Or so Darien described his sensations, and it seemed from his irritated grunt of a response that Hassen grudgingly agreed with him. Lin was less susceptible to such thoughts—the cold was familiar to her, and she had not eaten cooked food more than a handful of times in all the past year. Her soft fur-lined cloak—Leander’s long-ago gift to her—was like a comforting embrace all through the chill days and nights.
Secretly, Lin was happy. She knew that Darien and Hassen were worried about king’s guards and the Path, so she kept her irrational feelings to herself. She knew they could be arrested at any time.
But right now, she was with two men whom she liked, and was on the road with a definite purpose. For weeks following her departure from Tamryllin, Lin had felt as if she fought to keep nightmares at bay. Days had been wearying, and the nights she had huddled and tried to sleep, listening to the wind. Now she had the friendly bickering of the two men to enliven her days, and at night sometimes Darien could be coaxed—or tricked—into a conversation.
He had a good heart, she thought, and knew he would have been horrified if he had known she thought so. Removed from Marlen, he seemed loose in his moorings, as if the foundations of his identity were now a question he turned ceaselessly in his mind. But it was with curiosity and wonder that he did so, it seemed to her. For all that he and Marlen had traveled far together, there was still more within Darien to unlock on his own. At nights, sometimes the three of them would sing or create new songs on the spot.
“Lady Amaristoth,” said Darien with an exaggerated bow, breaking into her thoughts.
“What is it? And don’t call me that.”
“We seem to have entered your kingdom—so to speak. Can you tell us what town that is up ahead?”
Lin sighed. Hassen returned her gaze with a sympathetic roll of his eyes. “It’s Dynmar,” she said. “By all accounts a terrible backwater. They do have a reputation for some decent smithies and tailors. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Well, that and the average eye color,” Darien said blandly. “On the other hand, Dynmar does have the distinction of being the town nearest the mountains. Which makes it our last civilized stop in—a long while.”
“That depends what you mean by ‘civilized,’” grumbled Hassen.
“Didn’t you know—sheep innards are a delicacy,” Lin said innocently, and he laughed.
* * *
THE town was quiet, as might be expected at midday in a place on the edge of desolate mountains. The narrow streets were so empty that the wind seemed to chase itself around their sharp corners, whistling as it went.
“The edge of the world,” Lin mused aloud as they turned a corner onto a street where they could see the grey slopes of the mountains rising just beyond the town walls. “It’s been more than a year since I was this far north.”
“This calls for a drink,” said Hassen.
They found the town’s only tavern on the main square. Here the mood was more lively despite the early hour: the seats were crowded and a space cleared for a group of musicians to perform. Lin immediately noted their rings. While two of the players strummed their harps in harmony, the rest sang together in unison. They were all young, and at the sight of them, Darien cursed softly and drew up the hood of his cloak. Hassen followed suit.
“These men would know us,” he said, sinking in his seat and holding his mug of beer close to his face.
“Do you hear what they’re singing?” Lin said suddenly. She did not know whether to be amused or horrified.
It was a ballad that followed the traditional structure, and it told of a trickster hero—a fox—who with his courage and cunning had outwitted the cruel snake. Various details, such as the ability of the fox to sing and play a harp, had drawn Lin’s attention immediately. The fox had gone on to seek liberation for the other foxes by setting out on a quest, accompanied by a loyal companion.
“His hound?” Hassen hissed. “His faithful hound?”
“It doesn’t even make sense,” Darien said. “Why would the hound care about liberating the other foxes?”
“Darien, you do see what this is, don’t you?” said Lin. It was clear that Hassen certainly did. “You’re a legend.”
“These boys,” Darien whispered, “are complete idiots. I knew them when they were getting poor marks at the Academy.”
“Well, I’ll just have to take comfort in that, I suppose,” Hassen muttered. He gulped down his beer a bit too quickly.
When the song was done, and the snake defeated for good and all, Lin approached the singers. Hassen had tried to hold her back, but she argued that they were highly unlikely to recognize her. And they would have news from the city.
“Greetings,” she said to them. “Have you come from Tamryllin?”
“Yes, of course,” said one, a blond poet with wide eyes. “We were at the contest. We saw it all.”
“So what are you doing in this place?” Lin asked. “I’d have thought poets like yourselves would be out seeing the world.”
“We’re doing more than that,” said another boy, dark-haired and arrogant. “Have you no idea what has been happening in this past month? We are Seekers.”
“Right,” said Lin. Darien had told her of this phenomenon, though she had been tempted to dismiss it as his bragging. But Hassen had confirmed that there was, indeed, a movement of poets styling themselves Seekers and claiming to follow Darien Aldemoor in his quest for the Path. “This must be your last stop before the mountains, then,” she said. “Truly I wish you luck.”
They nodded to her gravely. Lin thought it was just as well that these young men were all too preoccupied with their quest—and themselves—to ask for her name.
“We will encounter dangers on the way, of course,” said the blond boy. “King’s guards have been combing even the outlying towns for signs of resistance. And in the city it is worse. One poet was nearly executed, and another brutally beaten by Marlen Humbreleigh.”
“Who was beaten?” Lin demanded. Yet there was a sinking in her heart even before she heard the answer, as if she had suspected all along. She mumbled something to the young men and staggered back to Darien and Hassen, nearly tripping as she went.
“It’s my fault,” she muttered.
“Surely not,” said Hassen. “What happened?”
Quickly, she told him. Over his shoulder, she could see the blood drain from Darien’s face. “Marlen wouldn’t do something like that,” he said slowly. It sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
Mercifully, Hassen was silent. With his capable arms, he enfolded Lin and allowed her to bury her face in his shoulder.
“I think we should find a room,” said Darien, and left them hurriedly.
“He saved my life,” Lin whispered into Hassen’s shoulder.
He sighed. “I am sorry.”
She stayed in the room after that, while Darien and Hassen went to the market for supplies. Lin was grateful to both of them for letting her be, for allowing her to retreat into herself. She sank into the bed that they would share that night and stared at her hands.
It was possible that Leander’s beating had had nothing to do with her. It was possible that he had suddenly become an idealist and decided to defy the authorities in a way that had put him in Marlen’s sights.
But knowing him as she did, Lin very much doubted that. Since she’d gone, Marlen had had time to mull the events of the masque, had likely given thought to the identity of Valanir Ocune’s accomplice.
The two men returned to the room to set down the goods they had bought—dried meat and oatcakes and apples. And then, after she declined to come, they went downstairs for dinner.
It was dark by the time Darien returned to the room, alone. “Hassen wanted to get some air,” he said. “He said we shouldn’t wait up for him.” Darien sighed and began to untie his shirt. “He’s worried about you, you know.”
“There is no need for worry,” she said. “I hope he will not be too bothered by that so
ng.”
“Those idiots,” said Darien. “Well. Good night.”
When Lin awoke, the room was dark, save for moonlight that shafted into the room and across the floor. She had been dreaming, something that involved a knife and blood and the mountains, and she was grateful to find it all a dream. Until the memory of the news from Tamryllin hit her again.
Kiara. You have turned your face from me.
She turned around and looked across to where Darien slept. Then another moment, and she rolled out of bed and into her trousers, threw on her cloak. Arming herself in the various ways she had, the knives under her pillow transferred to her sleeve and boots. She thought of waking Darien, but decided against it. Maybe she would find Hassen Styr down in the common room. They would laugh about this in the morning, how she had risen and dressed so frantically.
He should have been back by now. It was so late.
She felt as if someone had shaken her awake and now summoned her to descend the stairs. But that couldn’t be right.
She would find Hassen downstairs, probably; that’s what her instincts were most likely telling her.
Lin drew her knife and concealed it in the folds of her cloak as she stepped into the hallway.
CHAPTER
16
THE hall was quiet, and the shadows did not seem to hold surprises. Still she made her way cautiously, step by soft step. The doors to other rooms, which were few, remained closed. The only sound Lin could hear was her own fluttering breath, and she shut her lips to quiet that, too.
The stairwell was faintly illumined by light from the common room. As she stepped carefully down the rickety stairs, Lin could hear voices.
“I saw him,” she heard one say. A young, dreamy voice, as if it came from someone only half-awake. “The night of the fires, when I slept. I saw him finely clad as he had never been in life.”
Lin peered around the corner. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw a group huddled at one of the tables. The dying flame of a lantern was the only source of light, and it was cold; the fire had died to red embers. Shadows of the men, long and wavering, danced on the wall with more life than they themselves showed.
“I saw my father, who passed on last year,” said another voice, equally dreamy. “He spoke of the many regrets he had. I played him a song.”
Then a new voice, unmistakably awake, said, “A friend approaches.” To her shock, they all turned to stare at Lin, their heads moving in unison like machinery. Their faces featureless in the night.
“You are a friend?” one asked.
Catching her breath, Lin said, “I am no man’s enemy.”
Again, the voice that had announced her approach spoke. “Join us here,” he said, in a tone resonant and commanding.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m in a hurry.”
“Sit with us a moment,” he said, and Lin felt compelled to draw near.
“Who are you?” she said. In the constant shift of light and shadow, his face, too, seemed to shift, so that one moment she thought she was seeing a very young man and the next, an older one. It was impossible to tell from his voice which it could be.
“We are Seekers,” said another of the men, and by now Lin’s eyes had adjusted enough to see that this one was young. He might even have been one of the poets who had been singing that evening—who had given her the news of Leander. “No doubt you have heard of us.”
“I have,” Lin said wearily. She looked past him at the man who had bidden her to approach. “And who are you?” she said again.
As if in response to her words, moonlight from the window softly touched his brow, and around his right eye an intricate knot of color caught the light. But the mark was slashed through, the light splitting into many colors, as it ought not to have done.
“You know me well,” he said, and now his voice drew her back to the memory of a summer night in Tamryllin.
Lin’s breath caught. “You.” Now she could see his eyes even in the darkness—that unmistakable green.
“I am not really here,” he said, and sounded regretful. “This is no more than a dream for you—and for me. The portal will join us here for all too short a time.”
“Why, then?” Lin asked, keeping her voice even with an effort. The night was too strange; she felt cold and frightened, and the man she would once have expected to allay her fears was now somehow inextricably a part of them.
Valanir stood. She saw that the moonlight passed through him gently, as if he were translucent, or a dream. He motioned to the younger men that surrounded him at the table. “Depart,” he said. Without a word and as one man they rose and marched to the door. Together and in silence, they filed out into the night. The last man carefully shut the door behind him.
Valanir smiled. “I can only do a few useful things,” he said, “but I have a particular fondness for that one.” His smile faded abruptly. “I will keep this quick. The guards have Hassen Styr. I am sorry.”
Lin shook her head. “No, no, no,” she heard herself say, her hands gripping her head.
“I can delay the guards only a little time,” said Valanir. “You must leave tonight.”
“Can’t you help him?” Lin demanded. “You are Valanir Ocune. Isn’t there something you can do?”
No sound but the pop and hiss of embers in the grate, as Valanir Ocune, his face weighted with sadness, bowed his head. His eyes closed for a moment. “The powers that I would need—those we seek—are still beyond my reach,” he said. “For this—and for everything, Lin Amaristoth—for all of this I am truly sorry.”
She reached out to him, tried to catch hold of his hand. Her fingers passed through his translucent ones, and she felt nothing, there was nothing there of him. It was all illusion.
Yet there was his voice, and in the case of Valanir Ocune perhaps that was something nonetheless. “Forgive me,” he said. “And please save yourselves. So much depends on you.”
“Too much,” she said. “You should be here.”
“I am doing what I can,” said Valanir. “But I believe now more than ever in the vision I had of you.”
Lin shook her head. Tears stung in her eyes. “I once thought that in music I might find some way to—give shape and meaning to—all the horrible things,” she said haltingly, feeling her way through the thought as if it were a darkened wood. “But I’ve begun to think it’s not enough.”
Valanir looked sad. “For as long as you live,” he said, “it won’t be.”
They were the last words she heard him say before his image faded to the palest outlines and then was gone. His harp took longest to vanish, its graceful curves flashing farewell in the dark.
PART III
CHAPTER
17
MARLEN woke to find his face pressed against a scroll on his desk. His head swam with runes and archaic characters, those in his head and those that loomed large before his eyes in faded ink. Wearily, he lifted his head and saw that Marilla was watching him. While he slept the sun had set. She could have been a spirit of temptation appearing at his side, her bare throat and face a glimmer of white against her hair.
She watched him come awake. Then she spoke, voice rich with mockery. “I had not known Lord Gerrard’s chosen was such a diligent scholar,” she said, and edged closer to him. Now—whether he wanted to or not—he could inhale the heady spice of her scent. “I had thought, rather, that he was supposed to be finding a certain man.”
“Damn you,” he said blearily. “That’s what this is about. If I can figure out where Darien is going, it makes more sense than tramping around the country.” She continued to watch him. Shrugging, Marlen stretched and yawned with luxurious thoroughness. To hell with her. “Besides, I have fifty guardsmen doing that.”
“And the Seekers?”
“Damn the Seekers,” he said. “Those lunatics have naught to do with me.”
“I’ll wager,” Marilla said, “that Nickon Gerrard would say otherwise.”
Marlen sh
ook his head, unwilling to advance further into that discussion. For it was true: Court Poet Gerrard was furious about the Seekers, considered Marlen to be partly responsible for their swelling numbers. Of course, that was one thing Nickon Gerrard was good at: blaming Marlen for the ills that were clearly his own fault. If the Court Poet had not stirred up resentment with his draconian treatment of poets, the Seekers would not be so popular. That was, at least, what Marlen thought, but he kept his opinions to himself. With everyone but Marilla, that is; there was little he did not tell her.
He allowed her access to his apartments. It seemed to make sense. At first he had offered her lodgings with him, a spontaneous gesture that he had not really thought through. That had been when he was at the nadir of his despair, before loneliness had become as habitual as meals and sleep. But Marilla would have none of it—she wanted her own apartments. With his prodigious allowance Marlen had procured for her just that, moving her out of the squalor of her former accommodations.
“You’ll be my lady,” said Marlen on the day he installed her in her new home, hiring her a maid. “You let me know if you need anything—anything at all. I only have one condition. There’s to be no whoring.”
Marilla had laughed and stroked his face with unaccustomed tenderness. On the few occasions when she touched him gently it almost sprung open a well of grief in him. Fortunately, the occurrences were rare. “You are wise,” she had said. “A man of your stature must not be seen consorting with a whore.”
Smiling back, Marlen had caught up her hand and bitten her fingertips. “Smart girl. I know you’ll make me proud.”
And she had, standing by him despite public opinion, offering suggestions in the cool, careless way she had, as if it made no difference. Yet he knew better. If anything, that was the one thing Marilla did care about: his success. Not for his sake—he would never be naive enough to suppose that. She was the well-fed cat curled at his feet, her every desire catered to. She dressed like a lady now, in silks and brocade, jacquard and damask. Marlen gifted her with a necklace of rubies, the red of blood and his desire. The plumes of rare birds curved from hats nestled in the complex weave of her hair. Her maid attended to her hair every morning, he had learned after paying an early visit one day. Before he met her, he had not known much about the way women lived, their lives outside of bed and night music. But even in her daily tasks Marilla seemed exotic to him, a creature he could feed and shelter but never cage, never tame. He would not have wanted to try.
Last Song Before Night Page 18