Marlen felt the life seep back into his limbs as he sat up. A dream, he thought. Always, he returned to that wood in his dreams—ever since he was a child. But this time had been different.
Shaking free of the thought, he narrowed his gaze on her. “You,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” he said. “You’ve been seeing someone else, haven’t you?”
“I suppose ‘seeing’ is one word for it,” said Marilla, stretching her white arms languidly. “But not one that I’d expect from a poet.”
“Then why are you back?” he asked. “I’ll wager he didn’t keep you in silks and jewels as I do.”
“That, and he seems to have vanished from the city,” said Marilla. Her face was expressionless.
“You know I could turn you out in the streets.”
“You could,” she agreed, and studied the fingernails on her left hand like a leopard surveying its claw.
Marlen wondered why she had told him so readily that she had betrayed him, as she lay in his bed clad only in satin. He wondered if it was a game for her, to see if she could ride the edge of a knife and survive.
But he couldn’t find the fury he would once have felt. All the fire had gone out of him … when?
“It was amusing while it lasted, but he left in a hurry,” Marilla went on, still inspecting one crimson nail. “Probably on account of the girl he loves.”
“Girl?”
Now she looked at him, and her grin revealed all her teeth. “Yes,” she said. “Rianna Gelvan. Think of it, Marlen. She should be easier to find than Darien, knowing nothing of the world. Capture her, and Darien will come out of hiding. He’ll have to.”
“Ned Alterra, then,” said Marlen. He felt inexpressibly weary. “I suppose that was easy pickings for you. And no doubt I’d find him, if I did Rianna Gelvan. Can it be that I know your mind?”
She kept smiling. “You only wish you did.”
He knew that in her way, she might have thought it a gift. Rianna Gelvan, to help him lure Darien to Tamryllin. Ned Alterra, to kill in revenge. Perhaps Marilla wanted that, as punishment for abandoning her? She was right, in truth: he didn’t know her mind. He didn’t even know his own. She had just revealed a betrayal to him, and he could not care. All his thoughts now were shadowed by the walls of that dungeon, the horror he had witnessed there.
In all of Tamryllin, he was the only one who knew.
Looking bored, as if disappointed by his lack of reaction, Marilla extended her long fingers to him. “This came for you.”
Marlen unfolded the message, expecting it to be a summons from the palace. When he saw what it was instead, his blood quickened. “Who brought this?”
“Some hooded man,” she said, and sneered. “That’s the most excitement I’ve seen from you in months.”
* * *
HE was lost in a forest of pillars, malachite and porphyry and marble, arching toward a high ceiling rich with gold. It was massive enough to contain ten of the Court Plaza and was ringed with the sculpted heads of all the kings who had ever ruled in Tamryllin, their flat gazes turned eternally downward as if to keep watch. Though hundreds milled within the walls of the Eldest Sanctuary—priests, pilgrims, and worshippers—the silence was vast as the space. Few spoke above a whisper—and if they did, the articulation was lost in all the vastness, much as a shout would be from the height of a mountain into wind.
Even at noon, the sanctuary was only fitfully illumined by afternoon sunlight that crept through windows far above. It was a place designed to overwhelm, to mystify, favoring shadow over light.
It was with difficulty that Marlen found the place he sought: a bench on the north side of the sanctuary, situated under a painting that depicted the birth of Estarre, emerging a full-figured woman in a gold chariot from the sky. White horses with red eyes and swan’s wings pulled the chariot toward the green earth below. White wolves with red eyes ran ahead of the chariot’s great wheels, tearing with gory relish at the throats of squat black creatures with claws. The emergence of Estarre into the world had banished a slew of demon spirits. From the start, she was a warrior; the full force of her light killed some, drove others mad.
The man waiting beneath the painting with his large hands on his knees. A hood concealed the upper half of his face, while shadows masked the rest.
“My lord,” said the man.
“What did you mean in your message?” said Marlen. “Who are you?”
“No one,” said the man. “But once I was servant to a Galician merchant.”
“What do you want?” said Marlen. “I can’t free him, if that’s what this is about.”
“The crowds here are bigger today than usual,” the man said, as if Marlen hadn’t spoken. “Everyone fears the plague. The king has ordered the gates of Sarmanca shut, with no one permitted to go in or out. But still it comes.”
Marlen edged closer to the man, hoping his imposing height would make the desired impression. “What do you want?”
The other man tilted his head to look up. Now Marlen could see the eyes in the shadow of the hood, unnervingly intense. “Your master is not a man, Marlen Humbreleigh. He keeps his body alive with a rare magic.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Marlen said at once, though he felt his knees go weak. He thought of Nickon Gerrard’s eyes the night he had tortured Hassen.
“See for yourself,” said the man. “It happens at first dark of the moon—I swear it. Just use the passageway behind his chambers—you know the one.”
“How—”
“No one sees a servant. I’ve watched you. I know you make it your business to learn what is hidden. That you’ve used the passageway to spy on your master—perhaps hoping to blackmail him—but saw nothing useful.”
“He’s not my master,” said Marlen.
“You certainly aren’t your own,” said the man. “Yes, I know you are dangerous,” he added as if he had read Marlen’s thoughts. “But we are in the Eldest Sanctuary, where blood spilled angers the gods. And I think if you consider, you’ll know I have helped you today. Now that Dane Beylint is dead, you and I may be the only ones who know.” The man stood. “If he is ever freed, please tell my master—tell Gidyon Gelvan—that Cal did not desert him.”
Before Marlen could think of a response, the man began to run, darting around the nearest pillar and into a crowd of worshippers. Marlen stared after the running man but did not follow, and soon he had vanished into the crowd. Marlen had a feeling “Cal,” whoever he was, would not remain in Tamryllin.
I know you are not the snake, the man had written in his message. Perhaps it was for that, as much as anything, that Marlen let him go.
* * *
ENTERING the palace later that day, Marlen felt as if no one saw him. He had diminished to a cipher, his sword a laughable appendage, a stick he brandished to make himself feel important. Anyone who saw him with Nickon Gerrard would know Marlen was no more than his creature. Marlen may have had the appearance of power, but it was nothing compared to what the Court Poet was capable of.
He stopped a moment to survey the tapestry in the alcove near Nickon Gerrard’s quarters. Now its gold-and-silver-threaded loveliness struck him more than ever. Davyd Dreamweaver, excising the land of enchantments. A legend, yet as real as was Marlen’s own life. But whereas the Dreamweaver would be remembered as a tragic hero, Marlen had some idea how he himself would be remembered.
He was ushered into Nickon Gerrard’s rooms without ceremony. The force of the man’s presence shook him like a wind as he entered the room. The Court Poet appeared years younger, his skin radiant, his bearing upright as a tree. Even his clothes seemed to fit him differently, as if they were filled in once again with the muscled shape of his youth.
Nickon Gerrard did not waste time. “I know what you dreamed last night.”
Marlen tried to conceal his fear. If Nickon Gerrard knew his dreams, what else did
he know?
The Court Poet laughed. “You seem startled,” he said. “You have an assignment, Humbreleigh. You haven’t found Darien Aldemoor—that displeases me. You fled when I was disciplining a treasonous poet. Here is one last chance to prove you can be of use. I don’t think I need tell you your fate if you fail.”
With a bow, Marlen cast his eyes down. “I am at your service.”
“You want the Path?” Sunlight fell upon Nickon Gerrard’s brow, catching the mark of the Seer and silvering his hair. “Lady Amaristoth has been possessed by Edrien Letrell himself. She has the knowledge now. Whether she is aware of it or not.”
“Lin,” said Marlen. I am the key.
The Seer’s smile chilled Marlen as if he were back in the dark wood of his dream. “You will go north to retrieve her for me,” he said. “Don’t imagine you can flee. I will always find you, Marlen Humbreleigh.”
“Flee?” said Marlen, flinging back his hair and standing tall. His voice rang so confident in his own ears that he almost convinced himself. “I am to be Court Poet someday, my Lord Gerrard,” he said. “For that destiny I will gladly return.”
* * *
MARLEN began preparations to leave the city. His orders were to journey north, to a village east of Dynmar, and there to seek a man. How that would lead to Kimbralin Amaristoth, Marlen could only guess.
“I expect you’ll take full advantage of my absence,” he said coldly when he told Marilla of his trip. It was in his mind that he could dispossess her of everything, let her go. There were other women, even if none so fully grasped the roots of him the way she did.
“I could,” Marilla conceded. “There is an alternative, however.”
“Which is?”
They were standing in the corridor of his home; she leaned against the wall like a willing victim. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”
Marlen laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Are you confessing to an interest that doesn’t involve your usual? Because that’s just a bit hard to believe.”
She shrugged. “Women of my class don’t travel much, Marlen,” she said with a touch of wryness. For the first time since he had known her, Marlen thought she sounded almost sane. “If you’re going to northern Eivar, I’d like to come with you.”
Marlen looked at her a moment. She seemed to have dropped her façade, and it unnerved him. Maybe because he’d thought that if one thing in his life was dependable, it was Marilla’s utter inability to behave like a human being. “It will be a hard road,” he said. “You’ll have to keep pace. I won’t be able to hire a carriage for you.” He thought of something. “Can you ride?”
Marilla smiled. “Yes. My parents were farmers.”
“You had parents,” said Marlen. “Well that’s quite enough surprises for one day.”
* * *
DARK of the moon came that same week. Marlen Humbreleigh delayed his journey, citing the need for preparations. He knew, though, that it was a risk.
All that day he’d stayed hidden in the castle gardens, knowing the gates would be barred at night. Though he had a little food to sustain him through the day, he could barely eat it, as if his stomach were a knot. He had a story: if anyone questioned his presence among the hedges and flower beds and elaborate fountains, he would hint there was a lady that interested him in the palace. He even had a name—a silly girl, a lord’s daughter, who’d made eyes at him when he performed at court. But even that story might not be enough; it would be best to evade questioning altogether.
At nightfall Marlen crept to the tapestry of Davyd Dreamweaver outside the Court Poet’s chambers and pushed it aside. The stone protruding from the wall like a small knob looked like a flaw, a curiosity. Until you gripped it and pulled, and the stone turned out to be the handle of a door cut into the wall.
All castles had their secrets—especially those that were very old, and the king’s palace in Tamryllin predated Ellenican rule. The Thracian period of a millennium past had bequeathed architecture and relics long since fallen into disrepair. By now Marlen had discovered such doors everywhere in the castle, which seemed to have escaped the notice of its residents. They were a uniformly thick-headed lot, Marlen thought—except Court Poet Gerrard, who was something else entirely.
Glancing around to be certain no one saw, Marlen pulled the door open. He was unnerved by the sound of it in the quiet of night, stone grating against stone. But no one came, and he was able to duck inside and pull it shut after him, praying no one had seen. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Marlen struck up a flame from tinder and flint. All his previous spy attempts on Nickon Gerrard had been in daylight.
Marshalling his courage, Marlen crept down the dim passage, aware that the night’s silence amplified every sound. The passageway led up a flight of stairs, ending in a tiny window that overlooked Lord Gerrard’s chambers. From inside the room it would have passed for an air duct. And this passageway led to others, which overlooked other rooms in this wing. A man could spend a lifetime exploring the remains of what the Thracians had left behind in this castle alone.
It was close to midnight now. Within the room was silence, and Marlen wondered if Cal had been sent to test his loyalty—if the Court Poet would send someone to kill him in the dark. Marlen rested his hand on his sword hilt.
After what seemed like hours, Marlen saw a light. A candle. Then another. He heard movements, a rustling. His mouth suddenly dry, Marlen quieted his breathing, hardly enough to stir a feather.
A new candle was lit. And another. As if Nickon Gerrard needed the entire room to bear witness.
When the Court Poet finally came into view, the first thing Marlen saw was the cloak—the six-colored cloak that Marlen had once coveted more than anything else in his life. It swept from the Court Poet’s broad shoulders and swirled about him to debonair effect.
Then Marlen saw the mirror that hung before the Court Poet—finest silver, reflecting every detail. He saw that where Nickon Gerrard’s face should have been was a skull, hung with black tendrils of flesh. Only the eyes were alive, whirling with a cold light.
Not a man.
Marlen clamped his hands to his lips. He felt a cold sickness in his stomach all the way down to his knees and then up again, in his throat.
Not here, he bade himself, in frantic silence. He was frozen in place, terrified that the wormlike eyes would catch sight of him in the mirror.
The Court Poet was unstopping a glass bottle of a delicate triangular shape. It was red, its stopper like a false ruby. As Marlen watched, the thing that had been the Court Poet let three drops from the bottle fall onto its black tongue.
The change was nearly immediate: even as the Court Poet stoppered the bottle again, a mask of flesh began gathering across the skull like a mirage of light; and soon it was the handsome face of Nickon Gerrard again, coolly expressionless. He flicked back his cloak in a dramatic gesture, as if preparing to resume a role.
Then suddenly Nickon Gerrard looked directly at the place where Marlen crouched. With calm precision he said, “You know I will find you.”
Marlen jumped back. He drew his sword and leaned against the wall, heaving shallow, desperately quiet breaths. Only after a long time did he realize no one was coming for him. As if he were not a threat. Nickon Gerrard didn’t care what he knew, secure in the knowledge that Marlen was his.
I will find you.
CHAPTER
29
IN his short life, Ned Alterra had already faced many things. He had come within a hairbreadth of being flayed alive, for a start—by a pirate of the east with a sense of humor and a blunt knife. If not for considerable luck and the camaraderie of good men, his head would now be perched atop a pike, grinning eternally over the expanse of the Blood Sea. Along with many others.
Ned recalled ships lined entirely with skulls, although worse were the heads that had not yet finished rotting. Sighting one of those ships in the eastern seas induced terror in even the most stalwart men. There was talk of a pirate qu
een who wore a necklace of snakes and sustained them on a diet of prisoners. The east held dangers undreamed of elsewhere. Ned’s fellow crew members, who had come to seek their fortunes from all parts of the world, had made him aware that this was so.
In such places, Ned thought, even the darkest songs caught in one’s throat. There was too much else.
Yet he thought he’d rather be anywhere, even battling pirates again for his life, than meet the eyes of the woman who sat across from him, her hands in her lap. Despite her demure manner, she was a girl no longer. His heart had constricted in his chest when she told him, in brief, lifeless sentences, about her month in the kitchens of the inn.
My love, he had wanted to say, and then recalled whose love she was. And after all he had seen, all he had learned in the world of blood beyond their borders, still he wanted to weep.
He did not know how long they sat in silence. There had been a great deal of silence between them in the beginning.
“How is it you?” she had said that first day, staring at him around the door. She was bald; he was not prepared for that. Her shoulders heartbreakingly bare and delicate above the blanket she had wrapped about herself. Then her eyes widened with horror. “Ned, please, go,” she said. “Don’t look at me.”
“Who did this to you?” he demanded, even though he knew.
In the end, Ned had been surprised by how easy it was to find her. Lord Amaristoth’s presence in Dynmar was the talk of the tavern, and Ned heard that recently a young girl had come into his care. No one knew who she was and few had actually seen her, save a young seamstress who described her as “sad.”
It was child’s play from that point on to find the room where the lord was staying. It was also too late.
Though Rianna couldn’t talk about what had happened, she did show him the note from Rayen Amaristoth. Ned had felt such an unexpected mix of grief and rage—rage at Rianna, too—that he’d had to leave the room.
When he came back, Rianna was dressed, and looked surprised to see him. “I thought you had gone,” she said. There was a dead quality to her voice.
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