The Witch Awakening (Book One of the Landers Saga)

by Karen Nilsen

  He unbuckled the harness. "Fact is, you can act as unladylike as you wish when you return home."

  "I thought you were supposed to be invisible and mute, so why am I still hearing you?"

  "Because you don't follow advice very well." His mouth twitched. "Don't worry. I'll give Strawberry carrots every night."

  "Remember--keep the pieces small, like I showed you."

  "You've spoiled that mare, my lady. She won't be fit for anyone else." He led the horses away toward the stables.

  I leaned against the side of the coach and watched two boys battle with wooden swords, a servant trip on a loose cobble, a woman in a black veil walk a long-haired lapdog . . . there were so many auras to sense that I began to feel dizzy and had to look at my feet. There came the clatter of hooves on the cobbles, such a constant sound that I barely noticed it. Then the hooves stopped directly in front of me, and I snapped my head up. "What are you doing here?" I demanded.

  Peregrine chuckled as he dismounted Trident. "I might ask the same of you. I thought you were too good for court, Safire."

  "Now that you're here, court's not good enough for me. I never had any particular opinion about it before." I crossed my arms and gazed downwards.

  "You almost look a lady today. I don't think I like it."

  "Then leave."

  "Who gave you the rose?" He reached out to touch my hair, and I swatted his hand away.

  "It's none of your affair who gave it to me. Now leave."

  "You've never taken a flower I've offered you."

  "I've never picked up a snake either, lest it bite me." Deciding he wouldn't leave, I made a move to duck around the back of the coach and join Boltan. Instantly, Peregrine's hands were on either side of me, blocking my retreat. My eyes widened and then began to water as I choked for breath. That ambergris odor was all around, so overpowering it stole my air. And only I could sense it. Sinking against the side of the coach, I closed my eyes, dizzy and weak and wanting to retch.

  "I'll scream," I heard myself whisper like a vapid heroine in a bad play. "I'll scream. Go away."

  "There's nothing to scream about," he spoke reasonably from far away. "I just want to talk to you."

  I choked again. What was I thinking, threatening to scream? I could barely breathe. "Father said . . . said I never had to see you again," I croaked.

  "Now, why would you never want to see me again, sweet? I'd buy you a dozen white roses made of diamonds, if only you'd accept them. Cruel flirt, to play with my heart like a cat with a mouse when all the while you know you'll say yes."

  "I'll never marry you." I glowered at him through bleary eyes.

  His smile grew distant. "Do you know your father owes me ten thousand silvers? Gentleman that I am, I've decided to ignore the debt until the next harvest, though men have been put in prison for owing less. However, even gentlemen can be provoked by insult. Think on that, pet, if my wooing doesn't suit you."

  And suddenly he was gone, mounting Trident and spurring him towards the gate. I put my hand to my mouth. Ten thousand silvers? Ten thousand? "Oh Father," I said dully.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The lights--I couldn't believe the lights. I had been standing on the balcony for a half hour, just staring at the lights. Far below gleamed a mosaic floor, set with thousands of glazed tile bits. Scattered over this floor were fifty or so giant candelabras on elaborate, sinuous legs. Each candelabra held twenty candles at least, and some of the biggest held fifty. A swarm of servants rushed around during the breaks between dances, trimming wicks and relighting the flames that had died in the drafts from the open terrace doors. Then the music and dancing began again. The women wore jewelry around their necks, in their hair, on their wrists and fingers. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, opals--all grabbed at the light with greedy vanity. From this vantage point, the glimmers of the jewels joined together in a blinding silver fish net that moved over the waves of the crowd. Around the edges of the ballroom stood giant mirrors that tossed back this brilliance, magnifying it a hundred times for each candle flame.

  "Do you mind a pipe?" someone asked behind me.

  I turned. A tall man stood in the balcony archway, partly obscured by shadows. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," he continued.

  I pulled my wrap back over my shoulders. "That's all right. I didn't expect anyone else to find the way up here."

  "This is my escape balcony." He stepped forward then, moving with the stealth of someone more comfortable hunting in the forest than attending a court ball. The light glinted off the reddish strands in his thick brown hair. Young, about my age, with something vaguely familiar about the deep set of his eyes, his strong jaw line. I racked my memory, puzzled. Surely I would have remembered this one--he had a silver aura. Sparks crackled off him like static. I had seen golden auras, red auras, dark auras, auras of every color. But never a silver one.

  I arched a brow, trying not to stare. "Escape balcony? That sounds rather dashing, like a jewel thief or something."

  He snorted, stuffing weed in his pipe from a leather pouch. "Hardly. To be honest, my father wants me to find a wife down there, and I'm dreading the prospect."

  "What sort of wife?"

  "A suitable one." He grabbed a candle from the stand beside me and lit his pipe, puffing. "I think that means one with a giant dowry and a father on the council, though my definition of suitable and his tend to differ," he mumbled around the pipe stem with some skill. Then he caught my intrigued look. He instantly took his pipe out of his mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry. You never said if you minded smoking."

  "It's fine."

  "Are you sure? You're not just being polite? I hate it when people are just being polite."

  I shook my head, smiling. "Really, it's fine. I like the smell."

  He still looked suspicious. "Most ladies don't like it. The smell, I mean."

  "Who says I'm a lady?"

  He grinned, and I liked the way his dark gray eyes sparkled and crinkled at the corners. He was the first person I had met here who smiled with his whole face, not just his mouth, the first I had met who didn't seem to be wearing a mask. "Maybe if I had met you on the floor down there, I wouldn't have left it so quickly. Do you have a name?"

  "Yours first."

  "Merius of Landers."

  "That's it!" I exclaimed, recalling Dagmar's betrothal. Now I knew why he looked familiar. "You're Mordric's son."

  He stepped back, his pipe frozen inches from his mouth. "How do you know that?"

  "Haven't you ever looked in a mirror? You resemble him." When I noticed his blank expression, I quickly amended, "A little, really. Just around the eyes, the jaw, your voice . . . He's a handsome man . . ." I'm making a horrible mess of this.

  The pipe had gone out by this point, but he still held it. Clenched it rather. "I avoid mirrors," he said.

  "Why?"

  "I don't know why, really."

  "You don't like your resemblance to your father, do you? That's why you won't look in mirrors. You see him looking back at you."

  Oh no, I hadn't meant to say that aloud. Why hadn't my parents cut out my tongue before I could talk? I shook my head as he started, a slight tightening in his jaw. Quickly, he glanced away. I closed my eyes and hid my face in my hand. Mordric had come to the House of Long Marsh to settle the betrothal between Selwyn and Dagmar a few months ago. He had seemed a cold, exacting man, the sort that made me nervous. But this Merius was nothing like that--he had a silver aura and crinkled up at the eyes when he smiled. I peeked at him between my fingers. Now he was watching me intently.

  "So, witch-girl, what's your name? Or don't you have one?"

  Chapter Four--Merius

  She lowered her hand from her eyes, and her lips curled in a mocking smile. "Safire, Safire of Long Marsh."

  Peregrine was right. I would have remembered this one. Red-gold hair hung in loose curls down her back like molten copper--I always had been partial to redheads. Large eyes lit her narrow-chinned, angular face, he
r skin pale as fey moonlight. Arched brows and a splash of freckles across her nose hinted at the pert wryness already apparent in her speech. My gaze traveled downward--she was small, at least a foot shorter than me, but well-proportioned. No angles below the neck. All curves with willowy arms. I stuffed my pipe in my pocket, deciding to forego smoking.

  "Your reputation precedes you," I said.

  "What, did your father warn you about me?"

  Her question threw me, as she had thrown me earlier with that spooky remark about mirrors. She was supposed to have asked "what reputation?" to which I would tell her "your beauty" or some other inanity. That was how conversations with young noblewomen usually went, which was one reason I preferred barmaids.

  "No, not a word."

  She glanced down at her hands. "I don't think he liked me much."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Her eyes flew up--they were the exact green of peridots. "When he and my father were negotiating the betrothal between Selwyn and Dagmar, I told him he should consider trading cattle for a living since he seemed so skilled at it. My father made me leave then, so I don't remember how the trade worked out. Dagmar, however, seems satisfied with her share of the Landers livestock."

  I grinned. She was more entertaining than any barmaid. "Wicked words, but true. My father measures life by gold, not heart's blood."

  Her brows arched. "And how do you measure life, good sir?"

  "Call me Merius."

  "Merius," she repeated, testing it. I liked how she rolled my name off her tongue, like a poet's name instead of the name of some stodgy ancestor.

  "I measure life by the company I keep. At the moment, life has me spellbound."

  She flushed, her gaze escaping mine. "You said my reputation preceded me. Where did you first hear my name?"

  "In a tavern."

  Her eyes widened, and then she let go a startled laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. "I haven't been doing anything that wicked, despite my words," she giggled.

  "It's the truth. Your sister was mentioned over the same game of cards."

  "Evil man--I should be insulted."

  "Then why are you laughing?"

  "A tavern? Dagmar!?"

  I held up my hand. "I swear." I noticed then that Peregrine was standing on the balcony across from us, leaning on the rail and smoking. "Look, there's one of the men who mentioned you."

  Safire turned her head, swallowing when she saw Peregrine. Then she looked back at me.

  "Do you want to dance?" she asked abruptly.

  "What?"

  "Dance, you know . . ." She grabbed my hand. Her fingers were cool and smooth and slipped between mine as easily as water. She dragged me through the arch, and I stumbled.

  "What? Aren't I supposed to do the asking?" I exclaimed, my brain finally catching up to my feet.

  "Shh," she whispered. "I don't need you for your conversation."

  "What do you need me for then?"

  She paused a moment at the head of the stairs. "You'll see. Now, hurry up--you're too slow." The flirty, knowing grin she gave me shot straight to my loins, and I swallowed.

  It was a short journey down to the ballroom floor, just a quick jaunt through a darkened hall and a few steps down a curving marble staircase. I hardly remembered going down the stairs afterwards, except a few vague impressions of an iron railing and a blue runner. What I did remember was how Safire's hand felt between my fingers. Under her skin, her bones moved light and buoyant as a bird's. A sweet smoky scent trailed after her--she smelled like cedar.

  I hesitated at the bottom of the staircase. Before us whirled an ever changing maze of light and sound. Whatever they were dancing, it wasn't a waltz. The couples seemed no more than glittering pinwheels of color. But Safire never paused. She towed me into the fray. We stopped in the middle of a dizzy circle of dancers, facing each other. I slid my hand around her waist, her hair brushing sparks over my skin as I pulled her closer.

  "Do you know the steps?" she asked.

  "No," I shouted and spun her out into the crowd, drawing her back after several beats. Then I began to steer her around the floor, my hand tight around hers. If I was holding her too close, she didn't protest.

  "But you just said you didn't know the steps . . ."

  "I'm a quick learner." I spun her again.

  "I should say so," she said breathlessly when she returned to my arms. We said no more as I swept her off into the tumult. I twirled her several more times, watching how her hair whipped over her shoulders. She had to know that wearing her hair down was an outrageous gesture. King Arian considered any woman who wore her hair down a wanton harlot. He had even publicly chastised his daughter for doing so, and since then, court fashion dictated no woman dare leave a strand loose. Until tonight. I smiled and whirled Safire around yet again. She threw her head back and laughed as I placed my hand on her waist. The sound rose over the voices, over the violins, over the clinking of glass, rose over everything until her laughter was all I heard. Like the time I had been fifteen and had drunk a whole bottle of wine, I knew then that it was too late to grab a rope or handhold. I was falling, and there was no way back up.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I ran my fingertip around the edge of my goblet, intrigued by the way the red glass lit the polished oak of the council table. Someone--Prince Segar, maybe--was talking about something--SerVerin slave traders, maybe--with an odd droning passion. Every once in a while, he would hit the table with his fist, and the goblet would tremble, sending thousands of scarlet flashes across the table and my scattered notes. I waited for these moments as I thought about that girl at the ball last night and how my fingers had caught in her fiery hair during the last dance. Warm and silky, her hair moved like a live thing in my hand, and instead of stopping myself immediately and muttering some awkward apology as I should have, I had deliberately combed my fingers through the length of it. And instead of backing away and blushing as she should have, Safire had grown still and let me do as I wished, her eyes never leaving mine. Hastily, I shifted in my chair, my arm brushing the goblet. It wobbled and toppled over, a drop of wine running out on the table.

  "Merius," Peregrine whispered.

  "What?"

  "How are you going to vote?"

  "On what?"

  "Haven't you been listening?"

  "Not really--it all sounds the same after a while." I righted the goblet, hoping against reason that Father hadn't noticed. I glanced to the upper end of the table, where he sat with the other provincial ministers. He appeared completely absorbed with Prince Segar's endless monologue, but he always looked that way at council.

  "You have to vote. We all do."

  I sighed. "All right. Tell me exactly what we're voting on, and maybe I'll tell you how I'm voting on it."

  "What to do about the SerVerin slave traders on Marenna's borders--Prince Segar wants . . ." Peregrine stopped as Herrod threw his chair back and lumbered to his feet. The commander of the king’s guard, he was a large man with a grizzled black beard and a thick coat of hair covering his hands and exposed arms. He had the expression of a charging bear.

  "Am I to understand that Your Highness believes a few well-placed arrows will dissuade these southern dogs?"

  Prince Segar remained standing. "If they're truly the dogs you call them, these slave traders should retreat with their tails between their legs at a few well-placed arrows. They're no warriors, Herrod. Your most skilled king's guards as well as a few recruits from this table should be sufficient."

  "Too sufficient," a hook-nosed merchant named Sullay muttered.

  "What was that, sir?"

  "I was just saying, Your Highness, that I don't understand why we need to involve ourselves at all in this border dispute. It's a Marennese problem."

  "It's a little more than a border dispute. Innocents are being stolen from their beds at night, taken across the Zarina River into the Empire, and sold as slaves."

  "But they're not Cormalen innocents. Marenna
should defend her own."

  "Marenna is fighting a costly war on its eastern border with the Numer rebels. It hasn't the means to defend the south as well."

  "Let them have Marenna, I say. It's just a bunch of mountains and jabbering foreigners."

  Sullay crossed his arms and wiggled around in his chair as if the seat had a stone in it. I picked up my pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to sketch a thumbnail picture of him on the edge of my notes. Except it wasn't him but a vulture with his features, a crooked beak and crown of scraggly feathers on its head to resemble Sullay’s long straggles of yellowing hair. Peregrine caught a glimpse of this and snickered, though he probably wouldn't have been as amused if he'd seen the one I'd drawn of him as a snake a couple weeks ago. After Peregrine spied out the one of Sullay, I abandoned it and moved on to Herrod, whom I drew as a big, fierce bear.

  " . . . and we need to demonstrate our full power to these SerVerin bastards before they try to make us the last province in their empire," Herrod bellowed. I glanced up, puzzled--I must have missed something. They had been talking about Marenna, not the SerVerin Empire. Hadn't they? I forced myself to put down the pen. God knew how much I had missed. I pushed my notes over the pen and tried to forget it was there. My pen was always getting me into trouble at council. I would start fidgeting or drawing or writing verse and become oblivious to everything else.

  "We can't afford a war with the SerVerin Empire, Herrod," Cyril of Somners remarked. He was the head of the council and had been my mother's cousin. Father loathed him.

  "Nor can we afford to neglect this situation," Father said quietly.

  "What do you mean, Mordric?" Cyril sounded wary.

  Father waited a moment before he answered as if daring anyone else to interrupt or hurry him. "We need to send our best warriors, and they need to strike and strike swiftly, in small contingents. If we want to avoid war with the SerVerin Empire, the prince's strategy is the only way."

  "But I would think such interference with the SerVerin slave traders would be the most likely way to spark war," argued Sullay.