AT night he insisted she sleep in the bed, while he curled in blankets on the floor. She felt guilty, but her attempts to apologize only made him laugh. “Dearling, I’m a hunter,” he said. “I have slept on the cold ground of the forests in the mountains. Soft blankets in a clean room are more than I need.”
The night was thick with silence. Snuggled among the downy pillows, Rianna’s mind drifted. A hunter. She pictured him in the forest, white-skinned and watchful, knife in hand. The image made her feel protected, safe. Sleep crept over her in no time, as the fire died in the hearth and a patter of autumn rain drummed gently against the closed shutters.
Another day passed, during which, in the course of their conversation, Rianna revealed that she had brought her knife from Tamryllin. She showed it to him now, shyly as if revealing a childish attachment to a toy. “I know I can’t use it well, not yet,” she said. “But what you taught me—that was better than nothing.” Sometimes she caught inflections in her words that were surprisingly rough, a common tongue she had absorbed in the kitchen.
But if Rayen heard a difference, he showed no sign of it. He said, “Show me what you remember.” In the next hour—an hour that stretched to two—he demonstrated to her ways to improve her stance, her reflexes, the taut correctness of movement that was necessary in the delicate and implacable dance of combat.
He explained that a knife was different from a sword: it was closer, more intimate. Your hand only inches away from the severed artery, the burst of blood—the life whistling away to stillness. Rayen was clear about this to her, even harsh, though she could see that he meant it for her own good. Perhaps he thought in teaching her this, he was protecting that spark of purity he saw in her, that she herself had imagined was gone. A white rose, he’d said. So much like something Darien would say.
But Darien had never pictured her with a knife. He would be surprised, she knew. Saddened, perhaps. The thought awakened an answering sadness in her, but was quickly submerged in the effort of responding to Rayen’s instructions. He demanded perfection of her, as if she were a man in his command.
Later, she accompanied him on errands about town. Although he had explained that Dynmar was crucial to his own commerce in the north, she was still surprised that he seemed to know everyone they encountered by name. One and all they bowed to him reverently, said “Lord Amaristoth” as if the name itself were magic.
“There is a great deal of need here,” Rayen said. “But truly these people owe me less than they believe. Their independence is what buffers them through hard times. I have always admired that about them.”
“Independence?” Rianna had never given thought to such things.
Rayen smiled, as if sensing this. He said, “This part of the world, they don’t give a damn about the king or courts. They pay their taxes grudgingly and take pride in the fact that they are almost entirely self-governing. I admire their stubbornness, their pride. They believe the poets of Eivar have their roots here, on this border of the forest and mountains.”
Rianna thought of Darien, somewhere in the mountains, and shivered a little.
He brought her along to the shoemaker, to repair her boots. She sat in a corner of the tiny workshop and watched as the shoemaker stitched, and the two men talked. It was soon apparent that Rayen had known this elderly man for years. He had introduced her to the shoemaker as his friend, and though the other man’s wizened face showed immediate curiosity, he asked no questions.
“So much like your mother,” said the shoemaker appreciatively, in response to one of Rayen’s more acid comments. “She always spoke her mind. You’ll pardon my saying so, I hope, but I didn’t think even a boar with spears for tusks could have finished her.”
Rayen laughed. “You need never ask pardon for speaking your mind, old friend,” he said. “In truth, I agree. It was a shock to all of us—discovering that even we Amaristoth are in fact mortal.” His smile faded as he said more quietly, “A terrible shock.” Seeing that, Rianna felt annoyance at the shoemaker for raising a painful subject.
Sensing the change of mood, the older man said, “She was a great lady. Always did a lot for us here.”
“I hear complaints,” said Rayen. “That of late, there has been unrest.”
“That’s everywhere,” said the shoemaker grimly, snipping a stray thread. “That business with the poets in Tamryllin is spreading. Especially now, what with the blood-magic murder.”
“What do you mean, it’s spreading?” Rayen asked, his eyes intent.
Rianna froze to stillness where she sat.
“Ever since word got out that Darien Aldemoor killed his companion to use his blood for magic … well. There’s some that believe he’s a danger to all of us, and not only for his knife. Rumor from the south is that the Red Death has returned … for the first time in hundreds of years. Who can fail to see the connection?”
“People think it is Darien’s doing?” asked Rayen.
The shoemaker ceased his work for a moment. He wouldn’t meet Rayen’s eyes, but for the first time Rianna thought he seemed uneasy. Jumpy, her kitchen companions would have said. As if a chill had seeped under his skin. “Darien … and these Seekers who claim to follow him,” he said. “No doubt they are bringing this upon us.”
Rianna swallowed hard, she hoped not loudly. Her stomach was tight with tension. “Surely they don’t condone murder,” she said. She was recalling her last conversation with Rayen in her father’s garden, when he had told her about Hassen Styr’s imprisonment. The pieces of a story were snapping together with horrifying clarity. How many, aside from her, knew the truth?
Rayen glanced her way, his gaze impassive. The shoemaker did, too, as he said, “Perhaps they don’t all condone it, my lady, but if even some of them do … how are we to know whom to trust? Let’s just say,” he continued in hardened tones, “that the harp and ring are not welcome in our town as they once were.”
Rianna exhaled softly. Just as softly, Rayen said, “A pity.” And when he met her eyes again, she thought she saw compassion there.
That evening, Rianna was restless. They would be leaving the next morning for Tamryllin, and she knew it was important to go to bed early and conserve her strength. Even so, she asked Rayen if he would accompany her to the common room before bed.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s a rough place.”
She smiled at him. “That won’t matter,” she said, “if you are with me.” It was spoken honestly, without flirtation. Yet even so, she blushed.
Rayen smiled back. “I can hardly refuse now.”
* * *
IT was strange, she reflected as she rested her hand lightly on Rayen’s arm and glanced around, how different a place could seem when you knew you were safe. As a kitchen maid, this same room had seemed to her like a wilderness, teeming with drunken, leering, idle-fingered men. Standing tall now beside her noble companion at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene, Rianna felt regal and at ease. Rayen Amaristoth was more than enough protection for her. And her fine raiment was protection of another kind against stares and jeers; her scalp was concealed by a snood of velvet and lace. Even the regulars would never recognize her now.
Clearing her throat as if trying out a new voice, Rianna said, “Why don’t we have a drink, while we’re here?”
Rayen seemed to think nothing of it: he guided her to a seat in a corner, where the noise was less invasive. “And what would you have, my lady?”
She frowned. “I suppose … wine?” It made her think of her father, and the way he had offered her wine just before his capture. I will drink to him, she thought, and closed her eyes a moment, focusing her thoughts in the wisp of a prayer. Gods watch over him now and always. And Darien. And the soul of dear Hassen Styr. And a plague of purest poison take Nickon Gerrard.
“Wine it is, then,” said Rayen, and called over one of the serving women. As the girl approached, Rianna saw, with a shock, that it was Bella. From the look in the girl’s faded blue
eyes, she knew Rianna, too. But all she said was, “What will you have, my lord? My lady?”
As Rayen gave his order, Rianna tried to meet the other girl’s eyes, but to no avail. By the time she had mustered the courage to say something, Bella had slithered back into the crowd. As she went, Rianna saw a filthy hand shoot out and grasp the flesh of Bella’s thigh through her skirt. They had done laundry together many times: Rianna knew that underneath that skirt was a yellowed, stained petticoat that had been washed and wrung a thousand times to a threadbare rag. Her heart clenched and she felt herself lost as if in a swamp, sucking her down; for there was, she knew, more suffering in the world than in the eyes of this girl. There was more than she could ever imagine. She had escaped it all so easily, because of who she was.
And she had wept for the loss of her hair.
Warm pressure on her hand: Rayen had reached out and set his hand over hers, where it rested on the table. “You knew her, I take it.”
Rianna glanced up at him through sudden tears. “She was kind to me.”
Rayen nodded. “I will give her extra coins when she returns,” he said. “I’m afraid that alone cannot rescue her from the life she is in, but perhaps can ease it a little.”
Rianna looked down at the table. “She can get a new petticoat,” she said dully.
Rayen said nothing, but his hand tightened over hers. She closed her eyes, imagining that the warmth of his hand was flowing into her, warming her. She could get lost in that warmth, and forget for a while about the things she could not change.
A scream tore through her calm. Rianna jumped with a ragged gasp. Rayen Amaristoth sprang to his feet and toward the center of the room, where a large man was holding another man down and brutally ramming his head into a table, over and over again. Before anyone else could intervene, Rayen was already there, in one smooth motion gripping the aggressor’s shoulder and throwing him against an unoccupied table, where he crashed and grunted and lay still.
A silence fell, where once there had been a multitude of noises and voices. Serving women froze where they stood, men with tankards upraised stood as if paralyzed, like a scene in a tapestry. All was quiet, marred only by the moans of the injured men. And then Rayen Amaristoth’s voice, dangerously soft. “How did this start?”
It was understandable, Rianna thought, even as her heart thumped violently in her chest, that no one particularly wanted to answer. But the men who had been nearest the scene were too conspicuously trying to look uninvolved. For the first time, Rianna noticed, with a rush of excitement, that at least two of them bore harps, and no doubt rings as well.
Rayen collared one of the men nearest the scene. A boy more than a man, with a harp strapped to his chest. “What happened?” Rayen said, the ring of authority in his tone unmistakable.
The boy swallowed. “You see—”
Rayen shook him. “Don’t waste my time.”
“It’s about Darien Aldemoor,” the boy blurted. “He’s been found. Here in Dynmar!”
Now a babble of excited voices arose even as Rayen let go the boy’s collar and stood very still, as if lost in thought. Rianna rose to her feet. “How do you know?”
Now Rayen turned to stare at her, he and the boy both. “The townspeople have him in custody, my lady,” the boy said respectfully. “Me, I think it’s what he deserves. I’m tired of people thinking I’m a murderer because of my harp and ring. He desecrated everything we stand for as poets.”
“Idiot,” another man sneered. Older, grizzled even, with a harp. “He had power within his grasp. Why not use it?”
The boy lunged. Rayen intervened between them. “No more of that,” he said. “Get yourselves out of sight. Whether you support what’s happened or not, it is going to become rather unpleasant to be a poet in the coming weeks. You can count on it.” He turned to Rianna. “My dear, we should do the same.”
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Rianna said to him as they departed the crowd.
“Not here,” Rayen said, and steered her out and upstairs.
She did not waste time when they reached the room. “Darien Aldemoor is the man I love, Rayen,” she said. “That’s why I came here. I was looking for him.”
Only a short silence passed. She could not tell if he was surprised. But that lasted only a moment before his gaze softened and he slid an arm around her. “So that’s the secret you’ve been holding close for so long,” he said. “A vagrant poet, and now a fugitive on top of that. My poor Rianna, these past months must have been a nightmare for you.”
Whatever she had expected, it had not been this. It would occur to her later that sympathy is disarming even without surprise, but unexpected sympathy leaves no defense. “Thank you,” was all she could say. She let him embrace her, a firm clasp around the shoulders, chaste and comforting.
At last he stood away from her, and said, “It’s simple, then. What we should do.”
“What?” she said, resisting the impulse to lean against him for comfort.
He took her hand lightly, as if for a dance. “What do you think?” he said. “We have to get him out.”
* * *
AS it turned out, by we, Rayen actually meant only himself … he insisted that she remain behind in the safety of the inn. When Rianna protested that she knew something of weaponry now—even if very little—his response startled her. Before she could react, he hugged her close to him, then pulled away quickly as if he feared his own response.
“You are dear,” he said. “Very dear and brave. But I will not risk you. If anything happens to me, you are to take this money and go. There’s more than enough here to pay for passage.” He set a leather pouch on the bed that looked to contain all he carried upon him.
At this talk of something happening to him, Rianna’s throat went dry. “Why are you doing this for me?”
He touched her cheek. “The less we speak of that, the better,” he said. “Strangely, I seem to be invested in making you happy. Besides,” he grinned, “I’m curious to meet the man who has been so fortunate as to steal your heart.”
With a mix of excitement and trepidation, she watched him go. On the one hand, Darien was so close. But on the other hand, this man was risking his life for her, for another man who was nothing to him. Who was even, in a way, his rival. If anything happens to him, she thought, and let the thought hang there a moment in the deepening night. If anything happened to Rayen, she was responsible.
He had instructed her to sleep, but that was impossible. She curled up in a chair by the window and watched the leisurely passage of the moon. Usually she saw everything by moonlight as imbued with a silver luminescence. Now she saw it as white, cold fingers that drained color from everything they touched. She was alone here. Rayen may not come back, and she might never see Darien again. Hours passed as the moon rose and dipped in the endless sky.
She was standing on a hilltop in that same moonlight, under a black withered tree. All was still, without even the breath of a breeze. But under that tree she saw two figures. One with knife upraised. And one a corpse, blood leaking from a gash in the throat in a stream of black. So black under the moon.
Darien lowered the knife as he looked at her. He said, sadly, “My love. It had to be done.”
She awoke to light—Rayen kindling a lamp in the dark room. Relief and a nameless fear flooded Rianna as she awoke.
“Rianna,” Rayen said, “I have him.”
It was only a dream, Rianna told herself as she turned sharply. She stared a moment, said, “This was the prisoner?”
“It’s not Darien?” Rayen asked.
The blond, slender man Rayen had ostensibly rescued spoke up now. “I told you I wasn’t Darien,” he said. “I told everyone. No one will listen.”
“It’s not Darien,” Rianna said flatly. She did not know what she felt. “Why would they have taken you for him?” she asked the young poet, mildly curious now.
“It’s the ring, I think,” he said with a sigh. “They s
ay Darien Aldemoor’s is a green stone … so is mine.”
“An emerald,” Rianna said. She wondered if she had truly awakened; this felt like a dream of another sort.
“Mine’s not an emerald,” said the poet. “It’s a peridot. Idiot townsfolk can’t tell the difference between shades of green. At least they didn’t take my harp.” He turned to Rayen. “I thank you for rescuing me, good sir, and my lady—wherever your man is, he’s lucky to be cared for by someone such as you. Of course,” he added, “I would expect no less of Darien Aldemoor. Gods preserve his soul.”
A contraction in her, hearing this stranger speak so of Darien. She said, calmly enough, “Rayen, will you help this young man reach the gates and away?”
“I shall,” Rayen said, and pressed her hand. “And then I will return to you.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rayen smiled. “I saved an innocent man. That’s more than enough good deeds for a night’s work. There is no need for you to be sorry.” He escorted the young man from the room as Rianna watched, still unsure what she felt and why the terrible dream she’d just had was still with her, a cold hand against her throat.
She was sitting up waiting for Rayen when he returned. “It was no trouble,” he told her, and sat down with a sigh. “The townsfolk here know nothing of taking prisoners. They were planning to inflict their own sort of justice on him tomorrow, but the poor boy has been spared that.” Rayen began to pull off his boots. “None of it was any trouble, really,” he said. “I am only sorry you are disappointed.”
Watching him intently—every movement so smooth, unthinkingly graceful—Rianna said, “No. If he is not here, that means … maybe that means that he is finding what he wanted to find. I do want that for him, despite everything.”
“All the same, I am sorry,” said Rayen. “Well. We have a long day ahead of us. We should sleep.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rianna, “why Lin would run away from you.” When he was silent, she added, “You have done so much for me.”
The room was dimly lit by a single lamp, but even so she could see the way he studied the air in front of him rather than meet her eyes. At last he said, “Rianna, what you see in me … it is not the whole truth. Lin was right to run away. I drove her away.”
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