S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

She gasped for breath, forcing herself not to fight, knowing submission was the only way to survive. Falling limp beneath his grasp, she gave him a liquid stare, her voice a hoarse rasp, “Master?”

  He forced her to her knees. His eyes glazed, spittle foaming on his lips.

  She stared up at him, trying not to struggle, knowing it would only push him past all reason. Desperate for breath, she wondered if she’d made a fatal mistake. So hard not to call on her magic, not to fight back…but then he released her. Gulping air, she crumpled to the floor. Sobbing for breath, she lay at his feet, playing her part in the charade, knowing the king needed to make a show of strength before he could be dominated.

  “Get up.” He nudged her with his sandaled foot, his voice hoarse with wanting. “Dance for me.”

  She dared a glance at his face. The raw hatred was gone, washed away by violence, leaving him free to indulge other emotions. Certain of victory, she rose like a cobra from a basket and began to dance. Hands and hips swayed as she moved around him, weaving a spell of enticement. Summoning the Darkness, she deepened her allure. Round and around she moved, brushing against him like a cat seeking pleasure. Slow and sure, she loosened his robes. Silk and samite fell discarded to the floor till the king stood naked, his face hungry with desire, his manhood rampant. Everything about him was thick and engorged, passion teetering on the brink of danger. She tightened her hold on him, fanning his desire while tugging him toward the bed.

  A groan escaped him. The king reached for her, but she twirled away, leaving him panting. She shook her head. “Not yet.” Pulling the ribbon from her braid, she released a cascade of raven hair, a rush of sandalwood scent. Tossing her head like a wild mare in heat, she struck him with her raven tresses, a thousand silken caresses across his naked skin, a sensual whip, an unrelenting tease. Round and round she danced, whipping him into a storm of need.

  He groaned with pleasure, his manhood burgeoning with strain, his massive hands opening and closing, convulsive with need.

  She evaded his grasp, pushing him onto the divan. The king toppled backward, a giant sprawled amongst a sea of pillows. Leaping onto the bed, she stood over him, slowly shedding her last layers. Each swath became a silken lash against his rampant manhood, whipping him into a frenzy. Naked, she knew just how to tease. His face turned deep crimson, his gaze dark with wanting…and then she took her chance. Setting her slippered foot on his chest, the gravest insult to a desert prince, she gazed down at him, lowering her voice to a seductive command, “My mighty king. My slave of the bedchamber.”

  Like many men of power, he longed to be dominated in bed. “Yesss…” He made the word a hiss of pleasure.

  She pressed her foot into his chest. “What would you do to please me?”

  His breathing deepened, his voice a hungry rasp, “Anything.”

  “Then kiss my foot.”

  His big hands captured her foot, slowly removing the gilded slipper. He gasped in delight. “Rouge on your toes!”

  “Lick them. You know you want to.”

  Groaning, he gave into his fetish, his secret desire, his royal shame. Grasping her foot, he began to suck, making loud noises over each toe.

  She hid her triumph, waiting for the poison to take hold. When he finished the first, a smear of red on his lips, she offered the second, a double dose. The harvest from her garden did not disappoint. Sweat erupted in rivers from his skin, pooling in the folds of fat. His gaze darkened and his voice became a hoarse croak, his manhood deflating to a limp sausage. Floundering amongst the pillows, he gazed at her, his eyes full of terror. “What have you…” but his voice faded to a wheeze, another advantage of nightshade.

  The Priestess smiled, dropping all pretenses. “What have I done?” She traced her true name in the sweat on his chest. “I’ve killed a king.”

  He made one last grab for her, but his hands fell limp, his strength stolen by poison.

  Laughing, she leaped from the bed and quickly dressed in her silken finery. While he wheezed on the bed, she ransacked his cedar chests. She took the first cloak she found, an expensive weave of dark blue wool, and twirled it around her shoulders. Next, she opened a small jewel chest. Emeralds, rubies, and diamonds, a fortune in jewelry glittered in the torchlight. Amongst the rings and pendants, she found one in particular that was worth her life, a golden broach fashioned in the shape of a rearing cobra, a pair of rubies for eyes. A sign of royal favor, Cyrus gave the broach to concubines he wished to see another night, a trinket to get them past the guards’ scrutiny. She wondered how many women had worn the token only to die another night, killed for their knowledge of the royal fetish. This time would be different. She pinned the golden cobra to her cloak, prominently displayed above her heart, a token of triumph over a king.

  Giving the jewel box a second glance, she decided not to waste the fortune. She emptied the chest into a pillowcase and twirled it into a roll, tying it around her waist, hidden beneath swirls of silk. Satisfied, she studied her victim.

  Naked against a mound of pillows, his manhood shrunken beneath rolls of fat, the king lay sprawled across the divan. Soaked in sweat, he struggled for each breath. His struggle would be short-lived; the nightshade she’d used was particularly potent. In the meantime, he looked like a man sated with sex. The irony appealed to her, death by fetish.

  Turning her back on the king, she eased the bolts on the door, slipping out of the royal bedchamber.

  A pair of guards snapped to attention.

  She started to close the door but the senior guard stopped her, his face full of suspicion.

  Raising a finger to her lips, she glared a warning.

  The guard ignored her, peering through the open doorway. The king chose that moment to issue a death rattle, a sound that was part wheeze, part snore.

  She leaned toward the guard. “Wake him at your peril.”

  The guard paled and shut the door.

  The Priestess hid her smile; fear was a beautiful thing. She decided to press her advantage. “Will one of you escort me through the palace?”

  The guards’ stare found the broach pinned to her cloak. “You’ve gained the king’s favor but we dare not leave our post.”

  “Then I will see myself out.” Gathering the cloak, she turned and swayed down the hallway, moving with a slow and measured pace, a woman with nothing to hide.

  The broach proved an effective talisman, getting her past the scrutiny of royal guards. A thrill of triumph rushed through her as she reached the outer corridors, everything was going according to plan. The palace slumbered in the depths of night, ignorant of the king’s fate. She planned to be well gone before the deed was discovered.

  Reaching the outermost doorway, she paused; making sure the cloak covered her finery. Servants opened the door and she stepped into the night chill…and stumbled to a stop.

  The palanquin was gone…and so were her guards.

  The Priestess froze, cursing her servants. Noble-born women did not travel the streets of Salmythra alone, especially in the dead of night. Without her escort she couldn’t leave, but if she stayed she’d be caught. The choice was easy; there was nothing to be done but brazen it out.

  Summoning the bearing of a queen, she stepped from the doorway. Indifferent to the guards’ stares, she walked beneath the portico, counting the steps to freedom. Twelve steps got her to the gilded statues. Five more steps and she reached the massive columns. Three more got her to the cobblestone street.

  “Halt!”

  So close, yet she could not run. She turned, a pillar of dignity, giving the guards a haughty stare.

  A captain approached, followed by two guards. One of the guards carried a torch.

  She searched their faces, relieved to find them strangers. “Yes, captain?”

  Torchlight fell across her and the captain’s eyes widen, staring at the cobra broach. “Lady, you should not wander the streets alone.”

  She sighed. “True, captain, but my escort has vanished and I must retu
rn home.”

  “It is unseemly.” He shook his head, disapproval on his face. “Stay the night in the palace. Surely your escort will return with the dawn.”

  She’d killed a king yet she was too frail to walk the night. The Priestess kept her face serene, but beneath the mask, she seethed. The constraints of her sex threatened to trap her, but then she had a thought, deciding to turn his repressive culture against him. “My dear sister is heavy with child and I promised to attend the birthing. Her last child nearly killed her, a breech birth that tore something inside her, releasing a river of blood. She needs my skills in herb lore, I dare not tarry.”

  Scowling, the captain took a half step back as if she was unclean. Talk of birthing always made the desert-bred uneasy. “The king would never permit his mistress to wander the streets alone, especially in the dead of night.” He gestured toward the palace. “If you must leave, let me assign an escort.”

  The desert culture threatened to be the death of her. “My dear captain…”

  “My lady!” a deep voice called from the darkness.

  “Ah, my escort.” She pitched her voice to carry. “Tillot, is that you?”

  Otham strode to the edge of the torchlight. Hovering in the shadows, he towered above the captain. “Pardon, my lady, but I fell asleep waiting.”

  The captain stared. “This is your escort?”

  “Yes, captain.” She gave him a sweet smile. “With Tillot by my side, surely no harm will come to me.”

  The captain glared at Otham. “You should take better care of your mistress.”

  Otham bowed low.

  The Priestess made her voice low and soothing. “Do I have your permission to leave…or must I pester the king?”

  The captain blanched. “I was only concerned for your safety.” He made the hand gesture for a smooth journey. “May you walk in the shade of peace, my lady”

  “And you, captain.” She gave him a gracious smile and then turned toward the cobbled street. She was eager to be gone yet she forced herself to a lady’s leisurely pace. With each mincing step, anger burned inside, her triumph of killing the king marred by the constraints of her sex. She understood why the Dark Lord chose men as harlequins, and she did not like it. Needing an outlet for her rage, she snapped at Otham. “What happened?”

  He hovered close behind, his voice a low rumble. “I was nearly captured. Royal guards swarmed out of the palace, screaming about an assassination attempt, demanding the Razzur guards surrender. Razzur’s men decided to fight. Most of them died rather than submit. In the heat of battle, I slipped away, hiding in the shadows, waiting for you.” His voice caught. “I feared for you.”

  She sent him a sharp glare. “I killed a king, yet you ‘feared’ for me.” Angry, she increased the pace, tired of being suffocated by men.

  He followed, a hulking brute hovering at her shoulder. They walked in silence, making their way through the royal compound. By the time they reached the outer gate, the Priestess was limping badly, the cobblestones brutal on her slippered feet. She scowled, admitting the eunuch was right; the beaded slippers were beautiful but useless, like so much that filled most women’s lives. Otham offered to carry her, but she silenced him with a glare.

  The cobra broach got them through the guarded gate, out of the royal compound and into the city. The Priestess smiled, beginning to feel the triumph of the night.

  Otham led her to a back alley where her people waited in the shadows. Clad in travel leathers and bristling with weapons, they held fresh horses. Hugo, the captain of her guards saluted fist to chest. “Was your evening a success, mistress?”

  “Yes, but we need to be gone.” As she talked, her handmaidens surrounded her, helping her change into riding clothes, supple leather breeches and knee-high boots. The boots felt like bliss after the hellish slippers. “Is my rosewood chest secure?”

  “Secured with double bindings.” Hugo watched her dress, an admiring smile on his bearded face. “Shall we expect trouble?”

  She pulled on a leather jerkin, settling the king’s blue cloak around her shoulders, the cobra broached pinned over her heart. “Not if we’re beyond the city walls by dawn.”

  Her captain smiled. “Easily done.”

  “One more thing, have my bow strung.”

  Surprise shown from his face, but he did not argue. “I’ll do it myself.” He fetched her bow, bending the yew to the string.

  “Mount up.” She took the reins of a spirited black gelding and vaulted into the saddle. The horse felt good between her legs, better than most men. Gathering the reins, she asked the gelding for a trot, leading her people through the city’s back ways.

  Moonlight shimmered on empty streets, silvering the Cobra’s city. The Priestess led her people through the alleyways, toward the eastern gate. The sound of a flute drew her towards the market. This late at night, the market stood empty, yet the pungent smells of trodden vegetables clung to the cobblestone. Torchlight shimmered at the far end, revealing a gruesome sight. Just as she expected, the two bearers were already there. Hung nailed to wooden crosses; they endured a slow and torturous death. Below the crosses, the boy faced a different fate. Caged with a pair of cobras, he played his flute, desperate to keep the serpents enthralled. Two brutal deaths and the third creatively cruel, together they’d send a potent message to royal assassins. In Salmythra, the king’s retribution was both swift and terrible.

  She paused, staring up at their agony. “My bow.”

  The captain eased his horse next to hers, handing over her favorite shortbow and a quiver of arrows. Controlling the gelding with her knees, she nocked an arrow and drew the bow to a kiss. She waited a heartbeat and then released. The arrow pierced the cobra’s head. A second arrow took the second serpent. The flute fell silent and the boy began to sob. “Release him.”

  Two more arrows and the bearers were freed of pain. She wiped the bow dry and then handed it to her captain, a skill learned in childhood, as deadly if not as subtle as poison.

  Her captain murmured, “Good shooting” but she did not bother to reply.

  “Come, we have much to do.” She’d had more than enough of Radagar. Wheeling the gelding to the east, she asked for a gallop. Letting the wind take her long raven hair, she gave herself over to the thrill of victory. She’d killed a king and changed the destiny of a kingdom, snatching victory from defeat. Power flowed through her, a feeling of invincibility, almost as good as sex. The stallion surged beneath her legs. She laughed, enjoying the ride, eager to win a place at the Dark Lord’s side.

  15

  Liandra

  Candles burned to stubs as Liandra reviewed the royal ledgers. War was a costly business but she persisted in chasing a profit. No sum was too small to escape the queen’s notice. Numbers spoke to her, unveiling their secrets, whispering ways to multiply golds. Commerce was the lifeblood of her kingdom and she aimed to see it flourish despite the enemy. But war had an uncanny way of turning commerce on its head, making luxury items worthless and bare essentials scarce. Hoarded by the common people, the price of grain soared while silks and perfumes languished. At least she’d had the good sense to stockpile iron ore while luring half a dozen swordsmiths to her capital. By night and by day the sound of hammers rang through the city streets while wagons of grain rumbled through the gates. Pellanor was a beehive of activity, but it was a nervous commerce, fearful of encroaching war. At all costs, she needed to keep the enemy from the gates.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Liandra leaned back, flexing fingers cramped from holding the quill. “Yes.”

  Lady Sarah appeared. “Supper is served and Lord Mills craves an audience.”

  “Another councilor suing for truce.” They’d been at her door like a flock of frightened chicks, pecking away at her resolve. “Our loyal lords don’t seem to understand that ‘peace’ under the Flame God is just another word for enslavement.” She set the quill aside and stoppered the ink. “Tell the councilor the queen is oth
erwise occupied.”

  Lady Sarah nodded, but her face carried an odd look.

  “Something else?”

  The lady flushed, removing her hand from behind her back to reveal a sealed scroll. “Lord Highgate sends another scroll.”

  His name alone was a lance to her heart. Liandra stilled her face, staring at the scroll as if it were a viper. She was tempted to order it burned, but the man had a keen mind and an even sharper eye, and the times were troubled. Advice from her former shadowmaster could not be ignored, but it also took a toll on her resolve. “Set it on the mantle with the others.”

  Lady Sarah complied. “Will there be an answer?”

  “No.” The queen’s voice brooked no argument, slamming a door on her heart.

  “And supper?”

  “Supper is welcome.” She’d finally regained her appetite. “And our guest?”

  “Awaits.”

  “Good.” Setting aside the ledgers, the queen left her solar for the small round chamber that served as her private dining room. Servants scurried about the table, lighting candles and filling wine goblets. A fire crackled in the hearth, releasing a welcome warmth. Savory smells coaxed her to the table, roast pheasant with plum sauce, fresh-baked bread and apples laced with cinnamon, a feast of scents teasing her hunger.

  A servant rushed to hold her chair. The queen took a seat, arranging the pleats of her gown, a lush emerald-green velvet embroidered with seed pearls. High waisted with artful pleats and a deep neckline, the new gowns were much more comfortable, and so much more concealing. Designed to her specification, the pleats obscured her waist while the low-cut bosom distracted prying eyes. The gowns set a new fashion for the rose court, protecting a royal secret. Only a handful of her ladies knew the truth, while her loyal lords seemed oblivious. Liandra smiled, a strange mixture of relief, amusement, and disdain.

  Candlelight glinted off silver and fine porcelain, a show of opulence despite the war. Satisfied with the table, the queen gestured to the head steward, a tall balding man liveried in emerald green. “Oliver, admit our guest and begin serving once she is settled.”