Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  “This must be where they bring the food and other supplies,” Rankin murmured as we walked through an arched stone hallway, unadorned save for wall torches at periodic intervals. One of the guards lurched after us, letting me lead the way. If I deviated from the proper path or seemed lost at any point, King Rainier had likely instructed him to arrest us as possible spies or assassins. Rainier had me come this way a few times before simply to play chess with him, when the need for secrecy was nonexistent--he just liked to see what people would do, if they could pass all his little tests. Manipulative bastard.

  After several turns down long, subterranean halls, we came to a staircase that spiraled up through the heart of the palace. I started counting doors as we climbed. Our breathing soon echoed in the narrow space. At the tenth door, I halted. The guard nodded as if satisfied I was no spy or assassin, sweat gleaming on his broad face. He knocked three times on the door, which opened inward with a loud creak. We stepped through the doorway and into a library, lit only with a large fireplace and a few scattered candelabra. Rankin paused, his eyes wide as he glanced around him. The shelves which lined all four walls stood so high that a narrow balcony ran around the perimeter of the room so that one could reach the books at the top. A shelf of books even concealed the door from view, and the servant grunted as he pushed the heavy, book-laden door closed.

  “A secret entrance--clever,” Rankin murmured.

  “I have them all over the palace, Lord Rankin.” A reedy voice floated down to us, and we glanced up. King Rainier materialized out of the shadows on the balcony, his eyes dark gleams in the firelight.

  “Your Majesty,” Rankin and I said at the same moment as we bowed.

  Rainier’s soft-soled shoes made little sound as he glided down from the balcony on a tiny spiral staircase. “Most palaces, of course, have secret passages and entrances, but this particular palace is known for them. According to the fashion of the time that servants remain invisible, my great-grandfather planned for his retainers to use them, but that seems rather a waste of such a valuable architectural detail, does it not?” When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he motioned for us to join him in front of the fireplace. He selected the large, winged chair in the middle, and Rankin and I settled into the smaller leather-covered chairs that flanked the sides of the hearth. All was silent for a moment while Rainier’s attendant poured brandy into tumblers before he left without a sound, apparently one of the invisible servants Rainier had mentioned.

  “You know what books I studied tonight while waiting for you?” he asked. “Slarin’s account of the first Cormalen witch and warlock trials--fascinating reading.”

  I worked hard to swallow my brandy--it burned all the way down my throat, and I almost choked. Rankin saved me from speaking when he said, his voice heavy, “Sad period of our history.”

  “You think so, Lord Rankin?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. Think of what we could have learned from those accused.”

  “Not a view most of your countrymen share.”

  “Unfortunately. I consider any practice that keeps us in ignorance and slaughters innocents at the same time to be barbaric.”

  “Are those accused of witchery innocents then? According to Slarin’s account, some of them had quite unnatural, and in fact, dangerous abilities. The ability to set fires from a distance, for instance.”

  “I suppose like any other invaded people, they used whatever means at their disposal to defend themselves.” Rankin’s voice was crisp.

  “Yes, their lack was not in ability, but in weapons. The Cormalen old ones were not as advanced a civilization as their invaders from the Sarneth mainland, at least in warfare--they hadn’t even mastered iron when the first boatloads of Sarneth men came to settle Cormalen.”

  “The old ones also lacked warriors, especially after they encountered the plagues from mainland.” Rankin sighed. “Most consider the mainlanders’ invasion of Cormalen to be progress, and I would agree with them in some respects. But sometimes I wonder why we have to sacrifice so much to progress.”

  “Yes.” King Rainier’s eyes glittered intently as he glanced at me. “Progress is a double-edged sword--civilizations lose almost as much as they gain for the most part. Imagine what Cormalen could do now with the ability of someone who could control fire with his mind, paired with a little gunpowder.”

  “If the old ones’ unnatural abilities included the ability to control fire, how is it we can burn them to death at the stake?” I asked softly, meeting the king’s gaze.

  “I don’t know, Landers. I hoped one of you could tell me. I hope to learn more about the old ones’ talents. It’s a subject that fascinates me--and Her Majesty Jazmene.” There was no doubt in my mind now--he knew about Safire. Oh hell. My brain whirled through the possibilities. No need to panic yet--this could be, as Eden had pointed out, an advantage as much as a disadvantage.

  “Alas, I think that whatever talents existed have long since been burned away,” Rankin said, staring into the depths of his brandy tumbler as he turned it in his hands. “Oh, there’s a bit of scrying here, a little prophesying there, enough to frighten Cormalen into holding a few executions at the stake, but the old ones’ blood has weakened greatly over the years, if it even exists anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the king said. “Someone with such an ability would strive to hide it from the witch burners. Only the foolish witches and warlocks would be caught--the rest would live the quiet lives of the ordinary folk around them, silently passing the mystery of their blood from generation to generation. Don‘t you agree, Landers?” Again, the darkly glittering eyes slid in my direction.

  “Your Majesty, all of this is very enlightening, but the night wanes. While we still have the benefit of secrecy, there is another matter I would like to discuss.”

  “Esme and Segar’s betrothal, I presume?”

  Rankin suddenly straightened, fumbling with his tumbler. Likely he hadn’t expected Rainier to be so direct. I had spoken with King Rainier enough to know that it was only the guise of directness--he used directness like an arrow on a wildly veering path that against all odds hit the bulls-eye. Honesty was a surprise tactic for him, nothing more.

  I was careful in my reply. “I won’t presume to ask you your mind on this matter. In the past, you’ve expressed interest in the possibility of Her Highness Esme and His Highness Segar’s marriage and the strengthening of the already strong alliance between Sarneth and Cormalen, but that was in the past.”

  “I’m still interested in keeping a strong alliance with Cormalen. Her Majesty Jazmene, however, wonders if we already have a strong enough alliance with Cormalen.”

  “Her Majesty desires to betroth Her Highness to someone besides Prince Segar?” Rankin asked quietly.

  “I didn’t say that. Her Majesty merely likes to consider all possibilities. She’s a woman deciding on what gown to wear. She selects one, is displeased for some trifling reason, and then tries on twenty more, finally returning to don the one she first selected.” King Rainier offered a sour smirk, as if bitterly amused by his description of his queen’s caprice.

  “So although Her Majesty Jazmene may be entertaining other suitors for Her Highness Esme’s hand in marriage, she’ll eventually favor Prince Segar again?”

  “Perhaps--it’s difficult to judge her whims.”

  “His Majesty Arian grows restive. Prince Segar is of an age for marriage and producing his own heirs,” I said.

  “He’ll be of an age for that for some time yet. How many other princesses besides my Esme is he considering then?” Rainier’s smirk grew wider, an ugly tomcat waiting at a mouse hole. He thought he had us, the smug son of a bitch. Cormalen needed the marriage alliance with Sarneth more than Sarneth needed it with Cormalen, a bad position for Rankin and me to be in if we hoped to have any power at the negotiating table. Rankin and I exchanged glances, and he shrugged slightly, as if to say that we did our best with what little power we had. Fine
enough for him to say--he didn’t mind losing. I did.

  “So Your Majesty wants Sarneth to have another marriage alliance with Numer? I can understand why, given what a success your marriage to Her Majesty Jazmene, formerly Her Highness Jazmene of Numer, has been,” I said, keeping my tone as bland as possible.

  King Rainier snorted, then laughed outright, a high-pitched, unpleasant sound like a crow in the midst of a coughing fit. “I’ll have you know, gentlemen, the Numerian rabble--sorry, rebels--make excellent subjects, if a bit contentious. My queen did bring some interesting customs with her from her native land.”

  “His Highness Tivon of Numer and his dowager mother seem less than eager to embrace those same customs, and in fact, don’t seem to want Her Highness Esme’s hand in marriage at all,” I said.

  “True enough. To be completely honest, Mordric, my interest in this is purely academic. I want to see if my Jazmene can rebuild the bridges with Numer that she so carelessly burned to ash years ago. If she manages to betroth Esme to Tivon after all the accusations against her--all untrue, of course--that created the rift between her and her Numerian kin, I’ll be amused and may even allow the betrothal to stand for awhile. However, I’ll never sign it. I don’t want any more ties to Numer than Sarneth already has. We can too easily conquer Numer in war, weakened as it is by the rebels, to waste such a valuable marriage alliance there.” He abruptly rose from his seat, and we set down our glasses and rose with him.

  “Your Majesty?” I ventured, wondering what this sly king was up to now.

  “Gentlemen, I hate to end our meeting. It has been most . . . interesting. However, I have other duties to attend to before bed. I hope we can meet again soon--I wish to continue our conversation about Cormalen history and the old ones’ forbidden talents.” Rainier’s glance at me was sharp as an obsidian dagger. “Who knows?” he continued. “If the old ones’ talents still exist and merely require a bit of encouragement to grow in force again, Jazmene and I may be begging you for His Highness Segar’s hand for Esme instead of the other way around.”

  “Cormalen does not beg, Your Majesty, no matter how much we desire a certain outcome,” I said, knowing my forthrightness and irritation would only amuse Rainier, not insult him. If he didn’t get a reaction to at least some of his jabs, it displeased him.

  “I merely meant to praise Cormalen’s hidden strengths, not insult her pride. I apologize. It would be good for you, for all your countrymen, to consider the old ones’ talents a strength, not a weakness to be weeded out. Much like the secret of the cannon powder, those unusual talents could be fodder for Cormalen’s negotiations with other lands.”

  “If those talents still exist,” I said.

  “I believe they do.” Rainier grinned, a wide rictus of large crocodile teeth.

  “Good night, Your Majesty.” After the servant pulled open the hidden door, Rankin and I descended the steps under the guard’s hulking supervision. Rankin didn’t speak until we were back in the embassy cellars.

  “He’s a slippery eel king, isn’t he?” Rankin remarked as we walked through the coolness of the cellars, toward the stairs leading to the main part of the embassy. “For all the talking he did, he somehow avoided our question altogether. He as much as said he doesn’t want the alliance with Numer. But he never said he wants the alliance with Cormalen.”

  “He’s slippery, all right.” And very curious about Safire. “I think that he will agree eventually to Segar’s suit and sign the betrothal contract. He just likes to draw the game out as long as possible and consider all the potential directions.”

  “King Arian will expire of impatience in the meantime.”

  “I just hope King Arian doesn’t expire us in the meantime,” I retorted. “Arian could collect several of his own ambassadors’ and chief ministers’ heads in a bucket, waiting for Rainier to deliberate this next move.”

  “Arian’s a bit of a hothead, isn’t he?” Rankin observed, so detached I wanted to shake him.

  “Yes, and we’re the ones who’ll suffer for it, so we’d best think of ways to speed King Rainier’s deliberations along.”

  “I’m glad you’re here then--you have a mind for that sort of work. Good night.” Rankin yawned and headed down the hall to his private chambers, leaving me livid on the stairs.

  Chapter Twelve--Safire

  I stepped back from the easel, my hand resting on the shelf of my belly. Seven and a half months, and I felt on the verge of having triplets. Merius won’t be able to see around my belly when he comes tomorrow night. It would be his fourth visit since I had been here--with the queen’s men dogging his heels, he hadn’t dared come often. I sighed, but for once didn’t bite back tears. The tears had been coming less the last couple weeks. Perhaps I had finally run dry--one could always hope. I had sternly told myself that I could only cry once when I saw Merius again, preferably at the beginning of his visit. The last time we had been together, he had been all frantic hands and I had been all hot tears.

  I squinted at the painting, for an instant seeing the vague blotches of color come together into the detailed vision in my head. The queen and Toscar, whirling alone on an endless marble ballroom floor, a single orka player piping from a balcony high overhead. Then the vision vanished, and I was left with blotches again. But combined with my draft sketches, it was enough to continue--I wanted to finish the tiles of the floor and the distant archways today. As to why I was painting the two people I now hated most in the world, I had no ready answer. Deep inside me lurked some dark fascination with their relationship--neither seemed to have a conscience yet they also seemed to care for each other, a conundrum that I wondered if the canvas would help me solve.

  It felt like the baby stuck his heel directly under my stomach then. “What do you think you’re doing?” I told him, patting the top of my middle. “You better stop that, or you won’t get dinner.”

  Falken looked at me strangely sometimes when I talked to my belly, but it was one of the few things that kept me sane. At least with the baby inside me, I was never alone. And the baby seemed to like the sound of my voice, judging from the ticklish flares in his aura whenever I spoke to him. When I pictured him, his aura was all oranges and browns with a few blue flashes, solid, steady colors like my father’s aura at his calmest moments.

  I could hardly wait to see him for the first time, even as I dreaded the labor to bring him to the outside world. It wasn’t the pain so much as the uncertainty. When Dagmar had had her first bleeding, mother had taken us aside and told us about becoming women, of the hope of new life we held inside, and she had promised to be with us for all our labors, as her mother had been with her. After mother had died, Dagmar and I had promised to be at each other’s labors. The fulfillment of that promise wouldn’t happen for this baby, and I was terrified without Mother or Dagmar here. Likely Merius wouldn’t be here, and I would be completely alone save for a strange midwife.

  “Mother,” I whispered, clutching my belly, “please help me.”

  For an instant, I fancied I felt the light pressure of a hand on my head. Then it was gone, and I was alone with my baby again. This time, tears really did rise inside, the bitter, galling tears I had shed for Mother countless times. Every time I cried for her, I felt sick and lost inside, as if yesterday had been the day she died. Merius had admitted late one night when we were sleepless in each other’s arms that he still felt that same sickening lurch every time he thought of his mother, lost over a decade ago. I threw myself on the bed and let myself cry for ten minutes. Then I sat up, sniffing. My eyes stung like raw peeled onions. If I gave into all my tears, I would never get any painting done.

  The fumes were stronger than before, so I opened the window wider, relishing the warm sunlight on my arms. Yesterday, a cold fall breeze had blown all afternoon until I had been forced to shut the window, but today was more like summer. The palette knife in hand, I mixed a drop more linseed oil into the medium, then picked up my brush and studied the canvas. In the
silence of concentration that followed, I noticed voices raised on the other side of my door. I pressed my ear against the door but could hear nothing aside from incoherent shouts. There followed a scuffle, a series of alarming thumps. It was a noise I had heard before--these rebels were an angry, quarrelsome bunch, which was perhaps why they were rebelling in the first place.

  There was the screech of the bookcase door being thrown open. One hand over my belly, I stepped back from the door, my hand searching for the dagger Merius had made me take when we had first parted. It was under my pillow, a sign of how frayed my nerves had been without him sleeping beside me in this strange place.

  The latch rattled, and then someone slammed against the door. The canaries leapt from their perch and beat their wings against the inside of the cage, squawking shrilly. Dagger in hand, I tossed a cloth over the cage, and they settled down.

  The latch rattled again, and I backed against the wall, my heart fluttering as madly against my ribs as the canaries against the bars of their cage.

  “Damn you, leave that alone!” I heard Falken shout.

  “Where’s the key, you bastard . . .” More scufflings and thumps, followed by another body slamming against my door. This time the latch broke, and the door flew open, banging against the side of the wardrobe. A sudden silence followed, broken only by the harsh pants of Falken and a young rebel. Neither had weapons--Falken had said swords and daggers generally weren’t allowed inside the house, as too many of the rebels had gotten in fights and stabbed each other over petty quarrels. Likely in defiance of this rule, the young rebel still wore his empty scabbard and sword belt.

  And he was young, his black mustache and beard seemingly a proud badge of his recently gained manhood. Taller than Falken, he filled the chamber, his dark eyes glinting at me as if from a great distance far above. I shrank against the wall, one hand clutched over my middle, the dagger in my other hand hidden in the folds of my skirt. I wondered if this was one of the three rebels who had tried to assassinate Rankin, the rebel who had escaped. He looked dangerous enough for it.