by Karen Nilsen
My scream startled me as much as it startled the strange man. He took a step back, almost dropping his candle as he blundered into the door frame. I pressed myself against the wall and stared at him as he stared back. Lank-haired and pale, he had the sloped shoulders and slender frame of a scholar, his slightly bulging eyes bloodshot as if he'd been reading close text for too long. His aura was barely present, a thin line of blackish-blue around his body--the color, what little I could sense of it, put me in mind of a nasty bruise. I had the vague impression I'd seen him before, like someone I'd dreamed about but couldn't quite remember the next morning. "Who are you?" I managed finally, my voice faint.
He started again, looking at me as he might look at a pet dog that suddenly spoke to him. "You talk? They didn't tell me you could talk . . ."
"Get out--get out right now."
"They told me you were mute . . ." he went on.
"Get out of here! This isn't your chamber, sir." I crossed my arms over my breasts and hunkered down in the corner--all I wore was a shift, and the hem went only to my knees.
He continued to stare at me. "But . . ."
"My husband will be back any minute."
"But, sweet . . . sweet, I am your husband."
The exact moment I heard him say he was my husband, a buzzing started in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the white pitcher on the washstand had a pattern of blue flowers painted on it; as I looked, the colors reversed, and the pitcher turned blue, the flowers white. Before I could ponder this oddity, the world went dark.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"What did you say to her, Whitten?" Dagmar asked. Her voice sounded indistinct, as if I were hearing her on the other side of a wall.
Whitten mumbled something in reply, and although I couldn't make out his words, I did recognize his voice. The man who had come into the chamber and said he was my husband now had a name. Whitten. The official head of the House of Landers, Merius's cousin. Merius had mentioned him once or twice. Whitten--heavy drinker, prone to melancholy, feckless, often caught the brunt of Mordric's cold rages. I had had the impression Merius pitied him.
"She seems to be coming around," Dagmar said. "Safire!" Someone shook my shoulders.
With a great effort, I opened my eyes. Faces swam in a haze of candlelight before me--a pale and drawn-looking Dagmar, the brown-haired servant girl I remembered but couldn't put a name to, and at the foot of the bed, Selwyn and Whitten hovered in and out of focus. Everyone wore nightclothes, Dagmar in a dressing gown of sumptuous cranberry satin that I couldn't recall ever seeing her wear. I tried to sit up, but Dagmar held me down. "Don't try to sit up yet--you might faint again."
"Where are we?" I said hoarsely.
Dagmar started much as Whitten had when I had spoken to him the first time. "Safire, you just spoke."
I raised my eyebrows. "Yes? So, where are we?"
She threw her arms around me, an impulsiveness that she only showed at times of great distress. "Oh, it's so good to hear your voice, hear you talking again. It's been so long . . ."
The walls of the chamber, which had been coming slowly into focus, suddenly went hazy again. "What do you mean?" I asked, my voice trembling. "How long?"
"Two months." Her arms tightened, and I felt the damp heat of her tears on my shoulder. "And Safire, Safire, Father's not . . ."
"My lady," the maid exclaimed. "She's just woken up. Maybe . . ."
Dagmar pulled away, wiping her eyes. "You're right, Elsa."
"What about Father?" I asked.
Dagmar shook her head. "Not now--you need to rest."
I struggled out from under the confining covers, pausing when I felt light-headed. "No, I can't rest now. What is it? Apoplexy?"
Selwyn cleared his throat, glancing at Dagmar before he answered. "Yes."
"Is it serious?"
"He's bedridden. Can't move or speak."
I closed my eyes and fell back on the pillows. "No," I said, shaking my head. "No, no, Father. Papa . . ." My heart pounding my ears, I curled into a ball, clutching my arms around my knees as I began to sob.
The feather tick sank in the middle as Elsa sat down beside me. "There, there, it's all right, my lady," she said, rubbing my back.
"No, it's not all right. It'll never be all right again."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The next day after I had risen and washed and forced myself to eat a little, Dagmar and I visited Father together. The dark chamber stank of sickroom smells and apothecary herbs, and Dagmar went over to the window and flung the casements open. The fresh light and air of a warm May morning flooded the dank stone corners, but it only brought relief to Dagmar, Elsa, and me. Father was beyond such comforts.
He lay on the bed, half propped up with pillows and cushions. His mouth hung open; every once in a while, Elsa would tip a little water or broth down his throat and wipe the drool from his chin. When I moved closer and took his hand in mine, I realized even his skin had changed. It had become so smooth and thin that it had a dull, brittle glow to it--it was the skin of a profoundly ill person. "I'm almost afraid to touch him, lest I bruise him," I murmured.
"He has bed sores on his backside," Elsa remarked. "The apothecary said there's little to do but put the salve on them and turn him every hour."
"Oh, Father." I squeezed his hand, but I might as well have been squeezing wax. "Are his eyes always shut?" I asked, desperate for some sound besides the faint rattle of his breath.
"Yes--he can't seem to open or close them."
"That's horrid, to be trapped in your body and not even be able to see." I knelt beside the bed, still holding his hand, and put my head next to his. "I love you, papa," I whispered. Dagmar came up behind me, and I glanced at her. "It's my fault he's like this. If I hadn't . . ."
"Nonsense, Safire," she snapped. "You could just as easily say it was my fault."
"But I'm the one who always provoked him. I should have behaved better, like you . . ."
"He wouldn't have loved you as much then."
"Dagmar!"
"It's true--you're his favorite. You know it too, so don't look so taken aback." She crossed her arms, paced the length of the chamber. "It doesn't matter now anyway. The fact is, we knew this was coming. He's always had a temper, the court physician told him to control it, lest it burst a vein, and he didn't. There's nothing we could have done about it."
I straightened. "There's nothing we could have done about it," I repeated, gazing down at him. "But there is something I can do about it now." I leaned over the bed and circled Father's head with my hands as I had done many times before, for him, for Merius, for Dagmar. The only time my hands had failed me was when Mother had died.
Dagmar glanced at me sharply. Then she saw my hands, the way they were positioned, and her eyes widened. She began to shake her head, pointing at Elsa. I shook my head back at her. Elsa wouldn't say anything. Elsa's grandmother had had the second sight, and she had learned not to fear such things. I looked at the servant girl, who was bent over her knitting, and wondered how I knew about her grandmother. It seemed she had told me, one of those little bits from the last two months that suddenly had popped to the surface of my murky memory. Since waking this morning, I had remembered other little bits, mostly about Elsa and the kindly apothecary.
I looked down at Father again, concentrated my attention on him before I closed my eyes with a clear picture of him. The rest of the chamber, Dagmar's pacing, Elsa's knitting, the birds fighting over the seeds scattered on the window sill, the green smell of spring slowly freshening the air--all these things faded into the background. Father's labored breathing filled my ears, and I gradually matched my breaths to his, so that we exhaled and inhaled as one. After several minutes of this, I reached into the darkness that was now his mind.
He could still hear, though not the same as before. Because it was the only sense left to him, his hearing had sharpened to the extent that each bird had its own voice, though he could not comprehend that he was sensing t
his. Fighting back tears, I reached further. Most of his knowledge, his memories had fallen into a black, depthless well, and it would be impossible to draw them back out again. The essence of him still lingered here, but only for a short while longer. I had come too late.
Silent tears streaming down my face, I motioned to Dagmar and Elsa. "Help me turn him."
"My lady, we just turned him a quarter hour ago."
"I suppose, but there may be something I can do for his bedsores." I wiped the tears with the edge of my sleeve.
The burning skin on his back oozed with dozens of sores, especially around his shoulder blades. Closing my eyes again, I placed my hands on his shoulders. The heat of the infection was easily sensed and drawn away from him and into me. As soon as his skin was cool and the sores closed, I went over to the washstand and plunged my hands in the basin, letting the water take the heat and sickness away as I scrubbed my fingers clean.
Elsa stared at Father's back. "The sores are gone. How did you . . ."
Dagmar swiftly crossed to the bed and pulled the sheet over Father. "The apothecary's salve must be working," she said briskly, giving me a narrow look.
"But . . ." Elsa gazed at me, and a sudden comprehension lit her face. "I knew there was something about you. A healer . . ."
"Like your grandmother."
"You remember me telling you that?"
I nodded. "I am remembering a few things."
"Let the next thing you remember be some discretion, sister," Dagmar said as she jerked the bed curtains straight. "Elsa, you're a good girl with good sense--don't repeat any of this. Not everyone understands such things."
"Oh no, my lady--I won't say a word. I usually never talk about Grandmother, either, except Lady Safire seemed to enjoy my chatter when she was mute, and I didn't see the harm in it."
"I still enjoy your chatter. Chatter some to Father, if you think of it. Dagmar and I should come in and talk to him everyday."
"Do you think he'll understand us?"
"Probably not, but he'll recognize our voices. It may comfort him." I motioned to Elsa, and she helped turned him over on his back. I patted his cheek, smoothed his sparse hair down. Then I kissed his forehead. "I'll be back soon, papa."
As Dagmar and I left the chamber, Whitten came around the corner of the hall. He stopped when he saw us, and I quickly turned to the right, going in the opposite direction from him. "Safire, wait . . ." he began.
"Don't be so familiar with my name, sir." A shaking started inside, and I clutched my arms tightly as if to hold myself together.
He followed me. "Wait, please."
Unfortunately, the hall came to a dead end, so I was forced to comply with his request. "Leave me be," I spat, whirling on him.
He backed away several steps, almost knocking over Dagmar, who had followed both of us. "Listen, I just want to talk to you."
"We have nothing to say each other."
"Sweet, you don't have to shiver so--I'm not going to hurt you."
"You were in my bed last night, before I came out of whatever fit I was in the last two months. You were in my bed, and you were," I choked, "were intending to come back to it. Don't you dare come anywhere near me or speak to me again."
"Wait, you touched her?" Dagmar's voice rose unsteadily. "You touched her?!"
Whitten's aura took on a sickly grayish hue, and he swallowed once, very rapidly, before he spoke. "I thought . . . I thought she was just mute. One night, when I'd come back from the tavern, she was in the hall. It was like she was waiting for me. She looked so pretty, and I couldn't help but kiss her and she never stopped me or nothing, and I thought . . . after all, she is my wife."
"No, I'm not. I never consented to it."
"You were never supposed to touch her." Dagmar's face was as red as Father's when he was in one of his rages, and I realized I wasn't the only one who had inherited his temper. "Mordric sat down with both of us and explained it. A marriage in name only in case she was with child, a marriage in name only to protect her, her dowry and title from men who might make claims that Father had betrothed her to them before he fell ill. You agreed to that, Whitten--I heard you."
"I know what I said," he exploded, startling both of us. "But I'd had a bit much ale, and she never stopped me."
I shut my eyes, wanting to retch. "Merius is going to kill you," I whispered.
"Merius?"
"My betrothed."
"Is Merius the one who put that ring on your finger?"
"Yes. He means to marry me when he returns."
"For God's sake," Whitten groaned. He turned to Dagmar. "You never told me about Merius."
"I assumed you knew, that Mordric had told you. Besides, what difference does it make to the fact you touched her, you disgusting swine?"
I put my hands over my ears and sank to my knees, hiding my face against the wall. I couldn't take anymore--two months gone, Father dying by inches, and now this. Why had I ever woken from that fit? Merius--because I wanted to see Merius again. But Merius wasn't here. Merius was an ocean away, fighting, perhaps dying himself. I didn't realize my mouth was open and I was screaming until Dagmar wrenched my palm from my ear and put her arm around me. "Safire, shh, shh, he won't touch you again. It's all right, sweet."
"I want Merius," I blubbered inanely.
"Merius isn't here." She paused, hesitating before she continued gently, "You shouldn't want him anyway even if he were here. He's false--he left you, Safire."
"Left me so he could gain his independence and we could marry. I hardly call that being false.”
"Mordric said he's done it to girls before, just none as highborn as you. But it's all right. It'll be all right. We'll get your marriage annulled, find you an honorable husband."
"What lies are you telling her?" Whitten demanded. "Merius has never done that to a girl, seduced her and left her like that. Not that I know of, anyway, and I've known him since he was born. He's honorable."
"Maybe you were in a drunken stupor when he did it," Dagmar retorted. "His own father told me, and I hardly think he would lie about it. Now, go away--you've done enough."
Whitten glanced about to make certain we were alone before he bent down, cupped his hand around his mouth, and whispered, "You'd best learn this now. Mordric lies, my dears. All the time, for all sorts of reasons known only to himself. Just ask your Selwyn, Dagmar. He'll tell you the same, though you'll have to drag it out of him." Then he straightened and continued on in his normal voice, "There--I bet I'll regret I told you that, but you can't go on living in this House and believing everything you hear."
Dagmar glared up at him. "You think I believe you? The ale speaks for you."
Whitten shrugged. "Believe whoever you want to believe. You'll find out soon enough."
"He's right, Dagmar," I said softly.
Her arm tightened around my shoulders. "Just ignore him."
"No, he's right. Mordric's an awful old liar. He lied to me about Merius. I don't care what anyone says, even you. Merius loves me, he's coming back for me, and nothing . . ." I stopped, my breath fogging before my eyes. The air in the hall had suddenly turned frigid.
"Safire, what is it?"
I scrambled to my feet and looked around wildly. Already, I could smell the roses. The snake-haired woman's distant laugh echoed down the stone corridors, and the cold reached long, slender fingers into my lungs, choking me. "I can't stay here," I gasped, lurching headlong down the hall in the direction of my chamber.
"Wait, stop . . ." Dagmar's voice faded behind me as I raced into my chamber and slammed the door. As if that would keep the chill out. It followed me, circling my ankles and creeping upwards as I threw open the lid of my trunk and rifled through the contents. Nothing at the bottom had been disturbed since I had last looked through it at court. Evidently Dagmar had brought it straight from home and only taken out the clothes, leaving my drawing things, journals, and coin safe and hidden. My hands shaking, I grabbed my coin purse and portfolio as Dagmar be
gan knocking at the door.
"Safire?" she called. "Safire, open this door--you're scaring me."
"I'm not the one you should be scared of," I muttered. I opened the door so suddenly that she almost stumbled across the threshold, her hands braced on the door jamb. Whitten stood behind her, and for an instant, I faltered. Then the hairs on the back of my neck rose as I heard that high, spooky laugh again, closer this time. That settled me--I ducked under Dagmar's arm and ran blindly for the stairs. I had to get out of this House.
Chapter Seventeen -- Merius
“Have you seen Sirus?” Gerard asked.
I glanced up from my water skin. Gerard was a silhouette against the bright morning sun. I shielded my eyes with my hand, cursing the terrain for the hundredth time. Pale-eyes weren’t made for a land of no sunsets and no sunrises. There were no gradations to the light here in the Marennese mountains; either the sun shone bright as midday or there was no sun. Night fell like a rock without twilight to soften it, its sudden shadow frightening in its very swiftness.
“Last I saw of Sirus was last night, when he went off to piss,” I said.
“You didn’t see him come back?”
“No--I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“Damn it, no one’s seen him.” Gerard sounded sharp around the edges.
I glanced back down at my water skin. I had been attempting to fill it with the trickle of water the Marennese called a stream. At least it was cold, a spring straight out of the heart of the stony mountain behind us.
“Maybe he walked off the side of the path in the dark--that one drop-off yesterday had to be a good fifteen hundred feet.”
“That’s grim, Landers.”
I shrugged. “That’s the kind of place we’re in. Grim.”
I glanced around. I had never seen such high mountains. When we had landed on the northern plains of Marenna and I had gotten my first glimpse of the far off Carnith Mountains, they were barely discernible dark blue shapes against the lighter blue of the sky. As we had traveled across the plain, they had become more distinct, rough-edged giants with caps of snow. Once we'd fought our way into the foothills, they towered around us, dark and full of echoes. I made Gerard remove his spurs because the ringing echo of them was enough to cause an avalanche.
