Last Song Before Night

by Ilana C. Myer

  It had been months now since Darien Aldemoor’s disappearance, and the city was restive with tensions. Marilla came to be recognized on the streets as Marlen Humbreleigh’s lover and was accorded the same contempt and fear that was accorded him. Rather than being fazed by this, Marilla seemed to relish the antagonism, carrying herself with regal contempt for others in turn. She paraded about the city in her new finery, impudently flashing jewels, and the ice of her eyes discouraged any attitude but deference. She was once a whore, it was whispered, but that only served to add a dimension of wonder to her reputation, and a layer of boldness to Marlen’s. Amid their hatred they still admired him. It was evident in the way people would watch him when he passed, as if unable to tear their eyes away. Marlen took some satisfaction in that, at least.

  But the self-proclaimed Seekers were a headache, with their songs that skirted the edge of outright treason without being explicit enough to present grounds for arrest. Piet Abarda in particular had proved a master of the art of subversion, weaving songs so complex in their symbolism and yet so easily interpreted that Marlen was impressed despite himself. Marlen found himself thinking that Piet might have even been competition for Darien and him in the contest, if he were more handsome. And taller.

  Had Piet Abarda been less conspicuous in the public eye, Marlen would have sent him the way of Leander Keyen long ago: a little physical intimidation, a little rearrangement of his facial features (which would only have been an improvement), and the little weasel would have scurried out of Tamryllin with his tail and whiskers in a twitch. Unfortunately, his fame had caught on in the city like wildfire in sere grass—and, with it, his popularity. Worse, there were aristocrats who acted as his patrons, soliciting his performances at their parties and balls. The same people who had fled in terror during the arrest of Valanir Ocune, lest their names be linked in some way with his, now applauded and smiled at Piet’s clever and near-treasonous allegories.

  As the poets became more crafty, they became bolder as well. The events of the past two months had hardened them even as it had made them more cautious: no one had forgotten the poet who had been a hairbreadth away from execution, but the episode had induced them to be more circumspect in their rebellion. A group of enterprising Seekers had built a vast bonfire just outside the city walls at the end of summer, constructing an elaborate chorus of melodies that it was said had been sung by poets in ancient times. Masses of people had gone out to gawk at the spectacle.

  Marlen recalled having particularly odd dreams that night, though he could not recall them now; the few images that remained were entwined in his memory with the odor of burning. Later he had heard that groups of Seekers scattered throughout Eivar had kept vigil by similar bonfires. A night of strangeness, it was thought of now. A rite that was, according to the men themselves, intended to reawaken enchantments long thought dead.

  Marlen continued to study scrolls and books for answers. These he borrowed from Nickon Gerrard, who had given him the run of his extensive library. Hated or not, there were definitely advantages to being in Marlen’s position. And when he was not researching, Marlen was composing new songs, recognizing in them a note of melancholy that his work had never before possessed. These he sang in the court of the king, before nobles who had reason to curry his favor; it was no surprise, then, that whatever he wrote was met with enthusiastic applause.

  He loathed them all. The place for a bard is on the Mountain, his teacher had said. Buffeted by dour winds, alone.

  So gradually, Marlen had begun to detach himself from the place he had once so desperately embraced. What did it matter, in the end? Darien would ultimately outdo him, find the Silver Branch that would be the true article, the one that would never tarnish and prove him a poet above all others. Darien would prove conclusively, and for all the world to see, that Marlen was his inferior. The moon to his blinding sun.

  Studying the scrolls now, Marlen sighed at the blur the symbols had become, between candlelight and his fatigue. After a while the act of deciphering the text became so automatic that he forgot to pay attention to the words themselves. Marilla had meanwhile returned with a glass of wine in her hand. “Is that how you plan to spend the rest of tonight?” she said. “Reading?”

  Marlen glared at her. “You have a better idea?”

  “When I met you, you were one to take action,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. It was almost the same shade of red as her dress. “Scholars are half men, eunuchs too afraid to come out from their books and live.”

  He barked a laugh. “With an opinion like that, I’d wonder why you took up with me in the first place,” he said. “What do you think an Academy graduate is?”

  “A eunuch?” she said innocently.

  He was around the table and by her in one smooth motion. Her eyes had grown blank, watching him. Marlen took hold of the ruby necklace around her neck, clasped the strand tight, and pulled. The jewels tugged at her skin—almost cutting into it, but not quite. “It was my scholarship that got me here,” Marlen said. “That got you these.”

  “That’s right,” she said softly.

  For a moment Marlen thought she was agreeing with him; then he realized what in truth she really meant. He flung the necklace back against her neck and flung himself away from her, seized with an impulse to ram his fist into a wood-paneled wall. Or her. But that would give her what she wanted, and he was in no mood for that.

  “You are magnificent when you’re angry,” Marilla breathed behind him.

  Marlen whirled on her. “Just a moment ago, you said you disdain scholars because they do not live. Do you want to live?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling. Coming forward, she caressed his cheek with her long nails. Not tenderness—rather, it was in the way of a spider with its gossamer-wrapped prey, injecting sweet poison before the bite. “And live and live … until it’s over.”

  He shuddered away. It was suddenly too tempting, and that frightened him. Her madness, to which he had thought himself accustomed, made her in that moment incomprehensible. “You’re insane,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She stuck out her lip in mimicry of a pouting child. “Now would be a terrible time for you to become banal,” she said. Then as if to soften the words—as if they needed softening, ludicrous as they were—she kissed his cheek. “I’ll be off, then. Have a lovely time with your … books.”

  Nights passed in this fashion. Marlen had the maddening sense that somewhere amid the arcane scribbling was the solution to his predicament. The tales were not ordered in any way that made sense to him, probably because until fairly recently, nothing had been written down. Well did he know, as every first-year Academy student knew, that in the past all knowledge had been memorized by the poets. Tradition still dictated that poets be subject to a rigorous program of memorization, but the students knew full well that what they memorized was recorded in books. Marlen didn’t even want to think about what he would have had to learn by heart, had he lived several hundred years earlier. Though with that exclusive knowledge, he thought, had come power that was unknown among poets of today. The king had depended upon the learning of Seers.

  So Marlen plowed diligently through the musty scrolls—by daylight streaming through the windows of his study and by candlelight long after the sun had set—wading through historical anecdotes of Academy Masters and kings of centuries past. Accounts of enchantments began to spring up in Marlen’s research. He found himself smiling occasionally, if rather tiredly, at what he considered the more outlandish tales. He read of one Seer who had inflicted a plague of canker sores on a nobleman as punishment for failing to provide him adequate hospitality—“adequate” in this case meaning every ridiculous thing the Seer could possibly wish for.

  It was no wonder that they had not taught this nonsense at the Academy. Certainly the Masters had alluded—with what seemed now like deliberate vagueness—to the enchantments that had once been. The mark of the Seer was frequently referred
to as the last of these, with only the Masters knowing its mysteries.

  So what did the Seekers know, when they spoke of resurrecting old enchantments? Marlen didn’t see how they could know more than he did; yet they clearly possessed a confidence that he lacked. Accounts of Edrien Letrell’s journey were all second- or third- or even fourth-hand; there was no indication that any one could be relied upon. The only primary source was Edrien’s own song about it, and that was so laden with images and symbolism that it was of no help to Marlen. Unsurprisingly, it had not been popular even in its day.

  There was one verse from Edrien’s song of the Path that lingered in Marlen’s mind:

  Guides on the Path are not of the living—

  a balm and a wound, both

  to the heart that remembers.

  He wondered. Was the Path haunted with spirits of the dead?

  At last Marlen decided that there was only one way, an obvious way, to find out what the Seekers knew. He came to this decision one evening hunched over his desk, his eyes scraped raw from too much reading. Marilla had not visited that day. Come to think of it, she had not visited him at all lately. Marlen rose with an effort and ran a hand through his hair. He would have to make himself presentable before he went out. He realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he had left the apartments, or seen the sun.

  Stepping out an hour later, Marlen thought there was nothing quite so good as the cool air. Each city turn seemed renewed by his absence, and mercifully, no one he passed seemed to recognize him. In contrast to what he had striven for all these years, he now longed for anonymity: to blend into the tree shadows that even now cradled his own shadow, disappear.

  When he entered the Ring and Flagon, he was lucky; Piet was already there. Marlen well remembered the days—just recently—when Piet Abarda had been respected for his ability among most Academy students but otherwise barely tolerated; his puniness and pettiness had always worked against him. Marlen had thought him a weakling who toed the line out of fear, but as it turned out, he had toed the line because it had worked to his advantage. Piet Abarda had, perhaps, had a father much like Marlen Humbreleigh’s own, someone who had tailored his instruction to Piet’s size. And so Marlen and Darien and everyone else had underestimated the man.

  Now Piet was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, poets and young women. Women. Before this, Piet could not have made a girl look at him if he had stood on his head. If Darien could see this, Marlen thought disgustedly. Piet now claimed to have been a great friend to Darien Aldemoor. It was truly sickening.

  The weasel was expounding on something or other as Marlen approached, his admirers listening eagerly. All that changed when one of them, a young poet, caught sight of Marlen and nudged his friend. Instantly all eyes were on him, and Piet fell silent. As he watched Marlen come forward, there was a trace of his old smirk on his lips. He said, “Is there something I can do for an old friend?”

  “So many things,” said Marlen. “Disposing of this rabble would be a start.”

  Piet smiled. “Ever a friend to the people.” He addressed his followers, “Go. He won’t dare harm me here.”

  One poet—they all looked the same to Marlen, earnest and firm-jawed—said, “With respect, my lord, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  Piet’s smile widened indulgently. Marlen had to restrain himself from gaping. My lord? What has happened here? “Those of you who are concerned may watch from the far corner,” said Piet. “But remember, act only in gravest necessity. Anyone who lifts a hand against this man risks his own death.”

  Marlen could feel their hatred now. As a group they retreated to the corner to keep watch, ostensibly to prevent him from choking the life out of their rodent leader. He wouldn’t even have needed a sword to dispose of him, Marlen reflected, though he would not have wanted to sully his heirloom blade in any case. Once they had dispersed, Marlen said, still feeling their eyes on him, “Your friends don’t seem to like me much.” He sat on the bench across from Piet, turning so he could stretch his legs. It felt good to be back, even like this.

  Piet shrugged. “Darien was even more popular than we realized,” he said. “They’ve taken your betrayal of him rather hard.”

  “I imagine you’re a great comfort to them,” said Marlen. “Let’s skip the games, Piet. We both know what’s going on, even if these idiots don’t. Honestly, I’m impressed with your strategy. You really surprised me.”

  “I’m quite sure that I did,” said Piet. “All those years, you think I didn’t know of the contempt you and Darien held for me? But I knew, Marlen, that a time would come when you would regret it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Marlen, unexpectedly amused. “Look, I’m just intrigued now by your Seekers. Really.”

  Piet raised an eyebrow. “Intrigued.”

  “Yes,” said Marlen. “You say that there are enchantments…?”

  “Oh … that.” Piet looked behind him, but his admirers were out of range of hearing. Still, he lowered his voice as he said, smirking a little, “It keeps them in line.”

  “You mean … you don’t believe in it.” Marlen had never considered this possibility.

  Piet laughed. “Why, do you?”

  “There’s no need to lie to me,” Marlen said patiently. “I ask only out of curiosity.”

  “I don’t fear you, Marlen,” said Piet, “and therefore have no reason to lie to you. I am quite honestly amused to see you barking up this tree. Marlen Humbreleigh, pursuer of spirits.”

  Marlen rose to his feet. “That has a ring to it that I actually like,” he said, and turned to go. Another dead end.

  He considered attempting to expose Piet as a fraud, but only for a moment. The man was too clever. He could still be lying, and concealing the information Marlen now sought. But his derisive laugh had seemed genuine, as had his surprise.

  The moon was out by the time he reached Marilla’s apartments. He wondered if she’d been angered by his absence. It was strange, actually, that he had not heard from her.

  Marlen noticed that her windows were dark. When he tried the door, it was locked. He entered with his own key, but it was only to confirm what he already had guessed: she was not there. Sighing and suddenly feeling more tired than he had in a while, Marlen dug deep into Marilla’s luxurious bed without even removing his boots. The softness that enveloped him washed away all thought, save one: What does Darien know?

  * * *

  IT was when autumn harvest was at its peak, on a day when the trees flared like torches in the streets of Tamryllin, that Marlen was informed by a palace guard that Hassen Styr had been captured and was now in the capital. It had happened in Dynmar. Darien Aldemoor had, unfortunately, escaped. Nickon Gerrard now summoned Marlen immediately, to be present for the interrogation.

  Marlen guarded his features as he took in the news. He knew he was expected to feel triumph, but instead a curious numbness had settled over him. Against his better judgment and despite Hassen’s obvious distaste for Marlen, Marlen liked the man. He had a blunt honesty that Marlen had respected, even as he had been wary of its force; a club beside the slender daggers he and Darien and Piet were wont to use.

  When Marlen arrived at the palace, Court Poet Gerrard sent him down alone as a prelude, instructing him to obtain whatever information he could. Marlen had to remind himself, before he entered the room where the prisoner was held, that Hassen had brought this upon himself. He thought, Have I not also brought this upon myself? And then: It is my prison, too.

  Marilla, he knew, would have scorned such thoughts. She would have reminded him that he had freely entered into this mazelike game, that such games were necessary if he was to achieve what he desired. Would you have preferred to share the glory, be the shadow to his light? she had said once.

  Steeling himself, he entered the dungeon. Hassen was a hunched shadow on the floor behind an iron grille. The stench was nearly unbearable, and Marlen felt stirrings of anger on behalf of a man who did not deser
ve this humiliation. He was glad that it was dark, that he could not see the other man’s wounds. Never one to be sickened by blood, Marlen still had no wish to know the extent of Hassen’s mistreatment.

  “Hassen, it’s me,” he said with an effort.

  Hassen stirred, grunting as if awakening from a dream. “What is that?” His voice was hoarse; Marlen wondered if he was being given enough water. “Methinks I heard a mouse. Or is it a snake?”

  Marlen gritted his teeth. “Hassen, Lord Gerrard will be here soon. I suggest you tell us everything you know, and then some.”

  From the darkness beyond the grille came a snarl of a laugh. “You would suggest that. Or else you’ll kill me, I suppose.”

  “He will,” said Marlen. “But not before he’s exercised every torment he can devise. I know the man. I am telling you this for your own sake. You will break in the end; it’s best if you give up now.”

  “I’m surprised,” said Hassen. “I’d have thought you’d enjoy seeing me crushed beneath the thumb of your … protector. Is he good in bed, or do you speak of these torments from experience?”

  Marlen had forgotten how Hassen could grate on his nerves. “Listen,” he hissed, coming closer to the grille so that the other man would hear him even in a whisper. “I’ve told Nickon Gerrard that you’re an idiot, Darien’s pawn. Now is your chance to redeem yourself. Act as if you had no mind of your own, and there’s a chance he will let you go free when this is done.”