The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  So, she supposed, was true of herself. She had work in this palace. It fell to her, since as far as she could tell, Eivar had succumbed to Elissan Diar without resistance. And it was her land. Tamryllin, her city. She wore a pendant that had belonged to her mother, an amethyst on a silver chain, tucked in the neck of her dress.

  That was not all Ned had written. I would drop it all to return to you. All the work he was doing—whatever that was.

  Of course he could not do that. Ned Alterra was of the old order in Tamryllin—the Court Poet’s right-hand man. Rianna didn’t know if Elissan Diar would execute him outright, but Ned could surely not afford to put himself at the man’s mercy.

  Lord Rovere was kneeling before the king. Elissan Diar stood over him with a drawn sword. As he touched the blade to the man’s shoulders, he looked solemn, imbued with the gravity of the moment. Then Antyn Rovere rose, bowed one final time, and backed away. It was done—he’d sworn homage to the new king.

  The reverent silence diffused into a stir of activity as servants entered with trestle tables and benches. Some fruits, cheeses, sweets, and wine would be brought shortly for them all to partake, to honor the new pact. The lord Rovere and his lady were seated at the center of the table, their retinue to either side.

  Elissan called forth his daughter. She came to him a bit sullenly, but she had been prepared for this. He proudly introduced her as a poet and future Seer, and announced that she would sing. And so once one of the women had produced Sendara’s gold harp, the girl took her place by her father’s side, and began. Her voice trembled slightly on the high notes. The guests diligently took no notice, nodding smiles.

  Sharing her father’s light, Sendara gleamed now too: her hair, the sheen of ermine at her throat. She sang a ballad of tragic love—a predictable choice for a young girl, though at odds with the theme of the day.

  As bowls of cut fruit and plates of bread and meat were brought forth, Etherell Lyr came into the Great Hall for the first time. He entered purposefully, making his way toward the king. Behind him was the Fool. It took a moment for Rianna to realize that Syme Oleir was deliberately, with a set face, walking in exaggerated imitation of Etherell’s determined stride. A flurry of snickers arose from the table.

  Sendara’s song continued, with a plodding quality as if she forced herself to go on.

  Without looking back, Etherell reached behind him and grabbed the Fool by the scruff of the neck. “You had best not do that.” He flung the Fool away with force. Syme staggered, covered his face with his hands, cried, “Yes, my lord! Oh, mercy, my lord!”

  Sendara brought her song to a close. She looked forlorn. Rianna could not help but pity her, though she didn’t know why. There was some polite applause, but most had been distracted by the exchange with the Fool.

  Etherell seemed to already have forgotten it. He was murmuring in the king’s ear. There was an undercurrent of urgency. Yet the king’s placid expression never wavered. At last he nodded, said something in return, and briskly clapped his hands. “Wine for our guests!” he called. “Sendara, my love—you were superb. Such a voice. She has performed in the courts of the east, you know.”

  Lady Rovere’s show of interest was almost convincing.

  Elissan was beaming at his daughter. “She will be the first girl, the first woman, to be a Seer. Yes, there was that business with Lin Amaristoth—but that was done against the will of the Academy. Lady Amaristoth’s mark is disputed, possibly not even authentic. Sendara will be legitimate. A Poet Queen.”

  The girl appeared startled. As if she considered the idea for the first time. Rianna had never heard Elissan use that phrase … a Poet Queen. She wasn’t sure why it rang strange to the ear, just as a Poet King had done. She thought of Darien Aldemoor, mischievous and carefree—he’d have loathed a throne. Valanir Ocune, who had worn his role of official liaison to the Crown with unease. Even Lin Amaristoth, queenly in her way, had seemed more caged by the palace than at home.

  Rianna had noted all along how smoothly Elissan Diar filled the role of king. Yet he was also a Seer. For the first time, she understood that he saw himself as something more than the kings before him. Saw his bloodline, potentially, as something more.

  A magical weapon.

  Of course. Enchantments would be the cornerstone of Elissan’s reign. Rianna had to discover more about his strategy if she was to undermine it. She had already wasted too much time on embroidery.

  It was ridiculous that such a task should fall to her—what did she know of enchantments? But there was no one else.

  Elissan Diar was not done speaking. With a hand outstretched to the lord he said, “It is an omen that you arrived on this day, Lord Rovere. Today is forty days to the coronation. A number of importance. The event will mark a turn in the destiny of this land. We shall become greater than ever we were.”

  The lord uttered some platitudes about the honor this conveyed to him. An impressive man taken on a whole, Lord Rovere faded beside the golden king. Rianna wondered if he was aware of it. A man so great in his own halls, here made small.

  For the first time she noticed the Chosen, standing at attention in various parts of the room. So silent and immovable were they, it was easy to forget they were there. None were invited to sit and eat. Now that Rianna thought of it, she had never seen them eat anything. It was hard to imagine men more dedicated to one purpose. It was their fearsome reputation that had induced lords like Antyn Rovere to offer allegiance. Their silence like a threat.

  Men who wanted nothing could not be bought. Perhaps not ever defeated.

  Meanwhile Etherell took Sendara Diar’s hand and escorted her to the table. She was staring at him, and looked back over her shoulder at him after she sat down. Clearly she expected that Etherell would sit beside her, but instead he bowed to Lord and Lady Rovere. “Regrettably, an urgent matter calls me away. But I am pledged to be married to the fair princess Sendara—she may toast this alliance in my stead.” Then—also unexpected—he turned to Syme Oleir. “Come along now, Fool.” And the two left without another word. The Fool followed Etherell Lyr with a bowed head, docile as a child.

  The strangeness of the scene, and Elissan Diar’s speech, conspired to make Rianna uneasy. She was missing something. And running out of time.

  * * *

  THAT evening she dispatched a note. Then she did something else. She dug into her trunk and found, near the bottom, a gown. Green silk—a good color on her. A neckline that showed the curve of her breasts. She wore her mother’s amethyst pendant still. Its placement against her breastbone was like a glittering invitation. To Rianna—in some irrational part of her—it was in fact protection, reassurance.

  Reassurance that she did right.

  Next it was time to attend to her hair, pinned in its usual prim knot. As she began to pluck the pins and combs, strands dropped loose. They fell full and thick to the small of her back. She used first her fingers, then her hairbrush to work out the knots, until the strands were shining.

  There was more to be done. She had a pot of rouge to apply to her cheeks and lips. In a glass vial was perfume for her hair, her wrists, between her breasts. A bergamot scent, notes complex and secret.

  By the time the servant returned, Rianna sat waiting on the edge of her bed. When she was bid to follow, she rose. She could feel the man’s stare and held her head high. Until now, she had gone through all the days clad in grey or brown, hair pinned up. No rouge or scents. Most would have forgotten golden-haired Rianna Gelvan, desired at every ball. She had married, had a child, and vanished from public life.

  She’d expected to return eventually—to that whirl of parties and politics. But not like this.

  Along the way was the familiar portrait of the lady. The servant’s lantern illuminated it as they passed. Rianna met the painted eyes of the woman, luxuriantly lashed, limpid brown. In them, despite the woman’s smile, Rianna thought she read a sadness. Something she had not seen before. And then they had passed, gone on d
own the hall. Through a rose granite arch, up some stairs, a turn. Another. Rianna looked down at her hands. She had forgotten to remove the ring Ned Alterra had slid on her finger the day they were married.

  She doubted Elissan Diar was the sort to mind.

  The servant withdrew as the door opened. The king stood with his back to her, at the fireplace. She had never been in his most private rooms. He was alone. In the next room, she knew, would be his bed.

  She stepped farther inside. The servant had shut the door. Despite the sound, Elissan didn’t turn.

  Was this a game to him? She felt cold.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said finally.

  Rianna waited. For a time he did not say more. She had a chance to take in this room. The great satin couches would serve as well as any bed. Or the pale, deep fur rug beside the fire. So many places he might choose. Once he was done with the preliminaries.

  She did not know what she felt at the thought. If she felt anything.

  Elissan turned to face her. He wore a velvet robe, black and silver-trimmed. But trousers beneath, blood-colored and loose. His face was flushed—whether from the fire or something else, she did not know. The sight of her seemed to alter him in some indefinable way. “Come,” he said. “Sit with me.”

  He sat on a couch and gestured to the place beside him. Feeling stiff, Rianna sat. She tried to relax into her role. “What were you thinking?” she asked. A light, teasing tone. One in keeping with the message she had sent earlier.

  You once said that every day I please you more, she’d written carefully in black ink. What if I were to make it true?

  He smiled suddenly. He looked boyish. “You are so beautiful,” he said. He took her hand. “In green, you might be a creature of the Otherworld. The ones said to drive men mad.”

  She smiled back, dipped her head to look at him through her lashes. “That can be arranged.”

  He threw back his head to laugh, loud and delighted. Settled deeper into the soft cushions. “You’re marvelous,” he said. “And now you’re here. And you know what I think of you, of course. I’ve made no secret of my desire for you, Rianna. Ever since I saw you, sombre and grey-clad at my daughter’s side. Keeping your own counsel.”

  “You are … kind.” She did not know what else to say.

  He looked at her with an earnestness that was new to her. It did not diminish his leonine looks, but made him appear vulnerable. At her mercy. As if she could hurt him if she chose.

  Rianna felt as if she observed, from a great distance, a map: one that told her she had been here before. But this time was different. This time, she went to the wolf’s jaws deliberately. She was neither virginal nor a fool.

  She had killed that self, that stupefyingly innocent Rianna Gelvan, many times in her dreams. A reach for power that would never come. A desire that she could be the one to kill that girl, denying anyone else the pleasure.

  In dreams, she found, one refused to accept what in bland waking hours were the facts.

  Elissan Diar had settled himself on the couch so he faced her. Despite his vulnerability, he looked confident. And now, contemplative. “I’ve been thinking about my life … all the years,” he said. “You were right to suggest—ever so delicately!—what you did, about my past. I have known many women. All my life, everywhere I traveled. They came to me willingly, easily. Some of the most celebrated beauties in the world. I have no complaints.” He grinned. Then he took her hand. His was manicured and smooth. “But lately I’ve come to wonder if something has been lacking in me. In my life. I’ve never known any woman beyond the bedchamber. Not even Sendara’s mother. I entertained the idea of marrying her—I admit, because her family is rich—but they rejected me. They would not have a common-born poet marry their daughter. They paid me to be gone. Years later, I had my revenge. I stole the child. My child by rights, who deserved a destiny of her own. Not to be a pawn in some nobles’ game.” He laughed, this time self-consciously. “And here I’m already telling you my sins.” Studying her, he let go her hand. “You look at me with such seriousness, Rianna. As if you take in every word. Passing judgment.”

  “I’m not given to judgments,” she said. “I have sins of my own.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” he said, smiling. “About judgments, I mean. What you think of all of us, of this court, only the gods can know. And flattered as I am that you are here, perfumed and dressed so fetchingly, some questions linger. Could you be seeking clemency for your husband? An assurance he may return?”

  For this, at least, she’d been prepared. “No,” she said calmly. She took a risk. She slid her hand, the one that was free, to his leg. Up his thigh. Halted just before the groin. Her gaze held his all the while. “If he returns,” she said, “I want you to kill him.”

  He must have been very aware of that hand—if she knew anything about men, she knew that—but gave no sign of it. “You hate him that much?”

  “A man who betrays me should die,” she said. “Do you not agree?”

  His lips parted. Then: “What people say of you is true.”

  She said nothing. So people talked, then, about the death of Rayen Amaristoth. His mauled body found in the woods. Of course they did.

  “I don’t know if I believe you,” he said. “I only know that I want you. As any man would want you. I will dream of you tonight.” Gently, he took her hand from his leg. He raised it to his lips. For a moment closed his eyes. Then said, “My servant will see you out. Thank you for visiting. There is more to you than I can yet see, Rianna Alterra. I want to know you, beyond … the usual distractions. I want that pleasure. I’ve known every other kind, and while one never grows tired of it … I find at this time in my life, I want more.”

  Rianna found herself standing, being led to the door. She was confused and relieved and suddenly afraid. He wanted to know her. That was the last thing she could afford. But the face she turned to him was a mask worthy of Daria Gelvan herself. Her mother had died young, yet nonetheless, Rianna felt herself molded by that vanished hand.

  Just before the door, he caught her hand in both of his. The blue of his eyes intense. In that instant she could well believe he would dream of her.

  He said, “Return to me soon.”

  * * *

  BACK in her room, Rianna changed into her grey dress. The hour was near midnight. All was quiet. In the past months, in the enemy’s camp, Rianna had grown alert to the sounds around her. For a time, she listened. She did not hear the giggle of a maid or lady, pulled toward some assignation. Nor the voices of the Chosen, in some distant chamber or hall, aloft in song.

  She was alone with the night and this place.

  She tied her hair back with a ribbon. Taking her candle from the bedside table, she went back into the hall. The events of the night made a turmoil in her. Mostly she felt desperate. And useless. Nothing was working. She’d been certain that tonight she would be in the king’s bed—or thereabouts—and on her way to solving the puzzle set for her by Etherell Lyr. To learning more about the magical weapon.

  There wasn’t time for the king’s obdurate game.

  As she crept down the stairs to the main floor, Rianna pondered her own sense of urgency. To rush things would be unwise. But to wait on events … that, she knew was wrong.

  She knew little else. This dark on the stairs, as she descended, seemed a mimicry of her ignorance. Or as poets liked, a metaphor. Darien Aldemoor had used many in the songs he wrote for her. Metaphors to describe her hair, her eyes—even her skin, which at the time had made her blush.

  That all seemed long ago.

  When she came to the door she sought, she edged it open gingerly. Only a faint creak. This door led to the cellar. She surmised that somewhere past the cellar, perhaps farther down, were the rooms Etherell had described. How far they extended, she had no idea.

  The stairs were dank, though a light breeze wafted intermittently from below. That seemed odd. Where could such a breeze be coming from?
<
br />   She felt her way with care. These stairs were in use throughout the day, as servants went to the cellar to retrieve the oil and wine kept in jars below. They’d be reasonably well-maintained.

  At the first landing her candle picked out a glimmer on the floor. She squinted. It looked like gold. Rianna knelt and found a large ring, wide in span as a man’s hand. It was light in her palm. Not a diadem—it was too flimsy. Perhaps wood, coated in gold paint.

  She flicked the ring back and forth in the light as she considered. A memory: Syme the Fool, juggling beside the fire of the dining hall. A bright cascade of rings that caught the light.

  The appearance of gold.

  The Fool had been on these stairs.

  Etherell Lyr and the Fool had been together today. Was this where they had gone, after their brief appearance in the Great Hall? But what would they be doing here? She recalled the way Etherell had whispered in the king’s ear. It had looked strange, especially before guests. It must have been something that couldn’t wait.

  She straightened, shaking her head. The next moment drew a ragged breath of alarm. A man stood on the stair above her. Blocking the way out. If she turned and fled down to the cellar, she’d be cornered.

  She drew her knife. “Stay back.”

  The man’s hands went up, spread out to either side. They were empty. A voice, deep and amused. “My lady. You haven’t changed.”

  Rianna lifted her candle to the level of the man’s shoulders. Dark, shaggy hair was what she noticed first. Shadows cut the outline of distinctive cheekbones. “You.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Marlen Humbreleigh. “Would you mind putting that down?”

  “How do I know this is not some trap?”

  He laughed quietly. “If there is one, we’re in it already—both of us,” he said. “Rianna, I tell you true. Lin Amaristoth paid me a visit. Asked if I was willing to make myself useful, one last time.”

  CHAPTER

  4