by Karen Nilsen
I raised my head, saw the stairs rising into the dusty shadows above. The second story landing was only the vague outline of the railing, a black square in the wall behind it indicating the passageway to the east wing and the private family chambers.
I began to climb up the stairs, all the while watching the doorway to the east wing. There was a faint wavering glow in the doorway, as if someone far down the hall had lit a candle. The glow grew steadily stronger, and I realized it wasn't candlelight. Candlelight was yellow. This light was bluish-white, the color of snow under moonlight.
I backed down the steps. The weird glow lit the entire second landing now, the polished railings glimmering coldly. My breath hung like smoke in the chilly air, and I found my teeth chattering, my arms clenched tightly together over my middle.
Suddenly, she was there, a white face peering at me over the railing, her long beautiful fingers pale as a corpse's against the dark wood. All that was distinct about her was her head and her hands and her snake hair--all the rest was a nebulous, vaguely human figure. She doesn't want to use her strength to materialize completely. Evidently she needed her strength to deal with me. For the first time, I realized that if she could hurt me, I could likely hurt her as well, not just fight her off but damage her, much as a priest damaged a spirit by exorcism. But how? I wasn't a priest, and I didn't even know one I could trust enough to help me.
Fool witch came her hiss in my mind. I'll kill you this time. She started over the railing, her translucent fingers outstretched, claws ready to rip my skin.
"Why?"
She paused, hovering in the stairwell. Then she laughed, a low, contemptuous cackle. She circled the railing before she suddenly swooped up and then dove down straight for me, quick as a hawk in sight of prey. Instinctively, I threw my hands out.
She grabbed my hair. She's nothing but air--she can't hurt me. That was what my rational mind said, but my irrational body hurt. A fire spread over my scalp, and tears sprang to my eyes. Her icy nails were at my throat. A drop of hot blood trickled down my neck, my blood. She was real, and she could kill me.
Blindly, I flung my fist upward with all the force I could muster. My punch caught her in the upper arm. She hissed and let go of my throat and hair. I fell back, clutching my sore knuckles. Hitting her had been like slamming my hand into a block of ice. But it had worked. Somehow, it had worked.
She retreated to the second floor railing. I stared up at her--her eyes were a transparent silvery white with bottomless black wells where the pupils and irises should have been, her face contorted in a snarl of feral rage. Death has driven her mad. I crouched down, preparing for her next attack. Of their own accord, my fingers balled up into a fist. She seemingly had no body to hit, but it was the only thing that had worked so far. But how?
Images flooded my mind in answer. We were struggling together in a lake, and I was kicking her, punching her away so I could reach the surface and relieve my aching lungs. The night I woke up . . . I had fought her off in my dreams the night I had woken up from my two month fit. Hurt her, in fact, as she had not tried to attack me again until the next day, the day I had fled the house for Calcors. My veins tingled with the sudden awareness of power, and I leapt to my feet. I could hurt her as she had hurt me. I was more than clairvoyant--not only could I see and hear and smell the other side, I could touch it as well.
She plunged towards me again. I was ready this time. I jumped up to the third step and grabbed her neck as she did a quick turn to catch me. With an ear-piercing yell, she clawed at my hands. I clenched them tighter around her throat, gritting my teeth. My bleeding fingers were already frozen numb from holding her, and I couldn't feel her claws cutting me. I had wondered if holding her would be like trying to hold smoke--impossible--but it was far different. Her skin put me in mind of the alchemist's quicksilver, cold and unsteady but solid underneath. She was still trying to scratch me, but her struggles grew weaker as I choked her. Suddenly, with a shrill gasp, she melted away, and my hands were left clutching air. I glanced around, startled. Dagmar hurried up and grabbed my elbow.
"Come on, you're bleeding," she said, tugging me away from the foot of the stairs.
"No, not yet." I held tight to the banister, searched the shortened shadows. The sky outside lightened with every moment, cutting around the shapes of the furniture and railings more sharply even as I looked.
"Safire, the servants-"
"Shh." I held up my free hand, staring intently at the top of the stairs. Arilea was gradually coming into shadowy form there, slumped against the rail. Her eyes shined like ice, the only clearly defined part of her. The chill of her gaze reached the bottom of the stairs, a terribly human evil distilled into spirit form. Even Dagmar felt it, shivering beside me. There was a tooth left in this serpent yet.
I'll get you in your sleep she whispered in my mind.
"I don't sleep here." The feeling was finally returning to my fingers, and with it, came pain. I winced and put my hands in my pinafore pockets. Small drops of blood began to soak through the thin white fabric. She had hurt me worse than I realized.
You shouldn't have come here, witch.
"I have to see my father."
"Safire, who are you talking to?" Dagmar demanded. "Your hands . . ."
"Her--I'm talking to her."
Arilea laughed, a brittle sound. Your father's dead, fool. Now leave.
I swallowed. "Not yet. He's not dead yet, and I'll see him, despite you."
Why should I let you see him? Merius didn't get to see me before I died.
"Is that why you rest so uneasily?"
Her laughter swelled to a glass-shattering crescendo, and I clapped my palms over my ears. Rest? You call this rest? Do you really want to be with your father, stupid girl? Stay here, and I can make it so.
"You can't kill me, or you would have managed it already."
Try me again, and see. I've been kind so far. Now get out.
"If you can kill me, then I can kill you."
Her eyes gleamed, two narrow knife glints in the dark. No one can kill me, not a priest, not you. I'm already dead.
"Not kill you, exorcise you." She hissed at the word exorcise, hid her face. "You don't want that, do you?" I continued, moving up a step. "Exorcism means death for you. No?”
Don't come any closer.
"If you hurt me again, I'll get a priest."
No frocked fool can pray me away. Her voice rose shrilly, a painful wail splitting the inside of my skull.
I took another step up, holding the railing. "I don't want to force you over, Arilea, if you're not ready."
The wail became a scream, and I recoiled, my head exploding. I'll be ready when that son of a bitch Mordric is. I'll see him dead before I leave . . . the scream faded to a distant shriek, and she suddenly vanished.
I collapsed on the stairs, the tautness leaving my body so abruptly that my muscles went limp. Dagmar clambered up and fell on her knees beside me.
"Are you all right?" She reached for my hands. "We need bandages . . ."
"I'm fine," I managed--even finding the breath to speak was difficult. Slowly I sat up, gasping for air.
Blood crusted on my hands and arms, my skin stiff and throbbing. "I'll be all scars if this keeps up."
"You shouldn't have done it."
"What do you mean? How else am I going to see Father?"
"I know, but . . ." she hesitated. "You know, when I touched you before, I think . . . I could have sworn that . . ."
"You heard her?"
Dagmar nodded. "I don't know how--it was the strangest thing. I heard her laughing, and the cold . . . when I let go of you, it went away."
"It's like that night in the courtyard when Mordric picked me up. He could sense her then too."
"It scared me."
"It should."
She swallowed, met my gaze. Her pupils were so huge her eyes seemed black. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you before."
"That's all right."
/> Somewhere, we heard the muffled thump of a door being slammed. "We better get moving before the servants see us here," Dagmar said. "Come on--we'll get you cleaned up in my chamber. Selwyn's usually up and dressed by now, so he won't mind. Then we'll go to Father."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Father died that night. Dagmar and I were the only ones in the chamber. She was reading aloud from a book of prayers, and I had wandered over to the window, where I traced the diamond-shaped panes with one finger while I stared at nothing. The rasp of Father's breathing was a constant, like someone steadily sawing away at a pine log.
"'And you shall not despair, for when the door opens, you will step into an eternal field of golden grass where only the trees weep leaves in the fall,'" Dagmar read.
I turned from the window. "That was pretty. Could you read it again?"
She repeated the verse. "Do you remember when Father planted daffodils all around the house?" I asked.
She nodded. "Mother's favorite flowers."
"That bit about the golden grass made me think about it. It was so cheerful every spring, the daffodils in bloom. The wind ran over them, and they wagged their yellow heads at each other like sly ladies laughing over some wonderful secret. Mother used to say that about them. I'm sad we missed them this year."
"I know." Dagmar closed the book and set it aside, looking at Father. "He loved her, far more than most men love their wives," she said softly.
"And that was how he told her, by planting the daffodils. He was shy when it came to her. Sweet."
"He's always preferred actions to words."
I closed my eyes. "She's here, waiting for him . . ."
Father groaned. My eyes flew open, and I hurried towards the bed as Dagmar reached the other side. We slipped our arms around his shoulders, grasped his cold hands. His back grew tense for a moment as he fought for air. "Shh, papa," I whispered as I kissed his forehead. "Shh." The candle flickered. Father's breath whistled in his throat, and his back relaxed as he flickered with the candle. Then the flame flared high, as if fed by a sudden draft, and he was gone.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We buried him beside Mother in the plot near our house. It was the first time in a month I had been off the Landers estate, and it seemed strange to be going home again, if only for an afternoon. I kept expecting to see Father, writing in his ledger, visiting the hounds, teasing the cook for a sweet biscuit. I pinched myself, but the illusion persisted. How could my loud and boisterous father be silent and still in a box in the ground?
After the funeral, the others left Dagmar and me to wander awhile. Everything was oddly quiet. The few servants had been let go long ago or had gone to work for the Landers, and the house had been shuttered up, the furniture draped with canvas against the dust. Only Boltan and his wife remained to watch the grounds, care for the remaining horses, and receive any letters.
Against Dagmar's wishes, I took Strawberry out of the stable and rode her around the fields for a few minutes. I couldn’t bear being in the house anymore where we kept stumbling over Father’s absence. Strawberry galloped over the uneven ground, jumped fences and streams, as anxious to run through the sweet-smelling grass as I was. The sky was a huge bowl overhead, the edges a deep cerulean fading to a hot blue-white at the apex. Not a cloud in sight--it put me in mind of that day in March when Merius and I had trysted on the parapet. Only a scant four months before, yet it seemed years. A perfect dream, half-remembered. I twisted his ring on my finger, squeezing the raised peridot and pearl design into my palm until it felt fiery as a brand. Father would have approved of Merius’s and my match eventually, after all his bluster had been spent and he saw that Merius really meant to marry me. He had wanted me and Dagmar happy, his little girls. Now he would never even see his first grandchild, neither he nor Mother. The abrupt thought punched me, and my world wobbled on its axis. The ground shook before us, the grass moving up and down like waves on the sea, and I wondered, suddenly dizzy and sick, how Strawberry kept her footing in a world that had lost its center. No Mother, no Father--Dagmar and I were orphans. Orphans. I was too young for this. How arrogant I had been a few months ago. I knew nothing about life, not really. I would have to muddle my way through, clutching always for a warm, familiar hand that didn’t exist anymore. I gagged over the unshed tears in my throat and urged Strawberry forward. Maybe if she galloped fast enough and far enough, we would find the center again. Somehow, though, the more we searched, the more we ended up heading back in the direction of the house, the last place I wanted to be.
Finally, I surrendered, and Strawberry and I returned to the stable. As I dismounted and led Strawberry around the paddock, Dagmar emerged from the house. "Finally back, I see," she said, shielding her eyes.
"You should have taken Charger and come with us."
She came into the paddock, leaned against the side of the stable. "You know the only one who can ride Charger is Father . . . was Father.”
I reached out and squeezed her shoulder, and she bit her lip and lowered her head briefly. Then the moment passed, and she was practical Dagmar again. "We should be returning soon. It will be time to dress for dinner in a few hours."
I looked around. "I don't want to leave,” I said, surprising myself with the truth. I didn’t want to leave. This was the last place I wanted to be, yet I didn’t want to leave. What was wrong with me?
She sighed. "I suppose they'll let the house to some tenant. I hope whoever it is leaves Mother's daffodils alone."
"Who's going to let it?"
"Mordric and Selwyn. They would hardly let it sit empty."
"Don't we have any say . . . oh, I should know better than to even ask that." My hand tightened on Strawberry's bridle. "Well, they're not getting my books. Or Strawberry. And they're not getting your embroidered bed curtains that you worked on so hard. What about Father's weapons, his seal ring, Mother's silver? Those are ours, not even part of the dowries. Whose dowry did the house go with anyway?"
"Yours. Mine had the best land, so you got the house."
"They got the house, you mean. Of course, when the annulment . . ."
"Safire, don't talk about that now."
I plowed on, ignoring her discomfort. "Mordric promised me one, and I should get my dowry back with it."
"You think he'll keep his promise?"
My eyes narrowed. "He better, or I'll send his dead wife after him."
Dagmar smiled in spite of herself. "Put away Strawberry. We have to go soon. Now, what happened to Boltan?"
"There he is, coming around the side of the house. Who's that with him?" A cloaked man on a horse accompanied Boltan.
"Looks like a messenger." While we watched, the man handed Boltan a piece of parchment and then spurred his horse forward, down the drive to the main road. Boltan saw us and waved as he walked across the lawn.
"This is for you, sweet," he said, holding out the parchment. It was a letter with a red seal. "From Marenna," he added with a wink.
I snatched it from him, dropping Strawberry's bridle. The seal was unmarked. My hand shook as I turned it over and saw Merius's strong script flowing across the front. "Oh God," I muttered inanely. "Oh, thank God." It had been so long, and although Mordric had told me Merius had been ransomed and would be fine, his words had done little to relieve the constant dull ache of worry I felt. It had just been so long since the last letter.
With unsteady fingers, I tore the seal and unfolded the parchment.
Dearest Safire,
I can barely write this, sweetheart, my hand trembles so. Thinking about you has been half comfort and half torment in this hellish place, and every day, I've begged God to let me live so I could see you again.
I've relived all our moments together a thousand times in my mind and read your letters to tatters, and it's never enough. The desire of my heart, my love, my want--all is twisted into an endless wick that will never burn out, the wick you lit the night you grabbed my hand and dragged me into the dance. You forward witch. I l
ove you, I need you, I want you so badly right now it hurts. I need to watch you sketch, smell your hair, feel your hands, dance with you, see the artlessly graceful way you slip into (and out of) your clothes, bring you pears, hear your chortle of a laugh, talk with you for hours, and then . . .
My duties here will soon be discharged, and then I'm free to leave. I'm not certain when the first ship out of here is, but I'm on it. I hope to find you well and waiting as anxiously to see me as I am to see you, my love. After the ship docks, I'm obliged to go directly to court. Send a message to my chamber there if you cannot come yourself. If you're still willing, we can marry in Corcin or anywhere you wish.
All my love,
Merius
I sagged against Strawberry, all my muscles weak. I closed my eyes. It was too much. First Father, and now this . . . my grief for Father and my intense joy at Merius’s news mingled inside, a dizzying whirlpool that left me light-headed. My hand closed on the letter as I gripped Strawberry’s bridle, the only two solid objects within reach. Merius, my love, dearheart, you're coming back to me. I clutched the letter to my chest.
"Safire?" Dagmar asked, touching my shoulder.
I threw my arms around her. "He's coming back, oh thank God, he's coming back," I sobbed, soaking her sleeve, his letter, with four months' worth of tears.
Chapter Twenty-Three--Mordric
I emerged from the council chamber, tailed by Sullay the fool. "You know, Mordric, it's not to the nobles' advantage to increase the SerVerinese tariffs. We merchants can barely make ends meet now, and if we can't afford to ship the wheat from your estates, we . . ."
I glanced back at him and lost all semblance of politic pretense. "You mean you can't make the ends of your belt meet. You merchants grow fat off our grain and then whine you're not getting enough."
He puffed up like a ruffled rooster. "Excuse me, but I . . ."
"Fine, you're excused." I waved him away as Peregrine stepped out of the alcove beside the council chamber entrance. Peregrine gave me the barest nod of acknowledgment, ignoring Sullay. Sullay and Peregrine were two of the wealthiest merchants on the council and therefore allies in the same way that Cyril and I were allies: always amiable to each other in public, even if it killed them. For Peregrine to ignore Sullay on his first day back from the SerVerin Empire was a momentous insult indeed.
