“That was one thing that brought you here,” she said. “What was the other?”
He temporized by drinking some of the wine. In his mind, the Academy was a knot. There were parts of it he would not share yet, even with her. He said, “The other was to keep you apprised. Lately I’ve sensed—almost a hostility towards me from the Archmasters. They hold meetings in secret. I can’t be sure if it concerns the Crown or not, but I thought you should be aware.” He tried to meet her eyes. “It’s why I haven’t been here since last year,” he said. “I wanted to come. I fear what might happen while I’m not there.”
“Yet concern for me drew you out,” she said, with an arched eyebrow. “Couldn’t you have sent a message?”
“There is no one I would trust with such a message.”
Lin seemed to consider. As she bent her head, a curl escaped the combs to caress her cheekbone, lent her face a softness. “I must go, you know,” she said. “To refuse would imperil our alliance with Majdara. More than that … I want to go.”
“Do you now court death, Lady Amaristoth?” This half in jest.
The sideways curve of her lip was like a crack in glass. She said, “Death has courted me for years now.” Then smiled, and crossed the room to him with the light steps of a girl.
* * *
THAT morning she had cornered Garon Senn against a woodshed. Despite the dawn chill they were both perspiring. The air humid with the promise of rain. He had raised his sword arm to deflect her blow, too late to stop her locking her blade’s edge with his. She slid her blade down until the point reached his chest—and stopped. As they broke apart, he called out, “Now that you have me against the wall, I’m sure that’s all for today. Don’t you think, my lady?”
Lowering the practice sword, lips relaxing from her teeth, Lin Amaristoth had to laugh. A grizzled warrior who had been halfway around the world before he had found his way here, to become the court of Tamryllin’s master-at-arms, Garon Senn was not awed by anyone, not even the Court Poet. She, in turn, accepted that a former mercenary captain was unlikely to ever learn the smooth ways of court. “Done, then,” she said. “Maybe I’ll let you beat me tomorrow.”
“I insist on it,” he said with a grin.
Heading for her rooms and a bath, Lin Amaristoth felt as if weights were settling on her, one by one. Mornings with Garon Senn were the few occasions she was unequivocally herself. The instinctual space that opened in her when she had a blade in hand—a space that had taken shape in childhood—admitted nothing else. Not even the soul of a dead Seer.
As Lin bathed in scented oils, a female attendant read out the day’s agenda. Delegates from Kahishi—yes. She’d had word ahead of time what it was about, what they wanted. She knew what she would say. Then there were the inevitable meetings with the guilds, with courtiers. That was the weave of the court of Tamryllin—equal parts urgent and ridiculous, too fine to disentangle.
It left little time for music. But her dreams being what they were, she seldom slept; and nights were hers. Lin would rise sometimes in the dark as if the harp had called to her. She would perch by the window with the instrument in her arms, her gaze out to sea. There was no way to know if the songs were hers, or if Edrien Letrell channeled his words through her, from the dead.
Art was, had always been, a gift that took her by surprise. She could no more know its source than see the wind. And all the more so now. Lin Amaristoth supposed she could believe as many poets did, that it was the goddess Kiara who provided the gift of music. But faith, for her, was difficult.
Nights were when she most felt him with her. Almost she could believe if she turned she would see him hunkered in the shadows beside the bed, moonlight catching the mark on his eye. The sigh of the water below like the sound of his thoughts. If she slept, she would be swept into his memories, the heartbreak and pleasures of his life, his art. Or else into the recurring dream she had just begun to understand.
So she gave her nights to music instead.
Music could take her away from memory for a time. But it also returned her there. It recurred in her memory: the night Darien Aldemoor had done what he’d done. When she had cut her own wrists so he would not kill. With all the force of will that was in her she’d said, “Let me do this.”
To Lin it had made sense to give her life, a thing broken and twisted, to preserve the innocence in him. Not thinking ahead to the logical next step: in consenting, he lost that innocence.
And then had died for her. Every day with its dealings in petty politics and the whims of an idiot king had been purchased at that cost. The world would never know the music Darien could have drawn from the growth of years. Not know the full extent of his art.
No wonder, then, that she sought Garon Senn most mornings. Lin wondered what he knew. His black eyes were flat and inexpressive even when he laughed. She had presented him with a ruby earring that he wore at court, displaying her favor. Lin thought he was loyal, but would have preferred to be sure.
There were few ways to lose herself to thought, or memory. Perhaps that was why she seldom allowed her mind to rest. Even in the bath, she was already at work, her mind fixed ahead on what her strategy would be with the delegates from Kahishi.
It was when maids were pouring new hot water into the tub from silver ewers to wash her hair that Lin suddenly sat upright.
“What is it?” one girl asked, with a fearful look.
Lin stretched back into the embrace of the heated water. “My old friend and teacher will be here soon,” she said, and did not mind that it sounded cold.
* * *
THE day had passed much as expected: the Kahishian delegates had told a tale, elegantly phrased, of the terrors facing them in their northern marches. Lin Amaristoth and King Harald had received them in a private audience. She had listened with narrowed eyes to their account of attacks on villages, raids carried out by warriors clad in white, the battle gear of Fire Dancers. Of these, Lin knew little: only that they were a people who lived in the mountains of northern Kahishi and refused Kahishian rule. There had always been enmity between the Fire Dancers and the royal house.
Lin knew what the sharper of the lords of the council would think: the situation still amounted to minor skirmishes, not a true war. And while Eivar could hardly refuse a request for aid from its powerful ally, it was strange that the famously opulent Zahra could not deal with common brigands. With the aid of his viziers—who commanded armies in their own right—King Eldakar had the capacity to assemble a force known throughout the world.
But then the delegates began to speak of magic. Another detail to which Lin had been alerted ahead of time. Their leader, a greying man with a clever face by the name of Tarik Ibn-Mor, had said, “King Eldakar requests with all possible speed the presence of Lady Kimbralin Amaristoth to advise him in this matter.”
Harald had immediately objected. “The Court Poet doesn’t leave our side.”
The Kahishian had allowed his eyes to flicker to her, the Court Poet, at the king’s side. Restraint there, it seemed to her. “I myself am of the Seven, the Magicians of the Tower of Glass,” he said. “Yet King Eldakar wishes to consult with one who defeated a demon, returned the magic to your land. He cannot be swayed from this.” Lin thought his tone hinted at an attempt to sway. She hid a smile.
“We must confer with the council,” she’d said to Tarik Ibn-Mor. She already knew how events would proceed: Harald would object, along with the lords who were currying favor. She counted on support from those who were stronger, and sensible, such as the lords Alterra. Everyone must agree, ultimately, that the unbalanced relationship between Eivar and Kahishi afforded no choice. Eivar could have been conquered a thousand times by the armies of the east, if not for the beneficence of Kahishian kings throughout the years—and their esteem of poets. They even generously overlooked the Eivarian worship of what they considered false gods. Their own deity, Alfin—the Thousand-Named God—had for centuries been a rallying cry in wars from Kahish
i to Ramadus and the lands between.
Truly, there was no refusing Kahishi anything they might ask.
“My lady,” pressed Tarik Ibn-Mor, “we must return to the Zahra in a matter of days, if it pleases you.”
She had inclined her head, unblinking. A hiss of suspicion from Edrien Letrell surfaced in her mind: Magicians. She said, “Soon enough, you shall have your answer.”
* * *
WHEN she faced Valanir Ocune that night it was with the awareness that he was most likely angry. All throughout that day she had felt the nearness of him—not with the intimacy that Edrien Letrell imposed upon her; rather like a melody played in a distant room. She had toyed with him today. It was the first time she had done any such thing. Since his last visit she had grown older in all ways. It was a loss, she reflected as she met the Seer’s eyes. But she could not feel it as a loss, couldn’t grieve. Perhaps that was a part of it.
His eyes as she crossed the room were wary. And if she felt infinitely older now, it seemed to her he didn’t show his age—his face barely lined, his features fine. She’d had similar thoughts upon meeting him in that tavern, when he was passing as a Seer named Therron, a summer that seemed long ago. As if life’s griefs washed over him without penetrating … as if there had been no griefs at all.
She realized how she, in turn, must seem to him. The lady in her castle. So much an Amaristoth.
Not what she’d intended for the shape of her life. Not what Darien had intended for her, either, when he’d traded his breath for hers.
Valanir stood when she did. As if they were on formal terms. She advanced with slow steps. He watched her advance with a bewildered paralysis. As if he stood in the path of an avalanche. “Lin—” And stopped, when she reached out to touch the side of his face. For a long time she had wanted to do that. It salved an ache in her, but created new ones.
“Sit,” she said, a command. He had barely done so before she was on him and around him on the couch, her mouth to his. The heat of him against her, his immediate response, like warm wine.
After what seemed a while, Valanir pulled back to look at her. The color had risen in his face, his gaze heavy-lidded and languorous. But it was with seriousness that he said, “Lin—is this what you want?”
“Shut up,” she said, and put his hands to her breasts. Even through her dress his fingers moved expertly, and soon she had lost control of her voice. She paused to laugh at herself. “It’s been a long time,” she said.
“I want to hear that sound again,” he said, and slid a hand under her skirts.
Rain had begun to beat against the windows. The lamp burned bright. As she writhed and cried out, Lin felt exposed in its glare. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was murmuring in her ear, things she had never thought to hear him say.
The words, more than the manipulations of his hands, wore at her defenses. What she most strove to avoid throughout the days and nights by means of a blade, the council chamber, and the harp, was assaulting her. The recurrent dream that plagued her nights—its meaning, she had only recently begun to understand. Always it was the same: A man crouched in the corner of her bedchamber, between a chair and a towel-rack, crying. Always he had his back to her, but still she knew him. Darien Aldemoor, head buried in his hands.
Lin moaned in a different note, halfway between grief and a plea. Though she still wouldn’t look at the Seer’s face, she gripped his hands. Valanir seemed to understand, shifting his weight beneath her. Soon he was inside her and thoughts were gone.
The rain was drumming more gently some time after, when they both lay still. Thunder a muttered portent in the distance. Valanir was still beneath her, her face between his hands. She had given up trying to avoid his eyes. He said, “You seem surprised by something. But it is you who surprised me.”
“You said you’ve … thought of me.” Referring to the murmured words in her ear.
“That should not surprise you, lady.” His hand drifted from her face to the fastenings of her dress. “May I?”
Together they stood. He was behind her, untying her dress. There had been a time when she would have shied from letting him, anyone, see her. She thought of the lamp and exposure and thought, So be it, and lifted her chin, as if in defiance of an enemy.
But there was only Valanir Ocune, who said, inexplicably, “You break my heart,” and lifted her up. She felt terror for a moment, at being helpless, but it passed. He carried her to the next room and her bed, where dark enfolded them; she could see little more than the mark of the Seer on his brow and the light it reflected in his eyes. Gently he parted her legs, and then at the foot of the bed, knelt between them. Thunder was shattering the night as Lin filled the dark with raw, lost cries.
Later they slept, and for once her sleep was dreamless. When she woke it was before sunrise. She slid from bed into a velvet robe. The rain had ceased, banks of clouds breaking to admit grey streaks of light. The sea a darker grey. Seagulls glided in wind above the water. Without turning she said, “That was better sleep than I’ve had in a year. Thank you.”
“Come here,” he said.
She turned to face him, but did not advance. As if thoughts that crowded her mind fixed her in place. Valanir Ocune lay on his side, the mark of the Seer faded. His eyes clear as if a haze had been scrubbed from them.
“Who are you, Lady Amaristoth?” His tone was wistful. “Word comes to me you imprisoned a poet for satire.”
“Three nights,” she said with a dismissive gesture. “His song was a stain on my honor. And the king’s. I could not allow it.” The poet had more than suggested the Court Poet ensnared King Harald—in enchantments, and elsewise. It was crude and not very clever. Some lordling who would not amount to much as a poet. “He was unharmed. The point made.”
Valanir sat upright. “Do you want to talk about last night?”
The stillness of the room, the half-light, made it all seem unreal to her. As if it could evaporate like one of her dreams. She looked out at the water again. “I do not ask anything of you.”
“Nor I of you,” he said. “That isn’t why I asked.”
Through mists she could see the docks. Boats. She said, “I have to tell you something.”
* * *
“YOU were meant to die,” the wizard had told her. He was not what she had expected. She had thought he would be old, and smell of incense. Neither of these were true. His beard was black, his features weathered but not aged, eyes showing sorrow beyond his years. His robe and cap were white linen, his one ornament an amulet of silver worked in filigree.
She had sent for him precisely because he was from far away, from a land with no ties to Eivar. Even so it was a risk. So many would have been happy to oust her on a flimsier pretext than this. Court Poet, and a woman, who had enforced changes at the Academy that many resisted. They would never forgive her for the girl students, or for being forced to take orders from Valanir Ocune.
The enchantments of Eivar held no remedy for her. Valanir had told her there was no cure for the spell of Darien Aldemoor, which had intertwined another man’s thoughts and memories with hers. Which seemed to grow stronger by the day. She had placed her hope in a far-off magic, its practitioners who had developed their art over the course of centuries.
The wizard bade her sit, recited an incantation in his language as he waved his hands once, twice, three times in a circular motion around her head. She was shivering. For once Edrien Letrell’s thoughts were quiet within her, which oddly had the effect of making her feel abandoned and more afraid.
“It was a deep spell,” said the wizard at last. “You sheltered within you a soul from the Underworld.”
“My friend—the man who cast the spell—did not know what he did,” she said. “We had been without enchantments for so long. He didn’t know.”
The wizard took her hand. The sadness in his eyes grew more pronounced. He said, cradling her hand, “A body cannot give shelter to the dead, even for a little time, and still live.”
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“But I am needed here,” she said, stupidly.
He said, “I have no doubt.” Lin Amaristoth thought, in her shock, that he probably had a good singing voice. Of all things, she had not been expecting this outcome. There was nothing he could do. He would not accept her offer of gold. He did take the gift of a horse for his journey home.
* * *
A SILENCE. She pressed her forehead to the glass, its chill a relief. Behind her, he said, “How long?”
“He thought I might have a year,” she said. “Or less. No one can know.”
Another silence. Then she heard a rustling behind her. After some moments, felt his hand on her arm. “Look at me,” he said. She turned her head. He had hastily dressed, though his shirt was open at the chest. Her eyes lingered there a moment, but the rigidity of his stance forced her gaze upward. She had never seen Valanir Ocune so angry. “I won’t let this happen,” he said.
She drew back. Before his rage she felt flat, listless. “You’d said there is nothing to be done. Now we have confirmation.” She drew a breath. “I must apologize.” The words came as if they were stones that she hefted, one by one. “I thought … I was … no more to you than a game piece. Last night you showed something else. I’ve made this more difficult for you. I swear I didn’t mean to.”
“You thought that.” His voice seemed nearly to break. “What, then, did you want?”
Now she could meet his eyes, almost with a smile. “You.”
This time it was he who turned away, with great strides. But soon returned as if drawn by invisible cords, his hand passing over the side of her face, the nape of her neck. Sunlight made his eyes too green, implausible. Lin knew she was trying to hold the memory, in its smallest details, as day broke at her back.
“I only regret the time we did not have,” he said. “And that you didn’t know your own power. Two sorrows I have so far. I won’t allow a third and worst, from losing you.”
Lin caught his hand at her neck as she would a weapon. “Give thought to a successor,” she said. “A Court Poet who will live long enough for our work to be complete. Perhaps it should be you.” She shook her head when he began to speak. “Think about it while I am away.” Her grip on his hand tightened. “It was you who taught me to put the needs of this city before my own, Valanir Ocune. Let me go.”
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