Last Song Before Night

by Ilana C. Myer

  Marlen was probably drowning his sorrows in Marilla right now. Why he had sorrows at all was another story. Ever since the ball, Marlen’s typical nonchalance had seemed strained, on the verge of snapping like a worn harp string. Darien could hardly blame Hassen Styr and the others for being fed up with him. Even at the best of times, Marlen was more feared than he was popular.

  It was then he noticed a newcomer. He waved. “Lin!” he called. “That is your name, right?”

  The room fell silent a moment, conversations halted midsentence, and people strove to see who had merited the attention of Darien Aldemoor. When they saw it was a ragged boy, they suspected a joke and deliberately turned away, as if to deny Darien the satisfaction of diverting them.

  Lin approached his table with wary eyes. “You have my name right,” she said. “Naturally I know yours.”

  “Naturally,” he said with a smile. Her expression did not change. “Sit,” he said. “Tell me about your day. You’re the only person here who’s not likely to bore me to death.”

  “You are charming,” said Lin. “But I can’t imagine why I’d be more interesting than the other … fine gentlemen here.”

  “You think I am trying to charm you,” said Darien. “Well—perhaps you’re right. Take care of this one for me,” he added, having stopped one of the tavern maids.

  “Or get me drunk,” said Lin with a raised eyebrow as the girl departed. “It’s a rare experience for me that a man would have an interest in doing either of those things. Are you perhaps acting on some sort of dare? Find out if the cross-dressing woman wants men … and if so, how badly?”

  For once Darien was shocked into silence, if only for a moment. Then he said, “One day—perhaps tonight, after you’ve drunk enough—you will tell me what has caused you to have such an abysmal opinion of men.”

  “The abyss, my lord Aldemoor,” Lin said crisply. “There, I told you, and stone sober.” She took the offered cup from the barmaid who had returned.

  To break the tension—wondering at its source—Darien said, “Dear woman, I wanted only to congratulate you on your performance at the ball.”

  She nodded. Again her eyebrow arched as she said, “That love ballad that you sang. I thought it very—evocative. You seemed to be directing it to someone in particular.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do,” she said. “What are your intentions, Darien? You can have anything, anyone. But this one—this one doesn’t have the defenses you are used to.”

  Darien felt a sharp retort on his tongue, bit it back. She looked solemn, no hostility that he could see. She hadn’t looked half bad in a dress. And then it occurred to him to wonder. “Who are you, Lin?”

  She shook her head. “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “All right.” Darien ran a hand through his hair. “My intentions are honorable. I swear it on my harp. I suppose I am glad that someone is looking out for—for her. But there is no need.”

  Head tilted to one side, she eyed him critically. “I think you are telling the truth. I hope so. I was to give Rianna lessons in poetry. Because I am a woman. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Why ironic—because you’re so determined to not be a woman?”

  Instead of answering, Lin’s gaze turned upon Darien’s ring. The stone was dark in the shadows. “Yours is the emerald,” she said. “Among other things, you are the trickster. Luck and chaos follow you, twin sisters, and do your bidding.” Her eyes rose to meet his again. “I suppose she could do worse.”

  * * *

  A WARM evening breeze was threading between the shutters, making the candle dance. Marlen felt it like a caress as he stretched full-length on the small bed.

  Marilla had wrapped herself in a blanket and was tending the fire, boiling water for tea. He watched her, taking in the grace of her movements, the way she flicked her hair over one shoulder.

  She let the blanket drop as she returned to bed; it had only been for protection from errant sparks. She didn’t like pain that much, apparently.

  They lay that way awhile, not touching. Sometimes, he was unable even to look at her afterward. Tonight he could look, but wouldn’t touch. Not yet.

  “The masque is tomorrow night,” she said.

  Marlen stretched lazily. “Yes. Are you saying that so I’ll ask you to go with me?”

  She shrugged a white shoulder. “If you don’t, someone else will.”

  That would once have worked on him, but Marlen had outgrown the possessive rages that had been his wont. He had given women cause to fear him, at times like that. Then he had met Marilla and such rages seemed beside the point. If he ever lost his temper with her, she’d laugh and urge him on. Even if he killed her.

  It was strange, to be sure of that. If he allowed himself to think of it, it made him wonder who he was. Marlen had never thought of himself as a cruel man, or a violent one. He had a temper, that was all.

  “What are you doing to me,” he said aloud.

  Though she could not possibly have known what he was thinking, Marilla smiled, catlike, as if she did. “Does it matter?” she said. “You’ll get rid of me soon. You think you can’t claw your way up, with scum from the gutter weighing you down.”

  Marlen’s eyes widened. Then he smiled back. “You have an appallingly sharp mind for a common woman,” he said, and moved in for a kiss.

  She dodged him easily. “There’s no need, you know.” Her tone was calm, idle, but her eyes were intent on his face. “You can have your fancy mistresses and even a wife—sweet and pure and wealthy. All that and I can still be there, in the shadows.”

  “Always in the shadows,” said Marlen, almost to himself. A painful memory threatened to overtake him, but he would not allow it. With a finger he traced the length of her, rib cage to hip, and down. She lay perfectly still. “I thought I’d go to the masque as a snake,” he murmured in her ear. “And you as its charmer.”

  She smiled and allowed him to move closer this time, to begin their dance again. Outside, laughter echoed in the streets as people began to leave their chosen haunts and head for home. A breath of wind swept out the candle, and Marlen decided—his last coherent thought for a while—that he liked it better that way; utterly dark.

  * * *

  AS night deepened, the mood at the Ring and Flagon had grown quiet. Men now huddled in groups, speaking in hushed voices. A drunk young poet strummed his harp in the corner, mumbling a song he could barely seem to remember. Sprawled on the floor with legs outstretched, harp cradled in his lap, he was hardly a picture of Academy pride. He kept stopping to consider the next word, his expression pained, before hesitantly proceeding. “And it was a time of … sorrow,” he sang, eyes unfocused.

  Lin would have been irritated beyond words, had she not been tipsy herself. One drink had led to another—she didn’t feel like returning to the empty room at the inn, and Darien apparently had his own reasons for staying. She had admitted, early on, that she had never been drunk; the confession seemed to delight him, as if he regarded it as a challenge. And meanwhile, he kept her entertained with stories of his and Marlen Humbreleigh’s time on the road, complete with lords’ daughters seduced along the way. It made sense that consummate poets like the two of them lived a ballad of their own.

  “So why are you so gloomy tonight?” he finally asked.

  Usually she would have dodged the question. But right now the prospect of dodging called for more effort than she could muster. “Leander Keyen—you know, my partner—he left me.”

  Darien shook his head vehemently. “Now that,” he said, “that is an outrage.”

  She had to laugh. Darien laughed, too, and raised his cup with a flourish. “There was some story of the two of you,” he said. “You had something to do with Valanir Ocune?”

  She nodded. “He got us into the ball. Now, looking back, I don’t know why. But he didn’t tell us who he was.”

  Darien was watching her. “Marlen told me he saw you and Valanir go into the
garden,” he said. “So … what was that like?”

  Perhaps it should not have made her angry—she could never quite trust her instincts, knowing their origin. She said, “I hope that isn’t the only reason you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Darien. “I was bored.”

  She exhaled sharply, letting out anger along with her breath. “It wasn’t like anything,” she said. “We just talked. I only guessed who he was just before his performance.”

  “And now he’s in prison,” Darien said, shaking his head.

  The lamps had died to a spectral glow, deepening all the shadows. Soon it would be dawn, and she and Darien would part ways, perhaps never speak again. Lin had a sudden premonition of hundreds, thousands of nights just like this one: identical doors opening from the same long corridor, on and on, the tired inns and the drunken songs and people chance-met on the road, only to vanish by sunrise. All this to continue until it ended, or until she herself ended the agony of that long walk down the hall.

  Her hands tightened on the table. “He’s in prison, probably even being tortured. And here we are—drinking.”

  Darien shrugged. “What else can we do?”

  Lin stood up. “I’ll tell you.” She leaned across the table. “I’m going to find the real one. Or try to find it.”

  “It?”

  “The Silver Branch. The Path. Just as Edrien Letrell did.”

  For once, Darien was at a loss for words. Then he shook his head. “Well. I really did get you drunk.”

  Lin straightened, looked down at him from all the height a well-bred posture and worn boots could bestow. “That was the message of Valanir’s song,” she said. “That we have all forgotten our true purpose.”

  “You’re not even properly a poet,” Darien pointed out.

  For that, there was no answer. Lin turned to leave.

  “It’s dark out there,” Darien said unnecessarily. “I’ll walk you home.”

  He had heard her sing, and now told her she was not a poet. She ignored him, turning on her heel and out the door into the night.

  It was quiet in the streets at this hour. The paper lanterns strung between trees in anticipation of the fair were unlit, bobbing in the breeze.

  Lin had a hand on her knife, but still the figure in the alleyway was too quick; before she could move, an arm like steel clenched her arms at her sides.

  Close to her ear, a breath, and then a voice that said, “I’ve been looking for you.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  A GIBBOUS moon hung white against the sky, over a sea of lanterns strung from trees and darkened shopfronts: red and yellow, blue and green. The perfume of night-blooming jasmine seemed at one with the sounds of laughter and music, which grew louder as they approached together, hand in hand. Dancing light indicated fires. She wondered if his hand tightened in hers because the laughter worried him as it did her. They had grown up so much alike, it was probable that he had never done this before, either.

  But when Rianna turned to look at Ned, she could not read his expression; he had already gamely donned his mask. It was black and silver, and nowhere near as splendid as the one he had given her. So she was to be Irine to his prince; it was decided. Quicksilver and cool, a water spirit with a deeply buried heart.

  Perhaps he saw her thus, Rianna thought. Perhaps he thought he had only to keep diving to find her heart. Not knowing she had already given it away.

  “We don’t have to do this,” she said gently, noting that he was fingering the hilt of his sword. This was something new as well—she had never known him to wear a sword before. Darien wore one too, but with such careless ease she barely noticed it. Ned seemed to coordinate his movements around his gingerly, as though it were a gimp leg.

  In the distance, the pounding of a drum had begun. The singing that rose to accompany it, high and ululating, like nothing she had heard before. She could hear waves, too, as they approached the harbor.

  “Do you doubt I can protect you?” he said, forcing an edge into his voice.

  She shook her head. “Ned. There is only merriment here.” She squeezed his hand. “Come—let’s go toward the music.” There was a chance that she’d see Darien tonight—if she could recognize him.

  “First put on your mask,” said Ned, with a smile. It looked uncomfortable, as he did with every aspect of himself tonight: his hand in hers, the mask, the sword. She wanted to hug him and tell him that everything would be all right.

  Except it wouldn’t, so instead she simply acquiesced, tying the glittering thing over her face.

  “There,” said Ned. “I wouldn’t know you.”

  She smiled, felt her cheekbones squeeze against papier-mâché, not knowing how else to respond.

  “Let’s go toward the music,” he said, and tugged her hand, guiding her in the direction of the lights and drums.

  * * *

  FROM here he could smell the sea. Out on black water speckled with the light of lanterns, the pleasure barges of the nobility loomed like sea creatures from another world. The music that flowed from their lighted windows was genteel, soothing.

  Boring, Darien Aldemoor thought, and smiled widely in the darkness, knowing it would look eerie with his mask. While members of the courtly families, masks raised delicately to their eyes, floated through the paces of formal dances, the city around them exploded with abandon. The men would sneak off later for their slice of the action, Darien was sure. Even the ones with ladyloves or wives.

  He and Hassen Styr were lounging by the water, pleasantly warmed with drink, their harps on confident display. Hassen’s mask was of the god Thalion—gold on one side, black on the other. The gold half of the mask caught the fitful light of the fires, while the dark half vanished, making it seem that he had only half a face.

  Masks of the Three were the most common at the Midsummer Masque, a reminder that the festival had roots in their worship. The mask of Kiara was black edged with silver, that of Estarre pure gold. And their aspects came together in Thalion, their brother in some tales, their lover in others. And sometimes both.

  Darien had preferred a mask painted in a rainbow of diamond-shaped colors—red, green, blue, purple, gold. The court jester, was what the woman who sold it to him had called it.

  Darien didn’t know about that—he liked the colors. And he thought it was reminiscent of the six-colored cloak, forbidden to all but the Court Poet. His own private subversion of custom.

  Marlen had never returned to the Ring and Flagon. It was strange, but Darien was determined to ignore the issue. He and Hassen had taken to the streets after sundown, though the main attraction of the masque was off-limits for Darien. Unless he allowed himself to be charmed by one of the masked women here, put aside his worries for a night.

  But that seemed wrong, especially when he knew Rianna would never understand. It was more work than he’d anticipated—forbidden love. No wonder such lovers in all the songs were so depressed.

  Around them, people were whirling like butterflies to the rhythm of drums, masks catching the light. Darien found himself watching the women, their motions causing loosened hair to writhe, the ties of their gowns unfastened far more than was decent, leaving pale skin exposed to the firelight. The Temple of the Three had attempted to place sanctions on the garb and behavior of this night, but with the anonymity of masks came unaccustomed courage against the edicts of the clergy. Particularly since most of the palace guards were out enjoying themselves as well.

  It was truly unfair.

  “I can’t understand why a man of your quite considerable stature has so little confidence with the ladies,” Darien said to Hassen, mostly to distract himself, his head and shoulders tipped back over the rails by the water. “I mean, I’m stuck in limbo with a girl I can’t have yet—what’s your excuse?”

  “I have no need to make excuses to you, lordling,” Hassen growled.

  “You can claim to be heir to Aldemoor, if that would help,” Darien said with a gr
in. “I don’t plan to be there often.” Indeed he had not been there since midwinter, and had regretted it then: his sisters had hinted that it was time for him to marry and take on the duties of an only son. His mother, in bidding farewell to him, had cried.

  Coming to himself, Darien realized that Hassen had not responded, and glanced over at the other man. He appeared to be hesitating, struggling to find the right words, though with the mask it was hard to tell. At last Hassen said, almost too quietly to hear over the din of drums and shouts, “There was someone. I thought I’d have forgotten her by now.”

  “Ah.” Darien was taken aback. This was a night for laughter. “Look,” he said, rooting for a way to divert his friend. He found a pebble on the ground by his feet. “You see that lamp out on the water? I’m going to hit it with this rock.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Hassen.

  “Watch,” said Darien. Coiling back his arm, Darien shot it forward and let the pebble fly. It hit the lamp square in the center, tearing the paper to expose the flame within. Soundlessly, the pebble then vanished into the deeps.

  “Showoff,” said Hassen, but he seemed to relax. Darien smiled to himself. Now the night could begin.

  * * *

  A COTERIE of Sirian dancers, dark-skinned and lithe, were flowing through the complex forms of a dance, set to the rhythm of drumbeats. Never had Rianna Gelvan seen dancers from the east; Ned recognized them from a trip he had taken with his father. She was fascinated by the way bright scarves wafted around their limbs in time to the drums, the controlled abandon of the dance. Every single one of them beautiful.

  “They’re practicing for the fair,” Ned said in her ear. “That’s where some troupes get commissions, sometimes even from royalty.”

  Rianna nodded absently, more stirred than she wanted to let on by the pounding rhythm, the wild dance.

  The two drummers rocked from side to side in frenzied unison as they pounded rawhide stretched over wood. Strange large masks concealed their whole faces, forehead to chin. One mask was black, its empty mouth turned up in a raucous grin, while the other was white, contorted in a howl of anguish. As they rocked, the players’ necks strained upward and back until their tendons protruded like twisted rope. Their splayed fingers revealed a single jewel on the third finger of their right hands—Academy rings.