Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  The sudden rattle of the door bolt startled me. I sprang off the bed and pitched my journal on the table, as guilty as if I had been caught in the act of escaping rather than merely plotting it. My back straight, I stood at the foot of the bed, awaiting Father. When the guards escorted Princess Esme into the chamber instead, I stepped back involuntarily, too shocked to acknowledge her properly.

  She waved her hand at the guards. “Leave us.”

  “Your Highness.” They bowed and backed out of the chamber, the door clanging shut after them. I didn't understand their unquestioning obedience--I would never leave her alone with a prisoner. Of course, maybe this was some new devilish plot.

  I moved my mouth but no words came out. When I attempted to take a breath, I found the air clouded with her perfume, the cloying essence of some crushed flower.

  “Your Highness, your scent is . . .” I managed finally, trailing off when I realized I was about to say something offensive.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, tossing the smooth curtain of her hair over her shoulder.

  “It’s most . . . powerful. What is it?”

  “The scent of the marapolos flower.”

  “A bloom so rare it’s a crime for anyone but royalty to possess it.”

  “Is there anything you don’t know, Merius?”

  Why you’re here. “My father hired tutors who taught all the sciences, including botany,” I said.

  She trailed her fingers over my books. “You must be bored here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Her fingers paused over my journal. “You’re a learned man, but you’re also a man of action.”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not the boredom I mind so much.”

  She gave me a long, considering look, her doe eyes half-lidded. “I imagine you miss your wife. Is this some of your verse?” she asked, lifting up the journal.

  Hellfire. “That journal is mainly lines translated from foreign poets I like, not my own verse.”

  “None of it looks foreign to me.” She flipped through the pages, stopping in the middle. “’Every night, you become my tutor,’” she read aloud, “’In the sacred art of drinking fire/Once I could only sip/My lips blistered against the flame of your hair . . .’”

  “Stop, please,” I muttered, an odd fluttering in my stomach.

  “But I don’t want to stop--it’s beautiful.” She took a step closer, still holding the book. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

  I shrugged, tried to regain a false nonchalance. “It’s not my verse--I translated it from the Marennese . . .”

  “You’re already in trouble for lying to my mother,” she said lightly. “Besides, you shouldn’t lie, not about this.” She glanced over the rest of the poem, and then flipped on to the next while I gripped the bedpost, the queasiness inside solidifying into an icy anger. I had written poems about tumbling--bawdy jests and rhymes were the stock of tavern talk. But these poems were different--they were meant for Safire and Safire only. They were about our most intimate moments together, moments I’d be damned before I shared with anyone else. Never had I felt more powerless than I did now, watching this royal brat paw over them. Unable to bear it any longer, I reached out and twisted the journal from her grasp.

  “That’s the first time anyone has dared snatch something from me. You’re bold, too bold for your own good,” she said, looking me up and down. “You forget, you’re my prisoner.”

  “Your mother’s prisoner.”

  “If I tell her you‘ve been rude to me, she‘ll be upset.”

  “I doubt your mother would like it, you visiting me on your own like this.”

  “Why, are you dangerous?” She took a step closer.

  “Your Highness . . .”

  She touched my shoulder, and I tried to duck around the foot of the bed, only to find my way blocked by a bench. “Merius, I could help you . . .”

  “Your Highness, for me to accept your help would put us both in a compromising position,” I managed, cold sweat prickling my skin.

  “I’d wager there are few women who would mind being compromised by you.”

  “I’m flattered, but . . .”

  “There’s no reason to be so tense,” she whispered, rubbing my shoulder. I missed Safire, ached for her in the night, almost mad at the thought I might never see her again. Esme’s touch, warm through my shirt, was welcome for all the wrong reasons, and I flinched. “You want to be released,” she continued. “I can help you with that. There’d be no expectations beyond a few months or so--Mother‘s marrying me off to some Numerian cousin soon, and you’ll be returning to Cormalen.”

  Her hand slid around the back of my neck. The hair tingled on my scalp as her grip tightened and she raised herself on tiptoe. The chamber suddenly seemed unreal, an artifice on a faraway stage awaiting the comic tragedy of the wanton Princess Esme and her hankering for men with Corcin accents. Her lips touched mine, the overwhelming scent of her marapolos perfume stealing the air and making me light-headed. Like a beautiful snake, she loosed a sweet venom in my veins with her touch, numbing me to all consequences.

  Feeling drunk on her perfume, I found my mouth bore down on hers with demanding force. She tasted sweet as an orange on the verge of over-ripening, and a dark part of me longed to pluck her before she spoiled. She wore her power as casually as she wore her bejeweled tiara, sending men to their dooms or fortunes with the maddening nonchalance of her mother. I closed my eyes as she combed her fingers through my hair, touching my ears the way Safire did sometimes. Perhaps if I kept my eyes closed, I could pretend she was Safire, if only for a moment. My nerves on fire, I tightened my grip on her and angled my head to deepen our kiss.

  “Your Highness?” one of the guards called, his voice muffled through the door.

  I braced my hands on Esme’s arms and pushed her away as a sickening heaviness settled in my gut. What if Safire found out?

  “These fools.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “What is it?” she yelled. “I ordered you not to interrupt me.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but the prisoner has a visitor.”

  “Give me a moment,” she answered as she looked at me. She pressed the back of her hand against her lips as if she could somehow continue our kiss that way, her eyes bright and glittery as the diamonds on her rings. She smiled without showing any teeth, the disarming smile of a predator seducing her prey.

  “See, Merius, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she purred.

  “Your Highness . . .” I cleared my throat, realizing I had no idea what I was going to say.

  “You’re a man of strong passions--you weren’t meant for this monkish solitude. Safire knows you, loves you--she’ll forgive you, especially if she understands how I coerced you. What choice do you have, really?” She grasped my shoulder and gently kneaded my tense muscles. She did know how to touch a man.

  The guard’s timid knock on the door rescued me. She twisted around, her hand slipping from my shoulder. “Those fools--how dare they interrupt me a second time?”

  “Perhaps your mother ordered them to.”

  “It would be like her to have me watched and interrupted at just the wrong time,” Esme said, her words in a rush, and for a moment, I felt an odd kinship with her. Father had ordered Randel to spy on me through my wild adolescence.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she continued, grasping my fingers. I flinched again at her smooth, perfectly manicured touch. I couldn’t help being flattered by her attention. She was a beautiful princess, and she was right--I was a man of strong passions, and I liked women. But I loved Safire.

  Numb inside, I watched as Esme rustled through the doorway, her scent still clouding the air. Father passed her, his bow sudden and clumsy.

  She was coming back tomorrow, and I had no idea what I was going to do. She was the crown princess of Sarneth. She could keep me imprisoned here forever if I didn’t comply. She could have my neck on the blo
ck if I didn’t comply. What would happen to Safire then, left alone with a new baby? My soul writhed like a flame in a draft, my ribs suddenly tight. God, I could punch something.

  I inhaled deeply, my ribs burning, and forced myself to focus on Father. What would his advice be? Likely he’d tell me to tumble the princess and get it over with--he had cheated on my mother, the bastard. I jammed my hands in my pockets, a gesture not lost to his intent scrutiny.

  “What did she want?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” I muttered.

  “You look ill,” he said gruffly.

  “It was nothing, Father.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “The queen intends to meet with you herself.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’ll be accompanied by Lord Toscar, of course . . .” I snorted, and Father pretended to ignore me as he continued, “which means you need to watch that legendary mouth of yours. You angered Her Majesty quite enough the night you were arrested.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Yes. I think I should be part of the negotiations for your release.”

  “This is your idea?”

  “Mostly. You still don’t trust me, and I want you to see and hear as much as possible.”

  I shifted, watching him without blinking. This was something new--Father had always concealed everything he could from me when we had worked together at court. I had merely taken his orders, and questions were not allowed.

  “You’ve changed,” I remarked finally.

  “You’ve changed,” he retorted. “You’re a man now, and we have to trust each other if we’re going to work together as equals, if I‘m to leave you my offices.”

  “You trust me?”

  “You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you.”

  I bit back a laugh with difficulty, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate it. “But,” I managed after a long moment, “but I’ve always been so much trouble, sneaking off to the tavern, building gliders under my bed, exploding outbuildings by accident, tumbling girls you didn’t approve of . . .”

  “I never said you’re weren’t a lot of trouble. I just said you were trustworthy. You may be reckless, but you’ve never lied to me, and you’ve always disobeyed out of defiance or carelessness, not because you were plotting behind my back.”

  In his way, he was complimenting me, and I didn’t know how to respond. So I changed the subject. “Where will this meeting be?” Perhaps if the guards escorted me to somewhere else in the palace, there would be chance to run . . .

  “Here.”

  I hid my disappointment under sarcasm. “The queen, visiting a mere prisoner in his lowly cell? Imagine that.”

  “She fears you are an escape risk.”

  “I wonder why she thinks that.” I kicked the floor.

  “Merius, look at me.” I glanced up, met his gaze. His eyes were narrow, piercing. It was a look I’d seen a thousand times before from him, this intense concentration that reminded me of a man aiming for the bulls-eye at an impossible distance. Few could withstand such scrutiny for long. “Merius, don’t do anything rash,” he said finally. “It may take awhile, but I’ll get you out of here.”

  “I know you will. I just don’t know if it will be soon enough.”

  “Good God, be patient for once in your life. How did you bear captivity with the SerVerinese traders? This is an afternoon stroll by the river compared to that.”

  “It’s not a question of patience.”

  “What is it a question of, then?”

  I chewed the inside of my lip, making an instantaneous decision. “Never mind, Father,” I said as I grabbed the quill I had thrown down earlier, and careful to make as little noise as possible, uncorked a new inkwell and scribbled Esme propositioned me. She returns tomorrow.

  He gazed at this a long moment, his face impassive. “Suicide,” he muttered. “It’s political suicide for you not to trust me,” he repeated, his voice louder as he leaned down and wrote under my message Better escape.

  I nodded, glad at least we agreed about something. The only lover a Sarneth queen or princess had taken who had survived any length of time was Toscar, and he was a combination of chief minister, queen’s guard commander, and court assassin. Being a foreign courtier, I had no such leverage--when the princess tired of me, I would be headless come morning. But if I refused her, then she would be insulted. And men who insulted princesses generally didn’t keep their heads long, either.

  “I’ll trust you when you show me some proof of your good will,” I said.

  “How did I sire such an ass?” he snarled, writing Have plan?

  I hesitated. Yes.

  He grabbed the quill from me. Sure?

  I grabbed it back, ink splattering. Yes!

  He shook his head. “Damn it, Merius. Heedless ass.”

  “I’d be heedless if I trusted you at your word.”

  “All right then, see how you fare tomorrow with Her Majesty on your own. I’ve had enough of your stubborn foolishness.” He wrote I’ll be in rebel chamber near locks.

  How the hell did he know where that chamber was? Unless Safire had told him. Or perhaps he’d been talking to Falken somehow. He put down the pen and corked the inkwell. I grabbed the scrap of parchment we‘d used, careful not to rustle it too loudly, and tucked it in my shirt pocket for safe keeping. Father headed for the door, glancing back at me as he knocked to let the guards know we were finished. He’d given me a similar look before I’d gone off to battle, the narrow, measuring gaze he reserved for his most challenging opponents. I had taken it then as a sign of his respect, a rare and precious commodity. Perhaps we could work together and not kill each other.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, I squinted at the chandelier. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was iron, which meant it was heavy. Picking the side of the bed furthest from the door and washstand and that unbreakable mirror that gave me the creeps, I lifted the coverlet and grasped the top of the sheet near the edge with both hands. As the sheet began to rip, the sound of it tore the air. I looked over my shoulder at the door. Could they hear it? It seemed so loud in here, echoing off the stone walls.

  When I had several strips of sheet, I quickly braided them together, my makeshift rope coiling at my feet as it grew. I hefted the rope a few times, tugging it between my hands. I worried about the junctures where I had to splice the strips. What if one of those places couldn‘t take the weight of the chandelier?

  As soon as I finished braiding, I moved the table under the chandelier aside. Then I stood on a chair near the foot of the bed and unhooked the chain of the chandelier from the hook, grunting at the weight of it. It swayed, dust graying the air. I sneezed and almost dropped the damned thing. It dipped precariously near the floor. I should have thought to put a pillow down. If the guards had heard the iron frame or the heavy chain hitting the tiles . . . I glanced at the door for the umpteenth time, but everything seemed quiet in that direction. I set the chandelier on the bed and knotted the rope around the last link of the chain. I placed a pillow on the floor under the hook, then moved the chandelier from the bed to the pillow. After climbing back up on the chair, I threaded the end of the rope through the ceiling hook. Then I coiled up the slack and tossed it over the top of the bed canopy, aiming for the head of the bed. It landed with a soft thump. I stepped from the chair to the bed. I reached over the edge of the canopy and blindly felt for the coil of rope. The tasseled bed curtain and valance tickled my nose, and I sneezed again. That damned curtain—it had become a velvet monster, blocking my way and throwing dust in my face. Finally my hand found the rope and grasped it. I guided it over the corner of the canopy and tugged. Inch by inch, the chandelier rose. It swung to and fro, the rope going taut at the full weight of it. When the chandelier dangled in its accustomed spot, I secured the end of the rope to a bedpost, taking care that the bed curtains concealed the knot from view of the door.

 
I made a few other preparations in the hours left before they came with my evening meal. I shoved the table towards the back wall by a foot or so. When the guard came in with my dinner, he always set it on the table. By moving the table back and out from under the chandelier, I made certain my weapon had a clear path. After I did this, I tested the chandelier a few times, first lowering it slowly to make certain the rope wouldn’t catch in the hook, and then more quickly to see if the weight would pull it down fast enough. Then I stretched out on the bed, unable to concentrate on anything except my escape plan, which seemed more hare-brained and impossible with each minute that passed. Sighing, I straightened and looked around the chamber to make certain that everything was in place. The canopy and curtain nicely concealed my rope, if any of the guards bothered to glance upwards. Absently, I got up and wandered around, picking up my journal and a poetry book here or there and stowing them in my pockets. Everything else I would have to leave, aside from the clothes I wore.

  By seven, the sky outside the windows had darkened to a distant blue-black, velvety and opaque with the promise of snow later. Invisible clouds hid the stars and moon, and my eyes strained to find the small flicker of the lanterns on the parapet far below. It was almost time for dinner. I paced back to the bed and sat against the headboard. One hand on the rope hidden in the folds of the bed curtain, I picked up one of the queen’s history books and flipped it open. My gaze skimmed the text but my mind couldn’t string the words together to make any sense. When footsteps approached the door, I jumped before I managed to loosen the knot of the rope around the bedpost. My trembling fingers fisted around the rope, the full weight of the chandelier and chain vibrating against my palm as I pretended to read another page in the book.

  As was customary, two guards strode into the chamber, one carrying a silver tray, the other trailing him. Both had swords in silver-tooled scabbards hitched to their belts, and both spared me a cursory glance as they entered, hardly pausing in their conversation.