The Witch Awakening (Book One of the Landers Saga)

by Karen Nilsen

  I glanced back at her. "The other servants already think I'm a cold-hearted hussy for not visiting my dying father when he's only a few hundred yards away. There are just some things you can't explain away with a pretty story, Dagmar. Let them think what they want."

  "I wish we could move him out of the hall so you could see him, but the apothecary said that moving might kill him."

  "I know." I dropped my skirt, clenched my right hand into a fist, and clapped it into my left palm. "If only I could find a way around that hell spirit . . ."

  "Safire!"

  "Let's talk about something else." The bank was blocked ahead by a willow thicket so I turned away from the river into a stand of poplar trees.

  "What should we talk about?"

  "Your wedding."

  Dagmar flushed. "What about it? You know everything already--you were there."

  "Was that the first time you and Selwyn kissed?"

  "That's none of your affair." Her flush had turned to a blush all the way to the roots of her hair.

  I grinned. "You mean to tell me that you've been living in the same house for the past three months, and you never even kissed him until your wedding day?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "So you did kiss before--how scandalous." I held my skirt and petticoats high and skipped around a tree. "Oh, she's a likely wench," I sang. "Who kissed me on the tavern bench . . ." Birds scattered from the trees.

  "Hush!"

  I fell in a heap on some violet-spotted moss, my hands behind my head as I caught glimpses of the far off sky between the poplar leaves. "I'm sorry, Dagmar," I said. "I shouldn't tease so."

  She sat down beside me, clasping her hands around her knees. "You know you're right. We should have brought a picnic. It's pretty here."

  "Better than that damned sickroom."

  "That's all right."

  "No, it's not. You've just married--you should be with your husband now."

  "Selwyn and I would have waited, but we'd already waited so long, and the apothecary says that Father could be like this for months."

  "Maybe even longer." I shuddered as a cloud passed over the sun.

  "Do your-" she hesitated, "your talents tell you anything?"

  I looked over at her. "About Father? Not really. It's all dark. I think soon, though."

  "So do I."

  I touched her arm, and she met my gaze. "I'll find a way into that room before he passes."

  "But what about the spirit?" she stammered.

  "I overcame her once, that time I woke up and was myself after those horrid two months. I can overcome her again, I think. I just have to remember how I did it before." I sat up, patted down my hair, and bracing myself on a worn stump, got to my feet. I shook out my wet skirt as best I could.

  We headed back to the river. As we started along the bank, I noticed flashes of pink amid the undergrowth ahead. I sped forward. "Look!" I exclaimed. "I knew we'd find something." Tangles of wild roses grew over the bank. I knelt down. The heady scent surrounded me as I used the loose folds of my skirt to grip the thorny stems. Bile rose in my throat, and I gagged. It was that night in the courtyard, and invisible icy fingers were at my neck . . . no, she wasn't here. It was only roses, innocent flowers, not her. Quickly, I forced myself to think of another memory of roses, a pleasant memory. When Dagmar and I had first gone to court, there had been that man in motley who had brought me a rose out of season, the man who had told me to put it in my hair. Two such beautiful things should go together, he had said. I closed my eyes and pressed my face to a rose blossom, inhaling it and thinking of that man. All I smelled was the rich wine of summer captured in a flower, the lure of realized romance in full bloom. Not her. Never her again. The urge to gag had passed. I sank back on my heels, smiling. It was a small victory but a victory nonetheless.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Contrary to my expectations, it did not rain the next day. The liquid gold of June sunlight poured through the mullioned windows of the front chamber of the gatekeeper's cottage. By unspoken agreement, this had become my chamber, at least in the mornings. It had the best light, and after I had finished helping the silent gatekeeper's wife with the breakfast dishes (it had taken me two weeks to discover her name was Maud), I cleared off the table and spread out my drawing things. Maud sometimes came in and knitted or embroidered; otherwise the chamber was completely mine until lunch.

  This morning I was alone except for my orchid, which nodded in the breeze from the open window. Dagmar, repentant after tattling to Father, had saved the orchid Merius had given me at court and nursed it on her window sill for the two months I was not myself. After I had settled into the gatekeeper's cottage, she had brought the plant to me, and now I kept it with me constantly like a pampered child.

  I spread out a large sheet of parchment on the table, weighing down the curling edges with brass candleholders. Then I untied the leather straps wrapped around my pouch and pulled out bits of black and gray charcoal. My hand moved in broad strokes, quickly filling in the background. I smudged here and drew stronger lines there and backed up to examine the effect. Then I moved forward and attacked the parchment again, scribbling furiously until I had a huge storm brewing on the paper. I found my white chalk and added several lightning bolts flashing in the hills as I hummed to myself. There were faces emerging from the clouds. With pen knife in hand, I sharpened my best black pencil until the point was fine enough, and then I outlined these faces as faintly as I could. Ghosts in the clouds . . .

  There was a knock at the front door, and I heard Maud's light footfalls hurrying to answer it. Voices murmured in the hall, and suddenly the chamber door flew open. "Someone to see you, my lady," Maud said.

  I put down my pencil and wiped my blackened hands on my smock. Mordric stepped into the chamber.

  "Do you want any refreshment, sir?" Maud asked.

  He shook his head, and she bobbed out of the room, shutting the door behind her. It took her several tries rattling the door latch before she got it closed properly. It had never given her any trouble before, but the presence of Mordric tended to make even the most calm natures nervous.

  I clasped my hands before me and remained standing, waiting for him to begin. It was the first time I had seen him since the night in the courtyard, almost four weeks ago. He looked strangely haggard and careworn, as if twenty years of hard living had caught up with him in one night. Dagmar had said he'd been doing a lot of riding between here and court since the news of Merius. His aura was no longer a uniform opaque gray and dark red, but glimmered here and there in spots. It reminded me of a tarnished, blood-spotted sword that some lazy steward had stopped polishing halfway through the job.

  He remained standing as well, and there was a moment or two of silence before he finally spoke. "Those cuts should have healed by now."

  I had forgotten my sleeves were rolled up to keep them out of the charcoal. Hastily, I pulled them back down, covering my arms again. "The scars look worse than they really are."

  He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace in front of the window. "Merius was taken hostage."

  "I heard."

  "I've paid his ransom. He'll likely return in a few weeks."

  "I see."

  Mordric stopped and turned towards me. "And what do you see, witch?"

  I swallowed. "What do you mean, sir?"

  "I mean, what's to be done with you?"

  "You have more say in that than I do at the moment, so you tell me."

  He commenced pacing again, obviously agitated. The resemblance between him and Merius was becoming more pronounced--perhaps the incident in the courtyard had stripped away the callous mask he had cultivated for so many years. "I won't tell you all the plans I had to dispose of you," he said. "God help me, I even thought of assassination . . ."

  "Am I that troublesome?" I asked lightly, though I quaked inside.

  He looked at me, smiled faintly. "Yes."

  "Why didn't you then?"

&
nbsp; "Because I've never had anyone assassinated."

  I thought for a moment. "That doesn't surprise me," I said finally.

  "It doesn't?"

  "No. You're not that kind of man, although you seem to think you are."

  "You're full of bold presumption, miss. I could still have you disposed of, arrested . . ."

  "But you won't."

  His gaze narrowed. "How can you be so certain?"

  "Because you would have let Peregrine take me that night, if you had so little honor."

  He shook his head. "It wasn't honor. Honor is a mockery for the young to play at. I only rescued you from Peregrine because I didn't want Merius trying to rescue you later and getting himself killed."

  I raised my brows. "Who is mocking who now?"

  "I won't take cheek from a dingy wisp of a girl. Have you been playing in the cinders?"

  I spread out my sooty hands. "It's from my charcoals."

  He shook his head, put a hand over his eyes as if my dirty state pained him. "Indeed, you make a charming hearth sweep, my dear. Have you no aristocratic pretensions?"

  "None."

  "If Merius is to have any sort of career, whether at court or in the king's guard, he needs a wife who can entertain extravagantly, navigate the snake pit of court society with ease, and lie through her pretty teeth. You, although possessing unusual talents, don't appear to have any of these skills, particularly the last."

  "I know I'm not what you planned for him, but perhaps he wants a real wife instead of some pretentious prattler or glorified housekeeper."

  "It's not a question of what he wants. It's a question of what he needs."

  I crossed my arms. "The duties you've set out for him?"

  Mordric stepped closer, at least a good foot taller than me. A month ago, I would have moved away, but now I stayed my ground and glared up at him.

  "Safire," he said softly. "I can't let him marry you."

  "Oh, you can't?" I laughed. "No offense, sir, but Merius is full grown, and he's given up his seal ring. I don't think he needs your permission."

  He shook his head. "You're a stubborn girl."

  "So assassinate me."

  "You know, noble marriages are for political alliances, legal heirs, and coin. Not for pleasure. Affairs are for that."

  I raised my chin. "I'll not be a mistress when I can be a wife. How dare you . . ."

  "You can't be his wife now. You're married to another."

  "That's your doing, Mordric. And you'd best be begging the king to annul it. Soon, at that," I said sweetly, rage coiled inside like a viper. "Do you want bastards for grandchildren?"

  He started, his aura shrinking into an intense band of gray so dark it appeared black. I had surprised him, evidently, for he looked at me more closely than before, measured me with his eyes. "Come now, my dear, surely you don't think Merius would dishonor you so. Honorable men know ways to avoid disgracing their mistresses."

  "Even the most honorable man can be bewitched." I smiled. "And passion flows more freely than prudence through his veins, despite all your training."

  "Wicked creature," he muttered. "All right, I'll get you your annulment." He leaned against the edge of the table, moving aside my sketch before he crossed his arms.

  "Good. Perhaps he won't kill you now."

  "Like all young girls, you exaggerate," he said smoothly, though his hands clenched around his upper arms so tightly the knuckles stood out.

  "Merius is young too and prone to exaggeration in deed as well as word. You'd best not be around when he returns--you've given him little reason to love you."

  Mordric kicked the floor with one toe, watching his feet. "Merius is stubborn, reckless," he said, quiet threat in his voice. "In order to rear him properly, I needed his respect, not his love. Don't remark on things of which you know little. It makes you sound a fool."

  I squared my shoulders. I was baiting the bear in his den. "He speaks fondly of Ebner the horse master, of the cook, of his tutors, of Herrod, all of whom he respects highly. Yet he never has a fond word for you. How is it that you, his own father, gained only his respect?"

  Mordric raised his head, his gaze sharp. "How is it that you've kept your tongue for so long?"

  "He thinks you hate him."

  He shrugged. "I suppose."

  "Doesn't that concern you?"

  "Why should it? I can't help what he thinks."

  "But when he returns, sees what you've done . . ."

  "And what have I done?"

  I thrust my hands, heavy with rings, under his nose. "Married his sweetheart to his kinsman, for one."

  He pushed my hands away. "I thought you were a fortune-hunter. I was protecting him."

  "I doubt he'll see it that way."

  He blinked, sighed, and looked away, out the window. "No. You're right, witch. He won't see it that way.”

  "What will you do?"

  His body slackened, his shoulders dropped. "I don't know." He cleared his throat, offered a bitter smile. "Perhaps I‘ll ask Arilea."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I stood in the courtyard, staring at the hall in the dawn stillness. The gray half light softened the hard edges of the stones, made the jagged roof line indistinct, so that the house seemed to slump in on itself as if it were tired of being inhabited after many long years. It was a somber place, even asleep.

  The sun crested the seaward hills then, and the eastern wall blushed a fiery pink, all the windows twinkling. I could live here if it stayed dawn all the time--the house looks almost cheerful for a change. I crossed my arms and shivered. What had it been like to grow up here? Merius had said little about it except for merry stories about boyhood exploits with his friends and his mother reading him poetry and how Ebner had taught him all he knew about horses, but I knew now there was more to it than that. There was his father and that cold thing, his . . . his mother. I could barely bring myself to think the words, the gap between Merius's loving memories of his mother and that foul spirit was just too great to make the connection. What kind of woman had she been, to haunt this miserable place with such vicious resolve after she was dead and supposed to be free of earthly concerns? Mordric was not an easy man, but had she really hated him so much that she had let it consume her? Or had she loved him too much to leave? Or had it been a bit of both? I suspected the last, that she would stay here to torment him until she saw him dead. And she loved Merius, I was certain of it, though somehow that love had become twisted until she hated all others who tried to love him, including his own father. And me.

  The vague glow of a candle flitted from window to window on the second story of the east wing, heading for the main staircase, and I knew then Dagmar had remembered her promise. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Without an actual spirit at the gatekeeper's cottage to fight, practice had been a hollow mockery at best, but I had tried several times over the past few days to prepare myself anyway. I had come to from one of these fits to find Maud staring at me, broom hanging loose in her limp hand. Her slack-jawed expression had almost made me giggle before I remembered myself . . . and I had better remember myself now. I straightened and resumed concentration on my breathing. No more distractions. Pride, fear, impatience: these were the traps of my enemy. I had to steel my mind against her.

  The front door creaked open, and Dagmar crept down the steps towards me, leaving her candle burning on the table just inside the entrance. She still wore her dressing gown but had pulled on a pair of leather everyday slippers which rasped across the cobbles.

  I stepped forward. "How is he?"

  She shook her head. "Still breathing, but neither Elsa nor I think he'll last the day. Oh, Safire . . ." She reached for me, and we embraced.

  "Shh, shh, it's all right," I murmured even as sudden tears heated my face. It seemed I cried all too easily these days. "Come on, now, we have to do this, before the servants wake." Even as I spoke, a rooster crowed from the direction of the stable.

  She nodded and pulle
d away a little, still keeping one arm around my shoulders as she wiped her nose with a handkerchief. We both gazed up at the house for a moment, taking comfort in each other's solid, warm presence in this world of shadows and cold spirits. Then I started toward the steps, silently counting my breaths and focusing intently on each number as it popped into my mind. Dagmar followed quietly. I had told her last night exactly what I planned and that it was very important she not interrupt me unless I fainted or showed some other sign of great distress. It touched me that instead of arguing or forgetting my instructions, she was being careful to obey them exactly. However, it also made me a trifle nervous; as the younger sister, I was not accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed.

  My count faltered, and I shook myself. I couldn't think about anything now . . . concentrate. "Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . ." A breath for every step, a breath for every step . . .

  I reached the threshold of the doorway, still counting. After a moment's hesitation, I stepped into the front hall, my insides churning. Any minute, she could descend on me. Fear, my mind yelled at me. Stop it! That was when I heard her laugh, and my mind's reasonable voice went mute, my brain turned to whimpering jelly.

  A cold wind whistled through the hallway. The candle on the side table winked out, and the hall instantly became a maze of muted gray and black shapes. The front door banged shut as Dagmar crossed the threshold. She shrieked and cringed in the corner, her hands clutched over her bowed head.

  I grabbed the banister at the bottom of the main staircase to steady myself. Still shaking violently, I closed my eyes and once again began to count my breaths. This time I spoke the numbers aloud--it helped drown out the laughter. I squeezed my eyelids tightly closed like a desperate child making a wish. With each breath, I pictured my lungs expanding, heard the numbers more clearly as I regained my inner equilibrium.

  Suddenly, I opened my eyes, my voice faltering. The air I inhaled had turned frigid, tiny bits of ice that sliced at my throat. I coughed, choked as I sagged against the banister. No, the air wasn't ice--it was just air. I couldn't let her play with my mind again and make me sense things the way they were in her warped reality, for when I did, they became real to me too. And when I believed something was real, it could hurt me.