S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  The matron waved a dismissive hand toward the captain. “A member of the king’s guard always watches. We always need a witness. It’s as much for your protection as ours.” Her meaty hands ran the length of the cloak, squeezing the fabric, looking for any hidden intent. “Good quality wool.” Laying the cloak aside, she stared at the Priestess. “Let’s have a good look at you then.” The matron gave her a knowing appraisal. “Aren’t you dressed like the queen of the harem?” She wagged a finger. “You best not be hiding anything under those silks, deary.” She waved the eunuch forward. “Sal, you get started while I check the hair.”

  The matron moved behind her, kneading the Priestess’s long raven braid. “Such beautiful hair.” She gave the braid a harsh yank, the spite of old age confronting beauty.

  The fat eunuch waddled close, his hands outstretched. “Pardon my touch, m’lady,” but the rudeness of his grasp belied his words. Fingers fat as sausages traced her curves, crushing silk to flesh, ensuring nothing untoward lay beneath. Pawing her breasts, he pushed the silk aside to inspect. “Ah, rouge on your tits!” Brushing a finger across each one, he smeared the rouge and then sucked his finger clean, checking for poison. “And rouge on your lips, such a nice full mouth.” His fat fingers traced her lips, another taste. “Now open wide.” She opened her mouth and let him peer inside, feeling like a horse examined at auction. Satisfied, the eunuch knelt before her, his fat fingers groping between her legs. He touched and probed everywhere, licking his finger afterward, a royal taster of bedroom fare, more proof of the decadence and intrigue of the royal court. Through it all, the Priestess remained statute-still, bearing every indignity with stoic silence, all the while thinking of ten different ways to kill the fat fool.

  The eunuch gave her bottom a final squeeze. “There’s nothing but curves hidden beneath silk. She seems clean enough.”

  Her clothing in disarray, the Priestess made a show of restoring order to the intricate layers. The guard captain watched from the doorway, a leer on his face.

  “Just one more thing, deary.” The matron gave her a shrewd look. “Sit down and let Sal check those pretty slippers of yours.”

  The Priestess remained cool as still water. Taking a seat, she extended her right foot, relying on desert taboos to keep her secret safe.

  The eunuch knelt and fondled each foot, but he never bothered to remove her slippers. “Nothing here.” He snorted. “Pretty slippers, but you won’t walk far in those without going lame.”

  The Priestess hid her triumph, moving her feet back under the divan, a woman trying to regain her modesty. “Are you done?”

  The matron flashed a gap-toothed smile. “All but the waiting.”

  The Priestess had spent many nights studying the scrying bowl, learning the ways of the palace, but she hid her knowledge behind a façade of questions. “The waiting? What do you mean by ‘the waiting’?”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder why you were told to present yourself at noon?” Clucking like an old hen, the matron settled on the opposite divan, and poured herself a goblet of wine. “The courtesans are always told to come early. Gives any poisons time to take effect.” She waved toward the eunuch sitting cross-legged on the floor. “We’ll just sit here, enjoy this fine repast, and see if Sal still feels well by the time the sun sets.” Flashing a sly smile, she added, “You see, deary, if Sal lives then you live. Let’s drink to his good health.” Reclining on the divan, the matron sipped wine and nibbled on dried fruits, smiling like a cat sated with cream.

  It was only then that the Priestess saw the hidden risk. “And Sal won’t be having anything to eat or drink till sunset?”

  The matron’s smile grew. “That’s right, deary.” She made a clucking noise. “Wouldn’t be a fair test otherwise, would it?” She waved a hand toward the platter. “Help yourself, deary, there’s more than enough for the both of us.”

  The Priestess stared at the eunuch, considering the possibilities. The fat lump was safe from her…but what if he’d been poisoned ahead of time? She’d come as a debt-payment from Prince Razzur, the king’s strongest rival. Poisoning the eunuch would be a shrewd way for a skilled player to eliminate a threat and damage the reputation of the prince. Surely the king was not that shrewd. Angry at the thought of being outmaneuvered, she pushed the risk from her mind, deciding to rely on the king’s legendary lust. She’d gamble on Razzur’s reputation, the most skilled and exotic courtesans in all of Radagar. Surely the king could not resist the chance to sample the best of Razzur’s karesh? The question vexed her, but only time would tell. She studied the eunuch through narrowed eyes, willing the sands of the hourglass to flow faster, impatient for her chance to kill a king.

  10

  Liandra

  The queen’s councilors clamored to be heard.

  “They’re raping the north!”

  “Whole villages put to the torch!”

  “Rumors say they take no prisoners. These religious fanatics fight like barbarians!”

  “They must be stopped lest they reach Pellanor!”

  The queen sat enthroned at the head of the council table, listening to the rantings of her loyal lords. Such small men, she despaired of getting good advice from any of them. “My lords,” she raised her voice above the tumult, “this council was warned of war. Surely you expected no less from the enemy?”

  Her words dampened their outrage. Deflated, their stares circled the table as if looking for a scapegoat.

  Lord Lenox clutched a handkerchief like a white flag, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “We must retake the north! All that prime farmland cannot fall to the enemy.”

  Lord Mills snickered. “We all know where your holdings lie. A penniless lord is of little use to anyone.”

  “Enough.” The queen intervened. “The entire kingdom is at risk unless we defeat the enemy.” She gave them an icy glare. “We have come for advice, not argument.” She gestured to her deputy shadowmaster. “Master Raddock, provide our council with a summary of the latest dispatches.”

  The chamber stilled, like a flock of vultures awaiting a meal.

  The master cleared his throat, unaccustomed to speaking in council. “Dispatches from Prince Stewart confirm the enemy’s numbers at nigh on sixty thousand.”

  “Sixty!” Lord Lenox looked like he would faint.

  Lord Mills said, “We were told to expect forty thousand not sixty.”

  Master Raddock cleared his throat. “Our initial intelligence was wrong.”

  “But…” Lord Lenox made a strangled sound.

  The queen glared. “Now you see the danger of underestimating our enemy.” She gestured to her shadowmaster. “Continue.”

  “The Flame Army cuts a swath through the countryside. Burning villages as they march, they leave nothing but death in their wake. The Rose Army has engaged the enemy’s raiding parties, seeking to cut off their supplies. The prince strives to empty the villages and remove the harvest to the nearest strongholds, but he warns that the enemy marches in a straight line. So far nothing blunts their progress, a spearhead aimed at Pellanor.”

  A grim hush settled over the chamber.

  The queen studied her councilors. “There is more.”

  Master Raddock continued. “We’ve received a dispatch from the Master Archivist. Radagar’s full might has been purchased. Ten thousand mercenaries march to Pellanor to take up the city’s defense.”

  Master Saddler nodded. “Finally some good news.”

  Lord Lenox intervened. “Ten thousand will not be enough,” he shook his head, “not nearly enough.”

  “No, it will not be enough.” The queen agreed with her treasurer. “That is why we have summoned our full council. We seek ideas to defeat a larger army.”

  Lord Mills was the first to reply. Dark hair and dark eyes and rakish good looks, the lordling spoke with a certainty that far outstripped his years. “Give them what they want.”

  The queen drilled him with her stare. “Meaning?”


  “Lanverness is attacked because of our wealth. So give them what they want.” He smoothed his mustache, jeweled rings flashing from an elegant hand. “Offer them gold from the royal treasury. Pay them to sheath their swords and turn away.”

  “A bribe?”

  “A crude word,” Lord Mills offered a snake’s smile. “Think of it as paying a ransom in order to save the kingdom.”

  “And what price would you put on our kingdom?”

  The dapper lordling shrugged. “Perhaps half the treasury.” Gasps rippled around the table, but Lord Mills stared them down. “Better to lose half than all.”

  How easily her lords spent her hard-earned treasury. “And once the gold is paid, what makes you think the enemy will march away?”

  The lord shrugged. “Make them trade their swords for gold, without swords there can be no war.”

  “With so much gold, they can buy more swords.” She gave the lordling a scathing glare. “You would have us surrender before the fight is barely begun.” Her voice was laden with disgust. “Aside from Lord Mills, do any of you offer a suggestion to win the war?”

  Major Ranoth, a craggy-faced veteran with a gruff voice, took up the challenge. “The dispatch from the prince says the enemy marches straight for Pellanor. Even with ten thousand mercenaries, the city will be difficult to defend.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “Majesty, will you take the prince’s advice and move your court to Kardiff?”

  “We have been through this before.” Liandra put steel in her voice. “The crown will stay in Pellanor as a symbol to our people.”

  “But majesty…”

  She raised her hand, forestalling him. “We shall arm our citizenry, and offer weapons training to any who seek it. Let the people of this good realm fight to protect their city.”

  The major shook his head. “But majesty, the crown prince emptied the city of all able-bodied men. Aside from merchants too fat to lift a sword, there’s none left to fight save graybeards and youngsters.”

  “Nevertheless, we shall offer them swords and pikes. The state of a man’s beard does not preclude him from fighting. And if nothing else, it will allow the veterans to man the most critical posts.”

  The major nodded, “As you wish.”

  Lord Lenox intervened. “It will not be enough, not nearly enough.”

  “Lord Lenox, are you our treasurer or a doomsayer?”

  “We need a diversion.”

  The queen looked up, catching the scent of a fresh idea. The statement came from the Lord Sheriff, a seasoned swordsman with a flamboyant shock of red hair, the man she thought of as her fox. “What do you mean?”

  “If Pellanor cannot be easily defended, then we need to divert the enemy to another goal.”

  Her gaze pinned the sheriff. “Tell us more.”

  “Why does the enemy march on Pellanor? Is it for the gold of the treasury or the rose crown?”

  “Both.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Then why not make them choose?”

  “An interesting gambit.” The queen took up the thought. “Move the treasury and they might split their army, or better yet, march to another city, perhaps one more fortified than Pellanor.” She gave the lord sheriff her most gracious smile. “We like the way you think, Lord Sheldon. We will speak more on this matter.”

  The sheriff bowed and she turned her gaze to the other councilors. “Are there any other ideas worthy of consideration?” When none were forthcoming, she rose and extended her hand with her ringed hand. “This council is adjourned.”

  Her loyal lords leaped to take their leave, the lords Lenox and Mills lingering the longest, but it was the lord sheriff she favored with a smile. “Walk with us.”

  She swept from the chamber with the dashing sheriff at her side. “If we decide to move the treasury, where would you advise?”

  “Kardiff is the most obvious choice. It has the strongest fortress but it is also the most northerly of your strongholds.”

  “If not Kardiff, then where?”

  “Lingard or Graymaris, they are both strong city fortresses, protected by stout walls. Graymaris has the advantage of being the furthest south, making the enemy work for the prize.”

  “Your suggestion has merit. We want you to prepare to move the treasury to Graymaris. Plan the route and choose the men, but be discrete, and report only to us.”

  “How soon do you want the treasury moved?”

  “Not until after the mercenaries arrive from Radagar, otherwise we will not have the men to spare.”

  He nodded. “I will need an inventory of the treasury.”

  “Master Raddock will assist you, but the other council members need know nothing. We will tell them ourselves when the time is ripe.” She gave him a piercing glance.

  “Understood, your majesty.”

  A pair of guards snapped to attention as they reached her solar. She offered the sheriff her ringed hand. “You have our every confidence, our cunning fox among the hounds.”

  Flashing a gallant smile, he kissed her ring. “Ever at your service.” He lingered for just a moment, and then he turned and walked away with a jaunty swagger.

  His reaction pleased her, a touch of brightness in a long weary day. She turned toward the doors and the guards rushed to throw them open. Warmth and brightness welcomed her. Liandra entered her solar, a sanctuary against the demands of court. She clapped her hands and her ladies leaped to attend. “We are done with the fineries of court.”

  Gentle hands unbound her hair, while others attended to the intricacies of her gown. So many hooks and buttons, Liandra sighed to be released. After a long day, her gown seemed constricting, the harsh demands of image. Settling into a plush velvet robe, she took her ease before the fire. As the other women retreated, Lady Sarah approached, balancing a small silver tray. “A bit of supper, majesty, chicken broth and a mug of mulled wine.”

  She had no stomach for food. “Take it away.”

  “But majesty, you must eat.”

  Liandra heard the subtle steel beneath the words. The queen capitulated. “Oh, put it there,” she gestured to small side table, “you mother us like a hen.”

  Lady Sarah flashed a satisfied smile. “Someone has to.” She set the tray on the table. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Yes, keep us company.”

  With a curtsey, the petite auburn-haired woman settled into a small chair on the far side of the hearth. After more than a dozen years of service, Lady Sarah had the rare knack of providing companionship without the distraction of annoying chatter. The younger woman began to knit, weaving a steady rhythmic clacking with her needles.

  Something about the sound was soothing to the queen. “What is it this time?”

  “A scarf for my niece.”

  “Hmmm.” The queen stared into the fire, her mind beset with worries.

  “The seamstress shops of Pellanor will be busy this fall.”

  The queen’s stare snapped to her senior lady-in-waiting. “Fashion is set by the queen.”

  “Just so,” the knitting needles never missed a beat. “High waisted gowns, gathered just below the breasts, full and flowing. I expect a brocade will look best, or perhaps velvet, lots of rich velvets. Draping velvet can hide so much.”

  “You have a keen eye, Lady Sarah, pray that my councilors do not.”

  “Oh, men never notice such things till it hits them in the eye.” She flashed a conspirator’s smile. “Do you wish for a son or a daughter?”

  Liandra laced her hands across the slight bulge of her stomach, indulging in a rare smile. “Oh this one will be a girl. The gods owe me a daughter.”

  A companionable silence settled between them, the knitting needles keeping time once more. It felt good to share her deepest secret, for she would need help keeping it. A royal secret kept hidden until the time was right.

  “Will you tell the father?”

  The question was softly asked yet it lanced the queen’s heart. “Time will tell.” Liandr
a looked away, staring into the crackling flames, the worries of a kingdom heavy on her shoulders. The Master Archivist was on his way back to Pellanor, bringing a small army of mercenaries. The mercenaries were welcome but not the man himself. Her stomach clenched at the thought of him, a conflict of duty and longing. She dreaded confronting him, but he’d made his choice. From the start, she’d made it plain she’d brook no threat to her crown. She’d never expected such a betrayal, not from him. Her mind shied away from the hurt, turning instead to the greater problem. The enemy showed no quarter, raping and pillaging her kingdom. She was desperate to defeat a larger army. Hunger was proving too slow a weapon and war had never been her province. Her fingers drummed the armrest. At least she’d gained one idea from her council. Perhaps the treasury could be used in more than one scheme. War was a sticky business, and she needed to weave plots beyond anything she’d done before. Something complex enough to preserve a kingdom and a crown, for Liandra knew there would be no one to save her if she failed.

  11

  The Priestess

  The Priestess played the waiting game, studying the eunuch for signs of poison. Bald and fat, he sat cross-legged on the floor. A thoughtful look filled his moon-shaped face, as if he counted his own heartbeats, searching for a lethal flaw. A bellwether for treachery, the eunuch was safe from the Priestess, but a king’s household is ever full of plots. She’d come to the palace under the banner of House Razzur, a rival to the king, so any treachery was possible. She loathed the idea of being ensnared by another’s schemes, but she’d entered this viper’s nest of her own accord. So she kept her face a mask of calm, keeping watch on the eunuch, knowing her life was tied to his, waiting for time to unravel the truth. Plots within plots, such was the business of killing kings.

  The sands of the hourglass dragged, the afternoon stretching to forever. Without a window it was impossible to tell the true hour of the day or night. Just when she thought she could no longer bear the wait, a breathless page burst into the chamber. “The king commands entertainment!”