Stewart turned towards her. “What do you mean?”
She reeled the idea in, like a fish on a line. “Walls are built to protect, but if you seal the gates, they can also act as a prison, locking the enemy inside.”
Stewart’s gaze narrowed. “What good would that do?”
Jordan gestured to the bonfire. “Set fire to the city. Feed the Flame to the flames.”
Thaddeus startled, sending a pointed glance toward Aeroth.
Stewart asked, “But how do we seal them inside?”
Jordan gestured to Ellis. “With a moon weaving.”
“Abomination!” Ellis shuddered, her face turning pale. “Magic is not meant to be an instrument of war!”
“Yet you used it in the forest.”
“To save a life, yes, or to protect my own, but not on such a scale, never against an entire city.” She looked aghast. “What you speak of is a total abomination, a perversion of the way of Knowledge.”
Rafe said, “But you know the Grand Master’s decision? How can you say that?”
“The Grand Master agreed to use knowledge, yes, but not magic, not like that.” Horror rode her face. “To use magic against an entire city…would be like the War of Wizards! I’ll not be party to such an abomination!”
Jordan stared at the dark-haired monk. “So only the Mordant can use magic in warfare?”
Her words struck like a thunderclap. The monks stilled, their faces grim.
Jordan’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Are you part of this war, or merely watching? You need to choose a side, or all of Erdhe will fall to Darkness.”
A stark silence descended on the stables, and then the monks erupted in argument.
Jordan took Stewart’s hand. “Come.” She led him outside, into the snow dusted morning. “They need time to talk, time to decide for themselves.”
“Will they help?”
“Thaddeus and Rafe will help, but I’m not sure about Ellis, and she’s the one you need.” Jordan’s voice turned grim. “Difficult to win if the monks won’t help. You’ve seen their magic, and I suspect they’re only showing us the fin on the shark.”
“How many owl-men do they have?”
“I’ve only seen one other, a woman.” Jordan shrugged. “The monks keep their secrets close.”
Something shifted in his gaze. “And you, can I keep you close?” His hands caressed her arms, stroking a slow rhythmic temptation. He leaned close, his voice a husky whisper. “My warrior-bride.”
Heat flashed through her. “I can only stay for the war council and then I ride for Navarre.” His hands strayed to the ties on her tunic, his voice insistent. “Only for the council?” His lips set a burning trail down her throat. “Or will you stay to finish the marriage rites?” She was finding it hard to think. “What rites?” He slipped the belt from her waist. “The part where I make love to my wife.” He swept her into his arms and carried her back to their lean-to. And for a while, nothing else mattered.
61
Danly
Danly retraced his steps, hastening back to the tavern, but Vengar was already gone. Cursing his ill luck, he returned to the streets, dodging late-night patrols as he sought every place he’d ever met the red-haired captain, but Vengar proved ellusive. Hearing another patrol approach, he scrambled for a hiding place. Sweat poured out of him as he crouched behind a wagon. As the streets grew empty they grew more dangerous. Desperate to get out of the hunting fields, Danly tried one last place, a low-class brothel in the city’s poor quarter.
Paying two coppers, he gained entrance to the tavern-turned-parlor. Patrons sat slumped at tables, sipping overpriced drinks while the whores made the rounds, exhibiting their wares. Danly scanned the room, but Vengar was not to be seen. Fearful of the streets, he took a table in the corner, keeping his back to the wall.
A gap-toothed whore with a low-cut bodice sashayed his way. She looked old, nearly thirty, her hair a straggle of dull brown, dark sags beneath her eyes. “What’ll ya have, deary?”
Danly tossed a silver on the table. “Your best wine and don’t water it.”
Her smile widened, the coin disappearing into her bodice. “For another silver ya can have me as well, deary.” She circled the table, leaning close to give him a better view of her cleavage. “All night if ya like.” Her hand caressed the back of his neck, her breath foul.
Danly flinched as if touched by hot coals. “Just wine.”
Rebuffed, she gave him a cold stare. “Oh, so you’re one of those.”
Anger warred with shock. “One of what?”
Her lips curled into a sneer. “One of those who just like to watch.” She turned her back on him, the sashay gone from her walk.
Danly glowered. A eunuch in a brothel, anger warred with humiliation, but then he thought of the Master Archivist marching amongst the prisoners. Revenge was within his reach, such a sweet turn of fate. The queen’s spymaster captured by the Flame, and it seemed the soldiers were unaware of their catch. Perhaps he should wait a while, giving the shadowmaster a taste of torture. The Flame priests were oh so zealous, especially with heretics.
A different whore brought a flagon and a cup, plunking them on the table, her lips curled in disdain. Whores got paid by the lay not by the cup.
Danly poured the wine, desperate for a drink. Sour swill but he drank it anyway, quenching his anger while he kept watch for Vengar. Maybe it was better this way, giving him time to think. Choices tumbled through his mind, such a delicious decision. Should he turn the spymaster over to the Bloody Bishop, or barter him to the queen for a promise of privilege? He’d planned to trade Steffan’s secrets for protection and golds, but it might not be enough. Returning the queen’s shadowmaster would be worth a considerable boon…but the queen was a long ways away. That left Danly with Bishop Taniff. He didn’t trust the Bloody Bishop. Priests of the Flame made his skin crawl, especially the steely-eyed bishop. And then there was the man himself, the Master Archivist, the queen’s shadowmaster. Hatred boiled within him, remembering the pain of the apothecary’s knife. Danly shuddered, his teeth clenched. The spymaster deserved to have his balls cut, or better yet, shaved completely, cock and balls, nothing left of his manhood. Torture was too good for the queen’s spymaster…but that left Danly trusting the Bloody Bishop. His head began to swim, a whirlpool of decisions. He took another drink, pounding down the wine despite its sour taste. But no matter how much he drank, the answer never appeared in the bottom of the cup.
He must have dozed.
Someone poked his shoulder, morning light seeping through the only window.
“Didn’t expect to find you here.”
Danly bolted awake.
Leonard Vengar stood over him, a sleep-tousled whore on each arm. “Looking for me?” Dismissing the whores with coin from his purse, the big man took a seat opposite Danly. “You look awful. Should have taken one of the lasses to bed.”
Anger spiked through Danly. “Is this how you spend my golds?”
Vengar gave him an annoyed look. “The brothels are safe. They pay a hefty tithe to the soldiers and priests so they’re never raided at night. Safest place to sleep in all of Lingard, but I forget myself,” his face turned hard, “your lordship sleeps in the baron’s keep.”
Fear spiked through Danly, they’d be looking for him at the keep. He reached for the flagon, but it was empty. Gesturing to one of the women, he ordered another.
“So why are you here.”
Why indeed? Danly decided to hedge his bets. “I’m thinking of changing the plan.”
Vengar’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“The patrols have caught a prisoner valuable to the queen. It might be worth our while to take him with us.”
Vengar paled. “Forget him. He’s as good as dead. You’ll never get a man out of Lingard’s dungeons.”
“He’s not in the dungeons. They’re holding him in one of the barracks, a makeshift prison.”
Vengar turned thought
ful. “How valuable to the queen?”
“Very.”
One of the serving women plunked a fresh flagon on the table. Danly was quick to fill his cup, gulping it down. The wine tasted like swill but it eased his headache.
Vengar leaned towards him. “Which barracks?”
Danly told him. “How many men do you have?”
“Counting the two of us, fourteen.”
“Do you trust them?”
Vengar gave him a dead man stare.
“Can it be done?”
“Maybe. I need to take another look at the barracks. But if we do it, it’ll have to be done in the small hours of the morning. We raid the barracks, dress in soldiers’ tabards and then march straight for the south gate. I’ve been bribing the sergeant there, so my men get assigned to the patrol the woods beyond the castle.” Vengar’s voice lowered to a hush, his gaze as sharp as daggers. “We get one chance at this, prince. Is the prisoner worth the risk?”
That was the question, and Danly still did not have an answer. Danly poured another cup. “Take a look at the barracks and see if it can be done.”
“Meet me here tomorrow, three turns of the hourglass before dawn.”
Danly nodded, disliking the danger of such an early hour.
“And bring coin, gold and silver, anything for bribes. We’ll need plenty to get out the gates. If we don’t make the first patrol, we’re dead.”
Danly chugged another cup.
Vengar caught his arm. “Don’t be late, prince.”
Danly pulled away. “I’ll be here.”
“And don’t forget to pay for the wine.”
He reached for his purse, but the strings were cut. “Bloody hell, the whore stole my purse.” Danly started to rise, but Vengar grabbed his arm. “Don’t cause trouble.”
“But my…”
Vengar speared him with a stare. “The brothels are a safe haven from the Flame. A haven you might need.”
Danly sputtered, struggling to swallow his rage.
Vengar said, “I’ll pay for the flagon.” He flashed an insolent smile, releasing Danly’s arm. “Next time, sleep with one of them. It’s cheaper.”
Danly straightened his cloak, struggling to regain his dignity. He strode from the brothel, stepping out into the dim morning light. A cold wind hit him like a slap. Even the weather was rude. Squinting against the sun, Danly pulled his cloak close and checked for patrols. At least the streets were no longer empty, the smell of fresh baked bread coming from somewhere down the lane. His mouth watered and his stomach growled, but Danly needed to return to the tower. Keeping his head lowered and his shoulders hunched, he made his way back through the maze of streets, and all the while he couldn’t stop thinking of the danger. In the cold light of day, his decision seemed insane. Why risk his life for his enemy? Far better to trade the shadowmaster to the Flame and gain the bishop’s favor. Perhaps the wine had gone to his head, a momentary lapse of judgment.
Danly neared the keep. Feeling the stares of red-cloaked guards, he lowered his hood and straightened his shoulders, nothing to do but brazen it out. The guards at the outer gates knew him, a flick of their eyes granting permission to enter. He crossed the courtyard, avoiding the horse dung, and climbed the steps to the keep. Three strides into the great hall, he froze.
Bishop Taniff skewered him with his stare. “Late night, prince?”
A hundred stares turned his way, a conclave of red-robed bishops and clerics filling the great hall. Danly suppressed a shudder. “Late night with a lady.” He tried to add a grin of bravado, but it wilted under the bishop’s steely-eyed stare.
“A sinner like you should spend more time on his knees and less time whoring.”
Danly had no answer, sweat trickling down his back.
“And the Flame God shall judge them all, separating the faithful from the sinners.” The bishop gave him a narrowed look. “Have you been judged, prince? I never see you at morning devotions.”
Religion would be the death of him. Danly shrugged, trying to make light of it. “I’m a late riser.”
The bishop’s gaze smoldered. “You best spend more time on your knees, prince.” His grin turned nasty. “You never know when the Flame God will come calling.”
The threat sent a shiver down his back. With the Lord Raven gone, Danly knew he was vulnerable. He bolted for the stairs. Laughter followed him, chasing him up the tower like death nipping at his heels. He slammed the door shut, seeking the solace of his chambers. The bishop was a pious prick and Lingard was a cauldron of death. He hated the bishop, hated the religion of the Flame, but at least he had his answer. Better to take his chances with the queen than to deal with the devil.
62
Liandra
The queen read the scroll three times before consigning it to the flames. Her son was safe. Relief washed through her like a soothing balm. Lacing her hands across her empty womb, Liandra closed her eyes and eased back in the chair, holding a thousand worries at bay with a single message. Her son was safe. Her throne had an heir. She raised the words like a castle around her heart.
Pine logs snapped and crackled in the hearth, drawing her back to the decision at hand. She sat before the fireplace, a chessboard set up on the side table. White against black, she often played against herself, a distraction from the war. She fingered an ivory pawn, considering the board. The game had reached that tricky point, a delicate stalemate where a single move would trigger a trade of pieces, a slaughter of sacrifice leading to the final checkmate. Liandra studied the web of moves, weighing the options. Her gaze kept returning to a single piece. Sacrifice a knight to take a castle and white might win. But chess was so much simpler than war.
Stewart’s scroll demanded a fresh decision. Opportunity gave advantage to the bold, but every decision carried a risk. The fate of her kingdom teetered on a knife-edge. The enemy had emptied Lingard of cavalry, offering a chance to retake the fortress-city. Stewart’s plan was bold, a risky gambit fraught with many dangers, not the least of which was the risk to Pellanor. The queen sighed, weighing one risk against another. If she sent the wagons of napthos north then she’d improve the odds of retaking Lingard, but the move would leave Pellanor exposed. A castle for a castle, she never liked even trades.
And then there was Robert. She’d sent her spymaster north to stir a religious storm in Lingard, to wage a war of truth against belief. She hoped to set the Flame against itself, unleashing a firestorm of persecution, weakening Lingard from within. She’d had no word from him since his arrival at the fortress, no way to send a message. Doubt gnawed at her. How could she loose a maelstrom on Lingard knowing he worked within the walls?
But great battles were not won by the timid.
Decisions weighed on her like a millstone. The war grew complicated, so many pieces in motion, so many dire threats. She considered all the options but her choice seemed inevitable. Crowns were not held by the faint of heart.
She moved to her desk and wrote out the orders, a scratch of the nib across parchment, the power of the quill. Blowing the ink dry, she rang the hand bell on her desk.
Master Raddock appeared. “Yes, majesty.”
She handed him the parchment, watching him read by the light of the fire, his eyes widening in surprise.
“But…”
“See that it is done.” She brooked no arguments.
“Yes, majesty.” He turned towards the door.
“And Master Raddock,” he turned back, waiting. “Send another sweep through the countryside looking for archers and arrows.”
“It’s already been done.”
Her patience snapped. “Then do it again. If war comes to Pellanor, archers may be our only hope.”
“Yes, majesty.”
“Any word from Navarre?” She knew the answer yet she had to ask.
“None, majesty.”
Another worry. She waved him away in dismissal. Bowing, he closed the door. A gentle click of the lock, and she was alone again wit
h her thoughts. Flames roared in the hearth, spilling light across the chessboard. Liandra studied the game, refusing to sacrifice the knight for the castle. She fingered the ivory piece, every detail exquisitely carved. War was not like chess. Every sacrifice hurt, yet strategy was her best weapon. She’d made her decision, put her pieces in play, and now she could only wait for the enemy’s next move.
63
Steffan
Steffan rode at the head of an army. Six thousand mounted soldiers thundered at his back, armor and weapons jangling, battle banners snapping overhead. They carved a path through snow-crusted farmland, riding without supply wagons or foot soldiers, a lightning raid striking deep into the heart of Lanverness. Steffan laughed at the biting-cold wind, his black cloak flapping like a raven’s wing at his shoulders. War was exhilarating, the power of life and death, the conquest of a kingdom. Power flowed through him, the favor of the Dark Lord. This was what he needed, to escape the petty squabbles of Lingard, to forget the Priestess, to ride to war, striking a killing blow at the enemy. Victory was nearly within his grasp. Steffan could feel it, like an elixir coursing through his veins.
They followed the traitors’ map south by southwest, chasing the queen’s caravan of gold. Steffan set a punishing pace, needing to catch the treasury wagons in open farmland. They stopped only to rest their horses and to pillage food. Steffan chaffed at every delay, pouring over the traitors’ map, seeking the best vantage for an ambush. Riding from dawn till dusk, they set a furious pace, like hounds dogging the hind, hot on the scent.
Just when his men began to grumble with doubt, the scouts reported wagon ruts scarring the road. “The ruts run deep, my lord.” The scout grinned, snow flecking his beard. “Heavily laden wagons pulled by teams of oxen, we’ve found the Spider Queen’s gold!”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 42