S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  “Lingard, I know this city.” A slow smile spread across her face. “The baron is loyal to the queen, but the captain of the guard can be twisted. His name is Vengar, a big ruddy man with red hair and a thirst for gold. Show him a flash of gold and he’ll serve the highest bidder.”

  “I like the way you think. And is there a lady baron?”

  “A wife dead over ten years ago.”

  “Even better.” He gave her an appraising look. “How do you know this?”

  She answered with a seductive smile. “A woman has her ways.”

  Steffan nodded, gaining a clue to her powers. Either the priestess had the ability to soul-sense, or else controlled an extensive spy network. Either way the woman was formidable, both in and out of bed. He reached for her, feeling a sudden need.

  She raised a hand, forestalling him. “Not yet.”

  “Why?” His voice was more of a growl than he wanted.

  “First the prince.”

  “Ah, the prince.” He’d done as she asked, giving the captured prince a pavilion of his own, and his pick of the camp women, and enough guards to make sure he did not escape. But otherwise, Steffan had left the prince alone, surrendering him to the tender mercies of the Priestess. “Won’t he follow your bidding?”

  “Yes, but this is your army.” She gestured to the seething mass of red roiling around the bonfire. “The prince must respect your command, and adopt your religion.” Her gaze turned inward as if she listened to another voice. “This religion of yours is important.” Her voice deepened, carrying the ring of prophecy. “So primal it turns the souls of men to hungry beasts. Never neglect the religion of the Flame, for it is part of the Dark Lord’s plans, part of his victory over Erdhe.” Her eyes closed and her head leaned back, a cascade of long dark hair shimmering in the morning light. A sigh escaped her, as if she were locked in the throws of passion. “I feel his pleasure. The Dark Lord revels in the pain of human sacrifice, in the raw power of twisted beliefs magnified across a multitude.”

  Steffan watched her, enthralled.

  Her hand flashed out, taking his hand, pressing it to the cleft of her breast, skin against skin. Passion jolted through him. He staggered back a step, gasping with need. “What are you?”

  Her gaze smoldered. “The Priestess of the Oracle.” Something dark lurked in her gaze, something wild and untamable and brimming with power. “See to the prince, and then come to me if you wish to worship.” She turned, regal as a queen, and disappeared into his pavilion.

  As if released from a spell, Steffan sagged against the oak table, remembering to breathe. The woman was dangerous. A feral smile flashed across his face, but the passion was worth the risk. He reached for a goblet, draining the wine in a single long draught. Cold and overly spiced, the mulled wine had lost its appeal, but he refilled the goblet anyway, draining it dry a second time.

  “My lord, let me heat that for you.” Pip appeared, rushing to set the metal ewer over the flames.

  “Where have you been?” The lad looked disheveled, his tunic rumpled, his red hair as straggled as a bird’s nest.

  “Spying on the prince, just as you ordered.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a surly one. Nothing pleases him. Not the wine, not the food, and not the women, not even Melinda,” an odd look crossed his face, “and she’s the best of them. Breasts like ripe melons and hair the color of wild strawberries.” His words stumbled to a halt as if he realized he’d said too much. Flushing bright red, he busied himself with the mulled wine.

  “And how would you know this?”

  “You told me to spy.”

  “How?”

  Pip stirred the wine as if it was of the greatest importance, but Steffan’s relentless stare pulled the words from him. “A pinprick in the back of the pavilion, lord. I worried it till it was just big enough to look through.”

  “And will I find a pinprick in the back of my pavilion?”

  “No!” Pip’s eyes flared wide and his face turned pale. “No, lord, never that.”

  Steffan smothered a smile; pleased with the lad’s reaction. A little fear was always healthy in a servant. “Good. Then you’ll keep watch on the prince and let me know if any of the women ever please him.”

  Pip looked down, his voice dropping to a mumble. “Only her.”

  “What?”

  Pip shuffled, his voice a low whisper. “Only her, lord.” The lad darted a frightened glance toward the pavilion and back to Steffan. “But I never watch.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  His face flamed red. “From the sounds, lord.” The lad added more wine to the ewer, his hands shaking.

  Steffan nodded, well aware of the Priestess’s power. Another man might have been jealous, but somehow it only multiplied his hunger for her. Steffan knew she held the eunuch-prince in thrall, all part of a greater plan, but when the Priestess wanted pure pleasure, it was his bed she came to, over and over again. Just this morning, she’d howled like a cat when he took her. Her musky scent still lingered on his skin like a promise…or a goad.

  “More wine, lord?”

  “No. My cloak.”

  The lad scurried away, returning with his black wool cloak, the bloodred raven boldly embroidered on the left breast. He twirled the cloak across his shoulders. “Keep the wine warm. And I’ll want a meal when I return.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And Pip,” the lad looked up from the wine. “Serve me well and Melinda will share your bed.”

  The lad gaped like a puppy slavering over a bone. Speechless, he bowed toward Steffan, his face flaming red.

  Steffan chuckled. It was past time the lad plumbed the pleasures of a woman, and besides, every vice was another means of control. Amused by Pip’s eagerness, Steffan turned and sauntered down the hill. A lone pavilion sat nestled on the far hillside, far enough away so that sounds would not carry. A dozen Black Flames surrounded the pavilion, fierce fanatics wedded to their halberds, the best of his army. They snapped to attention as he approached.

  A muffled scream came from inside the pavilion, followed by a loud slap. The curtains parted and a half-naked woman emerged. Sobbing, she nearly ran into Steffan. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, tears streaking her face. “Not my fault, lord.” Bowing low, she scurried away, her torn dress doing little to hide her swaying breasts.

  “I told you to leave!” Danly’s voice was a low snarl within the pavilion.

  Steffan parted the curtains and slipped inside. He stood in the shadows, comparing the past with the present. Gaunt from his ordeal, Danly lay sprawled on a divan, a goblet in his hand. His dark hair was unkempt and he reeked of sour sweat and spilled wine, looking more like a drunken wastrel than royalty. Old scars lined his left cheek, five deep furrows, the claw marks of an angry woman, a strange set of scars for a eunuch-prince.

  “I said, be gone!” Danly’s voice snapped with a nasty waspishness, but then he spied Steffan and his expression changed to sudden wariness. “Is it really you?” He stood, the empty goblet tumbling from his hand. “They told me you command here.”

  Steffan strode into the light. “Yes, we meet again, but much has changed since Pellanor.” Steffan offered the prince a benevolent smile. “It is my army that protects you from the Spider Queen.”

  The prince gave him a twisted grin. “It seems fortune favors the raven. As I recall, you had the Dark Lord’s own luck with dice.”

  Steffan chuckled. “If you only knew.”

  “What?”

  Steffan covered his lapse with a smile. “My good fortune can also be yours.”

  Danly gave him a shrewd stare. “How?”

  “We share a common enemy, both seeking to unseat a queen.”

  The prince stood in the center of the pavilion, unshaved, unwashed, stains of wine on his robe, looking anything but regal. “Tell me more.”

  Steffan gestured toward the divan. “You have my leave to sit.” He hid a smile as Danly sank back down onto the
pillows, how easily he established dominance. “You don’t care for the camp women?”

  The change in topic ambushed the prince, revealing a sudden flash of anger. “No, they don’t suite me. They’re all clumsy whores.” He pulled his silk robe tight, hiding his mangled manhood.

  Steffan hid his smile. “But a crown would suit you better.”

  “I was born to wear a crown and I almost had it.”

  “So I heard, but it slipped from your grasp.”

  Anger simmered on Danly’s face, but he had the good sense not to answer.

  “I’ve come to offer you another crown.”

  His gaze sharpened. “A king’s crown?”

  “No, a prince’s, but it comes gilded with vengeance.”

  “Only a prince?”

  Steffan shrugged, the lie coming easily to his tongue. “My army conquers in the name of the Pontifax. You will be a vassal prince, owing allegiance to Coronth.” Steffan smiled. “Better a prince than a prisoner, and vengeance will come with your crown.”

  “What must I do?”

  At least he was shrewd enough to know there was a price. “Start by offering your soul to the Flame God.”

  Danly’s face turned sour. “I’ve heard the screams. I want nothing to do with your religion.”

  “The screams come from infidels, not the faithful. The faithful have nothing to fear. And since you are a guest in my war camp, I don’t want you to fear.”

  Danly blanched at the threat but still he hesitated.

  “It’s for your own protection, you know.” Steffan made his voice congenial. “A simple ceremony in front of the troops and you’ll be dedicated to the Flame God.” Steffan studied the princeling, annoyed by the sullen silence. “It’s only a few words, a simple oath. Is your god so dear that you’d forfeit a crown?”

  “I never expected you to speak of gods.” Danly shook his head, a stubborn look on his face. “The gods are nothing but a pack of lies told by priests to keep the common people in thrall.”

  Steffan’s gaze narrowed. “You’d best keep that thought to yourself. Heretics and infidels are burned alive in this camp.”

  Danly shuddered, making a warding sign. “Does it really matter that much?”

  “Only if you value your life. You can’t expect my holy warriors to protect an infidel-prince. My army marches under the banner of the Flame.”

  Danly reached for a pitcher, pouring a slosh of red wine into his goblet. “So I’ll worship the Flame, what else do you want?”

  How easily the princeling gave up his gods. “When Lanverness is conquered, the people will be given a choice, to worship the Flame or to die by it.”

  Danly shrugged. “I never cared a fig for the people. That malady belongs to my royal mother.” His gaze sharpened. “I trust you intend to kill the bitch?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Good.” Danly gulped a swig of wine. “What else?”

  The prince was so compliant; perhaps he should geld all his captives. “What can you tell me about the city of Lingard?”

  “Ah! Now we come to it.” Danly sneered. “The chance to play the traitor prince!”

  So the eunuch-prince was not as stupid as he looked.

  Danly took a long swill of dark red wine. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he stared at Steffan. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the city’s defenses.”

  Danly shrugged. “If it will hurt the queen, why not?” He refilled his goblet and leaned back on the divan. “Lingard has formidable defenses. Unlike Pellanor, Lingard will be a tough nut to crack. The old baron believes in a strong defense, keeping the city from growing beyond its walls.” Danly flashed a wicked grin. “You’ll have to cross the moat and then scale thirty-foot walls. And then there’s the catapults and trebuchets mounted atop the battlements. A steady rain of boulders can be a killing storm, even for an army as great as yours.” The prince smirked. “If you want Lingard, your army will pay a steep price for it.”

  “When was the last time you visited the city?”

  Danly shrugged. “Three years ago, or so. The queen makes a periodic progress around the kingdom, visiting each major city and stronghold to renew the bonds of fealty. As princes of the realm, my brother and I were both required to attend.”

  “So the baron knows you?”

  Danly nodded. “Baron Rognald is a crusty old bastard, totally loyal to the queen.” A snide smile played across his face. “I know you, Lord Raven, you’ll try to trick your way into the city. But your bribes won’t work this time. You’ll have to play the soldier instead of the weasel.” Danly drained the goblet and reached for more, snickering at his own words. “Loyalty defeats the weasel.”

  “Enough!” Steffan knocked the goblet from the prince’s hand, spilling wine across the carpet. “I need a prince not a drunkard.”

  Danly glared but then he stood, his hand gripping the divan for support. His legs shook but a glint of fire still burned in his eyes. “You don’t understand what it’s like. What they did to me. What they took.” His voice deepened to a hungry rasp. “How much I lost.” He looked away. “I want the witch woman, the goddess with raven hair, no other woman will serve.”

  Steffan studied him like a bug beneath his boot. “Do you want the woman more than a crown?”

  The prince wavered. “Both, I want both. I’m not a man without her.”

  So it was like that, an addiction of another sort. Steffan hid his contempt. “If you want the woman then you need to serve.”

  The prince nodded, a hungry glint in his eyes. “Anything.”

  More proof the Priestess’s skills. The woman had sunk her claws deep. “Then listen closely.” Steffan told him the plan, explaining the part he was to play.

  Danly listened, sagging back onto the divan. His face turned pale. “It won’t work. Rognald will have my head.”

  “It will work, if you believe.”

  “And where will you be, Lord Raven, while I risk my head? Safe with your army?”

  “I’ll be riding right beside you.”

  Danly stared up at Steffan, as if trying to read his soul. An odd grin spread across his face. “You’re a tricky one, Lord Raven. Tricky enough to make it work. And you’ve the luck of the Dark Lord.” He nodded. “I’ll do it.” His gaze narrowed. “For a crown and the woman.”

  Steffan nodded. “From now on, you’ll be drinking only watered wine.” He emptied the flagon onto the brazier, causing the flames to flare. “I need a prince not a drunkard. Play your part well, and a crown will be yours.” Steffan turned and strode from the pavilion.

  Cold air buffeted his face, cleansing him of the prince’s stink. He climbed the hill to his own pavilion. A brazier glowed from inside, illuminating the red silk. The Priestess stood within, a tantalizing silhouette. Anticipation hastened his steps. He brushed the curtains aside and entered.

  She stood waiting for him, her dark hair unbound, her lips moist and red. “Did he agree?” Her smoky voice ran like fingers down his spine.

  “Of course.”

  She loosened the robe from her shoulders, letting the dark purple puddle to the carpet. Stepping naked from the silk, shadows and light played across her curves enhancing her allure. A vision of earthly delights, she opened her arms wide, his goddess of desire. “Come and worship. Come and celebrate the Dark Lord’s triumph.”

  Passion throbbed through in him like a heartbeat. He crossed the pavilion and took her in his arms and nothing else mattered.

  30

  Liandra

  Murder in our court, the words thundered through the queen’s mind. There’d been murders before, but never of a newfound ally, and never in such a ghastly manner. The queen hoped to contain the murder before gossip spread like wildfire, setting panic alight in her court.

  Clad in a simple gown of smoky gray velvet, Liandra made her way through the back halls of Castle Tandroth. Accompanied by Sir Durnheart, Master Raddock, and a pair of shadowmen, she insisted on viewing
the scene for herself. Sometimes a queen needed to see things without the filter of advisors. The monk was important and his murder a bitter blow. An enemy hid within her court, a murderer masked in friendship, and the queen meant to learn his name.

  Candlelight flickered on gilded hallways, portraits of her ancestors keeping watch over the castle. Master Raddock led the way. “This way, majesty.”

  A pair of shadowmen lurked in the hallway. They made their presence known and then disappeared back into alcoves. Master Raddock unlocked the door, ushering the queen inside.

  Liandra entered the chamber and came to a sudden stop. He was there. Shock struck her like a slap to the face. Robed in black, he stood with his back to the door, his hair longer and grayer than she remembered, his shoulders tense with thought, every line of his body bent with purpose, Robert!

  He turned as if he’d heard her very thoughts. His eyes widened, running the length of her, drinking her in, but then he gasped, a flash of emotions racing across his face. His keen eyes saw what other lords did not. Liandra knew the child was revealed, and he knew it was his. He knew!

  The Master Archivist knelt, his gaze burning into hers. “My queen!”

  Such fervor, she almost faltered, almost reached for him, but then the others crowded into the chamber, consuming all the air. Choked by emotion, she turned away. “Leave us.”

  “But majesty…”

  She glared at Master Raddock and he had the good sense to back away. The others left without argument. The door clicked closed and she found she could breathe again, but she wasn’t ready to face him. She ran a finger along the mantle, idly noting the dust. “I should have known you’d be here.”

  “Any threat to my queen.”

  She took a deep breath and turned. “What have you learned?”

  He remained on one knee. His gaze flicked to her waist, lingering long enough to ask the question. Her hands replied, protectively covering the swell, but she said nothing, unready to speak of the child. He bowed his head, as if assenting to her unspoken rules, and then he stood, all emotion wiped from his face. “The murder happened last night.” The tone of his voice was pure business, assailing her heart with a potent mixture of relief and sadness. “The body was found here, sprawled by the window. The severed head was over there.” He pointed to a chest placed awkwardly before the door. “It was displayed on the chest, a horror confronting anyone who opened the door.”