Phoenix Ashes (Book Three of the Landers Saga)

By Karen Nilsen

Book Three of the Landers Saga

An embittered priest. A hidden history of ancient magic, long suppressed. An ambitious noble family with too many secrets. And at the center of it all, a witch artist named Safire . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Nilsen
• Release date: Jul 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452442273

Karen Nilsen

As a child, Karen suffered frequent bouts of insomnia. The only way she could settle into sleep many nights was to imagine stories that played out like movies on the dark ceiling over her bed. Since her mean parents refused to replace the TV after the cat blew it up by peeing on the cord, all Karen had left to entertain herself in the lone wilds of the Minnesota wilderness were books and her own stories. As Karen grew, the stories grew with her. One day when she was fourteen, she told her mother one of these stories for probably the hundredth time. Her mother, who knew Karen very well, turned to her and said, “You know, Karen, you keep talking about these stories, but you never write them down. You keep saying you’re going to write a novel, but I don’t believe that you will.” This comment infuriated Karen so much that she started writing her stories down and hasn’t stopped since.

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PHOENIX ASHES

A Novel by

Karen Nilsen

Copyright 2011 by Karen Nilsen

All rights reserved.

Published by Karen Nilsen at Smashwords

Smashwords edition published 2012

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To all those who suffer from the cruelty of injustice. May every prayer said be another candle flame in the darkness around you.

Torier Province, Northern Cormalen

March, 30 years ago

Spring had come early. Here in the north, men felt blessed to glimpse the dark earth of their fields before the end of March. But this year, the purple and yellow shoots of wild crocuses had poked through the crust of snow in February, and by March, spring danced over the land, strewing sweet-smelling flowers and gentle silvery rains everywhere she went.

Wicked spring, gaudy in her raiment of ripening temptation. He heard her laugh mocking him in the gurgling streams, loosed too early from their cages of ice. If not for the spring's untimely arrival, the young priest might not have fallen.

He had first seen her as he trudged down the lane to his church. He stopped in the middle of the bridge to shed his cloak, cursing the unseasonable warmth, when he heard an exclamation of dismay over the roar of the water flowing in the rocky river bed below. Glancing down, his eyes caught a ripple of copper, bright as fire, that vanished under the surface of water. His breath caught in his throat, long parched for the sweet merriment that seemed to come so readily to other men. But not him. Never him. Orphaned, raised in a strict monastery where to speak out of turn warranted a sharp crack across the knuckles, where to laugh too often and too easily meant a day in the stocks. He should have remembered himself. He should have moved on then, forgotten what he thought he'd seen. But instead, he waited for that mysterious copper flash to reappear, its fire warming his neglected heart, even at the age of twenty-four already withered and tough to survive the perpetual winter of his life.

Finally a burnished head, wet hair sleek as an otter's fur, emerged from the water. She gazed up at him with wild nymph eyes, and he wondered for a bemused instant if she was even human. Then he heard the chatter of her teeth and noticed the shudder of her thin shoulders as she clutched her arms over her chest under the clear water. Nymph--whatever had he been thinking? There were no such heathen creatures in God's blessed land. Not anymore. No, she was as human as he was. And she was cold.

In perhaps the first rush of tenderness he remembered feeling in years, he stumbled down the bank and gestured to her. Staring at him the whole time with those spooky eyes that seemed to see into another realm, she slowly emerged from the water. Naked, her chilled skin pale, she was lovely as that first brave crocus lifting its silken face above the snow to find the warmth of the sun. He threw his cloak around her shoulders, his hands shaking. A burning sap flowed from the base of his spine through his veins, consuming his flesh at the sight of her. When she still shivered after huddling in his cloak for several minutes, he raised his hands to pull the woolen edges tighter about her shoulders. Instead he found his arms around her, his mouth pressed against the soft petals of her parted lips.

By the time they finished, her hair had dried. He lay beside her on his cloak and touched the strands like liquid fire running through his fingers, warming the ice of his skin.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Torier Province, Northern Cormalen

September, 30 years ago

They trysted on the river bank all that summer under the cover of the trees. For the first time, he thought little of the future looming before him. For the first time, he thought little of eternity, little of damnation and salvation. He thought only of when he would see her next and touch the fire in her hair, feel his heart warm at the sound of her merry laughter.

It was their last time together, though he didn't know that yet. It started so innocently. When she knelt on the pebbled shore and cupped her hands under the water, it seemed at first that she merely wanted a drink. Instead, she gazed down, squinting as if she couldn't quite make out her fingers under the sparkling surface. Then her eyes suddenly widened, and she turned toward him, dappled sunlight through the rustling leaves overhead moving over her hair like flames. She looked in a trance, her gaze unblinking as she stared at him. He said her name, but she didn't seem to hear him. Then she began to speak, a singsong cadence not unlike the chants they uttered in church. That was how he knew her words were from the devil, a mockery of all things holy.

I hear her voice in the water, she said, tears glistening down her cheeks.

Whose voice? he prompted.

It's so beautiful, not of this world, like an angel singing. I could follow her anywhere. Finally she blinked. She showed me things.

What things? he asked, a false gentleness to his tone, a sign of his growing horror. He found himself slipping into the pattern of questions he used to interrogate suspected witches. He knew what she was then and cursed himself for not seeing it before.

She straightened, swaying a little on her feet as water dripped from her hands. A mad king diving to his death from a high window. He loses his crown as he falls, his night robe flapping in the wind like bat wings. But they're false wings. They can't save him. Nothing can save him--he's done this to himself.

After hearing such evil blasphemy masquerading as prophesy, what else could he do but confess to his elders and tell all she was a witch?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Torier Province, Northern Cormalen

October, 30 years ago

Not only is she a hellspawn witch, she's lowborn. The head priest of the parish, his superior, stood before the tall window facing the village square. The older man angled his head then to look at him with narrow, appraising eyes. You could be bishop someday, you know--you're intelligent, driven, and you have a gift for spotting witches and warlocks. Why would you throw that away for the likes of her?

The young priest lifted his hands in a futile gesture. I've broken my vows with this woman. I'll never be bishop now. And as for spotting witches and warlocks-- He laughed bitterly. Why didn't I spot the evil in her before this?

Because she's a succubus, intent on seducing you. Even the purest man can break under such an onslaught. But you've redeemed yourself--you testified against her.

What else could I do, after I caught her scrying in the river? He stared at his hands, the same hands that had loved a witch.

He started then, jarred by the older man shaking his arm. Come, it's time, his superior said. You must witness this. If you can watch it without flinching, I'll know that your heart is virtuous again, and all will be forgiven. There will no longer be a blot on your past to stop your rise in the holy orders.

So he followed his superior down the steps to the village square where men had been at work all afternoon hauling bundles of sticks and kindling. The sun started to set, its long beams touching her hair with fire for the last time as they brought her to the stake. Despite the ropes around her arms, the rough handling of the men leading her, she moved with that fluid grace he remembered from the first time he saw her, as agile as a fish in the water. She only stumbled once when one of the men yanked her, and he found the muscles twitching under his skin, twitching to stride forward and help her to her feet. But he couldn't move. Couldn't flinch. His superior watched him too closely, and his whole future rested on his ability to keep still in this moment.

He reminded himself of her wicked words at the stream, how she had fallen into a demon trance. Going through the fire was the only thing that could redeem her heathen soul and allow her salvation. He had betrayed her on the earthly plane to save her on the eternal plane, and he couldn't flinch now. He imagined himself encased in ice, a trick he had learned as a boy at the monastery to keep himself from being noticed. As the men tied her to the stake, she looked at him, her eyes wide and uncomprehending as a wild creature in a trap. It was no matter--she would understand why he had testified against her once her soul reached heaven. She would thank him then.

The flames crackled through the wood, her shrieks echoing against the stones of the square. But ice was in his ears, and he couldn't hear her. Incense rose in sweet clouds from the braziers to cover the roasted meat odor of burning flesh. But ice sheltered him, and all he could smell was the sharp, cold purity of snow. Heat billowed from the inferno, the men around him sweating from it, but all he felt was the cool winter wind. He could see her writhing in the orange glow, but the ice was thick around him, and it seemed like a dream. Thus he witnessed his heart transformed to ash, and he did not flinch.

Silmer Province, Eastern Cormalen

February, 3 years ago

Three peasants, barely past the knobby elbows and blemished skin of adolescence, walked home from the tavern late one February night. It had been a mild winter in Cormalen, and they had their cloak hoods thrown back as they stumbled and guffawed, the moonlight silvery on the brothers Feyril's and Jasper's blond hair. Their friend Odin almost went head over heels in the ditch when Feyril staggered against him.

Damn you, Feyril, Odin slurred, falling on his rump in the lane when Jasper pulled him back from the ditch. Why did you push me?

Lout--never pushed you. What would I do that for--it'd be hell to pull you out of that ditch, big as you are. Feyril swayed on his feet, hiccupping as he stared up at the sky. Sure are a lot of stars.

Both Odin and Jasper sniggered. Thinking about that wench again, brother? She got stars in her eyes? Jasper asked, his voice loud in the night stillness. An owl hooted somewhere close by, but the men didn't heed it. Nor did they hear the answering hoot. Something rustled in the underbrush of the forest looming on the left side of the road, but they didn't hear that either. They were far too busy being young and drunk.

Their merrymaking startled a hare from its hiding place in the bracken. It froze in the middle of the road, ears trembling as it surveyed them with enormous glassy eyes of terror. Would you look at that? Feyril breathed, his low tone finally causing his companions to grow silent. Rare to see 'em out in the cold. Fancy some hare stew, Jasper? Sure be a nice change from wrinkled potatoes and moldy salted pork . . . He trailed off, reaching for his bow. He fitted an arrow to the string and had pulled back when Jasper touched his arm.

Feyril, no--too close to Sullay's land.

Damn him--he ain't even here. He just pretends to hunt here when the mood suits him--his main estate's in a whole n'other province, Jasper.

I know that, but he has gamekeepers here.

Damn them pampered gamekeepers, too--they ain't out in the cold. Most of the animals they guard still below ground anyway. 'Sides, the meat's in the middle of the road, common land, not Sullay's land. Feyril released the arrow. It spoke to his skill that even intoxicated, he managed to kill the hare instantly with a shot to the eye. See that! he whooped. Bet neither of you could do that.

Damn braggart. Jasper's tone was soft, though--he dreamt of the rich scent of their mother's stew. It had been a month or more since they had any game to eat. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. Feyril shambled forward to claim his prize.

Feyril plucked the limp hare up by the back legs and opened his mouth as if to speak. Whatever he meant to say, though, never fell on mortal ears. An arrow flew out of the deep forest and plunged into his throat. His head jerked to the side. Blood, black in the night, ran down his neck as he choked. He fumbled futilely to loosen his cloak fastenings, dropping to his knees before he collapsed, dead on the road.

Jasper let loose a yell of shock and rage and might have joined his brother had Odin not had the sense to drag him into the ditch. There they crouched, hidden, Jasper's breath coming in ragged whistles as he swallowed back sobs.

We don't hold with no poachers here, growled a rough voice from the forest. Take his body home and show all your friends what happens when you rabble dare steal from Sir Sullay's table.

Chapter One -- Mordric

Landers Estate, Silmer Province, Eastern Cormalen

March, 3 years ago

When I arrived at Landers Hall, I went straight to my study and bolted the door. The only one I allowed in was Baldwin, who carried a tray with bread and butter and cold chicken to accompany the water and whiskey already in my desk decanters. Others knocked, but I ignored them, my concentration entirely on the ledgers. Thank God Merius would be resuming his duties soon. The ledgers would be one of the first tasks I assigned him. It was nothing for him to add whole columns of figures in his head with no mistakes, one talent I envied him.

Finally, I sat back in my chair, tossing aside my spectacles before I covered my aching eyes with one hand. I had gotten through one month of both the household and the tenant ledgers. As usual, the addition was fine--Selwyn could be plodding but he was usually precise. There were several outstanding debts from the tenants, however, and Talia, Selwyn's mother, had been spending an atrocious amount for the household. Why the hell did we need new tapestries in the library? Moths had been Selwyn's terse notation. Moths? There had been no sign of moths when I had left several months ago. In the dead of winter no less. Was winter the season for moths? It sounded like a woman's excuse to me. They always bought frivolities the moment your back was turned, then figured out ways to turn those frivolities into necessities so you couldn't argue with them. I'd have to ask her about it. I groaned--Talia's high-pitched whine made my eardrums throb. Maybe Eden could ask her for me.

The thought of Talia and her expensive tastes reminded me that I was hungry. I glanced toward the window. The sky beyond shone a dark blue, the first stars barely visible. The family would be sitting down to dinner soon, if they hadn't already started. I briefly debated summoning Baldwin to bring me some more food. I could put off seeing everyone until tomorrow. After all, Merius and Safire were still in Corcin. But Eden was here. I wouldn't mind seeing her. Maybe I should go down, get all the necessary pleasantries over with.

The problem with the Declans is . . . Selwyn trailed off when I entered the banquet hall. The clinking of silverware ceased, all silent as I took my place at the head of the table. Four pairs of eyes--Selwyn's, Whitten's, Eden's, and Talia's--tracked my progress as I grabbed a hunk of the crusty bread and buttered it, a maid hastily sticking a plate under me to catch the crumbs.

Didn't know you would be joining us--I'll bring your setting, sir, she murmured with a quick curtsy before she scurried away.

Good evening, sir, Eden said finally.

Good evening. Her hair was piled on her head in some impossible way, the topaz combs I had bought her amber gleams in the shadows. She met my gaze then, and we stared at each other for too long before I looked away, pretending to be preoccupied with the maid setting my silverware.

We didn't expect you for dinner, sir, Selwyn stammered.

You should know by now to expect the unexpected, Selwyn. I straightened my napkin and ignored Eden.

He chuckled weakly. Indeed, sir.

Where's Dagmar?

Feeding the baby.

Silly girl--she should have gotten a wet nurse, Talia said.

Mother . . .

Well, she should have. It's a lowborn habit, having your babe hang on you like a bitch with her pups.

I expect Dagmar is being sensible--the best way to space your babes is to nurse them as long as you can. Eden took a dainty bite of bread.

Such is not fit talk for the dinner table, Talia said.

You're the one who mentioned bitches and their pups. Eden tilted her head to the side, her chin propped on one hand as she examined Talia with slitted eyes.

Merius and Safire will be returning in the next few days, I interrupted, having no wish to witness Talia's wrath. Whitten, who had been concentrating on his soup, suddenly straightened, his spoon clattering on the table.

What? Here? Selwyn exclaimed.

At least partly. Merius is going to be at court most of the time, but I have some duties for him here as well.

Will they be living here? Talia's face puckered into a sour expression.

Maybe. Some things would have to change before that happened. I glanced at Whitten, but he was staring straight ahead, his soup forgotten. He was so pale he resembled the flabby underside of a mushroom, his hands shaking. I looked at him with disgust, disgust for him but also for myself--there was time not too long ago I had trembled like that for a shot of whiskey.

This House is crowded as it is, Talia said.

What are you talking about? Eden was on the prowl again and looking to bait someone. We have one whole wing that's closed.

I mean, after Selwyn and Dagmar have more babies, and Whitten marries . . . there'll be no room.

I'll be marrying soon--you can have my chamber then, Eden said, cutting me a glance with those sharp eyes.

Who's marrying you? Talia's voice dropped nastily on the you.

Eden examined her nails. I had several proposals when I was at court. Peregrine of Bara just asked me, for one.

That upstart merchant?

I told him no--he wears too much cologne.

What about the others?

Prince Segar asked me. As for the others, none of your affair.

The prince? Talia snorted. That's a lie.

Eden shrugged. He only asked me to annoy the king, so I told him no too. She looked at the arched ceiling. I bet Safire will want to change the tapestries in here. They seem a little dark for her tastes.

No more new tapestries, I said. We'll let the moths eat the old ones to tatters first.

Safire will have no say-so if they live here. She'd be the youngest wife, Talia said hotly. I know--I was the youngest wife once.

About a hundred years ago, I muttered.

What was that, Mordric?

They'll probably live at Safire and Dagmar's old family house. Safire's too sweet to live here with us cats. Eden smirked.

Speak for yourself, Talia said. And there's nothing sweet about that one. We'll likely suffer another pestilence, seeing as she's a . . .

She's a what? I asked, and the whole table grew quiet.

Merius won't bring her here anyway, Whitten said finally, toneless.

What about Merius? Dagmar bustled into the chamber, patting one last stray hair into place. Selwyn rose and pulled out her chair for her as she glanced around at us expectantly. Good evening, sir, she said to me. A nervous blond, she had twice as much sense as her witch sister but only a quarter of Safire's charm.

He and Safire are returning in the next few days, Selwyn informed her. How's Flavian?

Still colicky. She sighed, then brightened. Next few days? Really? Safire's letter didn't say they were returning now, though . . .

Maybe she didn't know when she wrote it. Mordric just told us.

Dagmar looked in my direction. I trust your journey was pleasant?

I shrugged. The usual. Thank you for asking.

How did Safire look, last you saw her?

Fine.

She shifted to the edge of her chair and put her hands on the table, as if she wanted to ask me for more details but didn't dare.

I thought you said Safire had been ill, Dagmar, Talia remarked.

I did worry she was ill--I could think of no other reason for her long silence . . . Dagmar looked at me.

I shrugged again. She's fine. Seeing from their faces that my answer still would not stem the tide of questions, I continued. Perhaps she was ill when I went to Sarneth, but she was fine on the voyage back, not even sea sick. She and Merius will visit in a few days when his business in Corcin is done, and you can ask her yourself. Then I attacked my soup, damning women and their inability to accept a short answer.

Her letter was rather cryptic--that's why I'm so curious, I suppose.

What news of Sullay? I asked, already knowing the answer, but hoping to distract them from Safire.

He should be rotting in the topmost cell of the prison tower, Eden said sweetly. God, I wanted her, the cat.

I shook myself--my sudden lust was both jarring and inappropriate, considering the setting. Hellfire.

Well, I think you hounding him is an embarrassment, Talia said. At the Casian's party, I had to justify why you involved the magistrate. Really, you're treating him no better than a common pickpocket, and here he is, a respectable merchant. It's disgraceful.

What's disgraceful is his behavior. He's worse than a common pickpocket--he ordered his men to commit murder. Tell your friends that, I retorted.

My gaze fell on Eden. She sawed at her duck with an unladylike vigor, like me wanting this dinner over with as soon as possible. I suddenly saw her as she had been that night in Sarneth, the thin sheen of sweat glistening over her body with a honey glow. Some rogue Landers several generations back had married a vagabond woman, an exotic strain which produced amber eyes here, black hair there, and a darker complexion than was usual among us pale-eyes. It was a rare beauty in Cormalen, well suited to Eden, and perhaps partly explained her popularity at court. She was different from any woman I had known before. She glanced up then, and I quickly lowered my gaze. Damned shameless hussy, for making me think of her the way a man thinks of a favorite courtesan. I remembered the mead taste of her, the seamless way she had moved with me, and a shudder ran through me, under my skin. No, I couldn't do this anymore. It had been nothing. As soon as I summoned my mistress at court, I would forget I had ever thought of Eden in such a scandalous way. There was nothing forbidding me from taking her as a mistress or a wife, but just because a thing was permitted didn't mean it was honorable. She was a woman, not a girl, but too many years still separated us, and she was a distant cousin, a member of my House. Although such unions weren't forbidden, King Arian and his watchdog bishop frowned upon them except for the most obvious marriages of convenience. I'd have to make her see reason.

Sullay is a pompous ass whose stupidity alone should earn him the noose. Mordric's being more than fair to him, Eden said.

A silence fell. Talia relied on small comments to make her cuts, and Eden's frontal assault had finally rendered her speechless, thank God.

Would someone please pass the salt? Dagmar asked, and conversation resumed, sticking to safe, dull topics the rest of dinner.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Whitten followed Baldwin into my chamber. Whitten's shoulders slumped, and he smelled of spirits, likely some of my whiskey. Sot. I straightened in my chair by the hearth and set aside the list of instructions I had been writing to my steward Randel at court.

I didn't offer Whitten a chair, but instead motioned him to stand on the other side of the hearth where I could keep an eye on him.

Leave us, I told Baldwin.

As soon as the door closed, I rose and checked it to be sure the latch was secure. The servants didn't need to hear this. Then I took my seat.

You heard Merius is returning.

He nodded, his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his armpits. I hated not being able to see a man's hands--I had been surprised by a hidden dagger or two in my day.

Stand straight and keep your hands in sight. I'll take no sullen gestures from you.

Yes, sir.

Merius plans to kill you if he sees you.

I expected as much.

If it wouldn't have damaged Safire's reputation and made it impossible for Merius to marry her, I would have had you arrested, castrated, and cast out of the House. That would have been your just due under the law.

But we were married. I really thought I had full rights to her, sir.

She's not an ewe or a cow, Whitten. Even it had been a natural marriage and not the marriage of convenience it was, you still would have been guilty of rape for taking her as she was--unaware, mad, in a stupor. Now, if she had been in her right mind and refused you after a legal and natural marriage, you could have annulled the union. But you still couldn't have forced her, if she was unwilling.

But that's not the law in Sarneth or any other land . . .

We don't live in Sarneth. It doesn't matter if it's the law anyway--no honorable man forces himself on a woman, law or no. I'll not argue with you about this, not when I could take the sword to you myself.

Whitten hunkered down. I didn't mean for . . .

I don't care what you meant, and neither will Merius. I'm giving you a chance, you fool, which is more than you deserve.

A chance? Whitten's pretended ignorance, his primary defense, slipped for a moment, and I heard the anger as his voice cracked.

If you leave now, of your own free will, it would be best for all, including you. If you stay, Merius will challenge you, and I don't need to tell you the outcome of that.

Whitten straightened. That's what you call a chance? You're casting me out of the House . . .

No--not officially. This is best done as quietly as possible. The small muscles in my hand twitched in the direction of my dagger hilt, an instinct so primitive that I had trouble ignoring it. Do you want everyone up and down the east coast knowing you as a brigand and rapist? I managed. Perhaps if I could keep my voice even, I could control my temper. I had to control my temper. If I killed this wretch, here in cold blood . . . better to arrange some kind of accident . . .

What about my betrothal to Cyranea?

Broken, I barked. I sent her father the official letter.

Don't we need that alliance with the Helles Isles?

That he even considered the political implications of his departure surprised me. He had an animal cunning when cornered. There are other ways to make an alliance besides marriage.

But what am I to do?

I stood. Work as a dockhand, if they'll take you.

I can't believe you're casting me out for this. She's naught but a woman, and I did her no permanent harm . . ..

There was a sudden welcome coolness in my hand. My dagger hilt, cold metal that drew away the heat of my rage and turned it to icy resolve inside.

Sir . . . Whitten's voice was distant, barely discernible over the pounding in my ears. Sir? Sir!

He stood frozen for an instant on the far side of the hearth, then lunged behind a chair as I stepped toward him. Craven cur. He had his dagger in its scabbard on his belt but made no move to draw it. I approached slowly, every muscle taut and unyielding as a snake about to strike. His eyes followed me as he shrank behind his coward's shield, his only other movement a slight tremble in his arms and hands. The tension inside tightened unbearably as I rounded the chair. Finally, I uncoiled and sprang towards him. He yelled and knocked the chair over on its side. He tripped on the chair and fell. One of Talia's embroidered cushions went flying and landed on top of Whitten. I bounded over the chair. In my haste, I stabbed the cushion instead of him, cutting a long slash in the fabric when I tried to free my dagger. Feathers exploded from the slash, then floated down in a blinding white haze. I sneezed violently.

God damn it, I swore.

Whitten clambered to his feet and ran for the door. I raced after him, but he was already out in the hall, his boots pounding the floorboards as he went toward the main staircase. I followed partway down the hall, then suddenly stopped, my harsh breathing loud in my ears, a blood red haze obscuring all but what lay directly in front of me. What was I doing? I couldn't kill him here, out where the servants could see. God knew what kind of rumors that would provoke. But I couldn't let him go, either, the sniveling bastard. I wiped my mouth with my hand, my breath still absurdly loud, then sheathed my dagger before I continued down the hall at a normal pace. With each step and each breath, I concentrated on the tension still binding my muscles, much like those stunt men at fairs who concentrated on escaping impossibly knotted ropes. I couldn't spring at him again. I couldn't let the rage take me again. If I had stayed calm, I might have managed to kill him. Instead he had gotten away because I had lost my focus. How many times had I lectured Merius about keeping his focus in a battle? Yet here I had let myself lose control.

I descended the stairs, using each step down as a way to measure my breaths. Breathe in, breathe out. The shadowed front hall was empty. No Whitten here. I took a candlestick from a side table and searched the entire lower floor, even going into the dust-draped chambers of the closed wing. A few servants scuttled past me on missions of their own, only one daring to ask if I needed anything. I silenced him with a look and continued about my business. After an hour, I had to conclude that Whitten had fled the house, which was what I had known all along. The tedium of the search, though, had at least let me find my usual sense of controlled calm.

I trudged back to my chamber. Randel could find Whitten for me. The sot wouldn't get far, maybe even only as far as Calcors. It likely wouldn't take Randel long to find him and then arrange a convenient accident. He was a sot, after all, and sots had accidents all the time. My brother Gaven had been a sot, and look what had happened to him. Galloping his horse past the bridge in the dead of the night and plunging headlong into the river on the way back from the tavern--naturally he had been drunk at the time. He was often drunk. I smiled grimly to myself as I entered my chamber. I righted the chair that Whitten had knocked over, then cleaned up what I could of the cushion. The servants would never miss it. Talia had hundreds of these damned things strewn all over the Hall.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The hour had passed for going to bed. Usually I could sleep here with no concerns--the dreams about Arilea that had haunted me had ended after Safire had exorcised her ghost or whatever insane ritual the witch had performed last July. Perhaps she had sent Arilea to hell--the harpy wouldn't have been content in heaven. The beautiful harpy. Fair of face always, fair of manner when it had suited her.

I sighed and sat on the bed, the bed where we had got Merius and where she had died in childbirth eleven years later. We had got seven children here during my stints home from court, but only Merius had lived. As to why the others had died, no one could say for sure. Bad humors between mother and child, the apothecary had said. A hellspawn curse, the women in the kitchen had muttered. Curse, hell. Unless it was the curse of the anger that had always simmered under our passion for each other. She had resented my long silences, my time at court, my need for solitude. She had complained that I kept myself, even my feeling for her, hidden under a mask. Perhaps, though I wouldn't have called it a mask. A mask implied some dishonest action on my part, and I never hid myself or my feelings--merely I kept myself like a dagger in a scabbard, only to be drawn when needed. I hated the pointless display of men who paraded about with the puffed arrogance of a peacock, all show and no substance. Was that what she had wanted of me? If so, she could have died when she was a hundred years old and still been waiting.

She had flown into several rages over me not letting her stay at court except for a few major parties and balls each year. She had loved being on display and playing at intrigue, but after Merius had been born, such was out of the question. Besides, I had never felt certain that all her flirtations were innocent, especially after Gaven. Now I knew she had only been trying to get my attention with her games, but at the time, I had been a jealous young husband, ready to draw my sword on any suspected paramours.

If she hadn't died when she had, we likely would have come to some other bad end. After all, the anger between us had killed all of our children except Merius, who was too stubborn to be affected by bad humors or whatever the hell the apothecary had called it.

I propped myself against the bolster, tossing aside extra pillows with a curse. Who had put those there? Probably some more of Talia's fussing. She had the tastes of a picky spinster. How dare she mess my chamber? I grabbed the half full bottle of whiskey and drank straight from it, afterwards holding the bottle on my stomach above my belt buckle. The glass was cold through the linen of my shirt.

There came a knock at the door, and Eden slid into the chamber, quickly shutting the door behind her and turning the key in the lock. We considered each other for a long moment, all the thoughts and images I didn't dare contemplate at dinner returning in a flood.

I hoped you were Baldwin--I need more hot water.

You always think I'm a servant. She sauntered forward, her sinuous movement tightening the muscles under my skin. I could spring up and grab her as readily as a man half my age, but I stayed in place and watched, taking short, careful sips of my whiskey.

I'd rather you were a servant.

Why? She perched on the edge of the bed near my knees, a lock of her hair slipping loose from its moorings. I resisted reaching out to fix it.

Because then I could order you to leave.

She put her hand on my leg, just above the knee, her light fingers stroking my skin through my trousers. Warmth spread up my legs and through my body--it was only the whiskey taking effect. That was all.

If you order me to leave, I will. I'm at your command, sir, she said, her voice husky.

Is that so? No, it wasn't just the whiskey. I could only delude myself so far.

Is there anything you'd like me to do? Turn down your sheets, perhaps?

Eden, don't be a fool. My hand brushed her skirt, the velvet warm under my skin, warm from her. She grew still when I ran my fingers down her hip and over the curve of her rear, the crackle of the fire and the whisper of her breathing the only sounds. Her shape reminded me of a well-made violin, generously curved in all the right places.

Whiskey? I offered her the bottle.

She took a swig, steady as a man. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me, sir, plying me with liquor in your bed.

Is that how the prince does it? My hand settled in the bend of her waist, gripping her.

She stiffened under my hand. The prince doesn't seduce me.

That's not what Cyril told me.

That gossipy old maid? You get your news from him?

Cyril has many faults, and complete honesty is one. I told you to mind yourself while I was away, Eden.

I did mind myself.

So why am I still hearing these rumors?

She bridled. You're holding me too tight.

Indeed. I chuckled. The whiskey bottle clunked on the floor as I flipped her down and under me, my movements so quick that she didn't even have the chance to resist. We stared at each other for a long moment, her chest rising and falling, rising and falling against my arm as she tried to catch her breath.

How did you do that? she asked finally, her voice even.

I'll show you sometime.

It takes years of practice with a blade to be that quick.

Perhaps.

The whiskey wasn't corked. It's going all over the floor.

I don't give a damn.

Let me up, Mordric.

When I feel like it.

When will that be?

When you answer some questions.

What if I lie?

You'll be sorry.

Her breath quickened, just enough so I could tell, some bizarre marriage of fear and desire. She probably wasn't even aware of it, but I bet if I touched her now, I'd find her roused. Good God.

What's your first question, sir?

When was the last time you tumbled Prince Segar?

You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

I'll believe you if it's the truth.

February last year, right before Merius met Safire.

You weren't even his mistress then.

Not officially, no.

You expect me to believe that?

I said you wouldn't believe me, but it's the truth.

How can it be the truth? Court rumor has it that you've visited his chamber several times in the last month.

I have visited him--to talk. Nothing more.

Talk? What about the jewelry he gives you?

She swallowed, as if forced by circumstance to say what she said next. Sir, the jewelry's an elaborate sham.

A sham for what?

She swallowed again. Prince Segar doesn't desire me as a woman. He doesn't lust for any woman.

What does he lust for then? Goats?

No. Men. He lusts for other men.

My grip loosened on her. So that's why he . . . I muttered to myself, trailing off as clue after clue slipped into place. How could I have been so blind? I turned my attention back to Eden, shook her a little. Why didn't you say something before?

You believe me?

You should have said something before--you've sense enough to know what this means. I could have used this, Eden.

I know.

So why didn't you say something?

I felt . . . I felt pity for the prince.

Really?

I honestly do pity him, sir.

Right from the bottom of your little scheming heart. I'm sure you do pity him. That wouldn't have stopped you from saying something. I know you.

I can be soft as any other woman, when the mood takes me, she snapped.

Really?

All right--I had an idea I was going to use the information . . .

For what?

To influence you, of course.

I laughed. Vixens who play dangerous games wind up in traps, my dear.

Is this a trap? Her expression was deceptively impassive.

That's your decision. You should have told me about Segar, regardless of our . . . I hesitated, not wanting to call it an affair. That sounded sordid, and it wasn't strictly true. Regardless of our situation, I finished finally. Whether you stay or leave tonight, I'll treat you the same tomorrow.

I sincerely doubt that.

You question my word?

I question your intentions towards me. You say one thing and do another.

Intentions towards you? The scar on my chest shot a warning flare, and I gritted my teeth, savagely ignoring it. I've never misled you about my intentions--I intend to make a proper match for you, some young buck of a nobleman well-connected at court.

So that's how you see me--as your leavings, to be pushed off on a fool when you're through with me. Her even voice held a distinct edge.

You've been spoilt. Other women in your position would be happy for a fine match.

They're docile idiots then, deserving of the idiot husbands you would foist on them. She sat up, tugging her bodice straight.

I propped my elbow on the bolster, chin in hand as I watched her. The scar was a dagger twisting in my chest, and I swallowed back a wince as I spoke. You want to be dishonored?

Only by certain men. And I wouldn't call it dishonor.

Men?

She glanced back at me, her brows arched. Wouldn't you like to know the full list?

You lie--just like you lied about the prince.

I never said an untrue word about the prince. You're the one who made all the jealous assumptions.

I rolled over on my back, hoping the new position would ease the burning in my chest. It didn't. Be glad you haven't seen me in a truly jealous rage, my dear.

Why? Is that a possibility?

No. I snorted. I'm too old to get jealous over a woman, especially some silly girl who can't keep her hands to herself.

Your voice sounds odd, she said abruptly. She touched the edge of my sleeve, ran her hand over my shoulder to my chest, her fingers smooth and cool as the glass of the whiskey bottle through my shirt. I shifted, uncomfortable at the feel of her.

Let me see if I can ease it, she said.

You're not helping, I lied, moving away from her. Not even that witch could help it. I clutched my hand to my chest--the burning had increased tenfold suddenly, an imaginary poker through my heart.

Eden shoved aside my hand and untied my shirt laces. I took a deep breath as she found the bare scar, her touch refreshing as ice water on a burn. I can hardly touch it, it burns so, she said finally.

You touching it is making it worse. Stop.

Nonsense--it already feels cooler.

All right, Eden, you little fool--you've asked for it now. I grabbed her, intending to shake her good, rage a bit, scare her into leaving. But for some reason that move didn't work as I'd hoped. I should have known better than to touch her at all. Her flesh was soft and cool under her frock, her scent the exotic spice of the flowers in the courtyard of a faraway island harem. Such places existed, I knew--I had been in a harem once as a young cavalier. The rich scents and sights had left me almost drunk, as Eden was leaving me drunk now. I wanted her glistening with sweat and tasting of honey mead the way she had that night in Sarneth, her coolness warmed to a screaming heat.

Mad thoughts, the madness of one grown too prudent in a lonely middle age. I had to stop thinking--thinking would get me into trouble. I shook myself, willing myself to take sensible action. I could release her, order her from the chamber. I could do it--I had control. My hands loosened, the words on my tongue as I looked at her. Her eyes glowed, golden cat eyes as she arched to meet my palm. Arilea's eyes had been gray, lustrous and icy in anger. Many men, desiring the endless challenge of the hunt, were fools for arbitrary women with the hard, glittering gaze of hungry winter wolves. Not me. Not anymore. So I kissed Eden and ripped at her laces, only half hearing her laugh, triumphant and apprehensive all at once.

That night, as we both lay awake in the darkness, she said hoarsely, But how do we keep it a secret here?

You go back to your chamber before dawn.

I know that, sir, she retorted. I meant when it happens again and again after that . . .

It's not going to happen again.

I felt the razor of her incredulous look in the dark. Really? she said finally, her hair brushing my arm.

It can't happen again, Eden. It's far from proper.

You sound like Talia.

She and I are from the same generation, I conceded. Perhaps we learned certain standards that aren't taught now.

Eden laughed. Did the same tutor who taught you these standards also teach you bed tricks? If so, I'd say you were taught by a hypocrite.

Be still. My hold tightened on her as if I thought I could get a tighter hold on her tongue as well. Never again. Never. We had to stop this madness.

Yet, when she returned the next night, I didn't tell her no, nor the night after that. The pale ghosts of Arilea I had picked for mistresses had dulled my senses. They had for the most part been in my bed for position or jewels, not because they particularly liked what we did there. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be with a woman who was as sensual as I was, my only reminder for the last eleven years the few good memories I allowed myself of Arilea. When I found myself at the shop of the famous Calcors goldsmith Guillard the next day, paying an outrageous sum for ruby and topaz earrings, I realized I was a middle-aged fool in serious trouble.

Chapter Two -- Safire

Landers Estate, Silmer Province, Eastern Cormalen

March, 3 years ago

To celebrate our return to Cormalen, the House of Landers hosted a feast. As Merius had explained in the carriage this morning, there had been few feasts here the last several years. Mordric ran the House like a military camp, investing any extra coin back in the estate, leaving little for parties. However, even he had to admit that such a spartan course was unwise in the long run if the Landers were to keep their high social standing. Social standing required expensive display of some kind, something more than an unpretentious dinner. Merius's and my wedding, a hasty interlude that had taken less than fifteen minutes in front of an ancient, deaf priest, with a nun and a stonecutter for witnesses, had been a scandal, considering our positions. I barely remembered the ceremony now--both Merius and I had been on edge and ready to return to our honeymoon, which we'd started a good week before the wedding. The wedding had been a necessity, not the grand social occasion it should have been for the only son of a prominent Landers.

Look on this as the feast we should have had on our wedding day, Merius said. He was trying to comfort me as we dressed, but I was having none of it.

I hate feasts, I sulked, tugging at my lacings. The only good feast is one with a dance at the end of it.

There'll be dancing after dinner.

Merius and I had retired to his old chamber to dress ourselves in proper attire. As a man, he could get away with wearing his uniform, in this case the fine king's guard tunic Lord Rankin had presented to him, and still be considered well-dressed. As his wife, however, I was really the one on display, and I had to wear something that would show how wealthy we were without being asses about it. Unfortunately, we had only been wealthy for a week, whenever it was that Merius had set foot on Cormalen soil and officially reclaimed his title, and I hadn't had the time or the inclination to purchase a new wardrobe.

I stared in the mirror. The dress I wore was a frock of dark green satin brocade I had borrowed from my sister Dagmar at the last minute. It had a lovely sheen to it, like moonlight on damp azalea leaves, but the effect was wasted on me. I was too short for it, and the hem trailed on the floor, collecting dust. That wasn't the only problem, however--Dagmar had a long back and willowy build, with no real bosom to get in the way of her frocks draping properly. The only long things about me were my arms and legs. My torso was compact, my bust larger now after giving birth and nursing briefly, and her frock bulged in odd places on me. My eyes twinged at the reminder of giving birth, of Sewell. Of course I wasn't in the mood for a party--why couldn't Merius understand that? And why hadn't he mentioned this feast before today? Probably because he knew advance notice would have given me time to come up with a plausible excuse not to attend. Sneak.

These side laces make me look like a trussed fowl, I wailed, falling on the bed. Dust clouds wafted up, and I began to cough and sneeze.

Safire? Merius sat down on the bed, more dust rising. The servants hadn't been in this chamber in months, evidently. Sweetheart?

I gave a violent sneeze in response, rolling around until I stopped against his thigh. I lay prone, my breath gray from the dust. I couldn't inhale any proper air--the frock was too tight. I sneezed again, this time a trifle resentfully. Why wasn't he sneezing? And why did this always happen when I forgot my handkerchief? Hearing my thought, he leaned over, resting one hand on my rump as he put some white wrinkly mass over my nose. It smelled clean, at any rate, like the lemon water and soap I had washed it in. I blew my nose, which made me feel better.

Thank you, I muttered, wondering if wives of high courtiers ever blew their noses. It didn't seem very ladylike. I don't think I'm ready for this, Merius.

Of course you are.

I don't have the right clothes.

That's easily remedied, now that we have coin again.

It's not that--I don't even know how to pick the right clothes.

You always look nice to me.

That's because you're my husband. You even like my freckles.

What's wrong with your freckles?

They're not ladylike.

Ladylike, he repeated, as if it was a foreign word. I don't understand.

Merius, I can't go downstairs like this.

Sweet . . .

I'll make a fool of the Landers, looking the way I do.

A knock sounded at the door. It's Dagmar, came my sister's muffled voice.

Oh no. I hid my face against my arm.

Come in, Merius said.

No . . . I protested, but she was already through the door.

Safire, what are you doing on the bed? You'll wrinkle your frock . . . gracious, look at the dust. I told the servants to clean this chamber last week. Well, never mind that now . . .

I peeked under my arm, watched her bustle around the chamber, then hid my face again. Safire, I can't help you with your hair if you're on the bed.

I'm not going down, I said to the quilt, only to be rewarded with another sneeze.

What did she say? Dagmar demanded.

She said she's not going down, Merius said, standing up, deserting me. She's upset about her frock. And her freckles.

Traitor, I hissed, peeking under my arm again, but he pretended not to hear me as he buckled his belt.

Not going down? Safire, that's ridiculous--get off the bed.

I stood up, if only to show her how hopeless it was. She gazed at me for a long moment, both eyebrows raised. That looks . . . interesting, she said.

You can say it--it looks horrible. I haven't the figure for it.

She put her hand to her mouth and shook her head, snorting. Then she began to laugh. Silly, you don't have it laced right, she gasped finally.

It's not funny.

Haven't you seen one of these frocks before?

I've been in Sarneth--for almost a year, I said acidly.

Don't be such a twit. Get over here. I can fix it for you.

I went, fuming inside. She lifted my arms as if I were a marionette to be posed, then went to work on my laces. You can't lace one of these by yourself.

That's stupid--what if you don't have an attendant?

This is a fine frock--it's made for women with attendants.

Well, I don't have any, and I don't intend to get any.

You know, those women at court--they all have attendants. She tugged the laces tight, and I realized I wasn't going to breathe the rest of the evening. I had gotten spoiled in Sarneth, with their loose frocks.

I've never had a lady's maid. I wouldn't know what to tell her to do.

You'll learn quick enough.

I'm not going to have one, I insisted. Merius lit his pipe with a hiss of flame. I stared at him, the blue smoke curling around his head, swirling with his quicksilver aura. He hardly ever smoked, and the effect made his uncanny resemblance to Mordric even more pronounced. He moved his hand then and inhaled quickly, the strong spice of fine pipe weed filling the chamber.

We'll need to get a lady's maid for you, he said as if he hadn't heard me when I knew very well that he had.

And what about you? Are you going to have a steward? I mocked, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

Yes. He looked back at me. For the first time, there was no glimpse of the boy he had been in his eyes, no uncertain jest, no reckless bravado. I had just seen a man I didn't know in the mirror, and the sight was so jarring that I turned around to get a better look at him.

Don't move, Dagmar barked, jerking me back around. I can't tie this right if you wiggle.

When she finished, there were smooth curves where there had been bulges. I couldn't breathe, but the effect was marvelous. How did you do it? I twirled for the mirror, trying not to faint.

It laces up lopsided unless you have help . . . goodness, look at the time. You need to fix your hair, Safire. I'll get Fran to help us . . . Dagmar raced from the chamber.

Merius came up behind me and placed his hand in the curve of my waist, his eyes still dark and unreadable in the mirror. We stared at each other in the glass as he took another puff of his pipe. You're beautiful, he said after an eternity.

I'm about to faint.

It doesn't feel too tight. He ran his hand up and then back down my side, his touch so warm I could feel it through the heavy brocade and chemise.

It's not that--it's the way you're looking at me, like you're suddenly a stranger.

A stranger?

Not in a bad way . . . I can't explain it really, except that you seem older somehow. Like I just met the man you'll be in ten years in the mirror. I gazed at our reflections and thought of Undene in Sarneth, perhaps spying on us through the mirror even now. I shuddered. Of course, there were limits to her spying--she could only watch, not listen. And she could only view one place at a time. Besides, she couldn't spend her whole day and night in front of a mirror.

He set aside the pipe and sighed, warm smoke in my hair. Safire, please try to forget about Sarneth. Just for tonight. We're safe here, sweetheart.

And what about Sewell? I whispered. Is he safe?

Shh--remember the note from the abbess?

I nodded. Right before we had left Sarneth, the abbess had snuck a message that she had found Sewell and had him returned to her convent for safekeeping. Mordric and Merius had both thought such a missive would soothe me--and it did, to a point. Just as Merius's promise to find a way to retrieve Sewell soothed me--to a point. At least I knew the abbess and trusted her. A stern yet kind woman, she would see my son was well cared for. But safekeeping--it made him sound like some valuable we had misplaced, instead of a baby who should never have left my arms. I choked over the lump of anguish that always burned in my throat lately, ready to flare up at the least reminder of my loss. Missing Sewell was too large a grief to contemplate--I kept desperately pushing it away, lest it drown me in tears.

Oh no, Merius said, his handkerchief suddenly over my nose again.

I sniffled and swatted away the damp clump of linen. What am I to you--a leaky gutter that just needs some patching? I said.

A grin flitted over Merius's mouth. Now he looked like my young, slapdash husband again. A year ago, it would have bothered me that he could find something to smile about while I shed tears. It didn't bother me anymore, though, not after tasting deep sorrow. I would do anything to wash that bitterness from my mouth, for which laughter and painting and Merius seemed the only elixirs. Thank goodness Merius possessed a mischievous wit--his light heart had saved me more than once when I was in a dark place the last couple weeks. Sometimes the only way I could keep from crying was finding some way to laugh--or something to