The Poet King

by Ilana C. Myer

  Dorn came forward. He’d been instructed what to say. “I am a poet, come to entertain your majesty this New Year’s Day.”

  “How did you enter here?”

  “The lore of poets is nearly lost, but not forgotten.”

  The man stood. By some trick of the light seemed taller. “And do you know me?”

  At this, Dorn bowed low. “You are the King who is new to this land, yet older than its mountains,” he said. Grateful that he’d been schooled to recite from memory. “You are the one who hunts prey, even to the ends of the earth, and brings it down.”

  From the hearthrug the woman clapped her hands. A gesture unsettlingly like the White Queen, but this woman did not arouse fear. She was not of a great height, nor luminous. Only her hair shone, alternately like gold thread and honey in the firelight. “Something new, my lord,” she said. “Let’s have this poet to sing in the New Year.”

  The grey-bearded man issued a small bow in her direction. “Very well, my lady,” he said. “I know how you love your entertainments.” Then turned back to look Dorn in the eye. “So, Dorn Arrin. It seems you can stay.”

  Dorn hadn’t told this man his name. He stood staring a moment.

  But the other man was already sitting at the desk again, the book tipped up before him. It was leather-bound in black with gilt embossing. The cost of binding that book would have made Dorn’s father swoon. Yet there was no title on the cover or spine.

  Without looking up, the King waved a hand. “Go. Get settled in your chambers. Supper will be served shortly, and then you’ll sing.”

  * * *

  SUPPER was a ludicrous affair from Dorn’s point of view; he hadn’t seen such a spread in all his life. The long table was covered in its entirety with dishes of gold and silver, and each of these displayed some fowl, or fish, or in one instance, a piglet. That was to say nothing of all the sauces and soups, the wines and ales in jewel-encrusted decanters. The aromas recalled to him that he hadn’t eaten properly in days—not since being cosseted by Larantha on Academy Isle. Given his situation, it was difficult to summon an appetite.

  At one end of the table sat the King, though Dorn had trouble thinking of him as such. He’d expected the so-called Shadow King, opponent of the White Queen for eternity, to be more imposing. At the other end sat his lady. Dorn had never learned her name. Either of their names, come to that.

  A servant had led him to the hall, the same one they’d been in earlier, but now with a trestle table set out and laid for dinner.

  The holly branches decorating the hall recalled to Dorn his ostensible reason for being here: the feast of New Year’s Eve was in two days. On the third day—dawn of the New Year—if he had not fulfilled his mission, the White Queen had promised Dorn would perish on the spot. Wherever he happened to be. She had laid this enchantment upon him, her hands first on his forehead, then her lips. And then, of course, had smiled.

  She’d given him next to no guidance about what she wanted. It was a keepsake, she said, something she needed back. The implication being that the Shadow King had stolen it, though Dorn was not sure he believed that. If that were the case, she could have just said so straight out. Instead she hedged, and would only say that it could take several forms, and Dorn would have to be aware enough to recognize it when he saw it.

  His life hinged upon this. To identify what she wanted, and steal it for her.

  It seemed impossible. He probably didn’t have long, so why not face that, and take what he could? So he thought as the servant seated him at the exact center of the table, between the Shadow King and his lady. He tried every dish, every ale and wine. All of it excellent, even better than it smelled. His last days would be sweet ones, he had suddenly decided. As last meals went … these would do.

  As he ate, the couple engaged in polite conversation. The King planned to go hunting on the morrow. She reminded him that it would rain at midday, so he should go early. They didn’t seem to notice the stranger at their table, until the end. It was only when they’d all eaten their fill that the King asked Dorn to sing.

  As Dorn Arrin rose and took up the harp he had a thought that almost made him laugh: He had dreamed of performing before kings. Now here he was.

  The White Queen hadn’t advised him what to play, so Dorn followed his instincts. He sang of the turn of the year, green turned to snow, the chariot of Thalion circling the earth. It was a tradition, this song, and seemed appropriate for this hall.

  When he was finished, there was a silence. Dorn kept his eyes down, not daring to look at either the Shadow King or his lady.

  At last the lady spoke. “I am satisfied, my love,” she said. “Are you?”

  “It is pleasing enough,” said the King. “Sometimes the oldest airs are the ones we most enjoy, especially at a time of celebration. It’s settled, then: the poet will stay with us until the New Year as our honored guest.”

  Dorn dared a glance at them. They were smiling at him, all courtesy. So he bowed low as he could and said, “An honor indeed.”

  Then it was time for dessert, as if there had not been enough to eat already. The servants brought out cakes of almond and honey, a cherry pie, a strawberry sorbet that the lady remarked was in the fashion of the east. By the time they were done Dorn thought he’d never eat again. This was a far cry from the small bites of smoked fish and dry biscuit he’d been living on since leaving the Academy. Surprisingly he did not feel ill from the indulgence. Just mildly stirred by wine, content. Thoughts of death seemed a worry for another time.

  His chambers were another ludicrous indulgence. Dorn had marveled at them before, and now did so anew, especially when he saw that the enormous bed had been turned down for the night, and a scented bath drawn. He wanted to collapse into bed, but it seemed a shame to waste a bath. He doffed his green clothes and luxuriated in the warm water for a time. He emerged, smelling of lavender, and collapsed into the soft bed. Its coverlet was cloth of gold.

  That night was the most restful he’d had in longer than he could remember. He didn’t dream.

  He was startled awake the next morning. Someone was sitting at the foot of his bed. It took a moment for his eyes to come into focus, after the wine he’d drunk the night before. He was not accustomed to drink. Another moment, and he saw it was the lady. She was smiling, and positioned in such a way as to accentuate her breasts, which her low-cut dress displayed to effect.

  Dorn became aware, quite suddenly, that he was naked under the coverlet. He drew it farther up to his chin.

  “You slept a good while,” she said. Aside from being cut low at the neckline, her gown was splendid, a concoction of silver and gold, fitted to her like a second skin. Her hair was pulled up in a net and sparkled with gems. Dorn wondered if he’d ever seen a woman so beautiful, and doubted it. The terrifying White Queen hardly counted.

  “I was tired,” he said, aware of the absurdity of the situation. He spoke casually, as if he were not petrified. He could only guess what would happen to him if the lord were to discover her here. “It was—it is kind of you to visit and wish me a good morning.”

  “You could return my kindness by any means you like,” she said. “My husband is out hunting.”

  “Right,” he said. “If you turn your back, I will dress, and sing for you. Would you like that?”

  She appraised him. “What if I don’t turn?”

  “I really would prefer you did.”

  She laughed. “You are a strange one, Dorn Arrin. I’d heard tell that poets have lusty appetites—and a way with the ladies.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “Really. But I will sing myself hoarse for your pleasure.”

  She pouted. Then turned her back. It was bare, white as alabaster, with a single dewdrop diamond from her necklace dangling at the nape. He could imagine how most men would feel, and react, in this situation.

  He drew the coverlet about himself when he stood, not trusting her. Then retreated behind a screen to dress himself
. A new set of clothes had been provided—these crimson, lined with ermine. He was astonished to find they fit him perfectly.

  When he came out from behind the screen, he jumped. A different woman sat there now. This with coils of black hair that reached her waist, scarlet lips, and dark eyes, where before they had been blue. But the dress and necklace were the same.

  “Perhaps now?” she said. This time in a voice that was lower, more throaty. She lifted a bare shoulder. “I know men have their preferences.”

  For a moment he could do nothing but stammer. “You are lovely,” he said at last. “But how would it repay my lord’s hospitality if I took liberties with his wife?”

  She laughed, low and musical. “He’ll never know.”

  “But I would.” He grasped for the first thought that came to mind. “It’s a matter of honor.”

  She sighed. “Suit yourself, then. Sing for me. Then come to breakfast.”

  * * *

  THEIR breakfast was lavish, with various types of bread, cheeses, and cold meats. There seemed jam from every fruit for him to try, as well as fresh fruits. On a silver dish was served a honeycomb.

  The lady insisted he eat, in a teasing manner; she spooned various kinds of jam for him to taste, even fed them to him. Urged him, leaning close, to lick the spoon. He kept up a polite manner as best he could. Earlier in his chambers, he had sung to her; a ballad of a king on the hunt. He hoped it would send a clear message, but afterward at breakfast she seemed by no means deterred.

  Meanwhile he had to recall that there was a more pressing matter to be concerned with than the virtue of the Shadow King’s wife. There was the matter of his own impending demise. So while he deflected her flirtation, he was careful to be courteous about it. He needed her goodwill. She might be an ally, given her willingness to betray the King.

  When she urged him to tell of himself, he saw an opening. “I wander throughout Eivar collecting tales,” he said. “I hoped, in these enchanted halls, to find marvels to recount. So far there is my lady’s unearthly beauty—not to mention your ability to change shape. A marvel I will sing of, to be sure.”

  She laughed. “That is nothing. I get bored and change all the time.” She was currently back to being honey-haired, having changed at some point in their climb down the stairwell. Dorn had not seen it happen; perhaps it was between one shaft of sunlight and the next.

  “To you, it’s nothing,” he said. “To me, a wonder of the world. But so far this castle seems a bit … ordinary? I’d have thought a King of the lands beyond would have a palace full of marvelous things.”

  “You mean enchanted objects, perhaps,” she said, leaning forward over the table in a manner that he suspected was an intended lure. The diamond necklace sparkled between her breasts.

  “Yes,” he said. “Exactly that.”

  She smiled. “Come with me.” She took his hand. He thought better of protesting, and followed, hoping it was not some trick.

  She led him to a door, and he noticed it was lovely; carved mahogany, with a finish like glass. She looked back at him over her shoulder and set a finger to her lips. “We must be quiet here,” she said. “Or the servants will get us into trouble. Especially you.”

  That got his pulse going. He followed after her. She closed the door behind them and locked it. He surveyed the room.

  It looked like a library. The walls were lined with leatherbound books. Dorn tried to read the titles, but the letters shifted and blurred before his eyes.

  Sunlight streamed from tall windows that looked out on a garden. The trees seemed to give the lie to its being winter; their boughs loaded with white and pink cherry blossoms, swaying slow and serene in a breeze.

  There was no way a garden like that existed atop a wind-torn cliff. Not in any season of the year.

  Dorn turned his attention to the room. Everywhere were objects on display—how to single out one or another? He saw swords mounted on the wall. Nearby, a hand mirror turned facedown on a table; its back looked carved of ivory. When Dorn picked it up, instead of seeing his reflection, he found himself looking into another room, where a man with his back to him was rummaging through some papers. Dorn put the mirror down hastily.

  There were other things: An hourglass filled with what looked like powdered gems in place of sand. A great gold globe encircled with rings, engraved in silver with the constellations. A crystal sphere mounted in brass, that changed color depending on where one was standing. And from one angle seemed filled with smoke.

  In one instance he turned and suppressed a yelp. But the warrior he’d spotted in the corner turned out to be an empty suit of armor. It was tremendous, taller and broader than a man had any right to be. The plates so black they seemed to absorb the light. The helmet was huge, with the antlers of a hart. Clasped in one gauntlet was an axe handle thick as a young tree with a massive black blade. Dorn stepped aside in case the axe should fall. What an idiotic manner of death that would be.

  But who fit into this suit of armor? Was it for show?

  The lady watched him but said nothing to guide him or explain.

  At last he asked, “What did you want me to see?”

  She looked mischievous. “Oh, do you know what would happen if we were found in here? Down below, there are no dungeons. My lord doesn’t care for those. Instead he has a trapdoor that opens to the ocean. Isn’t that marvelously clever? You should have heard the screams of the last people he had thrown down there.”

  “You sound oddly calm at the idea of being drowned,” he said testily.

  “It would just be you,” she said with a sweet smile. “Now, then, you wanted to know what is in here. As you can see, this room is filled with fascinating things. The books, in particular. But there is one thing … ah yes.” She had a wooden box in her hands suddenly, though Dorn didn’t see where she’d gotten it. “Look.”

  Within nestled an amulet on a chain. The pendant took the shape of a sphere and was paper-thin—hammered gold. And engraved at its center … Dorn’s heart sped up again.

  “Perhaps I thought of this because of the symbol on your clothing when you arrived,” she said, resting a delicate hand on his chest. “It’s the same, isn’t it?”

  Dorn stared at the double-spiral engraved in the amulet. “It’s the same.” He darted a glare at her. “Is this a trick?”

  “You want this?” She lifted the amulet by its chain to the light. “It is lovely.”

  In that moment he found himself making a decision. Not knowing what else to do. He met her gaze. “My life depends on it,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  21

  THE lady wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked almost sad. “That is a great shame,” she said. “For I don’t see how you can have it. My husband checks on all his treasures every night at bedtime. If this were to go missing he’d notice right away, and have you drowned.”

  Dorn found that he was kneeling before her. “Lady, I am putting my life in your hands by telling you this,” he said. “I’m trusting you don’t want me thrown down the trapdoor.”

  “Go on,” she said.

  “There is an enchantment on me,” he said to her. Saw that her expression didn’t change. Well, why would someone like her be surprised by enchantments? He went on. “If I don’t recover that amulet by dawn of New Year’s Day I will die.”

  “Let me see,” said the lady, and laid her hands on his head as he knelt. She looked down at him, and her eyes shone, blue gleam like a cat. He did not think it was a trick of the light. “Yes,” she said. “There is enchantment here. A strong one.” And then he saw her expression shift, and whatever glimpse of power or strangeness in it had gone. Now she was all gentleness. “Rise, Dorn Arrin.”

  He obeyed. Her hands, which had been in his hair, had moved to his shoulders. “I will help you,” she said. “There is a simple way to go about it. My husband only checks on his treasures before bed. On your last night here—on New Year’s Eve—I will obtain the amulet and bring it to you
after he has gone to sleep. That way you shall have it on New Year’s Day.”

  “But…” He looked down at her. “That is more generous than I could ever dream, my lady.” He swallowed hard. A thought had just occurred to him. “But I can’t ask that of you. To risk your life.”

  She stared at him a moment. For the first time since they’d met, the lady of this strange castle seemed truly startled. Then she gave a laugh, light and thrilling. “Dorn Arrin, son of a bookbinder,” she said. “That is a noble thing. That you’d give a thought for me, at your peril.”

  “No one should die for me,” he said.

  She leaned forward and, before he could draw back, kissed him glancingly on the mouth. “I will be safe,” she said. “You have my word.” She tasted of something sweet, like berries.

  “You mean—”

  She was radiant in the summer light. “Yes,” she said. “I will perform the task for you.”

  A new thought occurred to him. “In tales there is always an exchange,” he said. “If there is something I can do…” He had visions of doing her bidding in the bedchamber, and steeled himself. He supposed it was better than dying.

  She put her hand to his lips. “No,” she said. “This I’ll do as a friend. And I’ve already gotten my kiss.” She smiled with new mischief, and took his hand. “Come walking with me,” she said. “Come to the garden.”

  * * *

  THAT evening just as the sun set, the belling of hounds and cry of horns told of the Shadow King’s return. He arrived on a black horse, servants riding behind with the game he had killed. Dogs coursing at their heels. Dorn Arrin saw it all from the window where he and the lady sat, playing cards and whiling away the hours with conversation. They had spoken all that day, yet if Dorn tried to cast back his memory to catch hold of what they’d discussed, it eluded him. He certainly knew no more than before of who or what she was. Even though it seemed they had walked a great while after their exchange in the lord’s library, conversing in the shade of the cherry trees.