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

by Karen Azinger

  50

  Steffan

  Impatient for word of the Priestess, Steffan began to haunt the streets around the prince's mansion. His sellswords kept watch, confirming that she lived, but he needed to see for himself. Midday was always the best time to spy, the cobbled streets crowded with merchants, craftsmen and minstrels come to ply the wealthy for coin. Amidst the bustling commerce, the scents of flowering jasmine wafted down the street, as if the wealthy cast perfume upon the very air. Steffan sneezed, annoyed by the cloying scent. Threading his way through the crowd, he spied Donklin lurking in the shadows of a side street. Sauntering across, he joined the sellsword captain. "What word?"

  Donklin leaned against a wrought iron railing twined with flowering honeysuckle. "I'll tell you this," he cast a baleful glance across the street, "yer prince is a cautious fellow."

  "Why?"

  "The manse is bursting with servants...'cept they ain't no servants, they're veteran swords."

  A shiver of foreboding raced down Steffan's back. "How can you tell?"

  Donklin shrugged. "The way they stand, the way their stares prowl the streets for enemies, the way their hands hover where their swords should be." He flicked a glance toward Steffan. "Takes one to know one." Plucking a white flower from the vine, the sellsword popped the honeysuckle in his mouth and chewed. Seeing Steffan's stare, he shrugged. "Sweet as honey only chewier." His face sobered. "Tell you somethin' else. The short ones in dark clothing, they're the most dangerous. You best keep away from them. They look small, but they glide like prowling cats and are damned difficult to track in a crowd, disappearing like smoke in the breeze."

  The more Steffan heard, the more he worried. "So have you seen the prince?"

  "Aye, the prince and the seductress. They come and go at all hours, 'specially at night." Donklin gave him a narrow stare. "Tell you this, whatever yer plannin' it best be outside the manse. Too damn many swords inside to tangle with."

  Steffan had no intention of invading the Mordant's lair. "What about the alleyway in back? Anything suspicious there?"

  "Plenty suspicious. Two of my swords have gone missing."

  A chill shivered down Steffan's back. "Dead or caught?"

  "No way to tell, 'cept if we find a body." Donklin spat a chewed flower and plucked another.

  Anger riddled Steffan's voice. "I warned you not to get caught."

  "And I warned them," Donklin bristled, "but those dark-clad bastards are scary as hell. Best avoid them. I don't post any watchers back there no more. A waste of swords."

  Steffan bridled his anger. "Tell me about the woman. When do you see her?"

  "Mostly at night, but it's hard to catch a glimpse. The prince's guards shuffle her in and out of waiting carriages, and there's always a couple of those black-clad bastards keeping close watch on her. My guess is the prince has got her on a tight leash."

  A tight leash, the Priestess was not the type of woman to be kept on a leash. "Anything else?"

  "Yeah, the prince likes to revel, and he spares no expense. Merchants deliver all manner of wine and food during the day. Lordlings and their ladies arrive at night, all decked with velvets and jewels, the carriages coming thick as starlings. Lights blaze from the manse till the wee hours." Donklin gave him a pointed look. "A dapper lordling like yerself might wrangle an invite to the feast. See yer lady fer yerself."

  It was a thought, a dangerous thought, yet it appealed to the gambler in him. "I'll consider it." He tossed the captain a purse stuffed with golds. "Pay your men and keep them watching."

  Donklin weighed the purse, a smile creasing his craggy face. "Happy to serve."

  Steffan ambled out into the street. Falling in behind a troupe of mummers, his gaze raked the manse. So many diamond-paned windows gleaming golden in the reflected sunlight, he wondered if the Priestess peered from one and knew he kept watch. "Soon," he whispered the word like a promise.

  Movement at the mansion's arched doorway drew his gaze. Servants in purple tabards poured out, standing tense on either side of the door. Watching them, Steffan knew Donklin had the truth of it. Dressed like servants yet they move like soldiers braced to meet a foe.

  A magnificent white stallion was led to the doorway, its mane braided with bells, its saddle trappings glimmering with jewels. Stamping and snorting, the stallion showed its spirit, fighting the groom. An excellent judge of horses, Steffan knew the stallion alone was worth a small fortune, the arrogance of wealth on brazen display.

  The mummers stopped to gawk.

  Steffan lingered behind them, using them as a screen.

  The soldiers dressed as servants tensed. Four of the black-clad men flowed out of the doorway. Short in stature, yet they moved like liquid death, taking positions around the stallion.

  Steffan held his breath, aware he should walk on, yet compelled to watch...and then he saw him, the fair-haired prince of Ur. He was tall, but his build was ordinary, like a young man who'd spent his short lifetime wielding a quill instead of a sword. His shoulder-length ash-blond hair was neatly trimmed in the latest style. Clad in sumptuous silks, his clothing was of the finest quality, dyed a deep imperial purple, the Great Wyrm of Ur boldly embroidered in gold across his chest. Jewels glittered on his fingers, yet he wore no sword. Swinging into the saddle with practiced ease, he took up the reins and quickly mastered the fretting stallion.

  So this is the Mordant.

  Fascinated, Steffan studied his rival. The prince mastered the stallion with ease, displaying a clear knack for horsemanship, and he showed excellent taste in tailors, but otherwise he looked quite ordinary. Neither handsome nor physically daunting, his most imposing feature was the richness of his trappings. A common thrush bedecked in peacock's plumage, Steffan was not impressed.

  A sneer rode his face, so this is the oldest harlequin, the one who dares to cage my Cereus. His hands slipped to the throwing dagger sheathed at his belt.

  The Mordant was so arrogant, he did not even wear armor. Bedecked in bright silks, he made an easy target. A single well-thrown dagger and Steffan could forever end this arrogant threat.

  The Mordant urged his stallion to a showy prance, his servant-guards keeping pace around him.

  Steffan sidled forward, drawing closer, angling for a better position. Easing the dagger from its sheath, he held the wicked-keen blade by the tip.

  The Mordant drew near, close enough for an easy kill. He looked unaware, a noble out for an afternoon ride.

  Steffan took a deep breath, poised to throw.

  The Mordant's gaze suddenly snapped towards Steffan.

  Their stares locked.

  A thousand years of Darkness slammed into Steffan like a thunderbolt, pinioning his soul.

  *How dare you!* The words boomed in his mind.

  Steffan quivered, unable to breathe, unable to move. Something Dark reached inside of him, slithering through his soul. He felt raped, he felt violated. Sweat erupted across his skin, the dagger falling from his useless hand, clattering on the cobbles.

  *I see you. I know your Dark soul. You shall grovel before me!*

  The Mordant released him, riding past.

  Steffan gasped and staggered backwards. Shocked to be alive, he turned and fled, desperate to escape that searing gaze.

  51

  Liandra

  Riddled with doubts, Liandra paced a path in front of the hearth, seeking solutions to half a hundred questions. Dispatches littered her desk, yet the mound of scrolls only raised more problems. Robert remained in Lingard despite her instructions to return with all haste, her Lord Sheriff was missing and no one knew where or why, and now she learned that the monks posing as apothecaries were either dead or fled. Dead in her city, yet she seemed the last to know. Frustration warred with rage. She was the Spider Queen, she'd threaded her shadowmen like silk strands through the courts of Erdhe, yet her inquiries brought nothing but riddles. Feeling beleaguered, Liandra tread a path in the wool carpet.

  Missing allies, dark magic and
dangerous rumors, the problems tightened like a vexing noose. The queen’s mind fastened on the last. Someone stirred false rumors against her. A queen needed the faith of her people to rule. “We need to be seen.”

  “Seen, majesty?” Lady Sarah sat before the hearth, her knitting forgotten.

  “To quell the false rumors we need to be seen, to remind our people that we rule and rule well.” Liandra considered the possibilities. Pomp and pageantry never failed to impress. "We shall ride out to inspect the city wall. And we shall wear our armor to remind our people that we saved them from the Flame.”

  Lady Sarah sighed, “Silk is so much easier than steel.”

  “True, but armor has its own allure, and we need every advantage.”

  “When?”

  “On the morrow, assuming the sun shines. We seek the glitter of steel, not a rusty drizzle.”

  “I’ll get the ladies polishing.” Curtsying, Lady Sarah went to rouse the others to their tasks.

  Liandra felt her burdens lessened by one, yet so many problems remained. Dark magic in her city, the monks dead or fled, she resumed pacing, hounded by a hundred problems, a myriad of questions plaguing her mind. Three times the fire burned to embers, and three times Lady Sarah added logs to the grate, stoking the fire to a roaring blaze. The queen took comfort in the heat and the light, yet she found no answers. Growing weary, she settled in a chair, staring into the flames, worrying a riddle with too many questions and not enough facts.

  An urgent pounding startled her. Flustered, Liandra realized she must have dozed in the chair. Still clad in her silk gown, a wool blanket was tucked across her lap. Tugging the blanket aside, she glanced at the diamond paned window. Night ruled the sky, proving she'd slept longer than she thought.

  A fist pounded the outer door.

  Annoyance spiked through the queen, angered by the rude urgency. “Come, but you'd best have a good reason for your pounding.”

  The door burst open and her deputy shadowmaster flew in like an angry crow, his dark robes flapping. He ushered a mud-splashed messenger into her solar. Breathing hard, as if he'd run the length of the palace, Master Raddock blurted the message. “Majesty, terrible tidings have come from the north.”

  His words struck like a slap, yet the queen hid behind a stone mask. “Tell us.”

  Master Raddock gestured to the boy. Clad in the emerald green tabard of a royal courier, the freckle-faced lad was ghost-pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, his clothing rumpled and mud-splattered. “Majesty, they told me to ride hard for Pellanor. I came as fast as I could.” The lad wavered on his feet, clearly exhausted. Dropping to one knee, he proffered a battered scroll towards her. “Majesty, the prince is dead.”

  The words made no sense. “What?”

  The boy’s voice quavered. “Prince Stewart is dead, killed at the battle of Eye Bridge.”

  Her heartbeat galloped at wild pace, as if it could outrun the grim tidings. "No, you are mistaken." The voice sounded so calm, so collected, it could not be hers.

  The boy extended the scroll towards her. "Majesty, he fell fighting the Mordant's army at Eye Bridge. They said he fought bravely."

  "No, it cannot be!"

  The lad proffered the scroll towards her.

  She struck it from his hand, as if it was a poisonous snake.

  The messenger gasped, but the queen did not care. Liandra balled her ringed hands into fists, desperately clinging to her disbelief.

  Master Raddock recovered the scroll. "Majesty, I checked the seal myself, the message is valid. You must listen to reason."

  "Reason!" She loosed her rage on the fat crow. "Who are you to tell us of reason? Are you an anointed queen? Are you a mother? We cannot lose our firstborn son, our stalwart warrior, our only heir!" She reined in her voice, yet her words cut all the deeper. "If our son dies, our reign will all be for naught!" Liandra was a petite woman, yet her rage was fearsome, a towering wall of denial. She pointed a warning finger at her shadowmaster. "Tell us not of reason, for this cannot be!"

  Her shadowmaster cowered before her.

  The messenger-boy lowered his gaze, tears streaming his dirty face.

  Liandra waited, her ringed hands balled into fists.

  Lady Sarah flew towards her. Taking the scroll from the shadowmaster's hands, she opened it with shaking hands. "Majesty," a heavy sorrow laced her friend's voice, "he speaks the truth. It says Prince Stewart is dead."

  “No!” The words pierced her mind, pierced her heart. “It cannot be!”

  Someone was screaming, a terrible keening sound.

  "My son!" The queen fled from reason, shrieking like a banshee. "By all the gods, it cannot be!"

  Courtiers came and went from her chambers, but she did not care. A flask was forced to her lips, a draught of bitterness, a draught of tears. Liandra swallowed the potion and felt herself fall…like falling into a bottomless well…like falling into forgetfulness. Swallowed by darkness, she welcomed oblivion.

  52

  Jemma

  Another message pouch from Navarre, but this one bore the complex sea knots that marked it of special importance. Once a fortnight, Jemma received scrolls from home, a letter from her father, gossip from her family and friends, reports from her factors, but the sea knots marked this delivery as something more. Locking the door to her room, she made fast work of the knots. Opening the pouch, she peered inside. Nothing…but a message coil.

  A message coil! It lay on the table like a coiled snake. Only the most dire messages were sent by coded coil.

  Perhaps the king is dead, the thought shook her soul. She shuddered, making the hand sign against evil. The Curse of the Vowels had plagued her family with death, too much death. Shaking her head against the grim thought, Jemma prayed it was not so.

  Unread, the message coil waited on the table.

  The coiled strip of parchment bore a carefully inked message scribed in a clear hand. The message was false unless read the proper way. She stared at it for a hundred heartbeats but delay would not change the outcome. Taking a steadying breath, Jemma knelt by her cedar chest and turned the lock. Buried beneath her keepsakes and scrolls, she found her message rod. Every royal had one, its twin kept safe in Castle Seamount. Made of turned pine, the two foot rod bore a single nail at one end. It looked insignificant but a rod of any other thickness would yield gibberish. Such a simple thing, yet it was the key to unlocking the royal code. Returning to the table, she pierced the message coil with the nail and slowly wound the parchment strip around the rod so that only the first letter of each word showed beneath the nail head. Concentrating on the task, she refused to read the message until the coil was complete. She reached the end, her hands shaking. Taking a deep breath, she read the message. “Return home with all haste to wear the crown.”

  The coiled rod fell from her hands. The crown of Navarre...she was going to be queen! Her destiny came calling, a rush of elation warring with trepidation. So her father was stepping down. The passing of the Seaside crown came with a pang of sorrow. Jemma knew her mother's death had struck her father like a well-aimed arrow. She read the words again, resolve pushing away her sorrow. Her long-held dream was nearly at hand, yet with the crown came a daunting responsibility. Jemma swore to all the gods, she would be worthy.

  A thousand thoughts hammered her mind. She needed to pack, she needed to return home with all haste…but she also needed to tell the queen. Her thoughts jarred to a halt like a ship hitting a rocky shore. Queen Liandra, her mentor and her dear friend, the one who'd most understand her elation...and her fear, was locked in her own misery, grief-struck by the death of Stewart. The queen's only remaining son, her brother by marriage, felled in a distant battle. Jemma worried for the queen, she worried for her sister. So much death, they truly lived in foul times, yet Jemma longed to seek the queen's advice, to share her joy and trepidation.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Startled, Jemma tore the message coil from the rod. “Just a moment.” S
he threw the coiled parchment into the blazing hearth, watching to be sure it caught fire, and then hid the message rod in her chest.

  The knock sounded again, frantic and insistent.

  “Coming.” Jemma smoothed her velvet gown. Trying to appear unflustered, she unlocked the door.

  Lady Sarah blew into the chamber like a stormy gale. Her normally coifed hair was in disarray, giving the senior lady-in-waiting a wild look. “Princess Jemma, you must help!”

  “Is the queen awake? Is she asking for me?” Jemma had spent long hours keeping vigil by the queen’s bedside. While the queen slept, the princess spoke of commerce and market gossip, hoping to ignite a spark of interest, to rouse the queen from her torpor, all to no avail.

  Lady Sarah paced in front of the hearth. “I'm so worried about the queen. She doesn’t talk and now she won’t eat. I tell you, I’m at my wit’s end! You must help!”

  “Can no one get through to her?”

  “At first her councilors came, seeking the queen’s approval, but she said not a word. She just stared, as if she did not even see them. Now they don’t even bother coming. Only the gods know what decisions they’re making without her approval.”

  Jemma swallowed her unease. "And the healers, what do they say?"

  Lady Sarah threw up her hands in dismay. "They ply her with potions and tell me to keep her abed. Abed! She lays there like a corpse! As if she's the one who died and not her son." Lady Sarah bit her lip, her voice quavering. “It’s all coming undone. If only Lord Robert were here. She has to take an interest. She has to wake and be the queen.”

  “I’ll come. We'll find a way to rouse her.” Jemma took the older woman’s hand, trying to impart a sense of calm. “I’ve received fresh word from home; perhaps it will spark the queen to life.”

  “Pray that it does.” Fresh lines of worry scrawled the older woman's face. She looked as if she'd aged a decade. “Come. I don’t like leaving her for long.”

  The two women made their way through the castle corridors, a whisper of velvet trailing across the marble floors. Courtiers and lords barely spared them a glance, as if they were both beneath notice. As if we don't matter, the thought sent a chill down Jemma's back. They reached the queen’s tower and climbed the stairs. Petitioners normally crowded the antechamber, hoping for a word with their monarch, but the outer parlor was eerily empty, silent as a tomb. Jemma shivered at the ill-omen, as if the queen was already dead…or irrelevant.