Last Song Before Night

by Ilana C. Myer

  A moment. Even in the dark, Marlen could see that Hassen Styr had turned his back to him, to face the cracked and dripping wall. “I don’t betray my friends,” he said. “I have no more to say to you, Humbreleigh.”

  Each word sank into Marlen like a crossbow bolt. But Hassen’s anger hardened him. If the fool would not listen, there was nothing more that he could do.

  He was about to say as much, when Nickon Gerrard swept into the dungeon. Marlen glanced over his shoulder at the man who had been his master these many months. His heart faltered. He had become accustomed to thinking of the Court Poet as an irritating old man, for so he was much of the time. But it was a different man who had entered the palace dungeon. In a room lit only by torches, he seemed to glow from within with the silver of trapped moonlight. Sparks of torchlight danced in his eyes. Strangest of all, though, he had seemed to have grown in height, until even Marlen felt small beside him.

  Marlen resisted the urge to take a step back, and hoped that his feelings were not written plain on his face. To think he had considered killing this man. He now realized it might not have been so easy as he had supposed.

  “You will reveal yourself to me, Hassen Styr,” said Nickon Gerrard, coming to stand beside Marlen. Marlen felt a tingling on his skin, now that the man stood this close, as if the light that seemed to emanate from him was a tangible thing. He lifted his hands, and a silver glow was between them. “Whether by your own will or by magic. I assure you, you will not like the second way.”

  Marlen found his voice. “It’s all real, then,” he said. “You’ve known all along.”

  Lord Gerrard waved an imperious hand, silencing him. Hassen spat at the Court Poet’s feet. “Do your worst.”

  Nickon Gerrard’s expression froze, as if in concentration. He extended his hands and the coalescing light toward the bars of Hassen’s cell. The light glided from his hands, grew brighter, and surrounded Hassen’s head in what looked like a coronet of shining steel.

  And as Hassen began to scream, Marlen Humbreleigh ran for the door. He didn’t know what was going to happen. All he knew was that he had to flee the stench and darkness of this room, or the madness he had battled for months—perhaps for years—would overtake him here beneath the earth, well beyond the reach of the sun or moon.

  CHAPTER

  18

  THE days Rayen Amaristoth spent visiting the Gelvan home would be tinged with unreality to Rianna when she recalled them later. Each was similar to the next: after his meetings with her father had ended, she would meet him in the garden in her father’s old clothes, her hair tied back, the dagger in her hand.

  He would greet her with the same smile each time, extend his arm as if escorting her to a dance. Lightly, she would take his arm and smile back. In the course of this time she felt herself changing. Her smile began to come more readily, and one day she realized she was laughing again. Yet she knew it would be a mistake to think too much about what was happening, so she didn’t. She let him guide her in the exertions of their lessons each day, and afterward they would sit companionably on the garden bench, and speak of his life and her dreams.

  He told her of the violent death of his mother, and how he had gone slightly mad after. There was pain in his voice when he told the tale, though he seemed to try to make light of it, even laugh at the absurdity of his behavior. “When you live in a place like Vassilian, where the winters are long and dark and you are indoors much of the time, it is easy to think that your life—your family—is the whole world,” he said. “Poor Lin, it must have been worse for her—I, at least, was free to travel when the roads were clear.”

  Despite his words, Rianna thought she saw a deep torment in his eyes. It was difficult not to reach out and touch his hand in moments like that. His fingers were long and delicate and looked as if they would be deft in all manner of things.

  During those weeks she had dreams that she tried not to think of, after.

  It came to an end one day in the middle of autumn, when the winds in the garden were chillier than usual. Rianna wore a dark velvet cloak over her father’s shirt and trousers. She could see in Rayen’s eyes, when he looked at her, that he appreciated the contrast of the velvet against her skin and hair, even though he said nothing of it. She felt almost as if she were guilty of something to have noticed it at all.

  “There is something I must tell you,” Rayen said. They were sitting with only a few inches between them on the garden bench, carefully apart.

  Rianna looked up into his face, her lips parted slightly. Half-afraid and half-anticipating what he would say.

  “I’m afraid it’s not good,” he went on. “I’m leaving. I’ve just been informed where my sister is. She is in danger.”

  “Danger?” Rianna said sharply.

  Rayen glanced around the garden, as if to ensure that there were no listeners crouched in the ornamental hedges and trees. “If I tell you something extremely sensitive—can you keep it secret?”

  Rianna nodded.

  “I’ve known for some time that my sister was here in the city during the fair,” said Rayen. “Marlen Humbreleigh found out this information and passed it on to me. But it was fairly useless unless I knew where she had gone. Which I found out today.”

  “How?”

  Rayen’s face was very solemn. “Now comes the part that you must keep in the darkest corners of your heart. It’s dangerous knowledge, given the politics here. Can you do that?”

  She nodded again.

  “The palace guards found Darien Aldemoor’s companion, Hassen Styr, in the town of Dynmar. Just today, Court Poet Gerrard met with me to tell me the findings of his interrogation. Hassen revealed that my sister joined with Darien and Hassen and was with them in Dynmar. Strangely, though, they are not heading to the mountains in the northeast as everyone had thought. They are going west, for reasons that even Nickon Gerrard cannot fathom.”

  Rianna found her voice. “I know Hassen,” she said harshly. “He would never betray his friends.”

  Rayen looked surprised. “You knew him? I have heard he is a good man and a stalwart friend. But the Court Poet has methods we can only imagine.”

  Rianna turned away, her hands twisting in her lap.

  “I am sorry, Rianna,” said Rayen. “I didn’t anticipate this news being so difficult for you. Is he the man you love?”

  Rianna shook her head. “Stop. I mean, no, he isn’t. But I still don’t see why you have to go running after your sister. To hear you tell it, she can more than protect herself.”

  “Up to a point,” he said. “But she cannot take on the full might of the king’s guard. I must find her before they do, or I fear that even my word will not be enough to save her.”

  “Aren’t you a hunter?” Rianna said. “Lord Gerrard only told you so you’ll lead him to her—to them.”

  Rayen’s eyes flickered with surprise. “You are clever. But my dear, so am I. Nickon Gerrard may imagine that I am playing his game, but I am an Amaristoth.” He rose. “When … all this … is at an end, I do have hopes of seeing you again. I’ve enjoyed this time very much.” He kissed her hand. She nearly flinched. “Perhaps I’ll even be here in time for your wedding,” he added, gently now.

  Rianna forced a smile, but it soon collapsed. She was thinking about Hassen Styr. About Darien on the run, on the verge of being found and captured.

  “Unlikely,” she said. “Good-bye, Rayen.”

  She turned away her face even before he stood.

  * * *

  HER father found her there, hugging herself against the cold, after it felt as if hours had passed. In truth, the sun had hardly moved; it was a crisp morning, with golden, copper, and ruby foliage blazing on the garden trees.

  Master Gelvan surprised her by sitting beside her on the garden bench. “May I join you?”

  She reluctantly turned to face him, tangled hair blowing about her face. “What is it?” For the first time in a while, she noted the deepened lines in his face, the k
nifelike creases between his brows. That his blond hair had more streaks of grey in it than she remembered. She didn’t want to notice, but she did.

  “I would have to be blind,” he said, “not to see that there has been a change in you since the summer. You are more dear to me than anything in the world, and I worry.”

  She shrugged, and her eyes dropped under his gaze. “What sort of change?”

  “Is it Lord Amaristoth?” he said. “Did he—did he try anything with you?”

  “Of course not,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “He was kind to me.” It was not exactly how she felt about Rayen’s visit, but she could not have put her feelings into words in any case—and she knew she did not want to articulate them to her father.

  “I am sure he was interested,” he said. “I was surprised, actually, that you were not. You seemed to enjoy spending time with him.”

  “He taught me daggers,” she said. “That was kind of him. And yes, I did—I liked his company. Of course.”

  “Rianna-li,” he said, using an endearment that reminded her of being ten, or younger, curled up with a book by the fire while the world had beckoned, mysteriously and invitingly, just outside the windowpane. “I am starting to think you are hiding something from me. And it grieves me to think that this is so—that I have made you feel that you must hide things from me.”

  A crow gave a harsh cry in the branches above their heads; its shadow fluttered over them. Even after the bird had flapped away, over the garden wall, its call echoed for a long time.

  In that time, Rianna had come to a decision. She said, “At one of your parties in the spring, I met a poet and began seeing him in secret. Nothing—nothing happened, Avan … we had hoped to be married.”

  Master Gelvan drew a breath, and let it out raggedly. He looked away from her for a moment, as if to get his bearings. “Married?” he said at last, his tone flat. “Who is he?”

  It was too late to turn back, Rianna knew, though it was not too late to lie. But no longer did she feel like that child who had been so enthralled in the world of tales, excited about what lay ahead at the next bend of the road. Right now she felt almost as if she and her father were equals. “It was Darien Aldemoor,” she said. “We thought that once he won the Silver Branch, you would consent to our marriage.”

  In the same monotone, her father asked, “Has he been in contact with you?”

  Rianna shook her head. She was surprised to find herself calm. “I don’t know if he’s alive,” she said. “And I know there’s a good chance that he soon won’t be.”

  What Master Gelvan said next was the last thing she would have expected him to say. “Oh, my dear,” he said, and suddenly held her tightly. Stunned, Rianna was rigid in his arms. “My dear,” he said again. “I am so sorry. I wish now that you had told me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I might have been able to stop—all this—from happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sighing, Master Gelvan pulled away. “That’s not important now. Now what I must figure out is what to do.”

  “What to do?”

  “Yes. If you love this man—if that is what will make you happy—then we must find him before Nickon Gerrard does. Perhaps send the two of you to Kahishi, until this blows over.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought you’d be angry.”

  He looked searchingly into her face. “You say that he did not do anything inappropriate,” he said sternly.

  “We … kissed,” she confessed, feeling childish again.

  “He meant for you to marry.”

  “Yes,” she said. “The plan was that after the contest, he would ask your permission.”

  He sighed. “Of course, I am worried that you are in love with a poet. They are a volatile breed—everyone knows that. But I met Darien, and I know he comes of a respectable family. I admit, it would have been hard to convince me before he won the contest … but all that seems unimportant now. Give me a little time today, and we will devise a plan.”

  True to his word, sometime later her father summoned her to his study. She had bathed and changed into her accustomed clothing—it now seemed silly to have been dressing as a boy, as though she had been trying to make a point. Like a rebellious girl, which she was not.

  She had told him about Rayen’s tidings: that the last place Darien was known to have been was Dynmar.

  “I have a wagonful of oranges that are due to go north at dawn tomorrow,” said Master Gelvan, busily shuffling papers on his desk. “I just wasn’t planning on going with the oranges. As it is, it will have to be done in secret. There is a compartment in the wagon where I can conceal myself. I will let it get around that we went south, just to throw off the scent. Meanwhile, you will go south—I will just have to arrange an escort. That will take a day. I hate to lose so much time.”

  “But how can you go alone?” Rianna said. “It will be dangerous.”

  “You don’t know your Avan, to ask that question,” he said. “There, hand me the wine. Let’s drink to the success of our journeys.”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door. It was the maid, her eyes wide and her gait unsteady; she seemed to almost fall into the room. “Master,” she gasped.

  “What is it?” he said sharply, but that was when they all heard a heavy clatter outside the door.

  Rianna grabbed Master Gelvan’s arm. “What’s happening?”

  What she saw in his eyes was resignation. “Don’t be afraid, my love,” he said. “I am so sorry. Remember the door. Go directly to Ned’s family—they will protect you.”

  The next moment, the guards were in the room, a flurry of black and red. They surrounded Master Gelvan and held him fast. Four of them, gripping the merchant with gauntleted hands. One pressed the tip of a spear to his throat.

  “Why could I not protect you,” Rianna heard herself say, despairing.

  One of the guards detached himself from the group to approach her. “Mistress Gelvan, you will be held in this house under guard until such a time as the Crown sees fit to release you.”

  “You touch her,” said Master Gelvan conversationally, “and I have ways of ensuring that you die horribly.”

  A Ladybird clubbed him on the side of the head with a sword hilt. Nonetheless, Rianna thought his eyes locked with hers just before his head fell back and he was dragged away.

  CHAPTER

  19

  FOR months he had dreamed of home, even when he was awake: the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle that were the essence of Tamryllin in midsummer, graceful white palaces by a sapphire harbor, harp music melancholy and joyous on the breeze. Perhaps it had all been so luminous in his memory, thought Ned Alterra, because that was what happened when you left home. And he had left when Tamryllin was at the peak of its splendor: in midsummer, during the fair.

  Not so when he returned. The honeysuckle and jasmine had faded and died, the trees beginning to lose their leaves. There was beauty in the autumn colors on the trees, but Ned thought it was overwhelmed by the vastness of the grey sky, which blended in a ghostly way with the white palace towers. Where he’d been, the sky was a turquoise like he’d never seen, the light always golden and warm. In the eastern cities beyond the Blood Sea, the domed architecture and alien tongue, the labyrinthine tunnels from which some men never returned, had all seemed impossibly strange.

  Yet now, tossing in his silken bedclothes night after night, amid more pillows than any one man could need, it was home that was strange. His nights were restless, haunted by dreams of a foreign sky and in a bed that no longer felt like his own. Even his body no longer felt like his own.

  Ned’s father had placed him on a ship that seemed unlikely to encounter dangers, destined as it was for the ports of Marabag, a coastal city only a few days distant. They would journey by caravan through Kahishi to the port where the ship was docked, and from there set sail. Ned’s father had various agreements with the Kahishians that permitted t
his. There would be very little danger. He would learn the responsibilities inherent in trading and the skills it took to sail a ship. He would assist the captain, who had been given strict instructions about the young lord’s safety.

  Ned realized that he was stroking the ropy line of the scar on his thigh; a back and forth caress as if it were a pet serpent. It was only by accident that the sabre had missed the vein, sparing Ned’s life. That was one thing he had learned in his first weeks overseas: the gods were fickle, operating without reason—or perhaps did not exist at all.

  Heretical thoughts for which a man might pay with his life, but thankfully no one could see into his mind. If they could, they would have seen much worse things.

  Now that he was back, Ned’s father wanted him to resume his old life: to continue learning to mind the estate, to marry someone worthy of the family name. To Lord Alterra, Ned’s flight overseas had been an aberration, an act the lord had opposed but had been nearly powerless to prevent.

  “Rianna’s feelings might have changed,” said Ned’s father upon his return. “Why don’t you go to her?”

  Ned didn’t answer. He had never told his father what had happened on the night of the masque. A night that he thought would be etched in his brain for always, no matter how many oceans he might cross.

  He turned away from his father, toward the window that looked out upon the shaded courtyards. The fountain that graced its center was replete with carved figures from myth. When Ned and Rianna had been very young—perhaps five and six—they had incurred the wrath of their elders by climbing the fountain as it was running, soaking themselves and hauling themselves up by the heads of stone creatures. Rianna had reached the top first, squealing with delight at her own naughtiness and her ascendancy over a boy.

  The memory made Ned smile a little. He hadn’t thought of that day in a long time.

  “You know, Rayen Amaristoth has been visiting their home,” Lord Alterra persisted, directing his remarks at Ned’s back.