I shook my head as I claimed the nearest chair. Not even whiskey could help me at this moment. I perched on the edge of the seat, holding my back stiff, inches away from the leather cushion. If assassins suddenly descended on us, I would at least manage to take a couple out before the end. The widow leaned forward then with a rustle of satin skirts, her gnarled claws of hands worrying at the black material. Her eyes searched the chamber in the most peculiar haphazard way, their whiteness glowing like a coal dropped in milk. Blind--she was blind. Well, of course, she was blind--she was ancient, a withered monkey of a crone. Her eyes seemed to settle on me at that point, though such was an impossibility, and the wrinkles of her face lifted in a wicked grin.
“You’re Quicksilver’s father,” she said, her voice strident for such a frail-looking creature. Whatever did she mean by that? I feared to ask.
“You speak Sarns with a Corcin accent, my lady--a noble accent at that,” Rankin observed. Of course, he would notice her exact accent. “Who are you?”
“Lady Undene of Norland.”
“Didn’t you die?” I blurted out. “There was a fire years ago, right around the time Merius was born, on the Norland estate. Some of the Landers tenants helped put it out.”
“You have a good memory.”
“When it’s near the birth of one’s only living heir, one tends to remember things.” There my tongue went again, racing ahead of itself. What was wrong with me? Artemious shot me a furrowed look, and I glanced down, away from him, away from all of them. The floor in here was inlaid wood, fine-grained and polished, a perfect muffle to sound. A skilled swordsman could glide across its glassy surface without a whisper.
“I staged that fire,” Undene said flatly, as if talking about some distant ancestor instead of herself. “I didn’t want any of those fools looking for me after Parsifal died.” Parsifal--her husband. A commoner, one of the peasants on the Norland estate before she married him. He had taken her name instead of her taking his--it had been a terrible scandal at the time. Likely he had poached game during the lean autumns when he was still a peasant, as he was quite a skilled hunter. Gored to death by a wild boar during a hunt one October. Grisly way to die. No children. Undene was barren, the rumors said. Barren because she was a witch, even darker rumors said. Witches were often thought to be barren, probably because many of them burned at the stake before they had a chance to procreate. Safire wasn’t barren, thank God--Sewell’s existence, though undesired, had at least proven that. Whatever her other faults, the witch would likely bear Merius a healthy heir if they ever got out of this mess alive. Hopefully several healthy heirs.
King Rainier took a seat in the largest armchair, facing Rankin and me, mere yards between us. I could draw my sword, lunge forward, and cut his throat if I wanted. Of course, if I did such a thing, I wouldn’t be breathing when I left this library--those two guards would see to that. But some rogue part of me was tempted--it would almost be a relief from the unbearable weight and tension of the unknown, the secrets that seethed around us.
Rainier reached under the furred edge of his royal robe and pulled a scroll from some hidden inner pocket. “I have here the contract officially betrothing Esme to Prince Segar, the same contract you presented to me and Jazmene. I’ve signed it and affixed my seal to it.”
Rankin and I glanced at each other--surely it couldn‘t be this easy. “And what of Her Majesty?” Rankin asked, turning to face the king again.
Rainier’s smile was so thin his lips appeared to shrink over his ugly rictus of large teeth. “The only signature that matters is mine, good sirs. I make the laws here, not Her Majesty.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, that is true in fact. However, Her Majesty Jazmene has a great deal of unofficial power, and--” The king lifted his hand, cutting me off.
“Power she’s about to lose,” Rainier observed, examining a hangnail as if suddenly bored by the subject of his wife. “I didn’t bring you and Lord Rankin here to discuss Jazmene or even this betrothal agreement, Landers. You should know, though, before we proceed, that this betrothal agreement is only as good as your acquiescence.”
“What does that mean?”
Rainier‘s eyes gleamed like oiled obsidian. “Simply this--if you don’t agree with what I’m about to propose, this betrothal agreement goes in the fire, and Esme marries Prince Tivon of Numer tomorrow. Surely two canny courtiers like yourselves realize what a shift in power that would create, all to Cormalen‘s detriment. In fact, I doubt either one of you would be able to return to Cormalen and keep your titles and lands after losing such an important alliance for your native throne.”
No one moved for a long moment, the air of the chamber so still I wondered if either Rankin or I would draw breath again. I longed to cut this nasty little weasel king to bits and grab the signed betrothal contract from his stiff, dead fingers. Merius the hothead again, I chided myself. We gained temperance as we aged--at least that was the conventional wisdom. Apparently I wasn’t conventional.
“So, Your Majesty, what is this proposal of yours?” I forced myself to say finally.
Those oily eyes slid from me to Rankin and back to me again before he deigned to answer. “Ten years after the birth of Safire and Merius’s first child, Merius will be offered the ambassadorship to Sarneth. Your task, Lord Rankin, is to assist me in making certain this offer takes place. Your task, Landers, is to make certain your son accepts the ambassadorship with no knowledge that this conversation ever took place.”
“What if my son doesn’t want to be ambassador to this court?” I spat. “Given his recent experiences at the hands of your queen and her lover, he may have reservations about subjecting himself and his family to your whims, Your Majesty.”
Rainier’s mouth twitched. “Indeed. Allow me to present you another way of looking at this situation. Isn’t it better that your son be in a position of honor such as an ambassadorship, free to move about this city as he pleases, rather than locked away in a cell somewhere?”
Artemious leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly around the ends of the armrests as if he held himself in place. “Your Majesty, you’re speaking of a Cormalen nobleman who warrants his native crown’s protection, a nobleman Queen Jazmene has detained in a most irregular fashion, given that neither he nor his wife has committed any crime . . .”
“Safire’s mere existence is a crime in Cormalen, and as her husband, Merius is at best a knowing accomplice to her witchcraft, at worst, some kind of warlock himself.”
“But her existence isn’t a crime here in Sarneth, so why does Her Majesty detain them and why have you allowed it?”
“Interesting as a discussion of the differences between Sarneth and Cormalen law would be, Lord Rankin, you’re rather missing the point.” Rainier bit his hangnail this time rather than merely examining it. “I make the laws here, remember? I’m simply informing Mordric of his alternatives regarding his son’s future.”
“Here’s an alternative for you. Why don’t you just keep Safire? She’s the witch. My son is no warlock . . .”
“I believe the Lady Undene would beg to differ about that,” Rainier interrupted with a slight gesture toward the fireplace alcove. “She’s been mind-reading with both Safire and Merius.”
“Whatever unnatural skills he has, he’s gained through his connection with Safire. If they were parted . . .”
“They would both go mad,” Rainier said in that flat voice. “They have a mind bond. Surely you’ve read enough to know what can happen when a mind bond is involuntarily severed.”
“All right, Your Majesty,” I conceded. After all, it was hardly an ideal outcome to leave Safire here. I had only said it to see what Rainier would say, what counter-offers he might make. And he had made none, the sly son of a bitch. Thank God I had at least one more card in my sleeve to play, a joker masquerading as an ace. Perhaps Rainier would believe the bluff.
“I can see where this is heading,” I continued. “Merius will gladly a
ccept the honor of being the ambassador to Sarneth when the opportunity presents itself. By that point, he will have attained the maturity to perform the duties of the office in a competent fashion.” A decade was a long time. Princess Esme and Prince Segar would be officially married and likely have an heir, if not two heirs, in ten years. King Rainier would no longer be able to burn their betrothal agreement and have it be any kind of threat to me or Merius or Rankin.
His Majesty regarded me for a quiet moment, his eyes hooded. “I knew you would be sensible. I’m pleased that you have so quickly quelled your misgivings and understand that I only mean to bestow honor on the House of Landers,” he said rapidly, his voice still flat. His court pleasantries often sounded like that, by rote and with little grace, as if he hastened to complete some distasteful task. “If, at some future date,” and his eyes started to gleam again, “you have misgivings, please remember that I will have at least three of my assassins assigned to protect Merius and Safire at all times, wherever they go. The assassins will seize them both and bring them here to Sarneth if the situation demands it.”
The chamber hummed with pregnant silence as I considered my hands, clasped together in a loose double fist. When I opened my mouth, I had no idea what I planned to say. Finally I asked, my voice subdued, “So, what exactly is your interest in my future grandchildren, Your Majesty?”
“Mere scholarly curiosity, nothing more.”
“You stake your daughter’s hand in marriage, the alliance between Cormalen and Sarneth, on mere scholarly curiosity?”
“Lord Rankin is a fellow scholar. I’m sure he understands.”
Artemious never blinked. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Fellow scholar I may be, but I do not understand.”
There came a scuffle of leather-soled slippers. The blind widow, forgotten in the her alcove, suddenly stood and shuffled over, her hand resting on a guard’s forearm as he escorted her to a spot near King Rainier‘s chair. The king graced her with one of his sideways looks but otherwise didn‘t acknowledge her. Her eyes darted about in that haphazard way as if she searched for something. Again, her blind gaze seemed to stop on me, though she shouldn’t have been able to see anything. I stopped breathing for a moment, wondering if somehow she heard me inhale--blind people often had uncanny hearing--and that was why she seemed to look in my direction. However, she continued to stare at me, and finally I exhaled, the stale air burning my lungs. The scar on my chest gave a twinge, then began to burn, and I cursed.
“Quit looking at me, crone,” I barked, past the point of caring whether I sounded rude or insane.
“How did Safire save your life, Mordric?” she asked.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She grinned. “The scar on your chest, burning like a fresh brand. You have one of her paintings too, rolled up in your pocket. Oh, did I say something I shouldn’t? So much smoke . . .” She covered her mouth with her liver-spotted hand, coughing. She squeezed her watering eyes shut and clung to the guard‘s arm.
“Undene?” Rainier asked.
She straightened at the sound of the king’s voice. “I’m fine, Your Majesty,” she managed finally. “Quicksilver burns clean, like pure liquor. This one--he‘s a bit sooty with age. Hard living, I suppose.”
“Whatever it is, I hope it chokes you.”
She cawed a laugh. “So how did Safire do it? A wound like that--you should be dead.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Landers, do you want to see your son again?” Rainier asked, that nasal flatness more and more irksome every time he spoke. “Answer her question.”
I shrugged--what could my answer matter? These people apparently knew everything else. “When she pulled the dagger out of the wound, she made the metal hot somehow, so hot that it--” I stopped, the scar flaring again.
“Cauterized the wound,” Artemious finished for me as he stared at the witch Undene. His alert, intent expression was the same as when he had looked at that algae in the gutters, as if he longed to ask a thousand questions all at once and didn’t quite know where to start.
Undene ignored him, her witch sight still on me. “Was Safire under a lot of strain when she did this? Was she feeling great rage? Desperation, perhaps?”
“I suppose--she’d just witnessed me stab myself.” And just sent my ghost wife to hell with her witch touch. I added to myself with a grimace, the scar searing me all the way to my heart with a sudden stab.
Undene started as if she’d heard my thought, and I cursed my lack of control. “Heat to fight cold--I wonder how she knew to do that, untutored as she is. Pure instinct,” she murmured, apparently to herself.
“Undene?” This time the king sounded curt, prodding her.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her face pointed toward the ceiling. She remained in that position for at least a minute, still as a statue. The king gave the barest shake of his head and leaned forward in his chair. “Undene,” he said again.
Slowly, she lowered her chin, those sightless eyes staring beyond me, beyond the king, beyond Rankin, beyond the chamber. “It’s as we suspected, Your Majesty. She can only call on her true nature at times of great need, a creature of instinct, not conscious thought. It’s the last sign.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what the hell that meant exactly when the bookshelf door creaked open behind us. Rankin and I turned in time to see Falken, his new finery a bit rumpled and his ceremonial sword replaced by a stout cutlass, enter the chamber. He didn’t break stride as he came toward us. He stopped between Rankin and me, not even sparing a sideways glance at us as he bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty, I am most grateful for your protection,” he said. “In truth, I would not have answered your summons--at first I feared it was a trick of Her Majesty’s--but it was difficult to ignore the armed guards. They were most persuasive.”
Rainier smirked. “Rise, boy. I’m pleased to see you’ve kept your wit despite my dear consort’s betrayal. You’ll need it when you carry out the task I have for you.”
When the king stopped speaking and silence again overtook the chamber, Falken fidgeted a bit, first clasping his hands in front of him, and then clasping them behind him, then shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Your Majesty, if you don’t mind, would you tell me what this task might be? Of course, I don’t want to interrupt Sir Mordric and Lord Rankin’s business with you, but . . .”
“No, they can hear this. In fact, I want them to hear this. My plans for Numer benefit Cormalen.” Rainier leaned forward, his crown slipping to the side a bit. He didn’t bother to fix it--either he didn’t notice or more likely, he didn’t care. He was too caught up in his own cleverness to care. “I imagine the rebels feel Jazmene‘s betrayal keenly.”
Falken nodded. “They plan to burn her effigy at a bonfire on the locks tonight.”
Rainier‘s eyes gleamed darkly as if they already reflected the flames. “A bonfire--how fitting. I’ll make certain the watch doesn’t interfere too quickly and spoil the show. And how do the rebels feel about you?”
“Most blame me for Jazmene’s sudden ill will--they think that I somehow lost her favor and caused her to betroth Esme to Tivon instead of me. Some of them would stab me on sight.”
“Well, they wouldn’t be rebels for long if they possessed phlegmatic temperaments, now would they?” Rainier’s tone was so dry his words rasped together. “Do you think your reception with them would change if you had my favor?”
“As long as I had certain proof of your favor, enough proof to convince even the worst diehard, I think they would accept me again.”
Rainier’s mouth curled in that nasty rictus. “Ah, boy, such diplomatic caution--I never would have expected it from you even a year ago. It’s heartening how much you’ve learned here at our court. Her Majesty will be so pleased that her efforts to make Midmarch the zenith of philosophy and art, not to mention politics, have not been in vain. But I digress, and time runs short. I�
��m certain Landers frets to see to his son, and here I am, nattering on--”
“I’m fine, Your Majesty,” I said through gritted teeth.
Rainier actually chuckled this time, a high-pitched warble of glee. “I knew you would bring your sword, just like I know when Jazmene will wear her blue gown, just like I know how the hawk will dive for the mouse. I know so many things, yet I possess no unnatural talents like Safire or Undene. Just logic and keen observation.”
“What’s so damned important about me having my sword?”
“In time, Landers. First, I have a task for young Falken, if he wants certain proof of my good will.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?” Falken shifted from one foot to the other again, apparently as uneasy in his own way as I was in mine.
“Just this, boy. The betrothal agreement between Esme and Prince Tivon that Jazmene was so eager to announce lacks one small detail: my signature.”
“But I thought . . .” Falken began.
“Never mind the details now. I would have signed it this afternoon if Landers and Lord Rankin had failed to answer my summons or acted contrary to what I expected of them. Suffice it to say that my plans for Numer differ significantly from Her Majesty’s. I don’t want to waste the diplomatic jewel of my daughter’s hand on Prince Tivon, not when I can easily, with you and your rebel friends’ help, take over Numer.”
“Troops?” Falken demanded.
“As many as you need.”
“But when Her Majesty Jazmene asked you for troops to take over Numer, you told her no. That’s why she resorted to all these mad betrothal schemes with Esme . . .”
“And her scrambles have been most amusing to watch. But I have new diversions, and I grow weary of her extravagances. You, on the other hand, have been properly grateful for my help in the past, and I know will continue to be grateful in the future.”
“How could I be anything but grateful? I’ll owe my throne to you.”
Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2) Page 59