Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3)

by Nilsen, Karen

  King Segar cleared his throat to break the long silence. When everyone's eyes were on him, he rose with the scrape of his heavy chair as he pushed it back. "The reason I called council today, the reason I wanted Safire here, is because I have a pronouncement to make. From this day forward, trials on charges of witchcraft will no longer take place in this land. No one will ever again be executed for being a witch or warlock. No one will ever again be burned alive as a form of execution." He sat back down.

  In the dead quiet that followed, the only sound was the whispery rustle of Safire busily preening her wing feathers. Finally Neils lifted his head and swiveled it around like a cautious snake emerging from a hole as he tried to gauge the reactions of the other councilors. "Your Majesty," he said after a moment. "I appreciate your mercy and beneficence, though some would say blind mercy can be as dangerous as harsh justice when it allows evil-doers to go free. Forgive me--I can't help but observe that it seems this pronouncement undoes much of your father's work to build up the power of our faith . . ."

  A flicker of his toothy smile curled up Segar's mouth for an instant. "No need to ask forgiveness, Neils. Your observation is correct--my pronouncement does indeed undo much of my father's legacy, the same legacy that led to his untimely demise. As king, I am responsible for our religious practice and make rules regarding that as I see fit. I can no longer defend a faith that demands we roast innocents alive."

  "Innocents?!" Warden pointed a shaking finger at Safire, who raised her head, her plumes swaying. "You're calling this hellspawn assassin an innocent?!"

  Safire's eyes glittered as she gazed at Warden, and he trailed off, sputtering. Tendrils of smoke began to curl from the shoulders of his doublet, red sparks eating black holes in the gray velvet. A sweet, spicy scent like a wood fire in autumn filled the chamber. Warden yelled and jerked his chair back as if to flee. Then he stopped, seemingly unable to tear his gaze from Safire as he beat at the sparks with trembling hands.

  "How does she know that?" he demanded.

  Merius, who had spent most of the discussion examining the wood grain of the table surface, finally looked up, his face set in that expressionless mask I was beginning to dread. "Know what, Sir Turley?"

  "These wicked pictures in my head--she put them there. I never did such a thing. My wastrel brother did. You tell her my brother did it!" Warden shouted.

  "But you helped your brother, didn't you?" Merius said, his voice toneless. "You held the girl down for him, didn't you? By her shoulders. A peasant--just a bit of fun, wasn't it? Forty years ago, and the poor girl's long dead. Bet you thought no one would ever find out."

  Smoke poured from Warden's shoulders, small, greedy flames licking his shirt collar. He gaped at Merius, aghast, before he turned and fled the chamber, knocking his chair over. King Segar motioned to one of the guards, who raced out after him. Everyone else seemed to be looking at the table instead of at each other, and I secretly applauded what Safire and Merius's little display had accomplished. All of the councilors were now too busy contemplating their own hidden crimes and sins to worry about King Segar's pronouncement. At least for the time being.

  Then Nygel Lotts, a quiet merchant from the north who had just lately joined the council, opened his mouth and startled even me from my usual cynicism. "Good for her," he said, shooting Safire a quick glance, the kind of look that a man gave when he wanted to stare but didn't quite dare. "Never did like Warden much--maybe he won't come back. Can't say I'll miss him." Then he inclined his head gravely toward King Segar. "The Lotts have some accused witches and warlocks for ancestors, even a couple who were burnt. I think most at this table could say the same. Glad to hear this damnable practice is at an end--all it ever seemed to me was a cruel way for powerful men to control their people. That religious talk about sin and hellspawn--that was just a smoke screen to conceal the true evil." As if we passed a flame from candle to candle around the table, councilors began to nod in agreement one or two at a time.

  "So we can't kill her," Devons mused after a long moment, then seemed to realize that he spoke out loud. His round face went brick red. "Not that I want to," he added hastily with a wide-eyed look at Safire, who blinked at him. His spurs jingled faintly as he tapped his boot heel on the floor. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that we have one hellish new weapon in our arsenal. If she can make men slay themselves with her singing and melt their sword hilts in their hands, I don't think we need to worry about the SerVerin Empire anymore."

  "Don't forget you're talking about my wife," Merius said quietly. "She's not a weapon, not a siren, not an assassin . . ." he trailed off, sucking air through his nose as Safire laid her head against his side. He rested his hand on the edge of her wing, and a shudder ran through him. He grimaced, then continued, his voice uneven, "She's a mother, an artist, a healer, not a killer."

  "But she killed those men, Merius. And she burned the guards' bows and arrows in their hands," Devons answered, his voice far less strident than usual.

  "That was in self-defense, in defense of her young," Merius snapped. "Any good mother would have done the same."

  "Protecting us from the SerVerin Empire is self-defense on a larger scale." Devons's tone was positively wheedling by this point, something I had never heard from him before. His rowdy exterior concealed a shrewd mind. "I wager that neither you nor she bear any love for that cur Peregrine. She wouldn't heal him, would she? She'd kill him. And who could blame her?"

  Merius stiffened. "I'll not discuss this here."

  "Speaking of Peregrine, our spies have yet to discover his whereabouts," King Segar interrupted, his tone smooth. Of course, that was what he would say with the entire council present--he would hardly be stupid enough to announce his plans on how to dispose of Peregrine to all and sundry. "A few abandoned camps and other hopeful signs, but not the man himself. We actually have to find him before we can kill him, Ronceval."

  "Of course, Your Majesty." Devons waved his hand. "I was just giving Merius, giving all of us," he added with a significant glance in my direction, "something to mull over during the long winter evenings ahead."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven--Merius

  Corcin, Eastern Cormalen

  December, last year

  Safire plucked a purple feather from her upper wing. Dominic and Sewell sat on the floor near her, both watching her. I smiled when their heads tilted back simultaneously as she lifted the feather, their chins dropping again as she lowered it. She tucked it in the mare's nest of brightly colored yarn and feathers she held between the claws of her feet.

  When she had first started weaving this bizarre construction yesterday, the boys had grabbed at the different balls of yarn rolling every which way across the floor, all the strands soon getting tangled. They began to play tug of war with the snarled yarn, Dominic's face set in a look of fierce concentration while Sewell yelled for Abby. I had been on the verge of intervening when Safire stepped between them, and the fighting magically stopped. I wasn't sure how she disciplined them, but she did. They minded her better than they did me or Elsa, actually.

  I wasn't even sure how they knew she was their mother in her phoenix form--I had expected both of them, Sewell especially, to be terribly confused. But they hadn't been, at least not about that. Poor Sewell had been confused about a great many other things however--as he had done on the ship, he cried for Abby every night the first week he was here, and he still asked where she was when he woke up. The only thing that soothed him was Safire perching on his crib and warbling one of her strange lullabies. Even though her songs were wordless, he seemed to understand her, for his eyes went wide and he murmured "dweam mama" before drifting off to sleep, his thumb in his mouth.

  I suspected Safire communicated with the boys by presenting them with images and feelings and manipulating their senses, much as she communicated with me through the mind bond. Those closest to us, Father, Eden, and Elsa in particular, had all mentioned that she "spoke" with them using all sorts of methods, and th
at they understood her clearly. So it stood to reason that she communicated with the boys in a similar fashion--they just didn't know enough words yet to describe how.

  I sighed at the thought of words. Enough words. The right words. The wrong words. Too many words. Any words . . . any words from Safire would rival the songs of a thousand firebirds. I had little realized how much I had taken the sound of her voice, her words, for granted until the terrible day I knew I would never hear her speak again. How much I had taken her wit for granted--she would seem all tongue-tied and demure in company, then suddenly make some clever, blunt statement that left everyone speechless. I still treasured the startled look on Esme's face the day Safire took her to task at the ladies' card table--somehow she'd found the perfect words to put Esme in her place. It might have been impolitic but it was pure Safire. I missed her talent for description, how she used words to paint a picture or tell a story in my mind. She still had her artist's eye for colors and shapes and could tell me stories with a series of images, but it was the words she had used that I missed most. The phoenix's wordless thoughts, although bearing the distinct flavor of Safire's personality, still seemed foreign, too beautiful and outside the scope of my mortal experience to be quite real.

  A sad cooing welled through the studio then, and I started, realizing that Safire had abandoned her project and now stood before me. She moved with the quiet grace of a flame and often surprised me by suddenly being nearby when I could have sworn she was across the chamber or in another part of the house altogether. The boys' gazes followed her, both in a trance as she began to keen, her voice rising and falling in a melody so heartbreaking that a shudder ran down my spine and tears sprang to my eyes. The sound reminded me of a master musician coaxing a finely made violin to life.

  "What is it, freckle dove?" I murmured, caressing the coppery plumes that trailed from her head.

  She laid her cheek on my leg, her keening muffled now. I rested my hand on her wing, thrilling at the tingling warmth of her brilliant plumage, the gentle tickle of soft feathers moving under my fingers. Her charred cedar scent, thick as incense, rose all around. An image filled my mind of that day so long ago on the parapet when I had given her our troth ring, how we had made love under the clear March sky. How she had felt like a bird in my arms even then, trembling, frail life poised to take flight, how I had worried she would fly away and leave me behind forever.

  "You'll fly away from me yet, won't you?" I heard myself say. "You won't mean to, but it's inevitable."

  Images flickered through my mind of me as an older man, so like Father that at first I thought the man I saw was him, not me. Small differences, such as the slight wave of the man's hair, his unbroken nose, finally convinced me that I looked upon myself in thirty years. Images of the boys, growing up before my eyes in an instant. Images of an adult Dominic holding a red-haired baby who had to be our first grandchild. And then more images of children and adults who looked vaguely familiar wearing outlandish clothes, their gray and green eyes meeting mine in a flare of spooky recognition. She was showing me our descendents, years and years after I was dust in my grave. In all these images, Safire the firebird perched somewhere nearby, keeping watch.

  "You're telling me you can't fly away?" Her head dipped in what I had to assume was a nod. "You're bound to our family forever?"

  She raised her head, the purple and golden feathers of her throat flashing iridescent as she started to keen again, her sparkling peridot gaze fixed on mine. Tears dripped hot down my cheeks, and I absently wiped them away with my palm, staring at her. Her tragic song surged through my body, an overwhelming flood. My love--not only was she trapped in this form for all eternity, but this mortal plane had become her cage. She couldn't die, couldn't move on to the next plane--we wouldn't even be together in the afterlife. Such a creature should be free, not bound by mortal laws. God, how would either of us survive this? She would watch me grow old, sicken, and die, and I would always have her before me, never able to breach the barriers between us and be a true mate to her. If not for the boys, I would have tried to turn into the weirhawk again so I could at least fly beside her, if only for a few minutes. But I didn't dare risk it--if something happened, the boys would be left with no father and a mother who wasn't human anymore.

  A small hand touched my sleeve then. "Papa sad?" Dominic said gravely, his mouth set in that straight line I had come to know so well. I glanced around wildly and saw Sewell busy in the corner with the blocks, unaware that I was crying. Which was how it should be.

  Inky shame soured me inside. Dominic shouldn't have witnessed my grief--he was far too young for such a burden. Of course, no matter what I did to hide things from him, he still seemed to know. The witch son. I lifted him up and set him on my lap, his sturdy weight a welcome jolt back to everyday reality. Safire stopped her keening as Dominic touched her neck with tentative fingers. I had apparently forgotten to clean him up after tea, and I realized, looking at him, that he had jam on his chin, in his hair, and sticky all over his fingers. His hand came away covered with feather fuzz, and I groaned, just now noticing that he'd left a small strawberry handprint on the pristine white of my sleeve. Elsa would not be pleased--according to her, we kept the laundry down the street in business because I was so untidy, and I was starting to believe her.

  Safire chirped a laugh, and I shot her a narrow look as Elsa opened the door of the studio and peeked around the edge. "Sir Merius?" she asked. "Are you all right? We heard her singing down in the kitchen. Such a sad sound," she added by way of explanation, sniffling into her handkerchief.

  "We're fine, just a little messy," I said as I stood, still holding Dominic.

  "Oh." She peered at me. "Your father sent a message--he and Lady Eden and Lord and Lady Rankin will be over in a half hour for dinner. You know," she sniffed, blowing her nose, "When you invite guests to dinner in the future, Birdley and I would appreciate it if you could tell us beforehand . . ."

  "Elsa, I didn't invite them. I swear I didn't." I paced back and forth, one arm clutched around Dominic as I tore my hand through my hair. Now it was sticky with jam somehow too. "There must be some mistake--the last thing I want right now is company, even them."

  "Your father's note was clear--I don't think he could be mistaken." Elsa, like everyone else, held Father in awe.

  I barked a mirthless laugh. "Believe me, I've known him my whole life. He makes mistakes, most of them deliberate. Can you get Sewell?"

  "How can a mistake be deliberate?" Elsa mused, walking beside me down the hall to the bedchamber. Sewell's forelock bobbed as she shifted him with a huff of breath. "You get heavier everyday. And you're covered with jam," she informed him.

  "Mama like stwawbewwy. Sewell too," he said, licking his fingers for emphasis.

  "Stop that. Lord knows where your hands have been since tea."

  Before I even started fumbling for a candle, all the wicks in the chamber flared on their own, Safire's newest trick. She warbled happily, somehow in front of us when I knew she had been behind us.

  "How does she do that?" Elsa asked as she set Sewell on the edge of the bed closest to the washstand.

  I shrugged. "Don't know. What the hell is this?" I gazed upon what I first thought was a huge, shallow basket on the bench at the foot of the bed. However, I realized upon closer examination that it was the craziest basket I'd ever seen. Torn strips of cloth, broom straw, bits of rope, dried flowers, ribbons, narrow wooden sticks from the kites Jared and I had constructed, and leather thongs from the abandoned glider itself had been woven together in a regular magpie nest. The wink of gold caught my eye, and I reached out to touch it, finding Safire's old locket and chain tangled in the mess. I saw other metal bits scattered throughout, some from the charm bracelet Safire's father had given her when she was a child, others small bells I had used to make a rattle for Dominic.

  "My best velvet ribbon--what is this? Did you take this?" Elsa grabbed at the ribbon, but her efforts were in vain--the ribbon was t
oo tightly entwined with several cinnamon sticks and the broom straw. Then she touched one of the strips of cloth, her eyes widening with alarm. "Sir Merius, this looks like one of your best shirts, all torn up. Are you all right, sir?"

  Safire lighted on the edge of the nest, dropping her yarn and feather construction in the bottom like a cushion before she settled down in it with a ruffle of feathers and a soft tinkle of charms and bells. She regarded us with long-lashed bemusement.

  My arms tightened around Dominic. "I'll be damned--she made herself a nest."

  "Nest?" Dominic echoed.

  "Nest--see?" I lowered him down so he could touch it. Next I knew, he clambered over the side and plopped beside Safire, who gently lifted one wing to shelter him.

  "She must have done it earlier, when you were at council and the boys were napping," Elsa murmured. She ran her hand over the edge. "It's rather pretty in a hare-brained way."

  "And very solid. I wonder why she did it, though. I make her a nest in the pillows every night so I can feel her nearby when I sleep . . ." I trailed off, uncomfortable warmth heating my cheeks. I hadn't meant to say that out loud. Elsa, tactful soul, acted as if she hadn't heard me. Humming a soldier's marching tune (she apparently had her eye on one of the king's guards these days), she proceeded to clean Sewell's hands and face. I found a wash cloth and did the same for Dominic. His eyelids drooped shut as he nodded against his mother's feathered warmth.

  I kept casting quick looks at Safire, wondering about the nest. I didn't know why I persisted in trying to figure out her expressions as if she were still human. Old habits died hard, I supposed. She had had such an animated face, and I had been so accustomed to just glancing at her and knowing what she thought or felt from the turn of her mouth or the slant of her brows. Now she didn't have a mouth or brows, and although she was just as demonstrative a phoenix as she had been a human, it had been a slow process learning her new expressions.