Rianna shrugged. “It’s true, I did.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  * * *

  THE kitchen was dark, and cold; the hearthfire had gone out. Rianna set about rekindling it as Lin lit tallow candles. Soon there was a blaze going at which the women warmed their hands. They didn’t speak. Rianna’s hair fell forward, made a curtain between her and the Court Poet. She felt distant from everything, too deep in a black melancholy to speak.

  “Jam,” said Syme plaintively.

  “Right.” Rianna turned from the fire, began opening cupboards. She found the jam jars on one shelf, and another where the biscuits were kept. She brought these, and plates, to the table.

  With a whoop Syme seized a biscuit and applied himself to the jars of jam, opening each one to peer inside, and sniff—presumably to discover which was blackberry. The women sat across from one another at the table and watched. It was something to look at for a while. The hiss of the fire like a crone whispering. Its light dancing on the floor and Lin’s face. Rianna looked away, to the window. Nothing there but black, pale points of reflected candles, and frost forming on the panes.

  “You should probably eat something,” said Lin.

  Rianna raised a shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  “You’re angry with me.” When Rianna opened her mouth to protest, Lin raised her hand. “You’re right to be. I sent him into danger. And you. I can’t imagine what you�
�ve been through.”

  Rianna couldn’t stand it. She was afraid she would cry. “I made my choice,” she said harshly. “Not for you. I wanted…” She stopped. What had she wanted? She cast her mind back to midsummer, to autumn … a different time. To brushing out a sulky princess’s bright hair; to the view of red and yellow trees from the window. She had imagined she was dealing with a corrupt king, with some access to magic. Something she could stand against in her own way. “I thought I might be of use.”

  “And you were,” said Lin. “You found Syme. What he is.”

  The boy—for so he looked right now—had jam all over his face. All his attention fixed on the biscuit, as if it were the center of the world. He looked happy.

  Rianna said, “You know what was done to him?”

  Lin looked away. “I feel it. Such a cruel enchantment. The last person who held the Ifreet … I knew him. He took its burdens on himself. What Elissan has done to this boy … it’s unthinkable.”

  “I thought it might go away when Elissan was killed.”

  “But it hasn’t. And I can’t lift the spell. I don’t know who can. The man who once held the Ifreet … he is dead. And we lost Valanir.” Lin looked back again to Rianna, her expression hardening. “There is no one to turn to anymore. I’ve become the person I must turn to. And the one to blame when things go wrong.”

  “We didn’t know the risks,” said Rianna. Her mind shied away from that night: of Marlen’s torture, of the king gliding silently into her room. Marlen’s words: He is so strong, Rianna. “No one knew. Even Elissan didn’t know what he was dealing with. He thought he was to be king, when all along he was being fattened up as prey.”