Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  “What do you most need to say to Merius right now?”

  “What are you going to do, pass him a note through the bars?”

  “In a sense--I’ve found a way to get him a message. Not fail-safe to be certain, but then little is in this situation.”

  I sat down on the bed beside Eden, my muscles suddenly slack. Why had Safire surrendered like that? Why? My brain whirred through all the possibilities, but none of them made sense. I would have to go to the convent tomorrow and talk to the abbess. I couldn't think about this, not now, not until I knew Safire's reasons. Then I could devise a plan. Without more information, any speculation was useless.

  "Have you eaten?" I demanded.

  "That's what you want to say to Merius?"

  "No, wench, I meant you. I don't know about you, but I'm hungry all of a sudden."

  She shrugged. "I haven't eaten since this afternoon, so maybe something light."

  I rang the servant's bell. When the maid knocked on the door, Eden sprang off the bed and headed for the privy chamber. She emerged a good quarter hour later after the maid had delivered the wine and bread and cheese.

  I glanced up from the wine cork when I heard the click of the privy door latch. Eden lounged in the doorway, the firelight glowing copper at the rounded edges of her breasts and hips. I gazed at her for a moment before I glanced back at the corkscrew in my hand.

  “I’d suggest you put your clothes back on before I turn you out in the snow,” I said.

  “You might want to ask me about Falken first.” She slid on to the bed beside where I sat. I could feel her breath stirring the air around me, taste her tart warmth on my tongue. She was too close.

  “What about him?” I grunted, the cork finally coming loose with a muffled pop.

  “He wants to meet with you and Rankin.”

  “And why would we want to meet with him?” I handed her the bottle. She swirled it, then put her nose near the top and inhaled before she closed her eyes and took a long sip. I noticed how her full lips touched the opening, lightly surrounded it so that not one drop of wine escaped.

  Finally she lowered the bottle. “It tastes so rich, of cherry and apple wood smoke,” she said.

  “Here.” I thrust the plate of bread and cheese at her, almost dropping it in her lap in my haste. “Eat something.”

  She grinned, staring at me with those evil half-lidded tawny eyes. Then, with painfully slow deliberation, she reached down and sliced some of the soft, pale cheese, the slice so thin in spots the light shone through it like parchment. Then she put the slice on the bread and ate it in dainty bites, a long sip of wine between each bite. I shook my head and tried to look away but found my gaze fixed on her, waiting to see what she would do next.

  “Falken really wants Safire--he’s convinced she can get him the Numerian throne,” she said.

  “Yes--I’ve heard his theories on that subject. He thinks she’s a fire selkie, whatever the hell that means. All I know is she’s a bundle of trouble.”

  “So why not take him up on his offer?”

  “Because he has nothing to offer, now that she’s given herself up. She’s out of all our hands, her and Merius.”

  “But what about later, perhaps, when she and Merius are free? Imagine the possibilities if Falken seduces her, so to speak, and Merius sees her as false and leaves her here? He’d be free to marry another, someone more suitable . . .”

  “There is no one more suitable for him than Safire,” I snapped without thinking.

  Her face drew in on itself as she frowned in puzzlement. “What? But Mordric, at least consider . . .”

  How could I explain myself concerning Safire? The witch had apparently cursed me and left all my fine practical thoughts a muddle. So I grabbed Eden. I pried the bottle from her and set it on the table beside the bed before I pushed her down and drowned her laughing protests with a fierce kiss. It was the best way I knew to shut her up.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The door to the convent library creaked open, and I flipped shut the book in my hand with a dusty bang. I rose as the abbess entered. She leaned against the door, her hands braced behind her as if she held the door shut against some evil. Her dark gaze met mine, and she blinked. For the first time since I had met her, she broke eye contact and looked away, blinking rapidly.

  “Are you crying?” I took a step toward her, then stopped. What did one do with a crying nun? "Good God," I muttered.

  “I’d ask you to hold your blasphemous tongue, sir--you are in a convent.”

  “Oh, blast your convent. You were supposed to watch Safire.” I turned on my heel before the abbess, and if I’d held a sword, the tip would have landed against her throat.

  She flattened herself against the door, glaring at me. “It’s not Safire’s fault--or my fault--that your son wagered his life for his freedom.”

  I covered my eyes with my hand. "Merius, what have you done now?” I asked the air.

  “Challenged Toscar to a duel to the death,” the abbess answered softly.

  The silence pressed on all sides, an unbearable weight. I inhaled it, and the weight settled in my lungs like water. Perhaps I could drown in it. “I hope Safire went there to throttle him,” I heard myself say from a great distance. “How dare he?”

  “You reared him to use violent means to gain his ends. What did you expect?”

  “Oh, get off your holy high horse! I reared him to have some sense. This is madness.”

  “It is madness. Her Majesty Jazmene is mad. She would see Merius dead, her own lover Toscar dead, to gain control of Safire.”

  “That witch.” I exhaled painfully. “What did she do with the babe?”

  “After seeing how Jazmene tortured Merius, Safire feared for Sewell, so she did the only thing she could do to protect him from the queen--abandon him, at least until it's safe.”

  I barked a laugh. “She heeded my will in that, at least. I’ll see Jazmene and Toscar in hell for this.”

  The abbess wiped the last of the tears away and regarded me with dark dourness for a long moment. “What can I do to help you, Mordric?”

  “Help me? My lady, this requires something more than prayers.”

  “I know.”

  I raised my brows. “You’re a nun--it would be wrong of me to ask for your help with an intrigue that could end in mayhem and assassination.”

  She shrugged. “I already have much to confess. I’m supposed to scorn all earthly attachments, but I find myself far too attached to Safire--and Merius. Any help I can offer you that doesn‘t compromise the safety of this convent and its inhabitants is yours for the asking.”

  "I fear for the safety of the convent as well. You should send the babe and his wet nurse away," I said.

  The abbess's brows drew together. "What? But no one aside from us knows that Safire was even here . . ."

  "Perhaps, but both Falken and Korigann know she was with child. Korigann, I'm not so worried about--he seems a good man, and if he had been going to say something about it, he would have said it long ago. But Falken . . . Falken's another matter altogether."

  She sighed. "Falken is another matter, from what I've heard. But Mordric, Safire will want Sewell back, if and when she escapes the queen's clutches."

  "Of course." I offered my blandest expression. "Could you send him to another convent perhaps, one outside the city where I can still keep track of him?" I pulled out the bag of coin I had brought in case of this very scenario. At last, with neither Safire nor Merius here to fight me, I was able to do the best thing for them and the babe. Safire would grieve when I told her the lie that Sewell and his wet nurse had vanished without a trace. That grief would be nothing, though, compared to the grief she would feel if she kept the babe and was slowly torn apart between him and Merius, between him and her other children.

  The abbess nodded and took the coin. She then reached in the folds of her robe and pulled out a folded bit of foolscap. “Safire left this for you.”

  I took
the paper between my fingers and promptly dropped it. It fluttered to the floor. “Damn it,” I muttered as I bent down to pick it up. No, it wasn’t my fancy--the foolscap tingled under my fingertips, a crackling warmth that rustled over the surface of the thin paper. “What’s this? Some new witch trick?” I demanded.

  The abbess watched me, that dour stolidity hiding her thoughts again. For once, I missed Safire. It took no effort to read Safire--the witch laughed or cried or blushed or swore or spoke her mind outright, and I hardly ever had to expend myself to fathom her. The abbess, however, could turn sphinx as easily as I, and it was exhausting, like spending all day hunting for a deer one could hear but never see. Women were difficult enough without being sphinxes.

  “What do you feel in the paper, Mordric?” she asked finally.

  “That witch did something unnatural to it. It tingles.” I shrugged, started to unfold the foolscap. “She’s an unruly wench, about the worst wife for Merius I could imagine. They feed each other‘s mischief.”

  “You’re rather fond of her, aren’t you?”

  I snorted--women and their ridiculous sentimentality. Even this dried up nun couldn’t help herself. Eden was the only female I knew who had escaped the curse of an overflowing heart. No wonder I wanted her. “Fond, my lady? I’m not fond of anyone. Safire does have a few valuable traits amongst all the bad--there‘s no deceit in her, and if we can keep her alive long enough, she’ll make a fine mother.”

  The abbess‘s slight smile broadened, as if she were mocking me. Damned sanctimonious walled virgin. I wanted to tell her that it was easy to be good in here with no mad rush of life to tempt her away from the simple path she had chosen. No wonder she thought so highly of herself--those who had never been tested always did.

  “You surprise me, Mordric,” she said then.

  “Really? Pray tell.”

  “There‘s a hint of warlock in you, enough so that you understand Safire far better than you‘ll ever admit, you love your son even when he goes against your wishes, and despite all your protests, you want a witch mother for your grandchildren simply because she has a tender heart. What kind of embittered old soldier turned cynical courtier are you?” She turned then, not waiting for my answer, if there could be any answer to such nonsense, and left.

  Cursing, I shook open the letter and scanned the splotched, uneven lines of script. Apparently Safire had shed tears on it while she composed it. Typical. Like Merius, the witch had never learned how to use blotting paper. Heedless wench. The letter (what I could decipher) read:

  Dear Mordric,

  As you likely already know, I've gone to the palace to give myself up in exchange for Merius's release. Hopefully you know this from Merius himself, but Jazmene is unreasonable, so there's no telling how my negotiations with her will go today. All I know is this is unbearable. Merius suffers because of me, and because he suffers, I suffer. At least Jazmene won't torture me like she's tortured him. I can't paint for her with bruised ribs or if I'm in a trance from the Ursula's Bane. And if she won't let him go, at least I can be with him, heal his injuries and perhaps talk him out of this mad duel with Toscar.

  The queen frightens me, but not as much as she angers me. She little realizes how powerful my petulance can be, and I intend to give her a dose of her own medicine. If she wanted me to paint for her, why did she try to break me first? She can’t lock me in a cage and then expect me to sing like some pet canary.

  I do this to protect Sewell most of all. If the queen’s men find me here with him, all is lost. These good women of the convent and my baby would suffer, and I would rather die than see that happen. So I’m abandoning him. The hope tortures me that someday it will be safe enough for me to reclaim him. I beg you to please give what coin you can for his upkeep in the meantime.

  I entrust my painting things, including the painting of Jazmene and Toscar, to your safe keeping. Perhaps you'll find a use for the painting. Also, I entrust Merius's books and journals to you on his behalf.

  With sincerest affection,

  Safire

  P.S. If you can think of a suitable explanation (I can‘t at this moment, my head‘s whirling too much), please bring the canaries and the orchid Merius gave me to Lord Rankin’s wife. She’s a kind woman and has some skill caring for such things. If we ever escape this latest mess, I would like them back.

  I lowered the letter slowly and crumpled the foolscap against my leg. My eyes itched from the library dust, so I removed my spectacles and squeezed my palm against my aching forehead.

  That impossible little witch. The political disaster who loved my son from the bottom of her fiery heart. The political disaster who made him absurdly happy in the midst of chaos. The political disaster who could bring about miracles with her touch. The scar on my chest flamed briefly to a twinge, a reminder. The political disaster who had saved my life. Whatever was to be done with her? None of the advantageous matches I had wanted for him would have led to this madness, yet none of those girls, hell, no other woman in this world, would love him as Safire did. Damn it, why couldn’t he have one iota of my practicality? If he had, he would have kept her for a mistress. How many times had I told him never to marry for lust or love, that mistresses were for that? Trust him to put what he worshipped on the highest shelf he could reach, where she was most likely to get knocked down and broken. And Safire was such an innocent, the kind of woman who would inspire the rest of us to dive after her when she fell. Even a man like me, too practical to have honor, just might be tempted to take the plunge. I groaned.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Artemious, I know who is secretly betrothed to Princess Esme,” I said that evening at the embassy, my gaze on the chessboard as I nudged Rankin’s pawn aside with my bishop.

  “Really?” Rankin remarked. He studied the board with a detached curiosity, like an eagle swooping over a battlefield.

  “I met him in the gutter.”

  Rankin chuckled. “One of the rebels?”

  “Not exactly. He runs with the rebels, but only as a subterfuge. He claims to be King Urtzi’s bastard Falken.”

  Rankin finally looked up from the board, his hand poised over a knight. “So that rumor’s true?”

  “True enough that Jazmene treats him as her bastard nephew and uses him in her plots. No one has been able to prove otherwise.”

  “Hmm.” Rankin captured my bishop, and I didn’t even mind. I was too intent on what he was about to say. “Do you think it’s true, Mordric?”

  “Does it matter?” I countered. “As long as Jazmene’s willing to claim Falken and use his position to topple the Numerian throne, no one will question his paternity except for Prince Tivon and his supporters, and they would question it anyway.” I examined the positions of my pieces. That sneaky rascal--he had captured my bishop so that I would go after his knight and leave my rook undefended. And without my rook in its spot . . . I suddenly saw the pattern of his moves as if they were my own, and I smiled to myself.

  “Do you think we can use knowledge of this Falken to gain influence with Jazmene? After all, she wouldn’t want us to spoil her plot too soon. Prince Tivon still has many supporters in Numer, and they’ll fight her tooth and claw.”

  “Influence? Is that your fancy word for blackmail, Artemious?” I moved a pawn forward, tempting his knight from its quest.

  He offered the mild smile of a scholar. “I am an ambassador, after all. Influence sounds more diplomatic than blackmail.”

  “Actually, I want to use Falken to gain influence with King Rainier, not Jazmene.”

  “King Rainier?” Rankin asked. “But after our meeting with Rainier and Jazmene, it seemed obvious that Rainier would defer to her in the matter of Esme’s betrothal.”

  “Believe me, behind all his outward acquiescence, King Rainier spins some web in the shadows for Jazmene. And I don’t want influence with Jazmene anyway. I want to assassinate her.”

  Rankin sat back, chess forgotten for a moment. He removed his spectacles and
polished them on his sleeve. “You know,” he said after a long pause. “I guessed when you appeared that the plot would thicken at some point. I just wasn’t expecting this.”

  He placed his spectacles back on his nose, his gaze wide under lowered brows. After a particularly difficult lesson in languages when he was a student at the academy, Merius had drawn Rankin as a severe-looking owl in his notes. I had thrashed Merius a few times for his disrespectful doodling, but really, he had such a knack for pairing the animal with the man that I found myself remembering his sketches often when faced with my fellow courtiers.

  “Mordric,” he continued. “Why would you want to assassinate Jazmene? She’s not my favorite queen, I’ll grant you--in fact, I can’t stand the woman--but her sudden absence could throw Sarneth into chaos. Do we really want Cormalen’s closest ally in chaos?”

  “I think her assassination would be a shock, but hardly an unpleasant one for the Sarneth nobility. I think most Sarneth nobles are tired of her spending the treasury on frivolities and her plots to regain the Numerian throne. I think King Rainier is tired of her affair with Toscar. I think the only reason she’s still in power is King Rainier has yet to have the opportunity to depose her without getting his hands dirty. That’s where we come in.”

  “But why do you want to assassinate her?”

  I crossed my arms and settled back in my chair. The fire crackled in the silence that followed his question. Always a secret keeper, I held things to myself and used others to gain my ends when I needed, but I rarely took them into my confidence. But Rankin was different. I couldn’t trust him with the whole secret, but I could trust him with part. He already knew part as it was--he had been there the night Jazmene had Merius arrested.

  “Because she keeps Merius--and now Safire--in confinement when they’ve committed no crime. Because she tortured Merius to gain leverage over Safire. Because she’s a ruthless bitch.”

  His face slackened. “But I thought you’d secured them passage out of Sarneth, that they were safe--”