by Karen Nilsen
Mordric was silent for so long that I wondered if he was either asleep or hadn't heard me. I was on the verge of repeating the question when he said, his voice low, "Yes."
"How many?"
The shadow shrugged, shifted position. "A dozen or so, I suppose. There may be more--your father's manservant brings them with the other messages from the House of Long Marsh when he can."
"I had no idea you knew Merius, Safire," Selwyn exclaimed.
"We met at court," I said curtly. "Where are the letters, sir?"
"I burned them."
My fingers grew so taut around my portfolio that the stitching along the side pressed into my palm. "How could you? They weren't addressed to you."
"It's not for you to question me."
"They were my letters."
"They were Safire of Long Marsh's letters. You, my dear, are Safire of Landers now."
Bile rose in my throat, and I let loose a wordless cry of rage, punching the seat beside me. Selwyn shrank against the far wall. "You cold-blooded . . . he's your own son, for God's sake."
"That is precisely why I burned them. I've never seen such a collection of indiscretions. If any of those letters had fallen in the wrong hands, if anyone at court found out Merius had written so frankly to a married woman, he would at best be branded a fool and at worst be accused of adultery and thrown off the council."
"Wait, indiscretions . . . frankly . . . you read them? You read them?!" I sank against the seat, my head swimming.
"Of course I read them, what little I could stand."
"How could you . . . whatever he wrote, it was to me and me only, not for anyone else to see. You reading those letters--it's even worse than you burning them. It's, it‘s--" I broke off, not able to finish. I crossed my arms tightly over my portfolio, as if I could somehow shield myself from further invasion.
There was a long silence. I felt sick inside, as violated as if someone had spied on Merius and me in the privacy of his chamber. It was an uncomfortable feeling, especially paired with the silence, and I desperately searched for distraction. I became conscious of the rattling of the wheels, the horses' hooves, the roar of the surf at the bottom of the cliffs, the small sounds one usually never noticed. Selwyn must have a cold, I thought--his breathing was loud and whistling, and he cleared his throat every few moments.
Mordric sat unmoving until we left the sea cliffs and entered the woods again. Then he shifted, the leather of his boots creaking, and sighed. It was so unexpected--him sighing--that I jumped a little. "You don't understand," he said then, his voice heavy, toneless. "I didn't read the private bits, at least not anything past a sentence or two before I realized what they were. I certainly wasn't interested in them. I just wanted some idea of what he was doing, where they were, if he'd been in any skirmishes, if he had trustworthy men around him. He wrote quite a bit about that."
"In a letter to a sweetheart, to a wife, the whole letter is private, not just bits of it."
"I know that. It's just that he won't write to me, and I do want to know how . . . how he's faring." Mordric said this last as if it pained him, breaking his terse monotone. I started and stared at the shadows where he sat. It was the same shock I would have felt upon observing a stone statue suddenly begin to weep. This man I would have called hard-hearted, cruel, conniving, ruthless--this man loved his son.
"So, how is he faring?" I asked, not knowing what to say exactly but needing to say something to cover the awkwardness.
"Well enough, I suppose. Of course, all those letters were written before that hangdog Herrod sent him into the mountains, so God knows how he fares now."
"Why are the mountains so dangerous?"
"There are only a few passes through them, and it's easy to get cornered and ambushed, especially if you're not as familiar with the territory as your enemy is. Camped along the passes, there are bands of brigands that wait for merchant caravans, horses, weapons, anything that they can sell in the lowlands. Many of them are in league with the SerVerin slave traders and seize unwary travelers to be sold south of the Zarina river, so they have plenty of reason to fight our men." Mordric paused. "Herrod's sometimes a hothead fool when he gets in the thick of battle--he should only have dealt with slave traders working west of the mountains. He doesn't have enough men to clean the rabble out of the passes as well, the ass."
"So Merius could be . . ." I trailed off, not able to speak over the lump in my throat.
"Killed?" Mordric finished. "Yes, though I doubt it. He and other high-ranking men are more likely to be taken hostage, held for ransom. These brigands and slave traders are thieves, not killers if they can help it--they're more interested in coin than blood."
I swallowed, my voice hoarse when I finally spoke. "But he's too proud to be anyone's hostage, to let anyone under his watch be taken hostage. They might hurt him badly or even, even k-kill him before he would give in."
"You see only his reckless side."
"I bet if Merius were taken hostage," Selwyn said unexpectedly, "I bet he would pretend to go along with it and then find a way to escape. He's one of the best bluffers I know when he has his temper in check."
Mordric chuckled, a grim sound. "Yes, I taught him that much."
I clutched my arms around me, suddenly cold. Merius, a hostage? Merius, dead? He could be either right now, and I would have no idea until weeks or months had passed. I had cried earlier over my lost coin, my hunger, my cold feet--now that I finally had something worth crying about, all my tears were long gone, leaving my eyes dry and burning. It was worse, not being able to cry. All the unspent fear whirled around inside, faster and faster till I thought I was going crazy. I chanted a quick prayer under my breath over and over again God, let him live. But there had to be thousands of such prayers throughout the world every minute, and most of them would never be answered. Why should mine be?
We stopped then, and I realized with a start that we were in the Landers courtyard. Selwyn opened the door and hopped out. Then he turned and offered me his hand. My portfolio under my arm, I took his assistance and stepped down. There was a rapid patter of slippered feet over the cobbles, and then Dagmar threw her arms around me.
"Thank God you're all right. Thank God." She pulled away a little, wiping her eyes. "Don't ever run off like that again--I thought you might be dead, you wicked girl."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I hugged her back, realizing then that she was not only older sister but also surrogate mother. "I should have explained . . ."
"Later. Right now you need food, rest." She began to lead me towards the house.
I resisted as I had resisted Mordric earlier, suddenly remembering why I had been so anxious to escape from him in Calcors. "No--I can't go in there again."
"Safire, nonsense. Now, come on."
"No. If I go in there, I'll get sick again."
Dagmar's face was half in shadow, but even in the flickering lantern light, I could still see her brow furrow. "What, because of Whitten? Safire, you won't have to see him again, not for awhile. He's agreed to stay in a whole other wing of the house until we sort this mess out. Now, come on--you'll feel much better after some food and a nice hot bath."
"No, not because of Whitten. I can't explain, but . . . but I'll get sick again if I go in there."
By this point, Selwyn and Mordric were standing beside Dagmar, and the two men looked at me as if I were crazy. I took a deep breath, but before I could speak, Dagmar grabbed my hand and led me around the back of the coach. “I’ll talk some sense into her,” she threw over her shoulder at the men. “Now, what is it?” she continued in a low voice.
"There's a spirit in that house. An evil spirit. She hates me, and if I go in there again, she'll attack me like she did two months ago, and I may not recover this time." Even as I said the words, I cringed.
"Oh, Safire, not this. Not this again." Dagmar covered her forehead with her hand. "You know it's just your imagination--you have to know that. Please." She lowered her hand, her
eyes mutely pleading. I knew she was afraid, afraid of what Mordric and Selwyn would think. A charge of trafficking with spirits was no light matter, an almost certain prelude to the more serious charge of witchcraft. I swallowed. We had only just come under this House's protection, and Mordric was none too fond of me or my connection to his son. If he wanted to get rid of me, this would be the perfect excuse. But I couldn't go back in that house. I just couldn't. I remembered that cold laughter, those invisible, icy hands at my neck, and shuddered.
"I can sleep in the hay loft, a tenant's cottage, the stables, anywhere--I won't run off again, I promise." I grabbed the edge of the coach wheel.
"What are you talking about? Beggar girls sleep in hay lofts. Safire, you're a noblewoman--it's time you started acting like it." Dagmar tugged on my arm. "Now, no more of this nonsense. Mother never acted like this, for all her talents. You'll feel better once you've eaten, visited Father, slept in your own bed. Come on--this is ridiculous."
“What are you saying? What’s ridiculous?” Selwyn demanded, coming up behind Dagmar.
"The whole thing is ridiculous," Mordric said, joining Selwyn. "Your sister is more patient than I am, Safire. You'd best mind her." He pried my fingers from the coach wheel, and Dagmar and Selwyn pulled me away.
"No!" I dug my heels in, struggling. "Let me go! If I go in that house, she'll kill me."
Dagmar paused. "She?"
"Yes . . ."
We were near the front steps, and already I could smell the cloying scent of the roses. It filled the air, my lungs, and I broke into a fit of coughing. I wasn’t expecting the ghost here, so soon--I thought she’d at least wait until I was in the House, but evidently she’d been impatient for my return. She stood in the open doorway, her arms out, a shadow against the light. I froze, my muscles rigid with fear, and Selwyn muttered something about childish tantrums. I barely heard him. The ghost spread her arms further and giggled, the golden snakes of her hair growing down the steps. The hair moved fast as flowing water, hissing like silk over stone. There came that horrible girlish giggle again.
"Mind yourself lest you trip, little witch," she said, her voice high and thin as the winter wind whistling down the distant hills.
Her hair curled around my ankles. It felt like I'd suddenly stepped in a frigid stream, and I screamed, trying to kick the stuff off me before it grew up my legs.
"Safire, really . . ."
The hair filled the courtyard now. It surrounded us. I couldn't feel my feet, and I screamed again, kicking blindly. Her giggling swelled into an icy crescendo of laughter that pierced my ears.
"Catch," she said, throwing out her hands. Hundreds of rose petals, all colors, fell through the air. They fluttered past me, slicing into the bare skin of my arms and hands with razor edges. The petals landed with a faint tinkle, ice striking rock. Blood welled up from the cuts, and only then did I feel the sharp, burning pain of them. Nothing hurt quite like a hundred small cuts all at once. "No," I sobbed. "No, please . . ."
"Safire." Dagmar's voice was far away. "Safire . . . she's bleeding!"
"How the hell did that happen?" Selwyn demanded.
"The rose petals," I gasped.
"What?"
"The rose petals." I gulped, unable to speak above a whisper. "The roses . . . can't you smell them? It's so cold . . . she's going to kill me."
Chapter Twenty--Mordric
Safire slipped from Dagmar's and Selwyn's grasp and writhed on the ground. The lantern made the blood glisten red as it ran in rivulets down her arms.
"Damned witch--what did you do to yourself now?" I said.
She rolled over on to her hands and knees and began to crawl towards the edge of the courtyard, coughing and choking as if she were inhaling smoke rather than clean night air. Since Dagmar and Selwyn seemed rooted in place, I stepped forward and grabbed her upper arm. There was so much blood flowing from the cuts on her skin that my palm grew slick, and I had a difficult time keeping hold of her.
"No," she gasped. "No, let me go. Please--she's killing me."
"There's no she here, except you and your sister," I snapped. "We should have taken you to the insane asylum. Now, be still." I lifted her and started towards the house.
"No!" she screamed, flailing her arms and kicking. Blood spattered my shirt and cloak.
"Damn you, be still!" I had to stop in order to keep from dropping her.
"You can't take me in there." Her breath came in hoarse rasps. “Please . . ."
Dagmar finally took a tentative step towards us. "Dagmar," I said curtly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Go and prepare some bandages and hot water."
"No--you can't go in there!" Safire began struggling again. "She's says she'll hurt you too. No, Dagmar--stop!"
I had to give Dagmar credit. She never hesitated after my order, even when Safire screamed at her to stop. She went straight up the steps and through the doorway. Safire stared after her, her struggles subsiding as Dagmar walked out of sight, apparently fine. "You didn't," she muttered. "Thank God you didn't. You lying cold-blooded battleaxe, you can't hurt her. Just me."
"You're talking to the air, Safire."
She laughed, the high-pitched cackle of someone going mad. "Ah, yes, the air. It's just the air, you insane witch. Odd how the air cuts like a hundred razors." She bared her arms. "Odd how the air reaches icy hands around my throat and chokes me." Already rising on the skin of her neck, I could see the bruise marks of fingers, as if someone had throttled her. Peregrine, maybe? I paused, glanced over her more closely. But Peregrine hadn't cut her. That had just happened, here in the courtyard. But how? I met her gaze again.
"Have you ever smelled anything so sweet it made you gag?" she whispered. "I'll never be able to smell roses again without retching." She hid her face against my shoulder.
Roses--so many roses, it made one sick. Even as the witch said it, I smelled the roses. And swore. I dropped her to the cobbles. Then I was on my knees beside her, shaking her shoulders. "Stop it! Stop it, you damned sorceress! I'll have you burned . . ." I choked, the thick perfume searing my lungs.
Her eyes widened. "You smell it too?"
"Stop it!"
"I can't. It's not from me. It's from her."
"She's dead. She's dead, damn you. She's been dead ten years . . ." Even as I said it, Arilea's brittle laughter echoed through the night.
"Sir? Sir?" Selwyn was touching my shoulder. "Sir, you might want to stop . . ."
I turned on him, the bitch's dulcet tones still ringing in my ears. "Stop what, you interfering dolt?"
He backed away. "Well, sir, she's fainted again."
I glanced down at Safire, who was indeed unconscious. And I was still shaking her. I stopped. She lay limp and disheveled, her face white. I straightened the edges of her cloak before I grasped her in my arms and slowly got to my feet.
Bring her to me, love. The mocking words were the barest whisper in my mind, but I turned my head sharply towards the open doorway which Safire had been staring at so intently a few moments ago. Nothing but the golden spill of candlelight from the front hall chandelier shimmering over the wet stone steps. I shook myself. It was my imagination. The ale from the inn had gone to my head. The witch was insane, babbling nonsense.
I stepped towards the doorway. And immediately stopped. The roses. The damned roses again, smothering the suddenly frigid air with thick, heady scent. I held my breath as long as I could, but there was no escape. The smell made me dizzy. "Damn it," I said with difficulty. Then I gagged.
"Sir?" Selwyn sounded distant.
Bring the witch here, my love. Arilea's voice was caressing. Just up the steps. It will be close enough.
Before I could stop myself, I said, "Close enough for what?" Now I was talking to the air.
Her giggle reminded me of a naughty child. You'll see.
“Get her yourself.”
I can’t leave this threshold. I’m bound to the House for eternity.
Safire
moaned, stirred in my arms. I glanced from her to the doorway. Now that I was closer, I thought I saw the vague shadow of a woman on the steps, but it was only a trick of the light. It had to be. I squinted, tried to make it out, and her laughter rang through the courtyard again.
"You bitch," I muttered.
"What was that, sir?" Selwyn asked.
I ignored him. "What game are you playing now, Arilea?"
"No games." Her voice was such a silky hiss that it barely registered that I was now hearing her in my ears and not just in my mind.
"Then what do you want with her?" I held out Safire.
"The same thing you do. Believe me, when I'm through with her, she'll never sink her claws in Merius again." Icy venom dripped from her voice, a venom that had heated my blood many a time. A chill ran down my spine, and I closed my eyes. Ten years since I had touched her, buried her in the ground, and she still haunted my nights.
"What's the matter, love?" Her voice lowered, became softer.
"You know what the matter is."
"No, enlighten me. Come hither." She gave a merry peal of laughter. "Do you remember that night, the night I came hither?"
"No," I shot back. "You've mistaken me for my brother."
"You're showing your weak spot, Mordric--it's rather affecting, how jealous you still are of a dead man. I was terrified of you that night, you know, the night you told me to come hither."
"I don't know why. It's not like you were a virgin. Far from it, in fact."
"Oh, you do remember," she mocked before she laughed again. "But you're wrong--I was a virgin. I saved myself all for you, and look how scandalously you lie about it, even to yourself. It's not very nice, this tendency you have to cast me as a whore in all your memories."
"Perhaps because you were a whore."
"So bitter," she purred. "No, but I was terrified of you. So serious and quiet and intense, nothing like your dashing older brother. You were just back from battle, and you carried your sword everywhere, even when you came to see me. You barely spoke four words to me during our courtship. Yet somehow I knew."
