"Don't you dare spar with each other now, much as I know you both enjoy it," Safire hissed. "We have a guest."
"Yes, love," Merius murmured with uncharacteristic meekness while Mordric looked taken aback. A man shuffled out from behind Safire's easel, wiping his hands on his smock. Even if I hadn't known from Dagmar's outburst this morning and Safire's joy about her and Merius's portrait that Korigann had come for a visit, I still would likely have recognized him. I had met him at the Sarneth court, and it was hard to forget his grandfatherly good looks and impeccable manners combined with a dry, forthright wit. I had wondered at the time how such a sincere man had gotten so far at court and then decided he probably spent most of his time staying behind his easel and out of intrigues.
"Good morn," he said as he removed his smock. "I don't need any introductions, my dear," he continued as Safire stepped forward. "I met Mordric and Lady Eden at the Sarneth court. I trust you're both well."
Elsa came into the chamber then, her arms straining under the weight of a full tray. Safire rapidly cleared the table of Merius's mess and whisked the scrolls and journals away under the hinged lid of the window seat. She grimaced and touched them with only the tips of her fingers, as if the old parchment and leather somehow burned her, and I got the sense that she could just as easily toss them in the fire as conceal them under the window seat, that she only preserved them for Merius's sake. I wondered what Merius was translating that gave him so much trouble and why he had been so quick to ask Mordric's opinion about it. He hated asking his father's opinion about anything, which was one reason Mordric was so free with his caustic advice. I shook my head--those two would drive each other mad yet.
We sat down to a delightfully unorthodox meal of scones, clotted cream, fresh jam, pale cheese melted on toast, tea, and coffee. I only joined in the conversation at rare intervals, preferring to lean back in my chair, sip my tea, and listen. I hardly ever had the privilege of listening for pleasure--most conversations at court, even the supposedly idle ones about art or literature or philosophy at the salons, hid an agenda. Listening without proper understanding of the speaker's political inclinations and intrigues could rapidly land one in boiling water. Here, however, I could take my ease.
"So, when are you going to teach me water painting, sir?" Safire asked as she poured Korigann a second cup of coffee.
"What on earth is water painting?" Dagmar demanded, her tone dropping to a hiss as if she spoke of fornication instead of painting.
Merius shot Safire a look--likely he was on the verge of saying something he shouldn't. Their gazes met, and I heard a tinkle of distant sleigh bells. I shook myself--first the hum, now bells--I was losing my mind. Safire's eyes danced as she turned back to Dagmar. "Water painting is when you throw all your pigments in water and take a bath in them. You step out on a piece of canvas, the colors drip off your body, and then you have your painting. Isn't that right, sir?"
Korigann cleared his throat and set down his cup. "Mostly, though you forgot one important aspect. You generally end up with a much better painting if you have someone to assist you. You know, to scrub your back and mix the colors." He looked so earnest that I almost believed him.
There was a moment of stunned silence before Dagmar blushed. Her audible sniff turned into a laugh which she muffled in her handkerchief like a sneeze. Much as she tried to stifle it, her contagious amusement moved around the table until even the canaries twittered. Wiping her laughter-teared eyes, Safire finally rose from the table and opened the cage. One of the canaries hopped on her finger, and she stroked it gently as she whistled to it. It cocked its head, then trilled back to her. Dagmar went over to stand beside her, and Safire handed her the canary. It swayed on Dagmar's finger, watching her intently.
Dagmar gnawed her lip, a nervous gesture that Safire sometimes made herself. "I haven't your skill with creatures. What if he flies away?"
"Then we'll catch him. Whistle to him, let him get to know you, then pet him," Safire said as she coaxed the other canary out of the cage. "And he likes it when we say his name--Icarus."
I raised my brows and glanced at Merius. "I take it you named him?"
He grinned. "I suggested several names. Safire thought Icarus the prettiest--far be it for me to argue."
"I hope she doesn't let you name your children."
"I don't think either one of them should be allowed to name their children," Mordric retorted. "Between them, they're bound to come up with something ridiculous."
"Father, I think you need some honey in your tea. Lots of honey."
"Honey?" Mordric glowered at his cup. "What about whiskey?"
"I take it that way myself on occasion," Korigann said such a wry serenity that both Merius and I snickered.
"Speaking of honey, would anyone like some mead?" Safire drifted near the table, a canary still perched on her hand. "It may be too sweet for some tongues--" She glanced at Mordric, "but at least it's fermented."
Mordric glumly drained the rest of his tea. "Better not. We have some writing to do before Eden and I leave for court." He pushed back his chair and looked at Safire.
"Writing?" Safire echoed.
"You owe me a letter, my dear."
"A letter . . ." As if in imitation of Dagmar, she bit her lip before she returned the canary to its cage and dusted her fingers on her skirt. "Oh, that. I suppose it needs to be in my hand, doesn't it? I have no idea what to say, though . . ."
"Merius and I will tell you what to write. And Eden," he said, turning his suddenly opaque eyes on me. "You should be here to listen if nothing else--I expect you to deliver it when we get to court."
"Thank you so much for the refreshment and company," Korigann said as he rose. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll take a stroll in the garden." Dagmar similarly dismissed herself, casting a narrow glance over her shoulder before she ducked out the door.
Merius knelt by the window seat and rifled through his papers until he found a blank piece of parchment. He brought it over to the table with a quill and inkwell and set it before Safire. She busied herself as some women did when they were anxious, smoothing the already flat edges and anchoring one corner unnecessarily with her mug.
"That has a paint smudge on it," Mordric muttered as he leaned over and rubbed his fingernail over a bright blue spot in the middle of the crisp page. "Damn it."
Merius shrugged. "Shouldn't be a problem--Peregrine knows you paint, right?"
"I doubt he's noticed. He's never said a word about my drawings," Safire said, her tone cutting. "Can we get on with this?"
Merius rested his hand on her head, the sunlight quivering around them like something alive for an instant. Then the movement was gone, the light spilling in its ordinary unbroken way across the floor and tabletop and the copper blaze of Safire's hair. I blinked.
"Shh," he said, his hand moving through her hair, much as he might soothe an uneasy horse. "I know it's not in your nature to tell a falsehood so pretend it's a list of nonsense words Father and I are making up. Meaningless words. It'll be over with before you know it, sweet."
She nodded and inhaled deeply. Then she dipped the quill in the inkwell and scrawled across the top of the page the date and Peregrine, before she looked expectantly from Merius to Mordric.
There was a long silence. Merius absently slid his arm out of its sling and cracked his knuckles, Mordric, motionless, gazed down at the floor, and I, just as motionless as Mordric, watched them. I hardly dared breathe, lest I disturb their thinking. Apparently finished cracking every joint in his body, Merius started pacing.
"Merius, for God's sake," Mordric growled, still staring at the floorboards. "Stop."
Merius flopped down on the window seat. "You'd think with the four of us and one pen, our combined efforts should add up to brilliant intrigue, or barring that, at least a well-composed letter," he observed. "Literature of mathematical precision. One and four makes five, am I right?"
"I trust you're not writing any of this codswall
op down?" Mordric turned on Safire as if she had instigated it.
She shook her head. "Shouldn't we start with . . . oh never mind." The quill scratched rapidly over the page as she leaned over the parchment.
"But Safire . . ." Merius rose from the window seat.
As imperious as Mordric in the throes of concentration, she lifted one palm in a gesture commanding halt as she continued to write. "Let me at least try. He wants to kill you--he thinks about it all the time when I'm near him. Surely even I can manage a convincing lie to protect my husband. It wouldn't be the first time, would it?" She paused to refill her pen and sniffle into her handkerchief.
"Yes, my dear, but those have all been lies of omission," Mordric said, casting another unreadable glance in my direction. "This is different--it requires more guile than you have. Perhaps Merius and I should write it and then let you copy it . . ."
"Yes, I think that's the best idea," Merius chimed in.
"Leave her be, both of you." I went to stand guard behind Safire.
"But she's crying. Safire . . ." Merius took a tentative step towards us.
"Merius, love, I'm with child. I cry practically everyday. It's not the end of the world," Safire said, her voice gentle as she raised her blotchy face to meet his gaze. "See, I'm fine." Then she lowered her eyes back to the parchment.
"Damn it, her tears are splotching up the ink--looks like hell." Mordric paced in front of the table like a caged wolf, the same behavior he had yelled at Merius to quit.
"Aside from the profanity, you sound like some prim old lady, sir. So what if there are a few tearstains on it? That will convince Peregrine of her sincerity far more than any carefully turned phrase. Now leave her be." I glared over Safire's bowed head at him, and he muttered something under his breath before he turned on his heel and went to the far end of the window seat. He refused to sit down, instead leaning against the wall with his shoulders squared in an intimidating posture as he glared back at me. I pretended to ignore him as I claimed the seat beside Safire, who was mouthing the words silently to herself as she read over what she'd written so far. When she finished, she glanced at me, an instant of silent gratitude, before she dipped her quill in the well and kept on in her ink- and tear-spotted witch's scribble. He could brood in the corner all he liked, and none of us would surrender. He should have realized by now that Merius, Safire, and I had seen behind his overbearing mask enough times to know surrender was far from inevitable.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Royal Palace, Corcin, Eastern Cormalen
August, 3 years ago
As I sauntered down the steps to the main floor of the palace ballroom, Mordric's grip warm around my elbow, a trough of startled silence followed by a crest of excited chatter washed over us. I hesitated for a terrified instant. Oh God, they knew. Somehow the secret was secret no more--one too many dances together, one too many whispers between us, one too many significant looks exchanged, one too many trysts. What would happen now? I was certain the vultures would descend immediately. Could his position weather the scandal? Would the king banish me from court in disgrace? Would our allies support or shun us? And most importantly of all, could we still be lovers? Panic tingled over my skin and settled in my gut at all the eyes fixed on us. I suddenly wanted to turn and bolt for my chamber.
He shook my elbow then, none too gently. "What's wrong now?" he whispered fiercely.
"They're watching us," I said behind the cover of my fan.
"What did you expect? Sullay's in prison and a peasant rebellion has been averted because of the Landers, and this is the first any of us have been back at court. Of course they're staring." He steered me down to the bottom of the steps and released my arm as if touching me was a dull chore he had to perform far too often. I swallowed air, relief searing my lungs. My hands trembled, and I clasped them together as I forced my face into a mask of bored gentility. I wanted to go sit in a quiet corner for a few minutes and collect myself, but there were duties to fulfill, people to greet, balls to be danced. As I murmured my good evenings and offered my blank smiles to the men who came up to talk to Mordric, my mind whirred like a busy hive.
So we were secret bedmates who enjoyed plotting intrigue together, and that was all? Certainly mere bedmates didn't rip sheets and throw fits and curse at each other. Certainly mere bedmates didn't pester each other in small ways constantly as a form of flirtation. Certainly mere bedmates didn't feel sheer terror at the threat of exposure breaking off the affair. He had finally called me his mistress, but a good mistress would never act as I had today--mistresses and courtesans avoided the mad ebb and flow of passion and kept cool heads. Passion was bad for business. I spared him a sideways glance--he looked the same as always, exuding quiet, steel-edged authority. His court persona, a shrewd, hawkish former soldier who kept his own council and ran his province with an iron fist. Certainly not the sort of man to lose his head over a mere mistress. So something was wrong with me, not him. Had to be. I stepped sideways to put more distance between us--perhaps that would help me find my cool head again. I missed its logical demarcation of my world.
"Lady Eden," Cyril suddenly harrumphed in my ear, making me jump. "Forgive me, you seem a bit distracted this evening."
"Do I?" My eyes ran over the fussy brass clasps of his doublet, no doubt his wife's idea. She was nowhere to be seen, of course. One time years ago I had wondered aloud to Mordric if Cyril actually had a wife or if people merely assumed he did because of details like the fussy clasps. Mordric had offered a tight smile, a sign he repressed a chuckle so as not encourage my unladylike wit (at that time he still had hopes of making me a lady), and said that yes, Cyril really did have a wife, as evidenced by his children, and no, she didn't come to court often, and when she did, she spent most of her time with Queen Verna. She was a particular friend of the queen from girlhood, apparently.
"Could I ask for the honor of this dance, my lady?" Cyril asked with a stiff courtliness so awkward it was almost charming. I glanced around to find the lady he spoke to, then realized it was me. Surely not--he hated courtesans, me in particular. Likely he wanted to get me alone so he could prod me for information.
"Why, sir, of course. I didn't know you enjoyed dancing," I replied as I dipped in the slight curtsy convention required when a higher-ranking man asked one to dance. He grasped my hand, and my fingertips brushed the skin crinkled over the bulges of his veins. His palm gripped my waist tightly as if he could somehow escape old age by hanging on to me. I longed to say something tart about how he had asked the wrong Landers lady to dance if he expected miracles, but I bit my tongue.
"How's Merius?" he asked as we turned in careful circles, a safe distance from the other couples. I got the sense he counted the beats of the music under his breath, the mechanical proficiency of a well-trained, if uninspired, dancer.
"He seems well--he's recovering from his wounds at his wife's family house."
"I expected him to return here today so he could show his injuries to the council." Cyril's eyes, usually a washed-out color, suddenly darkened.
"That was the original plan, I believe, but Sir Mordric didn't see the need after Lemara backed down so quickly. I don't think he expected Lemara to be so sensible."
Cyril twisted me around sharply, almost treading on my toes. "He certainly keeps you apprised of his dealings, doesn't he? Or did you eavesdrop?"
"If this is to be an inquisition, sir, I suggest you speak with Sir Mordric. I'm here to dance, not talk. Unless you want to discuss the weather." I offered what I hoped was my most dazzling smile.
"I will speak to him--about your wicked tongue." Grasping each others' hands, we both stepped back, then forward. He had decent teeth, I noticed, not too yellowed with age yet.
"And what of my other wicked parts? Will you speak to him of those?" I knew I was being outrageous, but honestly, how dare the codger?
He shook his head and gave a nasty chuckle. "Keep at it, my lady. I've always told him he should have put you in a conv
ent years ago--maybe your insulting manner will finally convince him. Thank God he finally managed to curtail your dangerous connection to His Highness--the rumors have been quite scandalous."
"Tsk, tsk, sir, listening to idle gossip, are we?
He turned me, his palm sweaty against my skin. He could actually sweat--I didn't believe it. He seemed such a rattling, dried-up husk of a man, fossilized in comparison to Mordric even though they were the same age. "I don't know why he has you in his confidence and what his mad plans were with you and His Highness, but I'm here to tell you that I've got my eye on you even if he doesn't."
"You keep an eye on me? Why, sir, I had no idea you admired me so. I'm flattered."
"Young woman, don't you dare mock me." He finally lost the rhythm, his steps faltering as we came to a halt beside a column. "I had a great deal of regard for my cousin Arilea, and the last thing I'll allow is some harlot to bring down her son's career. You should consider the effect of your public behavior on your House's reputation." His whisper was a hiss. "I doubt Her Royal Highness Esme will tolerate your presence at court if you don't."
I considered turning my back on him and walking off the floor but realized that would draw attention. Likely he wanted to goad me into such a display so he had even more tales to tell Mordric. Instead I forced another dazzling smile and gripped his hands. "Come, sir, we seem to have lost our rhythm."
We tripped on in seething silence until one of my admirers, the cloddish if well-meaning loudmouth Sir Rupert, tapped on Cyril's shoulder. "I'd love a dance with Lady Eden," he slurred, his face ruddy from too much drink. Never had I been happier to see him and hear his mind-numbing descriptions of the intricacies of breeding prize hunting hounds.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The council upheld Mordric's impromptu conviction and sentencing of Sullay. It wasn't the first time a provincial minister had meted out justice in the absence of the chief magistrate, and given the gravity of Merius's injuries at Sullay's hand and the peasant uprising Mordric had averted, hardly anyone on the council dared vote nay.
Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3) Page 36