“I thought you said Sirach was forbidden reading for Cormalen girls.”
“Safire likes forbidden things.”
The abbess regarded me dourly. “What were you and she fighting about?” she asked, catching me off my guard.
I sighed. I couldn’t very tell her it was none of her affair, not when I hoped she and the other nuns would take Sewell. “Perhaps you can help me,” I said finally.
“Help you with what?” she prompted when I fell silent again. This was going to be harder than I thought.
“Talk to Safire.” I paused again, then plunged desperately ahead. “She wants to keep Sewell, raise him as my son, and it’s impossible. He‘s not mine.”
“You didn’t sire him?”
“No, my drunkard cousin did while I was away at battle. Safire wasn’t herself--in what she calls a witch fit--and he took,” I stammered, “took advantage of her.”
“Witch fit?”
“You saw the scars on her arms? Those scars are from when an evil spirit attacked Safire and put her in this state where she wasn’t herself. She couldn’t talk or remember who she was for two months, and that’s when my cousin Whitten . . .” I trailed off.
The abbess nodded curtly and blinked as if in pain, letting me know that I didn’t have to finish. “Witch fit--it sounds like a form of possession.”
“I thought possession was when a demon or devil spoke through someone.”
“Other spirits besides demons possess people. A disembodied human spirit that hasn’t crossed over may target a living soul, either out of malice or desperation. Someone with Safire’s sensitivities would be particularly vulnerable to such an attack.”
“The way you talk about this--forgive me, but it sounds like you have more than an observer‘s interest.”
She smiled, a bit grimly. “Cormalen is not the only place to produce such talents. I have a touch of clairvoyance, just enough to appreciate Safire’s gift--or curse. I can sense spirits, sense what she calls auras, though not as vividly as she does. I also suspect that my clairvoyance helps me perceive the movement in her drawings more clearly than most.”
“That’s why you understood so quickly what she can do, what she is.”
“Merius, I entered the spiritual discipline of a convent for more than faith. I entered it for protection as well.”
“Protection?” I echoed. “I see no guards, no weapons here.”
“No guard, no sword will ever protect Safire from her greatest threat. Do you think you could have used a sword against that wicked spirit who possessed her?”
“And how would you have warded off the spirit? Prayer?”
“I would have no need to ward it off, not as long as I was here. This place--no wicked spirits come to this place. It’s protected by centuries of prayer and sincere faith, and nothing evil can abide here.”
I smiled to myself. “No matter how protected she is here, Safire will never make a nun, my lady.”
The abbess stalked over to a side table and picked up an earthenware pitcher. “Perhaps--she doesn‘t seem fit for the contemplative life even if she needs its protection. Cider?” She held up the pitcher.
I shook my head as I perched on the arm of a chair. She shrugged and poured some cider into a goblet for herself. The acid sweetness of fermented apples reached my nose, reminding me of the Landers orchard in the fall. I glanced at my feet, tracing the lines of crumbled grout between the reddish tiles with my toe.
“Would you take Sewell? I’d pay for his upkeep . . .” I trailed off when I noticed the abbess lift her hand.
“Will you pay for Safire’s upkeep as well?” she demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“Merius, she’ll never leave her baby.”
“But if I talk to her . . .”
“I tell you--if you force her hand in this, she’ll never forgive you. She bore that child in her body for nine months, suckled him at her breast, rocked him to sleep . . .”
“I’d never force her hand in anything,” I interrupted.
“Really? What do you call yelling?”
“Damn it, she yelled at me.” I glared at the abbess, unblinking under her dark-eyed scrutiny.
“Of course she yelled at you. She was protecting her young.”
“Protecting her young? That’s ridiculous--I’d never threaten her or Sewell. I was just trying to have a reasonable discussion with her.”
“That’s like trying to have a reasonable discussion with a mother bear about her cub,” the abbess said, gently for her. “Instinct triumphs over reason in the battle of love. You truly love her?”
“With all my heart.” I swallowed.
“What’s your first instinct toward her?”
“To protect her at all costs.”
“See, you understand how she feels about Sewell. She’ll feel the same about your children when the time comes.”
“But how can she love and protect something forced on her?” I blurted out. “That’s what I don’t understand. Do other women who conceive from a rape want to keep their babies?”
“We’re talking about Safire, not other women. I suspect her talents have given her a tender heart, perhaps too tender. She‘s not quite made for this harsh world, for all her bravado.”
“What do you mean?”
“’The sweetest fruit bruises the easiest,’” she quoted. “’So tend her with a gentle hand/Plenty of warm sun and soft rain/Only pruning when you must/And never cut her roots.’”
“Sirach,” I murmured.
“Sirach, indeed. I knew you’d understand that.”
I nodded, kicked the floor. “Thank you, my lady. I‘ll think about what you‘ve said.”
“You should pray about it instead. The answer will come more readily and with less angst that way,” she said, her voice brisk. “Now go back to your wife. And no more yelling, please.”
As I turned to leave, she added, “And Merius, don’t forget to fix the kitchen door hinge.”
I grinned. “Of course, my lady.”
It took me a few minutes to find Safire’s and my cell again. All the halls lacked adornment and looked the same to me. I cursed softly and just kept turning right--eventually I had to find it. All the nuns were at dinner so there was no one to ask. Most of them wouldn’t have answered me anyway, simply murmuring something unintelligible and skittering away like frightened mice from a tomcat. Some of them even refused to meet my gaze, as if I could taint their chastity just by looking at them. Finally, the right hallway--I could tell by deeper recesses of the high windows to the left. This wall had its outer side to the street, so it was thicker than the walls facing the courtyard. I found our door and opened it. For a long moment, I glanced around the chamber, shadowed in the late afternoon light.
“Safire?” I said, even though it was obvious she wasn’t here. I crossed the chamber and knocked on the door to the privy chamber, then opened it. No Safire there either.
I glanced around the chamber again, noticing her cloak was no longer draped across the foot of our pallet, her leather sack and portfolio no longer lay next to the easel, and the baby sling the nuns had given her to carry Sewell no longer lay near the door. The canaries hopped about their cage and looked at me with cocked heads as if asking where she went. She had gone, not just to the library, not just to the kitchen, but really gone. I stood for a moment, unable to inhale the silence, the sudden vast emptiness of the chamber--even the air followed her.
“Damned witch,” I muttered. “Safire, you’ll be the end of me.” Then I grabbed my sword and bolted, cursing as I ran down the hall for the door to the outside.
Chapter Twenty-One - Safire
I stumbled over the icy cobbles in my haste. My shoes pinched my feet in their thick woolen hosen. I was unaccustomed to Sewell’s weight in the sling over my hip as my leather bag banged against my back, heavy with fresh rags, a spare blanket, a couple small rolls of canvas, paints, and brushes. But more than any tight shoes or cumbersome loa
d, the desperation in my legs made me clumsy as I half-ran, half-walked down the street away from the convent. Away . . . my mind could hardly comprehend it. It had been so long since I had been away. One long month, watched by Korigann and the queen’s guard by day. Then two long months, watched by Falken in a tiny locked room while my babe grew inside me. Yet another long month, watched by those kind, stern women in the convent. And Merius’s brooding hung over me throughout, a stifling gray cloud of worry that made the air heavy, sometimes even oppressive.
Of course he worries--what husband wouldn’t worry when a wicked queen is hell bent on stealing his wife for her artist collection? my reasonable self argued. My reasonable self always sounded suspiciously like my sister Dagmar, which only made my reckless self want to rebel more. You fool--go back to the convent right now before some queen’s guard spots you.
I’m going back--I just need a moment alone. My reckless self quickened the pace.
Someone’s going to recognize you . . .
Shut up. I have my cloak hood over my head.
*Safire? Merius broke into my thoughts, his mental voice urgent. *Where are you?
What was he doing, talking in my head? Maybe I was imagining his voice as well as Dagmar’s. I took a deep breath and steeled myself against thoughts of him, his rumbling voice, his gentle touch, his strong arms, so safe and so . . . confining.
*Safire, please stop, I need to talk to you . . . I could pretend no more--this didn't seem like my imagination. I felt his urgency like a rope tugging at the base of my spine. My breath even quickened with his as he ran from alley to alley. We truly were communicating in our thoughts. The silent language that had grown between us while the queen’s guards watched us had blossomed into full mind-reading. Mind-reading with Merius--oh no. I hoped I could block him.
*Leave me alone. I concentrated on blocking myself from him. Sewell’s steady whimper, muffled by the extra blanket tucked around him, grew to a wail as I almost tripped again. Evidently I couldn’t concentrate on blocking Merius and walk at the same time. Muttering a curse, I ducked into an abandoned alley and paused for a moment.
*I know I hurt you. I’m sorry. Please stop . . .
“No.” I spoke this thought aloud to give it more force, savoring the short, powerful syllable on my tongue as I pictured a tall, stone wall between Merius‘s mind and my own. All sense of him instantly vanished. He didn’t like walls between us except those he built himself.
Sewell’s wail grew louder, and I reached under my cloak to expose the sling. Maybe he was cold. Maybe the blanket was too loose. Judging by his red face, wrinkled around the angry button of his nose, he could be cold or mad. Maybe the blanket was too tight? The abbess had said babies preferred being swaddled, but maybe in my worry about the cold outside air, I had wrapped him too tightly? I loosened the blanket, and his little arms flailed.
“Shh, sweetling,” I said. “Shh.” I glanced around. What if someone was watching? What if a guard heard Sewell and came to investigate? I had been under scrutiny so long that it was easy to imagine that every cloaked figure hurrying past the alley entrance had a nefarious purpose. I shivered, suddenly cold. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the safety of the convent, even for a few hours. Of course you shouldn’t have left, you fool Dagmar’s voice screeched in my head. Go back now.
I shook my head to clear it, then looked at Sewell. I removed him from the sling, careful to keep him wrapped in a blanket, and held him against my chest. “Shh, shh,” I whispered again and again, rubbing his back and drawing the tension from him. His wail faltered into silence as he grew still, his small candle flame of an aura fading from bright orange to warm yellow. I coaxed him to sleep before I tried to ease him off my shoulder. Instantly, his eyelids fluttered, and he gurgled.
“Sewell, please, sweet--I can’t stay here forever. Shh . . .” I started to slide his swaddled feet into the sling.
He was having none of it, his gurgle erupting into a full cry of protest as he kicked away the blanket. With a muttered oath, I grabbed the blanket and shook off the snow before I wrapped it back around him.
“He doesn’t like the sling, does he?” Merius asked, startling me. He was so quiet sometimes it was uncanny. Like his father.
I clutched Sewell to my chest, tucking the edge of my cloak around him and rising to my feet. I strode toward the entrance of the alley, then realized I had forgotten my leather bag, which held a stash of coin as well as everything else. I turned around, only to find that Merius had picked up the bag and was following me. Our eyes met. His silvery aura filled the alley with nervous, frenetic energy, a web of darting light, the same light that filled our cell at the convent, the same light that filled every enclosed space we were in, enveloping me. Imprisoning me. I tore my gaze from his and turned away again. I had to escape him, if only for a few hours. I had to escape him, if only to prove that I could.
I managed to take a few steps before he reached me. He rested his hand on my shoulder, his grip so gentle I could hardly feel it. There was a hidden strength in his fingers, like tightly coiled springs, and I knew then how hard he was trying not to simply pick me up and drag me back to safety. He was attempting to be civilized, diplomatic, even though he believed I’d lost my mind. Which maybe I had. So I stopped, if only to encourage this newfound restraint between us.
“Safire,” he said softly. “Sweet, come back with me.”
“No.”
“It’s cold, and there are guards out on the streets.”
“I know that--I’m being careful. I just need some time alone, Merius.” I half turned to face him.
“If you come back to the convent with me, I’ll leave you alone for as long as you need. It’s not safe here.”
I had steeled myself for his passion, even his anger, so his reasonable calm completely undid me. “But,” I started, then stopped. I couldn’t argue with what he had just said--it was too rational. “But you want to leave Sewell,” I blurted out.
“Leave Sewell? Here?” Merius gaped at me. “Safire, what the hell? I know we had a fight, but . . .” he trailed off.
I had a vision of Merius the villain forcing me to abandon Sewell in the snow and then dragging me away screaming as my baby’s cries faded in the night. It was so absurd that I gave a tremulous giggle--and found myself clutching Sewell close.
*I'll never leave him in Sarneth.
He sighed, kicked at a loose cobble with his boot. “What are you doing to me, witch? I’m hearing you talk in my head now,” he murmured.
“You’re talking in my head too,” I retorted. "I don't like it."
"Is that why you put up that wall earlier?" His face was expressionless.
“You felt that?”
“Of course I felt it--I ran into it.” He trailed his hand from my shoulder down my cloaked arm to my hand, exposed under the cloak edge. I let him touch me, grip my fingers in his. His silver aura crackled between us and caught me in a rain of sparks. I felt like a delighted child for an instant, up past my bedtime to see the fireworks. Then the sparks brushed too close, burning me, and I tried to snatch my hand away. I had felt his aura before many times, but never as close as this. I glanced down at Sewell to see if he felt it too, but he was almost asleep, peaceful and unconcerned, his thumb in his mouth. I looked at Merius again. His gaze was unblinking as he tightened his fingers around mine, the sparks a hundred kisses of fire on my skin every instant. What was happening to us?
I tried to picture the wall between us again, the only protection I could summon before his silvery blaze consumed me. Before, when I couldn’t see him but only sense his thoughts, the wall had been easy to imagine. Now, his eyes locked with mine, his fingers tight around mine, it was impossible to picture the wall, so instead I pictured individual stones being lifted and then dropped into place between us. For a moment it seemed to work, but then each stone felt heavier than the last, the distance to lift it longer than the last, and my imagination failed me. I gasped, faint from the effort of trying
to block Merius and the half-pain, half-thrill of his aura searing mine. I blinked and turned away, blinded.
“No--don’t,” Merius muttered. The bag fell to the cobbles as he dropped it and reached for my chin. He tilted my face up, our eyes locking again. I shuddered and moved further into the alley, recoiling from the heat of his touch, his aura, an inferno of molten silver around us now.
“Merius . . .”
“I can feel you,” he said, his voice low and agitated. “I can see it, feel it.” I could envision what he saw now when he looked at me, a violet light around me, shot through with zigzagging amber lines of agitation. My aura—he could see my aura. And smell and taste it too, just as I could smell and taste his sometimes. He thought mine tasted like honeyed wine warmed in the sunlight.
I jerked my head back. “Merius, let go . . .”
He released me, and I stumbled back, clutching Sewell, who somehow had managed to fall asleep. Merius and I stared at each other, me gasping for breath and him still bemused, a man in a trance.
“That light around you, the honey wine taste in the air, the scent of burning cedar--is that your aura? Is that what you’ve been talking about all this time?” he asked after a silent moment.
“I suppose.” I shivered, suddenly cold outside the confines of his warmth. “You’ve never sensed it before, except the cedar scent--I don’t understand. What’s happening to us?”
“Don’t you know?”
I shook my head. "We just had the worst fight of our marriage--it doesn't make sense."
“I was desperate to find you--maybe that's how it happened."
"Maybe. Try to talk to me again without speaking--see if you can do it now."
His face grew taut, his eyes narrow as he concentrated. His aura stopped sparkling as the light drew close to his body, a pewter cloak. He looked like he aimed at a bulls-eye on a target. "It's not working, is it?" he said after a long moment.
"I think you're concentrating too hard. It seemed like it worked before when you weren't trying, just like you're not trying to sense my aura now. You just are." My brow furrowed. How could I explain to him about using witch talents? No one had explained how to use my talents to me. I just used them, sometimes without even realizing it at first, like my moving pictures. Yet sometimes I was able to focus them, like when I was healing someone. Mother had taught me how to hide my talents, not use them. Now Merius and I stumbled through some vast, shadowy wood with no map to guide us. I sighed.
Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2) Page 40