Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3)

by Nilsen, Karen

  "Oh no," Merius said, his handkerchief suddenly over my nose again.

  I sniffled and swatted away the damp clump of linen. "What am I to you--a leaky gutter that just needs some patching?" I said.

  A grin flitted over Merius's mouth. Now he looked like my young, slapdash husband again. A year ago, it would have bothered me that he could find something to smile about while I shed tears. It didn't bother me anymore, though, not after tasting deep sorrow. I would do anything to wash that bitterness from my mouth, for which laughter and painting and Merius seemed the only elixirs. Thank goodness Merius possessed a mischievous wit--his light heart had saved me more than once when I was in a dark place the last couple weeks. Sometimes the only way I could keep from crying was finding some way to laugh--or something to paint.

  I turned slightly, ran my hand over his stubbly jaw. His fingertips danced across my side, an unbearable tickling. Despite the tears still clouding my vision, I giggled and tried to twist away from him, which only gave him the opportunity duck down and reach under my skirts. His fingers found the tender place behind my knee, reducing me to a disheveled heap of brocade. I bent my leg to squeeze his hand, but he was too fast, quickly moving to my other knee.

  “What are you two doing?” Dagmar demanded.

  I glanced up, blowing a loose curl off my forehead. My sister towered over me, her arms akimbo, the edges of her green aura suddenly icy sharp. She resembled some tall, skinny bird of prey, an angry heron about to descend on a hapless fish. I giggled at the image of an angry heron.

  *Glad I’m not a fish came Merius’s thought. He gave my knee one last squeeze, and I screeched, kicking him. He scrambled to his feet in a cloud of dust. “Sorry, Dagmar. I was just cheering Safire up.”

  “It sounded like you were torturing her.” Dagmar peered at us, apparently still a bit suspicious that we might start screaming and rolling around on the floor again. “I hope you two don’t act like that at court,” she said primly.

  “We act worse at court,” Merius said, and a last giggle escaped me. Gripping his hand, I got to my feet and tugged my frock straight, dusting off my skirt.

  “You’re like children.” Dagmar shook her head, her arms crossed. She wore a lavender frock with creamy lace frothing at the collar and waist and hem, softening her sharp edges and bringing faint roses to her normally pale cheeks.

  “You look lovely, sister--that shade really compliments your complexion,” I said, touching the satiny gathers at her shoulder.

  She smiled and looked down as she held out the skirt. “Thank you--Selwyn likes it too.” Then she looked up, practical Dagmar again. “Now we have to get your hair fixed. And really, Merius, you should shave. You’re the guest of honor, and you look like a scruffy rogue.”

  I laughed at Merius’s taut expression, the expression he wore when he was trying desperately not to swear. “Thank you, Dagmar,” he said finally, his voice so stiff it sounded starched. “Why don’t you concentrate on Safire? I would think most of our guests who care about such things will be looking at her, not me.” And with that he strode from the chamber, leaving me in another gale of giggles and Dagmar demanding to know what was so amusing.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Landers Hall looked much the same, aside from some early greenery hanging from the chandeliers in the banquet hall and a hothouse bouquet here and there. Things here were always dusted, no matter the occasion or lack of an occasion--Selwyn’s mother Talia was an unforgiving shrew, and most of the servants were loath to incite her. It made me wonder suddenly about the state of Merius’s old chamber. It wouldn’t surprise me if Talia had ordered the servants to leave it alone as soon as she heard that Merius was returning. It was a sly insult, if such was the case. Likely she resented our return--with Merius back, Mordric had less reason to rely on Selwyn, at least to Talia’s way of thinking. What mother wouldn’t be resentful?

  *Talia's a battleaxe. Merius thought.

  The hall was crowded, the low roar of too much conversation as people mingled before dinner. I glanced up at the ceiling arching an impossible distance overhead and wished I was up there, away from the noise. I hadn’t been inside with a crowd since Merius and I had danced at the Sarneth court balls, and I was unaccustomed to it. Auras made sparks against each other, too many colors to take in, so many colors my eyes hurt. I shut my eyes for a moment, tried to ignore the auras as I had done in the past, but that only made it worse, like trying to fall asleep when I had insomnia. What was wrong with me? I hid my face against Merius’s sleeve, the colors still on the backs of my eyelids. My stomach rolled, the beginning of a sick headache.

  “Safire?”

  “Put your arm around me,” I said.

  He obliged, though it was far from proper--husbands and wives were supposed to maintain a decorous distance in public--but I didn’t care about decorum at that point. He squeezed my shoulder, and my headache receded a little, enough for me to dare a look around again. The auras were just as bright, blinding flashes of human will and emotion, but more bearable. I shook my head. They had never been this bright before, bright to the point of pain, and I wondered if my talents had grown more than I thought in Sarneth. Perhaps I was noticing it now because we were in a crowd in this ancient hall--older buildings which had absorbed human energies for hundreds of years seemed more prone to witch happenings than newer ones.

  Then I saw Peregrine of Bara and realized why I felt on the verge of being ill. My former suitor and would-be kidnapper stood near the fireplace, talking with a couple of the Casians and a man I didn't recognize. He had grown a beard, a neatly trimmed pointed affair. His tailor must be a wealthy man by now I thought, examining the gold satin slashes adorning his black silk sleeves, the latest fashion. A true brute, his shoulders bulged with muscle under his brass-studded doublet.

  "What the hell is he doing here?" Merius demanded, his fingers digging into my arm.

  Mordric stalked toward us. "Lower your voice," he hissed. "People can hear you."

  "Father, did you invite him?" Merius sounded as if he bit each word before he uttered it.

  "Yes--I should have warned you, I suppose. But I thought by now you understood the concept of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. You will speak to him, Merius--we can't have you two punching each other in the council chamber."

  Merius inhaled through gritted teeth, then jerked his head in a nod. "I'll speak to him and even attempt courtesy, but if he says one word to Safire or looks in her direction . . . she's already under enough strain without him bothering her."

  "I agree." Mordric patted his shoulder. "Come, let's greet our guests."

  Cyril of Somners approached us and solemnly shook both Merius's and Mordric’s hands, then raised mine to his dry lips. Cyril was related to Merius somehow on his mother’s side--a first cousin once removed, perhaps. While Merius and Mordric continued their whispered discussion about how to handle Peregrine and some of the other troublesome guests, Cyril turned to me. “The last time I saw you, my dear lady, was at the Sarneth court.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me--Merius and I attended several balls there.” I shifted my feet and wished he would stop looking at me with that narrow gaze.

  “I didn’t see you at a ball.”

  “Oh?”

  “I caught a glimpse of you with Lord Toscar, one day in the hall.”

  I desperately fished for an answer--better not to deny being alone with Toscar. Cyril would know it was a lie and that I had something to conceal. “You should have made yourself known, sir,” I said, worried he would see right through my ploy.

  “I didn’t immediately place you, otherwise I would have greeted you then.”

  Merius, who had wrapped up his conversation with Mordric, turned his attention back to me. “How are you faring, love?”

  “Safire was just telling me about her connection to Lord Toscar,” Cyril informed him for me. Cyril’s aura, a practical reddish-brown the color of good earth and sturdy brick, brushed Meriu
s, and I knew then that he regarded Merius as a favored nephew. His ambitions for Merius were perhaps strong enough to conflict with Mordric’s aims. I could see this man and Mordric being friends but uneasy ones, allies who would fight on almost every point if they dared. No wonder he was grilling me with questions--he likely thought I was some new plot of Mordric’s.

  “Her connection to Lord Toscar?” Merius played ignorance well, every inflection perfect.

  “I told her how I saw her at the Sarneth court with Toscar,” Cyril prompted. “It seemed unusual, a lone Cormalen noblewoman at a foreign court in the middle of the day. Then when I heard you’d killed Toscar in that duel, Merius, I really wondered.”

  *Oh hell. Out loud, Merius forced a chuckle. “I should have known we couldn’t fool you, sir,” he said, his voice low. “Suffice it to say that Toscar hated Father and hence, had it out for me as soon as he heard that I’d arrived in Sarneth. He challenged me to a duel--he thought that he would somehow injure me and take his vengeance on Father.”

  “Well, Mordric’s been most reticent on the subject,” Cyril snapped.

  “My father is reticent on most subjects,” Merius said.

  “His only son and heir fights a duel to the death with the acclaimed master swordsman of Sarneth, our primary ally, and he has nothing to say on the matter, not even to brag. I find it most unusual.”

  “Sir, when do you return to court?” Merius asked. “I want to meet with you privately to discuss my place on the council.”

  “Meet with me? Without Mordric present?” Cyril looked taken aback, distracted from his irritation for a moment.

  Merius gave a silent chuckle. “I suppose Father could be there, if it would make you more at ease. Why, sir, I thought you and Father shared the same ideals. Surely you wouldn‘t try to influence me against his wishes.”

  “You’ll not use me as a pawn against your father, young sir.”

  “Believe me, I don’t need a pawn to demonstrate my independence. I’ve already done that sufficiently.” Merius’s voice held a distinct edge. “I only wanted to meet with you so I could get a clearer idea of my own position. At the moment, all I’ve heard of court is what Father has told me. I want a broader view before I stake my position in all of this, and I know you see things differently than Father even when you two act in accordance on the council. ”

  “Fairly stated. You’ve matured some since you were away,” Cyril said.

  "Come, sir, let's join Father in welcoming Peregrine and the other merchants. I think he needs our . . . diplomacy." Merius's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Will you be all right here?" he asked me.

  I nodded, and he and Cyril headed toward the fireplace. I glanced at the bright colors of the women’s gowns punctuating the darker, more subdued background of the men’s doublets and trousers, the merry rise and fall of people jesting and laughing, the savory smells of roasted fowl and suckling pig and the yeasty smells of crusty rolls and pastries. Only Merius, Mordric, and I knew that three of King Rainier’s assassins, disguised as servants, watched our every move, supposedly to protect us. I shuddered, my fingers curling around Dagmar’s as she came up beside me.

  "Did Merius leave you here all alone? I swear, for a high nobleman, his manners are sometimes lacking . . ."

  "Where's your husband?" I demanded, stung. "His manners must be lacking too."

  "Selwyn's not the guest of honor. Merius is, and he's acting like a fool." She glanced at the crowd--I followed her gaze to my husband, who was demonstrating a complicated sword maneuver with a poker to Mordric, Gerard of Casian, Selwyn, Peregrine, and Cyril. “I’ll admit Merius loves you, but he’s too brash to be a good husband, Safire. There’s nothing steady about him. He should have been a traveling bard or a highwayman.”

  “You give advice like a nun. Keep your opinions to yourself, and I’ll keep my thoughts about Selwyn to myself.”

  “I already know Selwyn’s faults--you’d do better to know Merius’s.”

  “Believe me, I know his faults, and I love him for them. He has a warm heart, the warmest I know, and that’s all that should matter to any woman.” I watched Merius swing the poker through the air and lunge with it, so steady with his hand that he came within inches of several wine glasses on the table without so much as a tinkle. Pride rose inside, a hot swelling of emotion like a summer tempest.

  “Safire?”

  “It’s the fire--it’s making my eyes water.” I stared at Merius. He handed off the poker to Selwyn, then glanced up, searching for me. Our gazes met, and he gave his crinkle-eyed smile and motioned to me. I stepped forward, ready to go back to him, the comfort of his arm around my shoulders. The auras were still too bright, and I felt a headache lurking around the edges of my skull.

  I paused then, catching an odd reddish flash out of the corner of my eye. It came from a woman in a flame-colored dress, and I wondered if the color of the dress had made the flash. She was a young woman, maybe only a few years older then me, her heavy dark hair piled in complicated coils on her head, an effect obviously achieved by a well-trained lady‘s maid. Her aura was even darker than her hair, a rich velvety black that sparked fire when she laughed. Black was a bad color for auras, at least in my experience, but there was something compelling about her. Most people with dark auras seemed fidgety, as if they would do anything to escape the darkness, or melancholy, as if they had resigned themselves to their fate. She was neither. She seemed to relish the eternal night that surrounded her, using it to lure people, especially men. I watched her, fascinated as she diverted Peregrine. There came that red flash again, and I decided it was definitely her aura and not some trick of her dress material.

  I grabbed Dagmar‘s arm. “Who is that woman?”

  She followed my gaze. “Who? Eden?”

  “That’s Eden?”

  “Didn’t you know that?”

  “No--Merius told me about her, but I’ve never met her.”

  “Lucky you,” Dagmar said crisply. “She’s wicked. If she wasn’t so highborn, she’d be little better than a courtesan.”

  “I’ve heard she’s Prince Segar’s mistress.”

  “She wishes she was. And you shouldn’t repeat such rumors about our future king, Safire. Even if it’s true--which it’s not--rumors like that undermine the throne.”

  I giggled. “Thank you for setting me straight, sister.”

  “You laugh all you like, but your loose tongue’s going to get you in trouble some day.”

  “Some day? How about every day?”

  Dagmar smiled in spite of herself. “You’re impossible. Merius better not haul you off anywhere else--you need my good influence.”

  “I certainly do. I wonder . . .” I trailed off, Eden suddenly catching my attention again. “What?” I murmured. Eden’s aura exploded in red and orange and golden sparks, fireworks burning away the night. The display was frightening in its brilliance, and I couldn’t help but stare at her. What had happened? She was talking to Cyril and Peregrine, Mordric standing beside her--had one of them said something that upset her? If so, I’d hate to see her in a real rage..

  “Safire, what is it?”

  “Shh . . .” I put my hand on Dagmar’s arm, stopping her. Eden’s aura sparked again, the sparks turning into flames that flickered to the floor. The effect had such a physical presence that I almost expected the men to feel the heat from flames, perhaps step away. But they kept conversing as if nothing had happened--Mordric even drew closer to her, his elbow brushing her arm as he took a sip from his goblet. His ruthlessly constrained pewter and burgundy aura suddenly expanded, his darkness enveloping hers like smoke. The burgundy flared, wine seared in fire as Eden‘s aura sparked a third time. “No,” I said, my hand at my mouth. “No . . . oh my.”

  “What is it?” Dagmar hissed, shaking my arm.

  “Nothing. Come on.”

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “Just what I said--now come on.” I dragged her with me, soon finding Merius in the cr
owd.

  “Miss me, sweet?“ he whispered as he pressed his lips to my temple and draped his arm over my shoulders, and I wondered if there were any other secret witches or warlocks in the hall who could see the sparks we made, all our deepest feelings laid bare to those who knew how to sense it. I carefully locked what I had just seen away in a trunk in the back of my mind, the one place Merius couldn’t find unless I let him. Of course, maybe I had imagined it. I greeted the next few guests in a blur, furtively glancing over at Mordric and Eden when I dared. I doubted my own perceptions, for they neither looked at nor touched each other more than would have been natural for their relative positions in the House and at court. But I couldn’t deny those sparks, more and more the longer they stood near each other, far more than I’d noticed between most married couples. Selwyn and Dagmar, for instance, only made a few blue and green sparks, more only if they embraced or kissed each other.

  “Are you all right?” Merius asked then.

  “Oh . . . fine. I’m fine.”

  “You seem a little distracted.”

  I smiled at him. “It’s going to be strange, sleeping here tonight.”

  “We can leave tomorrow.”

  “No, I’ve hardly seen Dagmar. We talked about taking Flavian for a picnic down by the river tomorrow.”

  “And Selwyn and I talked about gathering a hunting party. The deer are thick as fleas in the woods, evidently.”

  “That would be good for you . . .” I started, stopping as Mordric approached.

  “You two should take your seats,” he said to us. “If you do, the others will follow.” I gazed at him, transfixed. “What are you gaping at?” he demanded. “Merius, get her seated, or we’ll never eat.”

  “Father, your good humor is contagious.”