“They’re upstairs,” I murmured. “In one of the servant’s chambers. Come on.”
We ducked through the press of people, Eden and I both glancing around in case someone watched us. No one seemed to mark our passage, though, at least that I could tell--the crowd was too thick for ready observation. A shiver ran down my back like ice water as I followed Eden through the door leading to the main hallway. Some guests had spilled out here, a few noting our presence with desultory curiosity before they turned back to their ongoing conversations.
We met a maid near the stairway. She carried a large, silver tray littered with tiny sandwiches, her cheeks flushed from the kitchens.
“Is there a privy chamber near?” I asked her before she had a chance to wonder at our presence so far from the party. “I’m feeling ill.”
“Upstairs, my lady, just past the landing. Do you need assistance?” she asked.
“I‘ll help her,” Eden said. “Thank you.”
Blue brocade drapes hung in all the windows lining the upstairs hall. Most of them were pulled closed, likely to keep out the heat of the afternoon sun. Eden and I crept along the hall, our slippers only a shuffling whisper of sound against the floorboards.
“Can Merius sense you the way you sense him?” Eden breathed as we paused near another hallway branching off the main one.
I shook my head. “Sometimes, but not when he has me blocked like this. He’ll never be a full-fledged warlock, but he could be more powerful than he is. His own fear limits his abilities more than anything else.”
“Merius, afraid?” she hissed, a hint of disbelief sharpening her tone. “I’ve never seen him fear anything.”
I lifted my hand, and she fell silent. Over the hum of the dust-moted silence, I heard a vague rumble of masculine voices echoing down the hall. I lifted my skirts and tiptoed forward, pressing my ear to every door.
At the next to last door, I heard Mordric say, his voice muffled to a low grumble like distant thunder. “I wish Cyril would hurry up and get here. Of course, there are some things it might be better to discuss without him.”
“Like what?” Merius asked. “Haven’t we already discussed the fine points of the betrothal between Esme and Segar to death, all the things Lord Rankin will present to King Rainier when he’s in Sarneth? And I still don’t understand why we had to come up here to discuss that--the council already knows most of it.”
There fell a long silence, so long that Eden and I glanced at each other. “Merius, before we speak openly, do you swear secrecy?” Mordric asked finally.
“Mordric, I really don’t think that’s necessary. Merius has more of a stake than any of us already,” Rankin said.
“I realize that, Artemious, but the formalities should be observed none the less.”
“What am I swearing secrecy for, Father?”
“A plot to protect Prince Segar’s position and our own and save Cormalen from the turncoats who would undermine her from within.”
“All right.” I heard the hiss of metal against metal as if someone pulled a dagger or sword from its scabbard. Then I winced, a sudden, sharp pain slashing my right palm. Biting my lip to keep from making any sound, I glanced down and saw a raised red line across my skin. Even as I looked, beads of blood welled up from the wound. Eden’s eyes widened as she looked down at my palm, her lips parted as she were about to say something. I put my finger to my lips and shook my head before I reached for my stiff handkerchief. I fisted my hand around it, cringing as the salt of the tears I dried on it this morning pressed into the wound. Then I heard Merius speak, and I understood--he had just cut his palm as part of a blood oath, and somehow, he had cut mine too. “I swear by the blood in my veins that I am of the Landers and Somners lineage and I will never betray that lineage, even if it means death at the hands of the ruling House or any foreign adversary,” he recited without taking a breath, the words by rote.
“You forgot the part about the deaths of your loved ones.”
“I didn‘t forget it. I just won’t swear to it. I won’t swear to something I can’t hold myself to, Father.”
“You’re wise to know your limits, Merius,” Rankin said. “I’ve never sworn to that part either.”
“Here, take this before you bleed all over everything,” Mordric spat. “I hope it’s acceptable to Cyril, that you didn’t swear to that part.”
“I bet you’ll be glad I didn’t swear to it, when your neck’s on the block and I’m the only one who can save you.”
“God, you’re an ass sometimes. And my neck’s too tough for the block.”
Merius chuckled. “So, what’s this plot?”
“You should like it--by the time we’re done, Peregrine and Sullay will not only be off the council but revealed and executed for the traitors they are.” I shuddered at the edge of Mordric’s quiet voice, slicing through the air and into my eardrums.
“Good,” Merius said, and I shuddered again. He suddenly sounded just like his father, my merry, scapegrace jester shedding his mask to reveal the dangerous warrior who lurked beneath. It would behoove me always to remember how he looked the day he killed Toscar--I could have sworn I was looking at a young Mordric that day. “What do you need me to do?” Merius asked then, pulling my attention back to ongoing conversation.
“Nothing but listen, just yet.”
“Father, what about the magistrate summons for Sullay, the summons he keeps dodging? I could deliver that.”
“That’s Ragnar’s task--he’s the head magistrate of Torana Province, not you,” Mordric snapped as if Merius had just suggested casting a fish net at the sky to catch the moon and stars.
“But Ragnar needs our support. King Arian still refuses to send men to assist him--that summons would have been delivered long ago if the king took this matter as seriously as Prince Segar does. Apparently all King Arian cares about is persecuting witches when it comes to administering his so-called justice." I could taste the bitterness in Merius's voice through the door.
"What are they saying in the council chamber about it?" Rankin asked. Rankin attended few but the most important council sessions.
"Ragnar was born a peasant, and Sullay’s managed to twist that against him, saying that Ragnar has a personal interest in stirring up unrest. In Sullay's defense last week, Peregrine even cited that ridiculous ancient law that Sullay's position demands a highborn hand deliver the summons. If I delivered it, the son of high-ranking noble House, that would send the message the nobility understands the peasants‘ plight, that we all have an interest in justice. It also would put the merchants in retreat, particularly those like Peregrine who support Sullay.”
Another long silence fell. “That’s all well and good, Merius, but some will resent it. The last thing I want is for you to be a target, either in the council chamber or at Sullay’s manor.”
“Sullay’s manor? Do you think his paltry gamekeepers and toady guards frighten me, after I faced down Toscar?”
“Merius, didn‘t you hear us earlier?” Rankin demanded, his usually mild tone sharp. “Sullay is holed up in a cellar on his estate, surrounded by men hidden in the woods with nothing better to do than shoot some outsider and then claim he was trespassing with intent to kill their master. This is a matter for the official magistrate of the province. They won’t dare shoot at Ragnar . . .”
“I don’t know about that,” Mordric broke in. “They’ve made some threats to that effect. I think the best plan is for me to go with Ragnar when he delivers the summons. That way, as Merius stated, we show our support for Ragnar and take full political advantage of the situation while still acknowledging the rite of precedence in such matters.”
“Why you, Father? I’m the one who has at least one trained assassin guarding him at all times. It seems less risky for me.”
“Damn it, do you remember what I told you, what the assassin said to me? If you or Safire risk yourselves, they’ll seize you both and take you by force back to Sarneth.”
“Do you remember what I told you?” Merius retorted. “I’m not going to let their threats--or yours--stop me from doing anything. We have enough to fear from that rabid bishop without worrying about everything else. Besides, I‘m ready to call the assassins’ bluff and face them down, especially after what they did to her, the bastards--I doubt they want King Rainier to find out how they botched it.”
“Merius . . .” Mordric’s voice had gone quiet, so quiet I wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he hadn’t had one of those voices that carried. “I forbid you to risk . . .”
There came the clomp of boots echoing up the stairs. Eden and I both stiffened, then dove for the drapes of the nearest window. We barely managed to conceal ourselves before the clomp started down the hall, Sir Cyril’s voice audibly counting the doors. Dust tickled my nostrils, and I clutched my nose in my hand to stifle a sneeze, hoping against hope that the heavy drapery had muffled it.
Suddenly the door latch clicked. “Get in here,” Mordric growled. “What are you doing, counting out loud like that? A herd of cattle couldn’t draw more attention to themselves.”
Sir Cyril said, “You jump at every little noise like some old woman--were you this panicky on the battlefield? If so, I can see why you gave up soldiering.”
“Spoken like a fool who’s never been to war . . .” The door clicked shut then. Slowly, Eden and I emerged from behind the drapes, glanced at each other, then pressed our ears to the door again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A week later, just after Merius left for the council, Elsa came into the studio. “Message for you, my lady,” she said, holding out a folded bit of fine, expensive parchment. I wiped my hands on my smock and took it from her. Someone had scrawled my name across the front in an unfamiliar, childish hand and no crest adorned the plain red seal. I unfolded it, and it was as if someone had cut the sinews in my legs. I fumbled back into a chair, dimly hearing Elsa’s exclamation of concern as I stared at the dark, slanting script marching across the parchment, so different from the writing on the front.
Dear Safire,
I request the honor of your presence at the market this afternoon at 2 o’clock. Please meet me behind the third stall on the left side of Whitehole Street. If you fail to do so, I’ll understand, given the boorish way I’ve courted you in the past. I would like to offer an explanation for my atrocious behavior. Know that I intend never to reveal the fact that you are guarded by foreign assassins. Please also know that I can be a rogue and my intentions mean little, particularly when a beautiful woman like yourself refuses to see a poor sinner like me after chatting so long with His Grace the Bishop last holy day. If you attempt to send someone (like an assassin) in your stead and something unfortunate happens, I would hate for Merius to find out about your questionable behavior as a married woman.
Respectfully Yours,
Peregrine
“That thrice-damned scoundrel,” I swore, crumpling up the parchment and throwing it on the floor. When that didn’t lessen the sickening flutter inside, I got to my feet and stamped the parchment, grinding it into the floorboards. Then I sank back on the chair and started to sob, my tears hot with rage.
“My lady?” Elsa asked, touching my shoulder. When I didn’t raise my head, she said, her voice louder. “Lady Safire? Should I send Jared after Sir Merius?”
“Oh no,” I breathed. “No, please don’t do that.” Mordric was at council, Eden was away overnight on some mysterious mission. I was on my own.
At lunch, I managed to choke down some bread and cheese, followed by a generous glass of Elsa’s cousin Birdley’s stout elderberry wine, all the while under Elsa’s watchful gaze. When I poured a second glass of wine, Elsa took the bottle away and set it firmly on the sideboard.
“So much is not good for the babe,” she said, squinting at me.
“It settles my nerves,” I said, gulping the second glass before she could snatch that away too. “I hardly think frayed nerves are good for the babe, either.” I patted my belly, a ripple of movement answering my touch. The quickening. I half stood, knocking over my water tumbler, as the ripple came again, as slight as moth wings brushing my skin.
“My lady?” Elsa demanded.
“The quickening, dear one.” I grabbed her hand and held it to my middle. All the furrows faded from her face as her features slackened. It was real this time--she felt it too.
*Dominic--his name is Dominic. The sudden thought shocked me with its power, all the hairs on my arms and neck tingling as if lightning had struck nearby.
*Dominic--I like it. It’s not a family name, but it almost has the same suffix as Father‘s name, so it fits. came Merius’s thought. Then all sense of him vanished as quickly as it had come. It was as if we had shared that instant of mutual clarity and then went our separate ways again.
How strange. I thought he had me blocked because he was at council. Had he heard my thoughts about Peregrine’s letter? No, he couldn’t have. If he’d heard that, he would have immediately left council and been here. I shuddered at the idea of him finding out about that letter. He would feel betrayed that I had kept this intrigue a secret from him for so long. I realized I had sank back down on my chair, my fingertips drumming the tablecloth.
“You seem nervous, my lady.”
“I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go lie down.”
“After all that wine with so little food, it’s no wonder you don’t feel well,” Elsa grumbled. “Maybe that’s why the babe kicked you so hard I could feel it too.”
“Oh Elsa.”
She muttered behind me all the way up the stairs. The bedchamber was dark and a trifle stifling, so she went around and opened the windows as I sat on the bed. “Elsa,” I said, having a sudden inspiration, “could you do something for me while I nap?”
“Certainly.”
“Could you go to the court library and find these books?” I held out a scrap of foolscap Korigann had sent me a few days ago, books on painting he thought would be useful to me. I missed him everyday in the studio, my patient and wise instructor, with his subtle wisdom and even subtler sense of form and color.
As soon as Elsa left the chamber, I rose from the bed and crept over to the door. I cracked it open, just in time to hear the front door bang shut behind Elsa. I waited for a minute, my hand poised on the latch, my heart drumming in my ears, before I went out and down the steps.
I gasped at the oppressive heat outside--the thick walls of the house held the night chill long after dawn, so I hadn‘t expected it to be quite so warm. The heat clung to my skin like damp gossamer. As I started down the street toward the market, sweat already beading on my neck under my hair, I saw the huge, dark thunderhead looming over the sea, lightning flashes turning its depths purple for an instant of terrible beauty. No wonder it was so hot.
Only a few people roamed the market, mostly housewives and servants dickering with merchants at the food stalls. I imagined the heat and impending storm kept many indoors this afternoon. I wandered amidst the stalls, captivated by a bright green pear here, a gold and orange threaded scarf there . . . but I had a mission, a mission I dared not think about, lest my feet become fixed to the stones with fear. So I sighed and walked on, placing one boot before the other over and over. I loved the boots--cobbled of a thin, soft brown kid with graceful scallops along all the seams, they had pointed toes and two-inch heels that made me feel wonderfully tall. If Peregrine upset me too much, I could always kick him--one of my heels could do some damage if I applied it in the right place.
Three- and four-story houses lined Whitehole Street, each story jutting a little further out than the one below it. This made extra room on the upper floors but left only a narrow strip of sky overhead, so it felt like walking into a tunnel. Even though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun had long since traversed this way, and now all lay in blessedly cool shadow. I paused and drew a deep breath, inhaling the scents of cinnamon and ginger, cloves and basil. Now I remembered--Whitehole Street
was where most of the spice merchants set up their stalls. All of the strong scents emboldened me, and I strode forward, my head high. Peregrine wouldn’t catch me looking down at my toes.
I ducked past the red awning of the third stall to the left, noting that it seemed to be abandoned, stout oaken covers pulled over the casks and bins. Someone had meticulously woven a maze of chains and padlocks over the casks, so intricate and entwined it would take a would-be thief all night to unravel them. Likely Merius would do the same to my chamber door if he ever found out about this little expedition. I swallowed back a wild bark of laughter and glanced away from the chains and locks.
Peregrine leaned against the wall behind the stall. He straightened when he saw me and came forward. Even with the heels on my boots, I still had to tip my head to meet his eyes, turned a midnight blue in the shadows. The sweet earthiness of the ambergris cloud around him obscured even the spices from the market.
He didn’t reach out to touch me, likely because he feared another dose of the Ursula’s Bane. As long as he didn’t touch me, his aura wouldn’t overwhelm me. As it was, the ambergris still filled my lungs and stung my eyes. I realized then that while the searing liquor of Merius’s aura invigorated me even as it overwhelmed me, Peregrine’s aura weakened me. The babe gave a feeble kick as if in agreement, and I found myself reaching for my belly, as protective as I was in the presence of the Bishop.
“Have you brought your friends, pet?” he asked, his tone sarcastic. I noticed he gave a barely perceptible wince, though, as he absently rubbed his lower arm where they had shot him with the dart last time. Maybe the cur had learned something.
“Why don’t you seize me again and find out?” I asked sweetly.
“I wasn’t going to seize you that night,” he muttered, glancing away for an instant. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“You think I believe you?”
“Safire, just listen to me for a moment. A moment, that’s all I ask.”
Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3) Page 21
