Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3) Read online

  PHOENIX ASHES

  A novel by

  Karen Nilsen

  Copyright © 2011 by Karen Nilsen

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America

  First edition published 2011

  Cover art © 1987 by Cynthia Nilsen

  To all those who suffer from the cruelty of injustice. May every prayer said be another candle flame in the darkness around you.

  Torier Province, Northern Cormalen

  March, 30 years ago

  Spring had come early. Here in the north, men felt blessed to glimpse the dark earth of their fields before the end of March. But this year, the purple and yellow shoots of wild crocuses had poked through the crust of snow in February, and by March, spring danced over the land, strewing sweet-smelling flowers and gentle silvery rains everywhere she went.

  Wicked spring, gaudy in her raiment of ripening temptation. He heard her laugh mocking him in the gurgling streams, loosed too early from their cages of ice. If not for the spring's untimely arrival, the young priest might not have fallen.

  He had first seen her as he trudged down the lane to his church. He stopped in the middle of the bridge to shed his cloak, cursing the unseasonable warmth, when he heard an exclamation of dismay over the roar of the water flowing in the rocky river bed below. Glancing down, his eyes caught a ripple of copper, bright as fire, that vanished under the surface of water. His breath caught in his throat, long parched for the sweet merriment that seemed to come so readily to other men. But not him. Never him. Orphaned, raised in a strict monastery where to speak out of turn warranted a sharp crack across the knuckles, where to laugh too often and too easily meant a day in the stocks. He should have remembered himself. He should have moved on then, forgotten what he thought he'd seen. But instead, he waited for that mysterious copper flash to reappear, its fire warming his neglected heart, even at the age of twenty-four already withered and tough to survive the perpetual winter of his life.

  Finally a burnished head, wet hair sleek as an otter's fur, emerged from the water. She gazed up at him with wild nymph eyes, and he wondered for a bemused instant if she was even human. Then he heard the chatter of her teeth and noticed the shudder of her thin shoulders as she clutched her arms over her chest under the clear water. Nymph--whatever had he been thinking? There were no such heathen creatures in God's blessed land. Not anymore. No, she was as human as he was. And she was cold.

  In perhaps the first rush of tenderness he remembered feeling in years, he stumbled down the bank and gestured to her. Staring at him the whole time with those spooky eyes that seemed to see into another realm, she slowly emerged from the water. Naked, her chilled skin pale, she was lovely as that first brave crocus lifting its silken face above the snow to find the warmth of the sun. He threw his cloak around her shoulders, his hands shaking. A burning sap flowed from the base of his spine through his veins, consuming his flesh at the sight of her. When she still shivered after huddling in his cloak for several minutes, he raised his hands to pull the woolen edges tighter about her shoulders. Instead he found his arms around her, his mouth pressed against the soft petals of her parted lips.

  By the time they finished, her hair had dried. He lay beside her on his cloak and touched the strands like liquid fire running through his fingers, warming the ice of his skin.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Torier Province, Northern Cormalen

  September, 30 years ago

  They trysted on the river bank all that summer under the cover of the trees. For the first time, he thought little of the future looming before him. For the first time, he thought little of eternity, little of damnation and salvation. He thought only of when he would see her next and touch the fire in her hair, feel his heart warm at the sound of her merry laughter.

  It was their last time together, though he didn't know that yet. It started so innocently. When she knelt on the pebbled shore and cupped her hands under the water, it seemed at first that she merely wanted a drink. Instead, she gazed down, squinting as if she couldn't quite make out her fingers under the sparkling surface. Then her eyes suddenly widened, and she turned toward him, dappled sunlight through the rustling leaves overhead moving over her hair like flames. She looked in a trance, her gaze unblinking as she stared at him. He said her name, but she didn't seem to hear him. Then she began to speak, a singsong cadence not unlike the chants they uttered in church. That was how he knew her words were from the devil, a mockery of all things holy.

  "I hear her voice in the water," she said, tears glistening down her cheeks.

  "Whose voice?" he prompted.

  "It's so beautiful, not of this world, like an angel singing. I could follow her anywhere." Finally she blinked. "She showed me things."

  "What things?" he asked, a false gentleness to his tone, a sign of his growing horror. He found himself slipping into the pattern of questions he used to interrogate suspected witches. He knew what she was then and cursed himself for not seeing it before.

  She straightened, swaying a little on her feet as water dripped from her hands. "A mad king diving to his death from a high window. He loses his crown as he falls, his night robe flapping in the wind like bat wings. But they're false wings. They can't save him. Nothing can save him--he's done this to himself."

  After hearing such evil blasphemy masquerading as prophesy, what else could he do but confess to his elders and tell all she was a witch?

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Torier Province, Northern Cormalen

  October, 30 years ago

  "Not only is she a hellspawn witch, she's lowborn." The head priest of the parish, his superior, stood before the tall window facing the village square. The older man angled his head then to look at him with narrow, appraising eyes. "You could be bishop someday, you know--you're intelligent, driven, and you have a gift for spotting witches and warlocks. Why would you throw that away for the likes of her?"

  The young priest lifted his hands in a futile gesture. "I've broken my vows with this woman. I'll never be bishop now. And as for spotting witches and warlocks--" He laughed bitterly. "Why didn't I spot the evil in her before this?"

  "Because she's a succubus, intent on seducing you. Even the purest man can break under such an onslaught. But you've redeemed yourself--you testified against her."

  "What else could I do, after I caught her scrying in the river?" He stared at his hands, the same hands that had loved a witch.

  He started then, jarred by the older man shaking his arm. "Come, it's time," his superior said. "You must witness this. If you can watch it without flinching, I'll know that your heart is virtuous again, and all will be forgiven. There will no longer be a blot on your past to stop your rise in the holy orders."

  So he followed his superior down the steps to the village square where men had been at work all afternoon hauling bundles of sticks and kindling. The sun started to set, its long beams touching her hair with fire for the last time as they brought her to the stake. Despite the ropes around her arms, the rough handling of the men leading her, she moved with that fluid grace he remembered from the first time he saw her, as agile as a fish in the water. She only stumbled once when one of the men yanked her, and he found the muscles twitching under his skin, twitching to stride forward and help her to her feet. But he couldn't move. Couldn't flinch. His superior watched him too closely, and his whole future rested on his ability to keep still in this moment.

  He reminded himself of her wicked words at the stream, how she had fallen into a demon trance. Going through the fire was the only thing that could redeem her heathen soul and allow her salvation. He had betrayed her on the earthly plane to s
ave her on the eternal plane, and he couldn't flinch now. He imagined himself encased in ice, a trick he had learned as a boy at the monastery to keep himself from being noticed. As the men tied her to the stake, she looked at him, her eyes wide and uncomprehending as a wild creature in a trap. It was no matter--she would understand why he had testified against her once her soul reached heaven. She would thank him then.

  The flames crackled through the wood, her shrieks echoing against the stones of the square. But ice was in his ears, and he couldn't hear her. Incense rose in sweet clouds from the braziers to cover the roasted meat odor of burning flesh. But ice sheltered him, and all he could smell was the sharp, cold purity of snow. Heat billowed from the inferno, the men around him sweating from it, but all he felt was the cool winter wind. He could see her writhing in the orange glow, but the ice was thick around him, and it seemed like a dream. Thus he witnessed his heart transformed to ash, and he did not flinch.

  Silmer Province, Eastern Cormalen

  February, 3 years ago

  Three peasants, barely past the knobby elbows and blemished skin of adolescence, walked home from the tavern late one February night. It had been a mild winter in Cormalen, and they had their cloak hoods thrown back as they stumbled and guffawed, the moonlight silvery on the brothers Feyril's and Jasper's blond hair. Their friend Odin almost went head over heels in the ditch when Feyril staggered against him.

  "Damn you, Feyril," Odin slurred, falling on his rump in the lane when Jasper pulled him back from the ditch. "Why did you push me?"

  "Lout--never pushed you. What would I do that for--it'd be hell to pull you out of that ditch, big as you are." Feyril swayed on his feet, hiccupping as he stared up at the sky. "Sure are a lot of stars."

  Both Odin and Jasper sniggered. "Thinking about that wench again, brother? She got stars in her eyes?" Jasper asked, his voice loud in the night stillness. An owl hooted somewhere close by, but the men didn't heed it. Nor did they hear the answering hoot. Something rustled in the underbrush of the forest looming on the left side of the road, but they didn't hear that either. They were far too busy being young and drunk.

  Their merrymaking startled a hare from its hiding place in the bracken. It froze in the middle of the road, ears trembling as it surveyed them with enormous glassy eyes of terror. "Would you look at that?" Feyril breathed, his low tone finally causing his companions to grow silent. "Rare to see 'em out in the cold. Fancy some hare stew, Jasper? Sure be a nice change from wrinkled potatoes and moldy salted pork . . ." He trailed off, reaching for his bow. He fitted an arrow to the string and had pulled back when Jasper touched his arm.

  "Feyril, no--too close to Sullay's land."

  "Damn him--he ain't even here. He just pretends to hunt here when the mood suits him--his main estate's in a whole n'other province, Jasper."

  "I know that, but he has gamekeepers here."

  "Damn them pampered gamekeepers, too--they ain't out in the cold. Most of the animals they guard still below ground anyway. 'Sides, the meat's in the middle of the road, common land, not Sullay's land." Feyril released the arrow. It spoke to his skill that even intoxicated, he managed to kill the hare instantly with a shot to the eye. "See that!" he whooped. "Bet neither of you could do that."

  "Damn braggart." Jasper's tone was soft, though--he dreamt of the rich scent of their mother's stew. It had been a month or more since they had any game to eat. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. Feyril shambled forward to claim his prize.

  Feyril plucked the limp hare up by the back legs and opened his mouth as if to speak. Whatever he meant to say, though, never fell on mortal ears. An arrow flew out of the deep forest and plunged into his throat. His head jerked to the side. Blood, black in the night, ran down his neck as he choked. He fumbled futilely to loosen his cloak fastenings, dropping to his knees before he collapsed, dead on the road.

  Jasper let loose a yell of shock and rage and might have joined his brother had Odin not had the sense to drag him into the ditch. There they crouched, hidden, Jasper's breath coming in ragged whistles as he swallowed back sobs.

  "We don't hold with no poachers here," growled a rough voice from the forest. "Take his body home and show all your friends what happens when you rabble dare steal from Sir Sullay's table."

  Chapter One--Mordric

  Landers Estate, Silmer Province, Eastern Cormalen

  March, 3 years ago

  When I arrived at Landers Hall, I went straight to my study and bolted the door. The only one I allowed in was Baldwin, who carried a tray with bread and butter and cold chicken to accompany the water and whiskey already in my desk decanters. Others knocked, but I ignored them, my concentration entirely on the ledgers. Thank God Merius would be resuming his duties soon. The ledgers would be one of the first tasks I assigned him. It was nothing for him to add whole columns of figures in his head with no mistakes, one talent I envied him.

  Finally, I sat back in my chair, tossing aside my spectacles before I covered my aching eyes with one hand. I had gotten through one month of both the household and the tenant ledgers. As usual, the addition was fine--Selwyn could be plodding but he was usually precise. There were several outstanding debts from the tenants, however, and Talia, Selwyn’s mother, had been spending an atrocious amount for the household. Why the hell did we need new tapestries in the library? Moths had been Selwyn’s terse notation. Moths? There had been no sign of moths when I had left several months ago. In the dead of winter no less. Was winter the season for moths? It sounded like a woman’s excuse to me. They always bought frivolities the moment your back was turned, then figured out ways to turn those frivolities into necessities so you couldn‘t argue with them. I’d have to ask her about it. I groaned--Talia’s high-pitched whine made my eardrums throb. Maybe Eden could ask her for me.

  The thought of Talia and her expensive tastes reminded me that I was hungry. I glanced toward the window. The sky beyond shone a dark blue, the first stars barely visible. The family would be sitting down to dinner soon, if they hadn’t already started. I briefly debated summoning Baldwin to bring me some more food. I could put off seeing everyone until tomorrow. After all, Merius and Safire were still in Corcin. But Eden was here. I wouldn’t mind seeing her. Maybe I should go down, get all the necessary pleasantries over with.

  “The problem with the Declans is . . .” Selwyn trailed off when I entered the banquet hall. The clinking of silverware ceased, all silent as I took my place at the head of the table. Four pairs of eyes--Selwyn‘s, Whitten‘s, Eden‘s, and Talia’s--tracked my progress as I grabbed a hunk of the crusty bread and buttered it, a maid hastily sticking a plate under me to catch the crumbs.

  “Didn’t know you would be joining us--I’ll bring your setting, sir,” she murmured with a quick curtsy before she scurried away.

  “Good evening, sir,” Eden said finally.

  “Good evening.” Her hair was piled on her head in some impossible way, the topaz combs I had bought her amber gleams in the shadows. She met my gaze then, and we stared at each other for too long before I looked away, pretending to be preoccupied with the maid setting my silverware.

  “We didn’t expect you for dinner, sir,” Selwyn stammered.

  “You should know by now to expect the unexpected, Selwyn.” I straightened my napkin and ignored Eden.

  He chuckled weakly. “Indeed, sir.”

  “Where’s Dagmar?”

  “Feeding the baby.”

  “Silly girl--she should have gotten a wet nurse,” Talia said.

  “Mother . . .”

  “Well, she should have. It’s a lowborn habit, having your babe hang on you like a bitch with her pups.”

  “I expect Dagmar is being sensible--the best way to space your babes is to nurse them as long as you can.” Eden took a dainty bite of bread.

  “Such is not fit talk for the dinner table,” Talia said.

  “You’re the one who mentioned bitches and their pups.” Eden tilted her head to the side, her ch
in propped on one hand as she examined Talia with slitted eyes.

  “Merius and Safire will be returning in the next few days,” I interrupted, having no wish to witness Talia’s wrath. Whitten, who had been concentrating on his soup, suddenly straightened, his spoon clattering on the table.

  “What? Here?” Selwyn exclaimed.

  “At least partly. Merius is going to be at court most of the time, but I have some duties for him here as well.”

  “Will they be living here?” Talia’s face puckered into a sour expression.

  “Maybe. Some things would have to change before that happened.” I glanced at Whitten, but he was staring straight ahead, his soup forgotten. He was so pale he resembled the flabby underside of a mushroom, his hands shaking. I looked at him with disgust, disgust for him but also for myself--there was time not too long ago I had trembled like that for a shot of whiskey.

  “This House is crowded as it is,” Talia said.

  “What are you talking about?” Eden was on the prowl again and looking to bait someone. “We have one whole wing that’s closed.”

  “I mean, after Selwyn and Dagmar have more babies, and Whitten marries . . . there’ll be no room.”

  “I’ll be marrying soon--you can have my chamber then,” Eden said, cutting me a glance with those sharp eyes.

  “Who’s marrying you?” Talia’s voice dropped nastily on the you.

  Eden examined her nails. “I had several proposals when I was at court. Peregrine of Bara just asked me, for one.”

  “That upstart merchant?”

  “I told him no--he wears too much cologne.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Prince Segar asked me. As for the others, none of your affair.”

  “The prince?” Talia snorted. “That’s a lie.”

  Eden shrugged. “He only asked me to annoy the king, so I told him no too.” She looked at the arched ceiling. “I bet Safire will want to change the tapestries in here. They seem a little dark for her tastes.”