“You’re drunk,” said Darien. “And you disgust me more than I ever thought possible.”
“Words,” said Marlen, showing his teeth. “What care I for words? Only a blade is real. And here I am giving you this chance.”
“I still believe in words,” said Darien. “It is, after all, what we do. Though you—I don’t know what you do anymore.”
“You don’t need the Branch, Darien,” said Marlen, his face once more an unavoidable window into his feelings. For once, Darien would have preferred him to have none. “You will succeed, just by being you. I—that is not how it is for me. I had to do this.”
Darien felt as if the room were tilting under him. “I’m leaving,” he said, his voice tight around his words. “When I come back, I want you gone. And don’t imagine that this can stand, Marlen—no one is keeping me from the contest. Only, instead of winning with me, you will lose against me. That I promise you.”
Without waiting for a response, Darien left the room, stumbled down the inn stairs. By now, the common room was nearly empty. He was alone.
* * *
IN the predawn light, they nearly staggered with fatigue through the city streets. It was at the gate north of the palace that they stopped and at last removed their masks. Lin smiled, feeling the air against her face like a blessing. It was good to smile.
I will not think of the road’s end.
“So you are leaving,” she said.
“I am,” said Valanir Ocune. “As are you. After the contest?”
She nodded. “There’s one thing left for me to do. Before I go.”
“Don’t stay too long,” he said, sounding serious. “You may be in danger here. When you go—make for the Academy Isle. Any way you can. Take this.” In her palm he pressed something sharp and cold. Lin opened her hand and saw a brass key.
“The Path…”
“I can’t tell you more than that,” he said. “I wish I could. But one thing I can say. You may have wondered why it was you I sought, of all the poets in Tamryllin.”
Lin avoided his eyes. She felt the chill of dawn keenly, and set her shoulders against it. “I thought … because I’m not properly a poet. With nothing at stake.”
“No.” A forceful negation that made her glance up. “You risked your life with me, played until your hands were nearly bloodied, and all the while believing—that? I regret that. I regret it very much.” He took one of her hands in his good hand. “I should have told you, Lin Amaristoth. Of portals between this world and the Otherworld, and the dimensions between. The hallways of doors. Behind one of the most crucial of those doors, I saw you.”
“You saw me.” Unexpectedly she was blinking back tears. “That’s not possible.”
“I swear it,” he said. “There is a road ahead for you that I cannot see, but it matters.”
“And you?” She tried to smile. “Where does your road lead, Valanir Ocune?”
“I will be working to influence events from afar,” he said. “We will meet again soon, if the gods are kind.” He gave her hand one last squeeze. “Keep safe,” he said, and turned to go. For a moment she watched as he shuffled toward the gate, exaggerating his limp, humming to himself as if he were an eccentric old traveler. His hood drawn up around his face.
Turning away, Lin set out to retrace her steps to the city center. Her shadow skimmed the paving stones as daylight grew. The perfect quiet was beginning to break; another day. It matters, he had said. Could such a thing be true?
Lin thought of how the night had been filled with music, and hoped the melodies would echo down that long hall, all the days of her life.
PART II
CHAPTER
10
FOR the first time in her life, Rianna was seated in her father’s study. She knew it only as a room he reserved for business, for dealing with people related to his affairs in trade and commerce—in other words, with men. It was a side of his life that she rarely saw: the neat rows of leather-bound ledgers on the shelves behind him, the books of his expansive library. These he’d always allowed her to borrow, one at a time.
A tapestry hung on the back wall, depicting a scene from the creation of the world. Thalion and Estarre danced in a meadow against the backdrop of mountains and a waterfall. Kiara in the far corner, pale, clad in dark robes, hand raised in the ancient sign of warding against calamity.
For it was said that Kiara had opposed the creation of the world and of humanity in particular. Knowing the evil they would bring.
Rianna looked across the desk at her father, who was waiting for her response. Waiting with unusual patience, she thought.
“Avan,” she said at last. “We both … we just decided it wasn’t right. That’s all.”
Her father was absently fingering the fabric of his cloak. He was dressed for the fair and contest, where he would preside as one of the judges. “Forgive me, love,” he said, “but I doubt very much that this was Ned’s initiative. He cares very much for you.”
“It was,” she said. “It was when he realized that … that I don’t feel that way about him.” She stared down at her hands.
Master Gelvan now leaned back in his chair. “Ah.” His face was unreadable. Then he smiled, briefly. “I wish you had told me you intended to be so strong-willed,” he said. “I would have explained to you that this marriage is important.”
“Is it … is it money?”
“No,” said her father. “Do you think I would sell my daughter? That is, of course, what they say about us. But Ned’s family was always different. They did not take such a view of Galicians. And they love you.”
Rianna shook her head helplessly. “I’m sorry, Avan.”
“I needed this marriage,” said Master Gelvan, “to protect you.”
Suddenly her father was on his feet. With brisk strides, he reached the door and threw it open. The hallway was empty. “Good,” he said, and closed the door again. “I’ve become fearful lately, I suppose. Suddenly suspecting even our servants.” He sat again. “I will need wine for this, I think,” he said. “Do you want something to drink, sweetheart?”
“No,” said Rianna, with more conviction than was necessary. He was starting to unnerve her. Yet he seemed calm, his hand steady as he poured red wine from a crystal decanter.
“I don’t understand,” Rianna prodded him. “Are you trying to convince me to marry Ned by … frightening me? Why would I need protection?”
“Well, there’s no chance of you marrying Ned anytime soon,” said her father, turning a stern gaze on her. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“For a time,” he amended, relenting. “Ned asked his father to send him on one of his ships, in a trade voyage east. It is dangerous … I fear for the boy. His heart was always sterling quality, but his skill with weapons—rather less so.”
“He just didn’t have practice,” Rianna said quickly. The memory of Ned drawing his sword on her behalf, brandishing it so clumsily, served as a vivid reproach.
“Whatever the case. He will be gone for a time. So here we are. And it’s not the only thing to complicate my plans.” He looked so worn, she thought—frighteningly so. Her father had always been someone she could rely upon. A strong presence, even though they did not often speak. “Rianna, I’m sorry I don’t talk to you more about your mother.”
Rianna opened her mouth, closed it again. She was too confused now even to speak.
“I know,” he said. “You wonder why I’d raise that now. You are a sensible girl.”
They sat quietly a moment. The wind chimes outside were stirred, a soft and fading melody. A sound from her earliest memory, but in recent days, it seemed to have become a part of her past more and more, and thus a source of inexplicable sadness.
Darien was the present, she reminded herself, whatever else happened from here. Whatever else, however precious, might be lost.
At last her father spoke. “Do you know how she died?”
She stared. He was breaking so
many rules today. Discussing her marriage with her, as though it were her choice. Seating her in the study. Offering her wine. And now, most strangely, raising the specter of death.
“She was ill?” said Rianna. It was something she had learned from overhearing whispers, growing up. From servants, from guests. Her mother had died when she was small. From that time, Rianna remembered nothing; her earliest memories of nurturing were of her old nurse, who now lived in a little house at the outskirts of Tamryllin. Master Gelvan did not believe in the practice of having nurses stay on all their lives. That was a perverse Ellenican practice, he maintained, not for a Gelvan.
“A sickness that struck quickly, with immediate results,” said her father, his voice hollow. “The doctor was a friend. He confided to me that he believed it was poison.”
Rianna opened her mouth, then shut it again. No words would come. That swiftly, she had passed the threshold from one era of her life to another. Acutely aware in that moment that it was happening.
“For years I wondered who would have done such a thing, and why,” her father was saying. “I knew better than to involve the authorities. At court, your mother was loathed for betraying her family by marrying a Galician. If anyone was to investigate, it had to be me.”
Rianna swallowed. “Avan, is this to do with Dane Beylint?”
He stared. “How do you know about that?”
“I … heard you talking,” she said. “When I couldn’t sleep.”
He shook his head. “I hadn’t meant for you to know about that … to frighten you. But if I am telling you everything … Through the years, I have done all the things a merchant can do to gain the king’s favor. You know this. It was to gain access at court, to see—and to overhear. Your mother was … she was doing things I didn’t know about, very much in secret. She was in some sort of plot involving the most powerful players at court. And one man in particular.”
“She never told you?” Rianna demanded, feeling the beginnings of anger.
“Never,” said Master Gelvan, expressionless.
Rianna’s fists closed as she thought of it. Her father betrayed by a city that never regarded him as an equal, and—it turned out—even by his own wife. “Who was the man?”
He hesitated only a moment. Then: “The Court Poet. Nickon Gerrard. For years I’ve studied him … cultivating sources at court, and elsewhere in the city. So far I’ve reason to believe your mother’s death was not the only one he is linked to. Dane Beylint is only the latest. What I can’t seem to uncover is why.”
Rianna had involuntarily pressed a hand to her head as if to steady it. “The Court Poet.”
“I know it is hard to believe,” he said. “I have come to think he is a great danger to the city. Perhaps to the country, given his power. There are—disturbing rumors…” He trailed off.
“Yes?” She could not imagine anything more disturbing than what he had already told her.
“Well, you know Nickon Gerrard has announced changes to the contest since it was held twelve years ago. Very odd changes, like introducing a flask of sacred wine and a song in which all the entrants must take part before the contest begins. It sounds harmless, but it also recalls … other practices. That, together with the recent killings, have made me wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
He sighed. Then he drank all the wine in his cup. “He’s planning something for that day,” said Master Gelvan. “That much we know.”
* * *
TWELVE years ago to the day, the last contest of the Silver Branch had preceded Tamryllin’s great annual Midsummer Fair. It was a time when crowds spilled beyond the confines of the enormous Court Plaza into adjoining streets and alleyways, for the most anticipated competition in years. Lin had heard the tales but had never thought to be here herself, seated on the flagstones of the plaza, saving a space from which to see the platform that had been erected for that day, hard by the gates of the palace.
From the crenellations of the palace walls hung the brightly colored pennons of Tamryllin’s aristocratic families, sponsors of the event. The cloths trailed lifeless in the summer heat. Adjoining the platform were benches, cordoned from the rest of the plaza by a length of silken rope: spaces reserved for those who could pay.
Twelve years ago, someone had won, but in time his memory had faded. Even Lin, for all her obsessive studies of Academy lore, had forgotten his name. It was the man who had won before him who had remained etched in public awareness—the man who was to rise to power as one of the most influential Court Poets in history. Nickon Gerrard had not only assumed the position; he had elevated it to unprecedented levels. He had the king’s ear in ways no one else did—or so it was said. Lin, who had heard it confirmed by her family, believed it.
In the city, the Court Plaza was a historic source of pride, flanked on all sides by some of the most ancient and famed of its architectural façades. Dominating the west side, up a flight of polished white stairs was the Eldest Sanctuary, temple to the Three, built more than a thousand years ago. Fronted with pillars taller than trees, the temple attracted pilgrims from across the country and beyond. Its façade was deliberately positioned to catch the full onslaught of light at sunrise, dazzling to mortal eyes.
Loftily gazing to the temple from across the plaza was the palace, a newer and more gilded structure of many towers rising behind wrought iron gates. The royal family and their retinue would be watching from their balcony, protected by spearmen on all sides.
Lin was no longer alone; many more were arriving to claim a place on the flagstones. Soon it would be flooded, and she would have no space to breathe. Soon enough.
It was strange to be here, when for so long she had planned to be on that platform. Supporting Leander with her words and voice.
She had briefly entertained the idea of leaving before the contest but knew she needed to witness this. Leander had been a friend to her. It meant something, as much as the gods and the power of music meant something in the world.
It was not as if the fair didn’t offer other attractions. While the contest for the Silver Branch had become the main event of the fair for poets, it could not overshadow what was for most its central function: commerce. For a week after the contest, Tamryllin would be awash in trade goods, both exotic and practical. Spices from Kahishi—cinnamon and ginger and, most dear of all, pepper—would exhale their fragrances into the air, drawing customers who would be faced with glowering guards whose task was to protect the goods at any cost.
There were carpets, woven painstakingly by hand and trundled from the far reaches of the deserts to the south. Bales of wool from northern Eivar, silks of varying textures from the lands of the farthest east. And then there were the ventures that thrived on specialized items: handicrafts of wood, of silver and gold; costly and rarely seen items like silver-backed mirrors and glass delicate as the petals of a rose. The finest gold-stringed harps would be on display to dazzle the poorer Academy students. Blacksmiths would present their finest work of the year, their swords and daggers, shields and coats of armor; and those who made a name for themselves might end up filling an order for a lord before the week was out, or even the king himself.
The stands for all of these had been erected, and tomorrow would be overflowing with colors, textures, and smells. The air would abound with the staccato intonations of bargaining; the plaintive calls of traders with wares to sell; harp music, drumbeats, and laughter. What had begun with the abandon and ferocity of the masque would reach a pinnacle of excitement with the contest and then relax into an event patrolled by the Royal Guard and attended by nobility of the highest ranks.
Lin knew all this from Rayen’s tales, told to their mother by the fire late at night. She recalled all that her brother had said about the upcoming contest, for of course he had friends at court who knew. It would be different from the last one, with changes instituted by Court Poet Gerrard himself—Lin suspected self-aggrandizing changes to highlight his importance. A ceremonial cask of
wine stored seven years in the Eldest Sanctuary, in the most sacred of its chambers, would be presented to the Court Poet. Nickon Gerrard would drink the consecrated wine, and then he and the poets would sing, a piece that seemed of ancient origin, which Lin had looked up in the archives of the Vassilian library. In recent years, new words had been affixed to the melody; it was now a tribute to the Three. The Court Poet was said to have noted, piously, that there had previously not been enough of a godly presence at the contest. In this way would some of the last vestiges of the Academy’s heretical, pre-Ellenican origins be shed.
Not long ago, Rayen had been her only bridge to the world. It was only since her escape that Lin understood the extent to which she’d been imprisoned in Vassilian, knowing nothing of life but what he had chosen to share with her.
Lin recalled the vision with Valanir: Rayen and a mask of blood. Soon, my love.
Well did she remember how it had felt to be afraid, more horrible even than the reality of what happened when he did succeed in cornering her, with loyal servants to help wrest away her knives. She remembered, too, the salt taste of her own blood in her mouth, the sickening feeling of spitting out a pebbly tooth. The one time he had touched her face, for usually he was careful to keep it intact, to serve as an unblemished canvas for cosmetics that might attract a suitable spouse.
Not that it would be hard to find someone, he always pointed out. Even with her looks, there were the Amaristoth fortune and name.
Well, not anymore, she thought with an inward grin. Rayen would have to find some other way to expand the family estates. She wondered, not for the first time, if her disappearance had caused him much embarrassment among his peers, signifying his inability to keep even one wayward female in line.
She certainly hoped so.
And with that thought, Lin circled back to the idea that had haunted her for weeks: that it was likely that Rayen was in the audience here, in this square. That he had come to Tamryllin for the fair, as he did most years. If she and Leander had performed together as originally planned, they had agreed she would keep her hood raised. Here, among thousands of people, she blended easily, but there was always a risk. Lin felt for the hilt of the knife in her sleeve, stroked the smooth leather. If it did come to a fight, she was ready.
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