The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Water ripples disturbed the bowl, destroying the image.

  “By the nine Hells!” The Priestess swore, taking a settling breath, chiding herself for such a foolish reaction. The Eye served her, and no one else.

  Regaining her composure, she gripped the scrying bowl, willing the water to settle. The ripples died and the mirrored surface returned, dark as sin. The Priestess breathed upon the water. “Show me the Mordant, the oldest of the harlequins.”

  Power surged through her. Images danced upon the mirrored surface, settling on the face of the Mordant. Eyes stared from the scrying bowl, but this time she was prepared. So close, she saw the fierceness of his gaze, and nothing else. The Priestess manipulated the view. Like a hummingbird hovering overhead, she sculled backwards, gaining a wider perspective. Clad in purple robes, the Mordant stood in a farmer’s field, the dark earth striped with fresh-plowed furrows. Inscribed across the fresh-turned earth was a huge pentacle, etched deep in the soil, as if drawn by a sword. A pinioned hawk and a bound man writhed within the Dark Lord’s symbol. The man fought his bonds, his face contorted in fear. A sacrifice…or a summoning...either way it implied a great working. Intrigued, the Priestess crouched over the scrying bowl, mesmerized by the dark possibilities.

  The Mordant raised his arms to the night sky. His lips moved, murmuring incantations, but the Priestess heard them not, for the Eye conveyed only images. A swirl of dark clouds obscured the stars, a potent storm brewing overhead. The Mordant stabbed a finger skyward. A pillar of green lightning answered. Forked lightning spiked down, striking the Mordant, bathing him in power. A nimbus of sickly green light cast an otherworldly glow around the Mordant, yet he stood unbowed, crackling with menace. So much raw power, the Priestess cringed at the strength of it. How could he survive it? How could he channel it? How would he wield it? She stared in awe as he harnessed the power. Green lightning spiked from his fingertips while Darkness swirled around him like a cloak, as if he channeled the power of the gods. The Mordant’s mouth moved, shouting an incantation. The storm whipped his blond hair around his head like a writhing crown. Power encircled the Mordant like a maelstrom.

  The backwash hit the scrying bowl.

  Power surged through the silver bowl, a spark of green lightning scorching her fingertips. The Priestess flinched, her hands pinpricked with a thousand stinging nettles, yet she held to the bowl. Fear shuddered through her; she’d never experienced anything like this. A part of her wanted to pull away, to heed the warning, yet she refused to release the bowl. Caught by an insatiable need to know, she crouched low, peering into the scrying waters, determined to learn the Mordant’s secrets

  The view changed…of its own accord!

  Like a fish caught on a line, the view was drawn closer, tightening on the Mordant.

  Startled, the Priestess struggled to resist. Pouring her own power into the moonstone, she sought to wrest control of the Eye, yet the view drew ever closer to the Mordant, like driftwood being sucked into a whirlpool.

  His face filled the scrying bowl, malevolent and cruel.

  The Mordant peered through the waters! He saw her! Reversing the power of the Eye, he stared back at her! Terror spiked through her. She tried to pull away, but it was as if his gaze seared her soul.

  *I see you, Whore of Darkness!*

  Her mind froze, teetering on the edge of terror. Such a thing was impossible…yet his voice boomed through her mind.

  *Behold my power!* Green lightning crackled around the Mordant’s face like a spiked crown. *I am the eldest, the Lord of Darkness, the Master of Erdhe. How dare you scry against me!*

  Frantic, the Priestess fought to blank the image. She spent her power, yet the Mordant’s stare filled the scrying bowl, mockery in his gaze.

  *I see you, Whore of Darkness. You live to serve!* His voice thundered through her mind. *The Great Dark Dance has begun. Come to Pellanor and serve your master!*

  She fought to block him out, to push him away, to wrest control of the moonstone.

  And then he laughed. He laughed! A terrible mocking sound rolled through the scrying bowl, beating against her.

  Power flared through the Eye, burning her hands. A scream ripped out of her. She struggled to pull away, but her hands were locked to the bowl, shackled by magic. Steam billowed upward like a breath hissed from hell. The Priestess flinched away. In less than a heartbeat, the water disappeared revealing the great moonstone lying fallow in the scrying bowl…but the Eye no longer glowed. Pale and sickly, the great moonstone looked dead, devoid of power…but then it began to shuddered and quaked.

  It moved like an egg about to give birth.

  Unable to flee, unable to look away, the Priestess stared the moonstone, trapped by fear and trepidation.

  The Eye of the Oracle shuddered and shook…and then it cracked. The great moonstone sundered into three pieces. A moaning sigh swept through the tower chamber like the release of a long-imprisoned soul.

  Horrified, the Priestess stared in shock. A scream rent through her. “Nooooo!” She lunged for the gemstone. Cradling the largest piece against her breast, she willed her strength into it. Clutching it close, she strained to sense a glimmer of magic, but the great gem remained dull and lifeless, devoid of power. A terrible keening burst from her. He’d broken the Eye. He’d stolen the best of her powers. She railed against him, cursing his name. Her horror annealed to hatred…but then the gemstone flared with one last flicker of magic…and it tasted of the Mordant. Green lightning bit her hands. Power hammered against her, strong as a battering ram. Punching her in the chest, it hurled her across the room. She hit hard, cracking her head against the stone wall. Stunned and heart sore, the Priestess slumped to the floor, consumed by darkness.

  41

  Steffan

  Steffan woke with a start, a scream ringing in his ears. Slick with sweat, he pushed the nightmare away. Seeking succor, he reached for the Priestess…but the far side of the bed was empty, the covers twisted in torment. Gone…again, anger warred with frustration. The dark-damned woman was always slipping away in the dead of the night, always climbing to her chamber in the tower, but she never let him come, and she never answered his questions. His gaze flicked to the window, confirming night still ruled a moonless sky. Leaping from bed, he reached for his pants, deciding to plumb her secretive tower. Steffan was done with riddles.

  Barefoot, he padded up the stairs, determined to end this mute stalemate that hung between them. Nearing the top, he heard a woman’s wail. Hastening his stride, he reached the door but it was closed. “Cereus!” He pounded on the door, but it was locked. “Cereus!”

  Nothing but silence for a reply.

  He threw his weight against the door, battering it with his shoulder. The stout oak shook against its frame, proving it was latched not locked. Once, twice, three times he rammed the door until it burst open like a startled mouth.

  Torchlight poured in from the open door. He found her crumpled against the far wall. So pale…she looked broken. “No!” the cry keened out of him. Scooping her into his arms, he cradled her close. So cold, she felt like death. Fear spiked through him. He felt at her neck, desperate for a pulse. Nothing! But he refused to believe. Frantic fingers searched finding a faint pulse…so faint, yet she lived. He held her close, ambushed by his own relief. “Don’t leave me,” he breathed the words into her raven-dark hair, a prayer and a command. So pale, so cold, she lay still as death, her vibrancy snuffed like a candle. He ached to see her this way. Gathering her close, Steffan carried her down the long winding stairs to the rear of the keep. Cultured marble turned to rough cut stone beneath his bare feet. He strode through the corridors with grim purpose, the Priestess clutched in his arms.

  Startled guards rushed to open the bronze door, admitting a breath of chill night air. He carried her out into the faint starlight, steam billowing from the hot springs like a dragon’s breath. Striding to the shallow end, he walked straight into the bubbling cauldron.

  Hot wat
er constricted his leather pants, binding him tight, but he cared only for her. Slowly, so slowly, he eased her cold body into the frothing heat. She made no sound, made no response. His heartbeat quickened, beseeching the gods. Cradling her head, he kept her face clear of the water. Steam rose around her, carrying the scent of brimstone. Her long dark hair floated like a nimbus around her pale white face. So beautiful yet she remained so still. “Live! Breathe!” He kissed her, forcing his breath into her mouth. Willing her to live, he held her for an eternity.

  Her eyes flickered opened.

  Relief coursed through him. “Don’t leave me.” He held her close, feeling the warmth return to her limbs, a touch of pink blooming in her cheeks…but her face remained gaunt, as if she’d been drained of life.

  Gasping for breath, she gave him a wanton stare. Her hands clutched at him. “Need you…need you now!” Hungry fingers plucked at the binding of his pants. Her mouth closed on his, a desperately deep kiss, as if she meant suck the very essence from his soul.

  Her insatiable hunger enflamed his ardor. Steffan shed his leathers like a snake shedding useless skin. Naked, he stood rampant and eager. Standing waist-deep in the frothing water, he pulled her close, the smell of brimstone billowing around them. She straddled him, her long legs wrapping around his waist. Drinking his gaze, she impaled herself upon him. And then he was deep in her, like a sword finding a moist sheath. He groaned in pleasure, grinding deep, wanting more.

  She bucked against him, relentless with need. He answered, matching her rhythm. Her back arched, her dark hair flung wild around her face, her eyes closed, her perfect lips puckered in passion. Fingernails raked across his back, urging him on. Her whole body clenched his manhood, sucking him deeper into her womb, like nothing he’d ever felt. An unbearable ecstasy ripped through him. Twice he came, and still she rode him, making him last, keeping him stiff as steel. So powerful, so hard, he felt like a god mounting a goddess. Bellowing his pleasure, he spewed the last of his strength, collapsing backwards into the frothing water.

  They separated, floating side by side.

  Bubbles frothed around them, releasing the scent of brimstone, the heady scent of Hell.

  Drained yet drunk on pleasure, Steffan floated on the water, staring at her, still smitten by the ecstasy. Vitality bloomed in her face, as if she’d come back from the grave, younger and more beautiful, yet her gaze was cold and forbidding. He struggled to understand. “What…was that?”

  “Need…and the backwash of magic.”

  Magic, he mulled her words, magic not love. “I heard you scream. I feared you dead.”

  Something kindled in her gaze. “The Mordant found me.”

  Steffan sucked a sharp breath. “Here?”

  “In the scrying bowl.”

  Scrying, so that was the source of her power. The woman was a riddle…a dangerous, ravishing riddle. “And?”

  “The Mordant summoned me…”

  Like a lackey, he read the words in the hatred blazing from her face. “And me?”

  Her dark gaze considered him, caressed him, owned him. “Come with me.”

  Her gaze alone sizzled his soul. His manhood stirred. Having nearly lost her, he’d never let her go. “Yes.” He’d chase her to Hell and back if needs be…but whether it was for lust, or love…or power, he did not know. “Where?”

  “To Pellanor.”

  The name stung like a curse. Steffan snarled. “Why?”

  “The Mordant is the oldest among us, the most powerful harlequin.”

  “So?” Steffan felt danger gathering around them, yet the gambler in him could not resist. “We serve only the Dark Lord.”

  “True, yet the oldest harlequin must be reckoned with. Favored by the Dark Lord, the Mordant is steeped in power.” She gave him a sly smile. “Perhaps he grows too powerful. Our god is a jealous god. There is but one power in Hell…and that power does not share.”

  Steffan looked thoughtful. “So he baits the gods?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then why go?”

  Her smile deepened, dangerous and deadly. “For vengeance.”

  Her words quickened in his soul, summoning him to a quest…or laying a geas upon him…either way, vengeance was something he understood. He pulled her close, kissing her long and hard. “For vengeance”…and for power, though the second remained unspoken.

  Her fingernails raked across his chest, her kisses trailing down his neck igniting a line of fire. A primal need roared through him, lust mixed with love. Steffan wanted this woman…but he also wanted power. In the depths of his soul, he wondered if he could have both.

  In The North

  42

  Katherine

  Kath paced the highest ramparts, staring out at the endless white, a gauntlet of killing cold. Winter subverted to evil, harnessed as a lethal guardian…only the Mordant could make winter his slave. It explained why the oldest harlequin chose to reside in the far north. Kath shivered at the thought, daunted by the dark logic. The Citadel, like its master, was formidable in more ways than one. Crenellated battlements spiraling to a dizzying height, the dark fortress cast a long shadow across the winter-bound steppes. Conquering the Citadel should have felt triumphant, instead it tasted of ashes, bitter in her mouth, for the Citadel was empty, her true enemy long gone. And the price…she could not think of the price, better to think of her foe. Somewhere in the south, the Mordant worked his will upon Erdhe, yet she was stuck in his fortress, trapped by winter. Without even trying, the Mordant had outmaneuvered her. The realization galled her. Kicking ice from the rampart, she gripped the crystal dagger, feeling like a caged wolf.

  It did not help that the others pecked at her with a thousand questions, a thousand decisions that seemed paltry and quarrelsome. A gaggle of painted warriors and citadel citizens lurked on the far side of the rune-carved courtyard, awaiting an audience. They gathered like starving geese, before the impotent sun barely cracked the chilly sky. Kath scowled, sending them a sideways glance meant to discourage. Ripe with petitions and endless problems, they formed a trap of another sort. Death by a thousand details, their problems could wait. Kath turned a resolute stare towards the frozen steppes, obsessed with finding a way south.

  A fresh stare speared her.

  Kath turned to find Zith waddling towards her. Swathed in so many sheepskins, the monk actually looked fat. She wondered what need had drawn him from his mountain of scrolls. Feeling stubborn, she waited, letting the monk come to her.

  His breath puffed into the cold like a bellows. Drawing near, his gaze was full of reproach. “Put your grief aside.”

  His words hit hard. Kath closed her eyes, as if she could shutter her soul. She’d never spoken of her marriage to Duncan, yet the monk had wise eyes, shrewd eyes.

  “You shirk your duties.”

  His words hit below the belt. “My duties?” Her frustration erupted like a lanced boil. “I’m not meant to be here! I need to get south!”

  His face softened. “True, for all of Erdhe depends on it.”

  The weight on her shoulders multiplied.

  “You’ve conquered the north and now you must rule it.”

  Kath slumped against the rampart. “The painted people can rule. The Citadel is theirs to keep.”

  “You are their Svala. Till you find a way south, you must rule.” Zith gestured towards the petitioners huddled on the far side. “They expect it of you.”

  Kath felt a second trap closing around her, tight as a noose.

  “Your victory of swords will be for naught if you do not change the north.”

  His comment cut close to the bone, too close. “What do you mean?”

  “Taming a city is a thorny problem, so different from conquering it. Instead of slicing the knot with a sword, you must find a way to untangle it, weaving something new from the strands…something different, something better, something stronger.” Zith gave her a solemn look. “Power is more than just swords.”

  Kath had nev
er sought any power save the sword. She fingered her sword hilt, wondering what Queen Liandra would do.

  “In the scrolls of history, conquerors come and go, little more than passing plagues…unless they change those they conquer. You cannot stay, for your destiny lies in the south, but you can make a great difference while you are here.”

  Kath chewed on his words, finding much food for thought.

  Zith leaned towards her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And while you untangle the Citadel’s thorny knots, you will learn the ways of your enemy, for this fortress is a reflection of the Mordant’s will, his Dark intent.”

  Learn the ways of your enemy. Kath looked at the Citadel with fresh eyes. She gave the monk a rueful smile, resolved to untangling the knot. “Just so.”

  Zith gave her a shrewd look. “You are meant to rule.”

  When she tried to protest, he stilled her with his stare.

  “Born in Castlegard, yet you were forbidden the sword. Despite a multitude of obstacles, you learned the way of warrior and now you’ve conquered the north.” His gaze drilled into her. “Born a girl, you were never raised to wear a crown, yet it is in your blood to rule.”

  A shiver raced down Kath’s spine, the spectral finger of an undreamt destiny. Castlegard, the very name rang in her soul, yet she shook her head, denying the scant hope. “The maroon will never be ruled by a woman.” Bitterness rode her words.

  “By your deeds you will be known.”

  Her frustration boiled over. “None in the south even know of our victory, and worse yet, none will believe it. None save Blaine, and one knight is not enough.”

  “The future has yet to unfold.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “Life is a riddle till you put meaning to it.” Zith leaned towards her, his face stern. “You must deal with the Citadel. Wits and heart enabled you to win the north, not just your sword.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Rule the same. Grasp your destiny. Dare to rule…and rule well.”