Her steps faltered, numbed by cold. Sir Durnheart leaped to her side, “Majesty!”
She waved him away, refusing to show weakness. Her hands and feet felt numb, yet she glowed with the gratitude of her people. She made her way along the battlement, grateful to reach the inner warmth of the castle’s hallways.
Courtiers approached, but she waved them off, unwilling to sully the day with the pettiness of politics. She took the shortest route to the Queen’s Tower, yearning for the sanctuary of her solar.
Her women were waiting, offering the queen a deep courtesy.
Lady Sarah beamed, “We heard the cheers from here.” She waved the others forward, working to divest the queen of her silken finery. Lady Sarah touched her hand, recoiling in shock. “Majesty, you’re nearly frozen!”
Liandra smiled. “No, on this day, we are kept warm by our people.”
Lady Sarah scowled. “Little good it’ll do if you catch your death of cold.” She issued orders to others. “Quick, the ermine robe.”
They’d warmed the robe by the fire. Liandra luxuriated in its plush warmth.
Lady Sarah clucked like an angry hen. “You should have worn the velvet instead of the silk.”
Liandra smiled, content with her choice. “The emerald silk was bright like a banner. Sometimes show exceeds substance.”
“Should have worn the velvet.” Lady Sarah frowned, her fingers busy with fastenings.
Her women worked like bees around her, trading silks and jewels for plush robes of soft lambs’ wool. One combed her raven hair while another placed furlined slippers on her feet. The fire crackled and snapped, a welcome warmth blazing from the hearth.
Liandra whispered a warning. “He will be here soon.”
Lady Sarah caught her meaning, ushering the others from the queen’s solar. “Her majesty needs her rest.” The doors closed and the two women were alone. Lady Sarah began to fuss at a teapot set before the fire. “I set a pot of tea to brewing but its been sitting for a fair spell, probably over steeped. You took longer than I expected. Shall I pour another pot?”
“No, a cup of strong tea is just what we need to chase the chill away.”
A tapping came from the secret door. Liandra’s heartbeat quickened; she’d entrusted him with a key to the castle’s secret ways. A moment later, the hidden doorway swung open and the Master Archivist stepped into the room. His face alight, he crossed the chamber to kneel by her side. “You were magnificent!”
“So you watched?”
His eyes glowed with praise. “Always.”
“From the shadows?”
“As we agreed.”
“And what did you learn?”
His face sobered and she regretted the question. “You did well to send the mercenaries.”
She nodded. “So you saw it too.”
“And you’re well rid of those lords, weasels and silver tongues the lot of them.”
“Yes, but Lord Mills chose to remain.”
Her shadowmaster nodded. “Which only deepends my suspicions.”
“That one plays a deeper game. Worth watching.”
Lady Sarah poured tea, handing the queen a cup. Liandra laced her hands around the delicate porcelain, soaking up the warmth, too hot to drink. “Any luck with the assassin?”
“Not yet.” His voice was a dangerous growl.
Lady Sarah sat by the fire. “This tea tastes bitter. Perhaps I should brew another pot?”
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows in their lead casings. A window banged open, admitting a breath of cold.
Lady Sarah jumped. “I could have sworn I latched those!”
The queen’s gaze snapped to her shadowmaster, her fears echoed in his face. He sprang to the windows, a dagger in his fist. Leaning out, he stared above and below. “Nothing.” He latched the windows and then turned to scan the room, his gaze laden with suspicion. “The tea!” He leaped forward, knocking the cup from the queen’s grasp. Porcelain shattered on the hearth, leaving a telltale puddle.
Lady Sarah stood, her voice indignant. “Why…”
“Poison.”
Her brown eyes widened. She slowly set her teacup on the table as if it might bite.
The Master Archivist lifted the cup, sniffing and then dabbing his finger for a taste. “Have you left the teapot unattended?”
Lady Sarah blustered in confusion. “Well yes, her majesty took longer than expected. I poured the tea and added logs to the fire, but then I had other duties to attend to.” Her voice faded. “Why?”
“An assassin stalks the queen’s court, a master of poisons.”
The lady gasped, but the queen’s voice held steady. “What poison?”
“Judging from the taste, and from the use, I’d say Tansey.”
Tansey, she knew this poison, a weed used by herb witches to abort unwanted babes. “Tansey!” Shock gripped Liandra, her hands clutching the swell of her child. “He seeks to murder our daughter!” She began to shake, a mixture of rage and fear. “You must find this murderer, this assassin of babes.” Her hands whipped out, hitting the teapot, sending it shattering against the wall. “We’ll have his head and we’ll know the master he serves! Now go!”
Lady Sarah fled, and the Master Archivist took his leave, his face as dark as thunder, but the queen barely noticed. She paced in front of the fire; her fists clenched tight, her fingernails drawing blood. “They dared to reach for our child! Our unborn child!” Anger coursed through her, tainted by fear. Her court was suddenly more dangerous than ever before.
33
Jordan
The smell of fresh biscuits pulled her from sleep. Jordan woke to find the camp struck, the horses saddled, and the others sitting around the fire sharing a morning meal. She stretched; surprised to find the sun at midmorning. Rafe approached, handing her a steaming mug. “You had an uneasy night. We decided to let you sleep.”
Memories of her nightmares crashed against her, visions of death and despair. “Oh.” Embarrassed, she took the mug, thankful for the warm brew. She drank the tea in one long pull and then rose from her bedroll. Belting her sword around her waist and swirling her checkered cloak around her shoulders, she slipped into the forest to make her morning toilet. Distracted by her dreams, she took a while returning. When she emerged from the trees, the soft murmur of voices died like a snuffed candle. Self-conscious, she took a seat near Rafe. Thad handed her a plate heaped with biscuits and crisp slices of bacon.
“Thanks.” Suddenly ravenous, she pounced on the meal. The bacon tasted ambrosial and the biscuits soft as clouds. She took the edge off her hunger and then slowed, realizing they all stared at her. Her appetite fled. Setting the plate aside, she cradled a mug of tea, avoiding their stares.
Lenore was the first to speak. Wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue, the silver-haired monk held an aura of authority. “Have you decided?”
Jordan’s gaze skittered around the others. Yarl sat hunched forward like a bear waiting to strike, while the beautiful Ellis watched with a hawk’s steely gaze. Even Rafe studied her like a newfound scroll. She felt their gazes boring into her. The monks were fierce with intensity while the soldiers were keen with eagerness. Avoiding their stares, she found refuge in Thad. His blue-eyed gaze was warm and steady. “It’s your decision, lass.”
Anger sparked through her. “Who am I to deicide who lives and dies?”
“You won’t be deciding who dies,” his gaze held hers, “only who lives. Do nothing and they all die.”
The truth cut like a sword.
Thad tugged on his russet beard, his gaze full of understanding. “Tis always the way with evil. Darkness expects the Light not to act.”
Yarl leaned forward. “You’ve been given a rare gift, though it may seem like a curse, a chance to see what evil intends, a chance to thwart Darkness.”
“Child,” Lenore’s voice carried the authority of the Order. “The gods gifted you with these visions for a reason.” Her amber-colored gaze pierced Jord
an, as if her eyes saw more than most. “Think of them as a sharp-edged sword. You must seize the sword and strike a blow against the Dark, for in this war our advantages are few.”
Jordan nodded. “Seize the sword,” it was advice she could appreciate. “But the visions are so confusing, how do I know which to choose?”
“Choose the one that is most dire.”
Jordan shook her head. “They’re all about death and deceit.”
Thad said, “Follow your heart.”
Jordan studied the big warrior, surprised by his advice.
Beside her Rafe said, “Remember how we talked about the stack of logs, choose the right one and they might all tumble.”
“Good advice, but which one is the key?”
Rafe shrugged. “Perhaps the one you see the most?”
“A plague of nightmares,” Jordan shook her head in frustration, “pulling me everywhere at once.”
Lenore gave her a knowing smile. “The Order can reach many places. You need only tell us who to warn.”
The monk’s words brought spark of hope. “But even the fastest horse will take months to reach them.”
“We have our ways.” The silver-haired monk held her gaze, not a shred of doubt on her face. “To be forewarned is to be forearmed. Knowledge is the sharpest sword.”
“All right then,” Jordan made her decision. “Warn my father, the king of Navarre. Treachery and deceit stalk the seaside kingdom. Someone means to murder him but I don’t know who.”
Lenore nodded. “Who else?”
“Stewart, the prince of Lanverness. I see him running through a winter forest, stripped of arms and armor, enemy soldiers chasing him.” Desperation leached into her voice. “You have to save him.”
“The army of the Flame marches toward Lanverness.” Lenore frowned. “Do you see defeat for the Rose kingdom?”
A hiss circled the fire.
Jordan blanched. “My visions aren’t like that, just pieces of the puzzle.”
Lenore nodded, her golden gaze implacable. “Who else?”
“An older baldheaded man, someone important, beheaded, his head stuck on a pike above a castle gate.”
“Who is this man? Do you know his name?”
Jordan shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before, but I know he’s important.”
“Anyone else?”
“No…yes. My sister Juliana, she’s at sea, she needs to return to Navarre. And Navarre needs to be warned, the MerChanter fleet is coming, a bloody plague on our shores.”
“MerChanter ships already raid the coast.”
The biscuits turned to a lump in her stomach. Jordan clenched her sword hilt, feeling sick. “So my visions are true…and I’m already too late.”
“Too late for some, but not for others.” Thad put a steadying hand on her arm. “Do not give up. Despair is the handmaiden of Darkness.”
The fire snapped and crackled. The others stared at her, but Jordan had no more to answers to give, everything else just a confusing jumble of images.
Lenore stood straight and solemn in her robes of midnight blue. “The king of Navarre, the prince of the Rose, and the sailing princess will be warned, but for the stranger, we can do nothing.”
Jordan felt a cold stab to the heart, as if she’d failed.
Lenore’s amber gaze was unrelenting, boring into her like a bird of prey. “And now you must decide, where will you take your sword?”
Jordan took a deep breath, her gaze going to the others. “Who’s with me?”
Yarl nodded. “Rafe, Ellis, and I will join you, the other monks have their own missions.”
Thad’s voice was a deep rumble. “You’ll have our swords, six of us at your back. And we brought spare mounts so we’ll make good time.”
Jordan gave him a grateful nod. Seven swords and three monks, she wondered how much difference they’d make, but she supposed they had to try. At least she wouldn’t be alone.
“Time to decide.” Lenore’s voice was as hard as steel. “Waiting only serves evil.”
Jordan sighed. “My heart tells me to seek Stewart, but the winter woods in my vision could be anywhere.” Searching for Stewart would be like looking for a single grain of sand on an ocean beach, a futile effort while others paid with the lives for her delay. The truth hurt but it could not be denied. And then there was that other vision, the one of Stewart marrying Jemma in the gilded halls of Castle Tandroth. Shaking, Jordan pushed that nightmare from her mind. Opening her eyes, she felt the others’ stares.
“Well?” Lenore cocked an elegant eyebrow.
Jordan took a deep breath, deciding to trust the gods. “I’ll take Rafe’s advice and follow the vision I’ve seen the most often.”
The others leaned forward, their faces’ expectant.
“I keep seeing a shattered tower, the stones as red as blood, rearing above a winter forest. It’s very old, reeking of age, a ruin of some sort, but I don’t know where it is, and I don’t know what it means. I’ve never seen it before, yet the broken tower haunts my dreams.”
Lenore and Thaddeus locked stares, an unspoken message passing between them. “It could be the Crimson Tower.”
Thad nodded. “I know it.”
Lenore turned her amber stare back to Jordan. “A curious choice.”
“Why?”
“The Crimson Tower is an ancient ruin, a blasted remnant from the War of Wizards,” her voice deepened, “once a stronghold of the Star Knights.”
A shiver of certainty ran down Jordan’s back. “Where is it?”
“In the heart of Lanverness, but you won’t find it on any map.”
“Why?”
“I know how to find it.” Thad’s voice was full of quiet confidence. “A broken tower used by thieves and ne’er-do-wells and wild things of the forest, shunned by local villagers as a haunted place. Legends swirl around the bloody tower, keeping honest folk at bay.”
A conviction grew in Jordan. “That’s where we need to go.”
“Then the decision is made.” Lenore nodded to Jordan, her face solemn. “The warnings will be sent and the Grand Master informed. May your sword serve the Light.”
“Inform the Grand Master?” Jordan gave her a puzzled look. “You’ll travel back across the mountains? I wouldn’t wish that on an enemy.”
Lenore gave her a knowing smile. “Do not underestimate the Kiralynn Order.” And then she began to change, a faint nimbus of light glowing around her. The light flared, transforming the silver-haired woman into a giant white frost owl. “Whoooo.” The great owl took flight, a flap of snowy wings soaring toward the mountaintops.
“Bloody hell!” Jordan could only stare, watching as the great owl disappeared into the clouds. She turned to find the others dousing the fire and getting ready to ride, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She grabbed Thad’s arm, staring at the swordman’s face. “Did you see that? Did you know that?
He gave her a quiet smile. “We all serve the Order.”
Rafe approached. “Lenore trusted you. Now you know one of our long-held secrets. Do not betray our trust.”
Jordan stared at the monks. “Can you all…turn into owls?”
Rafe shook his head. “It takes a special focus.” His face turned grim. “Only two such rings are left to the Order. Our power wanes, yet we do what we can to stem the Dark tide.”
She felt the weight of his words, another burden added to her shoulders, but the secret also brought hope. The monks were more than they seemed, and the Light needed every advantage. It was time to cast uncertainty aside, to act on her visions, to reach for her sword. She swung into the saddle, pulling her sword from its scabbard. A war cry burst from her. “For the Light!” The others mounted up, catching her need to be away. They set a hard pace, galloping down the mountains, heading for a broken tower in the heart of Lanverness.
34
Liandra
“We must find a way to protect our capital.” Th
e queen met with her small council, maps of the city strewn across the table. “When it comes to war, we shall hope for the best and plan for the worst. Pellanor must be protected.” Six lords instead of the usual ten ringed the council table, diminished in numbers by the exodus of her treasury, yet the queen found the quality of her council much improved, save for Lord Mills. Dapper in a doublet of green velvet, the handsome lord listened but said little, much to the annoyance of the queen.
“Lord Mills, we will hear your opinion on this matter.”
He gave her a courtly nod. “Majesty, my skills run to commerce not warfare.”
“Yet you have a keen mind.” She gave him a piercing glare. “You could turn it to more than one matter.”
He met her stare with a glint of defiance. “Then my keen mind suggests you ask the military.”
Their stares locked like crossed swords, until the lordling had the good sense to look away. Liandra smothered her anger, wondering why the slippery lord chose to stay instead of scuttling away with the rest of the rats, but that was a question for another day. She turned her gaze to the veteran at the far end of the table. “Major Ranoth, perhaps your opinion would provide more insight.”
The leathery-faced major snapped to attention but his voice carried the tone of regret. “Majesty, your ancestors built Castle Tandroth as a stronghold, but the military value has long been eroded by the city’s encroachment and the pursuit of luxury.” He shook his head in a weary gesture. “Your castle has become a palace. It cannot be defended.”
“Yes, yes, we have heard all this before.” A touch of annoyance laced her voice. “We know our castle better than most, but it is the city we speak of.”
The major grimaced. “Cities are best protected by deep moats and stout walls topped by catapults. With such defenses a small force can hold off an army, but Pellanor has none of these, and no time to build them. Against an army, the city cannot prevail.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 27