Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  A short, red-faced man suddenly barreled through the door, cloak hood flapping. “Does anyone have passage to Cormalen?” he yelled.

  “The master of the locks sells passages, sir,” the round wench said in a crisp tone, as if every fool knew that. “His office is down the street near the locks.”

  “I already inquired there,” he said.

  “They’re sold out?” she exclaimed.

  “That’s what the locks master’s steward said.” He glanced around, his hopeful smile fading. “Well, I‘d best be on my way . . .” He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. What was I doing? Mordric had given me clear orders . . . damn his orders. Who did he think I was? Some servant he could summon and dismiss at will? Rebellion flared inside, and I stood. “I have passage,” I said to the red-faced man. “What’s your best offer?”

  Two hours later, I had ensconced myself at a comfortable inn far too near the palace for Mordric’s comfort. I sank into the feather bed and gazed at the fire crackling on the tiled hearth, plotting my next move. It had better be good and it had better work, for when Mordric inevitably found out I’d disobeyed his orders. Despite all his threats, he generally tolerated disobedience if it furthered his ends in some way.

  Chapter Twenty - Merius

  The blank page of the book I held crinkled between my fingers, a fine parchment saved for the rare color illustrations. I glanced at the other side of the page and found a map of the northern Marennese plains and mountains, the same place I had been on campaign back in the spring. I twisted the book around--although this book was a history of the battles that had formed the current boundaries between Sarneth, Marenna, and Numer some seven hundred years before, I still recognized many of the place names or at least could puzzle them out.

  “Sweetheart, I have something to show you.”

  “Give me a moment.” Safire straightened and backed away from the easel, squinting at the painting of Toscar and the queen. After a minute, she dabbed a miniscule amount of paint on the canvas in the vicinity of Toscar’s boot. “There,” she said, satisfied. “I knew there was something wrong with it.” Then, wiping her hands on her smock, she came over and perched on the pallet beside me.

  “This was the route we took last spring on the campaign.” I traced my troop’s path with my fingertip.

  “Goodness, you went a long way, for only being gone four months.”

  “At the time, it felt like we were moving slower than snails. Especially when we were on the plains.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, we always had the mountains in front of us, and they always seemed to stay the same size, no matter how far we went in a day. Of course, they were getting closer all the time, but it’s hard to judge that when you’re looking at them constantly.”

  “So many mountains,” she murmured, her finger beside mine on the page as she circled the length of the mountain chain. “It’s a wonder you didn’t get lost.”

  “We almost did, a number of times. There’s hardly any trees or streams for landmarks in those mountains, just rock. They had a grim beauty, so stark that you felt like an invader even just breathing there. I never want to see them again.” I marked the page and closed the book. “It still galls me that we had to leave Roland’s body there. He deserves to rest with his sires in the Sullay tomb. Hell, he deserved to live.”

  “He was your friend, someone you admired,” Safire murmured.

  I nodded. “We’d been jesting him that morning--he couldn’t grow a beard, and his cheeks were smooth as a boy’s even though we‘d been traveling hard for weeks. He insisted on going first. Gerard and I tried to talk him into drawing lots, like we’d planned the night before, but he refused. So we let him go first. Brave fool--he turned a blind corner, and a SerVerinese on a ledge shot him with an arrow in his neck between his helmet and his mail. He crumpled, just like a deer does when you hit it in the right spot.”

  Safire covered her mouth with her hand. “That’s horrible . . .”

  “It was horrible. Every man I killed there, I thought of Roland. It was so quick, he probably didn’t even realize he’d been hit. I hope he didn‘t realize it. He never knew fear, and he shouldn‘t have had to taste it at the end of his life. Fear is the bitterest draught.”

  “You haven’t really talked about it before, what it was like in Marenna. I knew it was hard for you, but I was afraid to ask. I should have pressed you more, I suppose.”

  My arm tightened around her shoulders. “No, you did right not asking me, being patient. You’re the only one who’s ever been patient with me--even my mother despaired at my restlessness. I only wish I could offer you the same.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re patient with me.”

  I trailed my finger over her ear and down her neck. “I’m not always patient in my head,” I whispered, easing her hair aside and kissing her other ear.

  She giggled. “Oh, dear heart. It’s been hard for me to wait too. That‘s not impatience--that‘s . . .” she glanced around as if expecting to see a nun peering in the high window, “That’s lust,” she finished, her voice low.

  “I’ve been in lust since I was fourteen. This is more than lust--last night, when we were kissing, I thought I was going to explode . . .”

  “We were doing a bit more than kissing,” she murmured.

  “You’re not helping any, you know.”

  “You want me to stop?”

  “Hell . . .” Now I was glancing around, guilty that the abbess might be listening. “Hell no,” I said. “It’s just . . . well, what you’ve been doing . . . it makes me damn near desperate for you.”

  She ran her hand down the inside of my thigh, and I bit my lip. “Don’t worry about me--I enjoy taking advantage of you.”

  “Ravish me, sweet lady. In a convent, no less. You‘re wicked.” I leaned down, our mouths meeting with blind ease. She sighed as I pressed her back against the wall, my hand around her side.

  There came a whimper from the basket in the corner. Instantly, Safire tensed, and I sank back, my hand sliding off her as she hurried to the other end of the cell. This time he had slept almost two hours straight, the longest stretch he had slept since he was born. The abbess and Verea had said that newborns slept almost all day and night. And indeed, Sewell had slept almost all day and night--for fifteen minutes at a time. He was constantly waking. And as soon as he woke, he started wailing. Safire and I had been convinced the first several days that there was something horribly wrong with him because he cried so much.

  Safire held him to her shoulder, her hand cupping his head as she shushed him. Gingerly, she sat down beside me. His shrill cry became a low whimper, punctuated by wet gurgles that sounded suspiciously like he was drooling down the front of her bodice.

  I shut my eyes, my arms crossed, remembered my first sight of Safire at the court ball almost a year ago, the moonlit court library and our first kiss, the forbidden, precious night I claimed her maidenhead and her heart. Would that I have sired a child on her then, that very night. We never would have had to flee to Sarneth, Jazmene would never have seen Safire’s sketches, and we wouldn’t have to play this deadly game of cat and mouse with Toscar and the queen’s guard. Perhaps even Whitten wouldn’t have thought to put his hands on her, and even if he had, my seed would already have taken root, and Sewell would be my son, not some interloper’s get.

  I opened my eyes, glanced over at Safire. She bent over Sewell as she fed him, his small dark head nestled against the pale softness of her breasts, the copper fire of her hair a protective veil around them both. She was so lovely I ached inside at the sight of her. How could she be cuddling another man’s son, cooing over the fruit of her violation, a violation that still made her cringe in my arms sometimes? What if Father was right? What if Sewell looked like Whitten as he grew? God, how could I stand it?

  Safire glanced at me then. “What is it, Merius?”

  “I’m just thinking about something Father said,
that’s all.”

  “Really? What did he say?”

  Witch. I hesitated, then realized that would only make her more suspicious. “He thought perhaps,” I paused, “that we should leave Sewell with the nuns.”

  “What?”

  “He said the nuns often take such children and raise them.”

  “Such children?” Her voice sounded strangled. “And what did he mean by that, exactly?”

  “Safire, I don’t know. It was just something he said, all right?”

  She turned her face from me and drew her knees up, her arms tightening around Sewell as if her frail body could protect him from all harm, even an avalanche. “I’ll never leave him. How dare Mordric even say that?”

  “He only suggested it, sweetheart. I think he was concerned that Sewell might grow to resemble,” I stammered, “resemble Whitten.”

  Her head flew around, her eyes glittery. “And what if he does resemble Whitten? Why should that make any difference?”

  “Difference? Of course it’ll make a difference.”

  “In what way?” she snapped. I reached for her, and she recoiled. Damn witch--I was only trying to comfort her.

  “Do you want to be reminded every day of what that drunken bastard did to you? Because I sure as hell don‘t.”

  “Reminded? Reminded!” Her voice rose. “I’m reminded sometimes when we lie together--should I turn you out of my bed so there‘s no reminders there either?”

  “Damn it, Safire, I’ve been as patient as I‘m able. Do you know how frustrating it is sometimes when all I want is you, and that sot’s ghost lies between us?”

  “Maybe you should have found a woman without any ghosts. The princess, now--I bet she doesn’t have any ghosts,” she sniffed, fumbling for her handkerchief.

  “I don’t want the goddamned princess. I want you, when you’re not on your considerable high horse. Sweet, don‘t cry . . .”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Safire jerked to her feet, startling Sewell awake. He began to fuss, and I groaned. With the way he picked up on her moods, I wagered his whimper would soon swell to an ear-splitting crescendo, as close to torture in this tiny chamber as I could imagine. Safire paced from the door to our pallet, over and over, shushing him. Usually she called on her witch talents to soothe him, but with the guarded set of her shoulders, the taut line of her arms, all she managed to do now was goad him to a fretful wail. Father was right--neither Safire nor I deserved this cuckoo’s child as our firstborn. I rose, one hand braced on the wall as I watched her.

  Sensing my gaze, she looked up, her eyes narrow. “You want me to leave Sewell here, don’t you, Merius?”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s for the best, sweetheart.”

  “How can you say that? How dare you say that?”

  “Think about it, Safire. We’ll know he’ll be cared for here--these women are kind, hard-working, and they love him already. The abbess will understand if we explain to her what happened. She’d keep our secret--you know she would. We’d send coin for his upkeep and education. He could have a fine life here, better than in Cormalen.”

  “A better life away from me? I’m his mother.”

  “His father raped you--you can’t tell me that never crosses your mind when you look at him.”

  There was a long pause, filled only with Sewell’s muffled whimper. Safire bowed her head over his, her shoulders shaking. “I’ll never leave him,” she said. “Never, Merius. I can’t leave him. I don’t care what his father did to me. I want you for his father . . .”

  “I can never be Sewell‘s father, Safire. I can’t stop thinking of Whitten when I look at him, when I hear him cry. Damn it, I want you nursing our children, I want you holding our son.”

  “I want that too.”

  “So leave him here. I know it’ll hurt now, but later . . .”

  “You know? What the hell do you know?” she flared, her eyes ablaze. “How would you have felt if your mother had left you in a foreign country with a bunch of nuns?”

  I reached out and grasped her arm, our eyes locked in a glare. “Listen, I’ll not leave my lands, my name, my wealth to the fruit of your violation. I’ll provide for him, but not at the expense of you or our children. Sewell stays in Sarneth.”

  She wrenched her arm away. “Then I stay with him.”

  “Damn it, Safire . . .” I found my hands shaking, the whole chamber shaking with me.

  “You’d force me to choose between you or my child?” she spat. “How dare you?”

  “I’m only trying to protect you. Keeping Sewell will lead to nothing but heartbreak for us.”

  “The last thing I want to do is break your heart,” she said, her tone cutting, “so perhaps we should part ways.”

  “Damn stubborn witch.” The blood in my veins ceased flowing, thick and dark as tar with rage. “You’re my wife, and you’ll mind what I say, or . . .”

  “Or what?” she mocked.

  Or I’d find another wife? Or I’d tie her up and drag her back to Cormalen? Or I’d lock her away until she complied? I couldn’t do any of those things, not to her. I realized then I didn’t have an ‘or what‘ when it came to her, and that enraged me more than anything she had said.

  Sewell, who had been unusually silent as if he’d been listening, suddenly commenced screeching, the sound like knives in my ears. I left the cell, slamming the door behind me.

  Still able to hear him, even through the thick door, I strode down the hall, around the curve of the wall until the door disappeared and Sewell’s yell faded to nothing. The silence throbbed around me. I leaned my forehead against the cool wall, my hands clenched in fists as I closed my eyes, my breath loud in my ears now that I heard nothing else. She was my wife, my responsibility, and she had promised to respect my authority, damn her. She knew that I would never ask something of her unless it was necessary. Yet she dared mock me, the impossible witch. My hands clutched with the urge to go back right now and shake her until she saw reason. I groaned.

  “Merius?” The abbess’s quiet voice startled me.

  After a reluctant moment, I turned to face her. “Yes, my lady?”

  “You shouldn’t be out in the hall like this, not unless you’re performing some duty or chore that requires your presence here. I’ve been lenient past my better judgment to let you stay as it is. Don‘t make me regret it.”

  I barked a wild laugh. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lady--I was only pausing here on my way out.”

  “Way out?” She lifted her brows.

  “It seems a harpy with a wicked temper has taken Safire’s place, and I need a respite.”

  “You’re the one I heard yelling and slamming doors,” the abbess said dryly.

  “You were listening?”

  “I could hardly help but hear. You interrupted our afternoon prayers.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll make good on that apology by fixing the hinge on the kitchen door and hauling more wood and water before evensong.”

  Despite their apparent horror at the entire male sex, these nuns could find just as many uses for a man as their less holy sisters. I didn’t mind--I’d rather be moving and doing than sitting. I’d had enough of that during my imprisonment at the palace.

  “It must be difficult for you here,” she continued, thoughtful.

  I snorted. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “God smites people‘s tongues for lesser flippancy,” she said, severe again. “Now come with me.”

  I followed her down the hall, wondering if she was on the verge of tossing me out. If she was, I wanted my sword and books at least. She led me past the main door, around the curve of another hall until we came to a passage so narrow that my shoulders brushed the sides. I had to duck to enter it, feeling confined and uneasy as if entering a dark, unexplored crevice without a lantern. Where was she taking me? Maybe she was secretly Toscar’s ally, and this was a ploy to lock me in the cellar so the queen’s guard could seize Safire. T
hen the nuns would keep me as their slave forever to fix all their broken hinges for them and haul their wood and water. I almost turned around, but it was impossible here, with the passage so narrow. Damn it, I knew these women were too good to be trusted . . .

  With a rattle of keys, the abbess unlocked a door at the end of the passage. Following her, I emerged in a large chamber with high ceilings and plain, white walls like the rest of the convent. I stretched, grateful for the end of the passage. This didn’t look like a cellar. Ancient, heavy furniture of black wood, a few books, and a large tapestry depicting the tree of life were the only adornments.

  “Whose chamber is this?”

  “Mine,” she said, poking at the dead ashes in the fireplace. “You’re the first man to enter it since the workmen who built this place.”

  I nodded, not quite knowing how to respond. My gaze went to the books, and I noted with surprise they weren’t all religious texts. All the volumes of Keller’s History of the Sarneth Kings, some Marennese title I didn’t recognize, and . . . “You have Sirach?” I exclaimed. Sirach’s poetry could be quite erotic--most parents in Cormalen forbid their children, particularly their daughters, to read Sirach.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “You sound amused, my lady,” I retorted.

  She offered a slight smile. “You think the only writing an old nun can appreciate is a book of prayers?”

  “Forgive my surprise--most girls in Cormalen are forbidden to read Sirach.”

  “Backwards country,” she muttered.

  “Backwards Cormalen may be, but I challenge you to name a Sarneth verse master to equal Sirach or Lhigat. I notice you don’t have any volumes of Vecatar--he’s the only Sarneth writer I would even mention in the same breath with Sirach and Lhigat.”

  “I’ve never cared for Vecatar, and I’ll call any country backwards that honors its most accomplished poet by forbidding his verse be read.” She reached for the volume of Sirach. “Give this to Safire so she can have the education her own country denies her.”

  “She already has that volume, my lady.” I grinned.