“Nothing.” I dropped the canary cage on the table with several indignant squawks from its residents. “What’s wrong?”
He gripped the arm of Merius’s chair, not answering me as he leaned over. I stumbled around the table and reached for his shoulder. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. “It makes it worse.”
I ignored him. “Sit down so I can see it.”
He glowered at me, as wild and ferocious as any wolf in a trap. “Why do you need to see it? You made it.”
“Because maybe I can fix it.”
He grumbled under his breath as he perched on the edge of the chair, his muscles so tense I could have twanged them. As I pried his hand from his chest, he stiffened even more. “It burns worse when you touch me.”
“No wonder it hurts--you’re stiffer than a corpse with lockjaw.”
“It’ll pass,” he said through clenched teeth.
The heat radiating from his chest could be felt through his doublet. Cursing softly, I peeled back the layers of his doublet and shirt. The scar should have been a raised white mark. Instead, it glowed orange, too hot to touch. I prodded around it, puzzled. His heartbeat was fine, perhaps somewhat faster than usual because he was so tense. He swore then and pushed me away. “You’re making it worse, damn you.”
“I’m not doing anything.” I settled back on my heels. “You’re doing this to yourself.”
“Impossible,” he spat, lacing up his shirt with jerky hands.
“When does it happen?”
“You’ve cursed me.”
“I told you before, I can’t curse people,” I said with considerable restraint.
“Then why does it burn whenever I think about you and that day on the steps? You must have cursed me, you or Arilea.”
“Arilea has no power over any of us now--I forced her to cross over that day.”
“That was when she screamed and all the windows broke.”
“Yes. Merius heard that scream, you know.”
His brow furrowed. “How? He’s no warlock.”
“Neither are you, and you heard it.”
“That’s because you put your witch hands on me.”
“You were carrying on whole conversations with her before I ever healed you, sir.”
He shifted, uncomfortable. “She was my wife, and those were dreams.”
“Pretty vivid dreams, I’d say. And you and Merius saw the movement in my pictures before anyone else. Now you’re cauterizing a wound that healed months ago with naught but the power of your memories?”
“Get to the point,” he growled.
“I’m not the first witch in the Landers family, am I?”
“Every founding family whose ancestors’ blood mingled with the old ones has had a few eccentrics. The Landers are no different.”
“So you’re an eccentric?” Laughter lurked around my words, quickly suppressed at his glare.
“You’d best not mock me, witch.”
“So the old ones were all witches and warlocks. It’s odd I’ve never read that in any histories.”
“You wouldn’t have. Merius wouldn’t have either. Cormalen fears teaching that part of the history of the old ones. We conquered them, killed the men and forced their women into concubinage--the only resistance available to them was their dark talents. Hence the Cormalen crown’s abiding enthusiasm for witch trials and burnings. All trace of the old ones’ unnatural abilities must be eradicated, lest they challenge their conquerors again.” Mordric offered a grim smile.
“How do you know this?”
“The Landers have in their possession certain texts, forbidden texts. I intend to pass them to Merius when the time comes.”
“Where did the Landers get the texts?”
He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “The texts are family journals, pieces of ancient scrolls hidden amidst the pages.”
“I’m surprised they weren’t burned. Selwyn would burn something like that.”
Mordric snorted, sounding exactly like Merius for an uncanny instant. “Those picked to guard the journals swear an oath to protect them, even from the rest of the family if need be.”
“What’s in these journals besides old scrolls? A list of the family eccentrics?”
“The Landers perhaps have more blood of the old ones than the some of the other ancient families.”
“So I’m not the first witch in the family?”
“No, you’re not. But you are the most dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because you and my scapegrace son are reckless fools,” he retorted, heaving himself to his feet. “Now, no more questions. Pack.”
“That’s not an answer, sir.” I followed him into the bedchamber as he threw open the wardrobe.
“You can only take two frocks, one pair of slippers, and put on your wool stockings and these,” he handed me my warmest pair of shoes, “before we leave here. Now I can get a few things tomorrow when I come to collect Merius‘s books and such for him, but too much is going to be difficult to conceal, so . . .” For perhaps the first time in his life, Mordric was talking in a steady stream, engaging in meaningless prattle to avoid further questions.
“Why am I the most dangerous?” I grabbed my two favorite frocks and several shifts, a slight pang inside as I realized I would have to leave my green brocade gown. Merius loved to see me in that gown. Of course, Merius loved to see me in just about anything, especially if it could be removed in a hurry.
“I told you--no more questions.”
“I can pack and listen at the same time. You shouldn’t have said anything if you weren’t going to finish it.”
“I’ve said quite enough to you. It’s best you’re kept in the dark for your own protection.”
“Dangerous witches kept in the dark tend to get angry.”
His scar must have still pained him, for he touched it through his doublet then. When he noticed my scrutiny, he hastily removed his hand, wincing.
“You know, I take away Merius’s headaches with my hands. I could perhaps . . .” I began, hesitant.
“I‘ll be fine.” He straightened. “Your talents have a certain political aspect . . .”
“And that makes me dangerous?”
He turned on me. “Not if you behave yourself.”
“If I’d behaved myself, you would be dead.”
“And if you don’t behave yourself now, you’ll be dead.”
“Her Majesty wants me alive.”
“Thick-skulled witch--that’s not the point.”
I grinned. Thick-skulled, indeed. Mordric was as impatient with others‘ idiocy as Merius was with others‘ apathy, and impatience gave both of them careless tongues. “She’s greedy for my abilities,” I murmured finally, as if this were a new thought discovered rather than an old thought revisited.
“Yes.” He started to pace, then gripped the bedpost to stop himself. “Greed is a poor protection, and there are others besides Jazmene who would be greedy for what you could offer them. And others who would burn you for it.”
“And which are you?”
“Neither.” He gritted his teeth. “As I made clear before, I’m here to protect you.”
“Protect me? That’s all? How honorable.”
“Don’t mock me, lest I leave you here.” He paced over to the window, his back to me. “I told you once you’ll never make a court wife, and I still stand by that judgment. You lack the necessary guile, Safire.”
I folded the gowns and shifts and placed them in the sack I usually used for carrying bed linens to the washerwoman. “You think I lack guile? I just got you to reveal more to me in a half hour than you’ve revealed to anyone in the last six months.”
He grunted something unintelligible.
I shoved my slippers in the bag. “I’m ready.”
“Does Jazmene know about this?” He gestured at my belly.
“No.”
“Does anyone here besides you and Merius know about it?”
�
�Just Falken. And Korigann.”
“I understand Falken knowing, but why Korigann?”
“He guessed it somehow.”
“It seems strange that he would guess it and not the queen.”
“Korigann and I worked together hours at a time for weeks. It’s not so strange.”
“Hmm. He’s close with Jazmene. He’s likely told her.”
“He’s not that close with her.”
“You rely too much on your witch instincts.”
“And you rely too much on your cynicism.” I slung the bag over my back and grabbed Merius’s orchid from the window sill as I headed into the other chamber. “Not everyone’s out for coin or power.”
“No. Most are out for both. Here, give me that.” He snatched my bag away. “Do you have some way to cover your hair?”
I put on my mittens and cloak, positioning the hood over my hair. Upon reaching the table, I slung the cylindrical box that held my works and spare canvas over my shoulder. Then I picked up the bag containing my brushes, pigments, oils, and other painting tools. I set the orchid upright in the bag before I carefully hefted it. Then I covered the canary cage with a bit of canvas to guard them from the cold and picked it up in my free hand, holding it under my cloak for further protection.
“Damn it, you’re not taking those blasted birds.”
“I have to take the canaries--they weren’t here before when the guards ransacked our rooms, and their presence now might raise suspicion.”
“I can do something with them tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow might not be soon enough.” I clutched the cage, almost dropping the bag with the orchid and my painting things. “They go with me.”
More unintelligible mutterings ensued, which I ignored. As he took the bag from me and ushered me out the door and into the hall, I looked back at the darkness that hid the main chamber. Merius and I had had a precious month by ourselves here before Toscar had discovered me. I wondered now, a shudder running through me as Mordric gripped my arm, if we would ever be that free again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
After a good hour’s walk through the crisp chill following a winter storm, Mordric stepped in a alley near the locks, pulling me after him. “I’ll leave you here. Do you see that lighted archway?” He pointed across the street.
I nodded. “Go there,” he continued, “tell them your husband died, you have no family here, and you need a safe place to have the baby. Don’t try to conceal the fact you’re from Cormalen--your accent will give you away--and don’t let the story get too complicated.”
I stared at the archway, its hard edges softened by night shadows and snow. “What is it?”
“A convent.”
“They won’t take me there.”
“What?”
“A foreign witch? I’m a heathen to them.”
“Cormalen and Sarneth worship the same god . . .”
“I know that, but I’m hardly proper to enter Cormalen churches, much less a Sarneth convent.”
“Horseshit. They’ll not know you’re a witch unless you do something foolish. Just learn and follow their prayers, their rules, and you’ll be fine. And give them this.” He pressed a full coin pouch into my hand.
“The way to heaven is paved with gold coin."
“Don’t be flippant.”
I stared at the lighted archway, still not convinced. “How do we know they aren’t sympathetic to the queen?”
“Odd to hear you be so cautious.” His mouth quirked up at the corners. “Maybe we can have you at court after all. Listen, don’t fret. Through my spies, I know a little about the abbess of this particular convent. If she’s who I suspect she is, I may have even met her a few times when I was a young man visiting the Sarneth court. She bears no love for the queen or Lord Toscar.”
“How is it they’ve let her live, if that’s the case?”
“She’s led such a quiet life they’ve forgotten her existence,” he said in his sphinx fashion. “Now, I’ll come for you. It may be a month or more, but I’ll come.”
“All right.” I set everything down and took off my mittens. I removed the seal ring Merius had given me when we wed and dropped it in my pocket for safekeeping, leaving only his betrothal ring on my finger. That would have to do for my widow’s ring for now.
“Farewell, witch.” He handed me my bags of clothes and paints.
“Farewell. And thank you.”
He nodded, then was gone in the shadows, swift as wind in the night. After a long moment, I squared my shoulders before I picked everything up and lumbered across the street to the archway. Why had I packed so much? I set down the cage and reached up to tug on the chain for the bell, feeling ridiculously small before the huge, brass-studded door. Small and naughty.
After a minute, the door swung open partway. A tall, robed woman with crinkly brown skin and black eyes looked around the edge. “Quickly, quickly,” she said, hustling me inside. “Quickly--there’s a horrid draft.”
As the door banged shut behind me, I forced myself to breathe. Yet another locked door, and yet again I was on the wrong side of it. My hand over my belly, I glanced around as if looking for a way out, all of my muscles tensed under the burden of my belongings. The hallway’s ceiling, arched to a point like the doorway, curved around to the right, all simple gray stone. Sconces dotted the wall at intervals. Incense hung in the air, the smell of old prayers rising. I shifted, already uncomfortable. They burned church incense when they sent someone to the stake in Cormalen to cover the odor of charred flesh. I gagged suddenly, my stomach rebelling as it had in the earlier days of my pregnancy.
“My dear,” the tall nun exclaimed, stepping forward. “Here, let me take your things. Is it your time?”
“Not yet,” I managed, reluctantly relinquishing my hold on my painting supplies, the canary cage, the bag of my clothes--I felt vulnerable and exposed without them.
“You’re such a tiny thing--it’s hard to tell how far along you are.”
“Almost eight months.” I found to my chagrin that I was shaking.
“Cormalen?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry if I awoke you,” I heard myself say.
“I wasn’t sleeping. We have prayers from two to three in the morning.”
Prayers in the middle of the night? The incense hung thick in my throat, and I put my face in my hand as another wave of nausea rolled over me. Why had he brought me here? These pure ones could sniff out a witch in no time--to them, I was the worst kind of sinner, something utterly unnatural . . . all reason swept away. I forgot that I was in Sarneth, that they hadn’t burned anyone here in a hundred years, that only Cormalen still burned witches, that I was safe in this place--all that was gone in the wake of overwhelming terror coupled with complete exhaustion. I found myself against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching the gold pouch to my chest.
“Shh, shh--you’re safe here. Shh.” She dropped my things and put her hand on my shoulder. It was a kind gesture, meant to comfort, but all it did was make me cry harder as I thought of Merius. I ached for his arms, his solid chest, the smell of his pipe weed, his fingers in my hair as he calmed me. And now he was locked away. He must be frantic by now, pacing his cell--captivity would be torture for his quicksilver spirit.
When I finally looked up, several other walled virgins were gathered around, their pale robes gray in the shadows, their whispered words traveling over my head as if I were a small child who couldn’t understand. “She has a ring” . . . “But she looks so young . . . she can’t be more than eighteen” . . . “They marry younger in Cormalen” . . . “Are these birds? Canaries? But why . . .” . . . “Is it her time?” . . . “No, she just seems very upset” . . . “Exhausted” . . . “Some kind of shock, perhaps?” . . . “What’s that she’s clutching?”
At this last, I held out the pouch of gold coins. Someone lifted it from my palm, and silence fell as the coins clinked together. “We’re a convent, not an inn,” the one who had opened the door said
finally, her tone brisk. “We can’t take this.”
“Take it to give for alms then,” I said.
The sound of my voice, my imperfect but comprehensible Sarns, took most of the nuns aback, as if they had assumed my nationality precluded me from understanding their tongue. The doorkeeper, perhaps because she had spoken to me before, was less bewildered. “Is this your coin to give?”
“It was my husband’s.”
“Was? Is he-”
“No, he‘s not dead, but he might as well be. He’s in prison.” I buried my face in my arms. I didn’t care what Mordric said, I wasn’t going to lie to a bunch of walled virgins. I was already a witch--best not to be a liar as well. I didn’t have to tell them everything, just enough of the truth to satisfy their curiosity.
“Prison?”
I nodded, my head still bowed in my arms. “There’s no one--we’re alone here, no family, and now I’m alone.”
“Alone with your babe about to come,” one of them finished for me.
Tears streamed down my face. I tried to catch my breath, force myself to calm down, but my efforts only resulted in more stifled sobs. My face felt on fire from all the crying, while the rest of me was shivering. The nuns started whispering over my head again. After a great deal of discussion, two of them gripped my arms and pulled me to my feet. Numb inside, I trailed after them, my movements wooden and mindless. Two others gathered together my things and followed us, making a small procession through the gray halls of the convent.
The child Safire deep inside me still feared they would find out I was a witch and burn me. The child Safire was about five years old when she first realized she was different, when she began having nightmares of the stake. This child wailed in my mind as the nuns led me into a narrow cell. The wail grew fainter as they bathed my face with cool water and then made me lie down on the overstuffed pallet. When they spread a thick quilt over me, the wail inside died altogether--I was too tired to heed irrational fears any longer. The sweetness of sun-warmed grass from summers past surrounded me as I settled into the straw-filled tick, and I breathed deeply, my eyes slipping closed. The baby gave a drowsy kick, and I fell asleep hugging my belly.
Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2) Page 27