The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  More mystery wrapped in riddles. “Monarchs rarely leave their domain, so instead we wish for more time to talk with you. We would make you a member of our court, Lord Cenric. We wish to talk with you and hear tales of your home in the Deep Green.”

  “As you wish.” With a swirl of his peacock cloak, Cenric and his clansmen took their leave with the barest of nods.

  The door clicked shut and the feral wildness was gone.

  Behind her, Stewart released a long held breath. “Deftly done, mother.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Not so deft. Lord Cenric knows we need his bows, but the best deals are those in which both sides prosper.”

  Her shadowmaster said, “Let us hope there is enough prosperity to go around.”

  “We must do better than hope. By wits, by golds, and by swords, we must ensure it.” The queen’s gaze turned to Prince Stewart and Lord Dane. “What plans for the war in the north?”

  Lord Dane spread a map across the table. “By all reports, the Mordant’s army remains here, in Raven Pass. The Octagon Knights have been defeated, but we suspect they’re mounting some type of rear action.”

  The queen studied the map. “A war in winter,” the mere words carried a deadly chill.

  Prince Stewart’s face was grim. “A terrible war to fight. And if the rumors of the Mordant’s numbers are even half true…” he shook his head, “may the gods aid them.”

  “We can’t leave it to the gods. If the Octagon still fights, then we must help them.”

  “How?” Prince Stewart stared at her. “By the time we march north the Octagon will be defeated or holed up in one of their castles.”

  “Swords are not the only way to lend aid.” She reached across the map, tapping a bejeweled finger on the great eight-sided castle drawn in bold ink. “If the knights wage a winter war then Castlegard will know of it. They’ll sorely need food and horses and other supplies. Our gold can buy them that. We’ll send to Harvesthold, purchasing food and horses, ordering the farmers of Tubor to deliver them north to Castlegard.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “If nothing else, it will buy us time.”

  “Time?” The prince quirked an eyebrow.

  “The most precious of commodities. The longer the knights fight, the more time we shall have to prepare.” She leaned back against the carved throne, fingering her necklace of royal rubies. “After the Flame War, we sorely need more time to recover from the damage.” Her gaze turned to the prince. “What of your plans for the army?”

  “Numbers rule in warfare. Given the size of the Mordant’s horde, we dare not meet them in a pitched battle. Instead, we’ll fight another war of attrition, nibbling away at their flanks, taking small bites, trying to whittle them down to a fightable size, much the same as we did with the Flame. But it will take much more map, a lot more map.” His finger traced a path from Pellanor north. “We’ll march fast, trying to reach the Snowmelt before they cross.”

  The queen nodded. “Better to fight the length of Coronth than Lanverness.”

  “Just so.” His face turned grim. “But war will eventually come to Lanverness.”

  The words sounded like a doom. “We know.” The queen took a steadying breath. “We shall have to be prepared. When will you leave?”

  “We’ll march within a fortnight.”

  “Then the wedding will be a rushed affair, for we’ll want an heir seeded before you leave.”

  The prince gaped. “Mother…”

  The queen forestalled him with a raised hand. “King Ivor consents to the marriage and so does Princess Jemma, so bend a knee and ask her. While you woo the maiden, we’ll make the official arrangements. This alliance with Navarre is important and you will not find a better wife for your future queen.”

  “Mother, I…”

  Lord Dane interrupted. “Perhaps I can take my leave? There’s much to be done before the army is ready to march.”

  A strange look passed between her son and Lord Dane. The queen offered her ringed hand. “See to the army, for so much depends on it.”

  The young lord kissed her ring and then beat a hasty retreat.

  “Lord Dane seems eager.”

  The prince muttered, “I cannot blame him.” Taking a deep breath, he gripped the hilt of his blue steel sword and raised his stare to the queen. “Mother, we must speak of my marriage. I cannot marry Princess Jemma…”

  She cut him off. “More of your romantic falderal. Love may come in due time, but for now we need this alliance and we need more heirs. It is your duty as crown prince and it is all arranged.”

  “I can not…”

  “Of course you can!”

  Looking exasperated, the prince fairly shouted the words. “I’m already married.”

  The queen gasped. “What?”

  “I’m married.” The prince stood sword-straight, his back to the roaring fire, the saber scar prominent on his face. “I married Princess Jordan at the Crimson Keep.” His voice softened. “So you have your alliance with Navarre, and in time, the gods willing, you’ll have your heirs.”

  The queen felt like a ship without sails. “Where? When?”

  “After I escaped the brigands and before we attacked Lingard.” A smile burst across his face, as bright as sunrise. “Jordan saved me. It was if the gods brought us together. So I had to marry her, I couldn’t wait.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “At Crimson Keep, an ancient ruin just south of Lingard.”

  “Married in a ruin? As if that’s not an ill-omen.”

  “Mother!”

  The queen sifted through the scant details seeking an escape. “And who married you?”

  “One of the Kiralynn monks said the words. We wed beneath the stars and all the gods.” He gave her a shrewd look. “And there were witnesses, mother, Ronald Rognald, and the monks and some of my royal guard. And by now the King of Navarre will have heard the news from Jordan.” His voice turned hard. “This marriage of my heart shall not be put aside.”

  “And where is your…wife?”

  “In Navarre, we both know the importance of duty.”

  “You speak of duty, but what of your children, my heirs?”

  “Gods, mother! Give us time.”

  “But what if she can’t?”

  “What?”

  The truth needed to be said, an ugly suspicion she’d harbored since word came from the monastery. “What if she isn’t capable?”

  The prince paled, clearly ambushed. “What do you mean?”

  “Princess Jordan was attacked in the monk’s monastery, dealt a terrible wound to the abdomen. The monks healed her…but what if she is no longer fertile?”

  The prince sank to the nearest chair, his face ashen. “I saw the scar, a terrible wound…but she is healed, whole and well.”

  “Is she?” The queen slumped in the throne, sundered by the turn of events. “You are our only living child, our only heir. Without grandchildren, our line ends.”

  “There will be children. The gods can not be that cruel.” Forced confidence filled his voice but his face remained pale.

  “Never count on the gods. We’ve found them to be a fickle lot.”

  Lord Highgate said, “The royal line of Navarre is unusually fecund.”

  The prince sent a grateful look towards the shadowmaster. Rising, he stood with his hand gripping his blue steel sword. “I’ve married for love, to a princess royal, sealing the alliance between Navarre and Lanverness. We are wedded and bedded and in time there will be children.”

  “May it be so.”

  “Be happy for us, mother.”

  She ceded him a mother’s smile. “We wish you joy in your marriage, we truly do. But we also wish you children.” Worry laced her voice. “War comes, and we need more heirs.”

  “Give us time and I will place a grandchild in your arms.” Bowing, the prince took his leave.

  For the longest time, the queen stared into the fire, the golden flames crackling around pine logs. Her son�
�s marriage had ambushed her, shocked her, even stunned her, casting doubt on her own choices. She’d succeeded as a queen, guiding and preserving her kingdom…but perhaps she’d failed as a woman, dooming the Tandroth line to extinction.

  Her shadowmaster broke her gaze by stepping in front of the fire. “He will make a fine king.”

  “How do you know?”

  He gave her a warm smile. “He married for love. And he dared defy the strongest queen I know.”

  “There is that.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “There is much to worry about.” She gazed at him, sorrow in her heart. “If only our daughter had lived. A daughter to love…and a second heir to secure the Tandroth bloodline.”

  Concern flashed across his face. “You still think it was poison?”

  “We know it.” Her words lashed with rebuke. “The babe was alive and well.” The queen laced her hands across her empty womb. “We felt her kick. We felt her grow…and then she was murdered. Killed before she took her first breath.”

  “I should have been here. I should have protected you.”

  The queen shook her head. “We were at war. You were needed elsewhere, but Robert, now that you’re here, you must find this murderer. We fear an enemy lurks within our castle. You must find this killer of babes and gain justice for our daughter.”

  He knelt before her. “I will scour the shadows for her murderer.”

  “Find the killer, for we cannot rest until it is done.”

  He kissed her ring. “As you command,” and took his leave, softly closing the door behind him.

  Alone, the queen sat in front of the fireplace. Light and shadow danced across her solar. In her heart, Liandra knew a murderer lurked within her court, yet the killer left no clues and no witnesses. How does one catch a murderer when he leaves no trace, disappearing like mist in the dawn’s first light? At least Robert believed her, but she’d set her shadowmaster a difficult task. She craved justice for her unborn daughter…and she needed to feel safe in her own castle. Staring into the fire, Liandra shivered despite the heat. In the depths of her soul, she felt Darkness draw near…and she knew she was not ready

  25

  Megan

  Queen Megan craved sleep, yet she dared not close her eyes lest the nightmares claim her. She’d tried strong wine, drinking herself into a stupor, yet the witch was waiting for her, lurking in her wine-besotted dreams, whispering foul commands. Sleep was no longer safe. A terrible weariness dogged the queen. She needed something stronger, something to block the witch and give her peace.

  A knock sounded on the door to her solar.

  “Come.”

  “Majesty, your horse is saddled and waiting.” Sir Leon nodded towards her, his silver mustache drooping past his stubbled chin, his face as sad and lined as a hound dog’s, belying his sunny nature. She gave the old dear a smile. His sword arm was no longer steady or sure, but he still served, a knight and a loyal friend, her favorite escort on market day.

  Swirling a plain brown shawl around her shoulders, she followed him down the spiral stairs and out into the courtyard. Saddled and bridled, Buttercup was waiting, straining to munch on an errant weed. The queen stroked the pony’s silky muzzle, offering her a winter apple, surprised by the gray hairs sprouting among the silver. “Never mind, dear, we both have gray in our hair.” Megan had never been much of a rider, but she made an exception for the silver mare. A gift from the king, Buttercup had a sweet disposition and an easy fluid gait that took the terror out of riding.

  Sir Leon gave her a leg up and then swung onto his eighteen-hand warhorse.

  The queen felt like a child riding beside the knight. She gave her pony a reassuring pat. “Size isn’t everything.”

  Guards opened the castle gates and the salty breath of sea air blew into the courtyard. Like magic, the causeway was exposed, stretching from the castle gates to the shore. The queen clucked Buttercup to a trot, although there was no need. The little pony knew the routine, following the warhorse down the ramp and across the causeway.

  The weekday market was held in the tournament field overlooking the harbor. Merchants sold everything from fresh-caught fish, steamed mussels and abalone, herbs and vegetables, to exotic silks and curious trinkets. Seaside’s market was famous for exotic goods brought from distant ports, but the merchant fleet had been absent for nigh on four moonturns. Anything exotic was long since sold, but the people searched anyway, enthralled by the thrill of the hunt.

  Sir Leon secured their mounts and then followed her through the market, a wicker basket on his arm. “It’s good to see you out and about again, majesty.”

  In her younger days, the queen had enjoyed the market, hunting for unexpected treasures, gifts to give her children and her husband…but those days seemed a lifetime ago. “Yes, it is good to be out.” She turned her face away, lest her eyes betray the lie.

  The queen meandered the market, looking but not seeing. She tasted some buttery mussels swimming in a garlic sauce and then made her way to a weaver’s stall, stopping to finger half a dozen wools before deciding on thick blanket dyed a brilliant sea-blue. “Yes, I’ll have this one.”

  Sir Leon paid the price, carefully folding the bright wool into the basket.

  The queen laid a hand on his arm. “Would you be a dear, and wait by the horses?” Leaning close, she whispered, “I need to see a wise woman about a female remedy.”

  The knight blazed bright red. “Of course, my lady.”

  It always amazed her how big brave men wilted at the mere mention of ‘female remedies’. He gave her a firm nod and then marched stoically towards the horses. Quit of the knight, the queen pulled her shawl up around her head to better hide her face, and then made her way to the back of the market. Beyond the market, a honeycomb of narrow cobble streets climbed the hillside. It had been a long time, but her feet knew the way. She found the door painted a bright red, incised with subtle runes, and rang the dangling bell cord, praying Matilda was home.

  The old crone answered the door, wisps of silver hair escaping a tightly bound bun. Amidst a wrinkled face creased with nearly a century of laugh lines, the old woman’s blue eyes twinkled bright and keen. “Majesty! Come in! It’s been such a long time.”

  The queen entered the small shop that also served as the wise woman’s home. Bundles of herbs hung in one corner, releasing comforting scents of basil, marjoram and thyme. Shelves filled with ceramic jars and exotic bottles lined the far wall. In the center of the room, a small round table draped with a fringed shawl sat beneath a star-shaped lantern.

  The old woman ushered her to a seat at the round table and began lighting candles. “You look troubled, my lady, how can I help?”

  She’d known Matilda for nearly all her life. A wise woman, an herbalist, a midwife, and a fortuneteller, the old woman was ever perceptive…and discrete. Staring at her friend’s wise eyes, the queen longed to unburden her troubles, to explain about the nightmares, to confess her oath and the witch’s evil commands…but the words died on her tongue. Frustrated, she blurted, “I can’t sleep.”

  “Chamomile tea will calm the nerves and soothe the stomach, but then again valerian is even better, gives a deeper sleep, although the taste is quite bitter, best taken with a dollop of honey.”

  “I need more than tea! Last night I emptied my husband’s best brandy and still the nightmares came!”

  Matilda peered at her, as if reading the lines on her face. “It’s all those funerals, isn’t it? So many deaths at the castle, little wonder you’re plagued by nightmares.”

  “It’s worse than that.”

  Matilda gave her a squinty-eyed look. “The Curse of the Vowels?”

  The queen could only nod.

  “Such a dreadful curse…with such long tentacles, but there’s no lore I know that can break it.”

  “I know.” The queen’s voice sounded small in her ears. “Yet I need help. I need answers…and sleep.”

  “Then you’v
e come to cast the runes.”

  It was a statement, not a question, yet the queen answered. “Yes.”

  “Then together we’ll invoke the higher powers.” It was midday outside, bright with sunlight, yet Matilda circled the chamber lighting candles and lanterns as if to dispel every shadow. Opening a cedar chest, she removed a red velvet drawstring bag and a folded linen cloth. Returning to the table, the wise woman spread the linen cloth across the tabletop, revealing a twenty-pointed star painted in gold. Her wrinkled hands smoothed the white linen, following each point of the painted star to the table’s edge, as if invoking the gods’ blessings from every direction. Folding her hands across the star’s heart, Matilda used the words of ritual. “Now the petitioner invokes the blessings of her god.”

  Most Navarrens worshiped the sea god, but Megan was from Harvesthold. Closing her eyes, the queen beseeched Magery the Mother, Queen of the Harvest, benevolent protector of mothers and children. Help me, Mother, help me defeat the witch. Opening her eyes, she found the wise woman staring at her.

  Matilda held the velvet bag high above the painted star. “The petitioner extracts seven runes.”

  Without looking, the queen delved her hand into the velvet bag. She swirled the rune markers, cool against her fingertips. Selecting seven, she removed her fist from the bag.

  “Now the petitioner asks the question, casting the runes upon the many-pointed star.”

  “Show me the way.” Silently posing her question, the queen cast the runes upon the star. Small tiles of colored glass, worn smooth by time and many hands, scattered across the tabletop. Runes painted in bright gold shown from four of the tiles. Three others landed face-down, hiding their runes and inverting their meaning. Red, green, amethyst and gold, the glass tiles glinted colorful in the candlelight. The queen glanced at the runic pattern but it made little sense. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the wise woman, startled by the fear etched on the crone’s face.

  “This cannot be.” Matilda reached for the runes, as if to gather them up, but the queen stayed her hand, her voice laden with sepulchral tones. “Tell me.”