A high fantasy following a young woman's defiance of her culture as she undertakes a dangerous quest to restore her world's lost magic in Ilana C. Myer's Last Song Before Night.
Her name was Kimbralin Amaristoth: sister to a cruel brother, daughter of a hateful family. But that name she has forsworn, and now she is simply Lin, a musician and lyricist of uncommon ability in a land where women are forbidden to answer such callings-a fugitive who must conceal her identity or risk imprisonment and even death.
On the eve of a great festival, Lin learns that an ancient scourge has returned to the land of Eivar, a pandemic both deadly and unnatural. Its resurgence brings with it the memory of an apocalypse that transformed half a continent. Long ago, magic was everywhere, rising from artistic expression-from song, from verse, from stories. But in Eivar, where poets once wove enchantments from their words and harps, the power was lost. Forbidden experiments in blood divination unleashed the plague that is remembered as the Red Death, killing thousands before it was stopped, and Eivar's connection to the Otherworld from which all enchantment flowed, broken.
The Red Death's return can mean only one thing: someone is spilling innocent blood in order to master dark magic. Now poets who thought only to gain fame for their songs face a challenge much greater: galvanized by Valanir Ocune, greatest Seer of the age, Lin and several others set out to reclaim their legacy and reopen the way to the Otherworld-a quest that will test their deepest desires, imperil their lives, and decide the future.
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About the Author
ILANA C. MYER lives in New York City. Under her real name, Ilana Teitelbaum, she has written for The Globe and Mail, the Los Angeles Review of Books, Salon, and The Huffington Post. Previously she was a freelance journalist in Jerusalem for the Jerusalem Post, the Jewish Daily Forward, Time Out Israel, and other publications. Fire Dance is her second novel, following Last Song Before Night.
Read an Excerpt
Last Song Before Night
By Ilana C. Myer
Tom Doherty AssociatesCopyright © 2015 Ilana C. Myer
All rights reserved.
Music drifted up to the window with the scent of jasmine; a harp playing a very old song of summer nights, one Dane knew from childhood. The merchant smiled to himself as he scratched out the last figures in a column, the result of a long evening's work. This was why he liked to work in a room that overlooked the street. Especially now in summer, when the Midsummer Fair brought singers and all manner of entertainers to Tamryllin. But especially singers — Academy-trained poets whose art was the pride of Eivar even now, centuries after their enchantments had been lost. Dane's wife complained of the noise, but that was women for you.
She complained about a lot of things lately, despite the considerable wealth Dane Beylint had hauled to her door in all the years since they were wed. It was tiresome. It was worse than that — it exacerbated Dane's anxiety in what she should have realized was already a tense way of life.
Ships came in, ships went out — you never knew if your fortunes might sink with one of them. Certainly he had insurance, but those agents invariably tried to cheat you in the end. Just a month earlier, Dane had lost a ship on the seas in the far east, an entire cargo of jacquard and spices gone forever to Maia. He was one of the few merchants of Tamryllin bold enough — and with the resources — to send ships to those distant waters, which were said to run red with blood.
Dane didn't believe any such nonsense. He suspected the ships' captains liked to spin tales as a ploy to raise their rates. To say nothing of the insurance agents. But there was no question that it was risky, no question that he — Dane Beylint — was renowned for where he dared send his ships, how much he risked. Between his boldness and his informers at court, Dane kept his wife in silks and pearls, his sons standing to inherit an empire. And his daughter — she would marry well; there was no question of that.
His work for the day done, Dane saw there was an hour's worth of oil left in the study lamps. Rather than call the servant to light his way to bed, Dane paused to consider the black satin cloak, lined with gold brocade, draped across a chair. It had just arrived that day, to his delight. Inwardly he calculated its assembled cost: two sumptuous imported fabrics sewn together, the impeccable tailoring. The gold clasp he'd ordered on impulse, that would glitter at his throat under lamps. Yes, it was costly, but he was to attend the Midsummer Masque at the residence of the Court Poet himself; for that you spared no expense.
More valuable was the mask that Dane now lifted from the desk and set over his face, gazing at himself in the silver-backed mirror that was itself worth a fortune. His eyes looked back at him from within a frame of black, patterned with gold leaf. Even the evening lamplight danced on that gold. An ornamental sword, the hilt and scabbard perfectly matched, would complete the ensemble. He had commissioned the mask and sword from a master craftsman in Majdara; they were just different enough from the traditional Eivarian style that he was certain to stand out. And Dane liked the idea of standing out. He had deliberately not asked his wife to attend the masque with him.
That line of contemplation was a bit too stimulating at this time of night, when he needed to sleep. He had an eye on more than one alluring prospect at court; ladies weary of their arranged marriages and intrigued by a man who was experienced, by all accounts, in the dangers of seas that ran red with blood.
As if divining Dane's thoughts, the singer outside had ended his song of the summertime and now struck up a ribald ballad, its brisk rhythm drastically at odds with the hush of night. Dane couldn't make out the words — it was something about seduction. But then, most of them were.
His informers at court were helpful in these matters — keeping Dane abreast of a prospect's level of interest, of opportunity. Frequently absent husbands, for example, could be a convenience. But that was a frivolous use of his contacts' services; more often, Dane benefited from them in other, more substantial ways. When the king was on the verge of betrothal to his southland queen, years ago, it was Dane who had caught wind of it weeks in advance; who had procured an emerald so fine, so prodigious in size, it was still discussed at court to this day. A gift from the king to his intended bride, set in gold as a pendant for her to wear. Such acts tallied over years could consolidate a man's power, extend his sphere of influence even in a court as harshly glittering as that of the capital.
Dane lowered his mask, felt the warm summer air on his face. An owl called at the window, softly. The song was moving into its last phase, and Dane hoped for his wife's sake that the poet was nearly done. Well, and for his own sake, too. He would be heading to bed and hopefully sleep in just a moment. But first, as he stood at the window and observed the startling edge of the scythe moon, there were things to consider. Or savor.
Days ago, one of his informers had told him of something that was interesting ... singularly interesting. An opportunity, in fact, not likely to arise again. Dane had sent a note to the palace, pressing his advantage. It was precisely through such shrewd stratagems, such creative mechanisms, that he kept his wife in exquisite fashions — not that she would ever appreciate it. His children were ungrateful as well, but then that was all but a given. Luckily, Dane found solace in his work and its rewards. Particularly the rewards.
Silence, now, at the window. It occurred to Dane that the song had cut off abruptly, mid-verse. He wondered if some enraged, sleepless citizen had knocked the poet flat. Dane had a liking for music, and even for poets — brash and arrogant as they were — and so hoped not.
Once again taking note of the moon, the scent of summer jasmine, Dane thought — not for the first time — that if he had not had a family to support, perhaps he too could have been a poet. Wandering from hearth to hearth, composing songs that would make even the most diamond-glimmering of the aristocracy tremble with admiration or lust. His singing voice, he was told, could be impressive when he put effort into it. But poets didn't have families. Even the greatest poet of the age, Valanir Ocune, was said to wander without a home. And such was Dane's nature — forever putting the needs of others before his own.
It was while occupied with this particular thought, this melancholy satisfaction, that Dane heard a new strain of music break the silence. But this was not music such as he had ever heard before. Dissonant, it ripped across the night. Across his soul. And then blackness before his eyes, and then nothing at all.
When Dane awoke, he was bent painfully backward over a hard surface. The room was bright with the glow of candles, the brightness nearly blinding. Dane began to scream.
The man in his line of sight held a knife outstretched. His face a mask of red. Another moment, and Dane realized both who the man was, and that the mask was blood.
"Dane Beylint," the man said and swiped the knife at Dane's throat. Mercifully, it was quick, the main artery of the neck severed at once. Around Dane's now-slackening face, a pool of blood collected into a trough in the table. It was neatly done.
* * *
Lin woke with a gasp. She'd tugged the blanket from Leander and clung to it, though the room was hot. She was shivering.
"For gods' sake, Lin," Leander muttered blearily and made a grab for the blanket. "Give it back."
Her fingers went limp; she let him pull the rough fabric to himself. From the bed she could see the moon, a white grin against the night. Lin shook her head; that was not a helpful metaphor. But the terror that had pierced her lingered.
"What is it?" Leander said now. He must have felt her shivering.
Lin swung her legs out of bed and approached the window. Outside, she could see a back alley, and not much of that. The smell that wafted up from it had induced them to close the window even against the summer breeze. "I heard a scream."
"You were dreaming," said Leander. "Or ... you know what goes on in places like this. Nothing terrible, though."
She was glad he couldn't see her, that his face was still buried in the flat mound that passed for his pillow. Nightmares were certainly not new territory for Lin. She didn't know why this particular one had bitten so deep. Already, the images were fading — the flash of a long knife, candles. But the tortured shriek — that was new. Worse than any nightmare she'd ever had.
"Leander, can I play us a song? Just one?" Lin tried to sound more casual than she felt. The harp was his, and he disliked for her to even touch it. And he had been sleeping.
But perhaps she underestimated his kindness. At times he could be generous. She had cause to know. "You're crazy," he said. In the dimness she saw him stretch his arms wearily. "I could swear you invented a nightmare to get your hands on my harp. One song."
She nodded, stroked the metal strings of the instrument with reverence. In that moment she was so grateful to be in this room and with this harp in her hands that tears pricked her eyes. "That's right," she said. "I'll sing you to sleep again."
* * *
The eyes were watching her. But no — they were hollows, not eyes, cut into the mask that sat on her bedside table in a spill of moonlight. Yet Rianna felt watched as she pressed her ear to the bedroom door. Silence in the hallway.
A stab of guilt in her, briefly, at the sight of the magnificent mask, a gift from the man she was to marry. But then she was on the move again. She cracked the door ajar, smoothly quiet on hinges she had oiled earlier that day with this moment in mind. All that day her thoughts had been arrowing to now, past the toll of midnight when at last she could count on her father's being asleep. Even if he had stayed up very late writing figures in his account books or pacing the carpeted floor of his study, interminably, fueled by wine. A merchant such as Master Gelvan had many cares.
Rianna's father was not one of those men — most often wealthy — who locked their daughters up at night. And for years, she would have laughed at the thought. They would both have laughed. He joked that the seventeen-year-old Rianna was already as sober as the most venerable spinster, obedient almost to a fault.
She slid around the door, stepping carefully in satin slippers. These allowed her to glide on the tiled floor and then on the stairs that led to the rooms below. By night, the interior of the Gelvan house had an eerie way of reflecting moonlight from the white marble of the floors and pillars, of which Master Gelvan was so fond. He'd had the stone shipped from the quarries of the south at considerable expense. Rianna thought her own shadow on the gleaming floor was like a pursuing spirit, felt a shudder.
How Darien would tease her, if he knew.
A thought that was mortifying and alluring at the same time. Her ears drummed to the rhythm of her heart.
It was when she reached the door of Master Gelvan's study that Rianna heard voices. Her father, and one other. Her heart thundered now, but she kept her composure; she still had time to tiptoe past the study door — open only a crack — and escape to the main room and, from there, out to the garden.
"... An itemized note on the body had his name," said the voice that was not her father's. Rianna thought he sounded familiar, and then realized — it was one of their kitchen servants, Cal. "It seems to confirm your suspicion — that there is a connection to the other killings."
"His blood was drained like the others, Callum? You are sure of this?" Master Gelvan's voice, low and urgent.
"I spoke with Master Beylint's servants. It was the same wound. But instead of the streets, Master Beylint was found in his own garden. The night guard is being questioned."
Rianna stood frozen. She clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound of her breath. The murders. An ugliness that had begun in the past year, but always at a distance: bodies found sprawled in the more ramshackle streets, the poorer districts of Tamryllin. Master Gelvan would have concealed the knowledge from her if he could, but the servants talked. The killings were all done the same way: a knife wound to the throat, the blood drained and nowhere to be found. Six there had been so far.
Dane Beylint, the seventh, was a man like her father — a merchant, with close ties to king and court. And not found in the streets. His garden.
"I will go myself, tomorrow, to convey my condolences to the family," said Master Gelvan. "Thank you, Callum, for doing such good work. For the rest — the invitations go out tomorrow. And now I think there are some names we must add to the list."
Rianna crept swiftly past the study and toward the main room. The invitations. Her father was of course referring to the Midsummer Ball that he was to host this year, as he did every year. Everyone in Tamryllin who was of any importance would attend, including the king himself — and his Court Poet, Nickon Gerrard, said to be the most powerful man in Eivar. The entertainment would comprise some of the most skilled performers who had journeyed to Tamryllin for the festival. So it had been every summer for as long as Rianna could remember.
This year was different. Darien would be there, performing, along with his friend Marlen. This year she had her secret to conceal from the world ... at least until the contest was over.
As she turned the handle of the second door she had oiled that day — which led out to the garden — Rianna thought of her father's voice calmly invoking blood and wounds. It was too strange. And Cal ...? With his heavyset frame and mournful eyes, Rianna had often thought he resembled a hound. That was, if hounds spoke of animal innards and turnips and the turnings of the harvest seasons.
What had Master Gelvan's kitchen servant to do with murders? Why was either of them awake so late?
Then the scent of roses enfolded her with the warm summer air, and Rianna almost forgot her disquiet when she caught sight of them waiting at the base of the cherry tree.
* * *
It was a long time since Darien Aldemoor had last broken the law. The last time had been for the same reason, a girl. Marlen had been with him then, too — his friend's much taller frame lending itself, on that occasion, to reaching an inconveniently located gate bolt.
Darien grinned at the memory. His and Marlen's success that night had made them even more a legend among the Academy students, the lady in question a stunning creature who had inspired one of his most admired songs. She had soon afterward married a wealthy lord, as stunning creatures did tend to do. But not before Darien had made her famous, in image if not in name, from the Blood Sea south of Eivar to the bare mountains of the north.
"What are you smiling about, lunatic?" Marlen growled. His dark hair veiled his eyes in the moonlight.
"You," said Darien. "Now hush. We could get stopped here by guards." The street was quiet and steeped in scents of midsummer. Jasmine and honeysuckle twined in starry abundance on walls that sealed the mansions of Tamryllin from the streets. Darien thought sadness was distilled in those scents despite their sweetness, from the knowledge of how short a time they would last.
An odd thought to have while breaking into a rich man's home. Yet such thoughts tended to go to a reservoir in Darien's mind, to the place where songs were born. And then women wondered how he knew about sadness — and loss, and ravaging love — when otherwise a more cheerful person would have been hard to imagine.
A person who was now about to cheerfully commit a crime.
Darien muttered a prayer of thanks to Kiara for the slenderness of the moon. Then: "Follow me," he said, and moved to another tree. A rustling sound told him that Marlen followed, grumbling under his breath.
"Stop complaining," murmured Darien. "We will sing of this later."
"That we will," said Marlen. "If in prison, a tragic ballad. Otherwise, a farce."
Excerpted from Last Song Before Night by Ilana C. Myer. Copyright © 2015 Ilana C. Myer. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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