Staying her soldiers with a hand signal, the Priestess sauntered into the hall. Smiling like a hungry cat, she stared at the royals, her skin-tight leathers showing off her curves, her every gesture brimming with brazen sexuality.
The music fell silent.
The conversation crashed.
The royals turned to stare.
“Royal Nachte, yet no one thought to invite me?” The Priestess circled the table, watching their faces, savoring their reactions. Questioning stares slowly changed to stunned disbelief.
“Iris!” Her true name whispered through the great hall like a curse.
Isador gasped. “It can’t be you!”
The Priestess chuckled. “Very good, Isador, you were always the quick one.” Her voice gained a sinister edge. “Quick to pry, quick to suspect, quick to accuse.” Gliding behind his chair, she caressed his face, a parody of passion.
Isador flinched away, as if touched by hot coals. He sent her a baleful glare.
The king interceded. “We all thought you dead.”
“Yes, how convenient for you, but I had other plans.”
Igraine said, “But how did you stay so…?”
“Beautiful? Young? Breathtakingly gorgeous?” The Priestess purred. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Igraine scowled, “What sorcery is this?”
The Priestess chuckled, a throaty sound. “Now you’re nearer the mark.”
Isador growled. “What do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted. What you’ve always denied me.” She continued circling the table, like a hungry shark scenting blood. “I’ve come for what should have been mine.”
Isador stood, his hand on his sword hilt, his face aflame with hate. “Murderess! I named you before and I’ll name you again.” He stabbed an accusing finger at her. “You’re a bloody murderess, a kin-slayer, the cursed one, and you deserve to die!”
At a gesture, her soldiers burst into the chamber, ringing the great hall. Clad in black, most of her men carried swords, but a few held crossbows. All the crossbows were aimed at Isador.
“Did you think I’d come alone?”
Isador quivered like a plucked bow, quaking with anger. Removing his hand from his sword, he slowly sank back into his chair. Setting his hands on the table, he gave her a hooded glare. “It’s only a matter of time till the guards come.”
“Don’t fret, we have plenty of time.”
Igraine gasped. “You killed them.”
“Nothing so wasteful. My servants merely laced their ale with henbane.”
“Henbane can kill.”
“Only if taken in excess.” The Priestess flashed a reaper’s smile. “A few will die, mostly the drunkards, the sots who always overindulged. It’s just as well to cull them now. Drunkards are of so little use to anyone. The rest will wake in the morning with nothing more than a vicious headache and a new liege lord.”
Isador growled. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She sauntered around the table, stopping near the king. “I’ve come for my inheritance. But first we’re going to play a little game.”
Ian scowled. “A game?”
“Yes, I’ve thought long and hard about my homecoming. And you may not believe it, but in my own way, I’ve decided to be merciful.” She cocked an eyebrow, waiting for a challenge, but none of them spoke. They stared at her as if watching an adder slither across the banquet table. She smirked. “I’ve decided to give you a choice, a test of your precious belief in the Light.” Her voice turned hard. “Life is all about choices, a lesson I learned when I was so very young.” She drew on her magic, a shadow of Darkness adding menace to her voice. Her words boomed through the hall. “Serve me and live. Embrace Darkness and thrive. Refuse me and die.”
Silence held sway. They gaped like fish caught on hooks. The Priestess savored their fear, but she wanted them to make an honest choice. Loosing her hold on Darkness, she appeared mortal once more. Tension leaked from the chamber. The Priestess smiled, knowing a willing submission was always the most binding.
Isador was the first to recover, a sneer on his face. “So if we don’t bow to you, you’ll have us all killed?”
“You’re already dying.”
That got their attention. Pointed glances flew around the table, a mixture of thinly veiled fear and silent questions.
The Priestess laughed, a deliciously seductive sound. “Such a fine feast spread before you, a feast fit for royals.” Her gaze lingered on the table heaped with silver serving platters, many of the dishes already consumed. “Whole sea bass stuffed with herbs, scallops seared with garlic, muscles drenched in butter, deep-fired clams, abalone on the half shell, pigeons cooked in a flaky piecrust, so many delicacies, so many ways to poison a royal.”
Igraine gasped, her face turning pale. “Poison?”
The Priestess smiled. “See what I learned on my Wayfaring? A pity House Navarre never had a food taster.”
The king said, “It’s not our way.”
“No, of course not,” sarcasm riddled her voice, “so much more honorable to trust your servants. Honor is a conceit of the Light. And now it will be your undoing.”
Isador snarled. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play stupid, it doesn’t become you.” The Priestess draped an arm across the king’s high-backed chair. Leaning forward, she studied his plate. “The question is, where was the poison and how much did you eat?”
Isador hissed. “Bitch!”
“Exactly, and I’m so good at it.” The Priestess gave her brother a nasty smile. “You were always fond of clams, Isador, filling your plate before anyone else got a first serving. Did you have clams tonight? I wonder if they were laced with nightshade, or did I save that for the sea bass? Perhaps a sprinkle of laburnum in the scalloped potatoes? A tincture of camas poured on the abalone, or hemlock baked in the pigeon pie? Did you have two servings of pie, Igraine? Perhaps you can already feel the telltale signs. Is your vision blurring? Can you feel a tingling in your feet? Have your legs gone numb? Has your throat started to swell?” She let them consider the symptoms, watching as their imaginations ran wild. “Who will be the first to die?”
King Ivor roared, “Stop this!”
“So the king speaks.” The Priestess gave him a mocking bow. “Easily done, sire.” She snapped her fingers and Hugo strode towards her carrying an alchemic flask sloshing with a dark amber liquid. “Behold the antidote.” She held the flask aloft like a rare prize. “Regardless of the poison, this is life. Swear fealty to me, accept me as the rightwise queen of Navarre and you shall live. One oath, one sip, and your life will be spared.” She lowered the flask. “But do not wait too long. Death already stalks you.”
“You lie!”
Hatred boiled within her. “I was never the one to lie, at least not then, though none of you ever believed me.” She reined in her hatred, burying it deep beneath a cold facade. “Time holds the truth. All we need do is wait.” Her voice held a deadly edge, like a dagger at their throats. “How much time do you think you have?” Her gaze circled the table. “Ian, will you watch as your wife dies? Ivy, perhaps you’ve grown tired of your dear husband? After all, he is getting thick around the middle.” Her gaze settled on the king. “Will your majesty sit and watch as your queen dies, the mother of your tuplets, writhing on the floor in agony, all because you would not bend the knee?”
The king glared at her. “End this.”
“No, you end this. Bend the knee and take a sip, that’s all you need do.” She swallowed her anger and gave him a venomous smile. “It’s one of those gray decisions. Take an oath and save a life, it really should be easy. And since you’re all so honorable, I know you’ll keep your word.” She gave them a lethal smile. “Take one step into the gray and you’ll soon find yourself embracing Darkness. You might even learn to like it. I know I did.”
The Priestess settled into a side chair, the flask held in her lap. “And now we wait, giving the
poison time to do its work. I wonder who will be the first to die?”
85
Steffan
Steffan entered the queen’s city in triumph. His raven battle banner streamed overhead, a guard of Black Flames at his back. Corpses from both sides gave witness to his conquest. Piled high in mounds on either side of the gate, they stared with lifeless eyes as ravens fought among them, come for the gleanings of war.
One of his guards took offense, moving to strike the winged scavengers, but Steffan stayed his sword. “Let them feast.” Like his chosen namesake, Steffan knew how to profit from death.
The city gates gaped open, unguarded by either side. The signs of war were legion, from the abandoned battering ram, to the mounds of dead, to the scorch marks on the walls, to the awful stench of death, more proof of the power of the Dark Lord. Steffan held his sorrel stallion to a walk, savoring the victory.
They rode through the city streets without fanfare or opposition. Most streets stood empty save for soldiers searching for spoils. Everywhere Steffan looked, he saw the same things. Shops shuttered. Homes abandoned. Doors nailed shut or left gaping open, like mouths startled in panic. Pellanor was well and truly conquered, a city drenched in fear. Steffan drank it in, so intoxicating.
Screams of rape and pillage punctuated the streets, heralding his progress. His army claimed its due reward. A few soldiers stopped in mid debauch to snap a hasty salute, but Steffan let the men have their way, a valuable lesson to the citizens of Pellanor. They’d soon feel his iron grip, so different from the queen’s limp touch.
Keeping his stallion to a walk, he followed a trail of corpses, emerald and red tabards entwined. Like faithful guides, the dead led him straight to the city’s heart. Sounds of fighting surrounded the queen’s castle, besieging the last bastion of emerald green. His army swarmed the castle, trading arrows with the enemy. Even as he watched, soldiers in red gained the roof of nearby buildings. Archers dueled across the narrow space, a withering rain of death.
Steffan pulled his stallion to a halt, considering the prize. Pale white towers soared into the winter sky. Castle Tandroth was elegant and beautiful, a strange confection of luxury palace and military ramparts. Bound by the city on all sides, the castle had no greensward, or moat, or catapults, surrendering its military value to luxury. The inner towers shimmered with diamond-paned windows and elegant embellishments, a prize plum waiting to be plucked. Steffan could almost taste the fruit of his labors, a captured queen, a claimed crown, an elegant castle, and gold enough to make him the richest monarch in all of Erdhe. His army need only breach the gates and the prize was his.
General Caylib cantered toward him, a leer on his swarthy face. “So Counselor, you decided to join the war.”
“Some of us aren’t as blood thirsty as you.”
“I only wield the sword; the plan was yours, and a good one at that.” The general cracked a grin. “The defenders fought hard but the ram duped them.”
“Never underestimate the value of deceit. And the castle?”
The general scowled. “Shut tight as a maiden’s chastity belt.”
“How long will it take you to find the key?”
“The walls are too tall for the ladders, so I’ve ordered the ram brought up. All we need is one gate and the castle is yours.”
Steffan nodded. “Let me know when the gate is breached. And remember, I want the queen taken alive.” The general began to turn away, but Steffan called him back. “And general, don’t keep me waiting.”
The general glared but then thought better of it, offering Steffan a nod.
Satisfied, Steffan turned his sorrel stallion away from the castle only to find General Xanos waiting for him. The mercenary general looked polished despite the battle, his mustache curled, his armor gleaming, his surcoat unsullied by blood, and then Steffan noticed the bulging bags affixed to his saddle, a silver candlestick protruding from beneath the flap. “I see the looting has gone well.”
General Xanos grinned. “We’re mercenaries. The spoils of war matter.” He patted the saddlebag. “My orderlies know what to look for and the gleanings were rich.” His gaze narrowed, his face turning serious. “We’ve given you your victory, the richest city in all of Erdhe. The terms of the king’s agreement are fulfilled.”
A spike of unease pierced Steffan. “The castle has not yet fallen.”
“One victory was promised and one has been delivered.”
“The victory is not complete until the castle falls.”
“Surely your men can take one palace?”
Steffan did not like the way this was heading. “Help take the castle and you’ll gain a share of the queen’s gold.”
“What gold?” The general barked a rude laugh. “I’ve seen the bars of dull gray lead gleaming in the queen’s treasury chests. I’ll not be tempted by the same dull lure.”
Anger pulsed through Steffan. “You’ve seen the city’s wealth. A rich city begets a rich monarch. The damn Spider Queen must keep it somewhere and the castle is the only place left to the bitch.”
The general gave him a snide smile. “The castle is yours to take. And something tells me this Spider Queen will not be so easily captured. Spiders and women both have venom. Besides,” the general flashed a wolf’s grin, “our saddlebags are already bulging. We march on the morrow.”
“But I thought profit mattered?”
“Only the king can broker our services. And with a new king on the Cobra throne, we must return home to swear fealty.” The general turned his horse. “Our bargain has been kept, our saddlebags are full, we march for Radagar.”
Steffan watched the general ride away, anger pulsing through him. He regretted losing the mercenaries, but he did not have the might to force them to stay. Turning his stallion, he watched the battle for the castle. With nearly six thousand men at his command, the outcome was assured. And he had all of Lingard at his beck and call. He’d already ordered the bishop to send the bulk of the army south. Once the rest of his army arrived, he’d consolidate power in Pellanor, extending his iron will across Lanverness, supplanting the Rose with the Raven. Steffan stretched in the saddle, banishing any doubts. The prize was nearly his. He’d seek out some luxury and wait for the castle to fall. Life was good in the service of the Dark Lord.
86
Jordan
A crescent moon winked from the clouds. The sinister grin loomed above the seaside city, as if the moon laughed at her, knowing she’d come too late. Jordan urged her horse to speed, a host of two hundred riders at her back. In their wild push across Navarre, Jordan had gleaned a handful of soldiers from every village and keep, gaining a patchwork of loyal men. They rode without battle banners or trumpets, bearing a hodgepodge of weapons and armor, a desperate host come to save their king.
Worry drove her hard. Jordan kept the Zward and the two monks close, but even their confidence could not dim her fears. Cold dread seized her heart. Her dreams had stopped a fortnight ago, as if the gods had given up on her. Or maybe they’d shown her all she needed to see. Either way she felt failure nipping at her heels.
The road turned steep, climbing the wooded hills that ringed the city. Jordan spied the first tower, set to keep watch for sea raiders. Six watchtowers crowned the hills skirting the city, white as shimmering swords, so tempting to stop and raise the alarm, but she’d only be warning the enemy. Her dreams had warned of a small army poised at the south side of the city, enemies waiting for word from the castle. Knowing surprise was her best weapon, Jordan led her men around the hills, entering the city from the north. But the long ride only lengthened the journey. Sweat trickled down her back, visions of death urging her forward.
They crested the hills and thundered down into the city. She breathed deep the salty sea scent, the smell of home urging her onward. Moonlight silvered the cobbled streets, a cascade of limestone houses descending to the sea. From every direction Jordan heard sounds of revelry, songs and merrymaking, a nightlong feast lauding the Royal
Nachte. As a child she’d always loved the night of revels, Jordan prayed it would not be the last.
The streets twisted and turned amongst homes and shops, always leading downward. In Navarre’s capital city all roads led to the sea. Jordan urged her horse to speed. The Zward stayed close by her side, the host galloping behind. With her goal nearly in sight, she pushed the horses hard, galloping for the castle at the heart of the harbor.
Black basalt towers rose from the night-darkened waves. Castle Seamount stood upon a rocky outcrop trust up from the sea like a sentinel. A narrow causeway linked the stalwart castle to the shore, but the tentative strip of barnacle-encrusted land was fickle, alternately swallowed and rejected by the tides. Jordan raced to the coast, praying the causeway remained passable.
They reached the harbor and followed the road to the causeway, but the tides had already won the race. Waves covered the narrow land strip, broiling around the castle like an unassailable moat.
Riding beside her, Thaddeus yelled, “We’re too late!”
But Jordan refused to give up. “Keep riding. There’s still a chance.”
She led them to the very start of the causeway. Waves lapped the shore, but Jordan’s attention was fixed on two stone ospreys perched like gargoyles on either side of the causeway. Chiseled from black basalt, the ten-foot ospreys marked the causeway’s entrance, but they also served as a measure of the tides. Seawater lapped the ospreys, but the salty foam only reached their clawed talons. Hope surged through her. “We can make it!” She turned her horse, yelling orders to her men. “The tides hide the causeway but the water is less than a hand span deep. Keep on a straight path between the osprey and the castle gates and don’t stop for anything.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 51