S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  When they broke apart, he had a question of his own. “So what do you know of this Lord Mills?”

  “A councilor to the queen, a handsome face with darkness lurking in his heart.”

  “So we can trust him to play his part?”

  “As much as you can trust any traitor.”

  He ran his fingers through her long black hair, holding it to his face and breathing deep. “How do you know these things?”

  “Women have their ways.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She smiled, distracting him with a whisper of fingertips at his manhood. “So you’ll take the treasury and then take the rest of Lanverness?”

  He laughed. “Did you see their faces when I signed their treaty! As if mere parchments could ever constrain the likes of us.” His laugh deepened. “So stupid, so naïve.”

  “But useful”

  “Hmmm,” he mumbled an answer as he kissed his way south.

  “So you’ll march on Pellanor?”

  He raised his head, staring the length of her body. “We have both princes and we’ll soon have the treasury. Capture the heirs and the gold and the queen will capitulate. With the queen’s surrender I’ll march to victory not war.” He flashed a wicked smile. “If Lord Mills doesn’t kill her first.”

  “Your plan is flawed. You have one prince and a sword.”

  “But the sword will serve.” He grinned up at her. “Sometimes a lie is even better than the truth.” He lowered his head, his fingers and tongue stroking her need, indulging her pleasures. She writhed beneath his touch, taking everything he gave. Her magic built to a fever pitch, and then she rolled on top, pinning him to the bed once more.

  His dark eyes flashed up at her. “You liked that.”

  “Yes.” He was ready again, but she made him wait. “It’s past time I gained my own power.” She’d gained an alliance in Radagar, putting Razzur on his brother’s throne, and now she helped Steffan claim Lanverness, both alliances sealed in bed, but she wanted more, much more. “You know what I want.” Her voice was deep and throaty.

  “We’ll share power in Lanverness, the richest kingdom in Erdhe. You’ll sit by my side, my queen, my consort, my royal temptress.”

  As if she wanted to share power with any man. She hid the contempt from her face. “I have a different destiny.” Leaning forward, she kissed him, her dark hair surrounding him like a veil, “and we have an agreement.”

  “More than an agreement.” He arched toward her, like a rampant lion. “Who fills you the way I do?”

  She gave him a sultry smile, reminding him of their bargain. “Six thousand men,” she ground against him, “none of them clerics,” her fingers stroked his length, “two thousand of them mounted,” she teased him to his fullest extent, “all of them ordered to do my bidding.” She hovered above him, poised to descend, a sheath for his sword. “Do you so swear?”

  He strained upwards, but she held him at bay.

  “Do you so swear?”

  “Yes.” The word was a groan.

  She plunged down, taking his full length, sealing the agreement with sex. Leading him on a wild rampant ride, the Priestess set her hooks deep into his soul.

  47

  Stewart

  Stewart made a deal with the devil, but it did not include trust. As part of the bargain his men kept their swords, always sheathed, but always close at hand. By day, they rode bunched together, ever vigilant, a hard knot of loyal soldiers surrounded by brigands. At night, his men slept in a huddle, taking turns at keeping watch.

  Mistrust ran both ways, like a river full of dangerous eddies. Bristling with weapons, the brigands kept a sharp eye on their captives. Stewart felt their stares, even when he went to the privy. Skarn’s men proved an ugly bunch, killers and rapists and deserters, hardened outlaws who deserved to hang; yet Stewart intended to keep his bargain. Need made for strange allies, but he did not like it.

  At least the odds improved slightly when Skarn sent two of his men south to hunt for the Rose Army. Eighteen brigands guarding eight loyal men, the odds were still deadly.

  Skarn led them west at a steady trot, Stewart riding close by his side. They foraged as they rode, but the gleanings were slim, the men always on the knife-edge of hunger. For the most part the countryside was empty, burned farmsteads and abandoned fields, the grim wake of war, but on the third day they spied an ox cart burdened with the goods of three families, ragtag children and a milk cow lagging behind.

  Skarn laughed. “Easy pickings, lads. We’ll feast tonight.”

  Stewart pulled his horse to a stop. “Leave them be, Skarn.”

  The leader turned in the saddle, giving Stewart a baleful stare. “What’s this, the lordling givin’ orders?”

  Ugly laughter swirled through the brigands, but Stewart’s voice brooked no argument. “They’ve lost enough, leave them be.”

  “Or what?” Skarn’s glare turned nasty, his hand moving to his sword hilt.

  Stewart matched the brigand leader, gripping his own sword, but he kept the blade in the scabbard. “Or we fight.”

  Their stares locked in a dual of wills.

  Their horses stamped and snorted sensing the tension, the men perched on the edge of battle.

  Tensions tightened and Stewart feared it would come to a fight, but then Skarn snorted in derision. “You’d fight for the likes of these?”

  “Always.”

  “Then you’re a damn fool.” Skarn spit the words, his voice full of venom. “Little wonder the Flames are winning.” His horse shied, but the big man controlled the stallion with his knees. Skarn’s smile turned nasty. “This wasn’t part of our bargain, princeling.”

  “The gold will more than make up for it.”

  “It better.” Skarn yanked his horse’s head, putting spurs to the flank, and then they were riding again, galloping down a hillside and across a fallow field, but they rode wide around the farmers.

  An angry tension rose through the brigands like a river rising to flood. Stewart’s men stayed close, their hands on their sword hilts, wary of the foul glances sent their way, but they weathered the storm without incident. At twilight’s first blush, they camped beneath the boughs of an ancient apple orchard. A faint cider-like smell lingered despite the winter. For hungry men, the smell proved maddening. A few went in search of apples, but they returned empty handed, nothing but rotting mush beneath their boots. The lingering smell proved a bitter tease, setting the camp on edge.

  Their stomachs rumbling, they risked a fire, sharing cups of tea and strips of salted venison. With the potatoes long gone it was a meager meal, but then Skarn broke out a flask of rye whiskey and the mood lightened. Skarn’s men shared the flask, swapping bawdy jokes about their exploits in bordellos, while Stewart’s men sat close and silent, a hard knot of suspicion, refusing the whiskey.

  At moonrise, Stewart and his men rolled themselves into their cloaks, sleeping close as wolves, huddled for warmth as much as for safety. Timmons took the first watch, while Stewart agreed to the second. The prince checked his dagger and his seashell broach, his sword by his side, and then he succumbed to sleep, taking comfort in the sounds of men’s snores.

  The twang of a crossbow pierced his dreams. Stewart woke with a start, his hand reaching for his sword.

  “Steady!”

  Stewart froze. A sword was held to his throat, close enough to shave. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Owen said, “Timmons is dead, a quarrel to the heart.”

  Anger snarled through Stewart. “We had a deal, Skarn. Safe passage for me and my men!”

  Skarn stared down at him, a crooked smile on his face, his breath fouled with whiskey. “Bargain’s changed, lordling. Or did you think you ruled us, like you rule your soldier-slaves?” He gestured and a brigand knelt to search Stewart, removing his dagger and his sword.

  Anger turned to rage. “You gave your word.”

  “I lied.” Skarn shrugged. “Besides, you changed the b
argain when we spared those farmers. Now they’ll be one less of you to feed.”

  Skarn gestured and a brigand knelt to bind Stewart’s hands, a loop of rough rope pulled tight around his wrists. The prince snarled in protest, but the sword at his throat kept him pinned. Fighting was hopeless, yet he refused to give up. “What about the gold?”

  Skarn laughed. “I’ll be havin’ that too, even more than what you offered. I’ve decided to auction you off.”

  A cold fear shivered down Stewart’s back. “What do you mean?”

  “First I’ll offer you to the emerald cloaks, to see if you’re lying, and if they’re truly interested, then I’ll offer you to the red cloaks.” Skarn flashed a crooked grin. “I’ll sell ya to the highest bidder. To the winner go the spoils.”

  “You can’t do this!”

  “Gag him.”

  A filthy rag was thrust into Stewart’s mouth and bound tight. The prince struggled against his bonds to no avail. His men received the same treatment, trussed like stoats for the market. A pair of brigands hauled Stewart to his feet, lifting him into the saddle. Bound and gagged, he rode through the night, a prisoner once more.

  48

  Liandra

  Pain wracked the queen, like being torn asunder. It ambushed her in the dead of the night, squeezing her body into convulsions. A scream rode her lips. “Too soon!” Her women fled, seeking aid while Liandra fought the urge to push, desperate to keep her unborn child. Sweat ran in rivulets down her face, a torrent of hurt, and still she refused. “Poison, it must be poison!” Her hands gripped the sheets, her body twisting in agony. “Save my baby!”

  Healers rushed to minister to her while her women daubed sweat from her brow. Potions were held to her lips, foul tasting brews. One after another she forced them down, desperate for relief. Urgency circled the great royal bed, but nothing eased her torment. Liandra writhed across silken sheets. Pain claimed her. The agony grew like a tidal wave, arching her back, convulsing her body till she felt like she’d burst.

  The child came in a gush of fluids. “No!”

  The convulsions eased to tremors, sweeping the pain out of her, but not the hurt. Spent and empty, Liandra collapsed on sodden sheets. The queen tensed, listening, but there was no gasp of breath, no first cry. Her heart sank with the grim silence. “My child?”

  Healer Crandor hovered over her, kindly brown eyes set in a face of ancient wrinkles. “Stillborn, majesty, too young to live.”

  “No.” The words pierced her heart, killing her unborn hope. “No, it cannot be.”

  But the master healer was persistent. “I’m sorry, majesty, the babe is gone.”

  Liandra refused to believe. “Show me.”

  Crandor hesitated, as if he might argue, but then he gestured and they brought the small bundle toward her. Still swathed in blood, the child was small, too small to live, yet perfectly formed, dark hair and delicate features, the daughter of her heart. The bitter proof drained the strength from her. They took the small bundle away and Liandra sagged back into a sea of pillows, letting them minister to her body, an empty husk.

  A man’s voice issued orders. “In the name of the queen you are all sworn to secrecy.” Master Raddock strode into the chamber. “The queen is ill, nothing more. The bedding must be burnt, all proof removed.” A shadow in black, he swooped in to claim the bundle. “The details will be seen to.”

  Details, the word pierced her heart. When did a dead child become a detail? When did love become shame? Her secret hope transformed to scandal in the eyes of her court. Was any king burdened with such chains? Was any crown worth it?

  Crandor held a goblet to her lips, wine laced with poppy’s milk. She drank it, seeking oblivion, but oblivion did not come soon enough. The babe is gone, the words thundered through her mind, creating a cavern of emptiness. How could the gods be so cruel? Danly a condemned traitor, Stewart captured, and now her precious daughter taken from her, the second daughter lost at birth. Agony of another sort speared her heart. So much loss, so much pain, and for what? Was this the price of being a woman, of being a queen? Liandra wanted to rail at the gods, but she did not have the strength.

  A hand gripped hers, an anchor in a sea of oblivion.

  “Majesty, do not leave us.”

  A woman’s voice called her back. Liandra peered through tear-encrusted eyes. Lady Sarah knelt by the bed, gripping the queen’s hand, her face lined with worry. “Majesty, do not leave us.”

  “Why?”

  “Your kingdom needs you.”

  Duty, always duty. Liandra’s voice was a mere croak. “Why?”

  “For Lanverness, for your kingdom, for your people.” Something shifted in her friend’s face, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper, a spark of urgency in her grip. “For the hope of another child.”

  Hope, such a slender word. Duty laced with hope, perhaps that was all that was left to her, but perhaps it was enough. Despite the pain, despite the loss, Liandra discovered she was not done being queen. She took up the crown once more. “We shall not leave you.” And then she succumbed to the poppy.

  49

  Jordan

  Jordan fled the others, seeking solace in the ruins. She climbed the giant stairway, taking a seat on the topmost step of the ruined tower. Morning light illuminated the forest below. It seemed so peaceful from above, a tangle of branches hiding the dead. She shivered, pulling her checkered cloak close, almost overcome by exhaustion, but her thoughts plagued her, too many visions, too many choices.

  Subtle footsteps came from behind. She turned to find Thaddeus climbing the stairs. “May I join you?”

  She nodded and the swordmaster took a seat beside her. Wrapped in a cloak of brown, he sat cross-legged, staring down at the forest, his sun-leathered face giving little away. “It wasn’t what you expected.”

  Confused, she groped for meaning behind his words. “You mean the battle?”

  He shrugged. “Your first battle is never what you expect. The feel of your sword cleaving flesh, the stench of blood and bowels, the taking of life, the rampant confusion, the dance with death. The bards never get it right.” His blue-eyed gaze held hers, his voice soft and sure. “But the bards also don’t understand the elation afterward, the thrill of a righteous victory, the way the blood sings in your veins, the thunderous joy of being alive.”

  “Valin’s blessing.”

  “You felt it, didn’t you?”

  She nodded, a remembered warmth rushing through her, leaving her buoyed with triumph.

  “You were meant for the sword, but something else plagues you.”

  She looked away, her mind spiraling into doubt.

  “I saw your face when we returned to the stables last night. The three we rescued, they weren’t the ones you expected.”

  “No.”

  “So now you doubt your visions?”

  “Yet I foresaw this tower,” Jordan gestured to the ruins, “a shattered tower, red as blood, rearing above a winter forest.” She shook her head, her broken nose throbbing. “I don’t know what to think.”

  He nodded, his face thoughtful, but he did not press for more. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the sounds of the waking forest. The sweet song of a morning warbler rose from the forest underscored by the faint drumming of a woodpecker, but the illusion of peace was shattered by the crows’ hungry caws. Black wings fluttered through the naked trees, feasting on the dead.

  Jordan shuddered. “Too many crows, too much death.”

  “Yet we live to fight, to make a difference for the Light. And the question remains, should we stay or go?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  “Your visions are a sword against the Darkness, a chance to turn the tides. You must have an answer. The gods must have given you a sign?”

  Anger warred with frustration. “I didn’t ask for these visions, and I’m not afraid to use them…but they don’t always make sense.” Anger bled out of her like a receding
tide. “I don’t know what to do.” She needed someone to talk to; she needed advice. Stalling, Jordan smoothed her cloak across the ancient stone, the checkered velvet pulling her heart in two directions. Taking a deep breath, she considered her words, slow and measured. “I’ve seen visions of Navarre, of my home, of the dark castle on the edge of the sea.” She risked a glance toward him. “If I don’t go home then all my family will die.” She waited, holding her breath, but somehow he knew there was more.

  “What else?” He tugged on his russet beard, avoiding her gaze.

  “And then there’s Kath.”

  His gaze snapped toward her, sharp as a sword. “The crystal blade-bearer?”

  Jordan nodded. “She’s going to need the help of Navarre. If she doesn’t come south, all will be lost.”

  His gaze drilled into her. “You never said you had visions of the blade bearer.”

  “My sword-sister.” Jordan bit her lip, avoiding his gaze.

  “But something holds you here?”

  Jordan nodded, choking on her words. “I don’t know if I’m seeing true visions or nightmares, but if we leave the bloody tower too soon, then there’ll be no hope for the prince of Lanverness.” She sent him a searching look, begging him to understand.

  Thad sighed, raking his hand through his russet hair, leaving a disheveled mess. “My first instinct is to aid the blade-bearer…but the gods always give us choices.”

  “Choices!” She spat the word like a curse. “These choices are cruel! Why can’t the gods just help?”

  “The gods work in mysterious ways.”

  “Well I’m sick of mystery.” She turned away, hugging her knees to her chest, a ball of misery.

  “There must be an answer, something we’re missing.” Behind her, Thad began to pace, a soft whisper of leather on stone. At first the sound annoyed her, but after a hundred steps the soft steady tread began to lull her, quieting the tumult of her mind. Jordan nearly screamed when the footsteps stopped and his hand gripped her shoulder. “There has to be a clue in your visions.” He folded to the stone step, sitting cross-legged beside her, his blue eyes sharp as ice. “Perhaps there’s an order to your visions?”