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

by Karen Azinger

  Steffan glowered from the shadows. "Don't go."

  She caressed his cheek, aroused by the rough stubble. "You know I must."

  Anger burned in his dark gaze.

  "Don't be jealous."

  "You like me jealous."

  His riposte hit home. She gave him a salacious smile, her voice a velvety purr. "In truth, I do."

  He gave her a look that declothed her. For half a heartbeat, she thought he might pounce, strip her clothes off and have her in the hallway, but instead he growled and trod away.

  She found herself breathlessly disappointed...but she'd set her aim on more dangerous prey. Gathering her resolve, she made her way out into the twilight.

  Since palanquins were not used in the queen’s city, she had Braxus order a carriage. Serving as her seneschal, he rode beside her with an escort of six guards.

  The sun set in a glorious glow of russets and gold. Despite the fall of darkness, the queen’s city came alive with lanterns and candlelight.

  She directed the carriage to the wealthy section of the city. From scrying in the Eye, the Priestess knew the Mordant came to Pellanor in the guise of a prince of Ur, hiding in plain sight, like a peacock strutting among pigeons. The queen’s city was rife with rumors. The markets buzzed with talk of his legendary wealth and excess, yet none seemed to guess his true nature. Darkness hidden in plain sight, no one expected a peacock to have such deadly claws, yet the Priestess knew the truth. She touched the sundered moonstone bound in silver, dangling between her breasts. How dare he break her strongest magic, a gift from the Dark Lord. The loss enraged her, hardening her resolve.

  The carriage trundled through cobblestone streets, stopping before a mansion alight with torches. Servants in purple livery rushed to open the carriage door. Escorted by her men, the Priestess approached the doorway, unsure of her reception.

  A fat seneschal in rich robes greeted her. “He’s been expecting you.” With the slightest of bows, he welcomed her inside.

  From the scrying bowl, she recognized his pudgy face, a bishop of the Pentacle. In a similar fashion, she knew the slight men lurking in the shadows were assassins of the ninth rank. Death lurking in the doorway, the Priestess wondered if it was a pointed message or merely a precaution.

  Candlelight glittered overhead yet the shadows lost none of their potency. Greeting the bishop with the barest of nods, the Priestess stepped into the devil’s lair.

  “He’ll see you in the throne room...alone.”

  Braxus clenched his sword hilt, a protest on his lips, but she forestalled him. “My men will wait here.”

  “Good.” The prelate flashed a serpent’s smile, gesturing towards the heart of the mansion.

  She followed him through gilded halls hung with traditional hunting tapestries. The mansion's wealthy trappings were no doubt a legacy of the previous owner, but the throne room held none of the deceptive clutter. Lit by braziers, it was empty save for a raised dais and a gilded throne. A silk banner hung from the vaulted ceiling to the marble floor, the only adornment, purple emblazoned with the great golden Wyrm. Beneath the banner, the Mordant sat upon the throne bedecked in false colors.

  Half a hundred times she’d watched him in the scrying bowl, yet nothing prepared her for the raw strength of his presence. So young and so fair of face, yet Darkness thundered through him like a storm. So much raw power, she wondered that mortals did not feel his true nature and run shrieking in fear. Gathering her own strength, the Priestess dared to meet his stare. Power beat against her, trying to cowl her, yet she stood unbowed, clinging to the knowledge that he was not a god.

  He gave her a lazy smile.

  She inclined her head. “My lord, the Mordant.”

  He flashed a predator’s smile. “The Dark Whore.”

  She dared to correct him. “The Priestess of the Oracle.”

  “Yet your Eye is sundered.”

  His words struck like a slap. Her anger flared, yet she kept her voice controlled. “You had no right.”

  "As the oldest harlequin, all rights are mine."

  She rebuked him with her stare. "The Eye serves the Oracle Priestess."

  He gave her a surly stare. “Why? Are you blind without it?”

  “The Eye was a gift of the Dark Lord.”

  “Then let him fix it.”

  His retort shocked her, a flippant blasphemy, an outrageous arrogance. “You had no right.”

  “Power gives me every right. Power is all that matters.” He stood, his shadow stretching across the chamber, his voice thundering through the throne room. “For more than a thousand years I have lived! There are none who can stand against me.”

  So he styles himself a god! She wanted to run from his power, she wanted to laugh at his arrogant folly, but instead, she stood her ground. “Then why am I summoned?”

  “The Great Dark Dance has begun. Instead of spying on me from afar, you will serve.”

  Her pride got the better of her. “I ruled my own kingdom.”

  “You ruled a petty backwater, without significance or power. Far better to serve in the Great Dark Dance.”

  She stared at him through hooded eyes. “How?”

  “You can start by corrupting the men closest to the queen.” He flashed a smile. “After all, it’s what you do.”

  “You want me to turn them to the Dark?”

  “I want you to add sexual strings to the court puppets.” His smile turned sinister. “I’ve come to alter history, to sow prejudice and deepen the Great Dark Divide. A queen cannot be allowed to rule, especially one that rules so well. I will twist her deeds to infamy. Horror will be heaped on her name so that all of Erdhe will forever shun a woman’s rule.”

  His words chilled her to the core, giving her notice that even the Oracle Priestess would not rule...yet she kept her face a mask. “As you wish.” She needed to get away, she needed to reconsider. “I’ll begin at once.” Nodding to the Mordant, she turned to leave.

  “Where do you think you are going?”

  “Back to the inn.”

  He shook his head, a viper’s smile on his face. “You will stay in my house, a room has already been prepared.” His gaze raked across her, considering her curves. “You will come to my bed when I beckon. And you will use your powers to serve.”

  Trapped, she was trapped by his power, by his assassins. “What of my men?”

  “They can return to the inn to await service.”

  So he seeks to strip me of my loyal swords. “And what of my handmaidens?”

  “Summon them if you wish.” Settling back on the throne, he gave a negligent wave. "Your women are of no account.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She turned to leave.

  “And Iris.”

  He knows my true name! Turning, she kept the shock from her face, meeting his shark’s stare.

  “When I call you to my bed, I expect you to come. Willing or not, I expect you to serve...,” a smile broke across his face, "but I think you will like it."

  Instead of instilling fear, her power surged within her, a sexual hunger rising to the challenge. “As you command.” Seduction laced her voice. She gave him the smallest of nods, and then followed the seneschal from the throne room.

  Braxus paced in the entranceway, his hand on his sword hilt. Relief flashed across his face when he saw her. “Shall we go, my lady?”

  “I will be staying here, a guest of the prince.”

  Alarm filled his gaze. She gave him the smallest of nods, confirming his fears. “I want you to do exactly as I say. Return to the inn and bring my handmaidens and all of my things.” She drilled him with her stare, making sure he understood.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “And then return to the inn and await further orders.”

  "But..."

  "You will await further orders."

  Anger rode his voice, yet he complied. “As you wish.”

  She stepped towards him, kissing him on the cheek. With her lips near his ear, she whisp
ered. “Warn Steffan.”

  He held her close, whispering an answer. “I’ll keep watch.” Stepping away, he saluted her, and then he was gone.

  She turned to the seneschal. “I believe a room has been prepared?”

  The portly prelate flashed a rude smile. “Yes, my lady.”

  His blatant rudeness roused her anger. She was sorely tempted to brush against him, pricking the fat prelate with the poison of her armbands...but she refrained. It was too soon to sow death among the Mordant's servants. Her face composed in a demure mask, she followed him up the gilded stairs to a suite of rooms at the rear of the manse. Large and richly appointed, the inner room was dominated by a four posted bed piled with embroidered pillows and draped with jewel-colored silks.

  “If you need anything, Barry will serve you.” He gestured to a slight man hovering at the doorway, another assassin clad in servant’s purple.

  “I need my handmaidens and my things.”

  “As soon as they arrive.” He closed the door.

  She heard the lock click.

  So he seeks to cage me. Feeling confined, she went to the window. The diamond-paned windows overlooked a walled garden, a bubbling fountain surrounded by statues and topiaries. Opening the window, she leaned out, staring down. She studied the garden, listening to the night. The shadows moved. A black-clad assassin stepped into the torchlight. Brazenly staring up her, he nodded, before retreating into the velvety darkness.

  So the gilded cage is a guarded prison…yet he dares to call me to his bed! A smile brewed upon her lips, how arrogant, how foolish. His powers were formidable, even frightening, but despite his thousand years, the Mordant was still a mortal, still a man, subject to a man’s desires. Desire is the greatest poison! The Priestess smiled. She’d bide her time till he summoned her, and then she’d ply her powers, clashing her will against his, the sorceress of sex seducing a thousand years of evil. In the realm of the bedchamber, she had no doubt who would prevail.

  44

  Steffan

  The thought of her going to him ignited a restless rage in Steffan. Unable to sit at the inn, he wandered the streets of Pellanor, but he saw nothing. She'd slept with others before, plying her skills on lesser men, pulling them under her spell. He well knew what she was, the Priestess of the Oracle, a sexual goddess draped in Darkness. He'd watched her hold sway over others, casting her allure on unsuspecting men, but always before it enhanced his pride to know that he was her lover. All the others were mere tools, serving her ambition, but he was her paramour, her equal in the bedchamber. But somehow the Mordant was different. There should have been another way.

  His thoughts ran in circles and so did his footsteps. Steffan found himself returning to the inn, staring up at her window, waiting for lantern light to brighten her room, waiting for her carriage to return...and then he'd feel the fool, and resume walking. He meant to walk away, but somehow he always found himself wandering in circles, always returning to the inn, waiting, watching, like a love-struck swain. He hated himself for showing such weakness yet he could not abandon his vigil.

  A carriage thundered down the street, pulling rein in front of the inn.

  Steffan slipped into the shadows, watching. He recognized the guards...and then he saw Braxus, but the seneschal returned alone! Erupting from his hiding place, Steffan raced across the street and circled the carriage, staring at the open door...but the carriage was empty. She stayed with him! He staggered backwards, but then anger roared through him. His hand sought his sword hilt. Steffan strode through the inn, up the stairway, and down the hall, murder in his gaze.

  The door to her room was ajar.

  He banged it open and strode straight to Braxus. Whirling the man around, he grabbed him by the lapels and yanked him close, yelling into his face. "Where is she? Why did you leave her? How could you leave her with him?"

  Braxus gave him a blank look. "Orders."

  "She was supposed to come back." Steffan's voice turned to a snarl. "You were supposed to protect her."

  Braxus pushed back, hard enough to knock Steffan to the floor. The seneschal stood over Steffan with fists clenched, his normally calm face shattered to rage. "Do you think you're the only one who loves her!"

  The words hit like a slap. Jarred from his rage, Steffan's glance roved the room. It was only then that he realized the others were packing. His own anger fled, replaced by the desperate need to know. "What happened?"

  Braxus looked away, visibly swallowing his own anger, and then he turned back to Steffan and offered his hand, pulling him to his feet. "She had an audience with him." Before Steffan could speak, Braxus glowered, "Alone." Anger sizzled in the seneschal's eyes, but Steffan sensed it was not directed at him. "I had to wait in the entranceway, wait like a lackey, yet it gave me the chance to observe. The mansion is crawling with capable looking guards and dwarves with pointy teeth. I liked it not."

  Steffan didn't care about the guards, he cared about her. "What happened?"

  "She wasn't in the audience long. When she came out, she was clearly shaken...disturbed. I've never seen her so shaken." His gaze flashed to Steffan. "She whispered a message for you, a warning to stay away. And then she ordered me to bring her handmaidens and all of her things."

  "Bring them?"

  "He's holding her captive."

  An image of the Priestess bound in chains burned through Steffan like white-hot lightning. "Captive," the word snarled out of him.

  Braxus sent him a bracing look. "That's why we have to work together. We have to get her back."

  Steffan glanced past Braxus, at the two handmaidens folding silks into the cedar chest. "I'm coming with you."

  "No, you're not." Steel laced the seneschal's voice. "She said you're to stay away."

  Disdain twisted his words. "Stay away and do nothing?"

  "Dead you are of no use to her. Stay away and live...and wait for her plan." His voice dropped to a hard whisper. "I would not be surprised if the Mordant's men are watching the inn."

  Steffan gripped his sword hilt, jealousy warring with anger warring with common sense.

  "You'd best be gone."

  Steffan gave the seneschal a reluctant nod. "I'll be at the Golden Tankard. Come find me when you know more."

  Braxus nodded. "I'll find you."

  "Swear!"

  "I swear."

  Pulling the hood of his cloak up to hide his features, Steffan slipped out the door and down the hallway. He made his way to the back of the inn and out into the alleyway. If anyone kept watch, he did not see them. Steffan stayed to the shadows, moving through the back ways. Held captive, the words thundered through his mind. He could not imagine her a captive. How he rued her decision to come to the queen's god-cursed city. They should have stayed away, stayed in Rhune, never tangling with the oldest harlequin...but none of that mattered now. Rage engulfed him. By all the gods, he swore to get her back.

  45

  Liandra

  Messengers came from the north bearing tidings of war. The Mordant’s forces broiled out of Raven Pass, putting an end to the south’s respite. Bloodshed in the north. In many ways the war seemed distant, yet the queen felt a nagging threat growing in her court, as if shadows coalesced around her with a strangling darkness. Liandra shivered at the premonition, touching the key hidden in her bodice for reassurance. She missed Robert, she needed Robert, yet her shadowmaster lingered in Lingard. She’d sent dispatches summoning him back to court, yet his replies spoke of nothing but rebuilding the great city-fortress. Something was amiss, another subtle threat cloaked in shadows.

  Liandra reached for a quill, setting ink to parchment. This time she summoned him home with no uncertain terms, craving his keen advice as much as his presence in her bed. Melting the emerald green wax over the candle flame, she sealed the parchment. Her royal seal ensured the scroll’s privacy and a speedy delivery…but a wax seal was only as strong as the courier’s loyalty.

  The queen rang the hand bell, summoning her
page. “We will see our deputy shadowmaster now.” The page bowed and was gone.

  Her quill continued to scratch across parchment, sending orders the length and breadth of her kingdom. So many details to ensure prosperity, so many distracting threats of war, the queen felt beleaguered, yet she persisted, no detail too small.

  A knock sounded on the door and Master Raddock appeared. Swathed in somber robes of black, her deputy shadowmaster looked like a plump crow with dagger-sharp eyes.

  Wielding her feathered quill like a sword, she pointed to a stack of sealed scrolls on her left. “These are for the royal couriers. Have them sent at once. And this,” she tapped the single scroll on her right, “is for the Master Archivist. We order this one to be sent by one of our shadowmen. Have him masquerade as a merchant and order him to see the scroll delivered directly to the Master Archivist’s hands.”

  Master Raddock raised a bushy eyebrow. “You do not trust the royal couriers?”

  “We have suspicions. It has not yet grown to mistrust.”

  He took the scroll in question and slipped it into his pocket. “Shall I have the couriers shadowed?”

  “It has not yet come to that. And our shadowmen are stretched far too thin as it is. Meanwhile, we have other concerns.” She fingered the quill. “Tell me of the prince of Ur.”

  “Merchants flock to his mansion by day, offering the finest wines and the most exotic delicacies. Rumors say he sponsors the best bards and the most refined courtesans. By night, the mansion hums with lavish banquets, attended by the wealthy and the powerful. The city is agog with the spectacle of his wealth. One cannot pass through the markets without hearing his name spoken. The rumors are reaching mythic proportions.”

  “So he spins a web of wealth in order to entice.” Having twice played chess with the prince, she knew he had a devious mind. Liandra wondered at his true intent. “He courts the wealthy and the powerful…we need names.”

  The master removed a tattered slip of parchment from a different pocket and began to read. “Duke Anders, Lord Nealy, Lord Wesley, Merchant Gillrod, Merchant Langford…”