A flash alerted Rianna to jugglers casually tossing flaming firebrands to one another, ignoring the hooting and shouts of spectators.
The drums were a dull thud in her blood and bones, slow and then fast, as if they mimicked and then controlled the beat of her heart. Tricking her blood into doing their bidding.
She didn’t know whether she was excited or afraid. If only Darien were here.
Two women with nearly exposed breasts accosted them. “What a lovely mask,” said one, a blonde in the gold mask of Estarre. She half-threw herself toward Ned, long painted nails nearly grazing his face. “What do I have to do for you to buy me one just like it?”
Ned jumped back as if burned. “Move on,” he said, sounding strangled. Rianna became aware of the familiar, contradictory feelings of affection and annoyance. She imagined tearing free of him, running into the crowds and throwing herself into the assaulting tempo of the drums, its pounding bearing her away.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” said Ned. “Your father…”
“Never wanted me here,” said Rianna, trying to suppress her irritation. “You must have had a job convincing him.” And then realized what she had said, and what it could mean. What if this excursion was intended as a prelude? Would he suddenly kneel here in the street, amid the dancers and the fire jugglers and the drunken celebrants, and ask for her hand?
“I think I’m getting a headache,” Rianna said suddenly. She felt that in some obscure way she had been tricked; she wanted to tear off the ridiculously costly mask.
But that was when she felt a stabbing pain in her scalp. A voice behind her said, “Such lovely hair.”
Rianna gasped, “Get off,” and spun around, tugging her hair free of the grasping hand. Ned had moved closer to her, grabbing her arm protectively.
Confronting them was a tall woman with white skin and black curls that tumbled to her bare shoulders. Her mask a dark red. “Can I have this one?” she said, and spread her lips in a smile. “We could ask her to join us.”
A tall man came up beside her. Rianna noticed for the first time that the red velvet collar at the woman’s throat was attached to a leash, which this man held in a casual grip. She didn’t know whether to be fascinated or somehow, for no discernible reason, embarrassed.
“Sorry, Marilla,” said the man with slightly slurred speech. His mask was green and gold, and in the shape of a serpent’s head. “This one’s taken, and you know it. I told you Rianna Gelvan is Darien’s wench.”
Rianna felt her heart accelerate. “Who are you? Get away from me.”
But now Ned stood between them, sword drawn in the flickering light.
“No, Ned,” Rianna cried. “They have me confused with someone else. It’s nothing.”
“He called you by name,” Ned said through his teeth. “Go on, whoever you are,” he urged the man, whom Rianna now recognized. Too late, she noticed his harp and the red stone of his Academy ring. “I see you have a blade,” Ned continued. “Draw it, and we’ll settle this here.”
Marlen Humbreleigh inclined his head, looking puzzled, as if he didn’t know where he was. It was an odd look for a snake. Then he began to laugh. It was not a brief laugh of calculated mockery. Helpless with mirth, hands clamped to his ribs, he had to draw breath more than once. Then he looked down the length of Ned’s blade, and that set him off again.
Ned had gone white. “What ails you, sir?” he demanded. “Is this the form your cowardice takes?”
Finally, Marlen succeeded at containing himself. Marilla had snuggled up to his arm. “Not cowardice,” said Marlen. “What you are looking at, Sir Stick, is mercy. I’m in no mood to kill a defenseless boy.”
“Oh,” said Marilla. “Not even for me?”
Marlen shrugged. “Sorry, love,” he said. “You’re a terrible influence, but I seem to have some shreds of a conscience left. Stay back,” he added when Ned advanced toward him. “You know that if you attack me, you will force me to draw my weapon … and then to injure you, or worse.”
“Then so be it,” said Ned. “No one insults my lady’s honor.”
Marlen looked as if he might begin to laugh again. “My dear boy, she is too good for you and always will be. No amount of waving that thing around will change the fact.”
Rianna didn’t know what would have happened in that moment, if a masked boy had not appeared, wedged himself between the two men. A harp was belted to his waist. “Stop this at once,” he said.
“And who are you?” Marlen asked with amusement.
“Someone who knows how to use this knife,” said the boy, holding up a slender blade. Even amid her panic, Rianna noticed he wore no ring. “And your lady’s little neck is in my sights.”
“Please,” said Marlen. “Talk like that around Marilla, you’ll never get rid of her.”
The boy turned to Ned, ignoring Marlen now, and said, “I won’t allow you to do this.” And this time Rianna recognized Lin’s voice. She spoke gently, a steadying hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Marlen Humbreleigh is one of the finest swordsmen in the kingdom—this is known.”
“Rianna—” he said. It came out like a plea.
“Your life is worth more than this,” said Lin. “Go.”
But Marlen turned away first, giving the leash a peremptory tug. “Let’s go, Marilla. This drama becomes wearisome. Boy—my advice is to find a woman who wants you.”
Ignoring the tug of the leash, Marilla advanced on Ned. She trailed her fingertips on his cheek. Her chin nearly grazed his collarbone, she stood so close. “Such a pity,” she said, in a lilting chant like a child’s song. “Your blood would have been poured out—out—out—on the ground.”
Ned stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide. Rianna reached out to touch him, and he recoiled from her. She thought he might be about to weep, but the mask made it hard to tell.
“Come,” said Marlen, and pulled the woman away. But they could still hear her laughter, ringing above the other sounds of the masque, even after the pair had vanished into the shifting crowds.
Rianna fumbled at the string buried in her hair and pulled off the mask, felt the cool air on her face. “Lin … what are you doing here?” she said. “How did you—all these people—how did everyone know who I was?”
Lin shook her head. “You don’t yet know what you are, lady,” she said. “You could never blend into a crowd.”
Rianna didn’t know how to respond to that. She said, “I thought you didn’t have a harp.”
“I don’t,” said Lin. Now Rianna saw that there was a man with her, wearing a mask of Thalion. “It’s his.”
The man was shaking his head. “What did I say, about not attracting attention?”
Lin laughed. “You may have said that, but I have never met a poet who didn’t want to be noticed. And you are no exception.”
Rianna watched as they moved to stand beside each other with the formality of a ritual long-established. Lin took the harp in both hands, cradling it reverently as if it were a holy relic.
“Alas, you are probably right about that,” said the man.
Beneath the words, they were communicating with their eyes, Rianna thought. Both stood absolutely still for a moment, and then the man nodded, a slow dip of his chin. Lin began to pluck the harp. The melody seemed familiar to Rianna, but she couldn’t have said why. It started softly, picking up speed as Lin’s fingers danced across the strings. But it was only when the man began to sing that Rianna realized who this must be. And what he risked—what both of them were risking—in singing this particular song.
Who will sing for my city?
Where the great ones are gone …
She buried her head in Ned’s shoulder; it had all become too much. He stood, immobile, as other bystanders gathered quietly around the two players, drawn as if in a trance. As one, they let the music wash over them, just in this one moment before the dawn—just this one night.
CHAPTER
9
“I’VE been looking for you,�
�� he’d said that night outside the Ring and Flagon, releasing her arms so she could turn to face him. She knew him at once. “Don’t,” he said worriedly, and Lin realized she was about to cry. She saw his right arm was bound in a sling.
“I—we all thought—” she stammered.
“Inside,” said Valanir Ocune. “Follow me.”
“I have your ring.”
“I know,” he said, and let her help him put it on. “I thank you for that. But now I need you to come with me.” And then held out his good hand to her.
Closing her eyes a moment, Lin took his hand. It all could have been taking place in a dream; that was how likely any of it seemed to Lin. Valanir Ocune had been looking for her, and now wanted her to come with him. She would do whatever he wanted, of course. Knowing that made her feel foolish and too vulnerable; she knew it was banal, silly, to see a mere man in this way.
In her head, she heard Rayen mocking, He wants something, perhaps your gold, and bowed her head as if beneath a weight. But she let Valanir lead her, kept a tentative hold of his hand.
He walked with a slight limp, she saw. She slowed her pace to match his as he led her through backstreets. At this hour, the only people they were likely to meet would be unsavory, or Ladybirds patrolling. Lin drew her knife as they plunged deeper into the warren of Tamryllin’s alleyways.
At last they reached a ramshackle inn. After some quiet words with the innkeeper, Valanir led her upstairs. The innkeeper had given him a lamp to light their way, to set on the floor and throw weary beams of light on the plank walls. The room was nearly bare.
“Please, sit,” said Valanir, indicating the bed.
Lin did, and was relieved when he sprawled on the floor. At least, most of what she felt was relief. Even here and under these circumstances, a gentleman, she thought with a slight smile.
“I could sing of that smile,” said the Seer in a low voice, startling her. Though it was difficult to read his face in the faint lamplight, his eyes were intent. “What secrets are you hiding? Have you already recovered from the shock of seeing me here, alive?”
“No recovery is necessary,” she said, carefully. It was hard to speak without emotion. “Not from this.”
“Only you know,” said Valanir. Now she could see that some of his face was a little darker, in the half-light, than it ought to have been; she guessed there were bruises. “Nickon Gerrard will not want word of my escape getting out.”
“Escape?”
“I have friends in the palace still,” said Valanir. “That is all I may tell you. But the first day … I am fortunate to have other friends in Tamryllin as well, visitors from Kahishi. One is a healer. He set my arm. It gave Nickon pleasure to break the arm I use for playing. But he’ll be extremely disappointed not to have done more.”
“You mean…”
“I mean my head would likely have been on display in the Court Plaza, before long,” said Valanir Ocune with no change to his tone. “An example to other poets who might have contemplated rebellion. After I’d been tortured, of course. My blood used for something perverse.”
“I don’t understand,” she said slowly, after the shock of his words had dissipated. What secrets are you hiding? he had asked. Did he know her identity, and had for that reason sought her out? “What do you want with me, Valanir Ocune?” It came out sounding more harsh than she had intended.
He sighed. “So now we come to it,” he said. “I had hoped to dally a bit, perhaps discuss nuances in the songs of Edrien Letrell. But if you must…”
She realized that he was smiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It is only that I thought perhaps—perhaps you sought me because you knew who I am. That I am an Amaristoth.”
“No,” he said, without hesitation. “If anything that might have been a deterrent. But I know that you are not like your family. I can only imagine how it was to grow up in that house. I knew your mother.”
A lump rose in Lin’s throat, as if his words tapped one of the weak pressure points of her body that could be used against her in a fight. “You did.”
Now Valanir’s smile had a wolfish quality. “She did not like my music.”
This was a road she would explore with him sometime, or hoped to. But it was not to talk of her family that they were hiding in this room.
She said, “Tell me why I’m here.” A breeze from the window creaked open the shutters; Lin gratefully drew it in. Less than an hour earlier she had been nearly drunk, keeping lonely company with Darien Aldemoor. Now her senses were sharply awake.
Valanir shifted his position on the floor. “What do you know,” he said, “of the legend of Davyd Dreamweaver?”
This was not what she had been expecting. “Just what the songs say,” she said. “That he was a great Seer centuries ago. That because of him, the enchantments of poets are gone.”
“The songs do not quite do justice to the history,” said Valanir. “And the history, well … that is something that would not be approved these days.”
Lin’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of history would cause you to risk your life?”
Valanir nodded, as if he expected the question. When he spoke again, he sounded weary. “I told you of the Red Death,” said Valanir. “It is a plague that has not been seen in Eivar since the time of Davyd.”
“I know,” said Lin. “After what you told me … after what you did … I had resolved to find the Path myself.”
Valanir’s eyes flickered, unmistakably surprised, which gave her a small measure of satisfaction. “You did? You are … not what I expected.”
Lin was silent, unsure what to make of this.
“You understood, then, some of what I was trying to tell you,” said Valanir. “But for the rest, I must reach back to the beginning. You know that once the Seers wielded powerful magics, and stood allied with the Crown. But the relationship between Crown and Academy was never easy, with each grudging the authority of the other. And then came King Eldgest, he that we now call the Iron Hand. He longed to destroy the Seers’ powers once and for all, seeing them—indeed, rightly—as a threat to the absolute rule he desired. But he did not dare move against the Academy: the power of the Seers was great, and they were popular among the people. So Eldgest did not act, but he watched.”
“And what did he see?”
“He saw the Academy undo itself. With the most dark and forbidden of all magics.”
“Blood divination,” said Lin, remembering.
“You know the tale,” said Valanir. “Through the years, there had always been renegade poets who practiced enchantments with mortal blood. These were soon rooted out by the Academy masters and executed. But in the time of Davyd Dreamweaver, a coterie of Seers were practicing the darkest arts in the halls of the Academy itself, in secret. They fed their magic with the blood of innocents that they kidnapped from nearby villages. They were sworn to an oath of secrecy: in the heart of the Academy, no one knew who was friend or foe.
“In the end, Davyd gathered those few Seers that he trusted most, and a battle of magics raged in the halls of the Academy itself. That day, many of the finest poets were slain, yet the Order of the Red Knife—as they called themselves—was at last dispersed. But the deeper harm was done: the people of Eivar, learning of this horror, turned against the Academy. The Academy itself was weak after suffering so many losses. It was then that King Eldgest saw his chance, and you know what followed.”
Lin did know. If she shut her eyes a moment, she could recall the voice that had once conjured the story for her. “The king’s guards stormed the Academy and captured its students and adepts, who had already been depleted and weakened in battle,” she said, quoting from memory. “And then Eldgest began … to torture them.”
Valanir’s tone was steel again. “He told Davyd that until the enchantments of Seers were gone for good, he would mutilate one man for every hour. And he began to make good on his word.”
“So Davyd had no choice.”
“He certainly did
n’t think he did. What happened then is unclear: some have said that he prayed to the gods for aid—the ones worshipped here in the time of Eldgest, before the Three. Others say that he used all his own powers to perform one last act of destruction.
“We don’t know, but the end result was the same: that night there was a storm that raged until dawn. And the next morning … a poet could recite a song, a rite, to no effect. Whatever enchantments the Seers had possessed were gone. A word was a word, no more.
“Davyd, it is said, left Eivar after that and did not return.”
Sometime during his story, Lin had noticed how intense was the silence outside; the hush of night had deepened over Tamryllin. Just as Valanir reached his conclusion, moonlight began to steal between the shutters. An aura of silver light surrounded the Seer, as it had the night of the Gelvan ball. With a difference now: the light surrounding his face was no longer a pale glow but a coruscating rainbow of colors. Lin gasped.
Valanir touched his face above the eye. “You didn’t see it in the dark,” he said. “One of the gifts I received at the castle—from the hand of Court Poet Gerrard himself. My mark is broken.”
“How?”
“Quite easily,” said Valanir. “One stroke of a knife does it.” He must have seen her expression, for he added, “Don’t worry. It doesn’t affect what I do.”
Lin was shocked, even as she knew he had barely escaped a fate far worse. “He would break the mark of a Seer … of Valanir Ocune.”
“To Nickon Gerrard, that is nothing,” said Valanir. “Do you not see, Lin? It is blood divination that brings the Red Death to Eivar. Not right away, not with one rite, or even two … but after years. Once a poet has engaged in it many times, it is not his power to control anymore. A dark spirit rides him. In Kahishi they call such a spirit laylan—the night. A man consumed by the night must kill.”
The blood always drained, she recalled now. “But the Court Poet? Why would a man like him do such a thing?”
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