Some time later, Edrien was holding a silver branch from the tree in both his hands. Myra had gone. To the whispering air and the singing sea he murmured, “Forgive me, love. I could not do it.”
The next moment, Lin and Darien found themselves on a different cliff overlooking a great wood, just in time to see Valanir fling an arm in front of Rianna and Ned, commanding, “Stay back.”
They saw Marlen writhing on the ground, his face dark and contorted. “No,” Darien said softly, but found that he could not move. Kneeling beside his friend, Marilla had both hands clasped to her mouth.
“Darien,” they heard Rianna say, looking panicked. A dark snood covered her head. She was streaked with dried blood. She looked a horror. “Darien, do as Valanir says.”
“Are you all right?” Darien said. “Gods, Rianna.”
“I’m all right,” she said. Her tremulous smile made her look more like the girl he remembered. “It’s not my blood.”
And then Marlen rose to his feet, suddenly, but it was not Marlen at all. Marlen Humbreleigh was gone, though the man who stood in his place was as tall and also carried a harp.
Valanir Ocune placed himself in the man’s path, sword out. “Hello, Nick,” he said.
CHAPTER
35
NICKON Gerrard’s eyes were aflame, his mark of the Seer blazing—a glow mirrored in the silver light that outlined his form and gleamed from his hair. He seemed to look down on Valanir Ocune from a height. As Valanir advanced toward him, blade extended, the Court Poet suddenly laughed.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “A sword?” Nickon Gerrard muttered something under his breath.
Valanir grunted as the blade twisted in his hands and was wrenched away. As it clattered to the ground, he said, “I¸ too, possess other weapons. I thought to begin honorably.”
“There is no beginning,” said Nickon Gerrard. “Not yet. I have no desire to waste time with you, Valanir. Later, perhaps, there will be a chance to reminisce, in the comfort of the royal dungeons.”
“I know what you want,” said Valanir, and in a voice sternly commanding, he called, “Lin, join yourself with me. You are in danger.”
The Court Poet laughed. “Have you appointed yourself her guardian? Perhaps if you had not spent the past years lounging in the khave houses of Majdara, you would be equipped to save her now.” In a different voice, one that seemed to contain and hold the wind, he cried, “Let the portal be born from within.” His fingers, slender and long-nailed, extended in Lin’s direction.
Lin gasped as she was lifted off her feet into the air. “Lin!” Darien shouted and tried to grasp at her, but she rose higher, out of reach. Her face was dead white as her shirt split open, and they saw that the mark on her chest and belly, intertwining in an endless knot, glowed a dull red. As they watched, it grew brighter, like a sunset that foretold bloodshed.
Lord Gerrard cried, “Let the portal be opened!”
“Gods, no,” said Valanir Ocune with horror.
That was when Lin began to shriek. As if it were a door, the symbol on her torso had split down the middle, and only blackness showed beyond.
Rianna was clawing to break free from Ned. “I’ll kill him,” she was keening as he clasped her around the waist, lifting her above the ground so that she kicked the air. “No,” he said, his face strained and white. “This time you can’t.”
“Fuck you, Seer,” Darien screamed at Valanir. “Do something.”
“I can’t,” said Valanir. His face looked sunken and old. “Lin is the key, and he has her.”
Though Lin’s cries were like repeated stabs of a knife in his chest, Darien Aldemoor felt a sudden peace envelop him. It was an unmistakable sensation, such as he sometimes felt before his very best performances: an absolute sureness of what he did. “Remember this,” he said to Valanir Ocune, and managed a smile. “You carry my fame to all the world.”
Raising his own arms wide, his face turned toward the sky, Darien began to sing the words to a song no poet had sung before.
* * *
ON cliffs above an impossibly blue sea where a silver tree glimmered in the sunlight, Lin and Darien had watched as Myra told Edrien Letrell one last thing.
She said, “The Path has chosen you, highest among poets, to bring back the enchantments of old. But there is a price.”
Edrien was watching the waves. His face was relaxed. “Of course,” he said. “There is always a price.”
“Your life,” said Myra.
“I expected that.”
And then Myra did something neither Darien nor Lin would have expected: she began to sing. Her voice was sweet and true in that emptiness of stone and sky. The song was simple yet strange, its meaning first fluttering near, then eluding comprehension.
Edrien turned to look at her. “You never sang for me before,” he said, when she was done. “I did not know what I missed.”
“I knew better than to sing for an Academy-trained poet,” said Myra with a smile. “You’d have mocked me endlessly.”
“No,” said Edrien. “No, I would not have.”
“That is the song that will return the enchantments to the world,” she said quietly.
“At the cost of my life.”
She bowed her head. “That is not what I wish. I am merely your guide here.”
“I understand,” said Edrien. “And what happens if I—if I choose not to do this?”
“Then you will be expelled from the Path forevermore,” said Myra. “Sent back with a branch from the silver tree as a sign that you traveled the Path and at the last failed in its purpose.”
“A branch to mark my failure.”
“Yes.”
Darien sensed a deep quiet in Lin Amaristoth as she took in these words. He wondered if she was as dazed as he felt. For some moments Edrien Letrell did not speak, and the only sound they heard was that of the waves. No gulls in these skies, no drifting cries upon these waters.
“It would be justice for me to give my life,” said Edrien, finally. “Since I killed you.”
“You didn’t kill me, Edrien,” said Myra, sharply now. “Don’t be a fool.”
“Surely you blamed me.”
Her lips curled in a bitter smile, and her eyes met his: a mixture of hardness and grief there. “I cursed you.”
Then without warning—just as Hassen had left them without warning—Myra disappeared. Edrien was alone on the cliff.
For what seemed like a very long while, he watched the waves. Their song of loss consumed the silence, a continuous refrain. At long last, Edrien gazed up into the sky and, in a firm, clear voice said, “I have chosen.” His shoulders bowed, and it seemed then as if a burden fell upon him.
Edrien Letrell began walking up the cliff and toward the silver tree, where he was to cut the branch that he would bring, still coruscating with its own light, back to the world of men.
* * *
WHEN Darien Aldemoor first began to sing, Ned wondered if it was some trick, some effort to divert Nickon Gerrard’s attention to himself. But he couldn’t imagine what that would accomplish, not when a chasm of black was erupting in Lin’s chest. He could see in Valanir’s eyes that her death was now assured.
Rianna had given up struggling. Her sobs were heartbroken as a child’s. “I hate you,” she murmured.
He hugged her tightly to him. “I can’t let you die. Forgive me.”
Darien’s song had grown louder, and the young poet now seemed to stand tall as a tree; a glow similar to that of Nickon Gerrard emanated from his skin. But while Nickon shone silver like the moon, Darien’s light was like him: golden as the sun. His song became harsh, drowning even Lin’s screams. The Court Poet was now watching with a guarded expression. His arms were upraised toward Lin, and it was clear that he could not stop Darien’s song while his energies were employed in opening the portal.
Suddenly Darien paused in his song, shouted, “Valanir! Be ready.” Then he saw Rianna and smiled. “You’re be
autiful,” he said. “Ned, take care of her.” Lifting his head again to the sky, Darien sang the concluding notes of the song, rounding them off with a thundering crescendo. The light of him became blinding, transforming from golden to white, and then all at once Darien’s legs gave way and he fell. A flash like lightning ripped through the clearing, so for a moment no one could see.
When the light faded, Darien lay on the ground. Rianna gave a wail, then broke free of Ned. “Now is our chance,” she said shakily, tears coursing down her face, her dagger in hand.
Ned was not sure what she meant, but he swiftly drew blade, just in time to see that now Valanir Ocune rose to a great height and glimmered silver. His eyes blazed with rage as he shouted a single word, and in the next moment, Lin Amaristoth crashed to the ground. The mark on her chest had faded to the dull brown of dried blood.
Another intonation from Valanir Ocune, and Nickon Gerrard’s sword jumped from its scabbard and shivered into a thousand glittering pieces. Rianna and Ned immediately closed on the Court Poet, their blades to his neck. Rianna hissed, “Try singing your way out of this.”
Lin sprang to her feet, her eyes wild, her face a corpselike shade of grey. She ran to Darien and knelt at his side. His eyes fluttered, but he could not speak. Clutching at Darien’s head in both her hands, Lin pressed her lips to his. When she let go, Darien smiled with a hint of mischief, looked about to speak. But instead the smile faded, and his eyes grew dim.
“Now to do something about … this,” said Valanir, indicating Lord Gerrard.
But they saw that Rianna and Ned held their blades pressed to Marlen Humbreleigh’s neck as he stood dazed between them. Nickon Gerrard was gone.
CHAPTER
36
VOICES came at him from the dark. It was as if he floated bodiless, could neither see nor feel; he could only hear. At first the voices were a murmur without words. Gradually they sharpened with meaning as Marlen’s awareness swam back to him.
“How will I explain this?” A familiar voice, querulous. “I can’t just say you’re dead!”
“I will be dead.” Another, this one arousing such terror in Marlen that he would have screamed if he could. “You will hold a funeral in which I—that is, at which Lord Humbreleigh, here—will officiate, as my successor.”
“This is too strange, Lord Gerrard.” King Harald, sounding as if the wrong meal had arrived for his dinner. Marlen had always wanted to slap sense into the man.
Light pierced Marlen’s eyelids now. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it did no good: this was really happening. The floor was hard against his back. His limbs seemed frozen in place; he could not even feel them. The vulnerability was as dreadful as the fear. He might as well have been naked.
“You have no choice,” Nickon Gerrard said. “Where are you without me, Harald?”
“You will call me by my rightful title!” said the king, but it was without conviction.
“Ah—he’s awake.” Nickon Gerrard’s voice, smoother now, as if in anticipation. Marlen’s eyelids lifted as of their own accord; he found himself staring up at the Court Poet. Now that Marlen’s faculties were returning, his brain strived to recollect how he came to be here. He remembered woods. Smell of pine, piercing chill of late autumn.
And then, absurdly, it came to him what he had eaten last: bread and cheese that now roiled in him like spoiled stew on a flame.
More: Marilla’s fingers, cool and smooth, threaded through his like a pact. Men’s eyes fixed on him wherever he went, watching. Silent. Willing his downfall, retribution for his crimes.
A night that seemed long ago: Nickon Gerrard’s gaze suddenly turning to the place where Marlen had thought himself concealed. “I will find you.”
“No,” Marlen heard himself say aloud. So he could speak now.
“I regret that you will feel this,” said Nickon Gerrard, and sounded genuinely regretful. When he began to sing, his voice was laden with this unaccustomed melancholy, as if some last reserves of feeling, long dormant, awakened now. The song was wordless, pure melody, an ethereal building in the Court Poet’s dusky voice like the priests’ chants in the Eldest Sanctuary.
Or in the Academy, what seemed an age ago now. A different life.
Marlen began to feel a prickling on his skin, as if someone teased it with a thousand needles. He gritted his teeth. The Court Poet’s song had grown more complex, and stronger, pounding in Marlen’s ears.
So many crimes, people he had betrayed or harmed. Darien. Hassen Styr. Leander Keyen. Master Gelvan. And those were only the ones he knew. Who could say how far the damage rippled outward.
Another memory, recent: Piet, the little weasel, bending in conference with Lin Amaristoth beside a fire one evening. They didn’t know Marlen was there. Piet said, “Marlen—he will pay?” No answer from Lin. Her eyes had caught Marlen’s in that instant, where he stood in the enmeshed shadows of the trees. Dark tunnels her eyes seemed to him, as they had in his dream.
The needles became knives, driving into bone. Marlen gasped. And then they were fires, thousands of them. Tearing through bone, muscle, and the soft places between.
Marlen heard his own voice, shrieking, as if from far away.
How far.
Knives of fire, gutting him. His screams became clogged with vomit, changed to a horrible gagging he could not control.
“Lord Gerrard!” A cry. The king.
Still the song of Nickon Gerrard went on, driving the knives into him and twisting them. Twisting him beyond recognition. Marlen’s vision blurred, began to darken. This must be it, he thought. The end.
He’d compare notes with Darien, when he got there.
Then a shout, words he could not hear. Nickon Gerrard’s song stopped. The last thing Marlen heard was, “Hold!” A woman’s voice, before black took him.
* * *
IN the moments after Darien Aldemoor fell and Nickon Gerrard vanished, Marlen had found himself staring at Rianna’s dagger and Ned’s sword. The memory of her last kill fresh in his mind, he’d said, “I hope we can talk about this.”
He was more dazed than he wanted to let on. Though his body had been taken over by Nickon Gerrard, a corner of his mind was present; he had witnessed everything as if through a headache-inducing mist. He had seen the only man he had ever considered a friend sing away his life, and in that moment a part of Marlen died. Now there is just the moon.
As he stood rigid between the two blades, Marlen’s mind still dwelt on Darien’s face, on his smile just before the light had gone from him. You were always better than I, he told Darien in his mind. I couldn’t stand it. Somehow I should have tried.
Lin wept on Darien’s chest with quiet intensity, her shoulders trembling without a sound. Valanir Ocune came to her and touched her shoulder, but Lin recoiled with unexpected violence. She stared up at him with a frozen face, said, “It should have been you.”
Valanir backed away. “I don’t deny it.” His face was pale, his mark of the Seer still a shimmer of silver. “His name will live on long after the rest of us are gone. All our names will flicker dim before that of Darien Aldemoor.”
Marlen tore his eyes away to focus on his captors. “What say you?” he asked. Behind them, he could see Marilla watching with the ice of hopelessness in her face. Much as she liked violence, he supposed she was unskilled in it. And he certainly would not have recommended confronting these two, who seemed to have a sort of unvoiced death wish between them.
“Marlen,” said Rianna Gelvan, in a voice surprisingly sane considering how she looked just then. Tears were running down her face. “Nickon Gerrard killed my mother. I ask that you look upon your actions and consider what sort of man you wish to be … how you wish to be remembered. It is because of you that one of the brightest of our poets is gone. That my father is imprisoned … or worse.”
It did not seem safe to deny it. Marlen realized he did not wish to anyway. “Are you asking me to help you free your father?”
“I am.”
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“With blades at my throat, how can I refuse?”
Rianna and Ned exchanged glances. They lowered their blades. “I cannot force you,” said Rianna. “I ask you as a man of honor. The man who killed my mother should not have my father too. You set in motion this chain of events … you can still make amends.”
Marlen wondered when the world had become so bizarre a place, with a Galician merchant’s daughter, soaked head to toe in blood, enjoining him to honor. But with solemnity, he nodded. “I accept.”
“But there is more.” Everyone turned to see Lin, still looking white, standing above Darien’s body. “The Red Death is heading towards Tamryllin. We have the enchantments now—we must use them for their true purpose.”
“An anchor against the dark,” said Valanir Ocune, from a song of long ago. Marlen found himself shuddering, though could not have said why. And then he saw the Seer’s gaze was fixed on him.
“What is it?” said Marlen. “I said I’m willing to help. For what it’s worth.”
“I must gather the Seers,” said Valanir crisply, glancing across to Lin, who still would not meet his eyes. “At this moment, Marlen, you pose a danger to all of us. And to yourself.”
* * *
LATER that night, they built a large fire as if to throw into it all their memories of the past day, a day Rianna thought would never stop replaying itself in her mind and would break her heart. Worse: her mind kept twisting to find ways she might have done something different, prevented Darien’s sacrifice while still saving Lin. As Valanir Ocune spoke, words mingling with the solemn roar of the flames, Rianna pressed her head into Ned’s shoulder.
“I have made the arrangements,” Valanir was saying. “At this moment many Seers are joined to me, concealing Marlen Humbreleigh from Nickon Gerrard. But it will take more strength than we have to maintain this for long. We must act.”
Marlen looked weary, but also strangely calm. Marilla was curled into him like a sleepless cat. “So I’m to be the bait,” he said.
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