The Ladybirds, as Darien and his friends referred to the king’s guards derisively. There to enforce laws like the approval of songs for their content and form, and the proper mode of bowing when addressing his majesty. Such men may as well split open and fly away, for all the respect they deserved. But as Marlen once pointed out, they did know how to use weapons. And poets who failed to get their songs approved ended up imprisoned, or worse.
Darien had seen King Harald only once, and Court Poet Gerrard only twice. It was an unspeakable honor that they had arrived here tonight, at the Midsummer Ball of a merchant. But Darien knew Master Gelvan was not merely a merchant: he had cultivated the king’s favor, using his extensive resources for the greater glory of the monarchy. Of course, Galicians were skilled at that sort of thing.
Six men stood at attention on each side of an unrolled carpet, and in unison their long brass horns were uplifted and sang. Across the carpet, the king and queen progressed arm in arm at a majestic pace, allowing the surrounding crowds to pay homage with downcast glances and bended knee.
Clad in a ceremonial mantle of porphyry, the king was round and soft, as was the queen at his side. Harald and Kora had produced an heir as round and soft as themselves, a boy who was now twelve and rumored to be afraid of the dark and dogs. When Darien was a child, he had heard talk among the adults of the dwindling of the Tamryllin monarchy; Harald’s father, a great ruler, had been felled by a sudden illness. Leaving only one, unimpressive son.
At the Academy, the students had often traded banter back and forth about the ineffectual monarch, though the more clever ones realized that that same monarch might be their avenue to success.
It was the figure coming up behind the king and his entourage that drew the eye much more: Nickon Gerrard, Court Poet and the king’s favorite. Drifting from his shoulders the six-colored cloak that only he was permitted to wear. A handsome man who had aged gracefully, with a distinguished profile and only a touch of silver at the temples. His eyes sharp and clever, as if there was nothing that could evade his gaze.
Harald depended upon him for everything, it was said.
The music was starting up again. Master Gelvan lifted his arms as if to encompass the entire room and all the glittering people there and called for a dance.
Normally, Darien would have used this as an opportunity for flirtation. Now, knowing that Rianna was here and not with him, he hung back. It was then that he caught sight of a slight woman in corn-colored silk, her head covered with a silk cap set with a single pearl. Her face was all eyes, large and deep-set in a sharp, pale face. She looked oddly familiar. He recognized the man who accompanied her easily enough, for he was just a year ahead of them at the Academy.
“Marlen,” he said, “who is that waif with Leander?”
His friend smiled. There was wine in his glass again, as if by magic. His eyes were glazed and a bit pink. “Picture her in a man’s trousers and shirt, and you’ll remember,” said Marlen. “She’s our competition tonight. It’s a bit offensive, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t aware it was a competition,” said Darien. He was growing weary of his friend’s mood and wished to be elsewhere. Such as, across the room offering a cup of scarlet wine to a girl in a green dress. And if he could not help but see the symbolism in that, then so be it.
The music must come first, he reminded himself. Rianna Gelvan was here, but so were the king and his retinue … and Nickon Gerrard.
Remembering that moment later, Darien would think, somewhat ruefully, that if he had known then who else was in the room that night, it would have eclipsed those names altogether. And likewise if he had known what was to come in the next hour, not long after the moon had crested the nearby sea.
* * *
THE green he wore matched his eyes, Lin noticed as she approached Therron. Nearby, a group of what appeared to be Kahishian nobility, dark-skinned and clad in shades of red and violet and yellow, were conferring in their own tongue. She had never seen any of the desert people until now. They were of course here for the Fair and the world-famous contest.
“Erisen,” she said with a small bow. “I didn’t expect the honor of seeing you again.” And then she caught sight of the harp at his hip, saw it was of gold and that the strings were gold. A wave of longing swept through Lin, the like of which she had not thought to feel again.
She met Therron’s eyes and wondered if he had seen that look of longing, for surely she could not have concealed it in time. “The light of lamps and the songs of the hearth still call to me,” he quoted. “How could I have stayed away?”
She saw that he had no wine. “Will you be singing for us?”
“I believe so. Right now, though, I am admiring this painting.”
Lin moved to stand beside him. Master Gelvan had a number of paintings and tapestries hanging in this room. This painting depicted a grey-haired man with a harp, surrounded by mountains, under a black sky where hung a full moon. Brightness emanated from the poet as if from his skin. In contrast, the mountains were nearly as black as the sky. The stone of the poet’s ring gleamed like a second moon.
“Edrien Letrell,” said Lin. “Of course. Sometimes I think everyone has a painting of him.”
Therron smiled. “True, though this is finer than most. Edrien Letrell’s search for the Path is a popular story, not just among poets.”
“Perhaps because he returned triumphant,” said Lin. “People like stories with an uplifting ending, or at least they did.”
“We do seem to live in a time when nobility is often questioned—even mocked,” said Therron. “Yet somehow the tale of Edrien endures.”
Edrien Letrell, greatest Seer of his age. In the distant past, he had sought the Path to the Otherworld that for so long had been relegated to myth, was thought lost along with the enchantments. And he had returned refusing to tell of what he had seen—bringing only the enchanted Silver Branch from that realm as proof. Poets told of its ethereal shining, how each spring the branch blossomed with flowers and leaves that were lost again in winter. The branch awarded at the contest every twelve years was only a replica of the enchanted Silver Branch now housed within the Academy’s Hall of Harps.
In Academy culture, Edrien Letrell was revered. He had occupied a similar space in his age as Valanir Ocune did in her own—was even more highly regarded, since he had found the Path. The poet who had told her of these things had done so with a mix of wistfulness and resentment. There seemed no end in the Academy to the measuring, the competition. Or so it seemed to her, observing from outside.
“We need such stories,” said Therron. “I believe in the coming days, we will need them more and more.”
Lin shifted her gaze to the Seer. He was still eyeing the figure of Edrien, and appeared lost in thought. The sounds of the ball washed over them: the tinkle of a woman’s laugh, the measured patter of talk.
Suddenly, the call of trumpets: it had to be the king and his retinue arriving. Lin was momentarily grateful for the concealment of the alcove.
In that time the Seer hadn’t moved.
“The king and Court Poet are here,” Lin said to his profile. His nose was the slightest bit beaky, his eyes deep-set in shadow. “I suppose you have met them.”
“Oh yes,” said Therron, absently. “Many times.”
She waited, but still he contemplated the art before him as if nothing else existed. At last Lin said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean, we will need these stories?” Behind them the music started up again, this time a slower dance.
Now Therron did look at her, his expression seeming to shift in the lamplight from stern to tolerant and back again. She couldn’t tell if he truly wanted to be speaking with her or wished for her to be off. She was about to do the latter when he said, “I’m going to the garden to tune my harp. Would you care to join me there?”
He offered her his arm, as a gentleman might a lady. She nearly laughed, though could not have said why. Instead, she wordlessly took
his arm, allowed him to guide her to the tall doors that led to the garden and then out, into the midsummer night.
CHAPTER
4
DECEPTION could so quickly become a part of one’s life, Rianna thought as she allowed Ned to lead her in a dance. In truth, Rianna was the one who was leading—another deception, long-practiced, and for his sake. The charade had never seemed irksome until tonight. She had begun to wonder what it would be like if just once, she could allow someone else to take the lead.
He was looking into her face very earnestly, as if searching it for clues. He had a habit of doing that—had been doing it for all the years she had known him, which was most of her life. But now that her father was beginning to talk of a winter wedding, of making their troth official, Ned had begun to do it rather more.
Rianna forced herself to meet his eyes. So often they had confided in each other, growing up. Ned the man was not much different from Ned the boy—serious, overly lank, clumsy. He had proved strangely resistant to the lessons ingrained in most of the nobility—in physical grace, in arrogance.
Rianna forced a smile. “Why so quiet?” she said. She dipped in his arms and allowed him to twirl her around, seemingly without effort. Her hand clasped his shoulder, lightly. His hand at her waist was a familiar presence; they had danced together thus since she had come of age.
Ned shook his head. “I think you know why, Rianna.”
The blood rose to her temples, pulsing in her ears. If even one of the maids had spoken with another servant, with anyone … “I don’t,” she said, with what she hoped was a puzzled expression. And hated the necessity of wearing an expression with him as if it were a mask.
Ned sighed. She could not help but notice that he always looked awkward in his elegant clothes, as if they had somehow been fitted wrong. “I know you don’t love me, Rianna,” he said. “I know this marriage was not your choice … any more than it was mine.”
“Well…” Her heart had slowed somewhat, but she still wasn’t sure how to deal with this. The light melody the musicians played grated in her ears, a dissonant mockery of what she was feeling.
“I only hope that…” Ned bit his lip. “I hope in time you may come to love me. Even if it is not as I love you. I know I don’t deserve you, Rianna.”
It was too much, Rianna thought, and the dance was not sufficiently distracting. They turned together, facing the crowd of onlookers who were probably speculating about them right now. She had heard the whispers. That her Galician father had made use of her beauty to ensnare a lord’s son.
How could these people ever grasp the truth: that she and Ned had known each other since they were children and that their friendship had led both their parents to speculate about it becoming something more? Her father did not need more gold—she was certain of that. What he wanted, she thought, was the stature that would come with Ned’s family name. And she could hardly blame him—once a street sweeper—for wanting that.
“Ned, I love you as a friend—even as family,” she said truthfully, in as low a voice as the music would allow. “I always have. You are right, though, that a marriage between us feels—strange to me. That it might not have been my choice.”
He may have flinched a little. “I am sorry,” he said. “Do you think, though, that I could still make you happy?”
Rianna thought her heart might burst. “It’s very possible.”
She had no choice, she reminded herself. Darien had assured her that he would devise a plan—but there was no plan that could spare Ned the betrayal that was to come.
Rianna had heard there were kingdoms, oceans distant, where men and women could marry of their own free will. Such a place would be far away, Rianna thought. Beyond the green hills and lakes of Eivar, over the expanse of desert and mountains of Kahishi, across the Blood Sea and the lands of the farthest east. Places she would never see.
Over Ned’s shoulder she caught sight of Darien across the room with Marlen at his side and an ironic smile on his face. He was so much the opposite of anyone she had known in her life. Tonight, she would hear him sing.
* * *
IT was quiet in the garden. Though a few couples had escaped into the evening and now whispered among the roses, most of the merchant’s guests preferred to be where the music and wine were flowing.
Twilight was descending as Lin and Therron seated themselves on a bench in silence. Without a word, the Seer fell to tuning the gold strings of his harp. Lin felt a pang of something less pleasant now than longing. She thought it was unlikely, unless she killed someone, that such a harp could ever be hers.
There was another thought nagging behind that one, but she could not quite catch it. At the sound of his voice, melodious like no other voice she had heard.
“It was brave of you to come here tonight,” he said, his eyes still on the strings, sharp nails plucking. The sounds like fading bells in the dusk. “To be introduced as a poet, with the king and the Court Poet present.”
A gentle wind rustled the trees, stirring the scent of roses in the air. Lin shrugged. “We obtained approvals for the song. There are no laws about the sex of the person who sings them.”
“True.” Now he did look at her, and smile. “You could have been a lawyer, spared yourself such a flimsy profession as this.”
“So instead of a female poet, a female lawyer?” She raised an eyebrow. “An oddity, either way.”
He laughed. “Lin,” he said, “who are you, really?”
And it was then that moonlight broke through the clouds, touched Therron’s face. And like an enchantment—for so it surely was—the light picked out iridescent symbols in Therron’s skin, radiating from his right eye. Lin recognized them as ancient runes—intricate lines that shimmered in the night, reflecting the light of the moon.
It was the last of the enchantments still in use at the Academy: the marking of a Seer. None but Seers knew how the mark was made. The rite was secret. Certainly the young poet who had taught Lin all she knew had been as much in the dark as anyone.
The moon illuminated something else, too: the moon opal on Therron’s right hand, which shone with a pale flame. The thought that had been drifting at the back of Lin’s mind returned, and this time she recognized it. She felt the blood drain from her face.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said, keeping her tone even.
He inclined his head to acknowledge her thrust, as if in a duel. “What gave it away?” he asked. “The ring?”
“That,” she said, “and that I have never heard of any Seer by the name of Therron. Yet clearly you are a master whose name would be known.”
Now he smiled, glittering cold. He seemed to be distant now, withdrawing. “I thank you.”
Though it was dark, the mark surrounding his eye shone like a star fallen to earth. No, Lin thought, that was too hackneyed a phrase. Yet there it was. Light and laughter from the party drifted toward them through the wrought-iron doors, reminding Lin that she was to sing tonight. As was he.
Into the silence he said, in a different tone, “As I recall, you had a question for me. About our need for the tale of Edrien, in the days to come.”
Lin shook her head helplessly. “Well,” she said, still overcome.
His eyes looked very green. “Word has reached me,” he said, “that the Red Death is in Sarmanca.”
She inhaled sharply. The plague that had supposedly been key to the undoing of the great Davyd Dreamweaver, the last Seer to possess enchantments. Hundreds of years ago. But these were legends. Lin shook her head. “It’s practically a child’s tale.”
“Tell that to the people of Sarmanca,” said the Seer, but gently. Before she could speak again, he took her hand in his. “Reports have reached me—so far over a hundred dead.”
“Why is no one else speaking of this?” Lin demanded. “All those people inside—do they know?” Sarmanca was far southeast, near the mountains that bordered Kahishi. Rayen had told of trees bearing red perfumed flower
s the size of his head, their velvet petals carpeting the ground come summer.
“The truth about Sarmanca—and many other things—has been hidden from all of us,” said the Seer. “Listen: the plague will not remain in the south. It will spread, reach Tamryllin, and at last the north until all of Eivar is stricken.”
“So you’re saying we are lost?”
His tone was stern now. “I am asking that you recall what it seems all poets have let themselves forget—that the true purpose of our art is not to perform at parties, nor to win contests.”
“Our true purpose?” Lin met his gaze. The familiar anger sparked in her. “Look at me. If my purpose was to earn gold, or praise, Erisen, I would not be here.”
For a moment the Seer looked surprised. Then he laughed. “Of course,” he said. “You are right, Lin. I’m sorry—you are right. And that reminds me.” He twisted off his Academy ring and, before she could react, was pressing it into her hand. “For safekeeping,” he said. “Will you do that for me?”
“Why…”
“You might say it’s a—precaution,” he said. “Now come. We’d best go inside.”
Lin stared at him, at the shadow his face had become in the dark, at the light over his right eye. “One question, then,” she said. “Why did you deceive us?”
“I’ve enjoyed our meetings,” he said. “Did you?”
Caught off guard, Lin nodded.
“Then take that with you,” he said, “and try to think well of me.” And then he was standing, brushing himself off, and standing taller than she had noticed before, the harp again strapped to his side. The glow of the mark seemed to spread to the rest of him, as if he were in his entirety illuminated, but she knew that was a trick of her imagination.
Lin felt a sense of loss without knowing why as she watched the Seer bow and then turn to rejoin the crowds. As he entered the sharp line of light from the garden doors, she saw a slight stoop in his walk but knew it did not matter—would not matter to anyone in that room, who would surely tell of this night for the rest of their lives.
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