Elegance studded with luxury, the palace was a warren of rooms. She wondered which room the prince would choose for their meeting. An audience hall would be too cold and formal, a bedroom too presumptuous. As if reading her mind, the seneschal stopped at the entrance to one of the many garden atriums, a perfect choice, but then the prince was a man of many depths. Hamid bowed low at the columned archway, gesturing for her to continue alone. “The prince awaits you in the heart of the blue garden.”
Another sign of favor, it boded well for her plans. She paused beneath the archway, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight. The atrium took its name from the ornate floor, an exquisite stylized garden depicted in blue tile, the vines and flowers woven together in a complex pattern pleasing to the eye. Designed in a square, the atrium stood open to the moonlight. Water cascaded down a tiered fountain, an inviting sound that drew her forward.
Silk whispered as she glided through the twisting pathways, so many memories, so long ago. She found him at the heart of the garden. Prince Razzur stood alone before the fountain, his back to her, a bold position for a contender to the throne. He wore a sapphire-blue turban and a pale robe of samite belted with a golden sash, no sign of any sword. Tall with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, he looked proud and strong even from the back. Memories shivered through her, igniting a fierce hunger rising in waves.
He turned, slowly, revealing the object of his attention. A gyrfalcon rode his gauntleted fist, a magnificent bird with white plumage and black banding on the folded wings. Belled and jessed, the gyrfalcon took strips of meat from her master’s hand. The tamed raptor sent a clear message; the prince was an iron-willed man who trained hawks to his fist and women to his bed.
Lowering her veil, she met his dark gaze, remembering. A thousand and one nights, the length of her apprenticeship, the number of nights she’d spent in his bed, perfecting the art of seduction, plumbing the depths of every passion…but that was before the Dark Lord.
She studied his face, dark eyes and olive skin, further proof of his desert lineage. A hawk nose and a pointed chin, sharp cheek bones and a firm mouth, a man of many angles. His beard was close trimmed, black turned to pure silver, the only sign of change; he’d aged well despite the years. She smiled, wondering if he still had the stamina.
He flashed a rogue’s grin, as if he knew her question, and then gestured with his free hand to the silken pillow resting on the fountain’s lip. Her sprig of mistletoe lay upon the pillow, displayed like an offering. “Always a flower or an herb…but this time, after so many empty years, you send mistletoe.” He proffered a strip of meat to the gyrfalcon, the sharp beak taking it from his fingers without breaking skin. “Mistletoe has a conundrum of uses. What is the message in this mystery? Depending on the preparation, the berries can be sure death…or a potent aphrodisiac.” He stroked the breast of the gyrfalcon, his gaze as keen as the raptor’s. “Which do you intend? Poison or passion?”
She gave him a throaty laugh. “Both.”
“Hmmm.” He cocked his head, a predator studying prey. “You were always…complicated.”
“You know me so well.” Her voice was low and husky. “Seduction is the ultimate poison.” She took two steps to the left, her movements slow and languid, drawing his stare. “Passion seeps under a man’s skin, becoming a need he can’t live without,” she stood with her back to a brazier, offering a silhouette backlit by fire, “a burning obsession that overrides logic, ambition, or even a sense of survival.”
She felt his stare linger at her curves. “How is it you grow more enticing with age?”
She smiled, keeping her secret to herself.
He turned and settled the gyrfalcon on a perch, a flash of white wings and a jangle of bells.
“So you dare to fly the gyrfalcon, a bird reserved for kings?”
“I haven’t flown her in a royal hunt yet, only trained her to the fist.” He shrugged. “I’ve grown weary of peregrines. All my brothers have them.”
“Still ambitious for the Cobra Throne.” It was a statement, not a question.
He gave her a knife-edged smile. “Another passion. Or would you name it poison?”
“Only if you fail.”
He laughed, a deep masculine sound sending a shiver down her spine. “Ah blossom, you never fail to amuse.” He studied her, his stare changing to calculation. “What name do you go by these days?”
She never used her birth-name, a secret saved for a future conquest. “I haven’t decided yet. Choose something you like. Any blossom will do.”
He shook his head. “Not any blossom. Not for you.” He circled her, slowly, studying the silhouette beneath the layers of sheer silk. “For you it must be something special, something rare, something with a double meaning.” Leaning close, he breathed deep. “Sandalwood beneath honeysuckle, allure hidden beneath sweet innocence.” He came full circle, standing in front of her, a hungry smile on his lean face. “I name you, Cereus, a blossom of the night.”
“Cereus.” She tried the name, liking the sound of it. “Is it real or myth?”
His gaze traveled her length, pausing at the lushness of her breasts. “Is your beauty real, or myth?”
“Perhaps you’ll learn tonight.”
“Perhaps it will take more than one night.”
She made her voice a purr. “One night will be enough.”
He raised an eyebrow in question.
She slipped the outer robe of silk from her shoulders, letting the wrap puddle to the floor, the first of many layers. “Tell me about this night blooming flower, this Cereus?”
“A rare desert blossom, yet the plant is said to look like nothing more than a dead shrub, a mass of brown twigs dried by the sun, but on one night of the year, on midsummer’s eve, it blooms with exquisite flowers, a burst of delicate white petals surrounding a golden center. The blossoms last through the night, closing forever with the dawn’s first kiss.” He stepped close, meeting her gaze. “A single night of stunning beauty, enough to last a year.”
She leaned toward him, her voice breathy with wanting. “Cereus…a year of passion in a single night.”
His voice echoed her own hunger. “Why now? And why only one?”
“To help you gain the throne.” Her answer fed his other passion, doubling the hunger in his stare.
“And how would you do that, my blossom?”
“Poison through seduction.”
His breath caught. “You would dare?”
“If you have enough support among the other royals.”
He gave her a terse nod. “I have the support but never an assassin clever enough to complete the deed, though many have tried.”
“I will do this for you.” Her voice was a low whisper. “Meet with Cyrus across the dice table and offer me as part of the bet. One night with the best of your karesh, a tempting wager, even for a king.”
“You will be searched, and if the poison is found, you will lose your pretty head…or worse.” His voice turned to stone. “You know the game, my rare desert bloom. The assassin always pays, never the prince. If you fail, even I will not be able to save you.”
“The poison will not be found.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“A man’s appetites often hold the key to his defeat. I have studied Cyrus. I know his ways, his weaknesses.”
“But do you know his strengths? The king is cunning and jealous of his throne. He will not be so easily fooled.”
“He’ll be a willing fool, especially when I offer him what he most wants, his secret pleasure, his guilty shame, his most hidden desire.”
The prince looked intrigued but he did not ask. Instead, he reached out with a single finger to caress her cheek, a deft touch evoking memories of other nights. “And what do you ask in return?”
“Only a favor.”
He barked a laugh. “I would hear this favor.”
She loosened her silk mantle, revealing the plunging gap between the fullness of her breasts, a pr
omise and a tease. “Cyrus has met with Rose Queen’s councilor.”
“The Master Archivist, a formidable man.” He gave her a shrewd look, his hand caressing her face, a slow seduction.
“The queen’s councilor bought the full mercenary might of Radagar.”
A feather-light touch traced a trail down the side of her neck, following the plunge of silk to the shadowed cleft. “Yes, all ten thousand swords.”
“The price was too low. I offer a better contract.”
“The contract is already signed and sealed.” His hand slipped beneath silk, cupping her left breast. “And the price was extraordinary.”
She leaned into him, letting him feel the throb of her heart. “A new king, a new contract.”
“So firm, so ripe, so taut.” He thumbed her nipple. “Such a lush temptation…but a royal contract cannot be broken.”
Need raged within her, but she held it in check. “Send the bought swords to Lanverness and collect the Spider Queen’s gold, but give the officers different orders,” her words became a purr, “…special orders.”
He scowled, his hand a slow caress.
She made her voice a tease. “Honor among thieves?”
“Not thieves.” His hand tightened in anger, capturing her left breast in a cruel grip. “The reality of selling swords.”
She kept her voice level, the pain bordering on pleasure. “I offer a share of the plunder, a share of the rape of Lanverness.”
His hand stilled, as if weighing the offer. “There is no plunder.”
“If the mercenaries turn at the right moment, in the key battle, then there will be plenty of plunder. Enough to make this contract look like a mere pittance.” She lowered her voice, a seductive whisper. “I offer you a chance to turn mercenaries into conquerors.” She watched his dark eyes, baiting him with his own heritage, his own dreams. “I offer to restore the glory of the desert-bred.” Disengaging his hand, she stepped away, just beyond his grasp, a tantalizing tease. “Will you dare to reach for the Cobra Crown?”
He stood statue-still, his face composed, but she knew him too well. Ambition smoldered in his dark gaze. “All or nothing?”
She nodded, waiting.
His voice cut like a sword. “Are you the falcon or the falconer?”
“Does it matter?”
He closed the distance, grabbing her waist. His fingers like steel, he clasped her close. “Whose fist do you fly to?”
She shook her head, sending a ripple through her long mane of raven hair, but she did not try to pull away. “Together we hunt a king. Does anything else matter?”
He stared at her, a hawk’s piercing gaze, as if searching the depths of her soul.
She met his gaze unflinching, daring him to agree.
His grip eased. “Intrigue becomes you.” Releasing her, he reached for her hand, raising it to his lips, a courtier’s kiss, but his gaze never left hers. “Are you always this dangerous, blossom?”
“Only in bed.”
He laughed but the sound held a heated edge. “Is that a challenge?”
Her voice was low and throaty. “You named me well.” She ran a hand down his chest, past the sash at his waist, pressing against his rampant hardness. “Cereus, a year of passion in a single night.”
He clasped her close, his lips bruising hers. “I’ll take that challenge…and the throne.”
Passion exploded between them. He swept her into his arms, carrying her to a divan sequestered by a lattice of screens. They tumbled across silken pillows, both striving for mastery. His hands were strong and sure, just as she remembered. Silk layers ripped away, leaving her naked. Bathed in moonlight, she made use of every weapon in her arsenal. Arching her back, she showed her curves to full advantage. He pounced on her, his hands insistent, his kisses intent. Such a skilled lover, he knew her every desire, but the balance of power had shifted. She gave him a ride like none he’d ever known before. Seduction, entrapment, enslavement, she led him on a wild dance, giving him the illusion of power. He rode her like a stallion claiming an entire herd. And all the while she wove a trap of scent and touch and skill, using her dark gifts to endow him with the stamina of ten men. Insatiable, his need raged like a storm throughout the night. They tumbled one on top of the other, taking turns at mastery and submission. He took her in every orifice, yet his need grew like a bonfire. By morning, the passion had seared to obsession, a poison lodged deep in his soul. Sprawled across silken pillows, he finally lay spent, sated with sex. She purred with satisfaction, knowing she’d ruined him for all other women. A year of passion in a single night, he’d named her well.
Brimming with power, the Priestess rose with the first light, tracing her true name in the sweat on his chest. He groaned in pleasure but never woke. Gathering her silks, she left him sprawled on the divan. She smiled, knowing she’d tamed a future king to her bed, another conquest for the Dark Lord, another step in the great dark dance.
7
Danly
Blue sky above…where before there’d only been stone. Danly squinted through a fever haze, his thoughts as sluggish as a frozen river. Clouds dotted the sky, sunlight warmed his face…but the world moved. He lay sprawled on his back, surrounded by the creak and groan of wood, the clop of hooves…and a terrible stink that assaulted his nose. He knew that smell, cold sweat and stale piss, the smells of pain and fear…the stench of the dungeon. The dungeon! He bolted awake, gasping with memories he didn’t want; the Master Archivist’s snide smile, the executioner’s axe…and the red-robed apothecary with his knife.
“No!” The word was more a gurgle than a scream.
Blue sky above, proof he was free of the dungeon…but at what cost? Shaking, he refused to remember. He lied to himself, denying the pain at his groin. It couldn’t be true, just a fever-soaked nightmare. He was a prince of the realm; they wouldn’t dare do that to him…yet his fingers found a blood-encrusted bandage. Fear spiked through him. His hand hovered at the bandage; afraid of what lay beneath. Sweat poured out of him, but he had to know. His fingers wormed beneath, seeking his manhood.
“Noooooo!” The scream ripped out of him, a tortured howl. His mind convulsed and his body thrashed. They’d taken his manhood! They’d made him a maid! “Nooooo!” He howled like a thing possessed.
Cold water drenched his face. Danly sputtered for breath.
“Stop yer yammering.” A guard glared down at him, a scowl on his face. “Keep quiet or you’ll be wearing a gag.”
Danly struggled to understand. He lay sprawled on the bed of a wagon, stale straw for a mattress…iron shackles chaffing his legs. Iron shackles…so he was still a prisoner. Horses followed behind, four guards in the green and white tabards, swords belted to their sides, their faces full of disdain. So they knew! Danly shut his eyes, seeking oblivion, hiding from the humiliation as much as the pain.
The wagon lurched over a rut. Startled, he jerked awake. Danly gaped at his surroundings, stunned to find nothing had changed. Chained to a wagon bed, he still wore his prison rags beneath a scratchy blanket, the reason for the stink. His beard was long and straggly, a measure of his time spent in the dungeon. The dungeon, his anger turned to a cold rage. Tugging on his beard, he wondered how long he’d wallowed in his own filth. He needed information…and a weapon, and a way to get free. Feigning a fever, he writhed beneath the blanket, his hands searching the straw for steel…but all he found was an empty bucket and a ladle. A ladle against six swords, he would have laughed if it wasn’t so pitiful.
Danly laid still, breathing his own stink, staring up at the sky. The truth ate at his mind like a ravenous monster. They’d made a eunuch out of him. They’d stolen his manhood…and his chance to be king. A cold hatred raged in his soul. Somehow he’d find a way to repay his royal mother and her shadowmaster. Schemes of vengeance flooded his mind, each one more terrible than the last.
The wagon passed beneath a stand of trees, naked branches crisscrossing a darkening sky. Autumn or the brink of winter, wh
ere had the summer gone? He pulled the blanket close, seeking warmth.
The wagon ground to a halt, the clop of the horses falling silent. Danly lay still, watching through hooded eyes as the guards dismounted.
A blond-haired soldier climbed onto the wagon and nudged Danly with his boot. “Wake up.”
Danly moaned, feigning a fever.
The soldier kicked harder. “Wake up and eat, or you can spend another night wallowing in yer own stink.”
Danly glared at the soldier, his voice a weak croak. “Water?”
Another soldier snapped a command, “Carter, get him some water.”
Danly hid a smile, still a prisoner but they meant to keep him alive.
The blond-haired soldier scowled, “I ain’t a wet-nurse,” but he climbed down from the wagon, returning with a water skin. Tossing the skin to Danly, he unlocked the chain binding him to the wagon bed. “Drink your fill and then get down from there if you want to eat.”
Danly took his time, sloshing the cool water across his face, a balm against his fevered forehead. He tried to get clean, wiping his grimy hands on the dirty blanket. Filth smeared on top of filth, it was a hopeless task.
“Quit yer skulking and get down from there.”
Danly realized he was stalling, the eunuch-prince cowering in the wagon, avoiding the company of real men. A breeze brought a whiff of roasting venison, juices dripping into the flames, waking his hunger, revealing a ravenous emptiness. Pulled by the smell, he inched forward, making careful movements, fearful of rousing the pain between his legs. Chains clanked around his ankles, a hindrance and a reminder. He reached the back and eased over the edge, wondering if it would hurt to walk. His feet hit the ground…and pain lanced his groin. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. His legs buckled and he nearly fell. Clutching the wagon, he bit his lip, refusing to scream. The dizziness passed and he stood on wobbly legs.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 8