The Witch Awakening (Book One of the Landers Saga)

by Karen Nilsen

  "Forgive me, but you had just finished trying to strangle me. Manners to a nosy, common wench were the last thing on my mind."

  "Manners are manners--they should be ingrained by now, with all the teaching we had. And you deserved worse than what you got. I meant what I said, Selwyn."

  "I know." He shook his head, took a sip of ale.

  "I don't care much for Dagmar, but you don't hear me insulting her to your face, do you?"

  "No. Dagmar's a good, sensible woman, and . . . I reckon I just didn't realize how serious your intentions were towards Safire."

  "You know now."

  "Dagmar will be happy to hear it. She's been nagging me something terrible the last week." He gave a forced chuckle. "She doesn't let me forget I'm married, that's for certain."

  I refrained from comment. "So, where is Father? At court?"

  "No." Selwyn gulped the last of his ale and poured another glass, splashing it everywhere. "He returned about five days ago and locked himself in his study. All that goes in are bottles of whiskey and messages from our slut cousin Eden, and all that comes out are messages to our slut cousin Eden."

  "Haven't you seen him?"

  "No, just the night he returned. The only one he'll see is the steward."

  "Randel returned with him?" My father’s steward Randel had never stayed at Landers Hall--Father had never spent enough time there to warrant his steward's presence except when Mother had been alive, and then she had brought his meals and such. "He must be staying a month at least."

  "No one knows. We've had several call for him--tenants, Devons's head warehouse clerk, even Sir Cyril, the head of the king’s council. He'll see none of them."

  I shrugged. "Probably best, if he's drunk."

  Selwyn leaned forward over his glass. "I bet," he said quietly. "I bet he would see you."

  "He'll see me next at the end of my sword." My rage lay at the base of my spine, a quiet whip ready to pick up and lash out at a moment's notice. Only when I was with Safire did I forget. I swallowed, my fingernails white where I gripped my mug.

  "Merius, you have to see him."

  "Why, save to kill him?"

  "He's your father, damn it. You're the only one who can talk to him. He has to go back to court. Whitten and I, we can run the estate, but court . . . I wouldn't even know where to start."

  "Ask Eden."

  He sputtered. "If I wanted the particulars of the prince's bedchamber, maybe."

  "I'm serious. He trained her, same as he trained me. Hell, she probably knows more than I do--she always had more of an interest than any of us, and it's easier for her to pry things out of him."

  "I'm not talking to that hussy--she's dragged the Landers name through filth."

  "Suit yourself."

  "Merius, she's a disgrace."

  "I didn't say she isn't. I just said she seems to have a way with Father, if you want someone to talk to him."

  Selwyn shook his head. "It amazes me he's never taken her to task, with how much he's disciplined you, me, and Whitten for tumbling wenches. No honorable man will marry her now--I just don't understand it."

  "He uses her at court."

  "What for? Infecting our rivals with the pox?"

  I looked at him over the rim of my mug. He was right--he really had no idea about court, how to maneuver there. The subtleties, the spying, the manipulations that went on. He would never be able to fathom it, with his simple talents for figuring a column of numbers and keeping the ledgers straight. Court required morbid imagination, shrewd calculation, and constant observation. I had never thought of Father as having an imagination until now, but that was only because it didn't run in the same vein mine did. "Never mind," I said finally.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The inn bed floated on a green sea. Waves crashed over the side, salt spray staining the curtains. I called for Safire, searched the bedclothes, but she was nowhere to be found. The more I searched, the more of them there seemed to be until I lay tangled in sheets, unable to move. A wave rose up, a hideous monster of water, foaming and frothing at the edges as if it were rabid. It rolled towards me with a growing rumble. I yelled but there was no sound over the roar of the water as it hit the bed.

  I awoke in a cold sweat, grasping for my sword. Still half asleep, I continued to search for the sword until I remembered it was in the corner by the door. I had kept it by the bed until a few nights ago, when I had awakened from a jumbled nightmare about Father and the slave traders with my hand on the hilt, ready to swing.

  We had closed the bed curtains earlier, and all was formless dark around me, the air stuffy as if the whole bed had been shut up in a trunk. I flailed around for Safire, but her side was empty.

  There came a muffled choke from the chamber outside the curtains and then a long, low wail and after that another choke. "Safire?" I asked, pushing aside the curtain.

  Moonlight silvered my feet as I swung them down on the floor. I padded around the bed, feeling my way through the shadows. Safire sat huddled on the window seat, her face hidden in her arms. Her back heaved with sobs.

  I touched her shoulder. "Sweetheart?"

  I sat down and put my arms around her. Her hands, damp with tears, crept around my neck, and she buried her face in my shoulder. "What is it? You thinking about your father again?"

  She shook her head. My hand ran over her hair all the way down to the small of her back, over and over. Her sobs grew quieter.

  "Are you sick?"

  "No."

  "What is it then?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "Why not?"

  "It's too horrible . . ." Her words trailed off.

  My stomach knotted. "You have to tell me."

  She choked, caught her breath. "I know," she said finally.

  "What is it, Safire?"

  "Just give me a moment." She shivered, and I wrapped my arms around her.

  "All right." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I think," she started. There was a long silence, then it all came out in a torrent. "I think I'm with Whitten's child . . . Oh God, Merius . . . Merius . . ."

  "Shh, shh. Shh, sweet. It's all right," I said. Obviously, it was not going to be all right, but I could think of nothing else to say. I wasn't thinking at all. My mind had frozen around those words. Whitten's child. A numbness descended on me, a buzzing that grew louder and louder in my ears. "Shh, shh," I heard myself say again, almost as much to quiet my head as to quiet her. "Shh, you'll make yourself sick with crying."

  "I already feel sick." She put her hand to her throat.

  With no clear purpose in mind other than taking some action, any action, I rose and went over to the washstand, where I found a candle. With trembling hands, I lit it from the still warm embers in the fireplace where we had toasted bread earlier. I set it on the washstand before I dropped it. Then I filled the basin with some water, picked up the towel, and carried both over to the window seat. Water splashed out on the cushion as I put it down. I soaked the towel and wrung it out before I slid my hand under her chin and lifted her face. I bathed her hot skin with the cool water, then folded the towel several times and placed it over her eyes and forehead. "Here, hold it there."

  "Oh, that feels nice," she murmured, leaning back against the window. "How do you know to do that?"

  "It's what I do for too much drink--thought it might work for this too."

  "I don't feel so sick." She lowered the towel so she could look at me.

  "If you do again, you can retch in the basin." I glanced at the basin, then quickly glanced away--I wanted to retch myself. I cleared my throat and perched on the window seat, watching her. "Are you certain Whitten is . . . I mean, I thought you didn't remember him touching you," I stammered.

  "I don't. Remember, I mean."

  "Well, then, could it be mine?"

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. "I don't see how, dear heart."

  "Maybe from before I left?"

  "I would have had the quickening by now. Besid
es, I remember bleeding right after you left."

  "If you haven't quickened, then how do you know you're with child? I thought that was how women knew for certain."

  She wiped her eyes with the towel, sniffling. "It is, but there are other signs before the quickening. I've missed two bleedings now, I've been sick in the morning, I've . . . Merius, I just know I am. There's no explaining it."

  "All right, all right." I could think of no more questions to stave off the truth. I got to my feet, my arms crossed, and began to pace. The ice of shock began to melt, replaced by a flame of rage that fed off itself as it grew to a blaze inside. I found my arms shaking as my pace quickened, and my legs carried me in ever tightening circles around the hearth, then around the bed, then around the hearth again. That sot. That sniveling bastard. I’ll drown him in his own ale cask, then run him through for good measure as I dispatch him to hell. How dare he put his drunken hands on her? How dare any man besides me touch her?

  “Merius?” Safire said, her voice ringing in my ears.

  I turned to her in mid pace, so fast that I almost stumbled. “How long have you known about this?”

  “The baby? Little more than a week.”

  “You’ve known the whole time we’ve been here together, and you didn’t say anything?”

  She cringed. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t want it to be true. It’s been like a fairy tale since you came back, and I couldn’t bring myself to ruin that for either of us. We’ve been so happy here. It was foolish of me, but I thought if we stayed here long enough together, without anyone to bother us . . I thought it would go away.”

  “You should have told me, Safire. You should have told me that sniveling bastard touched you. You lied to me about him touching you. Why did you lie to me?”

  “Lie?” Her voice rose. “Lie? Of course I lied. If I had told the truth, you’d have run off and killed him, and then you’d have been arrested and probably hung. You think I want to lose you because some sot put his hands on me?”

  “You should have told me. You should have trusted me.”

  “Of course I trust you--why do you think I’m telling you now? But Merius, I love you. I can’t,” she stammered, “can’t bear for you to see me like this.”

  “See you like this? What do you mean?”

  “You’re the only man who’s ever supposed to touch me, the only man I’ve ever wanted, the only man I would willingly give myself to. I feel so used now, so unclean--I keep taking baths, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help, Merius. The only time I forget is when you’re with me, and even then I get flashes of him sometimes. I don’t remember but for a few flashes, just enough to know what he did. I don’t know how you stand to look at me, now that you know . . . I can hardly stand to see myself in the mirror.” She choked then, her face hidden in her hands.

  The rage crested inside, a fiery wave, the rabid wave in my dream. I strode over to the corner where my sword waited. It was too fine a blade to sit in the corner. I had sharpened it just the other day, and it would slice through that drunkard’s throat as easily as slicing a sheet of parchment. I went to fasten the scabbard to my belt, only to realize I wore no belt. All I wore was a shirt. My hands shook as I found my pants, my belt, my boots, the rage rippling in ever growing waves throughout my entire being now. He would die tonight. And then . . . nothing. Just his death. That had become the sum of all my years of training, of honing my body, of going to battle: Whitten’s death. I could see nothing beyond.

  I felt Safire’s eyes on me, watching as I dressed, as I buckled my sword and dagger to my belt, but I dared not look at her. She would bewitch me if I met her gaze, perhaps weaken my resolve. “There’s coin in my bag, if you need it,” I said, if only to hear the sound of something besides the blood pounding in the veins of my ears.

  “Merius, what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to kill Whitten.”

  “No . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Safire. You should have told me before, as soon as you knew. You lied to me.”

  “I’m sorry. Here . . .” Out of the corner of my vision, I saw her rise and start towards me.

  I whirled on her, and she stumbled back. “Don’t you dare touch me. You’ll use your witch hands again to calm me, and I’ll have none of it.”

  “Don’t you dare leave,” she yelled. “Merius, no, they’ll hang you for this.”

  “Not if I do it right.” I reached for the door latch.

  I finally met her eyes, red-rimmed from tears and wild. “Will you be back?” she asked simply, though it was far from a simple question.

  I heaved a sigh, using my lungs like a bellows to feed the rage within. I had to resist her--she’d tempt me right out of my good intentions. “I don’t know.”

  She stepped towards me. “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. I don’t know. Now leave me be, witch.” I quickly sidestepped through the door, pulling it shut behind me with a bang. I heard her run towards it, struggle with the latch on the other side as I held it firm. I grabbed the key from my pocket and locked the door.

  She immediately started pounding on it, and I tried not to think of the barely healed scars on her arms, the heavy iron hinges and latch cutting at her hands. Another man had claimed her, sired a child in my stead, and I had no idea what to do with her until I killed him.

  “Damn you,” she screamed. “How dare you lock me in here? Merius, please . . .”

  Her cries faded quickly as I pounded down the steps. The innkeeper would let her out soon after someone heard her, but not soon enough for her to follow me. I had to get away.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Shadowfoot carried me through the night. All was silver moonlight and black shadow, the edges of the road and trees as stark as my thoughts. The night felt cool and soft as the touch of Safire’s hands. I heaved a deep breath. That witch. She had me under a spell. The last week had been ecstasy, happiness beyond anything I had ever allowed myself in my dreams or hopes. My whole life since my mother had died seemed endless frustration, pursuing one prize after another: graduating first in my class, practicing at the sword till I dropped, watching Landers Hall like a trained hawk, sitting forever at those deadly dull council meetings, pretending that I gave a damn about court, concentrating on stupid, meaningless details that made my head swim. All this, only to have Father say that I wasn’t trying hard enough, that I had failed him. That I wasn’t earning my place as his son. It had driven me mad. He had driven me mad.

  Then I had met Safire, and he suddenly didn’t matter anymore. All I had to do was take her in my arms to make her happy with me. I recited my poems, the poems I had written in shameful secrecy, and she loved me. I kissed her freckles, and she laughed--and loved me. I handed her my handkerchief, and she cried--and loved me. I pleased her just by being in the same chamber with her. To her, I was Merius. Not Merius of Landers, not Merius, Mordric of Landers’s son. Just Merius. It had been so simple.

  Until tonight. How could she be with another man’s child? My hangdog cousin‘s child, no less. I gripped the reins. She had lied to me, not only in word, but in deed. She had told me she loved me, she had let me touch her, she had lain beside me at night, wife in all ways but name, when all the while she knew she carried another man’s child. I had even asked her outright if he had touched her, and she had said no, knowing it wasn’t true. Why had she done that? If she loved me, she should have been honest. Instead she had put me under her spell, quelled my rage with her witch touch, led me through the gates of a false heaven. I gritted my teeth and touched the hilt of my sword, as if to assure myself it was still there. I pictured the edge of my blade at Whitten’s throat, the beads of blood welling up, crimson against his pasty skin. He would plead for his life--I knew him too well to think he would take his death like a man, deserved though it was--but I would silence him. Then perhaps the world would make sense again.

  I urged Shadowfoot forward. Candlelight from windows warmed the shadow
s of the night. The crossroads tavern, the same tavern where I had met Selwyn earlier today. I raced Shadowfoot through the courtyard and into the stable, stirring up the sweet dust of last year’s hay crop till I sneezed. I dismounted Shadowfoot and clapped his flank, our signal for him to trot into one of the stalls. He found some treasure in the trough and fell to, blissfully unaware that he would carry a fugitive on his back before dawn. I turned from him, toward the stable door and the tavern beyond. Whitten would be here, I was certain of it. He came every night he could, particularly when Father was at Landers Hall so he could escape Father’s scrutiny, the same scrutiny that had dogged my steps since I had first toddled from my mother’s side.

  The common room was blurry when I entered it, so smoky that it obscured all the sharp edges. It reminded me of opening my eyes under water where there were no straight lines and bent light. Vague figures sat at several tables, the skirted shape of Imogene floating through the smoke. I strode toward the back corner. A lone someone hunkered over a tankard at our old table, the same table where we had played cards hundreds of times and shared countless stories and drinks.

  The cloaked man started as I slid on to the bench across from him, then he tossed back his hood. “I didn’t know you had returned, Merius,” Peregrine said and took a sip of his ale.

  I started myself--I had honestly thought he was Whitten, but now that I sat across from him, I had no idea why I had thought that. Peregrine and Whitten looked nothing alike, even when concealed by a cloak--Peregrine had broad shoulders and bulging muscles, a born wrestler. I had never feared facing him at the sword or on the archery range, but he had bested me more than enough at hand-to-hand combat for me to recognize his build even under a cloak.

  “Why are you here?” he asked after a moment‘s silence.

  “Where’s Whitten?” I demanded.

  “He’s your cousin--you tell me.” Peregrine drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. Imogene instantly approached and poured him more ale. Without a word or glance exchanged between Imogene and me, a tankard of my favorite ale appeared at my elbow.