Both men set to eating the raisin bread. Talking of small things, they passed the wineskin back and forth. Master Numar mentioned the arrival of the Prince of Ur in the queen's city. Both men marveled that Ur would send an imperial prince all the way to Erdhe. Finished with the meal, Aeroth stood upon the rampart. "I'll see you at the next dark of the moon."
"I'll be here."
Aeroth shimmered, flaring with a soft white light, and then the frost owl stood in his place, talons balanced on the rampart. "Whoooo." Spreading its white wings wide, the owl glided from the tower, soaring over the queen's city.
Master Numar watched till the owl disappeared, swallowed by the gathering clouds. For the longest time he stared north, consumed with thoughts of the Dark Citadel. Aeroth had brought strange tidings. The Battle Immortal was a tangle of conflicts, battles wrapped in subterfuge hidden beneath ancient riddles, yet he needed to focus on Pellanor. An assassin lurked in the queen's castle, a killer of monks. He fingered the focus in his pocket, bolstered by thoughts of its magic.
Gathering up the remains of the meal, he repacked his satchel and then took up his quarterstaff. Opening the ironbound door, he slipped back inside the tower. The dank chill embraced him. Silent and pensive, he made his way back down the long spiral stairs, passing the faces of the dead. He felt as if history kept watch, waiting to see if the future would be bright or bleak.
3
The Mordant
The assassin and the duegar fell prostrate before the Mordant, their faces pressed to the jewel-colored carpet. Moon-turns ago they’d both come to Lanverness in the guise of jesters, threats hidden in bright motley. His chained servant, Frederinko, had presented them to the Rose Queen as tokens of Ur’s friendship. Such gifts could hardly be refused. Accepted by the queen, the jesters served within her very castle. Now, clad in simple browns, they’d shed their false colors to answer the summons of their true lord.
The Mordant sipped brandy while seated in front of the roaring hearth. “Rise.” Both men scrambled to their knees. “Time to account for your stay in the Rose Court.” He gestured to the duegar. “Castor, what magic have you found in the queen’s castle?”
“None, lord, save for what the monk brought.”
The Mordant’s interest quickened. “The monk?”
“Yes, lord.” Castor flashed a jagged smile, his front teeth filed to points. “A blue-robed monk came to the Rose Court as an emissary of the Kiralynn Order. After meeting with the queen, he was given quarters within the castle. His name was Fintan and he reeked of magic.”
So the monks openly meddled, how brave…and how foolish. “How did he die?”
Dominic answered, “Sting of the Assassin. I killed him in his own chambers, cut his head off, and stole his magic." He flashed a satisfied smile. "It was a particularly gruesome death, befitting a blue-robed monk. Now his magic will be yours.” The assassin crept forward, his hand outstretched, a malachite coin offered on his palm.
The Mordant snatched up the coin. Rubbing it between his fingers, his senses probed for its power…but the coin remained dormant. The Mordant was unperturbed. It often took time for magical links to form with fresh-found focuses. “Do you know what it does?”
Castor answered. “No, lord, but it reeks of powerful magic…old magic.”
Powerful magic...the words were like an aphrodisiac to the Mordant. He fondled the coin, dancing it between his fingers. “And how did the queen react to the monk’s death?”
Dominic grinned. “She fears, my lord, for they know not how it was done.”
“Fear is a good thing.” He was pleased with his two servants. “And have there been more monks?”
“No, lord. None that wear blue robes and none that reek of magic,” Castor hesitated, “at least none that we saw.”
So, the queen does not keep her jesters close. The woman is not entirely naïve. “What else?”
“A child, my lord,” the assassin answered. “The queen swelled with a bastard child.”
So, the queen is still of breeding age…and she dares to birth a bastard. He had not foreseen a child, but it could weave well into his plans. “Who was the father?”
“None know, my lord.”
“What became of this child?”
The assassin grinned. “Tansy in the queen’s tea. She birthed a stillborn daughter.”
A cold rage flashed through the Mordant. “You dared to poison the queen?”
The assassin cringed to the floor. “Only the child, my lord, not the queen.” He abased himself, pressing his face to the carpet.
"I gave orders the queen was not to be harmed."
"She's not, my lord, only the child was harmed, flushed from her body."
The Mordant stared at his assassin. In truth, it was a brilliant move, for the best way to unsettle a mere woman was to attack the product of her womb. “I’ll spare you, but only because the queen still lives...and because the dead babe will enhance my plans.”
Pale-faced, the quaking assassin dared to kneel. "Thank you, my lord."
“Does the queen know she was poisoned?”
The assassin flicked a glance at the duegar. “Word of the stillborn birth was smothered by her own shadowmen, as if it never happened. But Castor heard the queen rant that it was poison.”
“So she knows…or at least suspects." The Mordant smiled, considering the delicious possibilities. "Her own suspicions will keep her off-balance.” He fondled the malachite coin. “What of the queen's heirs?”
“The queen’s second son, Prince Danly, died a traitor in Lingard, a casualty of the Flame War. Her firstborn son and only heir, Prince Stewart, rides to war to confront the army of the Pentacle.”
So, her sole heir is at risk. The Mordant would confirm every detail once he gazed into the queen’s eyes, once he raped her soul and peered through her memories. He'd plumb her mind, reading her like an open scroll, but it did no harm to be forewarned. “Women are always undone by their wombs. One of the many reasons they are not fit to rule.” The Mordant flashed a sharp smile. “Anything else?”
“No, lord.”
“You’ve done well. Return to the castle, don your motley and remain vigilant.”
“Yes, lord.”
He waved dismissal, but the assassin hesitated.
“Dread lord, might I ask a question?” The assassin cringed, waiting.
The Mordant relented. “One.”
“Instead of tansy in the queen’s tea, I could have added nightshade, or any other poison. Yet you ordered me not to kill her. Why, lord, when I could save you all this trouble and hand you her crown?”
The Mordant stiffened, staring at the assassin through narrowed eyes. “Your order stands. You are not to kill the queen.”
The assassin flinched as if lashed. “Yes, lord, but why?”
The Mordant let a hundred heartbeats pass, a sure sign of his displeasure, but then he relented, offering a reply lest his servant become overzealous. “Killing is easy. Taking life pleases the Dark Lord, but it garners the least of his favors. Our god favors those who have a long reach, those who steer the future to a dark path while muddying the brightest memories of the past. Kill the queen while Lanverness prospers and she becomes a martyr, a saint to her people, a shining beacon of hope. Instead, we shall sully her name and muddy her legacy, corrupting the queen from within. Her abject failure will keep future women from any throne, enforcing the Great Dark Divide.” A smile hovered at his lips, a rush of Dark power flowing through him. He stood, throwing a daunting shadow across the room. “In this lifetime, I’ve come to change the past as well the future. I’ve come to wield the power of a god.”
The assassin and the duegar both cringed low, staring wide-eyed in awe.
"Return to the queen and await my summons."
Bowing, they scuttled from the chamber.
Dark power burned through him. His shadow diminished, leaving him mortal once more. The Mordant sat alone before the crackling fire, flicking the malachit
e coin between his fingers. After a thousand years of life, he stood on the brink of true immortality. Corrupt the queen and so much would change, bending the past as well as the future. He flicked the coin with his thumb, watching it rotate as it tumbled upwards…and then he spied the engraving. Catching the coin, he held it towards the firelight. Engraved on the face was a shield, worn but still faintly visible, two crescents flanking a full moon…the ancient symbol of Azreal. The Mordant stilled. Azreal...the city of his first great triumph. Ancient memories flooded his mind. He remembered her face, her tender touch, so lovely...so trusting. In that first life, he’d corrupted a sorceress instead of a queen and started the Great Dark Divide, earning many lifetimes. And now this coin found its way to his hand. Perhaps the distant past came calling. He’d lived too long to believe in omens. The Mordant stared at the coin, amazed that it had survived so many centuries…but it would serve him, just as surely as this new queen would be corrupted to Darkness, twisted by his deceptions. Deceive, divide, corrupt and destroy. All the pieces were in motion for the Great Dark Dance. Soon the power of the gods would be within his grasp.
4
Liandra
Scrolls littered the queen's solar, the details of running a kingdom. Reports came from high and from low, from shadowmen, stonemasons, tax collectors, courtiers, merchants, military advisors, princes and even kings, a web of information flowing to the Spider Queen. No detail was too small. Liandra waded through the correspondence, considering the nuances. Plucking precious insights from the mountain of dross, she took the measure of Erdhe. Like gazing into a crystal ball, she saw what was and what could be. The answers both pleased and frightened her. In the south, her kingdom rebounded from the Flame War. Commerce flowed again, sluggish at first, but her careful prods and incentives had begun to bear fruit. Her farmers returned to the land and merchants plied the roads with trade goods. Beef, wine and grain came from Tubor, venison and furs from Wyeth, exotic goods from the Delta. Her roadways thrummed with the trundle of wagons bearing trade, the lifeblood of her kingdom. Her markets bustled, her royal treasury was full, and her people were content. But, in the north, the army of the Mordant threatened everything. A barbaric horde had taken Raven Pass, routing the Octagon Knights. The queen shuddered at the grim thought. She'd always thought the Octagon Knights invincible, a stalwart shield against the north...but now that shield was broken. Forming a hasty alliance with Navarre and Wyeth, she'd sent her only remaining son and her army north...but she did not like the odds. The two armies had yet to clash, but no matter how many times she read the dispatches and studied the maps, her conclusions were always bleak. Darkness reached for Erdhe and she had yet to find the foil.
"Majesty, it's nearly time." Lady Sarah hovered at the door to the queen's inner chambers, bearing a reminder of a pleasant distraction.
Weary from reading, the queen set aside the mountain of scrolls. "Yes, we must look our best for our royal guest."
The Prince of Ur had come to Pellanor. A royal emissary from a fabled land, he'd made a showy entrance to her city. Her shadowmen delivered a full report. Surrounded by guards in purple tabards, he brought a wagon piled high with treasure chests and three women swathed in silks. The prince rode a magnificent white stallion beribboned with gold bells in its mane. The bells struck the queen as an odd, almost effeminate, detail. Or, perhaps, the bells were merely an expression of cultural differences. Ur was such a distant land and such an extravagantly wealthy trading partner, the empire garnered mystery like a bard garnered songs. All the more reason Liandra was keen to meet the prince. As to the man himself, her shadowmen described the prince as tall, young, and fair of face, with shoulder-length blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. They said he had neither the wide shoulders of an archer nor the swarthy arms of a swordsman, so perhaps the prince was a scrollish man. That might explain the gift of a chess set and the request for a private audience…yet why make such a showy entrance to her city? All of Pellanor whispered of nothing else. Her people were enthralled and the queen confessed herself intrigued. The prince posed an interesting riddle, one Liandra intended to solve.
She'd given him a few days to get settled, and then sent a courtier with a royal invitation to meet across the chessboard. With the invitation served, the queen set out to make every detail perfect.
After much consideration, the queen chose a crushed velvet gown of deep emerald green with dagged sleeves lined in gold and a vee neckline that showed just enough cleavage to be tempting, while maintaining a mysterious allure. A diamond tiara sparkled against her raven-dark hair, while a rope of emeralds accented her slender neck and plunging bosom. Adding a dab of rose oil for a beguiling scent, the queen contemplated the mirror. Regal beauty bedecked in confident wealth, her image struck the perfect tone for their first meeting.
Liandra returned to her solar to find the mountain of scrolls banished, safely tucked away for another day. Carefully arranging the folds of her gown, she settled on a throne-carved chair set before the warmth of the fireplace. A fire blazed in the hearth, juniper and pine logs releasing a pleasing scent. The prince's gift, the exquisite chess set carved of onyx and malachite, sat on a small table between the two chairs. Heroic figures arrayed for an epic battle, she looked forward to the game. Liandra reveled in the chance to test her wits against a fresh opponent.
"Will you have a glass of wine, majesty?" Lady Sarah fluttered around the solar seeing to last minute details.
"No, we shall wait for our guest."
A flagon of the royal cellar's best merlot breathed on a side table along with a platter of cheese and dried fruits. Lady Sarah would serve the repast, another pair of trusted eyes and ears to assess the prince, while Sir Durnheart would provide the protection. Clad in mirror-bright armor, her knight-protector stood statue-still just beyond the firelight’s reach, only a sword-length away.
If only Robert were here. Liandra missed her shadowmaster, her confidant, her lover…but he was away in Lingard, serving the needs of the kingdom. She would just have to remember every detail for his return.
Satisfied with the preparations, the queen gestured to Lady Sarah. “Admit our guest.”
The queen remained seated, her gaze fixed upon the oak door. The prince had come to her castle escorted by a portly seneschal and six guards, yet he’d made it plain the others were to wait in her antechamber. A private audience for a first meeting with a prince from a distant land, how rare, how unexpected…how intriguing. She found herself flush with anticipation.
Lady Sarah opened the door and then dropped to a deep curtsy. “Welcome, my lord.”
He strode into her solar, giving her barely a glance.
Her first impression was confidence...perhaps even arrogance. Tall, blond, and fair of face with a neatly trimmed beard...the queen found her shadowmen’s description accurate yet woefully inadequate. The difference lay in the way he moved. Striding into her solar, he carried an air of command, his steps bold, his eyes sharp, his face regal and proud, almost arrogant. But this was not the brash arrogance of a pampered young royal, she’d seen that many times before. Instead, he exuded a sense of self-contained power and a cloak of experience far beyond his twenty-some years. Not a word had been spoken, yet the riddle deepened and the queen found herself drawn into a web of questions.
The prince stopped before her, but he did not bow, or even nod. Instead, he gazed upon her as if taking her measure. “So, this is the queen so many speak of.”
Such an odd opening...she gave him a gracious smile. “Welcome to our court. We are pleased to host a prince from distant Ur.”
For twenty heartbeats he said nothing. A surprising silence, like a lull before the storm, but then he gave her a half nod and said, “Distant in leagues but close in trade. Commerce connects us." His smile deepened. "Trading powers should meet, don’t you think?”
“Trading powers, not trading partners, what an interesting turn of phrase.”
“Nothing but the truth.” He flashed a s
mile she could not read. “Lanverness dominates the trade of Erdhe, as Ur dominates trade across the southern seas, hence, my interest in your kingdom. We are both trading powers.”
“And are you attracted to power?”
“Always.”
The single word conveyed a voracious hunger. A warning shivered in the queen’s mind, yet she found herself falling into his stare. Blue eyes, young eyes, yet they held unexpected depths…fascinating depths, fathomless depths, layers of blue, layers of darkness, an infinite darkness, full of questions, full of commands, full of power. No! A white-hot anger blazed through her, blindingly bright. She jerked her gaze away as if burnt.
Her heartbeat thundered as if she'd fled from the deepest dungeon. Puzzled by her own reaction, she flicked her gaze towards him but avoided his stare. He stood statue-still, a sword’s length away, yet she felt strangely...violated.
“Will you have some wine?” Lady Sarah broke the silence.
The queen startled, confused by the strength of her reaction. A headache throbbed at the back of her eyes.
“Will you have some wine, my lord?” Lady Sarah asked again and the strange moment shattered.
The prince answered, “Yes, I will.”
Liandra thought she heard a whiplash of anger in his voice, but his face showed no sign of it. Confused, she watched him, struggling to recover from the strange incident.
He flicked a glance towards Sir Durnheart. “A blue steel sword.”
The queen was pleased he’d noticed. “So, you’ve heard of blue steel?”
“Even in Ur we have heard of such swords.” Accepting a goblet of rich red merlot, he took a chair on the far side of the chessboard. “I see you got my gift.”
The queen sensed something had shifted between them, some strange intangible balance of power, yet she did not understand, as if she played a game with unexplained rules. Unsettled and strangely ill at ease, Liandra struggled to marshal her thoughts, sensing this encounter was somehow of dire importance. “An exquisite gift, we thank you for it.”
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 3