The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  She laughed, loud and long with her head flung back. Then looked down at him with mirth still lingering. “You are the most entertaining mortal I’ve owned,” she said. “I’d rather you didn’t freeze.”

  And there was softness and warmth around him. He looked down at himself. The green and gold clothes he’d worn to enter the castle were upon him again.

  “They tried every means to tempt you and they failed,” said the Queen. “It was really quite well done. And now you have the Shadow King’s name. A thing to weaken him when the moment is right. You shall be my weapon, Dorn Arrin.”

  He sank back in the greensward, stunned. Now that she had said it, he could feel it within him; a whisper of something new. Yet it was all so confusing. “But—the amulet…”

  “That must have been a decoy,” she said. “They were clever. And I couldn’t reveal the nature of your task. It would have been against the rules.” She seemed to study him. “But, in a pinch—when you find yourself amid enchantments—the most powerful weapon is truth. The one nearest your heart most of all. A thing poets knew from the world’s beginning, until they lost their lore, and they forgot.”

  He stared at her. He felt emptied of words; of everything.

  She reached out a hand to him. “Rise. There is still time left to the night, and you have earned your rest.” She looked to Etherell Lyr. “Escort him to his pavilion.”

  Dorn did everything he could to avoid Etherell’s eyes. Thankful that it was dark. They walked in silence, side by side, up the hill to where the Queen’s encampment was.

  At last they reached Dorn’s pavilion. “Hang on,” Etherell said. “Your shouting at me—what did you mean by it?”

  “None of your fucking business,” said Dorn, and dropped the tent flap in his face.

  CHAPTER

  22

  THE city awaits its king. So had Myrine written her husband a month before. With the East Province brought to its knees, it was time for Eldakar Evrayad to march on the city of Majdara. To return home.

  Not that it would feel like home. A thing everyone felt in the ride south, but did not say. With the Zahra a charred ruin on its mountain, Eldakar was heading for a palace he’d never lived in, a place in the city that had belonged to his family but meant nothing to him. The glory of the Zahra—its gardens, the myriad gilded rooms, the Tower of Glass—gone. It had been his life from childhood; the place of his greatest joy and pain, passions and betrayals. Was in itself more than all of these. Obliterated in a night.

  Wherever they went in the city, Nameir thought on the long ride, they would always be reminded when they looked up and saw it. The mountain where once had shone the towers, the one of glass most of all.

  Their procession was a worn one, she thought as they neared the city gates. The victory had been so close, so near defeat. And the gory murder the king had committed to cement his leadership weighed on them all. Something was gained, to be sure—no one would question his ability to make the decisions of rule again. But it seemed to her that something else, impossible to name, was by the same means lost.

  They arrived on an afternoon, crossing the bridge that Myrine’s troops had guarded against Muiwiyah. The Plaza of Falcons was bright in the sun. The palace where Myrine ruled was located there. The same palace where Yusuf Evrayad had once resided until the Zahra was fully built. It had that history.

  After sorting out where Eldakar’s troops would be housed and fed, Nameir Hazan and Prince Mansur accompanied the king into Myrine’s presence. The king and queen had not seen each other since last spring; since she had abandoned and humiliated him before all Majdara.

  One could draw a line, however indirect, from that act, to Eldakar’s seeing the necessity of personally executing three men. A man who had been humiliated by his wife had no chance of respect. For a king, the stakes were far higher.

  Or so Nameir found herself thinking. She didn’t know if Eldakar would have said the same. No doubt, knowing him, he would have denied that anyone bore responsibility for his actions but himself.

  He looked composed as ever as they traversed the marble halls with its vaulted ceilings and arched windows. It was a conventional palace. Beautiful, with a history that preceded the Evrayad line; but it was not the Zahra.

  Before they entered the chamber where the queen was, Mansur placed his hand on his brother’s good shoulder. Then they went in.

  Queen Rihab—no, Myrine—was alone, without even a token guard. She wore sombre robes, not the ceremonial gems and brocade. Perhaps she’d deemed these inappropriate to times of war. There had been rumors that the queen had for a time taken to dressing like a man and wearing a sword. Not today. Her dark hair was unbound, without a jeweled comb or diadem to be seen.

  The king stepped forward. It reminded Nameir of the way he’d stepped into the circle where the Akaber brothers were bound, before he’d killed them. That slow yet determined gait.

  The queen watched him approach. Nameir was struck by the vulnerability in her face. There was no way to misread it. A vulnerability accentuated by the lack of face paint, which would otherwise have made a formal, exquisite mask of her face.

  Nothing like the queen Nameir had seen in the past. Dissembling, charming, mocking. None of that. Not today.

  Eldakar stood before her. “So I’m here,” he said. “Myrine, Rihab. Whatever it is I am to call you.”

  “Eldakar,” she said, and her voice seemed to break. “Please. Let me look at you.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I heard about your shoulder,” said the queen. “Our best physicians must look at it. They’ve told me there is a surgery that may help.”

  “You are all business,” he said.

  “No.”

  Nameir felt uncomfortable, standing there; she wondered if Mansur did too.

  Myrine went on, “I am keeping a distance if that is what you desire,” she said. “What you desire is what matters. I’m yours. If you want me.”

  He winced. “Oh, my love, don’t talk that way.” And then they were in each other’s arms. Mansur nodded meaningfully to Nameir, and they left the room like a shot. Down the hall Nameir could already hear the queen’s cries, and felt desperately embarrassed. And other things. But she didn’t want to sort through any of that.

  “That was quick,” she said to Mansur as they went out to the plaza.

  His face burned red. “Yes.”

  She could guess some of his thoughts. His wife, who remained in the home of her parents with their daughter, had his official loyalty. But she knew that his heart, or at least some part of him, would always be claimed by the queen. It was the way of all men, perhaps. They couldn’t stand against Myrine. Not Eldakar, despite what she’d done to him. Not Mansur.

  * * *

  IN the courtyard she ran into Aleira Suzehn. The Magician was brushing down her horse, a pretty palfrey. She looked up as Nameir stepped from the shadow of the doorway. “So the king and queen are together.”

  “Very much so,” said Nameir.

  Neither of them had spoken of the night Nameir had let her guard down with the Magician. Nameir was grateful for that. But the Magician’s manner had subtly changed toward her since.

  After a long ride amid hundreds of men-at-arms, this courtyard was peaceful. It was shaded by fragrant linden trees.

  Aleira was looking at Nameir with unusual intensity. “Melila,” she said. The name on her lips was musical. “Is this where you belong? It may be the fate of Galicians to wander … so the Ellenicans and Alfinians would have us believe. And they do their utmost to make it so. But with the Jitana, I found something of a place. There may be a place for you.”

  Nameir forced a smile. “Only you would ask such a question after two days’ ride,” she said. “I can’t think of anything just now but of rest, perhaps a bath.”

  “For the king’s right hand, a bath shouldn’t be too much to ask,” Aleira agreed. “I only suggest you give some thought to it. I will help however I can.” She
patted her horse’s mane. “Now I am off to check on my bookshop. It has probably been looted, but the idiots who loot Galician businesses wouldn’t know a valuable manuscript if it hit them between the eyes. So. Wish me luck.”

  And she was off, and Nameir didn’t watch her go, but she felt her steps grow lighter as she made her way to her quarters. There was someone in the world who cared about her. It made no sense but it was something. And mattered more than it would have just a short time before. She knew it had something to do with the night with Mansur but that memory was like a bruise, too tender. She let it alone.

  The idea that she had not yet found her place … that was new. It raised the possibility that someday, maybe, these people and events would not be everything to her as they were now.

  A thought like heresy. Her first response to it was guilt. Then she recalled that even Eldakar, who had needed her, didn’t anymore. Neither brother needed her. She’d been useful, and in the future someone else could be useful in her place. That was all.

  * * *

  DINNER was a celebratory affair. Only the commanders of their armies were present, which made for strange company; the queen’s commanders had been thieves and cutthroats in former lives. They possibly still were. They arrayed themselves like peacocks, with plumed hats, jewels, magnificent scarves. And sported titles: they were lords now. More than once Nameir had met Mansur’s gaze and saw he looked as scandalized as she was.

  But what was to be done? These people had been effective in the city’s defense.

  Nameir watched as Aleira Suzehn and the queen were reunited; how they embraced, and the queen had whispered in the Magician’s ear. She felt a pang; a reminder to herself: Don’t forget. Aleira belonged to the queen, just like Eldakar and Mansur.

  Eldakar and Myrine presided at the head of the table. They had changed their clothes, Myrine’s hair sleek from bathing. Her contentment radiated down the table. Often she leaned against Eldakar’s shoulder, that did not detract from her power. She seemed, rather than dependent, confidently possessive. He had returned to her.

  After dinner came business: a council of war. They sat in a room with a long table, its windows looking out on the city square. It was quiet tonight. The only sound from an open window, the plash of the city fountains.

  “My people stand ready,” the queen was saying to Eldakar. “They are trained and now, with the infusion of your troops, we are better equipped. At the same time, we’ll need to increase our supply. I’ve been working on that ever since Muiwiyah’s siege was lifted.” She looked to Aleira Suzehn. “How long before the attack?”

  Aleira stood. “I’ve had word from Lin Amaristoth,” she said. “She said there is an army on its way that is—well, she said they can’t be killed.”

  Myrine narrowed her eyes. “Enchantments. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “I’m a Magician, but not in the way of Zahir Alcavar,” said Aleira. “I’m sorry.”

  “This is familiar territory,” said Eldakar. He sounded weary. “Little has changed.”

  “The Court Poet works on our behalf,” said Aleira. “And we have more than doubled our forces here. This isn’t over.”

  The council went on: Aleira saw the first attack taking place near the border, north of the Gadlan. The stars indicated it would be not a week from now. Their troops in the East Province would be commanded to assemble.

  “We will move them into place—send the order,” the queen told Aleira. “That will be our first step. I will consult with the Fire Dancers in the city. Magic will be key in this war, if we are dealing with forces such as this. Perhaps my father can help.” She reached beside her to Eldakar, stroked his back. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight. Let’s to bed.”

  He seemed deep in thought. When she addressed him, it took time for him to surface. Then Eldakar said, “You go ahead, my lady.”

  Myrine was expressionless. Nonetheless, Nameir thought she saw the shaft go in. “You’ve been away so long.” She turned his hand over to caress his palm with her fingertips. “Come.”

  He turned to look at her. “I’d like some time to myself,” he said. “You go ahead.”

  She rose. Tossed her head, as if to save her pride. She was so beautiful, Nameir thought.

  “I suppose you must be tired from your journey, among other things,” said the queen. Her tone edged to cut. “I won’t tax your stamina.” She spun on her heel to depart. The meeting dispersed.

  * * *

  SOON after, Nameir waited by the front door. She cooled her heels there awhile, with the patience only an experienced soldier can bring to tedium. She couldn’t be certain she was right. But it had been a long time in the camp up in the hills. There were things she knew.

  Eldakar caught sight of her the moment he stepped into the front hall. He looked pained. “Am I that predictable?”

  “Only to me,” she said. “If that helps.”

  “So you know where I’m going.”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, come along, Nameir,” he said. She followed after.

  The Plaza of the Falcons was everywhere lit: at the doorways to palaces, by the fountains, by the gates. When they left all that for the dark of night outside the gates it seemed like they had crossed a great distance, from one world to the next.

  Once, this path would have been lit as well. No longer. Now this mountain was a haven for jackals, their eerie calls sounding in the dark.

  Nameir remembered how it had once been to mount this path. How the splendor on the mountain came into focus as you went higher. Once, the Tower of Glass would have been distinct at night, lit from within. Once a garden scent would have overtaken them. But winter had come, weeds had begun to win against untended blooms.

  “It hasn’t been so long,” she heard Eldakar say softly. It was hard to see his face by the light of the torch. “You’d never know.”

  She nodded. The supernatural armies of the west had set fire to everything. Time alone was not the culprit—it had taken up where the fires left off.

  She followed him to a place where grass gave way to tile. Fragments of walls, of archways. She saw pieces: whatever within the scope of a single torch. Some of the tiles were reflective, as if made of something that shone. Perhaps by daylight she would see a pattern. But she saw networks of cracks, lichen eating between the tiles. The smell of busy, devouring life. The earth was reclaiming the Zahra, stone by stone.

  Above arched the starry sky that once Magicians in the Tower of Glass had observed for prophecies.

  She heard something. A rattle of falling masonry.

  She laid a hand on Eldakar’s arm.

  A figure emerged from behind a ruined wall.

  “Sorry,” said Mansur. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You could have ended with an arrow in your gut,” she said with mock-severity.

  “Unlikely,” he said. “Even you can’t hit targets in the dark.”

  “What are you doing here?” said Eldakar.

  “I saw you leave,” said the prince. “I followed you.”

  “It’s a pity we didn’t bring cakes to roast over a fire,” said Eldakar, amused and tired. “I hadn’t planned on an expedition.”

  “You wanted to see it again,” said Mansur. “I understand. But do you think that’s wise?”

  Eldakar seemed to consider. Somewhere near, an owl was calling. More distant, the chirrup of singing frogs from the abandoned fountains.

  “You mean, is it wise to see it like this?” he said. “I don’t know. I came to visit my old ghosts as much as anything. Do you see where we are? The throne room.”

  And now that he said it, Nameir saw the cracked tiles, the broken walls, cohere. Still, it was hard to picture. Never had the throne room been open to the elements and the sky.

  “You hated being king,” said Mansur.

  “It’s true. I could never fill this room as Father did.” Eldakar stood with his hands in his belt, a moment. Then began to wal
k again. Nameir knew where they were going, and thought Mansur did too. They followed. It had been their choice to come. It was not for them to say what should be done, or to judge. Nameir had initially thought her instinct in coming along had been to guard Eldakar, but now she found in herself another motive. She had been with him in his hardest times. It made sense to accompany him here, though the enemy was harder to see. There was nothing here to defend against, nor attack with sword or spear.

  It was the quiet of mourning they dealt with here in the broken ruin of the Zahra.

  “You know where we are,” said Eldakar. They’d come to a place of bare earth and toppled trees. Here and there, the skeletons of hedges.

  “The gardens,” said Mansur.

  “Now a home for coyotes and jackals,” said Eldakar. “To tell the truth, I always knew what we had couldn’t last. Though I don’t know how I knew.”

  “It’s your melancholy nature, my dear brother,” said Mansur. “You never think you deserve to be happy.” He sounded as if he’d been thinking of this a long time. “We are given so little in this life,” he said. “So little time. There is no sense in finding reasons to be sad.”

  In the torchlit dark Eldakar shook his head. “Our father built the place on blood,” he said. “Nothing could last here or take root. Not for long.”

  He lowered himself to sit among the stones. The other two followed his lead. The chorus of singing frogs was louder here. Nameir thought against all odds, the sound was comforting.

  Eldakar leaned back where he sat. And then, very softly at first, began to sing.

  Winter saw you in ruin,

  Your light quenched

  Your finery in rags.

  Winter saw me return

  to hold you in my arms.

  Once more.

  Nameir felt, more than saw, that Mansur was uneasy; that this grief was something he didn’t want to approach. She knew him well. But he loved his brother, so he stayed. She knew that too. They stayed with Eldakar as the flames of the torch dwindled and the stars grew fainter in the sky.