The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  As the hour for the audience dawned, her thoughts spun with possibilities. This meeting could lead to so much more than mere talk. The possibilities were delicious, ransom, seduction, subversion, entrapment, or even a secret alliance. The Priestess considered them all. Much would depend on the emissary and his message. Keeping the possibilities in mind, the Priestess took pains to set the stage. After much thought, she selected a samite sheath of dusky purple, so dark it was nearly midnight, and a necklace of moonstones clasped in silver to dangle amongst her cleavage. Glamorous as a dark jewel, the Priestess took a seat upon the silver throne. Her battle commander, General Tarmin, a burly, bearded warrior clad in a purple surcoat of the moon, stood three steps below the dais, his hand on his sword hilt, a possessive glint in his dark eyes.

  Rain drummed against the mullioned windows. Somewhere down the hall a slow leak dripped onto the marble floor. Such an irritating sound, it soured her mood, as if one loose shingle could belie the opulence of her captured court. She considered summoning her minstrel to obscure the annoyance, but bards had loose tongues and music would diminish the occasion. The Priestess speared a guard with her glare. “Put a bucket under it.”

  The guard sputtered, “A bucket?”

  Irritation rode her voice, “Use your helm.” If not your head.

  With a sheepish nod, the guard sped to obey, but it did little to solve the problem. The wet drip changed to a metallic ping, more annoying than the first, but there was nothing to be done about it. Smoothing her face, the Priestess nodded to her commander. General Tarmin relayed her order, “Admit the envoys.”

  Guards in purple rushed to open the butterfly doors. Five men strode into the hall, spurs jangling, their hands hovering over empty scabbards, proving they were seasoned warriors instead of diplomats, men accustomed to saddles and swords, yet they showed the good sense to eschew their queen’s colors. Instead of emerald green they wore common leathers and darker colors implying a rare blend of caution and shrewdness. She wondered if the choice best reflected the men or their queen.

  The Priestess fingered her moonstone necklace, a flash of jewels bedazzling her cleavage. For more than three moonturns a queen’s crown had sat upon her brow, yet the first sovereign to recognize her royal claim was another woman. The Oracle’s Eye allowed her to spy on many in the Rose Court but never the Spider Queen herself. Curiosity sharpened her interest. She studied the envoys for hints of their queen.

  Reaching her dais, the five men offered courtly bows, not deep enough to be fawning, nor shallow enough to be insulting. The Priestess parried their courtliness with a sultry smile. “Welcome to the realm of the moon.”

  Three of the envoys stood slack-jawed, captured by her allure. Heat reddened their faces, their stares lost in her cleavage, but the oldest among them merely smiled, drawing her interest. A hawk-faced man with iron gray hair and sharp eyes, he gave her a respectful nod. “I bring greetings and well wishes from Queen Liandra of Lanverness to Queen Selene of the moon court. Her majesty is pleased to see a queen arise from the ashes of Coronth.”

  Details often made the man; the speaker wore an elaborately tooled sword belt and a gold ring upon his right hand, both signs of wealth…or royal favor. The Priestess made her voice a caress, “And your name?”

  “Lord Highgate, Master Archivist and councilor to the queen.”

  She’d scried the dark-souled members of the Rose Court, yet his face remained unfamiliar. An honest councilor, a true rarity in war-torn times. “An archivist, someone who deals in musty tomes? You don’t look the type.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “But why choose an archivist as a counselor…or an envoy?”

  “My queen loves to read,” he gave her a sharp smile, “and history matters.”

  “Does it?” She leaned back in the throne. “The Flame war is still raw upon the land yet your queen dares send a high councilor?”

  “Precisely because of that war. My queen desires to know her nearest neighbors, especially one who arises from the ashes of a false religion. Like a comet, you’ve appeared from nowhere to claim a throne.”

  His choice of words struck her as prophetic; how little he understood what the red comet presaged. “Silvery words, so you’re a diplomat, not a spy?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  Amused, she rewarded him with a throaty laugh. “An honest courtier, how rare.” She measured him with her stare. “When you return to Pellanor, what will you report to your queen?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  “First impressions?” She leaned back in the silvery throne, arching her back to flaunt her cleavage.

  His gaze raked across all that was offered and then returned to her face. “Glamour enough to steal a man’s soul…and the skill to use it.”

  Her voice was a silky purr. “Honest and insightful, how refreshing.” Enjoying the verbal joust, she gave him a smoky gaze. “And how will I use it?”

  “Madam, that is the question.” He gestured and one of his companions stepped forward bearing a bundle wrapped in a shimmering cloth of gold. “Please accept this gift as a token of friendship from my queen.”

  General Tarmin inspected the bundle and then offered it to the Priestess.

  Her fingers assessed the cloth, finding its weight of the highest quality. Inside, she discovered a vellum scroll rolled on a spindle of carved ivory. The spindle was exquisite, the ends carved into delicate rosebuds, a not-too-subtle reminder of the gift giver. Unrolling the vellum, she half expected a letter or a treaty but instead her gaze was captured by the brilliance of an illuminated manuscript. Gold and jewel-toned inks swirled across the page, the capital letters adorned with castles and crowns. The vellum was new, so the work was a copy, but the scroll was a masterpiece nonetheless. Intricate calligraphy bedazzled with adornment, she read the title, “Emrath’s Fall.” She gave him a puzzled stare. “Your queen sends a fable?”

  “Is it a fable? Or a history?”

  “Anything from before the War of Wizards is at best a fable. Myths grow on histories like moss to the trees.” She fingered the vellum, considering the scroll. “An odd gift. The craftsmanship is peerless, but I must confess the intent is puzzling.”

  “Perhaps we can all learn from history.”

  “Such an odd message. Is your queen always such a riddle?”

  “Women are riddles, although some are wiser than others, especially my queen.”

  She heard honest admiration in his voice, and for half a heartbeat she envied the Spider Queen. Somewhere down the hall, the leak dripped into the soldier’s helm like the pluck of a badly tuned harp. Annoyed, she set the scroll aside. “Tell me of your queen.”

  “Queen Liandra hopes that the rose and the moon will be more compatible than the flame.”

  “So she seeks peace rather than conquest?”

  “Always.”

  The Priestess gave a throaty laugh. “Doubtful. The Spider Queen is not as benign as you would have us believe. She conquers by the coin rather than the sword.”

  He gave her a rueful smile, as if she’d scored a touch. “Swords destroy while coins build. Good trade is beneficial to both parties.”

  “Now you speak like a merchant instead of a diplomat.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  She liked his wry wit, an interesting reflection on his queen. “Tell me of the woman beneath the rose crown.”

  “The two are ever the same. Queen Liandra is first, last, and always, the queen.”

  Such a stalwart reply, such a ready and flattering defense, yet she wondered. Seeking to unsettle him, she slowly licked her lips and then undressed him with her gaze. Her stare lingered on his codpiece and then flicked to his face, an invitation and a dare. His eyes widened, a hint of wry amusement curving his mouth, but then he gave her a knowing smile. Like a knight errant entering the lists, he dipped his head towards her. “And I serve only my queen.”

  His voice was laced with deep under
tones over iron conviction. His resolve surprised her while stoking her own desire. “Are you sure?”

  “Certain.”

  “Pity.”

  He gave her a courtly bow.

  Such a comely counselor, a heady mixture of mature experience, sharp wit, and fierce loyalty, the Priestess found herself aroused. Iron-gray hair and a time-chiseled face yet he stood like a man accustomed to the sword. A purr of desire built in her throat. She considered capturing him, holding him for ransom while she pitted his convictions against her considerable charms. She considered it, but then discarded the idea…at least for now. “We accept your queen’s gift and consent to peace between our kingdoms.”

  “A wise choice.” He bowed again, deeper this time. “But my queen hoped for an alliance as well as peace.”

  “One does not propose marriage on the first tryst.”

  “One might if haste is a necessity.” His gaze turned serious. “You know the Mordant has taken Raven Pass.”

  She stilled to hear his name spoken aloud, answering with the barest of nods.

  “A military alliance would serve both our kingdoms.”

  “Perhaps, yet we are reluctant to tie the knot.”

  A scowl flitted across his face. “Where will you stand if the north comes crashing down?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “What remains to be seen? The coming of the north, or your choice on where to stand?”

  “Both.” She tired of the verbal sparring. “You’ve served your queen well and gained a peace between us. Let that be enough for now.” She extended her ringed hand. “You may take your leave of us.”

  Climbing the dais, he kept his gaze locked on hers. Taking her proffered hand, he bowed, bestowing a soft but courtly kiss, his gaze fixed on her face. Beneath his gentle touch, she felt his swordsman’s calluses, proof he was much more than just a spry wit. She gave him a suggestive smile, imagining his calloused hands on her bodice. Leaning forward, she ensnared him with her scent, honeysuckle and nightshade mingled with pure allure. She watched his nostrils flair, his gaze delving her bosom. He breathed deep, clearly tempted by her trap.

  He stepped back, his face firm. “Beauty to rival the moon…yet I serve but one queen.”

  Surprise slapped her. She struggled not to gape, knowing no mere mortal could resist the full brunt of her charms lest they were a full-cut eunuch…or deeply smitten by true love. Understanding struck like sharp dagger. The Priestess found herself envying the Spider Queen.

  He retreated down the dais, never turning his back on her.

  Such a pity, “Perhaps we shall meet again?”

  “If my queen wills it.”

  His steadfast loyalty was growing irksome. The Priestess suppressed a sudden desire to hurt him out of pure spite. “We wish you a safe journey.”

  “Please consider my words and the gift of my queen.”

  She nodded, waving dismissal.

  The envoys bowed and then turned with military precision. She watched them stride the length of the marble hall, broad shoulders and a flutter of dark cloaks. The butterfly doors closed behind them, morning light filtering through the bejeweled glass casting a rainbow of colors on the white marble floor. For the longest time she sat upon the silver throne, considering the man, the message, and the rival queen behind them, an intriguing conundrum. The longer she sat, the more her anger built. Sorely tempted to send a squad of soldiers to capture him, she imagined the outcome. Chained and bound, she’d have her way with him, pitting her charms against his resolve, a delightful challenge. “General Tarmin.”

  He snapped to attention. “Yes, my queen.”

  The command quivered on the tip of her tongue, but instead, she stayed the order, making a rare sacrifice to the god of Eros. Dismissing the general with a wave, she whispered the words, “I send him back to you,” as if the love god and the Spider Queen both listened.

  Her gaze dropped to the scroll in her lap. A gift from a queen, she fingered the vellum, wondering if the Spider Queen was as formidable as her counselor. Perhaps the gift held a deeper insight. The Priestess unrolled the scroll. The calligraphy was a masterwork, gold script embellished with jewel-bright illuminations, but the tale was an odd choice, a fable from before the War of Wizards. The story told of a sorcerous queen tricked into causing great destruction. A woman scorned, a woman duped by her lover, everything lost in the conflict, the Priestess wondered at the message beneath the words. She scanned the script till her gaze broke upon a name like a wave shattering upon a rocky shore. Misspelled, yet close enough to hint at the truth, she read the name aloud.

  “The Lord Mordranth.”

  The name alone sounded like a doom. The Priestess considered the message buried beneath the words. So the Spider Queen knows! Or perhaps she merely guessed. A lucky guess…or perhaps a shrewd insight…or worse yet, perhaps the Kiralynn monks meddled. Her mind shuddered at the thought. Either way, the game was growing complicated. Opportunities were bred by complications…and so were the risks of mistakes. The Priestess could not afford a mistake. She’d grown accustomed to wearing a crown, but with the Mordant threatening the southern kingdoms, her hold on Rhune was precarious at best. Plots within plots, she’d have to tread carefully, weaving her way through a maze of risks to grow her own power. One lifetime was not enough; she felt the prize within her reach. She’d play the Great Dark Game and make her own bid for immortality.

  36

  The Mordant

  Men and horses died for the sake of speed but it mattered not to the Mordant. Intent on the Great Dark Dance, he drove his men hard, galloping through Radagar’s sleep-shrouded countryside. On the night of the waning crescent, they reached the appointed farmstead near the border of Lanverness. Armed men in dark hoods glided out of the woods to block the road, crossbows held at the ready. “This way is closed.”

  The Mordant breathed deep, catching the scent of Darkness in their souls. “Not to me.” His stare pierced the leader’s gaze. “Darkness knows its own. Kneel to your lord, Garver.” Raising his staff, he loosed a bolt of pain as proof of his presence.

  With a muffled gasp, the leader fell to his knees. “We’ve awaited your coming, dread lord.” The others made hasty bows, their crossbows pointed to the ground.

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Just as you ordered.”

  “And the chests?”

  “Safe and unlocked, awaiting your orders.”

  “Good, lead the way.”

  A runner was sent ahead while the guards slipped back into the woods to seal the road. The Mordant urged his sweat-streaked stallion to a trot. Garver, a former captain of the Dark Citadel, led his lord down a rutted road. The road curved through a copse of alders, emerging into a muddy yard. The farmstead had seen better days, a sagging row of huts and a dilapidated barn on one side, a thatched farmhouse and a weed-choked garden on the other, but the farmstead was far from abandoned. The muddy yard swarmed with men in dark leathers.

  Garver yelled, “Attention!”

  The command struck like a lash. The men scrambled to form into ranks, six rows of ten with a troop of a dozen duegar standing to the side. Dressed in a hodge-podge of leathers and armor they gave the appearance of a mercenary band, yet their weapons were of the finest make, and so was their discipline, a strange mixture of menace and restraint. Standing rigid at attention, they leaned forward, their hands gripping their weapons like abused mastiffs straining for the order to kill. The Mordant suppressed a smile; such was the legacy of service in the Dark Citadel.

  A tall blonde-haired officer with a nasty scar marking the left side of his face approached. “My Lord, the Eighth Fist of the Citadel is eager to serve.”

  The Mordant nodded. “And the chests?”

  “Secured in the barn, awaiting your orders.”

  Dismounting, the Mordant tossed the reins to the major. “And my women?”

  “Awaiting you in the farmhouse.”

  He gave the major a pier
cing stare. “Borgan is acting as my seneschal; he has the keys to the lesser chests.”

  A sneer flickered across the major’s face. “A bishop! Let me serve you instead.”

  The reaction was not unexpected. His dark priests rarely mixed well with the army. Like a poisonous slime coating a sword, both were deadly in their own way, yet each was full of enmity for the other. But in this case, the Mordant needed them to work together. He gave the major a hard stare, a hint of menace in his voice. “Every man has his purpose, bishops and warriors, you all serve.”

  Major Tarq took a step backwards, his fist pressed to his chest. “Yours to command.”

  “It is time to put off your leathers. Borgan will open the chests and then inspect your men. Listen well, for he’s been schooled in the details for deception. Be warned that no detail is too small. Be ready to ride at first light.”

  The major snapped a rigid salute. “Yes, my lord,” but the Mordant had already turned, striding towards the mud-daubed farmhouse. His assassins ringed the hovel, stunted men clad in black leathers, a baldric of daggers marking their rank. Small in stature yet muscled in build, each had gained uncanny abilities. Annealed by hardship and depravation, the dross of the Dark Citadel had been forged into his most fanatical killers, his personal bodyguard, his assassins of the ninth rank. At his approach, the nearest leaped to open the door.

  The Mordant ducked beneath the lintel, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Lavender and pine smoke struggled to mask the mildewed stench of poverty. A rustle of bright silk met his gaze. His three women melted to the floor in obeisance, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, chosen as much for their stunning beauty as for their unswerving obedience. Crimson, the redhead, stretched a pale hand towards him, caressing his boot. “We’ve missed you, my lord.”