She nodded toward the books scattered across the floor. "More SerVerinese rhetoric, I take it? I heard you think something about maggot-pie."
"Yes." I groaned again. "He ordered me to read it--I don't know why. I think he was mad and wanting to punish someone, and I was the first available scapegoat."
"Maybe you can skim it." A shiver ran under my skin as she lightly touched my temple, tucking a stray strand behind my ear before she combed her fingers through my hair. "So wild, like a mane. You need a haircut, love."
"So what have you been doing today?" I inclined my head toward the easel.
"Come see--I think you'll like it." She sprang to her feet, her hand tight around mine as I followed her across the studio. Dominic glanced up, his eyes tracking our movements, quiet and alert as a cat stalking a bird. Spooky witch child. I wondered what he would be like as he grew older.
"Imagine your father as a powerful warlock," Safire murmured, following my gaze. "That's what he's going to be like."
"You think so?" I grabbed a sun-warmed apple from the bowl on the window sill and bit into it, staring at Dominic. Sharp sweetness curled my tongue and tingled through my body, much like Safire's kiss earlier.
"I know so." She leaned over, her hand on my wrist as she took a bite of my apple, her eyes tilted up to meet mine. The yellow-green of her eyes matched the taste of the apple, crisp honeyed tartness, and I found myself inhaling sharply.
"Ripe wench," I muttered.
She grinned, her brows arched as she swallowed. "Guess what you're getting for dessert?" she purred.
"What?"
"Forbidden fruit." She stood on her tiptoes, her lips brushing my jaw. "Aren't these apples good? Elsa found them at the market."
"Best I've had." I slid my arm around her back as she leaned against me, and we examined her painting together. A thin girl child with red-feathered wings and feral yellow eyes broke through the shell of a pearly egg. Her dark hair was as matted and wild as the nest of twigs sheltering her. "Looks like a changeling, a preternatural version of Evidee when she's older."
"You think she resembles Evidee?" Safire slanted her head, her gaze darting over the painting. "I suppose so, with those big amber eyes, though that wasn't my intent. I just wanted her to look untamed, a wild thing. Not human."
"Well, I think you accomplished that, sweetheart. No one would invite this girl to tea and expect good table manners."
She giggled. "Silly man. What do you think, really?"
"I like it, but it disturbs me at the same time." At her furrowed expression, I swallowed some apple whole and almost choked. "Sorry," I managed after she exclaimed and beat me between the shoulder blades. "I'm all right."
"If you can talk, I suppose that means you're able to breathe," she said. "What do you mean, it disturbs you?"
I shrugged, my eyes still watering a little. "She just looks so real--this painting almost makes me believe such creatures exist."
"Listen to you." She lowered her chin, her fingers caging her smile. "Whatever happened to my husband the skeptic?"
"He turned into a bird," I said without thinking. Then I froze, apple poised midway to my mouth. Those words--those wicked words. They were so secret, so forbidden even in our thoughts that they seemed an awful, powerful spell. It was as if by uttering them, I had cursed myself to shift into a hawk here and now.
Safire ran her hand down my arm, her aura darkening with concern. "Dear heart, you look like you've seen a spirit."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that." I fisted my hand over my mouth, watching numbly as Dominic scampered across the floor and grabbed Safire's skirt. His unthinking innocence struck me then--he accepted the world as it came to him. His beliefs and faith were completely fluid. If a weirhawk appeared to him, it might frighten him, but he wouldn't question his sanity or senses. He hadn't been in the world long enough to form the brittle shell of adulthood, so easily shattered by inexplicable things, and for that, I envied him.
"You don't have to apologize to me. We can talk about it." Her face still upturned towards me, she leaned down and patted Dominic's head as he tugged on her skirt.
"I don't want to talk about it, Safire."
"All right," she said simply. A warm wave rose inside, washing away the chill around my heart. She could always do that, the witch. What other woman would be so patient with me? Those flirts at court, Princess Esme included--they had no idea what I was really like. They just saw what they wanted to see on the surface. Safire, though--she had always seen under the mask. She knew all my faults, and she still loved me.
"Mama!" Dominic pranced about, still clinging to Safire's skirt, a fierce frown contorting his face. Little demon. "Mama!"
"Good Lord, what is it?" She looked down at him. He lifted his arms in a mute command for her to pick him up, and she sighed. "Dominic, what do you say?"
His frown deepened. Then he started gnawing on his fingers, clearly thinking hard. "Pick up?" he said.
"Pick up what?" Safire asked.
"Pick up me!"
"Good enough for now." Safire swept him up and kissed his forehead. "You're getting so big, sweetling," she said, a bit breathless.
"Are you all right?" I gripped her elbow.
She blinked and shook herself. "Just suddenly felt a little faint, that's all." She offered a weak smile, her hands white-knuckled as she clasped them under Dominic's rump.
"No wonder, in your condition." I slid my hand over the slight swell of her belly, Dominic gurgling as I moved his foot out of the way.
"Elsa said today I'll have to start leaving my stays loose soon."
"Really?" I raised my brows.
"I'm at least three months along, Merius, if not more." She held my gaze, her pupils so large her eyes appeared black for an instant. *It's time, love, time to keep your promise about Sewell.
"Time slips by, doesn't it?" I lifted my arms above my head and stretched. Then I lowered my hand and traced the line of freckles over her cheek, my fingertip pausing on the bridge of her nose like a kiss. "My freckle dove," I murmured. *Seems I'm going to Sarneth then.
Her sudden grin infected me with her enthusiasm, at least for the moment, and I didn't have the heart to share my misgivings, especially when I wasn't quite sure what those misgivings were. I just didn't like to leave her, I supposed, a natural feeling concerning one's pregnant wife. So instead I drew my dagger and sliced a thin piece of apple, which I then popped in Dominic's mouth as if he were a baby bird awaiting sustenance. His eyes went wide as he chewed and swallowed.
"More, Papa," he demanded, reaching his dimpled hand toward the apple.
"I think the next words we teach him better be please and thank you--if he's going to be a little emperor, he should at least have some manners." I put another apple slice in his mouth to shut him up.
"I wonder how he'll take having an older brother," Safire whispered, smoothing his hair.
"I don't know--look what happened to my Uncle Gaven."
"Dear Lord, don't say that, Merius." She swatted my shoulder. "No one really knows what happened to him. Besides, I don’t think your poor father got much love from either of his parents, and that's certainly not the case with Dominic."
"No, it's not." I coaxed a smile and then a gurgle from my son as I tickled his chin.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sebond Bay, Sarneth
October, last year
The lights ringing Sebond Bay on the coast of Sarneth glowed yellow across the rippling blue and black water. I leaned over the bow railing. The moonlight caught in the carved curls of the mermaid figurehead, the rest of her profile a curved sensuous shadow against the indigo night sky. Waves lapped against the ship's sides, the muffled shouts of the men echoing over the water as they dropped anchor with a loud splash. We would sail into the bay tomorrow to be noted in the harbormaster's log before proceeding up the Sebond River to Midmarch.
Midmarch--the red city. It had been three years since I had served in Lord Rankin's guard
at the embassy and wandered the Serpentine, the main street winding up to the palace proud on its hill. Three years since Safire and I had dodged Queen Jazmene's guards, and Falken and I had hidden her away while Sewell grew in her belly. Almost three years since I had fought and killed Toscar in Queen Jazmene's private reception chamber, his blood pooling bright as liquid rubies against the cold marble floor. I touched my lower right arm absently, feeling a vague twinge where he had broken my bones with his boot heel. Safire's stricken face, pale as ice, her sobs for breath as Toscar beat me back, the deadly hiss and clang of steel . . . I shook my head as if I could shake the memories loose like cobwebs and let them drift away on the breeze.
"You should come below," the brute assassin rumbled beside me. "Sir," he added as a sullen afterthought.
"Sick again?" I asked him. He was not a good sailor and had spent most of the voyage either groaning in his too-small bunk or retching over the rail.
He grunted. "Least it's calm tonight."
The ship suddenly lurched then as if to protest his words, and he stumbled from one side of the forecastle deck to the other. I grabbed his arm to steady him, but it was like trying to stop a huge boulder from rolling once it had built up momentum. It didn't help that he was angry. He shook me loose with muttered curses in Sarns as he toppled against the railing, almost cracking it with his bulk. There he lay panting as the ship rocked again, a sudden wind gusting its sails and forcing it to fight against its anchor.
"Why didn't they furl the sails before they dropped anchor?" I asked the air as I swayed with the motion of the deck. The sailors yelled to each other, the ship creaking, the sails snapping like huge ghostly bird wings buffeting the night air. I tasted brine on my tongue and grimaced. Gripping the railing, I leaned down and offered the assassin my hand.
He grumbled what I hoped was thanks and allowed me to brace him as he lumbered to his feet. "I hate sailing. Damn ships--you never know what they're going to do next," he groused, a huge, bristling shadow beside me as he clung to the railing for dear life.
"You should learn to bend your knees," I said.
"What?"
"Keep your knees bent, you fool. If you bend them just a little, it gives you a natural spring so you don't fall so much when the ship lurches like that. You move with the ship--it's like riding a gigantic horse, really."
"Natural spring? Gigantic horse?" He brushed off his sleeves and pants with violent hands. "You really do talk nonsense, young sir."
I shrugged. "It's your arse when you fall the next time, not mine."
"Let's get below," he said curtly, gesturing to me.
"No, not yet." I braced my elbows against the railing, staring the distant lights across the water. "It's a fine night to be out--we may not get any fine nights on the voyage back, though I suppose I should go below soon--I have some reading to finish before bed."
"You would. You're a regular font of useless knowledge, you are." He chuckled grimly. "I've never seen anyone who packs more books than clothes."
"Had to bring something to entertain myself." I sighed. Books, much as I loved them, were a poor substitute for Safire. I shut my eyes and pictured her waiting in the cabin for me as I did every night, the charred cedar scent of her hair, her mocking chortle, her soft witch hands, her sweet smile, the verdant fire of her fey eyes in the candlelight. The ship lurched again, jerking me back to reality.
The assassin crossed his arms. "Well, I refuse to carry your trunk again, no matter what façade we're playing at. You should have brought your steward if you wanted someone to lug around your library for you."
I snorted. "Don't worry about straining yourself. The trunk stays here--I've already reserved the same cabin for the return voyage. We're only going to be in Midmarch for a day, long enough for this ship to unload its cargo and take on new . . ."
"A day?" he spat. "A day's not going to be long enough . . ."
"Long enough for what?"
"Your meeting with King Rainier."
"I'm not meeting with him." I straightened.
He gave a nasty chuckle. "Think what you like, young sir, but know your arrogance is nothing more to His Majesty than a child's petty tantrum. He owns you. He owns your wife. He owns your son. If he requests a meeting with you, I'll see to it that you make it on time, even if I have to drug you, even if it means you fail in whatever mysterious task you came here to carry out. So watch yourself and have some respect."
My hands fisted. God, I longed to punch him. I thought about it at least five times a day. One of these days, I'd let my fist fly, Ursula's Bane be damned. Maybe he'd even tumble head first over the railing and into the sea. I'd let him bob there long enough for him to think he might drown, and then I'd let the sailors know so they could help me pull him out.
I strode past him and down the steps to the main deck. That blackguard was too strong. It worried me sometimes late at night when I lay sleepless beside Safire. He was stronger than me--when and if it came to a serious fight, he likely wouldn't even need the Ursula's Bane to subdue me. Damn him. And damn King Rainier. Neither I nor Safire were any man's slaves.
I nabbed the lantern hanging beside the doorway leading below decks. I'd spent some extra coin and booked one of the more spacious cabins in the stern under the poop deck. The cabin even had a small, square window that opened and extra storage compartments. Despite the cabin's roominess, though, the return voyage with Sewell and possibly a nursemaid would make the space seem crammed. It was bad enough sharing such close quarters with that hulking assassin--he was terrible company with all his weapons and threats, and he stank.
When I entered the cabin, I hung the lantern on the scrolled hook beside the door. The window swung loose in the breeze, so I crossed over and closed it, making certain it was latched securely. The hairs rose on the back of my neck--someone was watching me . . . an arm gripped me around my middle and my arms, a hard coldness against my neck, almost at my throat. I stomped on his toes with my heel, and he cursed in SerVerinese. “Barbarian filth,” he spat. “I’ll feast on your heart’s blood after my master has the pleasure of slaughtering you.”
A poetic killer, then. “You must be a coward, attacking a man from behind,” I said, struggling to find my dagger hilt amidst the folds of my cloak.
He chuckled. “You think I understand your garbled tongue, the whimper of a stinking cur?" The blade edge bit into my throat, and I shut my eyes and tried not to swallow, still fumbling for my dagger. His grip on my arms was too tight. I couldn't bend either elbow enough to reach the hilt . . .
"Here, Belfazar," a man said in SerVerinese, evidently not realizing I understood every word he said. "Quit taunting him and tie him up. You know the master wants him undamaged so he can kill him himself."
Belfazar made the mistake I’d been waiting for then. He lowered his cutlass and loosened his grip, just enough so that I could make a grab for my dagger. I pulled it and jabbed the blade back, stabbing his side. He groaned, his grip tightening again for a moment, and then slackening again for good. I dove toward my bunk where my sword lay--I had been sharpening and polishing it earlier. Belfazar's cutlass clattered on the floor as he fell to his knees.
“I curse you, barbarian! Aesir bring a thousand lightning bolts upon your maggot head!” he said, coughing up blood.
Belfazar's companion leapt forward, swinging his cutlass at me. I caught the barest glimpse of him in the shifting lantern light, his face tanned to leather, his eyes dark gleaming slits, his battered cutlass testament to many sea battles. I raised my sword and blocked him as I had been taught, my movements so engrained they were instinctive. The blades clanged harshly as they met, my sword sliding along the length of his cutlass with a metallic screech. The battle was joined. I lunged forward, stepping over Belfazar's body, his blood slippery under my boots. Be swifter on the attack, damn it Father’s voice from long ago hot summers in the training salon echoed in my mind. And where’s your dagger? Your whole right side is open, Merius. Look, I just notc
hed your shirt where I could have stabbed you. You’d be dead by now if this was a real fight . . . I met the wide defensive arc of my opponent’s blade with another lunge, not giving him the chance to swing at me again. He retreated, stumbling around my trunk as he parried. If he’d had more room, he might have been able to outrun me and muster himself for another attack. But he was soon backed into the corner near the door. He leapt toward me, his charge a clumsy necessity. I met his cutlass with a violent, powerful blow. My sudden ferocity startled him even further, and he fumbled the hilt of his blade, almost dropping it. Use his surprise against him. I continued to strike strong blows, the sweat pouring down my face and stinging my eyes as I beat him back against the door. These sea brigands expected a nobleman to fight as if he were in the practice salon, all his moves orchestrated, too polite to deliver a disabling blow. Father had trained me himself, and his fighting style was anything but polite.
The man managed to break through my rain of blows, his cutlass grazing my shoulder. The wound burned, a long cut that made my shirt and cloak sticky with blood. I felt these things as if they were happening to another Merius, far away--I was too preoccupied to glance down, much less acknowledge the pain.
“You bleed,” he said in rough Corcin, likely an attempt to distract me. When I swung and lunged again, no slackening in my pace, he continued, “You bleed bad, barbarian lord.”
I chuckled. “Is that so?” I struck him then on his upper arm, and he winced, visibly shaken for an instant before he rallied and jumped toward me. The door opened then, and the assassin staggered in. For the first time since I could remember, I was glad to see him.
With deadly reflexes, he whipped out his thin dagger, a flash of silver as he plunged it in my opponent's back. The man leaned forward, as if to escape the blade, but it was too late. The assassin used his victim's motion to pull the dagger from the wound. Then, bringing his hand up, the assassin drew his blade quickly across the man's throat, so quickly that I hardly comprehended what he had done until I heard the man gasp and clutch futilely at his neck as if to loosen his collar. Then he collapsed, his blood staining the floorboards crimson.
Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3) Page 52