The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6)

by Karen Azinger

  "Shared?" The princess paused, turning to face her.

  "Magic to quicken a child would be a boon to any woman, but especially to a royal queen...with only one heir."

  The princess gaped, her eyes going wide.

  The queen dropped her voice to a whisper, her gaze drilling the princess. "Royal to royal, woman to woman, we ask for Navarre to share this birth-magic." The princess started to reply but the queen forestalled her. "We ask this as a queen who has but one heir, an heir who rides to war against the Mordant with his wife, your sister, by his side. The Tandroth line is stretched perilously thin." Iron filled her voice. "We shall not let the Rose line perish from Erdhe." The queen softened her tone, her heart rising to her voice. "That love child you spoke of was sorely wanted, a long-sought daughter of our heart, a babe to fill our aching arms, a spare heir to secure our royal line and our throne. We tell you this so that you know the importance of our request." The queen's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper laden with need. "Will Navarre share this birth magic with your closest ally?"

  "Majesty...I so wish it was so."

  The queen waited as if balanced on a knife-edge. "Explain."

  The princess looked stricken. "From what little I know, this magic is tied to the royal bloodline of Navarre. It will serve none but the freshly anointed monarchs of the seaside kingdom."

  "Has it ever been tried with another bloodline?"

  "Not that I know of, but..."

  "Then it's time to try."

  The princess shook her head. "Majesty, it is not for me to say..."

  "But you could write the king and persuade him."

  "I could, but..."

  "Please." Liandra's voice brooked no argument. "Do this as a favor to the queen who has shared so much with you, to a queen who would support your choice of husband."

  The princess caught her breath. A look that was both pensive and eager filled her lovely face. "I can try, I can ask, but..."

  "Write. Ask. And we shall pray that this boon can be shared."

  "As you wish." The princess bowed low and then withdrew.

  The queen turned away. Leaning against the parapet, she stared out over her city, yet she saw nothing. So the Prince of Ur was right, magic to quicken a child. Such magic would be a godsend to her throne. How she longed for another babe, a chance to secure her royal bloodline, a chance for a cherished daughter, a chance to have a love child with Robert. But would Navarre share? Truly, the fecund had a huge advantage in the game of kings...in this too, the Prince of Ur was right. And the Tandroth line had never been fecund. The queen hid her hands beneath the folds of her shawl. Magic to quicken a child. Liandra wanted it so badly her ringed hands shook.

  13

  The Mordant

  Wars could be overt, the sting of arrows and the rending of swords, or they could be subtle. Wars of the sword wreaked death and bloodshed on a massive scale, but like daisies growing on gravesites, they were soon overshadowed by life, their horror forgotten within a single generation. Unlike wars of the sword, subtle wars could be everlasting. Wielding words to corrupt hearts and twist souls, subtle wars carved deep scars that lasted for centuries, even eons, indelibly etched in the collective memory. By attacking beliefs, values, and morals, subtle wars collapsed cultures and undermined kingdoms. Wielding lies and deceit, the Mordant waged a subtle war against the queen. The oldest harlequin had come to Lanverness to deepen the Great Dark Divide.

  Every morning the Mordant sent his minions scurrying through the queen's city, the duegars sniffing for signs of magic, while his assassins searched for knights in Octagon tabards or monks clad in midnight blue robes. In truth, he did not expect his enemies to be so blatant or so bold...but one should never underestimate the stupidity of others. And while his minions searched for his oldest foes, they also took the pulse of the queen's city, aiding in the subtle war of deceit. Collecting gossip and hearsay from taverns, inns and markets, they listened for lies believed.

  There was nothing quite so powerful as a lie believed.

  The Mordant savored the game of lies. He'd seeded some of them himself. Wielding his cameo focus of many faces, the Mordant spent many a night venturing into the queen's city. Visiting popular taverns, he planted his crop of lies. Cunning deceits laced with just a hint of truth, he disparaged the queen, mocking her right to rule. Reveling in the game, he rose each morning, keen to learn which of his lies had fallen fallow and which had taken root. The true test lay in the frequency with which a lie was repeated.

  Every day at noontime, the Mordant climbed the dais in the audience chamber of his mansion and took a seat upon the throne-carved chair. Bishop Borgan sat three steps below, a scribe's writing tablet perched across his ample lap. At the Mordant's signal, Major Tarq unrolled the map of Pellanor across the chamber's floor. As large as a carpet, the patchwork vellum displayed every street, alley, marketplace and tavern within the queen's city. Bright with colors and glorious detail, the map proved that Pellanor's craftsmen could produce almost anything for a hefty weight in gold. The Mordant considered the coin well spent. His gaze roved the map, surveying the battleground of truth versus lies.

  His minions made their way back to the mansion, trickling into the audience chamber. One by one, they bowed before his throne and gave their reports. Major Tarq used a spear to move chess pieces across the map, marking the taverns and marketplaces where the gossip was gathered. The Mordant listened closely. Sifting through the snippets of hearsay and gossip, he searched for echoes of his own lies. Some of his lies died a quiet death, having fallen on stony ground, but others were repeated verbatim, while a rare few gained a life of their own, growing and morphing with embellishments to become glorious tales bursting with colorful untruths. The Mordant relished each success and learned from his failures. He made note of the places where his lies were most readily repeated, fertile ground for future endeavors, and which taverns he should shun. It mattered not if those who first repeated his lies were weak of mind and will, often besotted with drink. Success was measured in how often a lie was repeated, for the more times it was retold, the more conviction it gained. If people heard something often enough, they remembered the words while forgetting the source. It was almost as if the masses believed repetition was a sure sign of truth. The Mordant grinned at the thought. The stupidity of mere mortals never ceased to amaze him. How easily he enlisted the people of Pellanor in their own damnation.

  The Mordant listened to each report, formulating his next round of lies.

  Finished, he gestured for Major Tarq to take up the map. "Now, bring me the boy."

  The major rolled the map into a scroll case and then bowed low before departing the chamber. He returned with two guards who carried a boy between them. Gagged and trussed, the urchin-child struggled to no avail. Carrot-bright hair, with freckles splashed across his face, the boy looked to be eight or nine years old. Dressed in a hodge-podge of soot-stained clothes, he looked poor and underfed, the refuse of the back alleys.

  His guards forced the boy to his knees.

  The Mordant considered the lad. "My guards think you are a thief, but I wonder if you might be something else." He studied the boy. "Why did you break into my house?" He gestured and the guards released the boy's gag.

  The urchin glared at the Mordant. "I was hungry."

  "Yet my guards found you sneaking into the wine cellar."

  The boy shrugged, but his face betrayed the lie. "Some people hide jewels in their wine cellar."

  "So you sought to steal?"

  The boy remained sullen.

  "Bring him to me."

  His guards lifted the boy between them. Carrying him up the dais, they forced him to kneel just below the Mordant.

  "Look in my eyes, boy."

  Compelled, the lad lifted his gaze.

  Unleashing his inner Darkness, the Mordant trapped the boy's stare. Breathing deep, he caught the scent of petty Darkness clinging to the lad's soul. A lowly pickpocket, yet minor sins were all he n
eeded to gain access. The Mordant followed the thread of Darkness, burrowing into the lad's mind, delving into his very soul. A thief, a sneak, a snitch...a spy, the Mordant delved deeper till he found the image of a dapper, red-haired lord. The boy was bound to the lord, sworn to serve for food and coin. The Mordant plucked a name from the lad's mind. "Who is the Lord Sheriff?"

  The boy stiffened.

  Released from the Mordant's stare, the boy cringed backwards but the guards held him firm.

  "He ain't no one."

  The Mordant smiled. "Too late for lies." He gestured to the guards. "Take him to the dungeon and show him what he came to see. He'll make a tasty offering to the Dark God."

  "No! I'll..."

  The guards shoved the gag back into the lad's mouth, stifling his screams. Lifting the boy between them, they carried him away to the wine cellar.

  "Bring Dolf to me."

  One of his servants rushed to obey.

  So the queen seeks to defeat the oldest harlequin with a mere pawn. Such a clumsy move, the woman knew not whom she played against.

  Clad in black clothing, his master assassin glided into the chamber like a liquid shadow. "You summoned me, my lord?"

  "I've discovered a fresh enemy, a dapper, red-haired lord who goes by the name of 'the lord sheriff'. He's enlisting street urchins to spy on us. We suspect he serves the queen. Such a resourceful lord deserves to be eliminated. Find this red-haired lord and make him disappear. Kidnap him and then chain him to the pentacle in the sanctum. I wish to peel the motives from his mind."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "And, Dolf, I want this done quietly, as if the man disappeared into smoke. I want his sudden absence to add another layer of unease to the queen."

  The assassin flashed a feral smile. "It will be as you command."

  Plots within plots, he'd bring the queen to a slow boil. And then he'd see what choice her soul would take.

  14

  Master Numar

  Springtime brought a bounty of green to Pellanor's markets. Master Numar rose at first light, donning the modest robes of an apothecary. The brown robes were only half a disguise, for in truth he was a skilled herbalist. Nestling his focus deep in his pocket, he took up his quarterstaff and made his way to the nearest market. Business at his apothecary shop was brisk. He needed to replenish his ingredients, but, more importantly, he sought a harvest of rumors, a way to measure the health of the queen's city.

  The heady scent of fresh-grown greens greeted him well before he reached the market. Turning the corner, he was not surprised to find the cobblestone square already crowded, everyone keen to make their purchases before the sun's heat ravaged the leafy produce. Brightly colored stalls turned the square into a maze, the farmers selling everything from honey and eggs, to herbs and vegetables and fresh-churned butter. Sniffing deeply, he caught the fragrant scent of thyme and followed it to a farmer's stall. Thyme was such a delightful herb with so many medicinal uses. Indulging in the sport of the market, he dickered fiercely for two bundles. For him, the dickering was not so much about the coins spent as it was about the respect earned. Friendship and respect bought him more secrets than parsimony, so he played the dickering game, always letting the farmers feel as if their extra coins were hard won. Handing over six coppers with a wink and a gracious smile, he snapped off a fresh sprig and wound it around his cloak pin, a ward against the city's fouler smells. Breathing deep, he enjoyed the sprig's luscious springtime scent. Storing the two bundles in his satchel, he wandered among the stalls looking for hyssop and fennel and other ingredients. While his gaze roved the green bounty, he kept an ear open for gossip. Of late he'd heard foul rumors whispered against the queen, but he'd yet to discover their source. Someone spread slander against the Rose Queen, seeking to turn the people against their monarch. Lies were ever the hallmark of Darkness. He'd come to uncover the trail. A snatch of gossip caught his attention. He began to meander that way but then he noticed an odd snuffing sound at his left side. His hand reflexively delved into his left pocket gripping his focus. Glancing down, he expected to see a dog questing with its nose, seeking interesting scents.

  A dwarf with pointy teeth sneered up at him.

  Master Numar recoiled from the ugly little man. "What do you want?"

  The dwarf hissed, staring at him as if he were something good to eat.

  The master brandished his quarterstaff. "Be gone!"

  Casting a baleful glare, the dwarf slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.

  Master Numar shuddered. Something about the little man was deeply unsettling. Shrugging off the encounter, he pressed deeper into the market. He found a farmer selling flowering fennel and bought a bundle of the feathery leaves, but as he paid for his purchase the master felt a hard stare drilling into his back. Whirling, he spied the dwarf crouched by a table, watching him.

  He knows! A cold certainty settled into the master's stomach. The dwarf did not look like a killer, yet secrecy was the master's best defense. He felt the need to run yet he knew it would be unwise to draw more attention. Moving away from the dwarf, he slipped into the thickest part of the crowd. Like a minnow moving among many, he followed the crowd, using them for cover. Keeping his fist locked on his focus, he scanned for the dwarf. Jostling through the market, he waited for his chance. The crowd's movement seemed aimless, a random torture of meandering. Sweat beaded his brow, striving for patience, but then the crowd pulsed near an alley. He fled the market, slipping into the city's shadowy back ways. Racing down the alley, he turned left and then right, taking the path that seemed most evasive. Ducking beneath a shaded doorway, he waited, straining to hear over his racing heart. He expected the clatter of footsteps running behind, but he heard nothing. His back pressed to the door, he kept listening, waiting till his heart slowed to a regular beat.

  Still nothing.

  Needing to be sure, he crept back to the last corner. Pressed to the wall, he carefully peered around. At first he saw nothing...but then he noticed a furtive movement at the far end of the alley. The dwarf! But instead of running, he was crouched down, moving slowly, methodically, his head slewing back and forth...as if he followed a trail.

  A thread of fear ran through the monk. He studied the hard-packed dirt of the alleyway and saw no tracks, nothing to betray his path, and then he remembered the strange sniffing sound in the marketplace. My scent! Perhaps the dwarf tracks me by my scent! The thought evoked a primal fear, the sound of wolves howling in the night. Perhaps it's just the pungent scent of my herbs. He soothed his fear with strained logic. Shrugging the satchel from his back, he left it lying in the shadows. Plucking the sprig of thyme from his cloak pin, he tossed it aside and scurried back down the alleyway. Moving quickly but quietly, he sought to leave no trail. He ran blind through the back ways, twisting and turning, seeking to escape.

  Five times he tried doors and five times they remained locked, bolted, closed. Trust was scarce in the back alleys...and then he spied a red lantern, the age-old symbol for a house of ill-repute. He hurried towards the lantern. Dispelling any doubts, the iron door knocker was shaped like two lovers entwined. He rapped on the door, wanting to be heard without making too much noise. No one answered. Twice more he knocked.

  A bolt slid back and the door eased open. A sleepy-eyed woman in a drab velvet robe peered out. Her brow furrowed. She took one look at him and began to slam the door. "We're closed."

  He thrust his foot into the opening. "I just need a room to rest for an hour."

  "Get an inn, grandfather."

  He flashed a fist full of gold coins. "I'm not paying inn prices."

  Her eyes widened. She reconsidered, slowly opening the door.

  He slipped inside. "Close and bolt it."

  "Are you bringing trouble to this house?"

  "I'm bringing gold to this house."

  Her avarice won out. She closed and bolted the door.

  The master sagged in relief. The small parlor smelled seedy, a mixture of sour ale an
d cheap perfume overlaying other smells he did not care to name.

  The woman gave him an appraising stare. "Yer a bit old for an early morning romp."

  "I'm not seeking a romp. I just need a room on the second floor with a window overlooking this alleyway." He held three golds towards her. "Show me to the room, and when I leave, I'll put two more golds in your hand."

  She gave him a petulant pout. "Three."

  "Done."

  Snatching the coins from his hand, the madam scowled, realizing she could have bargained for more. "This way." She led him to a stairway. "You can use Lucinda's room. But if you so much as touch the girl, you'll pay double the golds."

  "Agreed." He followed her to a front room. She opened the door without knocking, ushering him into a small bedroom. A girl with hair dyed scarlet red peered from tussled sheets. Instead of looking startled, she looked mildly annoyed.

  "Relax, Lucinda, he's just here to look." The woman's voice held a hint of wry amusement. "If you can get the old man to touch you, there's two golds in it for ya."

  The master crossed to the window. "I'm just here for the view."

  "So you say." The madam lingered by the door, a shrewd look on her face. "I'll leave the door open." Her look turned hard. "Don't leave without paying."

  "I won't." The windows were heavily curtained, shielding the daylight. Instead of opening the heavy damask, the master stood pressed to the wall, peering behind the faded curtains. Dirt encrusted the window, tinting the pane brown, but it gave a decent view of the alleyway below. From his angled perch, the master kept watch, his anxious gaze scanning for the dwarf.

  "Wouldn't you rather come to bed?"

  Striking a suggestive pose, the girl had dropped her sheets, displaying her naked wares. From the stretch marks, he judged she'd already had a babe or two. Such a hard and heartless life, he pitied the girls who thought a brothel was their only choice. "Thank you, child, but there's no need. I'm really just here for the view."