Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2) Read online

  “He’s practiced with my mirror several times, just to be sure he could do it smoothly.” Jazmene paused. "I wanted the mirror closer to Urtzi's bed, so we could see him and Toscar more clearly."

  They caught a flash of Toscar’s eyes through the slits in his hood before he tipped the mirror up, and they saw the vaulted ceiling spinning in a dizzy array of shadows. Abruptly Toscar tilted the mirror again, this time propping it on a chair a few feet from Urtzi’s bed. After a few shifts that made Undene feel vaguely seasick, Toscar managed to right the mirror, and she and the queen both drew sharp intakes of breath, for Urtzi’s sleeping image was mere yards from their view. Undene felt as if she could number the lines just starting to crinkle the corners of Urtzi’s mouth and eyes, the few gray hairs visible in his neatly clipped beard waxed to a curled point.

  Toscar stood beside Urtzi’s bed now. Jazmene found herself counting Urtzi’s breaths, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slipped into deeper sleep. They had spent little time together as children--siblings in Numer were naught but rivals for scarce food in poor families and scarce thrones in the royal family. However, lacking brothers to fight, Urtzi possessed a gentle heart for a Numerian. One of the few times they had played together in the garden, he had picked her the best figs from their father’s tree and then carved her a small bird from a cork he found discarded in the dirt. Jazmene glanced at her hands, clenched together in her lap, her rings cutting into her white-knuckled fingers. It had to be done, if Numer was ever to change. It had to be done. It would be quick, at least, quicker than their father’s slow and miserable wasting away. Toscar would see to that.

  “Look,” Undene breathed. “Look, Your Majesty.”

  Jazmene raised her eyes to the mirror again. The scene before her was eerily soundless, unreal, the sort of distant, silent images that flashed on the back of her eyelids just before she drifted into sleep and dreams. She saw the light glance across Toscar’s dagger as he drew it. Urtzi turned in his sleep. Toscar leaned over Urtzi and touched his shoulder as if to wake him, then slashed the blade edge across Urtzi’s throat. She glimpsed the wound, thick as a crimson scarf tied around Urtzi’s neck before the blood splattered against the surface of the mirror. She flinched and looked down at her fisted hands, her gown, half-expecting to see drops of blood there.

  “It can’t come through the mirror, Your Majesty.” Undene’s fingers were on her shoulder, more like a wise and comforting aunt than a fellow conspirator. “You did the right thing--with great power comes certain duties that no ordinary soul could comprehend.”

  “I know that,” Jazmene snapped, but she allowed Undene to continue kneading her shoulders. Through the crimson lines trickling down the glass, Jazmene watched as Toscar quickly crossed the chamber and disappeared over the balcony rail. Thank Aesir that Toscar would be long gone by the time Urtzi’s steward came to rouse the king. Despite Toscar’s obvious skill, such a smooth assassination would never have been possible without her knowledge of Urtzi’s habits and the Numerian palace. Would anyone suspect her of being involved? She flipped her long hair back over her shoulders. Let them suspect--they couldn’t touch her here. She was the queen of Sarneth, and she had a plot to turn their stray dog country into the wealthiest unofficial province in Sarneth. Likely they would thank her on bended knee before the end.

  “Would you like me to braid your hair, Your Majesty?” Undene asked, her hands still on Jazmene‘s shoulders.

  “Just brush it for now. Perhaps I’ll have one of the others curl it later for the ball.” Jazmene looked at the mirror, which still dripped on the inside with her brother’s blood. She swallowed rapidly and was glad that the powders had finally worked and made her miscarry earlier this month. Her stomach was so sensitive when she was pregnant. She had to be more careful with the next one--Rainier, the nasty little spy of a king, might start to suspect, especially now that Toscar visited her frequently. She had to be sure the next one was King Rainier’s. He might wink at an indiscretion or two, but a royal bastard--that could get her slender neck on the block. She shuddered. “Can we look at something else? I don‘t care what, just something else.”

  Undene furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. The queen liked most to look at her own reflection, but perhaps not today, not after what had just occurred. No, someplace far from Numer. She finally settled on a view of the new receiving hall of the Cormalen palace across the sea, a steady stream of nobles and servants parading up and down the steps near the mirror.

  “Why that marble is as green as holly leaves!” Jazmene exclaimed. “And look at that lovely glass, casting colored patterns on the wall. How pretty. Where is that?”

  “The entrance hall of the Cormalen palace. I believe Queen Verna commissioned it.”

  Jazmene tilted her head as she examined the hall. “Not as fine or as large as the main hall here, but still elegant. I didn’t know they had such good taste in your homeland, Undene. To hear the ladies at this court talk, you‘d think Cormalen seethed with barbarians on witch hunts and naught else.”

  Undene offered an indulgent smile. “To hear the ladies at the Cormalen court talk, you’d think that everyone in Sarneth exaggerated and told lies. Come, Your Majesty, you’ve met at least a handful of Cormalen nobles since coming to this court. Have any of them seemed like barbarians to you?”

  “If they’re not barbarians who burn innocents at the stake, why are you here instead of there?” Jazmene spared a glance over her shoulder at Undene.

  Undene’s smile widened to a grin. “I’m no innocent, Your Majesty.”

  Jazmene laughed and turned back to the mirror. “I must admit, I like the looks of some of the Cormalen men, even if they are barbarians. And when Queen Verna came last spring, she had some witty ladies in her entourage. That Arilea of Landers could quote whole passages of Lhigat--I wouldn‘t wager a pin any of the silly butterflies in my service could do the same. Shame she turned up with child--she might have stayed longer.”

  Jazmene fell silent, gazing at the press of people in the mirror. They all climbed the steps--there must be some occasion of state happening in Cormalen, to draw such a crowd. Her eyes trailed over the brass railings, sculpted into lovely curlicues and scrolls. “I could do something similar in the library in Numer,” she murmured, half to herself. “I want it big enough that there’s a second story of shelves above the first, a balcony with a railing like that one all around.”

  Undene, figuring enough time had passed, ventured a question. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I‘m curious. How do you plan to claim the throne in Numer, if only male heirs are allowed to sit upon it?”

  Jazmene smiled, the fierce smile of a bitter lioness. “I found Urt . . . Urtzi’s bastard, Undene.” She dug her nails into her palms until her voice steadied. “Urtzi sired a bastard on a tinker woman when he visited Sarneth six years ago to negotiate some treaty with Rainier. A tinker woman he fancied at the Midmarch market is now the mother of the only true blood heir to the Numerian throne--can you imagine? The rebels will help me put the bastard on the throne. He’s young enough I can train him properly--he won’t be warped like other Numerian men. Warped like Urtzi was,” she finished, and then swallowed quickly, as if she suddenly wanted to take back her words, and in doing so, somehow take back the images in the mirror. But it was too late for that, and Jazmene was not a woman to feel regret for long, not once she had set her mind to a course of action. It was a shame she would never lead a charge on a battlefield. She would have made a fine general.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The southern lands, such as Marenna, the SerVerin Empire, and Numer, worshipped the god Aesir. Aesir had once been many gods and goddesses, a vast, dizzying array that overwhelmed the practical people of the north, who had long since united under one deity and one set of holy laws. In their straightforward manner, the northern tribes who eventually settled Sarneth called their deity God to keep things simple. Aesir, observing this single God's omnipotence, grew jealous and devoured all of hi
s divine companions so that he could be a single deity as well. In devouring them, Aesir absorbed all their various powers and personalities, and this made him a trickster god of many masks and moods. In reflection of Aesir's many facets, the priests cut Urtzi's body into ritual pieces. As he was the king, each body part had its own casket and resting place in the sand-encrusted crypt of the Numerian rulers.

  The day after Urtzi's funeral, his young wife collapsed and had to be carried to the seraglio to rest amidst her women. Shock, it was murmured. After all, her husband had just been assassinated in his own bed, and the culprits had not been caught. Midmarch was too far from Numer for Jazmene to traverse the distance in time to attend her brother's funeral. Instead, she sent fragrant oils, gold, and a vial of her tears, as was the custom. It was said that a sincere woman's tears shed in grief had the power to redeem wrongs.

  Rumors swirled around the Numerian and Sarneth courts that Urtzi had left a bastard, a boy nearly six years old. Jazmene fed these rumors, even letting it slip that the boy was being reared under the watchful eye of a Sarneth lord to protect him from the same assassins who had killed his father. These rumors might have sparked a conflagration had not a storm blown up from the south to douse them. For it was soon learned that Urtzi's widow had collapsed because she was with child. She passed her confinement in the safety of the seraglio and was brought to bed six months after Urtzi's death to give birth to his legitimate son, whom she called Tivon after the ancient Numerian lord who supposedly rose from the dead. Never was there a royal princeling and his dowager mother guarded more closely than Prince Tivon and the queen. It was never far from the minds of the Numerian nobles that someone had assassinated their king under their very noses and then gotten away with the crime.

  Her hopes for the Numerian throne dashed (at least for the present), Jazmene turned her attention to other matters. A year had passed since Urtzi's death when Jazmene bore Rainier a healthy daughter named Esme, a promising sign of a healthy son and heir to the kingdom of Sarneth to follow in due time. It didn’t hurt that Princess Esme, with her long-lashed brown eyes, silky dark hair, and willingness to fall asleep in even the crustiest general’s arms, held the Sarneth court in her chubby fist like a prize rattle. The courtiers whispered to each other how glad they were the little princess had inherited her mother’s charm instead of her father’s disconcerting manner. King Rainier was a brilliant administrator but apparently disliked company, since he often holed himself up in his library and attended only the major occasions of state and important councils. His young queen presided over most social activities requiring a royal presence. King Rainier enjoyed chess, reading, and eavesdropping, earning him the unofficial title of the Spider King for his nasty habit of lurking silently behind curtains and spying out windows on his court. Thank goodness he had such a beautiful and charming consort to balance out his odd habits.

  Chapter One--Safire

  Merius stirred beside me in the gray shadows just before dawn. I had already been awake for awhile, my hand over my belly as I stared into the velvet-curtained darkness. Under my tensed fingers, under my skin, tiny arms and feet flailed inside, movements as delicate as the first leaves unfurling in the spring. The baby’s candle flame of an aura had grown overnight to a frenetic ball of orange light. I peeked under the blanket at my middle, wondering how I knew the aura was orange. Certainly I couldn’t see it. Somehow I just knew it. Orange with blue sparks.

  I stifled a giggle in my pillow when the tiny flutter tickled. The baby’s aura brushed inside my womb like a feather. I laughed aloud, my hand over my mouth.

  “What is it?” Merius mumbled, stretching and yawning.

  “The quickening, I think.”

  He rolled over, his hand sliding under my shift and settling below mine, our fingers touching. “I don’t feel anything,” he said after a long moment.

  “I don’t know if you can yet. I can feel it on the inside but not the outside.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No.” I giggled again.

  “What are you laughing for?”

  “It tickles.”

  “Tickles? Is that natural?”

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about it being unnatural. “Maybe for a witch.”

  “Maybe you should see a midwife.”

  “It’s too early for that. It’s only four months along.”

  “I’m going to find one. Soon. Someone who can stay with you.”

  Oh no--some meddlesome picky crone who would poke my belly every day, look askance at my books and sketches, make me eat weird herbs, and close all the windows to keep out the “bad” air. I knew--I had seen midwives before.

  “I feel fine, Merius. If something were wrong, I’d know.”

  “There are times I wish we could have stayed in Cormalen, close to Dagmar.”

  He must be really worried to say that--he had never cared much for my sister Dagmar. I squeezed his hand back. “I wish my mother was still alive. She would understand about the babe's aura tickling, if it’s natural for a witch. Dagmar wouldn’t understand that. I’m sure it’s not bad--it doesn’t feel bad.”

  He kissed me softly and slid out of bed, taking the warmth with him. I shivered and huddled under the blanket. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s almost sunrise.” He lit the candle, then went over to the wash stand to splash water on his face.

  I sat up. He had to take the embassy watch at six. Six to six, with an hour and a half somewhere in between for exercise and practice. We had rooms close to Lord Rankin’s quarters, only a few minutes’ walk, so he didn’t have to rise too early. “Don’t get up,” he said as I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and sat on the edge of the bed.

  I ignored him and walked around the foot of the bed, wincing at the cold floor. As he toweled the water off his face, I found his uniform and helped him dress. I laced his shirt, buckled his sword belt, then pulled the green and gold tunic over all, my hands straying.

  “Witch.”

  I grinned up at him. “That’ll give you something to think about all day. What do you want for breakfast?”

  “You, if only I had the time.”

  Several kisses later, we made our way into the other room. It couldn’t be called a kitchen exactly--there was no oven or proper pantry, only an open fireplace with pothooks and trivets and a small closet with a stone jar for storing cream and milk when we had it. Merius stoked the fire while I ground up coffee and added oatmeal to the steaming water in the pot I’d left over the banked embers overnight.

  For the second time in a row, I didn’t burn the porridge or turn it into a sticky mess. Triumphant, I brought the steaming bowls to the table and gave myself extra cream and sugar after I sat down. Merius watched me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “What?”

  “You sit like a cat.”

  I glanced down, realizing I had drawn my feet up and tucked them under me. “The floor is cold.”

  “Here, give me your feet.” I extended my legs, bumping the tiny table with my knees and almost upsetting the coffee before he caught my feet. I braced them against the chair seat between his thighs, and he held them in one hand, warming them, spooning up his porridge with the other. We sat in companionable silence for several minutes.

  “Are you going out today?” he asked.

  I paused in the middle of wiping my mouth. “For awhile.” Two simple words, both true, and already I felt deceitful.

  He didn‘t notice that I spoke through my napkin. “If you think of it, get some foolscap. And ink and a good pen. There should be enough coin in the purse--it clinked nicely last night,” he said.

  “All right.” I studied the crude flower painted at the bottom of my bowl.

  “You’ve a talent with the coin, Safire--I was going to ask you where you’re buying the food. You’ve barely spent a copper I’ve given you.”

  I arched a brow. “That’s because I pick pockets.”

  He chuckl
ed, ran his fingers down my feet. “I’d let you pick mine.”

  “What do you want the foolscap for?”

  “I’ve an idea for some verses,” he said.

  “You can use my drawing parchment . . .”

  “Maybe for the final drafts, but I scratch out so much and rewrite beforehand that I’d rather use foolscap than waste your parchment.” He set my feet down and pushed his chair back.

  I glanced at the windows, still shuttered against the night. “Surely it’s not time yet.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” He came around the table, pulling his tunic straight so the hilt of his sword was readily available. “I’ll be back for you a little after six,” he whispered as he cupped my neck in his palm and pressed his lips to mine. Then he ducked out the door.

  “Be careful,” I called after him, a trifle shrilly. Since the assassination of a SerVerin official and his guard on the river locks a few weeks ago, my lungs felt too tight every time I saw the door close behind Merius in the morning. Of course, the SerVerin noble had been involved in a smuggling scheme (Merius hadn’t been exactly clear), and Lord Rankin was a mere diplomat, here to collect signatures on treaties and sniff the winds of the Sarneth court. Little else. Not enough of a threat, Merius had said, for anyone to bother assassinating him.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  After Merius left that morning, I dressed in the finely woven linen and silk gown from the tailor down the street. It was in the new Sarneth high-waisted style, very convenient for concealing my growing belly. Very pretty, too, all in muted yellow and creamy stripes with a green vine twining through the yellow. I twirled around in it as I swept the floor. It had cost two of the heavy Sarneth gold lupins in my secret stash. Merius hadn’t seen it yet--I wanted to surprise him.

  When the city bells tolled nine, I grabbed my sketch portfolio from the corner by the bed. Humming, I hid Merius’s coin purse under a loose floorboard (our landlady, a brusque gray-haired widow, seemed trustworthy, but her grinning wolf of a nephew, with a dark aura so slick it looked varnished, was another matter). I jammed my sun hat on my head and headed out the door.