Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3)

by Nilsen, Karen

  “What’s your first question, sir?”

  “When was the last time you tumbled Prince Segar?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I’ll believe you if it’s the truth.”

  “February last year, right before Merius met Safire.”

  “You weren’t even his mistress then.”

  “Not officially, no.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I said you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s the truth.”

  “How can it be the truth? Court rumor has it that you’ve visited his chamber several times in the last month.”

  “I have visited him--to talk. Nothing more.”

  “Talk? What about the jewelry he gives you?”

  She swallowed, as if forced by circumstance to say what she said next. “Sir, the jewelry’s an elaborate sham.”

  “A sham for what?”

  She swallowed again. “Prince Segar doesn‘t desire me as a woman. He doesn’t lust for any woman.”

  “What does he lust for then? Goats?”

  “No. Men. He lusts for other men.”

  My grip loosened on her. “So that’s why he . . .” I muttered to myself, trailing off as clue after clue slipped into place. How could I have been so blind? I turned my attention back to Eden, shook her a little. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “You believe me?”

  “You should have said something before--you’ve sense enough to know what this means. I could have used this, Eden.”

  “I know.”

  “So why didn’t you say something?”

  “I felt . . . I felt pity for the prince.”

  “Really?”

  “I honestly do pity him, sir.”

  “Right from the bottom of your little scheming heart. I’m sure you do pity him. That wouldn’t have stopped you from saying something. I know you.”

  “I can be soft as any other woman, when the mood takes me,” she snapped.

  “Really?”

  “All right--I had an idea I was going to use the information . . .”

  “For what?”

  “To influence you, of course.”

  I laughed. “Vixens who play dangerous games wind up in traps, my dear.”

  “Is this a trap?” Her expression was deceptively impassive.

  “That’s your decision. You should have told me about Segar, regardless of our . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to call it an affair. That sounded sordid, and it wasn’t strictly true. “Regardless of our situation,” I finished finally. “Whether you stay or leave tonight, I’ll treat you the same tomorrow.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “You question my word?”

  “I question your intentions towards me. You say one thing and do another.”

  “Intentions towards you?” The scar on my chest shot a warning flare, and I gritted my teeth, savagely ignoring it. “I’ve never misled you about my intentions--I intend to make a proper match for you, some young buck of a nobleman well-connected at court.”

  “So that’s how you see me--as your leavings, to be pushed off on a fool when you’re through with me.” Her even voice held a distinct edge.

  “You’ve been spoilt. Other women in your position would be happy for a fine match.”

  “They’re docile idiots then, deserving of the idiot husbands you would foist on them.” She sat up, tugging her bodice straight.

  I propped my elbow on the bolster, chin in hand as I watched her. The scar was a dagger twisting in my chest, and I swallowed back a wince as I spoke. “You want to be dishonored?”

  “Only by certain men. And I wouldn’t call it dishonor.”

  “Men?”

  She glanced back at me, her brows arched. “Wouldn’t you like to know the full list?”

  “You lie--just like you lied about the prince.”

  “I never said an untrue word about the prince. You’re the one who made all the jealous assumptions.”

  I rolled over on my back, hoping the new position would ease the burning in my chest. It didn’t. “Be glad you haven’t seen me in a truly jealous rage, my dear.”

  “Why? Is that a possibility?”

  “No.” I snorted. “I’m too old to get jealous over a woman, especially some silly girl who can’t keep her hands to herself.”

  “Your voice sounds odd,” she said abruptly. She touched the edge of my sleeve, ran her hand over my shoulder to my chest, her fingers smooth and cool as the glass of the whiskey bottle through my shirt. I shifted, uncomfortable at the feel of her.

  “Let me see if I can ease it,” she said.

  “You’re not helping,” I lied, moving away from her. “Not even that witch could help it.” I clutched my hand to my chest--the burning had increased tenfold suddenly, an imaginary poker through my heart.

  Eden shoved aside my hand and untied my shirt laces. I took a deep breath as she found the bare scar, her touch refreshing as ice water on a burn. “I can hardly touch it, it burns so,” she said finally.

  “You touching it is making it worse. Stop.”

  “Nonsense--it already feels cooler.”

  “All right, Eden, you little fool--you’ve asked for it now.” I grabbed her, intending to shake her good, rage a bit, scare her into leaving. But for some reason that move didn’t work as I’d hoped. I should have known better than to touch her at all. Her flesh was soft and cool under her frock, her scent the exotic spice of the flowers in the courtyard of a faraway island harem. Such places existed, I knew--I had been in a harem once as a young cavalier. The rich scents and sights had left me almost drunk, as Eden was leaving me drunk now. I wanted her glistening with sweat and tasting of honey mead the way she had that night in Sarneth, her coolness warmed to a screaming heat.

  Mad thoughts, the madness of one grown too prudent in a lonely middle age. I had to stop thinking--thinking would get me into trouble. I shook myself, willing myself to take sensible action. I could release her, order her from the chamber. I could do it--I had control. My hands loosened, the words on my tongue as I looked at her. Her eyes glowed, golden cat eyes as she arched to meet my palm. Arilea’s eyes had been gray, lustrous and icy in anger. Many men, desiring the endless challenge of the hunt, were fools for arbitrary women with the hard, glittering gaze of hungry winter wolves. Not me. Not anymore. So I kissed Eden and ripped at her laces, only half hearing her laugh, triumphant and apprehensive all at once

  That night, as we both lay awake in the darkness, she said hoarsely, “But how do we keep it a secret here?”

  “You go back to your chamber before dawn.”

  “I know that, sir,” she retorted. “I meant when it happens again and again after that . . .”

  “It’s not going to happen again.”

  I felt the razor of her incredulous look in the dark. “Really?” she said finally, her hair brushing my arm.

  “It can’t happen again, Eden. It’s far from proper.”

  “You sound like Talia.”

  “She and I are from the same generation,” I conceded. “Perhaps we learned certain standards that aren’t taught now.”

  Eden laughed. “Did the same tutor who taught you these standards also teach you bed tricks? If so, I’d say you were taught by a hypocrite.”

  “Be still.” My hold tightened on her as if I thought I could get a tighter hold on her tongue as well. Never again. Never. We had to stop this madness.

  Yet, when she returned the next night, I didn't tell her no, nor the night after that. The pale ghosts of Arilea I had picked for mistresses had dulled my senses. They had for the most part been in my bed for position or jewels, not because they particularly liked what we did there. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be with a woman who was as sensual as I was, my only reminder for the last eleven years the few good memories I allowed myself of Arilea. When I found myself at the shop of the famous Calcors goldsmith Guillard the next day, paying an out
rageous sum for ruby and topaz earrings, I realized I was a middle-aged fool in serious trouble.

  Chapter Two--Safire

  Landers Estate, Silmer Province, Eastern Cormalen

  March, 3 years ago

  To celebrate our return to Cormalen, the House of Landers hosted a feast. As Merius had explained in the carriage this morning, there had been few feasts here the last several years. Mordric ran the House like a military camp, investing any extra coin back in the estate, leaving little for parties. However, even he had to admit that such a spartan course was unwise in the long run if the Landers were to keep their high social standing. Social standing required expensive display of some kind, something more than an unpretentious dinner. Merius’s and my wedding, a hasty interlude that had taken less than fifteen minutes in front of an ancient, deaf priest, with a nun and a stonecutter for witnesses, had been a scandal, considering our positions. I barely remembered the ceremony now--both Merius and I had been on edge and ready to return to our honeymoon, which we’d started a good week before the wedding. The wedding had been a necessity, not the grand social occasion it should have been for the only son of a prominent Landers.

  “Look on this as the feast we should have had on our wedding day,” Merius said. He was trying to comfort me as we dressed, but I was having none of it.

  “I hate feasts,” I sulked, tugging at my lacings. “The only good feast is one with a dance at the end of it.”

  “There’ll be dancing after dinner.”

  Merius and I had retired to his old chamber to dress ourselves in proper attire. As a man, he could get away with wearing his uniform, in this case the fine king’s guard tunic Lord Rankin had presented to him, and still be considered well-dressed. As his wife, however, I was really the one on display, and I had to wear something that would show how wealthy we were without being asses about it. Unfortunately, we had only been wealthy for a week, whenever it was that Merius had set foot on Cormalen soil and officially reclaimed his title, and I hadn’t had the time or the inclination to purchase a new wardrobe.

  I stared in the mirror. The dress I wore was a frock of dark green satin brocade I had borrowed from my sister Dagmar at the last minute. It had a lovely sheen to it, like moonlight on damp azalea leaves, but the effect was wasted on me. I was too short for it, and the hem trailed on the floor, collecting dust. That wasn’t the only problem, however--Dagmar had a long back and willowy build, with no real bosom to get in the way of her frocks draping properly. The only long things about me were my arms and legs. My torso was compact, my bust larger now after giving birth and nursing briefly, and her frock bulged in odd places on me. My eyes twinged at the reminder of giving birth, of Sewell. Of course I wasn't in the mood for a party--why couldn't Merius understand that? And why hadn’t he mentioned this feast before today? Probably because he knew advance notice would have given me time to come up with a plausible excuse not to attend. Sneak.

  “These side laces make me look like a trussed fowl,“ I wailed, falling on the bed. Dust clouds wafted up, and I began to cough and sneeze.

  “Safire?” Merius sat down on the bed, more dust rising. The servants hadn’t been in this chamber in months, evidently. “Sweetheart?”

  I gave a violent sneeze in response, rolling around until I stopped against his thigh. I lay prone, my breath gray from the dust. I couldn’t inhale any proper air--the frock was too tight. I sneezed again, this time a trifle resentfully. Why wasn’t he sneezing? And why did this always happen when I forgot my handkerchief? Hearing my thought, he leaned over, resting one hand on my rump as he put some white wrinkly mass over my nose. It smelled clean, at any rate, like the lemon water and soap I had washed it in. I blew my nose, which made me feel better.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, wondering if wives of high courtiers ever blew their noses. It didn’t seem very ladylike. “I don’t think I’m ready for this, Merius.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I don’t have the right clothes.”

  “That’s easily remedied, now that we have coin again.”

  “It’s not that--I don’t even know how to pick the right clothes.”

  “You always look nice to me.”

  “That’s because you’re my husband. You even like my freckles.”

  “What’s wrong with your freckles?”

  “They’re not ladylike.”

  “Ladylike,” he repeated, as if it was a foreign word. “I don’t understand.”

  “Merius, I can’t go downstairs like this.”

  “Sweet . . .”

  “I’ll make a fool of the Landers, looking the way I do.”

  A knock sounded at the door. “It’s Dagmar,” came my sister’s muffled voice.

  “Oh no.” I hid my face against my arm.

  “Come in,” Merius said.

  “No . . .” I protested, but she was already through the door.

  “Safire, what are you doing on the bed? You’ll wrinkle your frock . . . gracious, look at the dust. I told the servants to clean this chamber last week. Well, never mind that now . . .”

  I peeked under my arm, watched her bustle around the chamber, then hid my face again. “Safire, I can’t help you with your hair if you’re on the bed.”

  “I’m not going down,” I said to the quilt, only to be rewarded with another sneeze.

  “What did she say?” Dagmar demanded.

  “She said she’s not going down,” Merius said, standing up, deserting me. “She’s upset about her frock. And her freckles.”

  “Traitor,” I hissed, peeking under my arm again, but he pretended not to hear me as he buckled his belt.

  “Not going down? Safire, that’s ridiculous--get off the bed.”

  I stood up, if only to show her how hopeless it was. She gazed at me for a long moment, both eyebrows raised. “That looks . . . interesting,” she said.

  “You can say it--it looks horrible. I haven’t the figure for it.”

  She put her hand to her mouth and shook her head, snorting. Then she began to laugh. “Silly, you don’t have it laced right,” she gasped finally.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Haven’t you seen one of these frocks before?”

  “I’ve been in Sarneth--for almost a year,” I said acidly.

  “Don’t be such a twit. Get over here. I can fix it for you.”

  I went, fuming inside. She lifted my arms as if I were a marionette to be posed, then went to work on my laces. “You can’t lace one of these by yourself.”

  “That’s stupid--what if you don’t have an attendant?”

  “This is a fine frock--it’s made for women with attendants.”

  “Well, I don’t have any, and I don’t intend to get any.”

  “You know, those women at court--they all have attendants.” She tugged the laces tight, and I realized I wasn’t going to breathe the rest of the evening. I had gotten spoiled in Sarneth, with their loose frocks.

  “I’ve never had a lady’s maid. I wouldn’t know what to tell her to do.”

  “You’ll learn quick enough.”

  “I’m not going to have one,” I insisted. Merius lit his pipe with a hiss of flame. I stared at him, the blue smoke curling around his head, swirling with his quicksilver aura. He hardly ever smoked, and the effect made his uncanny resemblance to Mordric even more pronounced. He moved his hand then and inhaled quickly, the strong spice of fine pipe weed filling the chamber.

  “We’ll need to get a lady’s maid for you,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me when I knew very well that he had.

  “And what about you? Are you going to have a steward?” I mocked, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

  “Yes.” He looked back at me. For the first time, there was no glimpse of the boy he had been in his eyes, no uncertain jest, no reckless bravado. I had just seen a man I didn’t know in the mirror, and the sight was so jarring that I turned around to get a better look at him.

  “Don’t move,” Dagmar barked, jer
king me back around. “I can’t tie this right if you wiggle.”

  When she finished, there were smooth curves where there had been bulges. I couldn’t breathe, but the effect was marvelous. “How did you do it?” I twirled for the mirror, trying not to faint.

  “It laces up lopsided unless you have help . . . goodness, look at the time. You need to fix your hair, Safire. I’ll get Fran to help us . . .” Dagmar raced from the chamber.

  Merius came up behind me and placed his hand in the curve of my waist, his eyes still dark and unreadable in the mirror. We stared at each other in the glass as he took another puff of his pipe. “You’re beautiful,” he said after an eternity.

  “I’m about to faint.”

  “It doesn’t feel too tight.” He ran his hand up and then back down my side, his touch so warm I could feel it through the heavy brocade and chemise.

  “It’s not that--it’s the way you’re looking at me, like you‘re suddenly a stranger.”

  “A stranger?”

  “Not in a bad way . . . I can’t explain it really, except that you seem older somehow. Like I just met the man you’ll be in ten years in the mirror.” I gazed at our reflections and thought of Undene in Sarneth, perhaps spying on us through the mirror even now. I shuddered. Of course, there were limits to her spying--she could only watch, not listen. And she could only view one place at a time. Besides, she couldn't spend her whole day and night in front of a mirror.

  He set aside the pipe and sighed, warm smoke in my hair. "Safire, please try to forget about Sarneth. Just for tonight. We're safe here, sweetheart."

  "And what about Sewell?" I whispered. "Is he safe?"

  "Shh--remember the note from the abbess?"

  I nodded. Right before we had left Sarneth, the abbess had snuck a message that she had found Sewell and had him returned to her convent for safekeeping. Mordric and Merius had both thought such a missive would soothe me--and it did, to a point. Just as Merius's promise to find a way to retrieve Sewell soothed me--to a point. At least I knew the abbess and trusted her. A stern yet kind woman, she would see my son was well cared for. But safekeeping--it made him sound like some valuable we had misplaced, instead of a baby who should never have left my arms. I choked over the lump of anguish that always burned in my throat lately, ready to flare up at the least reminder of my loss. Missing Sewell was too large a grief to contemplate--I kept desperately pushing it away, lest it drown me in tears.