S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  A startled look flashed across the matron’s face but was quickly hidden beneath a scowl. Heaving herself off the divan, she offered the Priestess a gap-toothed smile. “Sal lives, so you live.” She made a clumsy bow. “I hope you’ll pardon us both for the search, m’lady.”

  Relief washed through her, the palace not nearly as devious as she imagined. “The king is well served by your efforts…but I need my companions in order to provide entertainment fit for royalty.”

  “The guards will bring them to you,” the old lady’s smile changed to a sour sneer, “assuming they’ve been found free of treachery.” The matron bowed and ushered the eunuch from the chamber.

  The Priestess watched them leave, wondering at the venom beneath the old woman’s words. Perhaps it was the bitterness of old age confronted by beauty. Whatever the reason, she’d survived the gauntlet of searches, the first triumph of her plan. Stretching like a cat, she adjusted her silken layers, preparing for her performance.

  Footsteps at the doorway announced the arrival of her servants. Two muscle-bound bearers carried the basket between them, the boy from the market following behind. She searched their faces. “Are you well?”

  Rashid, the senior bearer said, “Yes, mistress. They searched us, just as you said, but we’re fine.”

  “I didn’t like it.” The cherub-faced boy fidgeted, staring at the marble floor, clutching his flute in his hands.

  Crossing the room, she cupped his chin, gently lifting his face till his dark stare met hers. “You’ve done well.” She gave him a warm reassuring smile, her voice like honey. “Neffer, are ready to play your flute for the king?”

  A smile lit up his face, a cherub glimpsing heaven. “Yes, lady.”

  “Good.” She brushed a playful hand through his auburn curls. “Play as you did in the market and you’ll charm the entire court.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Play your best for me and your reward will be great.”

  He nodded, his gaze bright with the desire to please.

  She smiled; boys of his age were so easily charmed.

  A guard at the doorway growled a warning. “The king grows impatient.”

  Releasing the boy, she turned to the two bearers. “You both know your orders?” Seeing their nods, she made her voice loud enough to be heard by the guards. “Then let’s give the king a performance he’ll never forget.” She gestured toward the basket.

  The bearers lowered the basket, tilting the opening toward her. Ducking low, she slipped inside, moving to the rear. Placing one foot against the back wall, she transferred her weight, tipping the basket upright. The bowl-shaped basket wobbled back and forth, finally settling in the vertical. Crouched at the bottom, she took a moment to orient herself by peering through the rough weave, spying on the guards hovering in the doorway. Bracing her hands against the sides, she said, “You may begin.”

  The bearers lifted the basket to their shoulders and followed the guards through the maze of corridors, the boy trailing behind. The Priestess braced against the basket’s sway, like being set adrift in a rocky sea. She clutched the sides while trying to peer through the weave, eager to reach the king.

  The din of male revelry announced their arrival. Royal princes clamored for entertainment, their strident voices refusing to be bored. Sizzling smells of grilled lamb laced with firespice wafted through the basket, proof she’d arrived as the dinner entertainment.

  The basket was lowered to the floor, a sudden stop to the rocking motion. Pressing her face to the weave, the Priestess searched for the king. Opulence was her first impression. The royal hall was a vision of extravagance pushed to decadence. A forest of golden columns lined a dining hall paved with green marble and semi-precious stones. Turbaned princes reclined on gilded couches sipping drinks and sampling platters of sweetmeats. Scantily clad servant-girls scurried in the shadows, pouring goblets of wine and offering skewers of grilled meat. A feast set for princes, the king had a reputation for surrounding himself with royal sycophants; she’d have a full audience for her performance.

  She moved around the basket till she gained a glimpse of the king. There was no mistaking the master of the Cobra Throne. Seated upon a raised dais, the king lounged on a golden divan large enough to hold a dozen people. Bald headed and olive skinned, King Cyrus was a giant of a man buried beneath rolls of fat. Bloated with power, he lolled across the divan like a python that had swallowed numerous rivals but digested none. The Priestess narrowed her gaze, considering her prey. In many ways, the king’s glutinous appearance was a deception. Cyrus was a famed wrestler, strength hidden beneath obesity, a dangerous man in more ways than one. The bored look on his broad face hid a cunning cruelty. She smiled, wondering if the king had ever been bested by a woman. Tonight would prove an interesting challenge. She’d pit her poisonous elegance against his muscled bulk, trusting desire to be his downfall.

  A stern-faced seneschal pounded his ironshod staff against the marble floor. “The king has called for entertainment.”

  From the basket’s heart, the Priestess watched as the two bearers and the boy fell prostrate to the floor.

  The king gave a negligent wave and the seneschal said, “You may rise and address his majesty.”

  The three scrambled to their feet, keeping their heads bowed. The lead bearer, Rashid, took a step toward the king, his voice a deep rumble. “Lady Cereus, the best of Prince Razzur’s karesh, has come as debt-payment to the king.”

  A ripple of excitement stirred the male guests.

  Rashid kept his head bowed. “We humbly crave your majesty’s permission to begin?”

  The king made a curt gesture, his face a mask of bored indifference.

  The two bearers bowed low, retreating to stand behind the basket. Neffer settled cross-legged on the floor. Without preamble, he raised the flute to his lips. A single pure note pierced the hall; a siren’s call beckoning the attention of every man in the room. The boy held the note for a small eternity, and then he let it descend into a lilting melody, dissolving into the subtle weave of the snake charmer’s song.

  The Priestess watched from the basket’s heart, waiting for flute’s spell to take hold. An intricate weave of notes, the song teased the mind with mystery, tempting the imagination. Designed to enthrall a cobra, the ancient song bespelled her audience. Princes jaded with orgies sat forward, staring at the basket, curiosity naked on their faces. She kept them waiting…till their hands and heads began to sway, caught by the charm of the flute.

  And then she struck. Holding fast to one end, she threw a coil of green ribbon up through the basket’s mouth. Like a green snake uncoiling, the ribbon shot upwards, answering the summons of the flute.

  Gasps of surprise rippled around the room…followed by a cascade of deep-throated chuckles.

  Keeping her hands out of sight, she played the ribbon, making it dance to the flute, while slowly drawing it backwards.

  The basket swallowed the ribbon…and the melody of the flute deepened, becoming more mysterious, more seductive.

  Now it was her turn. She raised a single hand, a slow weave rising up out of the basket like a cobra caught by the flute. With each move, the bracelets on her arms chimed with feminine seduction.

  “Ahhhh…” The princes sighed with anticipation.

  Her hand wove an age-old spell, a subtle dance beckoning the men with a promise of more. The mood of her audience intensified, the men leaning forward on their divans. A sexual heat flooded the hall, setting them on edge. Her second hand joined the first, a pair of pale white cobras dancing to the music, the double entendre of death and beauty entwined, a lure to the desert-born.

  And then it was time. Raising one slippered foot to the side of the basket, she pressed her weight forward, tipping it over. Tucking her knees to her chest, she rolled through the open mouth, leaping to her feet like a djinn sprung from a bottle.

  “Bak-her!” Whistles and claps of appreciation rippled through the princes.

  The dance began in earne
st, her every movement liquid, her whole body weaving to the flute. She became the cobra, sinuous and hypnotic, full of sexual allure. With each twirl, layers of perfumed silk fluttered to the floor, revealing a flash of shapely thigh or a swell of pearl-white breast. Her ankle bracelets chimed to the rhythm of the dance. Light flashed from the crystals bedecking her slippered feet. She swirled, heat flushing her cheeks. Grasping her long braid of raven black hair, she wove it across her body like a snake, slithering across her lips and down between her breasts, reaching for her loins. And all the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the king, as if she danced for him alone.

  Her dance had the proper effect. The king’s stare followed her every movement, his gaze entranced by her slippered feet. His face flushed red as he leaned forward, the tip of his tongue darting in and out like a serpent scenting for sex.

  She quickened the pace, loosing her dark skills into the dance. Her skin smoldered with heat, evoking temptation with every move. She called on the Darkness to deepen her allure. Power thrummed through her and the dance intensified. Sizzling with seduction, she swirled to the beat. Sexual need leaped through the men like fire to kindling. She felt their stares pounding against her and fed their need back into the dance. Empowered by their desire, she blazed with sensuality, promising a thousand delights. Her hands caressed her curves, making wanton gestures, a surrogate for the men. Silk swirled around her, a subtle mix of skin and tempting silhouettes. Like liquid desire, she flowed with the flute, weaving a spell of enchantment. The men gasped with need, but she kept her gaze fixed on the king.

  The voice of the flute soared to a crescendo. The Priestess danced to the edge of the dais. Silk whispered from her hand, a soft lash teasing the king. Bells chimed on her wrists and ankles. Like a fantasy fulfilled, she stared into the king’s eyes, offering a promise and a dare.

  The flute reached the climax, stopping in mid note.

  The Priestess melted to the floor, a flutter of silk draped across the steps, her open hand reaching up to the king.

  “Huzzah!”

  “Bak-her!” Cheers and whistles echoed through the hall, a thunder of male appreciation…but the Priestess held her pose, staring up at the king, making him the center of her world.

  Cyrus stared down at her, his eyes dark pools of wanting. “Your name, my beauty?”

  “Cereus, majesty, yours to please.” The Priestess hid her smile, knowing she’d captured a king.

  Cyrus reached for her, offering his hand.

  “Don’t touch her!” The cry sliced through the chamber like an assassin’s sword. “The eunuch dies of poison! The temptress is a trap!”

  The Priestess stifled a gasp, keeping her stare fixed on the king.

  Annoyance flashed deep in the king’s eyes but not surprise. Not surprise, the Priestess froze feeling the jaws of a trap. So the king ordered the eunuch poisoned to discredit his most bitter rival. Plots within plots, she was betrayed by politics. Rage flooded through her but she buried it deep.

  Chaos erupted in the chamber. Guards sprang to the dais, their swords whispering from scabbards, but the Priestess did not move.

  Cold steel pressed against her throat, the keen edge of death. The Priestess froze, staring up at the king, her gaze smoldering with sexual promise. She sent a fervent prayer to the Dark Lord, knowing her life depended on her allure.

  12

  Liandra

  Five times Liandra changed her gown, finally settling on the gold samite with the deep neckline and the dagged sleeves. It was her most regal. Tonight, she needed to be pure queen.

  A single guard waited outside her solar, Sir Durnheart, handsome in his emerald tabard, the hilt of his blue steel sword gleaming over his right shoulder, the one knight she could absolutely trust. She gave him the barest of nods and he fell into step behind her.

  Candles lit the hallway, shadows merging with the last rays of sunlight. Tapestries lined the walls, exquisite carpets on the marble floors, but she saw none of it, her mind churning with arguments. Down the stairway and through a long hall, she reached the throne room. A pair of guards rushed to open the gilded doors.

  She hesitated on the threshold, watching the last rays of light play across the long hall, and then she crossed the checkerboard floor, climbing the dais to her throne. Designed to impress, the throne was a massive confection of gold roses offset by emerald leaves. Worth a king’s ransom, she considered it a fitting stage for a queen. She took her time arranging her gown, perfecting every line, her bejeweled hands glittering in the candlelight. Finally satisfied, she nodded to Sir Durnheart. “Bring him. And while he is here, let no one enter.”

  The knight saluted and made a smart pivot, striding the length of the hall.

  The doors opened and shut with a resounding thud, echoing through the silence.

  The queen sat alone with her thoughts. It had been almost two months since she’d last seen him, yet memories of their nights still burned with passion. She bit her lip, refusing to think of it. Tonight, she needed to be pure queen. Her fingers drummed the armrest. Minutes seemed like hours. Empty and cavernous, she held court to shadows, candles flickering the length of the audience hall.

  And then the doors opened and her heartbeat spiked. Somber in robes of black, he stood on the threshold, tall and lean and dark as a shadow, her spymaster, her confidant, her lover. Their eyes locked. His glance struck like smoldering embers. Liandra gripped the throne’s arms, forcing herself to remain statue-still.

  Like her, he hesitated, as if considering his next move, but then he crossed the checkerboard, stopping at the foot of the dais. “You summoned me, my queen?” His dark gaze met hers, an intelligence as fierce as her own.

  “Have you forgotten how to kneel?” She made her voice hard as ice, determined to ignore the weariness etched on his face.

  “No, majesty.” He sank to one knee, his gaze boring up at her. “But I wonder at your ire.”

  “You wonder?” Two weeks, the length of time she’d kept him waiting, locked in his own chambers, a political prisoner. She’d heard he’d worn a path in his carpet. “Surely, you know the cause.”

  “I sent you a report on the negotiations with Radagar. If you are unhappy with the price…”

  She cut him off, “You know better.” She gave him a cold stare, letting the silence reflect her displeasure.

  His gaze narrowed, staring up at her. “I’ve heard rumors you’ve been unwell.”

  “Indigestion. A bout of bad trout.”

  He nodded, relief in his gaze.

  How easily he accepted her explanation. Disappointment ambushed her, yet she refused to succumb. Staring down at him, she willed icy daggers into her glare.

  Silence built like a wall between them. He broke first, uttering a weary sigh. “So, the traitor prince.”

  “Yes, the prince,” her voice dropped to a deadly hiss, “how dare you usurp our power.”

  “Justice needed to be served.”

  “Justice belongs to the ruling sovereign.” She filled her voice with disdain. “We wear the crown. You are merely our spymaster.”

  He catapulted to his feet, anger blazing on his face. “Justice needed to be served and you were locked in indecision.”

  “No, we considered the problem from all angles.”

  “You were never going to decide.”

  “Vacillation can be a tool of statecraft.” She meant to be cold and calculating, but he brought out her claws, her words coming in a rush of heat. “Once removed, heads cannot be replaced. Shall we be hasty with your head? We’re sure Sir Durnheart could take it in a single stroke.”

  “Madam, it had to be done.”

  “Without the queen’s approval?”

  “Even in prison, he was a threat to you! And the longer you delayed, the worse it looked!”

  Rage threatened to engulf her. “You sleep with me and then you grasp for my crown!”

  “It’s not like that!”

  “Then tell us how it is, for it looks l
ike treason!”

  His face paled. “No, not that, never that.”

  Once unleashed, her rage spewed like venom. “And we only learned of the deed in our council. In our council! A crown is a slippery thing and a sovereign can never be uninformed, especially not a queen.”

  “I never meant…” he shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain before we pass judgment.”

  “I did it to protect you!” He began to pace like a caged beast, running his hand through his iron-gray hair. “It had to be done. Even imprisoned Danly was a threat to your crown. Justice needed to be served and this was the best solution. Dying, Danly might have become a martyr to the Red Horns. Unmanned, he proves he’s not worthy of the throne. I knew he’d choose the coward’s way, that’s why I offered him a choice. It was the perfect gambit. Don’t you see?” He turned and stared up at her, his hands spread wide in appeal. “Danly made his choice. Now he can live out his days as an exiled eunuch, with no threat to your crown, and no blood on your hands.”

  “But it was a decision only a sovereign could make.” Her voice was cold and deadly, masking the pain of betrayal. “We trusted you, and you usurped our power, acting behind our back!”

  “Yes, I did. I acted for you.” He met her stare, his gaze as sharp and proud as an eagle. “I did it for Liandra, the woman beneath that cold crown. I sought to spare you the pain. For no woman, highborn or low, should ever be forced to condemn her own son to death. Such a thing leaves a scar on the soul. A burden you should never have to bear. So, yes, I did it for you.” His voice deepened to a hoarse rasp. “I did it for us.”

  For us? His words struck like a hammer blow to her soul. She ached to tell him her secret, tell him about the longed for daughter, but she feared it would only give him power over her, a tool to be used against her. “How can there ever be an ‘us’, for I will yield the crown to no man.”

  “Madam, I never asked you to.”

  The sincerity in his voice almost overwhelmed her, almost. She closed her eyes, reminding herself of his rapier-wit, of his silver tongue. “We should never have put off the crown to be with you.” When she opened her eyes, he was kneeling once more.