Elegy (The Magpie Ballads Book 1)

by Vale Aida

  “Yes,” said Savonn, “but not for water.”

  The Empath glanced into his goblet and made a wry face. A serving-girl passed them with a crystal tumbler of wine. He beckoned for a new cup, and held it out to Savonn. Pulse throbbing unheeded in the district of his throat, Emaris watched the bronze rim of the cup brush Savonn’s lip, watched Savonn tip his head back to drain it dry. Something of his furious song seemed to have diffused into his eyes; it burned there, bright and dangerous, like a poisonous flower. “So the rumours are true,” he said. “An empath, and a priest of the Sanctuary. You grow more fascinating every day.”

  “Some are born with fewer than five senses, others with more,” said the nightingale, dismissive. He sounded like a buttered biscuit, Emaris thought hazily: light and smooth and full of air. “Mine is a priceless curse. Marguerit has never had a spy like me, nor will she ever again… It is, I fear, quite a headache.”

  “Literally?” said Savonn. “Or ethically?”

  They were moving gently to the music, not quite touching, but otherwise as close as any other couple around them. “Do not be alarmed,” said the nightingale. “Your heart shames you no more than your haircut—”

  “Thank you.”

  “—and in any case, the human senses will suffice for you. On the lute or on the spinet, your arrogance is unmistakeable.”

  “You have heard me on the lute?” asked Savonn. “Oh, yes. Recently. How did it go? The prince marshals his armies, their thunder fills the sky…”

  “…the lilies fall to kiss the ground, the hoofbeats pass them by. Clever,” said the nightingale, as Emaris caught his breath. “Yes. I was there. I plunged my spear into that man’s black heart and watched the black blood gush out, and then I thought to myself, I must see what his son makes of this. I was not disappointed.”

  He had not troubled to lower his voice. A few heads turned. Then, because he was smiling, they turned away again. After a moment Emaris realised that the pounding in his ears was no drumbeat, but the bellows of his own heart. Savonn’s face did not alter. He had let the Empath lead the dance. They were so close that the feathers of the magpie mask drifted against the nightingale’s red hair; a guttering lamp flickered in the hair’s breadth between their bodies. “I hoped the killer, whoever he was, would have style enough to come to the funeral,” said Savonn. “The elegy was a promise. I pay all my debts, and forgive none owed to me.”

  The man’s laugh was sweet as birdsong. “As do I. You are not the only one with a blood feud, my dear. Perhaps, one of these days, I shall tell you about mine. About what your father did to me and my people.”

  In the eyeholes of his mask, Savonn’s stare was feverish. “You could have fought me at Onaressi.”

  “And by now you would be dead,” said the nightingale. “How dull. How banal. One should conduct such affairs with a little more panache.”

  “I see,” said Savonn, “that we agree on most things.” His voice was half an octave lower than usual. “Whatever shall we do? You wish to kill me, and I return your ardour most fervently. Yet here we are, dancing together in a city under truce.”

  “Have patience,” said the nightingale. “Your mind is made for games. So is mine, and there are many we can play without swords. Have I told you that your mask is beautiful? In my country, we have a folktale about a magpie. I would like to tell it to you.”

  “Go on. Or perhaps, let me guess. Once upon a time, when the world was young—”

  “—and the earth clean and untrodden under the new-made sun, the magpie was a shapeshifter.”

  “The cleverest of all beasts, and the most cunning, and the most guileful?”

  Savonn had matched his voice to the Empath’s, or perhaps the other way around, so it was hard to tell who was speaking. Emaris edged closer still. “He made himself into a squirrel, and fleeced the nuts from the trees. He made himself into a sheep, and lured the flock into the wolves’ jaws. He made himself into an elephant, and tied all the other elephants’ trunks into knots. When the humans tried to catch him, he simply melted away, and thus he reigned a thousand years, a disembodied demon of the wood.”

  “And one day?”

  “One day,” said the Empath, “a travelling minstrel passed through on his way from the city. He had grown very rich, playing for the Queen in the palace all summer. And the magpie peered down from the treetops, and glimpsed the sparkle of treasure in his pockets, and greed touched his heart, the hungry heart that longed to be all beings and possess all possessions.”

  “And I suppose,” said Savonn, “he changed into his bird form, feathers aflutter, to pinch a coin or two.”

  “Yes. But just then, the minstrel sat down on a rock by the wayside to play his lute. And—”

  “That isn’t how it goes,” said Savonn.

  “I have changed the ending,” said the Empath. “Now it goes like this. At the first note, the song struck deep into the magpie’s heart and quivered there like a spear. He fell in love with the music, as all birds must, and never again did he want to be a squirrel, or a sheep, or an elephant. His powers fled from him, and henceforth he could change no more, nor fool no one. And all the beasts of the wood knew him for a trickster, and drove him from their midst.”

  There was a long pause. The spinet fell silent. They had stopped dancing, and Emaris’s hand had grown cold around a plate he did not remember picking up.

  Softly, Savonn said, “I do not fear you, whatever you are.”

  “No,” said the Empath. He took hold of the magpie mask between thumb and forefinger and tugged it loose, letting it fall to the floor. “It is not me that you fear.”

  Under the mask, the rich brown of Savonn’s cheeks was highlighted with a faint, warm pink; and a curl of hair, loosened by the heat of the overcrowded room, was slipping down over his forehead. The Empath held his gaze, but neither of them spoke. Then a trio of laughing dancers in butterfly masks jostled past Emaris, blocking his view, and when they had passed, the nightingale was gone.

  Emaris took a hesitant step forward. But before he had made up his mind whether or not to approach, Hiraen emerged from the crowd, pulling off his lion mask impatiently. He was perspiring, and someone had stuck a battered corsage of wildflowers to his collar. “Are you all right?”

  Savonn’s eyes refocused on Hiraen. Then the heavy, penetrating gaze fell on Emaris, and swept to take in the rest of the hall, as if he was only then remembering where he was.

  “Yes,” he said. “Why would I not be?”

  “Is he…” The muscles moved in Hiraen’s throat. “Not like what you remember?”

  Boggled, Emaris stared. Savonn retrieved his mask from the floor and tied it jauntily over the crown of his head, like a hat. “On the contrary,” he said, “he is exactly as I remember.”

  14

  The rest of the night was a confusion of over-loud music and too-bright lights. Emaris remembered trying to ask an ill-phrased question, only to have Hiraen send him headlong into the many arms of the octopus, who transpired to be an excellent dancer. By the time he untangled himself three songs later, Savonn had downed an entire tankard of summerwine and was cheerful again, if stricken by the tendency to cantillate—loudly, mournfully, and perfectly on key—a variety of gazelle-related verses every time Emaris opened his mouth to speak.

  Soon after, Hiraen retrieved Nikas and bundled them all into a carriage bound for their lodging. Emaris dozed and woke and dozed again, voices flowing over him and melding into the fabric of his muddled dreams. “I will reiterate,” said Nikas, “that the prospect of fighting my former brother-in-arms does not trouble me. If you ordered me to kill him, I would.”

  “Your conscience or lack thereof is not my affair,” said Savonn, each syllable loose and lazy. There was no other sound save the regular clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. Hiraen must have gone back for Daine and the others. “Did you think I hired you to do my killing? How… pedestrian.”

  “Didn’t you?” asked Nikas. “No, I supp
ose not. You had other things in mind.”

  It occurred to Emaris that Nikas was dead sober, and disquietingly, Savonn was not. “And you have performed impeccably in all regards,” said Savonn. “Like the eager hound, leading its hunter to the boar… You may stay to watch the kill, though I cannot promise you a share of the meat.”

  * * *

  Emaris awoke in bed sometime in the late morning, with a blinding headache and an empty bucket on the floor beside him.

  As soon as the world was navigable, he padded out in search of Savonn. They were lodged in a whale of an old warehouse long since converted into a manor, as far from the Saraians as Celisse’s stewards could wrangle. He shared a long, dormitory-like chamber with the boys of his patrol, all of whom were still asleep, while upstairs Savonn and Hiraen had a room of their own. In a stroke of luck, Savonn was alone, reading on the windowsill. As soon as Emaris came in, he laid his book aside and intoned, “O gazelle!”

  The sun in the broad window made it impossible to look directly at him. Head pounding, Emaris sat down delicately on the foot of the bed and addressed the washstand instead. “What was that last night? Why didn’t you tell me you knew the Empath?”

  The keen gaze, not particularly welcoming, played on the side of his face. “I didn’t think it worth mentioning.”

  “You didn’t…? After he nearly killed us on the Pass?”

  “As I recall, you dealt with that admirably,” said Savonn. “We have met. You may be assured he didn’t call himself that back when I knew him. Can you guess what we’re doing tonight?”

  Not to be thwarted by this change of subject, Emaris asked, “How did you meet?” And then, in desperation latching onto the one thing Savonn could not in all decency ignore: “Did my father know him too?”

  Against the light, Savonn’s face was lost in shadow, but Emaris fancied his voice grew a little softer. “The Empath did not kill your father. Of that I am certain. He seems to have killed mine, a definite complication, but not a fatal one… You haven’t answered my question.”

  “What?” said Emaris, squinting at him. “What are we doing? Fire-setting? Choir-mustering? Tightrope-walking?”

  “We,” said Savonn, sliding off the windowsill, “are going to see a play. Namely because Nikas has it on good authority that his lordship Isemain, Marshal of Sarei, is going to see a play. How odd. He doesn’t strike me as much of a thespian.” He paused, studying Emaris. “But if that is too tame, I could always teach you how to swallow a sword.”

  “No, thank you,” said Emaris, easing himself back to his feet. He needed to take something for his head. “I have no wish to swallow your sword.”

  Savonn’s eyes grew round with mockery. “Why, perverse child, did I say it had to be mine?”

  Emaris flushed hot to the bone. “Shut up,” he said, and fled from the room.

  * * *

  Sundown found him squashed between Savonn and Hiraen in the House of Charissos, Astorre’s Falwynian-speaking theatre. His headache was gone: a small mercy, considering how crowded and noisy it was. The theatre was much smaller than the Arena of White Sand back in Cassarah, but grander—roofed in gold like Vion had promised, the walls stuccoed, the floor carpeted in plush red, the benches strewn with silver cushions. Technically, it was a full house, but Savonn knew someone who knew someone who knew someone else, and by some miracle they had been offered three seats in one of the topmost circles. Far below, the heads in the front rows were like little coloured dots. “Where are the Saraians?” asked Emaris. “And why are they attending a Falwynian play?”

  “I think that’s them,” said Hiraen. “Five rows down, a bit to the left.”

  Emaris saw the Marshal at once. Tall as he was, with his short dark hair and wolfish eyes, he was hard to miss. With him were two women and a man, all of whom treated him with obvious deference. Emaris scanned the benches for a glint of auburn, but saw none. Hiraen seemed to be thinking the same thing. He glanced across Emaris to Savonn. “Where’s your friend?”

  Savonn shrugged, apparently in one of his uncommunicative moods. “Define your terms. Or just be quiet. It’s starting.”

  The black curtain was rising over the stage, sending the audience into a deep hush. The set was made up like the deck of an ancient trireme, complete with mast, sails, stern and bow, with a chorus of sailors arrayed on deck. A harp chinkled, and they began to sing.

  “Oh, gods,” said Emaris with faint alarm, halfway through the first verse.

  “The Lay of Evenfall,” said Savonn, recognising the song at the same time Emaris did. He gave Hiraen a cold look. It was like being wedged between a hammer and an anvil. “You said it was The Foamriders.”

  “Nikas said it was The Foamriders,” Hiraen corrected. “It’s not too late to walk out.”

  But Savonn did not move. The chorus sang of the twelve ships that had arrived in the Bay of Diamonds a thousand years ago, masts streaming, pennants shining, the only remnant of the great colonist fleet that had set out from the ancient Kerani empire. The curtain fell, and rose again on a backdrop of hedges and trees, and two men came on from opposite sides of the stage: one with a circlet and flowing golden hair, the other dark-haired and sombre and dressed in mail. “Ederen, brother of my soul,” said the blond one. “How good it is to see you without the deck pitching under our feet. How fares Cassarah, your city by the river?”

  (“Vayan Herrines,” Hiraen explained. “Leader of the exiles and the first King of Falwyn.”)

  This high up, they could barely make out the actors’ faces. “Well indeed, Your Grace,” said the man playing Ederen Andalle, Savonn’s distant and much-disliked ancestor. “I have been warring and slaughtering and amassing great numbers of slaves. They are building me a palace as we speak, a palace on an isle in the Morivant that will dwarf all the world.”

  “A palace!” Vayan exclaimed. “So the drifter has found a home. And what of marriage? You know my daughter Cleole has long had her eyes on you.”

  Cleole came up on stage and danced, trailing an impressive dress train of white silk behind her. Predictably, Ederen was stricken at first sight. There were dramatic proclamations, and a kiss, and the curtain fell and rose again on a wedding banquet. More dancing. Then, as the stage lights were trimmed and the happy couple prepared to retire, an cymbal smashed, and all the lights came on again. The King was going to die.

  In Cassarah they still did plays the old way. No one ever died on stage, lest the audience’s sensibilities were offended. The Astorrians had no such qualms. King Vayan fell down dead at the banquet table with a great crash of dishes, hands clutching his throat, painted apples jouncing across the stage to roll under the benches of the front row. The wine had been poisoned. A herald ran up, prostrated himself centrestage before the startled guests, and announced, huffing, that the Crown Prince Ismil had been caught trying to flee.

  The chorus singers tore their robes and fell on their faces. Cleole and Ederen wept, putting on a convincing show of heartfelt grief. Ismil Herrines—as blond as his father—stormed on stage to plead his innocence, to no avail. The Queen, unable to face the prospect of executing her own son, sent him into exile instead, and more wailing and hand-wringing ensued. Prince Ismil lamented extravagantly on a harp. The actor’s voice was sweet and smoky, his skill considerable. Emaris turned to tell Savonn so, and then found with a shock that the seat to his left was empty.

  He whispered, “Hiraen!”

  Hiraen looked over, and rolled his eyes. “Again? Let him be.”

  The trireme made another appearance. Ismil was on a ship on the storm-tossed sea, working his passage as a deckhand with his shining hair tucked beneath a hood. The Queen died of a sudden illness, and against the backdrop of a great golden palace (“Evenfall,” Hiraen explained) Cleole wept. Servants crooned as they fanned her, and Ederen stared broodingly into the distance. “Alas for my dearest friends!” he cried. “With your mother and father dead, and your brother in exile, the throne passes now to you, my love.”


  “Woe!” cried Cleole, beating her breast. “To think that such a burden should come to me!”

  The lights dimmed, the servants departed, and she and Ederen exchanged secret smiles.

  Up and down the curtain went. Ederen and Cleole ruled from twin thrones in Evenfall. Ismil wandered through village after village, rallying the people to depose their false rulers with hymns to Casteia, the goddess of war. A battle was fought, mostly offstage. Emaris’s father had once brought him and Shandei backstage during a play, so they could see how the sound effects were made and reassure themselves that no one had actually died. Finally a flute began to whistle, accompanied by an ominous drumbeat, and Ismil barged fully armed into the throne room at Evenfall for the final confrontation.

  His hair gleamed. His voice vibrated with righteous anger. “Begone, false king! Begone, trickster and liesmith, transmuter of truth into falsehood!”

  (“Oh,” said Hiraen. “They changed the script.”)

  Cleole had long fled with her infant children, a historical fact for which Emaris supposed Savonn was grateful. Ederen remained alone on his throne, sword laid bare over his knees. “I have won my crown with steel and blood, and I will never yield it to such as you.”

  “But I have come,” said Ismil, “with steel and blood of my own.”

  They came together in a whirl of blades. Even from this distance it was plain from the footwork that both actors were trained swordsmen. The one playing Ismil was particularly good, leaping with catlike grace around the bejewelled throne, knocking down hangings and ornaments on his foe’s head with deft slashes of his prop sword. It was a short fight, but expertly choreographed. With a feint and lunge, Ismil drew his blade in a flashing arc across Ederen’s throat, and the false king toppled at his vanquisher’s feet with a spray of fake blood from some mechanism Emaris could not see. The audience cheered.