S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  “And the queen?”

  Lord Evon smiled. “That’s the brilliant part. Lord Mills need not sully his hands with royal blood. He’ll let nature take its course.”

  Steffan’s gaze narrowed. “How?”

  The lord’s grin grew licentious. “The queen is great with child.”

  Danly gasped, his face turning dead-fish white, his voice a strangled whisper. “She seeks to supplant me!”

  Lord Evon ignored the prince, giving Steffan a knowing grin. “A woman of her age rarely survives the birthing bed.”

  Steffan thrummed with possibilities. “And a tincture of herbs might help her along?”

  “Just so.”

  “And I take it, the birth would be a scandal?”

  “Exactly,” the lord smiled in triumph, “It’s why Lord Mills has sworn the other lords to silence, giving the queen the appearance that her secret is safe. The longer it remains hidden, the greater the scandal will be.”

  “Delicious!” Steffan laughed out loud, feeling as if the Dark Lord himself stood by his side. Lanverness was falling into his hands, like fruit ripe for the plucking. He gave a low chuckle. “Despite her intelligence, the vaunted Spider Queen proves she is a mere woman after all. She’s caught by the age-old trap, the eternal weakness of her sex. Her own nature will be her undoing.” He barked a laugh. “But tell me, who tupped the queen?”

  The lord looked sheepish. “No one knows.”

  “Even more delicious!” He gestured to the guards. “Bring wine for our new allies. I’ll drink a toast to the downfall of the Spider Queen.”

  The guards leaped to obey.

  Lord Evon stepped forward. “So you’ll sign our treaty?”

  “Bring your parchments and your quills, I’ll sign them all, and together we’ll redraw the map of Erdhe. And this time, there’ll be no place for queens.”

  45

  Liandra

  Liandra paced in front of the hearth, shivering despite the fire’s warmth. With Stewart captured and her unborn daughter still months from being born, the problem of succession preyed on her mind. She needed allies and she needed a spare heir.

  A knock came from the door. Lady Sarah opened it, admitting her guest. Princess Jemma was radiant as always, dark hair framing a heart-shaped face. She curtseyed with a rustle of silk, elegant in the latest fashion. “You asked for me?”

  “Yes.” Liandra took a seat before the fire, arranging the pleats of her velvet gown. “Come join us, we miss the pleasure of your company.”

  The princess flashed a wry smile, taking a seat opposite the queen. “Time with you is always well spent, but it is never just for tea.”

  “You know us too well.” Pleased to dispense with the pleasantries, Liandra plunged straight to the heart of the matter. “A messenger from Navarre arrived a fortnight ago, yet you have not come to us with an answer.”

  The princess paled. “Of course you would you know of that.”

  Liandra’s voice was soothing. “We know of the messenger, not the message.”

  The princess hesitated, taking a careful sip of tea.

  Liandra pressed the issue. “Reports from the battlefield say that Prince Stewart is taken by the enemy, but we believe he still lives.”

  The princess gasped, dismay writ across her face.

  Liandra reached for her hand, putting steel in her touch. “We hold to the belief that Stewart still lives. And you must believe it as well.” Conviction ruled her voice. “We will pay any ransom for his release. Our royal son will be returned to us. But this terrible turn of fate only makes his marriage more important. We must have heirs, we must have grandchildren, and there is no one we would rather have as our daughter than you.” Her voice softened. “We have come to care for you, to see you as our own true daughter. In time you will make a great queen, a boon to the people of Lanverness.” Liandra released the princess’s hand, and leaned back in her chair. She studied her apprentice. “What word from the king of Navarre? Does he consent to the marriage?”

  But the princess did not speak, her gaze fixed on the roaring fire.

  “It is a simple question.”

  “But not a simple answer.” The princess met her stare. “The king gives his consent.”

  The queen smiled in pleasure and triumph.

  “But…”

  A single word and the queen’s smile was stillborn.

  The princess took a deep breath, her face troubled. “When does the heart matter more than duty?”

  The queen did not hesitate. “Never, if you are royal born.”

  The princess gave her a slanted look, but her words were softly spoken. “Yet you dare to bear a love child without a husband.”

  Liandra recoiled as if slapped. Anger rose within her, but she reigned it back, impressed by the young woman’s courage. She waited till her anger cooled and then gave an honest answer. “The child is begot from love but the lack of husband is pure duty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  So the rosebud has thorns. “Such audacity.”

  The princess had the grace to blanch.

  “We serve our kingdom best without the yoke of a husband.” The queen’s anger subsided. “But we were speaking of you. We offer you the chance to sit on the throne of the wealthiest kingdom of Erdhe. What say you?”

  “The king gives his consent, but only if I also consent. My father gives me the chance to choose.”

  The king’s leniency surprised Liandra. Perhaps having so many children made Ivor soft. “Your sire is most generous. What do you choose?”

  Emotions raced across the young woman’s face, a strange mixture of longing and regret leavened with defiance. “The truth is I yearn for a chance to rule, to be a queen worthy of your example, but I will not gainsay love.” She took a deep breath, a touch of steel in her voice. “I will speak to the prince when he returns. If he consents to the marriage, then we shall wed, if he chooses another, then I will stand aside.”

  Liandra’s gaze narrowed. “You speak of your sister, the swordish one?”

  The princess nodded.

  “For the sake of your sister, you would set aside a throne?”

  “Yes.”

  Resolve shown from the princess’s face, reminding Liandra of her younger days. “Such conviction, however misplaced, will stand you in good stead when you wear a crown.” Despite her disappointment, the queen decided not to argue, taking a different tack. “If Prince Stewart consents then you will wed?”

  The princess burned bright red. “Yes.”

  Liandra nodded. “Then we shall trust duty to prevail.”

  The princess gave her a sharp look but she did not argue.

  “Now that the succession is settled, let us speak of lighter things. We would hear the gossip of the court. Truths can sometimes be found in the smallest rumor.”

  As if on cue, Lady Sarah bustled into the chamber bearing a tray with a fresh pot of tea and raisin-baked scones. “I thought you might be wanting something to eat.”

  Liandra scrutinized the scones. Since the monk’s murder, she’d grown fearful of poisons. “Have they been tasted?”

  “Barty baked them for you himself and we both tasted them. They’re really very good, especially the way he bakes slivered almonds within the pastry. Adds a nice crunch to the scone. And the raisins are plump and juicy, very sweet.” She set the tray on a table and began pouring fresh cups of tea. “Will you have one? You need to keep up your strength.”

  A hard knock on the door interrupted her chatter. Without permission, the door burst open and Master Raddock appeared. “Majesty, a messenger from the north.”

  One look at his face and Liandra knew the message was dire. “More dark tidings.” She steeled herself, praying Stewart remained alive. “Come.”

  Lady Sarah fled the chamber and the princess rose to leave, but the queen gestured for her to remain. Master Raddock returned leading a mud-spattered messenger, a young lad barely old enough to shave. Dust-stained and weary, he kne
lt before her, a lad sent to war before reaching full manhood, yet his eyes told her he’d already seen nightmares.

  “Majesty,” his voice croaked with weariness, “Lingard has fallen.”

  The words pierced her like a spear thrust. For a moment she could not breathe. Not Lingard! She felt the blood rush from her face, leaving her cold. The implications staggered her. Lingard was one of her greatest strongholds, stout walls and a large force of knights. It meant the enemy was stronger than she thought. And now they had food, food enough to feed an army. It meant the war was nearly lost. She made her face a mask of stone. “How did this happen?”

  “Treachery, majesty.”

  She gripped the arms of her chair, like pulling teeth from a hen. “Tell us more.”

  “They say it was the prince, Prince Danly, come with an escort of a hundred men, all in emerald cloaks, flying banners of Lanverness. The baron had no reason not to welcome him. Once inside the traitors opened the gates.”

  “Danly? Prince Danly?” Her mind stumbled over the news.

  The lad nodded, fear glinting in his eyes.

  Liandra sagged back into the chair. Her second son was proving her bane, the spawn from hell. The midwives had wanted to smoother him in the crib for murdering his twin sister, yet she’d protected him. No matter how many times she spared him, he always held a dagger to her breast. “How did Danly come to ride with the Flame?” She cast a venomous glare at her advisors, at Master Raddock and Sir Durnheart, but they both looked bewildered. Her shadowmen had failed her. Liandra shook her head, gathering her wits, trying to make sense of the message. Her mind fastened on a single insight, like a rocky isle jutting from a storm-tossed sea. “You said treachery?”

  The lad nodded.

  So it was treachery not strength, perhaps there was still hope for guile to prevail. “And Baron Rognald?”

  “Rumors say he was murdered.”

  Her stalwart baron, Liandra closed her eyes, mourning his loss. She took a deep breath, sorting fact from raw emotion. Within the wretched tale there was a truth to be learned. Her gaze snapped to Master Raddock. “Now we know how the Flame treats those it conquers. If our loyal lords kneel to the Flame they’ll soon find their heads on a spike.”

  The master gave a grim nod.

  The queen turned her gaze back to the messenger. “What else can you tell us?”

  “Lord Ronald sent three of us to ride with all speed.”

  Three boys sent to war and only one made it. “And does Lord Ronald still live?”

  A tear slipped from the boy’s eye. “He was trying to hold the southern gate…but there were so many of them.”

  The lad was at his breaking point. “You have served us well. Sir Durnheart, will you see that our brave messenger gets a hearty meal and a warm bed?”

  “Yes, majesty.”

  She held her ringed hand toward the boy. “Your service will be remembered.”

  The lad kissed her ring and was shepherded from the royal solar by her knight protector. When the door closed, the queen leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes against the terrible news. “Lingard fallen.” Such an ominous loss, yet somehow she had to rally her kingdom. Opening her eyes, she stared at her deputy shadowmaster. “Some of our loyal lords have been badgering us to sue for peace.”

  Master Raddock gave a cautious nod.

  “And our shadowmen report rumors that the Flame will be lenient to those who bend the knee.”

  “True,” he nodded. “Pellanor is rapidly becoming a city of refugees. Minor nobles fleeing the Flame grumble that those who surrendered instead of fighting kept their lands as long as they swore fealty to the new religion.”

  “A rumor designed to goad surrender.”

  “Just so”

  “But now Baron Rognald is murdered. We want the truth of Lingard spread through the city.”

  “But it might stir panic.”

  “Or stiffen spines. We will bet on the power of the truth. Hire bards to put the foul deed to song. We’ll have this tale told. Let our soldiers and our people know that surrender leads to death. We fight for victory or we die.”

  Master Raddock said, “And Danly? Will the prince be in this tale?”

  “Yes, oh yes. That was our mistake. We hid the truth of his treachery and now we pay the price. We pay dearly for it. But we shall pay no more.” For too long she’d offered Danly mercy instead of justice. The queen straightened in her chair, summoning her most regal voice. “Henceforth, Danly, second son of the Queen of Lanverness, is named a traitor of the realm. His life is forfeit. He is to be killed on sight. So let it be known across our kingdom, far and wide.”

  Her words echoed like a death knell.

  “We shall sign a royal proclamation and have copies sent throughout our kingdom. Justice will finally have its due.” Her words sentenced her own son to death. If her courtiers thought her ruthless before, what would they make of her now?

  Master Raddock bowed low, his face pale. “As you command.”

  “Leave us. We have much to consider.”

  The shadowmaster and the princess fled the chamber. Liandra was left alone with her thoughts. Danly’s actions shocked her. She’d shown him mercy after mercy and it only came back to haunt her. Robert should never have interfered. Better to leave her errant son locked in the deepest dungeons where he could do no harm. A lesson learned. And then there was the baron, always a staunch supporter and a dear friend. So much death and betrayal, Liandra sat bereft, awash in loss. Despair threatened to swamp her, but she rallied against it. Queens could not afford despair. Her mind fastened on the problem instead. The loss of Lingard was a disaster, yet it proved surrender was a lie, and it reminded her of the value of guile. She missed Robert, missed his wisdom and his embrace, but he was also her master of shadows. Sometimes shadows served elsewhere. Everything she loved was at risk. Liandra stared into the crackling fire, a blaze of heat on her face. A sword could melt in the flames, or it could anneal, finding greater strength. Something hardened within her. By all the gods, she swore to find a greater strength, to find a way to save her kingdom.

  46

  The Priestess

  The Priestess played at rape. She lashed him to the bed, spread-eagled beneath her, and then she had her way with him. Fingers and tongue, she teased and tortured, heightening every pleasure, bringing him to a fever pitch. Steffan strained against the bonds, but she made him wait for it, made him beg for it. Magic kept him rampant, but a mortal heart could only bear so much. When his need became intolerable, she rode him without mercy, taking her own pleasure with each ruthless stroke. He came in a bellow, collapsing back on sodden sheets.

  Smiling, she released his bonds, nestling against his side. “You liked that.”

  He groaned in pleasure. “You’re intoxicating. I can’t get enough of you.”

  She trailed a finger down his chest, knowing he was ripe for her suggestions. The sated pause between sex and sleep was always the perfect time to seed a man with thoughts. “You best be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are two ways to lead, from the front and from behind.”

  “So?” He rolled on his side, staring down at her, the perfect blend of trust and interest in his dark gaze.

  “You’re a master at leading from behind, you proved that in Coronth, but leading from the front is different, more dangerous.”

  “More exposed?”

  “Exactly. In council you give orders to the general and the bishops, there’s no doubt who leads. But in times of war, armies always strike for the head.”

  He fondled her breast. “But I’m fighting against a queen. Women know so little of war, it’s a man’s province.”

  Anger sparked within her, but she kept it hidden. “There’s another danger. Those who lead from the front are often blinded by arrogance. They miss the daggers aimed at their backs.”

  “And in Coronth, all the daggers were aimed at the Pontifax.”

  “J
ust so. Survivors lead from the shadows. Women know this, that’s why we’re so good at it.” She reached past him, pouring a rich red merlot into a silver goblet. Taking a sip, she licked her lips, and offered him the cup, prompting him with a question. “But how do you lead from the shadows in times of war?”

  “Create a figurehead.”

  She rewarded him with a lusty smile. “Bishop Taniff is quite the fanatic, a perfect blend of religious fervor and bloody battle lust.”

  Steffan answered her smile. “And fanatics are so single-minded, so predictable in a chaotic kind of way…unless they run amok.”

  “And then you kill them.”

  He leaned forward, licking the merlot from her lips. “You’re so delicious.”

  “So you’ll make better use of the bishop?”

  Steffan murmured a distracted “yes.” His kisses roamed down her neck, creating a line of silken pleasure.

  She wound her hands through his hair, fascinated by the white streak at his temple, so startling against his dark locks. “We’re running out of time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Visions from her scrying bowl assailed her mind, sending a shiver through her body. “The Mordant has regained his power in the north. Soon he will come south. As the oldest harlequin, he is not the type to share.”

  “So?” Steffan moved even lower.

  “Power respects power, there is no other way to treat with the Mordant.”

  “We’ll soon have all the power of the queen’s treasury, the richest hoard in Erdhe.”

  “Wealth will not impress the Mordant.” She rolled on top, pinning him to the bed, regaining control. “You don’t understand. He’s had a thousand years to perfect his evil. We must solidify our power before he comes south.”

  “And we shall. Lanverness is nearly ours.” He reared up, kissing her full on the mouth. They shared a taste of merlot, a taste of passion. She enjoyed the kiss, a deep delving, a promise of more, but then she pulled away.

  “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  He strained toward her. “Always make me want more?”

  She gave him a silken smile, indulging him in another lingering kiss.