The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1)

by Karen Azinger

  Nearly bursting with need, Danly discarded his apple, letting his arms fall around her slender waist. His hands played up and down her back in a light caress. He watched as her eyes dilated and her lips bloomed red. Brushing his lips against her ear, he whispered, “Spend the afternoon with me, my lady, and I will show you delights more succulent than your apple.”

  She pressed her hands against his chest, gaining a feeble distance. “My lord, it would not be right!”

  He gently tilted her head up. “What if I told you that I am your prince, the son of Queen Liandra, would that make it any more right?”

  Unable to reply, the girl gasped and stared up at him.

  Seeing the mixture of doubt and wonder in her eyes, Danly held out his ringed hand as proof. “See, here is my signet ring. The crest of House Tandroth is even emblazoned on the gold buttons of my jacket. So will you spend the afternoon with your prince? Or shall I let you go back to the market?”

  In a tremulous voice the girl looked down. “But I have never done anything like this before.”

  A wicked smile of triumph flashed across Danly’s face. Hiding his smile in her golden hair, he murmured, “Who better to have for your first time than a prince of the royal blood?” Dropping to his knee, he captured the girl’s hand, kissing it tenderly. “Come, my lady, let us find our bower in the woods.” Staring up at her, he waited on bent knee for her assent.

  Her resistance crumbled in the face of his gallantry. He rose and swept the girl off of her feet, lightly setting her on the saddle of his stallion. Leading the horse toward the woods, he sang a love song popular with minstrels, his ardor hardening with each step. The hunt was always so deliciously easy. Silly country girls dreamt of princes and romantic love; then Danly showed up to give them a taste of their dreams while helping them face the truth of life. Tired of the game, he stopped the horse in a small clearing. Sweeping his cape from his shoulders, he spread it across the fallen leaves. Lifting the girl from the saddle, he set her down on the cape and then fell across her, tasting her lips, caramel and apple. So sweet, he wanted more.

  Before she could change her mind, he rolled her onto her stomach and pressed her into the ground with his full weight. Unlacing his breeches, he ripped away her annoying undergarments and held himself poised at the gate. Without preamble, he shoved deep inside her. Arching his back, he enjoyed the tightness of her body and the muffled sounds of her screams. Thinking about the night he’d spent with the Lord Raven, the prince came three times before rolling off the girl, finally sated.

  Catching his breath, Danly bound up his breeches. He gave the sobbing lass a shove with his booted foot. “Collect yourself, girl, there’s no need to cry. I’ll leave you with a purse of golds for your trouble. And if I’ve planted a royal brat, you’ll find me to be even more generous. A prince can always use a bastard or two.” Rising, Danly grasped the end of his cloak. Giving the green velvet a sharp tug, he dumped the half-naked girl onto the autumn leaves. Shaking the dirt from his cape, he settled it across his shoulders then threw her a generous purse of golds.

  Muffled hoof beats approached. Two guards, dressed in the green-and-white livery of Lanverness, rode into the clearing and saluted the prince, their timing perfect.

  The girl stared up at him, tears on her face, pain and anguish in her voice. “You can’t do this! You can’t take me once and just walk away!”

  Danly laughed. “I took you three times, sweet, but perhaps you weren’t counting.” Plucking leaves from his cape, he added, “If you’re hungry for more, perhaps my guards could service you…now that you’re broken in.”

  The girl’s face contorted with rage. Screaming, she lunged at the prince. Before Danly could react, she caught hold of his right hand and stuffed it in her mouth, biting hard enough to draw blood.

  Pain surged through him. Pulling back, he struck her a sharp blow across the face, knocking her to the ground. A crescent of blood welled from his hand. “How dare you!”

  The guards dismounted and caught the girl in a firm grip. Struggling against her captors, she squirmed and then spat in Danly’s face. “You’re not a prince; you’re nothing but a rutting pig! My father will kill you for this!”

  One guard put a meaty hand across the girl’s mouth, smothering her insults. Danly wiped the spittle away, anger boiling within him. “You shouldn’t have done that. You should have enjoyed my royal favor and gone quietly back to your father, thankful for the experience. But instead, you drew royal blood.” Danly’s voice dripped with menace, “Payment is due.” He nodded toward the more senior guard. “Play with her if you like…and then kill her. Hide her body in the woods when you’re done. With luck, the wolves will find her before the villagers do.”

  The girl’s eyes widened and a muffled scream escaped from behind the guard’s hand.

  Mounting his stallion, the prince turned the horse toward Pellanor and rode off without ever glancing back.

  27

  Steffan

  The map was almost useless. Without a river, a lake, or a mountain range to mark the borders, it was difficult to tell one kingdom from another. The lines that men drew on maps seldom appeared on the land, and besides, the lines had a habit of changing with war and with time. Riding north on his sorrel-colored warhorse, Steffan knew exactly when he passed from Lanverness into Coronth. The landscape in the two kingdoms was the same; gently rolling hills crowned by oak trees and dotted with farms and the occasional village. He found the border not marked on the land but on the faces of the people. In Lanverness, the people were open and trusting, willing to look a stranger in the eye. The people of Lanverness smiled, waved hello and talked openly. In Coronth, eyes shied away before ever meeting other eyes. Faces were closed and stony. The people shrank back into themselves, trying to escape notice. The whole kingdom was ripe to serve the Dark Lord, full of people who would see no evil. Always looking the other way, the people of Coronth would never acknowledge the evil inflicted on their fellow man. Closing their ears, they gave evil the license to grow among them. For a couple of amateurs, the Pontifax and the Keeper of the Flame had done well, but there was so much more to accomplish. Coronth was fertile ground and Steffan had come to sow the Dark Lord’s seeds.

  As he rode north, he saw more signs of a land ripe for Darkness. A good harvest meant food was plentiful in the markets yet he found the prices unreasonably high, a sure sign that the people were infected with greed and paranoia. Riding between the villages, he glimpsed scores of refugees skulking in the shadows. Gaunt, disheveled, and tattered, the homeless peered out of the woods with fearful eyes. Steffan inquired about the refugees, but the villagers denied their existence. The soldiers were just as blind. Perhaps the priests had enough easy fodder for the Flames, but that was no excuse for the laxness of the guards. The apathy needed to be corrected. He made a note to himself that it was past time their commander took the Test of Faith. Steffan laughed, this was going to be fun.

  Roadside shrines and temples to the Flame God began to appear with increasing frequency, proof that he neared the capital city. Preachers with shaved heads walked the roads proclaiming the love of their deity. Symbols of the Flame appeared on the sides of barns and on the lintels of shops and taverns, the religious intensity increasing with every league. Holding the stallion to a steady canter, Steffan followed the fervor straight to the capital city of Balor.

  By the time he reached the city, the autumn leaves of the countryside burned red and gold, even the trees paying homage to the Flame God. Reining the stallion to a halt, he took stock of the city, pleased to see that the curtain walls were in good repair and that guards walked the battlements. Unlike other cities that had grown complacent with peace, Balor remained confined within the city walls instead of sprawling around them. The temple’s gilded spire rose from the city’s heart, a beacon of gold calling to the faithful.

  Steffan entered the south gate and made his way toward the temple square. Near the square he found the Devout Pilgrim, reput
ed to be the city’s best inn. A redheaded boy of twelve lounged in the shade, dirty-faced and wearing the tattered clothes of a street urchin, just the type of lad he could use. Hailing the boy, Steffan said, “I’m new to the city and I need a boy to run errands for me.”

  Scrambling to his feet, the boy said, “For golds, m’lord, I’m your boy. Nobody knows the city better than me.”

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Pip, if it please you.”

  “Of course it is! Pip, like the dots on a die.” Steffan laughed, feeling the irony of the Dark Lord. “Well Pip, I think you were meant to serve me.” He tossed a gold coin, watching as the boy leaped for it like a hungry dog. Satisfied with the lad’s greed, he said, “See that you please me and there will be plenty more where that came from.”

  Leaving his horse with the boy, Steffan booked the inn’s most expensive room, ordering a meal with a flagon of fine wine and a tub of steaming water. He tipped the innkeeper with golds to make sure the service was both prompt and good, and then spent the evening relaxing, washing away the grime from the road. The next day, he rose and dressed in nondescript clothes, the better to wander the capital without drawing unwanted attention. Breaking his fast in the inn’s common room, he eavesdropped on other wealthy travelers. Most of the talk dwelt on a Test of Faith that had taken place in the temple square the day before. The devout had traveled for days to witness the religious miracle. No one seemed surprised that the heretic had burned. Steffan wondered what they’d think if someone besides the Pontifax survived a walk through the sacred flames.

  After his meal, Steffan went in search of the Flame God. Using the gilded spire as a guide, he threaded his way through the side streets. He reached the square and found it nearly empty, the fire pit choked with dead ashes. His gaze was captured by the brooding temple. Squatting on a small hill, the Temple of the Flame was a massive structure made of granite. Decorated with thick columns and topped by a gilded spire that challenged the heavens, the architecture screamed of power, wealth, and dominance. It was everything Steffan hoped for.

  He climbed the hill to the temple’s maw. A pair of great brass doors, three times the height of a tall man dominated the entrance. A relief was worked into the brass, an image of the Pontifax bringing the sacred flame to the children of Balor. Steffan smiled in grudging admiration. The addition of the children was a nice touch, making the Pontifax appear like a benevolent father.

  Crossing the threshold, Steffan felt the chill of stone-cloistered shadows. The ceiling soared overhead, but instead of being light and airy, it captured smoke and darkness. A vault of gloom pressed down, as if trying to drive him to his knees. Nothing was built to human scale. The devout knelt in small groups, their prayers hushed to a whisper, crushed to insignificance by the scale of the temple. A trick of the stonework made the cavernous place twist sounds, muting some while magnifying others.

  Steffan walked the length of the central aisle, absorbing the message wrought in stone. Except for the flaming braziers, the nave was unadorned, a blank slate waiting to be filled by the faithful. Pockets of worshipers dotted the nave, each praying in their own fashion. Pairs of red-robed priests circulated among them. One carried a brazier lit by the sacred flame while the second carried an offering bowl. The first priest invited the faithful to pass their hand across the fire in order to receive a blessing, while the second extended the offering bowl soliciting coppers, silvers, and golds. The strange acoustics enabled Steffan to hear the chink of coins as they fell into the priests’ bowls, the music of greed.

  At the far end of the temple, steps led up to the first dais. A gilded pulpit jutted out like the prow of a ship from the right hand side while an ornate gold throne sat empty on the left. Behind the throne, a massive gold cauldron filled the second dais. Fire snapped and crackled in the cauldron, tongues of flame licking thirty feet toward the vaulted ceiling. Behind it, a giant mosaic depicted the Pontifax taking the Test of Faith. Given the scale of the mosaic, it was difficult to tell if the temple did more to glorify the Flame God or the Pontifax. Either way, the message was potent. Steffan stood before the cauldron, breathing deep the heady incense of a twisted religion. A feral smile flickered across his face; Coronth was ripe with dark possibilities.

  Satisfied, he returned to the inn to prepare for the evening. He found Pip holding his black leather boots polished to a spit-shine. Pleased, he tossed the boy a coin, and gave him additional instructions before retiring to his room for a bath. It was critical that everything be perfect for this evening.

  Twilight darkened the windows of the inn as Steffan’s first test approached. He took care to dress in his finest clothes, knowing appearance was an important part of the illusion. Along with trousers of supple black leather, he selected a black silk shirt with the embroidered red and black badge of the raven sewn on the breast. Around his shoulders he swirled a floor length black cape lined with crimson silk. As a last touch, he wore the gold ring with the blood-red ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg. A nobleman stared back at him from the mirror, the lock of white hair at his temple adding a further touch of sophistication. He was ready to start the work of the Dark Lord.

  Carefully hefting his saddlebag, he left his room and found Pip at the front of the inn holding his sorrel stallion. The horse gleamed glossy red, a mount fit for a lord. He swung into the saddle and steered the stallion through the city streets to the gates of the Residence, the palace of the Pontifax. Liveried guards were stationed at the gates, but they made no move to stop him. Steffan rode through, knowing his bribes had been well placed.

  Dismounting at the entrance, Steffan removed a gilded box from his saddlebag. Tossing the reins to a waiting footman, he strode through the doors of the palace.

  This was his first time in the Residence, yet he knew the palace from visions in the Dark Lord’s Oracle. His boot steps echoed down the long hallway, the sound of a man driven by purpose. A pair of servants scurried behind him, entreating him to wait. He reached the door to the solar and came to an abrupt stop. Turning to acknowledge an elderly servant who nearly ran into him, Steffan thrust the gilded box into the servant’s hands. “Take this gift to the Enlightened One and announce me. I am the Lord Steffan Raven.”

  Falling back on his training, the servant moved to obey. “Yes sir.” A few moments later, he returned, holding the door open wide. “The Pontifax will see you now.”

  Steffan entered the solar. The room was small but richly appointed with thick carpets, plush armchairs, and marble-topped tables. Exquisite tapestries covered the walls while porcelain vases crowded the mantle. Every detail screamed of opulence, the perfect setting for his offer.

  Seated in plush armchairs, the two priests studied him with hooded eyes. The Pontifax had the look of a kindly patriarch. His face was time-worn with deep-set eyes and a long flowing beard of silver, yet his fingers were long and grasping, revealing the true nature of the man. His companion was less subtle. The Keeper of the Flame had the look of a muscle-bound thug despite his vestments of rich red velvet. Steffan knew the Keeper served as the enforcer, but the true power resided with the Pontifax.

  Between the two men, Steffan’s box sat open on a marble table, empty of its treasure. The Pontifax hefted the gold bar, slowly stroking the lustrous surface with his fingertips. “You have a strange but impressive calling card “Lord Raven”. It will buy you a brief audience.”

  “I have come to Balor to serve as your counselor. This gold bar is but a small measure of the value of my service.”

  The Pontifax barked a rude laugh. “I don’t recall needing a counselor. Is this some kind of joke?”

  Steffan waited, saying nothing, a small smile on his face.

  Weighing the gold bar in his hand, the Pontifax studied him. “Tell me, counselor, why shouldn’t I keep your gold and simply order the guards to kill you?”

  “The bar of gold is a gift, freely given. Five more bars are safely hidden within the city. Invite me to join you and the Ke
eper for dinner for the next five nights and listen to my ideas. On each night I will bring you a bar of gold. At the end of that time, if my ideas do not intrigue you, you keep the gold and I go my own way.”

  The Pontifax stroked the gold, a shrewd smile playing across his lips. “I doubt there is anything you could say that would truly interest me…aside, of course, from the location of your gold, but I’ll make you a counter proposal. Five dinners for five bars of gold, but at the end of the five nights, if I do not see your worth you will walk the Test of Faith in the temple square. After all, the Pontifax cannot accept the service of an infidel. What say you, Lord Raven?”

  Steffan schooled his face to remain expressionless, hiding the elation he felt. “I accept your proposal.” Offering the two men a deep bow, he turned and left the solar. Walking back through the marble halls, he smiled. He’d passed the first test.

  28

  Blaine

  Blaine paced the common room of the inn while the other knights broke their fast on porridge and bread. Kath was normally an early riser, but there was still no sign of the girl. Concerned, he went to her room and knocked on the door. Unlatched, the door swung open. The room was empty. The bed was in disarray and her throwing axes sat on a stool in plain sight. Kath never went anywhere without her axes. Fear gripped his throat like an iron fist.

  Grabbing the harness, he raced back to the common room, raising the alarm. “The Imp’s been taken!” He brandished her throwing axes as proof.