Last Song Before Night

by Ilana C. Myer

  * * *

  FROM the stands they had a dizzying view of the crowds that filled the Court Plaza. Her hair swept up in a severe knot, a film of frosty lace concealing her neck and chest, Rianna felt she had gone into hiding—within full view of thousands, yet still somehow unknown.

  You will speak of this to no one, her father had said, just before she had crossed the threshold of his study with her new knowledge. Wondering where and how it would fit into her life—or perhaps change nothing at all.

  Darien, she thought. More than ever, she needed his help to sort through the immensity of all that had happened.

  Soon he would come out to take his place on the platform and compete for a poet’s highest honor. We’re the best, he had told her, as calmly as if observing that the summer was hot or that the roses in her father’s garden smelled sweet. It wasn’t a particular source of pride for Darien, she realized. Just something he knew.

  In the stands were the people who mattered in Tamryllin—many of them judges in this contest. Rianna wondered why her father had consented to be a judge, when he cared nothing for music. But the next moment she thought she knew: his participation was, in some way, related to the preeminence of Nickon Gerrard in this contest. Master Gelvan would have to be involved. Another way to be near the man he was watching.

  “I saw Callum slip a note to you at the ball,” she had said to him that morning in the study. “What was it?”

  Master Gelvan had pursed his lips, for a moment nonplussed. At last he sighed. “I can’t think of a reason not to tell you,” he said. “Shortly before his death, Master Beylint sent a note to the palace. I wasn’t able to recover it, but we did get the note sent to him in response. He was to have a private dinner with Lord Gerrard. With no guards present.”

  For some reason this answer made Rianna feel light-headed. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice thin and strange in her ears. “Why would the Court Poet be killing people?”

  “That is a question I have long sought to answer,” said her father. “I knew Nickon Gerrard when he was a bitter lad doing everything in his power—everything—to surpass Valanir Ocune. I knew his family as a boy, cleaned their mansion every week. You can be sure it pleases him now to keep me by him, imagining that I am his servile creature. His pet Galician, whose wife knew—something. That is what I think, Rianna: she discovered something he wanted secret.”

  Words like cold fingers, closing around her heart on a summer morning. And for the rest of that day, they had stayed.

  Still she felt a flutter of excitement when a horn sounded and a procession of Academy graduates, attired humbly in grey robes, marched onto the stage. Now a pipe had joined the horn to trill a tune as they assumed their places, each with a hood shadowing his face. It was beginning.

  Nickon Gerrard came forward, clad in his six-colored cloak, his harp at his side. For the first time, Rianna noticed a crystal decanter of wine and a golden goblet, gem-encrusted, on a small table. The consecration. Lord Gerrard had decreed that without it, the contest would be a meaningless rite, without sanctity before the gods.

  Could this man have killed her mother? It seemed an absurdity. And yet.

  Tearing her eyes away from him, she studied the hooded men, wondering which of them was Darien Aldemoor.

  It was at that moment, as Nickon Gerrard reached for the decanter, that something bright flashed through the air, straight toward him.

  The next moment saw the decanter leap from the table even as the Court Poet’s fingers brushed it. Wine pulsed from the spout like a bleeding wound and was gone.

  The sacred wine.

  A voice was calling out, high above the crowds. “Lord Gerrard! Over here!”

  A voice she would know in any place, any street of any city in the world. But this time, her heart did not leap at the sound. Now it was of a piece with the strangeness and growing horror of that day.

  She could see him, standing on a rooftop in the distance. Waving his arms in mockery. Sunlight glittered in starry points across the strings of his harp.

  “That man sang for us, didn’t he,” said her father, oddly calm.

  Rianna swallowed hard. Her voice, low and controlled, seemed to be coming from a distance, from someone else. “Yes, Avan,” she said. “He did.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  THE night before, Darien had stumbled out of the Ring and Flagon and into the waning moonlight. His only thought to put as much distance as possible between himself and Marlen, and the place where words he had never thought to hear had been spoken.

  A long friendship come crashing down.

  Darien realized he was still clutching his mask, despite all that happened. The court jester, the woman had said. He let it slip from his fingers to the cobblestones. One of many masks discarded that night.

  If he were honest with himself—Darien thought, dodging one of the last processions of merrymakers into the shadows of a blind alley—a part of him had always been on the alert. Half-expecting something like this.

  I hoped the music would cure him, he thought, lost in a whirl of shock and the odd, internal logic of fatigue. For, of course, what did that mean? Music was no cure for anything.

  He took a rickety flight of steps to the rooftops; a shortcut he and his friend had shared many times. From here—where chimneys marched in uneven formation—the city of Tamryllin blanketed the horizon, white towers rising into mist and out again, to the stars. Stabbing the sky. The walls of the imperial palace flowing in harmony with the curve of the hillsides. And then, the sea.

  A glancing line of brightness joined sea and sky: the first signs of daybreak. A light, Darien often thought, that was itself like music. At the end of long nights in his stone cubicle in the Tower of the Winds, after he had wrestled with pen and parchment for hours by candlelight, Darien had often gone out to cliffs on Academy Isle that overlooked the sea to the east. Sunrise, to him, had become associated with a song completed—a new thread in the tapestry that was his life’s work, luminous in that moment.

  Just now, Darien had no desire to watch the sun rise.

  Another flight of steps down, and he was back in the streets. But this time, he didn’t know where he was. The featureless grey of dawn and a killing weariness worked to confuse him, though he knew he could not be far from where he had started. He was still in the old district, where marble gave art to each slope, every winding passageway and soaring arch. But details were shadowy in this half-light between night and sunrise, grey melding with grey.

  Just when Darien thought himself truly lost, a light swam into his vision, blurred as if through fog. And in contrast to the grey all around, this light had a golden cast, verging on red.

  Soon Darien could see an arch of pure light that as he drew near, became a building just ahead. Closer still, and sharper details emerged: the arch, which was the doorway, was half-concealed by a red curtain hanging within the threshold. Beyond, Darien saw the curve of a low, circular table, where a candle flame trembled in scarlet glass, throwing darts of light across the surface of polished wood. A rich, sweet aroma met Darien’s nostrils as he approached, beckoning him closer still. He saw letters carved in the stone above the arch, their knotted shapes forming no language that he knew.

  The curtain in the doorway was of finely woven cotton, light to the touch as Darien flicked it aside. Feathery smoke met his eyes and nose, and that smell, sharp even in its sweetness.

  It was a room without windows, hung with draperies of red and thread of gold. A series of tables, low to the ground, receded into the shadowed interior, ringed with cushions of many colors. Low-hanging brass lamps filled the room with a flickering glow.

  Darien’s attention was at once drawn to the man who sat alone at one of the tables, the only person in the room. His swarthy complexion would have marked him a Kahishian even if not for his garb, loose-fitting and bright in the lamplight. His head was swathed in a turban, and a closely trimmed beard outlined prominent cheekbones.
Near his elbow rested a steaming cup.

  “Salem,” the man said, and then smiled at Darien’s confusion. “Be welcome,” he said. “I was not expecting a guest, half an hour to sunrise.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” said Darien.

  “You followed the light, perhaps,” the man replied, his voice deep as the shadows that puddled around them both. “You have the look of a man who has traveled a long time.”

  Darien shook his head, too tired to explain.

  The seated man took a sip of his drink and yawned, seeming to have already forgotten that Darien was in the room. He was smoking a serpentine pipe attached to a brass urn on the floor. Pale blue smoke drifted upward to mingle with smoke from the cup. Darien suddenly felt as if he could sleep for a long time, on the floor of this smoke-filled cave of a room.

  “May I sit?” he said.

  The Kahishian inclined his head slightly, a gold earring set with rubies catching the light. “If you wish.”

  Darien sank into one of the cushions at a table near the Kahishian. It was a relief to take the weight off his legs, to rest his harp in his lap. The strap was beginning to chafe his shoulder, a sign that he had been wearing it too long.

  “Khave?” the man said to him.

  Darien blinked. “Sorry?”

  In answer, the Kahishian raised his cup.

  “Oh. Please,” said Darien. He had no idea what he was agreeing to, but it had a good smell.

  The man got up and vanished behind the draperies at the back of the room. He emerged moments later with a blue earthenware cup that steamed even more than his own. Brown-flecked foam swam at the top and threatened to overspill the sides. Darien took the cup from him cautiously and nursed it in his hands. He thanked the Kahishian, who returned to his seat.

  After a moment Darien ventured, “Do many people … like me … come here?”

  “I see you are a player,” said the man. “Or no, what do you call it … a poet? No, we get few of your kind here. Few Eivarians know of this place, or care to know.” He smiled thinly. “It is no matter. I opened this place only because it reminds me of home.”

  “You have another business?”

  The other man nodded but did not elaborate. He seemed to be contemplating the ceiling, where an impressive collection of smoke rings formed a bluish haze. Darien sipped his drink. Despite the sweet smell, it was bitter, with the consistency of mud. Yet he felt compelled to drink more, to savor the strange flavor on his tongue. So much of tonight had become strange.

  Darien said, almost to himself, “I don’t know where to go. I was supposed to play … today, I suppose it is. Yes. Today.”

  “And your plans have changed?”

  “My closest friend betrayed me.”

  The other man smiled. “Ah. Something you would not have planned.”

  “Not exactly.”

  A silence stretched between them. The Kahishian puffed his pipe, produced a smoke ring the size of his own head. It hung suspended a moment, before gently dissolving into a fine trail of blue.

  Darien warmed his hands against the sides of the ceramic cup, stared into the smoke that curled from its brim. “I ought to have known,” he said. “Marlen told me—he once told me that his father advised him to poison me, while we were at the Academy. For the good of his career. He refused, but it cost him. I know it cost him.”

  He remembered: entering their room at the Academy after their return from the winter holidays and Marlen already there, seated on the windowsill, one long leg outstretched above the floor. He refused to meet Darien’s eyes, but soon Darien saw what initially had been turned away from his sight: a gash in Marlen’s face from forehead to jaw. “He says you will ruin me,” Marlen said. “That I will always be in your shadow.”

  And even Darien, who women quipped had an answer for everything, had no answer for his friend in that moment.

  And yet, if I had said the right thing that day—if I had told him that there is no shadow, that we are one in all that we do—would that have prevented this?

  To this day, a silvery line curved down the side of Marlen’s face. What good were words, when permanent testimony was stamped on the flesh?

  “There was a poet here last night,” the Kahishian said in a thoughtful tone, as if he had not heard. “Older than you. I remember him because he has come here before over the years. He speaks our language. Always he would have a tale to tell.”

  Darien never could have said why he had a suspicion in that moment. He asked, “Did this poet wear a pale gemstone on his right hand?”

  The Kahishian’s eyes met his through the smoke, and for a moment Darien wondered if he knew more than he was telling. “Yes,” he said. “A pale stone with a heart like fire.”

  “A moon opal,” Darien said. “So Valanir Ocune was here.”

  “He told me it might be the last time,” said the Kahishian. “That he would likely lose his life in his search for the Path.”

  “The Path,” said Darien, half-rising from his chair. “He said that? Did he explain what he meant by it?”

  The Kahishian remained expressionless. With toneless finality he said, “I can tell you only one other thing, Darien Aldemoor. In the court of our king—may he reign eternally in light—the astrologers have seen a red star rising above the white towers of Tamryllin. A sign of great bloodshed and darkness. It has already begun.”

  “A red star,” Darien said. A realization dawned on him. “How did you know my name?”

  The Kahishian smiled, a gleam like metal in the shadows. “You ask the wrong questions.”

  And then the room was gone; the Kahishian was gone. It was deep night, and Darien was lost among stately ornamental trees. Fresh breeze on his cheek, scent of jasmine. Nearby a fountain, splashing softly, the water that pooled in the basin striated with white moonlight. Darien felt his legs suddenly unsteady. He was in a walled garden beside one of the elegant residences of Tamryllin. From here he could see its lightless windows, the sloping roof. Overhead a crescent moon rode the sky.

  Wait …

  Wrong, wrong phase of the moon.

  And then he saw: the figure of a man stretched on the grass, spread-eagled. Tree shadows flitted across him as he lay still. Boot toes pointed up at the sky.

  Darien drew closer, saw the man’s neck was split in a mess of black. His bearded face a frozen mask, eyes like glass. Frozen forever.

  A sound behind Darien made him swing around, sword out. Master Gelvan stood among the trees, watching him. He looked sad. “I lost her because of this, you know.”

  “What?” Darien said. “No.”

  “Seven bodies found in Tamryllin … but that is only a beginning,” said Rianna’s father. His eyes fixed on Darien’s with unnerving solemnity. “You’ll see.”

  It was day, and he was on a city street. A market filled with the calls of people ambling between storefronts and stalls. Darien had to jump to avoid an oncoming cart. The horses reared, and Darien was too stunned to apologize to the cursing driver. Giving shade to the blazing street were unfamiliar trees, drooping with red flowers the size of melons. Their petals littered the ground and raised an overpowering sweet scent in the boiling air.

  Just then, a young woman near Darien lost her balance and crumpled at the knees. Without thinking, Darien swerved to catch her around the waist, as people around them turned to stare. She was limp in his arms. Darien turned her over to see her face, what had gone wrong. Her eyes had sprouted vicious red like the flowers, but darker. Much darker. Petals surrounding blue eyes gone wide and blank. A scream caught in his throat.

  Nearby a small boy buckled and fell, the same red tears on his face. As more people in the street began dropping to the ground, a cry of terror spread as if with one voice, but could have been hundreds of separate screams. The cart that had so narrowly missed Darien started to careen wildly down the street. More screams marked its progress, though whether from horror of the disease or of the crazed horses was hard to tel
l.

  Scent of flowers. So large and red.

  Now he remembered. Sarmanca.

  It was night again and he was back in the garden amid the quieter scents of Tamryllin. Master Gelvan was still there. So was the corpse of Master Beylint, prone on the ground beside the standing man as if it were his own shadow.

  “We don’t have much time,” said Rianna’s father. “At the contest, Darien—the wine is key.”

  “The wine?”

  “The sacred wine. You must destroy it.”

  “Destroy it?” said Darien. “Why?”

  A wind picked up, stirred the merchant’s hair around his face. He looked almost young in the pale light. “His power is trapped in the White City. The ceremony would change all that. You see?”

  “The White City,” Darien echoed. No one called it that, outside songs.

  And in that moment the man before him changed. Still grey-haired, a harp at his side. He was draped in a dark cloak. Eyes an intense blue even in darkness. He said, “I found the Path, and unspeakable sorrow there.” His words twined with the hushed music of falling water.

  Darien stared. “Edrien.”

  “You see,” said the man.

  And then he was gone; the garden was gone.

  Now it was almost entirely dark, moonlight fighting through a thick cover of trees. Their branches spread full and high overhead, while masses of pines blocked out the world. A wood, somewhere. Darien gripped his upper arms, his teeth clenched. The bite in the air was like winter.

  Destroy it. A whisper on the wind.

  And then he saw that a figure—small, slight—knelt on the ground, arms oddly outstretched over a boulder, forehead pressed against the stone. It was a strange position, and even stranger that the figure was entirely still. Remembering the dead man in the garden, the woman in Sarmanca, Darien approached with dread like a fist in his throat.