“What happens now?” Leander said. “I worked with Lin because she has talent. How could I know…”
“You couldn’t,” Marlen said smoothly. “But now Nickon Gerrard will enforce the status quo with an iron fist, to ensure that poets know their place. And there are no female poets.”
“She will understand, won’t she?”
“She’s a clever girl,” Marlen said with a purposeful patience. As a boy, he’d liked to observe the wolves of the forest in their careful stalking of hares and deer. “Plain as the Three made her, but nonetheless a talent. What is her real name, Leander?”
Even as he asked, he was unsure of the reason for his interest. Perhaps because he had sensed something hidden there, and it was in Marlen’s nature to take an interest in anything hidden, or forbidden.
Leander was staring at the floor now. “I don’t know.”
“I enjoyed your performance tonight,” said Marlen. “Even without a partner, you can still win.” And then wondered what impulse had made him say that. He didn’t believe it for a moment.
Leander laughed, but it came out like a sob. “You don’t mean that,” he said, proving to be more perceptive than he appeared. “You and Darien are a pair of gods … sun and moon. No one has a chance against you.”
A bit too roughly, Marlen caught the other man’s arm. “Let’s find you a carriage,” he said. “You’ve got money? Good.” He guided the man toward the door. Somehow, Marlen knew that he would not sleep tonight, and he couldn’t stay another moment in the Galician’s house. It was ironic, he thought, that the greatest poet of the age had been arrested in the home of a heretic.
An irony at present known only to himself.
Wine is not enough, he thought almost sadly. In the midst of these events, his own weakness bit near to the bone. Sun and moon, Marlen thought, finding himself pulled toward that darkness within—source of much of his talent, but not only that. Sun and moon. Of course. Of course.
* * *
DAYLIGHT from a begrimed window was just beginning to fall across the bed. It was really more a pallet, thin and stuffed with straw. Lin and Leander Keyen had shared it by keeping their distance. They had shared a bed this way in inns across Eivar, north to south. Months of travel, writing, composing, and singing together.
That was over now.
She had returned in the small hours of morning, exhausted, to find Leander packing his belongings. The way he saw it, he was doing her a favor, leaving her the room, which was paid for the next week. Finding one for himself would be nearly impossible just days before the Midsummer Fair and contest. He would probably have to share a bed with not just one, but perhaps three others.
She made a sarcastic comment about his sexual preferences. A reflex to mask her shock. Predictably, he was angry. Until he recalled the enormity of what he was telling her, after nine months on the road.
“You must understand,” said Leander. He was pale and sunken-eyed. “This is my only chance. What you’ve done for me—your songs have made a name for us. But Valanir Ocune changed everything tonight.”
“I know,” Lin said, “but that is only the contest. I know I am certain to be disqualified. But after…?”
“After, I can’t risk it. I want to go on as before, really I do … but women can’t be poets. Neither the Academy nor the court will recognize my work, as long as I am with you.”
“So you assume,” Lin said. Then she shook her head, more to herself than at him. She sank onto the bed, closed her eyes. “I must admit … you have surprised me.” And then almost smiled, thinking that when it most mattered, her skill with words deserted her. Not for the first time.
She heard the floorboards creak. Felt his hand on her shoulder. A furious part of her wanted to shake it off, even strike at it with all the force she could deliver. But the rest of her was just stunned, even—and she hated herself for this—understanding. Well she knew the insecurities Leander Keyen carried within him … and, similarly, how unaware he was of them. He thought he could discard his burdens by discarding her. She could almost pity him for that.
“My songs,” she said at last.
“Our songs,” he corrected. “And I will always credit you, when I can.”
At the door, she heard his steps halt a moment. She didn’t look up.
“I’ll miss you,” Leander said. “I never found out who you are.”
He closed the door with barely a sound. She heard his footfalls descend the stairs. And then silence, for it was nearly dawn, just before tumult in the streets would herald a new day.
Lin rested her cheek against the wall, which was pitted and stained. It was rough against her skin.
She had no right to be angry with Leander. Her position had been tenuous even before Valanir Ocune had done what he’d done.
But the real reason she couldn’t be angry with Leander was that last winter he had saved her life.
They had met as they would someday be parted, in an inn. At the time she had been a specter, wasted and pale from a lingering illness she had managed to conceal by constantly pinching her cheeks, for the innkeeper would have expelled her into the cold if he suspected she was ill. She had no money for lodgings, only her voice and a song she had composed in her head. For the price of a song, she would be allowed some bread and soup, and a corner of the stables for the night.
People thought she was a boy, of course. She didn’t know what would have happened if anyone had guessed otherwise. It was a backwater town, hard-bitten by winter, and its men were hungry not only for food but for comfort against the cold and dark.
On this night, from a boy, a song would suffice.
She remembered the way she had bruised her cheeks with pinching, begged some bread from the kitchens before getting up on a bench and beginning to sing. Her audience a group of men who were taking turns dandling the only other source of entertainment, one of the serving girls, on brawny knees. Her voice weak as she began, so that snickers and grumbling had rippled the air and turned her legs to water.
Except that she had spotted one man in the crowd who was not like the others. Leander had been thinner then, too, and swathed in a good fur cloak. But what caught her attention was his harp, a triangle of willow wood and brass strings reclining against his belted tunic. Beautiful, she had thought, drinking in the sight. It had been so long since she’d seen one.
Her eyes had traveled to his right hand, where sure enough a ring with a round stone gleamed in the light of the common room lamps. His was an aquamarine. She remembered the lore of the Academy stones. The aquamarine stood for Clarity of heart, a soul of the green meadows. Academy graduates did not choose their gemstones—the Masters chose, based on signs known only to them. Another remnant of enchantments that were otherwise long gone.
Seeing that made her sure that this was someone she could trust. Her voice strengthened and she trained her eyes on his face, singing only to him. She sang of winter roads and the hope of discovering light, refuge from the cold. His eyes flickered perceptibly, and she knew he had recognized both her talent and that she was not a boy, after all.
The other men in the room recognized neither, but they enjoyed her song, and before the night was out they had urged her to sing two more, popular ballads of the day. Several pennies were tossed in her direction, which she collected carefully into her cap. When she was done, Leander Keyen was waiting to talk to her.
It was simple, really: Leander was gifted by Kiara with an adeptness for composing melodies, but he was less skilled in the art of words. It was common for poets to work in pairs, as partners. Leander was a recent graduate who would need years of training and study before he could achieve the mark of a Seer. But to win the prize at the Midsummer Fair, or even come in second or third place—that could open up doors. The nobility paid the winners a high price to perform in their homes, and those who won the Branch itself could expect much more.
Lin had known all of this but had never thought it could be relevant to her, a wo
man with no training. Women were forbidden from even setting foot on the island where the Academy was situated, in a bay in the northwest.
Lin had had no plans for her life at that time; had been plunging headlong through the winter like a hunted deer, with no idea where she was going and with no thought to the drops ahead. In fact, a fall from the precipice had at that time seemed assured.
As they had headed to his room for further talks, Leander noticed that she was shivering, draped his fur cloak around her shoulders. When they finished their talk and made plans to meet in the morning, she took it off to return to him. “That’s all right,” he said, with a pitying glance at her thin shirt. “You can have it.” He closed the door to his room before she could protest.
She had nearly cried then for the first time in a long while. In the course of the past months she had grown numb, had come to imagine herself a statue with bruised cheeks, impervious. Leander’s unexpected kindness was like a sword wound. She would do everything she could, she had sworn to herself in that instant. She would help him win.
Lin never told him about her decision that night. Nor did she tell him that until that night, she had relinquished any sense of purpose. As time went on, he guessed that she was highborn, because of her education, and knew she was of the north, because of her accent. She showed him how to hunt in the deep woods and some tricks with the knife. But more than that she would not say, and he, with uncharacteristic wisdom, did not ask. Instead, Leander confided in her about his parents, his overbearing pack of sisters, and she had listened eagerly and with something akin to wonder. Her own experience of family was so different.
She grew to depend on him, and she never told him that, either.
That was certainly just as well, Lin thought now, rising to her feet at last. Mechanically, she began to throw her belongings into her pack. Then she remembered she was still wearing the dress. Gritting her teeth, she strained her arms behind her back to unlace the bodice.
This business of getting undressed and dressed again, of packing—it gave her a purpose. In just a few moments, she would have to decide what to do next.
Just last night she had met—even sat and talked with—Valanir Ocune, greatest Seer since Edrien Letrell himself. Hours later, in a malodorous inn, she was wondering if she could summon the strength to do more than cast herself, finally, to the cold embrace of the Three, as she’d once had a mind to do.
A singular contrast. Was there a song in this somewhere?
The Red Death is in Sarmanca. Valanir’s dubious gift to her—a dreadful knowledge, along with his moon opal ring.
She would not think of what could be happening to him now. He had knowingly gotten himself captured; she was sure of that. But it was not comforting. Court Poet Gerrard hated him, it was said, for personal reasons. That would make matters worse, much worse.
Lin reached into her pouch, ran her fingertips over the ring nestled there. She now knew something—a potential future—and that made her responsible. Perhaps Leander letting her go was a gift in its own way.
Since childhood Lin had been haunted by a recurring dream, in which she stood at the summit of a tall, sheer cliff wrapped in ocean waves. No sign of life amid the bareness surrounding. A silence almost oppressive despite the murmuring sea. And just a short distance away, a marvel: a tree that from root to leaf was entirely silver, resplendent in the sun.
All the years, Lin had thought it no more than a dream. At most, a sign of the yearning in her that had begun long before she could even give a name to it.
Now she was not so sure.
Valanir had hinted that the Path to the Otherworld somehow was key. Lin recalled the painting of Edrien Letrell, a figure of light against black mountains. His face a dissonant mixture of wonder and resignation.
It was a dangerous road, and she was not Edrien Letrell—was not even a poet by the reckoning of most.
Danger did not matter to Lin; it hadn’t mattered for quite some time.
CHAPTER
6
THE common room of the Ring and Flagon was packed that day. As the tavern most frequented by poets for centuries, it was the natural gathering place for Darien Aldemoor and Marlen Humbreleigh to tell of the previous night’s events to the Academy graduates who surrounded them, gape-mouthed and seething with jealousy.
It was bad enough that the two of them were so talented, so good-looking, so painfully likely to win the Silver Branch. Even worse that all their success seemed to come with no effort whatever. While other poets practiced feverishly—especially so near to the contest—Darien and Marlen could most often be seen imbibing at their leisure, feet up on tables as they debated the merits of the region’s wines. And, of course, they had their pick of Tamryllin women—that didn’t even need to be said.
But to cap it off—as if to sprinkle great crystals of salt in the gaping wounds of other poets—it was Darien and Marlen, the oh-so-privileged, who had seen the first known performance of Valanir Ocune in Eivar since most of them had been children. That was, in fact, the turn of phrase that one particularly young, embittered Academy graduate had used in a poem satirizing their collective predicament: great crystals of salt, a gaping wound. He’d gained much laughter and applause.
And even more salt, heaped up: the two witnessed Valanir Ocune’s crime and arrest. The arrogant pair had seen it all—were already working on a song about it.
Of course they were.
“Go on,” said Hassen Styr, a strikingly tall, burly man and one of the more talented of the graduates. He was sprawled in a chair, head tipped back. “Tell us more about how special you two are.” He yawned. Other graduates looked on with awe, especially the younger ones; only Hassen could say those things without sounding bitter or weak. It was his intimidating frame, no doubt, which was in itself unfair.
Darien laughed. His feet were propped on the table in front of him. He reclined luxuriously, as if holding court. At his side, Marlen was standing, a drink in his hand, the other hand tapping arrhythmically on the table. He had the air of a restless cat.
“You know,” Hassen continued, “if you need any help with that song, I have some ideas. How about, ‘And then Valanir came home / got himself arrested / and made life miserable / for the rest of us’?”
“Ingenious,” Marlen drawled, and downed the rest of his drink. “My money’s on you, lawyer boy.”
Everyone knew Hassen’s father was a lawyer—he came of common roots, an unusual characteristic in a man who could afford to prepare for the Academy entrance exams and then spend seven years studying there.
“Clever,” said Hassen. “I’ve begun to suspect that there is an unfortunate pollutant in the water at the Humbreleigh estates. Why else would the heir to all and everything be so often ill-disposed?”
Darien interjected, palm upraised. “Enough, both of you. Hassen, if you don’t want to hear our story, that’s your choice. We know it wasn’t because we were special that we saw all this. Just luck.” Before anyone could speak, he went on. “And it’s true we can’t foresee what will come of this. Valanir’s crime reflects on all of us, as far as the court is concerned.”
“That had occurred to most of us already.” This from Piet, a thin, compact graduate whose face seemed contorted in a perpetually angry expression. His tone dripped acid. “Those of us not invited to royal balls are all too aware of our vulnerability with regard to the court.”
“It wasn’t a royal ball,” Darien said mildly.
“Piss off, Piet,” said Hassen. “What do you hope to accomplish with your sour grapes?”
Piet directed a venomous glance at him and spun on his heel, departing the room. He had done that several times a day throughout their years together at the Academy.
“I wonder about the times we live in,” said Hassen now, in a different tone, almost to himself. The focus of the room had turned from Darien Aldemoor and Marlen Humbreleigh to the lawyer’s son. He could do that sometimes, the baritone of his voice filling a room, ev
en pitched low. “I know Valanir Ocune’s crime may have consequences for us. Poets in a world where the Academy is not what it was, where we can be executed for any perceived infraction against the Crown. Who can believe Seers once were warriors who helped temper and balance the rule of the king? But right now, all I can really think is that the greatest poet of our age is imprisoned … or worse.”
The room fell silent. Some men bowed their heads.
Hassen Styr said, “It is about us. In doing this, Valanir was sending a message to us. About the contest, about our desire for fame. I’m not sure it’s a message we want to hear.” Somewhere outside in the streets, harp music was playing, soaring even above the noise of Tamryllin on a warm afternoon.
A young poet, one of the new crop of graduates, said timidly, “You’re saying … Valanir Ocune committed this crime for us?”
Hassen shook his head as if in wonder. “I suppose I am saying that.”
A new voice, now. As deep as that of Hassen, but smooth as honey. Marlen Humbreleigh said, “And yet while Valanir Ocune undergoes torture in whatever way they enjoy at the palace—and I believe the Court Poet enjoys it—is there anyone here who would not switch places with him? Anyone?” No one answered. Darien did raise an eyebrow and shake his head. Undeterred, Marlen said, “I’ll bet that whatever they are doing to him, Valanir knows his power … and laughs.”
* * *
LIN felt like an interloper as she took a seat in Master Gelvan’s solar. The graceful lines of the room, the serenity evoked by afternoon sunlight streaming in the windows, pink roses cut adrift in a blue ceramic bowl on the table, all served to remind her that she was unwashed, half-starved—a weed.
And the contrast: Rianna Gelvan herself, golden hair to her waist, framing her belted dress. She really was the most beautiful woman Lin had seen. The girl was now holding out a cup to her and smiling. She was most likely unaware of how she looked, hands outstretched to give, gold trailing around and about her.
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