The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  A silence. She waited, hearing nothing but the sound of her breathing. And seeing before her that image, of the couple framed in candlelight. You watch it all like some sort of shadow, Sendara Diar had said the last time they spoke.

  The agony of that night returned. Julien had felt discarded, worthless. She had revealed all she was, all she dreamed of, to Sendara Diar in long talks at night, long walks through the woods. And in an instant learned what it was worth. In revealing herself she had earned disdain. Nothing could eliminate the shame or how it hurt. Not her mission with Valanir Ocune, not Dorn’s kindness … nor even becoming a Seer.

  This is no test. The wind had returned. There will be no consequence for you. No one will know. Your power in this is absolute.

  “You think I’m a monster,” said Julien. “That this is my desire.”

  Reach out. See what you can do.

  Just to see, Julien reached out. Immediately as she did, the image wavered. This time with more violence than before.

  She had made so many choices, moment by moment in the maze, to reach this place. Turn, and turn, and turn again. Only to discover that those had never been the real choice at all.

  Say what you want. And it will be.

  “I want a guide,” said Julien. She was trembling. “This is the Path, isn’t it? Or near enough. I should have a guide, then. I need help. Please.” The image had grown still again. The two figures, golden-headed and richly appareled, bent towards each other. They looked like the subjects of a painting.

  The beast inside her frightened her. She didn’t feel strong enough to confront it. Perhaps if there were someone else here—someone who might see how disgusting she was, how foul—she would have no choice but to mask her temptation. To do right.

  There will be no consequence for you.

  Power without consequence. Her most base desires, without consequence. How could such things be?

  “You asked for me?” A man’s voice. And then he was there, at her side. He was tall, and wore the black and silver, and a sword. Julien caught her breath, for he was handsome too, despite the faint scar down one side of his face.

  “So you see that.” He sounded amused. “Most people don’t notice it. This place brings out what we are, I suppose. What we’ve done, and what was done to us.”

  “Who are you?”

  “That seems beside the point. You asked for a guide.” He tilted his head as if to get a better look at her. “Goodness, are you even sixteen?”

  “Last month,” she said defensively. “You seem young, yourself. For a guide. Oh…” She realized what she had said, and cursed herself.

  “Young to be dead, you mean,” he said. “I agree. Often we have no say in the matter.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was awful of me.”

  He laughed. He looked savage when he laughed, with white teeth and dark hair that went flying. “I know something of being awful. More than a little. Now what have we here?” He looked at the frozen image of Sendara Diar and Etherell Lyr with joined hands. “Oh gods. Those two.”

  “You know them?”

  He shrugged. “It is a contest, which of them is a worse nuisance.”

  “I have the power to undo Sendara’s happiness,” said Julien. “I must be a monster. Why would such a temptation fall to me?”

  “You’ve answered your own question,” he said. “But take heart. We each have a monster within us. Some manage to keep it in check, is all.”

  “That doesn’t help,” she told him. “And I don’t believe it anyway.” There were good people in the world, she was sure, who would not have thought twice about something like this. Something made Julien different, flawed at the core. She kept thinking what it had been like to touch that image, to make it ripple under her hands. She thought of Sendara Diar’s contemptuous look, her smirk; the easy confidence with which she contemplated the world. Of the way everyone lined up to praise her, to tell her she was special, destined for greatness.

  And what did Julien have? She had only become a Seer through disaster. By default. In her time at the Academy, she’d been invisible. Useful to Valanir Ocune, but that was all. Useful because no one saw her, or ever would.

  The man watched her. He said, “I think I see why I was chosen as your guide, Julien Imara.”

  At the sound of her own name, Julien twitched as if struck. “Why is that? Who are you?”

  He had dark eyes, she saw, that grew intent when he was serious. “I was … I am Marlen Humbreleigh,” he said. Then smiled, though gently, at her gasp. For of course she knew who he was. “This I can tell you, Julien Imara. It may be true that you won’t suffer consequences if you turn your hand to this—to undoing the happiness of Sendara Diar. But one thing I know.” His voice dropped deeper. The voice of a singer, albeit one who would never sing again. “It is a tricky thing, to be someone’s rival. When you join your fate to that of another—when you become the shadow to their light…”

  “Yes?”

  He smiled. “Why then, you are never free.”

  * * *

  THE king sat on the throne. So far this ceremony had not gone the way Rianna had expected. She knew it was usually the high priest of the Eldest Sanctuary who performed the rituals, with prayers to the Three.

  The priests had been invited, but watched from the crowd, in their gold-belted robes of purple. It would have been an insult too great not to have them here. But nonetheless, Rianna wondered if it was much better to have invited them, if they were to have no part in the ceremony. It was a break with centuries of tradition, a surprising one. She’d have thought Elissan Diar would want the support of the priests of the Eldest Sanctuary. Every king did.

  Instead, Elissan Diar followed quite another rite, one that involved only the Chosen. Before the crowded hall he had stripped off his shirt, his impressively muscled torso and its scar showing to effect. The gentle light of sunset caught the droplets that one of the Chosen sprinkled on Elissan’s naked shoulders from a golden bowl.

  “Kiara,” Elissan called, “see me cleansed. The last rite of purification is performed.”

  An uneasy stir in the crowd. It comprised nobles, mostly, and landed gentry, and the wealthier merchants and artisans. Just outside the doors rank dissolved, and anyone who managed to elbow their way through could bear witness to the rite.

  To invoke Kiara alone of the Three was forbidden. A heresy. Though one that throughout the centuries poets, without fanfare, had practiced. Elissan Diar now made the heresy public, legitimized it as king.

  After the sprinkling of the water, Elissan was given a white towel to dry himself. And then a white tunic, belted with gold, which he put on.

  Rianna wondered if the city had ever seen a display quite like this.

  “Kiara,” said Elissan Diar. “I clothe myself in pure garments, to honor thee.” That was when he sat upon the throne. On the dais, to either side, three Chosen stood. Others took various positions on the steps. They seemed not to notice the ceremony, yet were perfectly attuned to Elissan’s movements, as if he was their center. Rianna imagined that if someone were to, for example, fling a knife at the king right now, these men would throw themselves in its path. There was no misreading their intensity by this time; they were, one and all, prepared to die.

  One of the Chosen held the red cushion where reposed the crystal crown. “Kiara.” Elissan’s voice. “See my coronation dedicated to your worship, now and for always. Everlasting.”

  Everlasting. Rianna swallowed hard. She was far from the dais, from everything. Her failure a knot in her throat.

  The crown was set on Elissan Diar’s head. He looked down at those assembled. His expression one of beatific solemnity. As if at last he was at peace. The crown with its intricate design seemed to writhe, its points to grow and twist as if it were alive. Its pale glow settled upon him.

  In its light, the mark of the Seer blazed for all to see.

  Etherell Lyr spoke then, from the last step of the dais. “Beho
ld, the Poet King.”

  Clearly this had been rehearsed. The people responded, with hesitation, “Behold, the King.”

  “Long may he reign.”

  They were more comfortable with such terms. “Long may he reign!”

  Elissan Diar lifted his arms. In the glow of the crown he was magnificent. “And now, rejoice!”

  The musicians in the upper balcony began to play a triumphant air.

  But there was a disturbance in the crowd. Rianna craned her neck to see. And had only a moment to wonder before people started running in all directions, and she saw.

  At the center of the room, in a space cleared by fleeing spectators, was a woman. But that was not an apt way to describe her. She was taller than most men, her skin whiter than alabaster, her gown white. The hair that flowed to her waist was reddened gold. Around and about her was light, pale as the glow of the crystal crown.

  The woman’s mouth was blood-red, her teeth very white as she smiled at Elissan Diar.

  He regarded her open-mouthed. Then said, “The White Queen.” He rose from his throne, and bowed. “You honor me with your presence.”

  She laughed, a tinkle like broken glass. “You have summoned me,” she said. “And for that I shall honor you.” Her hands reached out, long-fingered, and made a motion of twisting together.

  Elissan’s head was gone. A mess of blood exploded from his shoulders. Shrieks filled the hall.

  “A painless death is, it is said, the greatest boon a mortal might receive,” said the woman. “So I have given thee, little poet. How kind of you to summon me to your realm. It will offer much amusement.”

  Rianna was cold and reeling. Her wits returned enough for her to recall one thing. Sendara. The girl was screaming nearby. Rianna grabbed her shoulder. “Gods, girl,” she said, hoarsely. Sendara couldn’t see her, couldn’t seem to see anything. Her eyes stared and she was shaking. Rianna spotted one of the priests hiding behind a chair. “You,” she hissed. “Take the princess to the Sanctuary. Now.” Then turned back to the chaos of the room. She wasn’t sure what to do, but that was one less thing to worry about. She crouched behind a pillar.

  So she saw the Chosen gather before the woman in white. More were coming, from other parts of the castle, to join their comrades. At first she expected them to attack. They’d been so committed to protecting Elissan.

  They assembled before the dais. The woman watched them come. Their movements were ponderous as ever, their faces blank. Slowly they gathered before her like ants to honey. And then, to a man, they knelt. Their prostration so deep that their foreheads touched the floor.

  “Arise, my deathless ones,” said the woman. She surveyed them with what might have passed, with her, for affection. A delicate smile on her lips. “How long I have trained you to my service. Over many nights claimed you for my own. And now there is much to do.” The young men stood at attention. None looked back at the corpse on the throne, nor at the blood that coursed in great gouts down the steps.

  Smiling still, she said, “It is time we went to war.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  IT was dusk when Aleira Suzehn climbed from the watchtower. When she reached the ground she staggered and nearly fell. Nameir, who was keeping watch below, went to her. “Are you all right, Magician?”

  The face that turned to hers was drained white. “It’s happened. As the omens portended. But to feel it, and see it…” Aleira stumbled again. Nameir caught her arm. The Magician forced a smile. “You’ll think I’m drunk,” she said. “But no, I was watching the stars as always. But this time … I must see Eldakar at once.”

  * * *

  JULIEN Imara had closed her eyes so she would not see the bright image before her anymore. “You. Powers. Whatever you are.” She realized she had no idea whom to address. She had thought of it as a wind, but of course it was more than that. “I will not do it. You hear me? Let fate take its course.”

  I will be free, she told herself, a wild hope; a prayer.

  There was no response. She opened her eyes, turned to Marlen Humbreleigh. “I hope that did it.”

  “It does.” He motioned with his hand. The image of Sendara Diar and Etherell Lyr was dispelled. Now she and Marlen were alone in what appeared a corridor of stone.

  “So these … powers, whatever they are,” Julien said. “They must be good, ultimately. Sending a guide who would convince me to do right.” The idea was comforting.

  Marlen shrugged. “I didn’t convince you of anything,” he said. “Had you been bent on the other choice … My presence would have helped there, too. I could not have judged you—not when I myself have done the same.”

  That was less encouraging. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “All the Otherworld is double-edged,” he said. “Who we are, what we decide, plays into whether it ends up good or bad. So it seems to me. Though I haven’t been dead very long.”

  “I’m sorry you’re dead,” she said, and he laughed. She blushed; it had been a silly thing to say.

  “Me too,” he said. “There are things I would have liked to have done. And at least one person I leave behind who cares for me. That used to seem like not enough. Until I learned that some don’t have even that. And I had done nothing to deserve it. It was a gift.”

  Julien clutched the harp close to her. Thinking of unexpected gifts. Even if she was alone for the rest of her life, she was a Seer. And with a harp like this. Surely that meant something? Even if there was no one who looked out for her; even if there never would be.

  “What now?” she said. “I need to stop the coronation.”

  Marlen shook his head. “That was never a possibility. Nothing could have stopped it.”

  Julien looked at him with dismay. “You mean to say it’s happened.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “And if you feel out of sorts about that, think how I feel. I gave my life to do the impossible. To stop a thing that was foreordained. Marilla would be furious.”

  He shook his head with new ruefulness. Then turned his attention back to Julien. “But you are a Seer, at the center of Labyrinth Isle. There is power in that. And I must leave you.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Is there anything … anything at all you can tell me? That might be of use?”

  He laughed. “The world has come to a sorry pass when its youth ask me for advice. No, Julien. I am not wise. I am only a rake who was granted a second chance.” He looked her over, then, in a way that made her blush. “That is a lovely dress, you know. Quite becoming. Well. Good luck.”

  He was gone before she could say goodbye, or thank him. He had helped, she thought, whatever he said about it. He had shown her that to be someone’s shadow was not fated. It was a choice.

  It was too late to tell him so.

  Marlen Humbreleigh, gone. The last of the three of that ballad, lost with the rest. The fox, the hound, the snake. That story had reached an ending.

  Double-edged, to have gained his help through death.

  And she was alone in a stone corridor at the heart of Labyrinth Isle. Julien Imara, who was accustomed to being alone more often than not, had never felt so alone in her life. But a mark of the Seer lit her way in the corridor, and there was the harp. That was hers. Despite everything.

  That, and an end to choices, helped her move forward into the unknown dark.

  * * *

  RIANNA crawled on her knees. The White Queen was saying things to the Chosen in a low, musical voice, but Rianna could not concentrate on that; her attention was on staying out of sight. She crawled to a pillar and waited until the Queen’s gaze was diverted the opposite way. Then crawled to another. She did not even know if the woman would care if she did see her—perhaps she’d dismiss her as inconsequential, a flea. On the other hand, she might decide to make Rianna’s head explode regardless. For the amusement of it.

  That image would never leave her mind. Not as long as she lived.

  When Rianna reached the last pillar—the one right
before the exit to the hallway—she took a moment to catch her breath. Her heartbeat impossibly loud in her ears. Rush, rush, rush.

  Blood so red.

  She heard the woman speak. “We depart at midnight,” she said. “I know you dear mortals like to rule from buildings like this, but I will not confine myself. Certainly not in this hovel. We take to the road and gather folk to us. Whoever can be—persuaded.” She laughed; again a sound that brought to mind, for Rianna, things broken and destroyed. But also a strange beauty.

  Rianna crawled out, into the hallway. With effort she stood—all that time on her knees had made her legs seize up. Her skirts were slathered in blood and dirt. But there was no time to waste. She had one idea. And not a great distance to go in order to test the theory.

  The alternative—if she was wrong—was to run, run, run as far as she could before the midnight bell.

  Or she could look for Marlen, see how far she got doing that. Hold his hand one more time, to see him off. She didn’t know if that made sense, if she wanted to preserve herself for her family. There had never been anyone to guide her in these matters; even the imagined guiding hand of her mother had been a fantasy. Something she had told herself, a story.

  The truth was she had never had a guide. No assurance that she did right. She’d had her rage, that was all. The only constant.

  It turned out her theory was correct. Syme Oleir was where she’d hoped he’d be, munching pastries in the abandoned pantry. But of course Syme had not had the sense to run away like the rest of the palace staff. And of course he’d come for food. Thank goodness, thank all the gods, that he was so predictable. She crept up to him. “Syme,” she whispered.

  He looked up at her. “My lady.”

  “You were right,” she said. “The White Queen has come.”

  “Yes,” he said, though it wasn’t clear if he understood. “Father got his reward. And I was hungry.”

  “His…” She shook her head. There was no seeing inside the darkened mind of this boy. “Syme, we need to go downstairs. Please.”