S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  But the queen was unwilling to accept the answer, her mind racing through a labyrinth of thoughts, desperate for a solution. Her bejeweled fingers drummed the tabletop. “Then if you cannot win, at least buy us time.”

  The major looked puzzled. “Time, majesty?”

  “Yes, time, that rarest of commodities. Time creates possibilities, gives us options, a chance for allies to come to our aid, a chance for wits to foil swords.” She seized the idea, certain of its rightness. “If you cannot fight for victory, then fight for time.”

  The major nodded, his face thoughtful. “Walls of any sort would at least slow the enemy.”

  “Exactly.” The queen leaned forward, studying the map of the city. “What if we consider the city as a castle. Homes and shops are so closely built, they almost form a wall.” Her finger traced a blockish outline around the most populous part of the city. “Seal the smaller roads and alleyways with barriers the height of the buildings and you begin to have a wall. Larger roadways can be fitted with wooden gates. Use the city’s buildings as the backbone of your wall and you’ll soon have a defensible rampart.”

  The major studied the map, his voice leavened with caution. “Such walls might slow an army but not stop them. It will buy time but not victory.”

  “Then buy us time.” The queen’s words snapped with confidence, steel beneath velvet. “Give us time enough and we shall find a way to victory.”

  Her confidence rippled through her lords like wind to a battle banner. “It might work.” Nods of assent circled the table.

  Master Saddler rarely spoke in council, yet he said, “The people will gain heart to see their city defended.”

  The portly lordling looked almost astonished at his own words, yet the queen gave him a warm smile. “You are exactly right, Master Saddler. That is why you shall work with Major Ranoth to construct the wall.”

  “Me, majesty?” His face flushed red. “But I am merely a goldsmith turned coin counter. I know nothing of walls.”

  “Yet you know our people, for you are closer to them than most of our lords, and you are honest, a rare combination. You shall work with Major Ranoth to define the wall and purchase those buildings that will become the city ramparts. Pay a fair price for the homes and then enlist the people’s help to build the wall.”

  “But the treasury is gone to Graymaris.”

  “Not all of it. We would never leave ourselves without coin.”

  His eyes widened. “As you wish, majesty.”

  The queen nodded. “Now let us see a map of Lanverness. We need to know the nearness of the enemy.”

  Major Ranoth unrolled a second map across the table, a brightly painted vellum marked with villages, forests, strongholds and castles. Emptying a drawstring bag, he positioned lead soldiers on the map showed the changing locations of both armies. “Their main army presses south, about a moon’s turn march from Pellanor.”

  A moon turn, it seemed such a slender sliver of time. The queen considered the map. “And has the prince emptied the north of food?”

  “As you ordered.” The major nodded. “His troops harass the enemy’s supply lines, seeking to deprive them of all food, forcing the enemy to march hungry.”

  “Let us hope hunger blunts their drive south. Another reason we need time.” The queen’s fingers drummed the tabletop. “But it will not be enough, not nearly enough. We need to do more.” Desperation was a goad to her mind. She stared at the lead soldiers painted bright red. “Soldiers of the Flame, religious fanatics, an army of believers, but how do we defeat an army of religious fanatics?” Her mind turned to Coronth. Reports from her shadowmen said the refugees defeated the Pontifax, yet his army still marched south. Perhaps the army did not know the truth? Yet the reports were certain, the Pontifax had died, burned in his own flames, causing riots in the streets. “We must defeat belief with doubt.”

  “What, majesty?” Major Ranoth gave her a puzzled stare.

  “Defeat belief with doubt.” She fastened on the thought. “This is no ordinary army. Doubt can shatter beliefs, destroying an army based on faith.”

  “But how, majesty?”

  “This is not a matter of swords but a matter of shadows.” Her gaze turned to Master Raddock but she knew his intellect was not equal to the task. She would need to raise the matter with Robert, her true shadowmaster.

  A knock came from the door.

  “Enter.”

  A guard peered inside. “An urgent message for the queen.”

  Liandra waved permission. The guard stepped aside to admit a dust-stained courier, a messenger from the army, but she did not like the fear in his eyes.

  The lad fell to his knees, offering her a sealed scroll. “I rode as fast as I could.”

  She accepted the scroll, but her heart quailed when she saw the waxy imprint, a rampant griffin holding a sword aloft, the heraldic symbol of the dukes of Kardiff. A cadency mark overlaid the griffin, indicating the seal of the duke’s eldest son. Her breath caught. Dane served as the second commander to her son, yet the army’s dispatches always came under her son’s royal seal. Breaking the wax, she opened the scroll, amazed that her hands did not shake. She skimmed the words till a single phrase pierced her heart. The prince is captured, taken by Black Flames, unknown if he still lives. “No! Not my son!” She gripped the table, finding it hard to breath.

  Sir Durnheart moved to her side. “Majesty, what news?”

  Liandra leaned against the table, gasping for breath, desperate to hold back the tears.

  Sir Durnheart took her arm. “Majesty?”

  Duty claimed her. Liandra struggled to find her royal mask. “It is nothing.” She glared at her lords. “You will speak of this to no one.” She took a step toward the door and nearly crumpled to the floor. Pain pierced her like a sword thrust to the abdomen. “No!” She clutched at the swell of the child. “Not both, not either.” She railed against the gods, but the pain came again, sharp as any dagger.

  “Majesty, what is it?”

  The queen struggled to master her own body. Straightening her back, she forced herself to walk, the scroll crumpled in her fist. “Nothing. You are dismissed.” She reached the door, each step a force of will. The hallway seemed to stretch to forever. Another stab of pain left her gasping, yet she forced one foot in front of the other, desperate for the haven of her solar. At least my waters have not broken; her mind repeated the words like a prayer. She bit her lip against another stabbing pain. It’s too soon! She clutched her belly, desperate to keep the child. Just when she thought she would swoon, he was there, emerging from the shadows to scoop her into his arms, her Robert.

  She clung to his dark robes, clung to his strength. “Must save the child.”

  “Shhh.” He carried her up the stairs and into her solar, his shout scattering servants like frightened geese. “Get the queen’s healer!” He laid her on the great bed, a rustle of silks.

  Pain pierced her, another sword thrust. She gripped his hand. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m here, I’m always here.” He gazed down at her, smoothing the sweat-damp strands of her hair.

  She pressed the scroll into his hands. “Save our child, we must have an heir.” Another wave of pain took her, and she wondered if she might die. Panic seized her, panic for her people. “Robert, you must save our kingdom!” She gripped his hand with all her might, desperate to tell him. “Doubt defeats belief! Find a way to defeat the Flame! You must do this for me.”

  His face blazed with determination, an anchor in a sea of pain. “For you, I will do anything.”

  She forced the words out, needing to be sure he understood. “The Flame Army, they don’t know the Pontifax is dead! Doubt will defeat belief.”

  “I understand.” His words were soothing. “The kingdom needs its queen.” He kissed her hand. “And so do I.”

  And then the healer was there, holding a golden goblet to her lips. “Drink.”

  She drank the potion, falling back into silken sheet
s, claimed by a fog of pain.

  35

  Steffan

  The morning dawned bright and fine, just enough wind to unfurl the banners, a perfect day for deceit. The horses pranced, tossing their manes, enlivened by the sunshine. Steffan rode in the vanguard with Prince Danly and the Priestess, a hundred soldiers riding in escort. Pennants rippled overhead, held aloft on long lances, and every one was green, emerald green. From a distance, the pennants served the deception, but in truth they were merely strips of cloth cut from the tabards of dead soldiers. Steffan spied bloodstains on one or two, a token of war. His escort was similarly disguised, a troop of Black Flames hidden beneath the enemy’s emerald surcoats. He’d hoped to bring two hundred, a fitting escort for a prince, but too many surcoats were rent with sword cuts and soaked in blood, ruined beyond repair. So he settled for one hundred, the lesser number adding spice to the risk.

  Steffan held his roan stallion to a brisk trot, fast enough to acknowledge the threat of war, but slow enough for royal dignity, all part of the ruse. Dressed in his finest court clothes of deepest black, he hid his raven badge beneath a bearskin collar, a thick chain of silver links marking him as the prince’s counselor.

  Beside him, the Priestess wore a stunning gown of crimson velvet, the plunging neckline revealing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. As the consort to a prince, she rode sidesaddle on a black gelding, tall and statuesque, a flash of jewels on her hands. An accomplished horsewoman, Steffan could not help but admire her seat.

  To outfit the prince, they’d both ransacked their wardrobes for jewels and trims of fur. Danly wore a captured emerald cloak trimmed with ermine, a hastily forged circlet of silver set upon his brow. A burnished breastplate and a bejeweled sword marked him as a prince of war. Even the scars striping his face added experience to the effect, making him look older.

  A half dozen guards with crossbows rode close behind the prince. An honor guard of sorts, they kept their crossbows loaded, providing surety to the prince’s oath, but Steffan doubted they’d be needed. The Priestess kept the prince in thrall, bound with the silken leash of sex. Danly rode tall in the saddle, a smile on his face, clearly buoyed by the pomp of his princely trappings.

  They rode for the better part of the day, through fallow farm fields and naked stands of maple and oak, the bright sunshine dispelling the dreary autumn chill. The countryside looked almost peaceful till they passed a tattered column of refugees, men and women pushing handcarts loaded with pots and pans, blankets and chickens, their bedraggled children following behind.

  “Spare us a crust of bread!”

  “Give us protection!”

  “Keep us safe!” A few begged for help, but most were too exhausted or too defeated to raise their heads.

  Steffan cast a sideways glance at the prince, but he seemed indifferent to their plight, his face as cold as stone, content to give them nothing but dust. Steffan urged his horse forward, eager to gain some distance from the wretched rabble.

  By mid afternoon they topped a rise and got a first glimpse of the walled city. Lingard was formidable by any measure. Protected by stout stone walls and a daunting moat, the city kept safe within its defenses. Catapults and trebuchets studded the walls. Banners fluttered overhead, most of them emerald green but a few were bright gold emblazoned with the mailed fist of the baron, a heraldry that bespoke stubborn resistance and an iron resolve. Steffan studied the walled city and knew the general had the truth of it. Entire armies could batter themselves to death against Lingard’s walls, all to no avail. Force would never capture such a fortress, and sieges took too long. But where force would never win, trickery and deceit might prevail. Steffan smiled, intrigued by the challenge.

  The prince’s horse shied, stepping sideways, fighting the bit, betraying the nerves of his rider. Steffan gave the prince a piercing look. “My lord, are you well?”

  Danly yanked on the reins, bring the horse to heel. He cast a desperate glance at Steffan, his voice a low hiss. “What if they know?”

  “The Red Horns were punished with ne’er a mention of a traitor prince.” Steffan smiled. “The queen’s own pride will defeat her, skewered by her own secret. With this act you reap your own revenge.”

  “But the Red Horns know!”

  “And most of them are dead, executed by the Spider Queen.”

  “It only takes one and our ruse is blown.”

  “Life is about chances. Sometimes you have to roll the dice.” Steffan flashed a rogue’s smile. “Lingard is far from Pellanor, the odds are in our favor.” His voice turned stern. “Play your part well and earn your crown.”

  Danly’s eyes widened like a bolting horse, but the Priestess leaned forward, laying a soothing hand on his arm. “Be the prince and you will succeed.” Her voice deepened. “You were meant to wear a crown. I see royalty in you.” Her words put iron in his spine. Danly straightened in the saddle, the silver circlet gleaming against his raven hair.

  Steffan looked away, burying his annoyance beneath a mask of calm, marking the prince for death if he betrayed the plan.

  They rode in silence, approaching the city at a brisk trot. The drawbridge was lowered but the gates remained closed, sending a mixed message. Since the catapults remained stationary, Steffan assumed the cold welcome was merely a precaution of war. Pulling his horse to a halt, he stopped the column within bowshot of the walls. He took a moment to survey the fortress, considering the risks and rewards. Death versus victory, Steffan grinned. “Let the dice roll.”

  The Priestess gave him an odd look but Steffan just laughed, he never lost at dice. He turned and waved a herald forward. “Announce us.”

  Bedecked in emerald green, twin roses on his surcoat, the herald cantered toward the ironbound gates. Wheeling his horse beneath the gates, he threw his voice against the walls. “Open the gates for his majesty, Prince Danly of Lanverness! Open the gates for your sovereign prince!”

  Soldiers milled on the battlement, all of them garbed in golden-yellow surcoats, the household guard of the baron. A bearded knight gave answer. “We had no word of your coming.”

  The herald persisted. “Yet we are here. Open the gates for his majesty, Prince Danly, son of the queen of Lanverness!”

  Still they hesitated, the gates remaining stubbornly closed. Steffan spurred his stallion forward. “Open the gates in the name of the prince!” He made a sweeping gesture towards Danly, sunlight gleaming on his silver circlet. “At least admit the royal party. You dare not keep the prince waiting outside your walls in times of war.” Steffan stared up at the ramparts, willing them to obey.

  The bearded knight nodded. A command rang out. “Open the gates.

  Steffan hid his smile, a thrill of triumph rushing through him.

  Wood creaked and groaned and the great gates slowly swung open.

  Steffan squared his shoulders and urged his stallion to a walk, the first to enter the enemy’s stronghold. A hundred stares fell upon him, most of them curious, full of questions, but he felt no hostility. Passing beneath the barbican, he entered a large courtyard filled with soldiers, iron fists emblazoned on their golden surcoats. Troops loyal to the baron formed a defensive ring, shields and swords held at the ready. It seems their trust was not so easily won; yet the gates gaped open.

  Hoof beats clattered behind as the royal party followed. Danly drew rein beside Steffan, the Priestess at his side. Six guards bearing crossbows rode at their back. The others waited outside as a show of trust.

  Steffan surveyed the soldiers, searching for the baron, but none fit the description. “We seek the hospitality of Baron Rognald.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The soldiers parted and a giant of a man stepped forward. His gray hair was sparse, a meager fringe wreathing a baldhead, but his dark eyes were sharp and keen. Moving with the prowling grace of a warrior, he kept his hand upon his sword hilt. “We’ve had no heralds announcing your arrival.”

  Danly shrugged. “Messengers are oft lost in times of war, yet we�
�ve arrived safe at your gates, a long ride from Pellanor.”

  The baron stood his ground. “I might have expected Prince Stewart, but not you.” His gaze reeked of suspicion. “Why’d the queen send you?”

  Steffan tensed, watching Danly from the corner of his eye. For a fleeting moment, anger blazed from the prince’s face, but then he mastered himself enough to give the practiced answer. “The queen divides her heirs. While her majesty remains in Pellanor, Prince Stewart rides with the army, and I am sent to the stronghold of Lingard, a shell game of royals designed to confuse the enemy.”

  The baron locked stares with the prince, as if weighing his words. Tension rode the air, the horses sidling, biting their bits. Steffan considered intervening, but then the baron snorted a rude laugh. “That sounds like your royal mother, ever the strategist. I never could beat that woman at chess.” He made a grudging half-bow toward Danly. “Welcome to Lingard, my prince.” The baron’s words were comely enough but his tone bristled with sarcasm.

  Danly’s face curdled, but before the prince could offer a rebuke the people raised a rousing cheer. “All hail the prince!”

  Soldiers beat their swords against shields. “The prince of roses!”

  Steffan hid his smile; the well-timed cheer made the people complicit in his ruse. The stupidity of crowds never failed to amaze him.

  Danly puffed with pride, giving the people a princely wave.

  A soldier stepped forward, holding the prince’s horse. Danly dismounted with a flourish, his emerald cape rippling in the breeze. Steffan was quick to join him; careful to keep Danly on a tight leash, but the Priestess had the task well in hand. She cleared her throat, her voice demure, yet it reached the prince. “My lord, I need help from my horse.”

  Danly turned towards her, his face aglow. Grasping her by the waist, he eased her from the saddle. For a moment they stood close as lovers, a handsome couple with noble features and raven hair, but to Steffan’s eyes Danly looked a fool while the Priestess was incomparable.