His servants hastily stood.
Frederinko towered above the others, distinctive in his silver collar and nose chains. “Welcome to Pellanor, my lord.” Bronzed from a lifetime spent beneath Ur's southern sun, the chained servant was the lone kernel of truth in the Mordant’s elaborate deception. Seized by MerChanters' raiders and carried to the far north at the Mordant’s bidding, he’d broken the eunuch’s will in the bloody cavern beneath the Dark Citadel. Now a dedicate of Darkness, the eunuch served as the Mordant’s emissary to the Rose Court. With a courteous bow, the chained servant gestured toward the gilded stairway. “Would you like to see the rest of the manse?”
“Show me the cellar.”
“As you wish.”
The Mordant followed the chained servant toward the rear of the house. Bishop Borgan, Major Tarq, his master assassin, Dolf, and Rollo, a snargon of the duegars, stayed close, providing a mixture of protection and service.
A doorway in a shadowy alcove opened to stairs leading down. Thick stone walls embraced the stairway with a cellar’s wintery chill. The stairs led to a small room crowded with wine casks stacked floor to ceiling.
Frederinko stepped to an enormous barrel inset in the wall. “Stonemasons worked tirelessly to complete the modifications you required.”
“Have they been silenced?”
“Silent as a grave.” Turning the tap on the large barrel, the eunuch tugged and the lid swung open, revealing a hidden passage.
The Mordant gestured and Dolf plumbed the passage followed by Rollo. There was no need for him to tax his powers while others lived to serve. While he waited on their inspection, the Mordant turned to Frederinko. “Tell me of the queen.”
Frederinko flashed a shark’s smile. “The queen toils like a drone bee, struggling to repair the ravages of the Flame War. She builds walls and rekindles commerce, but her actions prove her deepest nightmares come from the north. When Raven Pass fell, she scrambled to rebuild her army and forge a patchwork alliance. Her sole heir marches north with the Rose army, a futile attempt to delay the inevitable.”
The Mordant suppressed a grin, for wars ever provided the best distractions. “What of Dominic and Castor?”
“Dressed as jesters, both were accepted as gifts and reside in the castle.”
“Good. Send word that I’ll meet with them on the morrow. I’ll need a full report.”
“As you command.”
Dolf and Rollo returned, making the hand signal that all was safe.
The Mordant stepped through the opening, entering a pristine dungeon. Caged cells stretched away on either side, yet the chilled air carried nothing but the ascetic scents of mortar and fresh-cut stone.
Frederinko gestured left and right. “Cells enough to hold fifty people or more, and there are even two oubliettes if you wish to invoke the subtlest of tortures.” Crossing the corridor, he unlocked an ironbound door. “This way to the sanctum.”
Dolf lifted a torch from the wall, leading the way down the narrow stairs.
The Mordant followed, emerging into a large stone-cloistered chamber. Darkness arched overhead, the ceiling soaring to a corbelled vault shrouded in shadows. Torchlight flickered in the gloom, revealing a blank canvas. Bone-cold and grave-dank, the sanctum was empty of symbols save for a single great pentacle inscribed across the floor, silver inset in the dull granite. Man-high braziers stood at the five points of the pentacle. Sculpted in bronze, the twisted figures writhed like tortured souls straining for release. Simple in its design, the sanctum echoed the configuration of the Dark Citadel’s bloody cavern, but it was new and unused…and devoid of power, a chapel waiting to be dedicated. The Mordant yearned to awaken the Darkness, to summon the divine Dark to the very heart of the queen's city. Striding to the pentacle, he stood in the center and closed his eyes, reaching for his god. He found the Dark God lurking at the edge of reality, slavering for worship in the heart of Lanverness. “Yes, this will do.”
His eyes snapped open, his gaze fastening on Major Tarq. “Sacrifices are needed to open the gateway. Bring me orphans and pickpockets and other riffraff, people who shall not be missed. Later, we’ll be more blatant in our offerings.”
“As you command.” The major saluted, fist to breastplate.
His gaze turned to the snargon. “Have your duegar run regular sweeps of the city streets. If the meddling monks aren’t already infesting the city, they soon will be. Sniff out their magic and you’ll find their bolt holes. I want reports of any magic, any monks…or knights of the Octagon found within Pellanor.”
The snargon bristled, “But we can only…”
The Mordant glared. “You have eyes. Use them.”
The snargon bowed low, stepping back into the shadows.
Bishop Borgan said, “Shall I send word to the queen requesting an audience?”
The Mordant’s gaze snapped to the portly bishop disguised as a seneschal. "Stupid does not serve me."
The bishop blanched, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
"All of Pellanor speaks of our arrival…though they know not who I am.” The simple deception amused the Mordant, wakening a fierce passion for the hunt. “The queen will seek an audience with us. The arrogant bitch will invite her own doom...and we, being obliging guests, shall accept.” A thrill coursed through him, an eagerness to reach the end game. His voice crackled with power, ominous with prediction. “In this lifetime, all of my enemies shall be shattered. Let the Great Dark Dance begin.”
2
Master Numar
The dark of the moon, such an ill-omened time, yet he understood why Aeroth chose it for their moon-turn meeting. Shrugging the satchel onto his back, Master Numar chose a stout staff from the stand near the door and set off from the shop at a brisk walk. Wielding his quarterstaff like a walking stick, he made his way through the cobbled streets of Pellanor.
Late at night, yet the streets were not entirely empty. A neighboring shopkeeper walked by, doffing his cap in greeting. Master Numar smiled, replying with a friendly nod. A master of the Kiralynn Order, yet he'd exchanged his midnight blue robes for the simple garb of an apothecary. He looked the part. His long white beard, brushed and carefully cultivated, drew the respect of many, a timeworn mark of a venerable elder. He could act decrepit when it suited him, but in truth, he was in robust health despite his sixty-three years.
Candlelight flickered from many windows, brightening the street. The queen's city never truly slept. Despite the ravages of the Flame War, commerce returned to Pellanor like a long lost lover. Shops were re-opened, damages repaired, and homes rebuilt. Soon the markets brimmed with goods. People flocked to the city, spending their hard-earned coin with renewed vigor. Even his small apothecary shop flourished in the wake of the war. The master was truly impressed. He'd only met the queen once, but she was a formidable ruler, truly skilled at commerce. If ever a city and its monarch deserved to be saved from Darkness, it was Pellanor and its steadfast queen. He prayed the Lords of Light protected both.
For more than the turn of an hourglass, he walked the cobbled streets, threading his way towards the tower. He kept a sharp watch for skulking shadows, for even the queen's city had its share of ill-doers, yet he was not truly worried. With a powerful focus nestled in his left pocket and his quarterstaff in his hand, there was little he feared. Perhaps it was his confidence, or the way he handled his quarterstaff, or perhaps his plain brown robes bespoke a man who was not worth robbing. Whatever the reason, he met no trouble on his late night stroll.
He turned from the street of tailors onto the street of chandlers. Wooden signs bearing painted candles hung over shop doors for those who could not read. Trade was the lifeblood of Pellanor, but the pursuit of coins sometimes seemed like a rabid religion. Some might decry the avid pursuit of commerce as a blasphemy, yet the queen's city offered more peace, prosperity and comforts than any other city in Erdhe. Pellanor's markets overflowed with everything from the ordinary to the exotic. Like a trail of tempting breadcrumbs
, he followed the line of shops all the way to the tower. Torchlight beckoned at the end of the street, heralding his destination.
Rising from the clutter of commerce, the Ancestral Spire soared like a needle reaching for the very heavens. Built of polished granite, the soaring tower glittered in the torchlight, an impressive feat of stonemasonry. The master's gaze followed the spire to its lofty height, well aware of the tower's history. In times long past, the surrounding area had been a royal cemetery, but Pellanor gobbled land like a drunk swills ale. Even back then, the Rose monarchs were famed for their skill at commerce. Aware of the land's rising value, the reigning monarch ordered the Spire built and then exhumed his royal ancestors, enshrining them in the tower. Folklore said the vacated cemetery sold for a king's ransom while the tower became the most sought-after burial place in all of Erdhe. Sprawling ever outwards, the city gobbled the surrounding land, erasing all signs of the cemetery, but the tower remained as a monument to the royal line, a venerable landmark of Pellanor and the perfect place to meet Aeroth.
A pair of guards in emerald tabards stood watch by the brass doors, yet by royal decree the tower was ever open to the people. Master Numar paid a copper, the fee for admittance, and entered the arched doorway. A hushed stillness embraced him. He shivered, feeling the sudden chill of cloistered stone. The Spire was hollow, a marvel of stonemasonry rising to a lofty vault. Beneath the pinnacled vault was a small chapel. Austere yet elegant, the round chapel held a stone altar draped in shimmering cloth of gold. An oil lantern burned bright upon the altar, representing the eternal Light. A dozen braziers surrounded the altar, releasing clouds of incense. The heavenly scent wafted upwards like prayers rising to the tower's gold-leafed pinnacle.
The chapel's simplicity, coupled with the spire's soaring heights, evoked feelings of peace and humility. Master Numar bowed low in reverence to the Light, but he'd not come to worship. Instead, he took the long stairs that curled around the outer walls, spiraling upwards to the lofty pinnacle. It was here, on either side of the stairs, that the ancient royals were interred. Stone sarcophagi were inset in the walls and banister, their effigies chiseled in lustrous white marble. Kings and queens, knights and dukes, the ancient royalty crowded together, lining the walls of the spire. The early tombs showed their age, the stone-chiseled details faded by time and touch. Faces with blunt noses, folded hands without fingers, marble swords without blades, the effigies stared blind from the wall, yet he felt their presence, as if the ancestors of Lanverness kept watch. Torchlight danced across marble kings and granite knights, sparkling on the polished stone, granting a patina of warmth. Heraldic symbols of royalty were everywhere, orbs, scepters, crowns and a garden of stone roses. He read the chiseled names as he made his way up the stairs, a lesson in Pellanor's history. The tombs became more elaborate the further he climbed, the details chased with gold and silver filigree and inset with semi-precious stones. Halfway to the top, he found tombs topped with marble bards strumming lutes alongside pudgy merchants draped in jewels, proof of the tower's prestige. Fame or great wealth bought admittance to the spire, the monuments and urns of elevated commoners vying for space amongst the royals. And then, abruptly, the effigies and the fine carvings stopped, nothing but empty sarcophagi and plain walls awaiting future luminaries. Something about the blank walls made him shiver, a stark reminder that death waits for us all.
The stairs suddenly felt lonely. Master Numar hastened his steps, reaching the top of the spire. Opening the ironbound door, he stepped out onto the parapet. A night breeze snatched at his beard, lukewarm compared to the spire's stony chill. The rampart encircled the spire, offering a peerless view of the queen's city. He strolled once around the spire, making sure the rampart was empty. Satisfied, he returned to the eastern view, staring across the city's sprawling expanse. Candles, lanterns and torches lit the cobbled streets with thousands of softly glowing pinpricks, as if the city sought to rival the stars. And at the heart of it all rose Castle Tandroth, its towers rising above the city like a stone scepter. He could have stared at the view for hours, mesmerized by the lights and the bird's eye view, but he'd come to the tower with a purpose. Shrugging his satchel from his shoulders, he removed a pillar candle. He lit the candle and set it on the rampart, a signal for Aeroth, and then he sat on the stone floor, setting his back to the spire. From his satchel he removed a roasted chicken, a loaf of brown bread laden with raisins, and a flask of fine Tubor wine. Familiar with the price of magic, he knew Aeroth would be ravenous. The spit-roasted chicken smelled mouthwatering, but he settled back to wait for his friend.
He did not have long to wait.
A frost owl circled the spire, white wings spread wide, gliding on the night breeze. Silent and seemingly effortless, the great owl circled the tower twice before alighting on the rampart.
Master Numar held his breath, always dazzled by the power of magic.
"Whooooo!" The owl gave its inquisitive cry and then blinked. Feathers ruffled, the frost owl shuddered, a faint nimbus of light surrounding it. The great owl stretched and blurred till a blue robed monk stood in its place. Unconcerned with the spire's dizzying height, Aeroth stepped down from the rampart.
The two masters clasped arms. "Well met."
Aeroth looked exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Master Numar voiced his concern. "You look tired, my friend."
"I've spent too long in the owl."
"You need rest."
"I've too many leagues to travel, too many places to watch. Much is happening in the north."
Master Numar's interest burned bright, but he gestured to the repast. "Sit and eat, and then we'll talk."
They sat cross-legged, sharing the meal. Aeroth attacked the chicken, tearing off a juicy drumstick. Master Numar cut a sliver from the breast, nibbling on the crispy skin. The chicken proved tender and tasty, seasoned with rosemary just the way he liked it, but he knew his friend's needs far exceeded his own hunger.
Aeroth finished the first leg and started on the second. "Tell me of Pellanor."
Master Numar uncorked the wineskin. "The queen's city flourishes. Commerce returns almost as if the Flame War never happened."
"And the queen?"
"A formidable monarch, she used the Order's gift of Napthos wisely. Instead of saving the hellfire to protect herself and her royal city, she used it to trap her enemy in Lingard." Master Numar swirled the wineskin. "I wonder how many kings would have made such a daring choice."
Aeroth gave him a pointed look. "So you met her?"
"It seemed necessary. With the comet low in the sky, we need to work more closely with the sovereigns of the south."
Aeroth pointed a chicken bone his way. "Yet your robes are brown."
"After Fintan's gruesome death, I'll not wear the blue below the southern mountains."
"A warning to us all." Aeroth looked distraught. "Did you learn anything of his killer?"
Master Numar frowned. "The killer lurks in the queen's castle, yet her shadowmen have no clue."
"Then we have an enemy in the city."
"Just so. That's why I suggested we meet here. The dead will keep our secret."
Aeroth reached for the wineskin. "And what of Fintan's focus?"
A chill feathered down the master's back. "Lost. After his murder, I searched his room, I searched his belongings, it was not there."
Aeroth hissed. "That focus was powerful."
"But the enemy might not be able to wield it. Magic can be stubborn, choosing the hand that wields it."
"Pray that it is so. The Order cannot afford to lose more magic, let alone have it turned against us."
Master Numar broke the bread, offering a chunk of the raisin loaf to Aeroth. "Tell me of the north."
"Raven Pass has fallen."
The breath hissed out of him, a dire stroke against the south. "How?"
"The Mordant used magic, destroying the gates. His hordes poured through the walls and then he tricked the Octagon King into single combat
. The king is dead. The knights continue to fight, chewing on the enemy, but it is like a dog harrying a lion. The outcome is inevitable unless something shifts the balance."
"What of the blade bearer?"
"There is no word...but there is hope."
Master Numar pounced on the word. "Hope?"
"The king of Navarre listened to his daughter. He agreed to send the merchant fleet north to the Dark Citadel."
Master Numar's breath caught. "The Dark Citadel!"
Aeroth nodded. "Princess Jordan had visions that the blade bearer is there."
"In the very lair of the Mordant?"
Aeroth gave him a grim nod.
Master Numar could not imagine it. Every tale of the far north reeked of nightmares, yet, if the girl had somehow defeated the citadel, it was a victory undreamt. "And?"
"The fleet has not been seen in Navarre, so all assume it sailed north." Aeroth's voice dropped to an ominous whisper. "I tell you, Numar, finding that fleet taxed the owl to the very limits." He shook his head as if warding off a nightmare. "The owl was not meant to cross the sea. I slept for a fortnight when I reached land." He shuddered. "I pray that I never have to do that again." Aeroth leaned close. "And I'll tell you something else. I'm having dreams, dreadful night terrors, of birds bearing the faces of men...as if the two are melded together, demon-forged into one foul creature."
Master Numar hissed. "Soul magic?"
Aeroth made the hand sign against evil. "I don't know. But I tell you this, evil creeps across Erdhe, working in more ways than we know. Hold your secrets close. Take care with whom you keep company and be forewarned."
Master Numar fingered the focus nestled deep in his pocket. "I will. And you must do the same."
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 2