The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  But that would last briefly, never more than two songs together. Syme would revert to his volatile self, and her task would be to distract attention from him as much as anything.

  Before bed, before she went upstairs, she watched the men play at dice and listened. Snatches of conversation came to her at random.

  If luck favors me, I’m heading south. First chance I get.

  They say there was nothing left of him. Just bones. Though it’s just a rumor …

  There’s that castle, no one knows what’s in it. Or who.

  My wife’s cousin heard that someone saw a woman at the window, a woman in a red gown. And behind her—a man as huge as a giant.

  Maybe he was a giant.

  This was the oddest journey Lin had ever undertaken. As yet she didn’t have a destination in mind. Since Tamryllin she’d borne west, where she sensed the enchantments were strongest, veering away from the bustle of river towns and toward the coast. Stopping in every tavern she could along the way. Her purpose was the gathering of knowledge. What she had learned tonight was the strangest thing so far, raising more questions than it answered.

  A castle without a door. But the White Queen had no castle. She took pleasure in pillaging at random, in open air. She had become synonymous with the dark and winter frosts.

  Lin knew she should undress and sleep, but was transfixed by the snow. From her window, one floor up, she watched as like glittering dust the flakes whirled on the winds, and down, by lantern light. This was one of the better places they’d stayed; the room had its own fireplace. It was wonderful to be warm. In the next bed Syme murmured in his sleep, tossed, sometimes whimpered.

  She had escorted Rianna part of the way from Tamryllin, though the girl had insisted it was unnecessary. As if Lin could have done otherwise. In her man’s clothes she had offered some protection for Rianna, whose loveliness could not be disguised. She had watched as with a straight back the girl had ridden away to the south, where her father and daughter awaited. She hoped they would be safe.

  Safe was a relative term. Lin had had word from Kahishi, from Aleira Suzehn, that Eldakar was wounded. He was alive, he was safe. But the thought of him hurt was like a wound to her heart; she would have taken that arrow for him. She was better equipped to bear it, she thought, and deserved it anyway, for one thing or another.

  These were common thoughts for her to have; she knew that, too. Once Ned Alterra might have helped stave them off with his careful reasoning and insights. But through his folly and her own, they’d lost each other.

  Her experience of Kahishi lived within her like a warmth to which she kept returning. Despite that there was pain in it. In this room was her most vital link to the magic she’d found there. To the dance that had marked her with a command. Turn back the shadow.

  Syme was also a link to Zahir Alcavar—an idea of insurmountable complexity for her. There was no simple way to think of the Magician, and perhaps for that reason she had sought the company of Eldakar so often. They’d loved and been betrayed by the same man.

  But what mattered most now, about Syme, was the creature he contained. The weapon he’d become.

  She looked across the room to the sleeping figure in the bed. “I know I need you,” she said, softly so as not to wake him. “I wish I knew why.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  HIS wrists were tied. Etherell had bundled him out the window of the inn, down the rope he’d used to get inside. Reminding him of the danger to the lives within if Dorn should resist. “I’ll burn the place down if you try to get away,” said Etherell before he made his own descent. He spoke casually, as if the words weren’t horrible. “And anyone trying to escape would face me before they got far. You don’t want that.”

  That was true—he didn’t. He descended the rope into Etherell’s waiting arms without protest. Allowed the other man to bind his wrists. And while this moment, in truth, called for a quip, he held his tongue. Julien would know his voice, if no one else; and the idea of her blood on his hands was … well, it was unthinkable. From here he could see lamplight through the ground floor window where she and Archmaster Hendin were. This was a wretched farewell to them both.

  He’d been allowed his cloak, nothing else. Not his harp. Not the Silver Branch, inconspicuous in its wrapping, which Dorn suspected Etherell’s White Queen would have wanted. He hoped Julien Imara would keep and care for those things. He trusted she would.

  The ocean hungered for the shore tonight, to judge from its roaring. They turned from it toward the trees. Around and about for an endless stretch were pine woods, growing more mountainous to the north.

  At last Dorn thought it safe for mockery. He looked down at his hands. “So. How long had you been waiting to tie me up?”

  Etherell threw back his head to laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

  Dorn glanced around. “I don’t see a horse.” He’d envisioned a bumpy ride tied to a horse, into the night and the gods knew where.

  Etherell grinned at him. “Remember those enchantments you so despise? They’re very useful. The White Queen sped my journey so I’d reach you in time. And she gave me a way to find her, wherever she happens to be.” He took from his pocket what looked to be a stone. It was milky white in his palm and smooth as glass. “All I need do is hold on to you—like so,” said Etherell, his hand on Dorn’s shoulder. “And now to think of her—which isn’t hard. You’ll see.”

  The stone in his palm came alive with a rose-colored light. There was a flash, temporarily blinding.

  When he could see again, Dorn saw they were on a hilltop. By light of a bonfire he saw a cluster of figures—those were men. He saw also that down the slope were camped many people, these swallowed in darkness. His gaze was drawn to the figure that blazed most visibly on that hill. A woman in white.

  He knew her immediately. Of course he did.

  He turned to Etherell. “How did you say she killed Elissan Diar?”

  “I didn’t,” said Etherell. “You don’t want to know.”

  She reclined in what looked like a bower constructed of branches, cushions, and silk hangings. Behind her, a pavilion had been set up. It was green and tasseled all around with gold. The men surrounding her—he knew them. Academy poets, Elissan’s Chosen. One held a chalice within her reach. What was in it was anyone’s guess.

  She caught sight of the new arrivals, rose. To Dorn it seemed she towered over them even from a distance. Then, like a girl, clapped her hands with clear delight. “My offering! You found him. Well done, Etherell Lyr. You shall be rewarded.”

  “Not the way you rewarded Elissan Diar, I trust,” said Etherell with a bow.

  She laughed. “Did that unsettle you, mortal sapling? No, I hold to my bargains. Power I promised you, and so you shall have, when we cross the mountains together into battle. I will give you a kingdom or two, as many castles as you like, since you dear creatures enjoy that sort of thing.”

  She clapped her hands again. “Dorn Arrin! Long have we been parted from one another, against the laws of all that is sacred. You know as well as I do that you’re mine.”

  He felt fear twist in his stomach. But he had always known that someday he would have to stop running. Ever since the night of Manaia, the fires had been destined for him. Better to face it now than to keep running. Better to stop putting others in harm’s way like a coward.

  He bowed, though it was awkward with his hands tied. “It seems so,” he said. “Regardless of my thoughts on the subject.”

  She came forward to him. Took his face in her hands. Her fingers were so cold. Her eyes, up close, glittered like the frost. Her lips like blood. Now he felt fear, in truth. “You are like your friend,” she said. “Well-spoken, charming. How I enjoy poets. In various ways, I always have. Some have adorned my bed when I felt the need; though it has been long since I have cared for the pastime. Especially since it tends to drive mortals mad, rendering them quite useless.” She teased him with a glance. “Is that the fate
you’d choose? The delights of my bower, in exchange for madness?”

  “If my choice has anything to do with it,” said Dorn, “I’ll thank you, no.”

  She laughed again. Released his jaw and stepped back for a look at him. “You have no choices here at all, Dorn Arrin,” she said. “You were given to me, soul and body, to do with as I please. The contract of Manaia is sealed in blood—it cannot by any means be broken. It was wrong, very wrong, of that girl to take you from me. If I see her again—well, she and I will have a talk.”

  He froze. Wondered what he could say, if anything, to distract her from thoughts of Julien Imara. He cleared his throat. “If I may ask,” he said, “what is your purpose in our land? You left the castle. And the crown.”

  “Oh … castles. Crowns.” She waved a hand. “It is my opponent, whom you may know as the Shadow King, who hides himself in castles. My way is to roam free. To sample pleasures—new, or expected. Whatever falls like ripe fruits in my lap, in this delicious world.” She smiled wide, and for the first time he wondered if the redness of her mouth was somehow, against all reason, real blood. But that was preposterous, surely.

  Her gaze delved into him. “I see you know a little. Of the war between myself and the Shadow King.”

  “Yes,” he said. “What is the reason for it?”

  She was suddenly close to him, her hand encircling his neck. Like a ring of ice around his skin. Her breath on his face smelled like flowers, the poisonous kind. He thought to breathe it in might kill him. “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready for,” she murmured. “This form you see—this shape, this voice—is the one your mind can handle.” Her breath cold in his ear. “For us, it is a game. For you, the axle-tree of everything you know.”

  “If you don’t want me for your bed,” said Dorn, “why did you summon me?”

  She stepped back. Cocked her head, as if to consider him.

  Etherell said, “As you can see, my friend has a way of getting down to business.”

  She smiled again, and stroked the back of Dorn’s neck. The chill traveled through him, yet somehow was not unpleasant. He could understand, almost, how some accepted the offer of her company in return for madness.

  “It’s simple,” she said. “I need you to steal something.”

  * * *

  THE next day they stood on a hill, gazing across to the castle. Its towers were sharp, pointed; it looked to have been carved from the stones of the cliff itself. Below crashed the waves; surrounding were the green hills of the west, cloaked in ivy-clad trees and dotted with sheep. Dorn Arrin wondered what people here had thought, to awake one day to this castle appearing above them.

  He wondered other things, too, like how his friends were faring without him; how they’d felt to find him gone.

  “What are you thinking?” Etherell Lyr, sounding playful.

  “That you made a fool of yourself last night.” It wasn’t what he’d been thinking, but why miss an opportunity to insult him? In any case Etherell had spent the last night drinking and dancing like a fool. Even dancing with the Queen, leaning close to her, as if she were some village girl he was wooing. He’d invited Dorn to join their dance, as well. Like he’d forgotten his own treachery. Dorn had turned himself around, deliberately, to watch the stars instead. And drink alone.

  “I know you’re sore with me,” said Etherell. “Look, all you have to do is steal this—whatever it is—for the Queen, and she won’t kill you. And meanwhile you get to see what’s inside that enchanted castle. I’d go myself, if it didn’t have to be you.”

  “That’s easy to say,” said Dorn. “For all your professed eagerness for adventure, you seem very attached to your own neck. Going along with one conqueror, then another. You seek power, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Etherell was studying his nails. “What else is there? Anyway, we should keep on, if we’re to be there before sundown. Those were her orders.”

  “I should make you drag me the whole way. What do I care?”

  “You want me to carry you, perhaps.” Etherell sounded sarcastic. “Look, there’s no time for a tussle in the grass. And I’m sorry for that—it would do you good.”

  Dorn spat at him. “Go to hell.”

  Etherell put his hands on his hips. “I don’t think you understand. She’ll kill you if you fail. She’ll kill me, too, if I fail to get you there; but never mind that. Wouldn’t that be a stupid reason to die—because you’re angry with me?”

  “She’ll kill you, too?” Dorn sneered at him. “Really? Do you promise?”

  “Probably.” Etherell shrugged. “Make my head explode, perhaps, as she did to Elissan Diar. Or twist my limbs off, one by one, leaving the head for last. One thing I can say for our Queen—she’s creative. And she gets her way.”

  Dorn found himself moving forward, down the hill. He felt too tired to fight, though he didn’t want the other man to see that. But it was true—he didn’t want to die.

  Ahead, the cliff rose higher, a wall above the sea. It cast a shadow all across the downs.

  “I suppose you know why I had to wear these absurd clothes?” That morning, folded in his tent—for he’d been given his own pavilion, a place of honor—was a suit of green and gold brocade. Emblazoned on his chest in gold, the symbol he’d come to know too well: the double spiral. There was also a sword, though that was next to useless—he wouldn’t know what to do with it. But he knew it was a treasure—the scabbard studded with green gems, the hilt chased with gold. The metalwork showed an eagle with a rabbit in its claws.

  And then there was the gold harp, gold-strung, standing alongside the green clothes. He’d half expected it to vanish at his touch, it was so fine. That would be his disguise—a wandering poet. A disguise that was also truth.

  “I don’t know why you’d complain,” said Etherell. “You look remarkably well.”

  “I feel like a trimmed goose marching to the feast.”

  “No.” This the other man said with sudden seriousness. “You’re not a sacrifice. This is a mission. A quest, if you will. And she has given you her word that she will only kill you if you fail.”

  “You take her word?”

  “I do. Lies come of weakness, if you think about it,” Etherell said. He sounded as if this were a thought he worked out as he spoke. “In a true position of power there is nothing to conceal.”

  “Interesting, given that you’ve been lying all your life.”

  “Exactly.” Etherell smiled at him. “Look, we’re here. This is where you go on alone.”

  They were a short distance from the cliff face. The sky was stained red with the setting sun. So was the sea.

  Dorn turned in his tracks. He had to put aside his rage and hurt, just now. Other things mattered more. “Etherell,” he said, “if I fail—”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t let her kill Julien. I know if you want to, you can protect her. You have more power than you think.”

  The winds picked up Etherell’s hair. He was looking up thoughtfully at the sky. He said at last, “I’ll do what I can. I like the girl.”

  “Swear it.”

  Etherell gave a laugh at this. “I don’t make promises,” he said. “Not ones I mean to keep. I’d rather not lie to you, after everything.”

  “So that’s the best I’ll get from you,” said Dorn. “Well.” He turned away. Began to walk through the grass to the cliff face. His face was stiff and stinging, with fear or something more. Fear made sense, right now. The abode of the Shadow King was just ahead. He might kill you, the White Queen had said, when instructing him last night. But I think not. He loves poets’ songs almost as much as I.

  The cliff face was smooth, apparently unmarked; but he knew what to look for. When the sun is just above the horizon, the light will catch upon it. Her voice in his head again.

  Soon he found it, engraved lines flashing back the remainder of the sun. A small carved symbol—the double-spiral within a circle. It was about the size o
f his palm. Dorn touched his hand to it, fingers spread. Again as instructed. He heard a rumbling, quickly stepped back. A scrape, a creak of stone against stone, and then a door was opening. Had heaved itself ajar, leaving a doorway just tall and wide enough for him to walk through.

  He looked back. Etherell Lyr was already gone. That stung, too—that he had not even thought to see him off.

  It’s time to get used to pain, he told himself. And to strangeness. Go on. He stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him, a creak and a click. He turned instinctively—an animal’s aversion to a trap—but there was no sign of the door from this side. No seam in the wall, no symbol. He pushed experimentally, since the door had opened outward, and—nothing. No way back.

  A spiral stair led upward. Torches bracketed in the wall were burning. He set his feet on the first step and rehearsed in his mind what he’d been told to say.

  When he arrived at the top of the stair, a man was waiting for him. He wore the livery of a servant. “You’re expected,” he said. “Come this way.”

  Dorn hefted the harp as he went. Followed the servant down a corridor where here and there were various doors, all shut. It seemed ordinary enough so far.

  At last they came to a hall with a great fireplace. The room was huge and bedecked with holly. Near the fire sat two people. As Dorn approached, he saw that it was a man and a woman. The man was reading from a book propped on a desk. The woman, young and ravishing in red velvet, was seated on the carpet with the dogs, two hounds with coats like bronze. She threw a holly branch for them to fetch.

  They both looked up. The man, Dorn saw, was entirely unprepossessing. A face and figure he’d have been hard-pressed to recall, of perhaps middle age. He was neither tall nor short, neither large nor thin. His neat, greying beard made Dorn think of a town banker. His clothes were simple; his rank denoted only by a length of chain with a jeweled pendant. “A good morrow,” he said courteously. His accent was, perhaps, a touch unfamiliar. “We don’t often have visitors.” He looked Dorn full in the eye. Here was one thing that caught Dorn’s attention: the man’s eyes, green, gold-flecked, hard to read.