Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  “Eden, you can lie, but I know him. He’s a dishonorable reprobate.”

  “He’s used some of the information I’ve given him, information I gained mainly from eavesdropping and mild flirtations--he‘d be a fool not to use it. As for my other activities, he disciplined me for my lapses until I was of age, which is more than most distant cousins would do. After I reached my majority, he had little say in the matter . . .”

  “Like hell he didn’t . . .”

  “He’s not my guardian, Merius. He could have cast me out of the House but there’s little else he could have threatened me with to stop me. Until lately, he seemed to have resigned himself to the fact I wouldn’t let myself be sold on the marriage market like chattel.”

  I gave a derisive snort, deliberately prodding her into anger. She did have a temper burning under that cool exterior, and I wanted to see what she would say when her guard was down. “What’s the difference between being chattel on the marriage market and chattel in the prince’s bed?”

  “At least I’m the one who’s doing the selling in the latter case,” she spat.

  “So, what’s happened lately?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said Father had resigned himself to you whoring yourself out at court--what’s changed? Is he no longer so resigned?”

  “Your damned witch, that’s what’s changed. She saved his life, and now he’s reformed and wants to reform the rest of us.”

  I sat bolt upright. “She didn’t save his life--she merely pulled the dagger from the wound.”

  Eden leaned forward, her voice low and triumphant. “I saw the scar, Merius. A scar like that doesn’t lie--he should be dead.”

  “How?” I demanded. “How did you see that scar?”

  “He had a fit in the carriage one night, like his heart was seizing. I pulled open his shirt, and that scar was burning hot and orange like a brand. And you try to tell me the queen isn’t interested in Safire?”

  I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly bone dry and metallic tasting. “She doesn’t know anything about that.”

  “Then why does she want to find your witch so desperately? Some other talent you’re not telling anyone about?”

  “I told you, she’s interested in me, not Safire.”

  “All right, cousin.” She leaned back in her chair, draining the last of her wine. “Lie all you like. It’s your skin, not mine. If you’re too stubborn to take the protection of your name and your father’s lineage, that’s none of my affair. It may just be me, but I’d rather have Mordric breathing down my neck than Queen Jazmene any day.” She rose and retrieved her cloak from the back of her chair.

  I stood. I didn’t trust Eden, but we had fought and played together as children--the only Landers girl of our generation, she had been something of a tomboy, racing around with us in mock battles behind Landers Hall and riding barefoot down to the shore on our ponies. I liked her well enough. It was a shame--she was far cleverer than either Selwyn or Whitten, and they had more say in the fate of her share of the Landers fortune than she did.

  As she made her way to the door, I reached for her sleeve. She turned, her eyes catching the candle flame in a flash of amber. “Eden, why are you doing this for him? It wouldn‘t help your position, if I returned--he‘d have me in the middle of all these intrigues and errands you seem to enjoy so much.”

  She half smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  I gripped her arm. “He’s the sort of man who commands loyalty, sometimes undeserved on his part. But you don’t owe him that--you’re not closely enough tied by blood to sacrifice yourself for him. And it could come to that, you know.”

  “I’m not loyal to him because of blood,” she said, that odd half smile still playing on her lips. “You really are the old-fashioned gallant, swooping in to protect the soiled dove of the family. And you don’t even trust me. Watch your witch, Merius--it’s well you found such a good woman to guard your innocence before it got spoiled.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’m far from innocent,” I scoffed.

  She leaned up and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Farewell, cousin.”

  “Farewell. And next you see Prince Segar, tell him Princess Esme may come at a higher price than Cormalen can afford.”

  “Really.” Her eyes became thoughtful slits.

  “You saw the queen’s private chamber?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Take a look in the armory next you visit the palace. Rusty spear heads and helmets while she dines off golden plates.”

  “How interesting. Thank you, Merius--I can think of several who‘ll benefit from that tidbit.” And with that, she opened the door and left. I closed it behind her and leaned against it a minute, collecting my thoughts. Then I corked the wine, snuffed the candle, and headed into the bedchamber. Before I climbed into bed for a few hours’ sleep, I caressed the single silky bloom on the orchid I had given Safire. My hand came away smelling of it, a deep purple sweetness that made me think of her. I grabbed her pillow and embraced it as I drifted off to sleep, missing her even more fiercely now that I had briefly seen and touched her.

  Chapter Eleven--Mordric

  King Arian’s private chambers were even more austere than I remembered them, with unadorned oaken furniture and bare walls save for a few tapestries to stop the drafts. The tapestries featured scenes from the scroll of Loree, an early religious text that detailed God’s banishment of the old ones and their heathen practices when our ancestors had conquered Cormalen. Arian likely fancied himself one of the conquerors, burning witches and warlocks with a sorrowful self-righteousness. Men like him would see the whole world purified to naught but ashes in the wind until all aligned all with their narrow vision. Blind piety could be far more ruthless than blood lust.

  “Like a monk’s cell,” I whispered to Cyril as we waited for His Majesty. He nodded, glancing up at the vaulted ceilings as if he expected a lightning bolt to smite us.

  King Arian entered from a side door, limping a little, his knees likely stiff from too much kneeling and praying. A tall, gaunt man, he looked perpetually tired and worried, as if he‘d taken the sins of the nation on his shoulders. He curtly dismissed the two guards who followed him, then turned to us. We bowed.

  “Mordric, Cyril,” he acknowledged. “You may sit.”

  We took the most comfortable chairs we could find, two straight-backed affairs with lumpy leather cushions. Some fine ale, cheese, and salt bread appeared on a table nearby, brought by a steward who silently melted back into the shadows.

  “I have a matter to discuss with you,” Arian said abruptly, as if he had forgotten the proper court procedure. He may have forgotten, at that. He let Segar run the day-to-day affairs of the court, rarely sitting on council except for the most important votes. He called it part of Segar’s training, but I knew the excuse well--it was the same excuse I had used to get Merius to perform the more mundane of my duties for me.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” Cyril straightened.

  “I summoned you here because you’re my two highest noble councilors, and you’re not afraid of my son.”

  “Your Majesty?” Cyril repeated, like he thought the king had taken leave of his senses.

  “My scapegrace son Segar.” As if we could forget the prince was his son. “You influence him without being influenced in return, and I value that. So many of these minor noblemen and these damnable merchants hang on his every word, as if he can grant everyone of them a fief when I die.”

  Cyril and I glanced at each other. The king was not so lost in prayer as we had thought. “We’re his two main advisors, Your Majesty. We have to look beyond our own political gain if we are to advise him properly. Oft times, as you know, advisors must be willing to break bad tidings and stand firm against the wrath that follows,” I said.

  “Just what I said.” Arian sounded irritated as he brushed a few salt bread crumbs from his lap. “Segar may look a man, but he still pla
ys the defiant stripling. Did you hear his idiocy during that unfortunate incident with the Norland witch, that we should excommunicate her instead of burn her? He knows better--he only said it to goad me.”

  “Young men live to irk their fathers, Your Majesty. He’ll grow out of it,” I said.

  “Before he makes a foolish marriage?” Arian turned gimlet eyes on me.

  Oh hell--best to distract him from Merius and Safire as soon as possible. “Speaking of foolish marriages, if Queen Jazmene has her way, that heathen Prince Tivon will wed Esme ere spring,” I said. Cyril raised one bristling brow at the word heathen. Heathen was a compliment coming from an old heretic like me. But King Arian didn’t know I was a heretic--my lip service had never been flagrant enough to attract attention. I was a quiet, self-aware hypocrite, the most dangerous kind.

  “That wretched Jazmene would see the whole of Sarneth converted to barbarism,” King Arian spat, frothing at the mention of heathens. “She’s already corrupted the city of Midmarch, Sarneth‘s rotten hub of a capitol--the court crawls with vagabond fiddlers, apostate priests, and other unsavory ilk because of her. Do you know they no longer perform excommunications for blasphemy? They allow the blasphemers to yell in the main square until their voices give out. And no burning of convicted witches, either. Next she’ll welcome them at court with open arms. Sarneth will become a haven for the devil and his arts.”

  “You’re right, Your Majesty. They haven’t burned witches in the city of Midmarch for a long while,” Cyril observed blandly. “Are we certain that we want an alliance with Sarneth, given their poor morals and wicked queen?”

  “If we abandon Sarneth now and let Jazmene have her way, that would be a sin,” I said with quiet reproach.

  “A sin? A sin!” King Arian roared. “Gentlemen, it would be an abomination for us to let our Sarneth brothers slide further into the muck of ignorance and vice.”

  “Well said, Your Majesty,” Cyril said, even his false flattery straightforward and to the point. “We can’t let Esme marry that barbarian heathen.”

  “Not only would Cormalen lose the marriage alliance with Esme, but think of all the souls she takes with her. The souls of Sarneth’s fighting men turned barbarian, their arms in service to a heathen prince,” I added.

  King Arian’s face went ruddy. The chamber fell silent for a moment as he drew a long, shuddering breath. I worried that he would expire then and there of an apoplectic fit, like Safire‘s father in his last rage.

  “Mordric, Cyril,” Arian said finally, his voice sounding strangled, “One of you must go to Sarneth and negotiate the betrothal between Segar and Esme for me before that heathen Tivon claims her.”

  “Isn’t Rankin already negotiating with Queen Jazmene and King Rainier for Esme‘s hand?”

  “Yes, but there have been delays. Rankin, you see, has his ambassadorship at the whim of my son, and he dare not oppose him.”

  “But I thought His Highness Segar understood the need to marry Esme . . .” Cyril trailed off.

  “He’s dragging his heels on the matter, more to annoy me that anything else. We’ll lose the chance, though, through delay.”

  “I agree, Your Majesty. Time is of the essence.” I glanced at Cyril, recalling our conversation about the difficulty--and necessity--of securing the marriage between Esme and Segar. Cyril appeared in a daze, as if he couldn’t quite believe we had managed to manipulate King Arian to do what we wanted so quickly. I could--King Arian was easy to manipulate. Just mentioning heathens had been enough. Unfortunately Queen Jazmene and King Rainier would not be so easily swayed.

  “I think Mordric should go,” Cyril said, his voice flat. “He’s been at the Sarneth court more than I have.”

  “I agree,” King Arian said. “Besides, Merius is in Rankin’s household--it seems natural that you would travel to Sarneth to see your son.” Arian paused, as if expecting me to blather a rebuttal of all the court gossip about my rift with my only son and heir.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I suppose it does.” I smiled with gritted teeth. Damn Merius--I’d like to ship him back to Cormalen chained to an oar in the hold of a becalmed ship, his witch beside him. “I could be in Sarneth for awhile,” I continued, “and I have a small favor to ask in return for me carrying out my mission.”

  “Yes?” Arian looked expectant.

  “Holding my council seat for me is a given, but I’d also request that you continue to hold Merius’s for him.”

  “Is he returning to the council then, when his term of service with Rankin is over?”

  “Yes.” In one word, I staked my honor on my impossible son. I almost repeated it, so bemused was I at hearing myself say it, the devil be damned.

  Cyril came out of his daze long enough to give me a sharp look. He knew more than most about my falling out with Merius, and he had his own doubts. But he wisely held his tongue--he wanted Merius back on the council almost as much as I did.

  “I’ve had bids for that council seat, Mordric . . .” Arian started, obviously having his own doubts about Merius’s return.

  “I can’t go to Sarneth unless I know the Landers’s position is protected while I’m away.”

  “I’m head of council, Your Majesty, and I agree with Mordric. We need Merius’s seat held for his return. The last thing I want is some debt-ridden sparrow nobleman sitting there or God forbid, a merchant, dreaming of the offices and fiefs Prince Segar can grant him.” Sometimes Cyril’s forthrightness hit the mark, and he managed to say just the right thing at the right time.

  “All right,” Arian said, nightmare visions of debauched, heretic merchants taking over Cormalen in his haunted gaze. “All right. Consider Merius’s seat held. I won’t forget this, Mordric. If he doesn’t return . . .”

  “He’ll return, Your Majesty.” I don’t know how, but I’ll get him back here if I have to drag him.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I pushed back my chair, stood, and stretched. It was ten o’clock, half my pouch of pipe weed smoked away, the ledgers finally finished, and I wanted my bed. I stepped around my desk and toward the hearth where a small fire still smoldered. It was October, and the crisp cool of outside slowly seeped around the windows and through the cracks of the ancient mortar that held together the walls of the house. I put my stiff hands over the embers, my thoughts my only companions. October, soon to be November. I would be fifty-one in November. I had outlived my brother, my comrades at arms, my wife, two daughters, and four sons. The weight of all that death hung on me when the night came and I was alone, but during the day, I usually shed it like a cloak and went about my affairs. After all, I had been raised with a sword in my hand--death should be nothing new to me. The court physician had said last winter when I had broken my finger in the practice salon that I could still go to battle and fare better than most young men. So why did I suddenly feel so old? My bones ached, and I sighed, leaning against the mantel.

  Someone knocked at the door then, and I lifted my head, thinking it Randel. “What is it?” I demanded. The latch clicked, and Eden glided into the room, her satin-slippered feet silent on the floorboards. “What do you want?”

  “You still haven’t asked about Sarneth, sir.” Her sly eyes watched me from under demurely lowered lashes. She wore a yellow gown with brown trimmings that brought out the evil yellow of her eyes, the bodice so tightly laced I could see the tops of her breasts over the low collar. I shook myself then--I shouldn’t be looking there. I shouldn’t be looking at her at all in fact--she was too distracting, the damned vixen. I focused on a spot over her shoulder.

  “It won’t take me long,” she added when I didn’t answer.

  “You always say that, and then you take up hours of my time with chatter. If you weren‘t a woman, I‘d say it was deliberate.”

  She grinned. “It is deliberate. I’ve found I like my wine old and sour.”

  “Insulting baggage. Go to bed, Eden. It’s been a long day, and you must be cold in that gown without your shawl.”

>   “So you noticed my gown? What do you think?”

  I cleared my throat and moved back to the desk, where I busied myself straightening papers. “So, what news of Merius and that witch?”

  Eden took her place in front of the fire, the orange glow silhouetting her body. “He claims he’s lost her.”

  My hands froze, my right clutched around the heavy brass seal we used for letters to the royal family and ambassadors. “Safire’s missing?”

  “That’s what Merius says, but it’s a lie for Queen Jazmene’s benefit. He’s hidden Safire somewhere. I tried to find out where, but he‘s as cagey as someone else I know.”

  “Why‘s he hidden her?”

  “The queen wants her. Badly. So badly that she’s sent out half her guard looking for the witch and had spies following Merius and me everywhere.”

  I dropped the seal, and it clunked on the desk, leaving an indentation in the wood. “Damn them, what have the fools done now? I suppose she was healing beggars’ brats in the street or some such nonsense, out where all and sundry could see her and . . .”

  “Forgive me, sir, I know they’re both reckless . . .”

  “Damn right they are.” I began to stride around the desk, my arms clenched together.

  “But neither of them is stupid. From what I heard and saw, I don’t think this has anything to do with Safire’s healing ability. Perhaps some other talent . . .”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “One day, Queen Jazmene led me and some others on a tour of her painters’ studios. In the last studio, there was an apprentice moving some paintings and a portfolio of charcoal drawings. The minute we entered the chamber, he made a racket dropping his load--a deliberate racket, I’d say. The portfolio opened, and some of the drawings scattered on the floor. I can’t say for sure, but I think they were Safire’s. Anyway, the queen was watching me the whole time as close as a hawk, like she was waiting for some revelation.”

  “Like she was baiting you with them?”