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

by Karen Azinger

  Sir Durnheart stood guard at the inner door, his great blue sword looming over his shoulder.

  Lady Sarah hesitated. “Has she asked for anyone?”

  “No, my lady.”

  The two women slipped inside the queen's bedchamber. Heavy curtains shuttered the windows, turning the elegant chamber into a cave. Jemma blinked against the gloom, her gaze drawn towards the queen. Candles surrounded the great canopied bed, giving off a soft glow. Deathly still, the air was laden with the stringent smells of medicinal potions leavened with the scent of burnt candles. Ladies Martha and Amy kept vigil, sitting by the queen’s bed, silent as a wake.

  Jemma approached the royal bed. The queen lay stiff and pale as a corpse. Her dark hair was combed, artfully fanned across the silken pillow. Rouge painted her lips, but the false color only heightened the queen's ghastly pallor. Queen Liandra looked like a wraith hovering on the brink of death. Jemma stifled a gasp.

  Lady Sarah knelt by the royal bed. Taking the queen's hand, she said, “Majesty, you have a visitor. Princess Jemma has come to seek your advice.”

  The queen made no response.

  A malady of grief, Jemma silently railed against the queen's sad state. "This cannot continue." She looked to Lady Sarah but the older woman had no answers. Jemma's gaze swept across the chamber as if seeking a culprit, finally settling on the table strewn with bottled potions. "Take these away." She pointed to the stoppered bottles as if they held poison. "No more potions, no more milk of the poppy. The queen must regain her wits."

  Lady Amy flung a hesitant glance towards Lady Sarah.

  The older woman nodded. "Do as she bids. Nothing here has helped."

  With a quick curtsy, Lady Amy gathered the bottles onto a silver tray and bore them from the chamber.

  "And open the windows, the air smells like a healery instead of a queen's chamber."

  Lady Martha hesitated. "But the air holds a damp chill?"

  "Then we'll stoke the fire, but let the queen breathe fresh air, not the stale smell of confinement and sickness."

  Lady Sarah nodded. "Do as she says."

  The women bustled about the chamber, removing the shrouds of sickness and mourning. The windows were thrown open wide, inviting a gust of fresh air and the hearth was stoked for heat. Logs were added to the grate, crackling in the fireplace, releasing a welcome breath of pine. Pillows were plumped and quilts added to the royal bed. The queen lay swathed in fresh comfort...but she did not stir, as if embalmed by grief.

  Princess Jemma took a seat by the queen.

  Lady Sarah drew the other women from the chamber. She returned to sit by the fireside, her knitting needles clicking a soothing rhythm.

  Jemma took the queen’s hand, so cold and unresponsive, yet the queen still wore her great rings, symbols of her anointed power. The rings glittered in the candlelight, the great emerald and the golden seal. Jemma well knew that power unused could be lost, stolen by ambitious lords. And the Rose Court was rife with ambitious lords...if only she could waken the queen. She began to speak, talking of small things, observations from the castle, the court, and the markets. She hoped to spark the queen's interest before sharing her news, but the queen remained waxen and still, her stare vague and uninterested. For three turns of an hourglass, Jemma kept vigil by the queen's bed. Having depleted her small talk, she leaned close to the queen's ear, her secret bursting within her. “Majesty, I've had word from home.” Her voice carried a fever pitch of excitement.

  She waited, but there was no response.

  “Majesty, you know how the crown is passed in Navarre. The king and the council choose the heir depending on the needs of the kingdom.” Jemma’s breath caught on her excitement, a dream and a destiny come true. “I’ve heard word from the king.” Her excitement bubbled to the surface. Longing to confide in her friend and mentor, she leaned close to whisper the words. “I’m to be the next queen of Navarre!”

  The queen’s gaze seemed to quicken, a spark of life dispelling her vacant stare. Queen Liandra drew a sharp breath as if pricked.

  Lady Sarah heard and dropped her knitting, rushing to the bedside.

  Jemma gripped the queen's hand, willing her back to life. "Majesty, come back to us!"

  The queen took a gasping breath as if surfacing from a perilous dive. Her eyes regained their potent focus. She turned her head on the pillow, her gaze fastening on Jemma. Her voice was a hoarse croak, rusty from long disuse. “Na...varre?”

  Joy blossomed in the princess. “Yes, I will be the next queen of Navarre."

  "Navarre?" The queen clung to the name as if it was a lifeline.

  "Yes, I pray I will rule with all the wisdom that you have taught me, bringing a new prosperity to the seaside kingdom.”

  Queen Liandra struggled to sit up. “The queen of Navarre...he said the fecund would inherit the earth.” She stared at Jemma, her gaze as sharp as daggers. “Are you fecund?”

  The question ambushed Jemma. “What?”

  The queen’s voice held a sepulcher tone. “He said the magic of Navarre will make the queen fecund.”

  Understanding struck. Jemma released the queen's hand. "Majesty, I told you, the magic cannot be shared."

  The queen's hand shot out, grabbing Jemma's wrist. “Share your magic! Make us fecund!”

  Jemma tried to pull away, but the queen’s hand tightened like a steel claw.

  "We need an heir, a child of our womb." Liandra leaned forward, her dark hair long and loose, contrasting to the paleness of her face. Her white nightgown hung on her thinning frame, making her look like a banshee sprung from the grave. “Share your magic and we shall have the heir we so desperately need!”

  Shock rippled through the princess. "I told you, majesty, the magic cannot be shared!"

  The queen's dark eyes held a feverish intensity. "Cannot, or will not!"

  Fear spiked through the princess. Instead of lucidity, the light in the queen's gaze looked like madness. “No! I cannot!” Jemma recoiled, trying to pull her hand away, but Queen Liandra held tight, fingernails digging into soft flesh.

  “Give us the magic and we shall get sons and daughters to replace the ones we've lost! Heirs to secure the Tandroth line! Give us the magic and we shall be fecund!”

  Lady Sarah tried to intervene. “Majesty, what are you doing?”

  Venom laced the queen's voice. “This one claims to be our friend, our daughter, yet she will not share!”

  Jemma tried to the parry madness with reason. “Majesty, the magic is keyed to the royal bloodline of Navarre, it will serve no other!”

  “Lies! You spew lies!”

  Lady Sarah tried to ease the queen's grip. “Majesty, release her.”

  The queen bristled. “Do not touch us! We know our mind. We know what we need.”

  Jemma tried again, her voice a desperate plea. “Majesty, this is wrong and you know it!”

  “Wrong!” The queen gave her a scathing glare. “All our life we have served the Light, we have served our people, ruling for the greater good of our kingdom, yet this is how the gods treat us? Every one of our children dead? Our noble line ended? Our legacy nothing but dust and ashes?” Her rouged lips curled in an ugly sneer. “If this is what it means to serve the Light, then we...choose...Darkness!” The queen raised her voice to an imperious shout. “Guards!”

  The outer door banged open and Sir Durnheart rushed in, his blue sword raised in his mailed fists. Two guards with short swords followed close behind him. Seeing nothing but women, Sir Durnheart lowered his sword, a puzzled look on his face. "Majesty?"

  "There is a traitor in our midst."

  Sir Durnheart raised his sword.

  The queen shoved princess Jemma away. “Take this one to the dungeons! Let her rot till she comes to her senses.”

  Jemma gaped, unable to speak.

  Lady Sarah knelt by the queen's bed. "Majesty, you are not yourself!"

  "We know our will." The queen pointed an accusing finger towards the princess.
"This one betrays our greatest need."

  Sir Durnheart hesitated.

  Anger spiked the queen's voice. “Obey us!”

  Sir Durnheart bowed. Grabbing the princess by the arm, he lifted her to her feet. “Come.” He ushered her from the royal chambers.

  Jemma stumbled, shocked by the queen’s transformation. “That was not the queen.”

  The knight supported her, his gauntleted hand clamping a firm grip on her arm. “The queen is grief-struck. She is not herself.”

  But he did not release her. He did not release her...Jemma considered running, but the knight kept a firm grip, holding her tight. “What will you do?”

  The knight gave her a terse look. "Obey my queen." He hurried her down the corridor, two guards trailing behind, their hands on their swords.

  Her mouth gaped. "The...dungeon?" The words choked her throat.

  Sir Durnheart turned, never loosening his grip. "You two return and guard the queen. Let no one pass till I return."

  The two guardsmen snapped brisk salutes and then turned, striding back towards the queen's chamber.

  Sir Durnheart tugged on her arm, nearly lifting her from the floor. "Come."

  Jemma rushed to keep pace. "Where...not the dungeon?"

  "No," the knight bit the answer.

  "Then...where?"

  “A distant part of the castle. I'll imprison you with loyal swords standing guard at the door.”

  Imprisoned! Jemma felt as if a nightmare engulfed her. “This is wrong."

  “Yes,” the knight gave her a sideways glance, “yet I'm sworn to obey.”

  Castle Tandroth was a labyrinth of passageways. Jemma lost track of the twists and turns. They left the gilded hallways for shadowy corridors. He took her to a remote part of the castle, his grip firm as steel on her arm. Jemma considered crumpling to the floor, behaving like a deadweight, making him carry her...but such a response had no dignity. She walked in a trance, her thoughts beating against her, frantic with the terrible turn of fate. The queen is not herself! Perhaps she should have screamed, yet she knew he spared her the dungeon. For that, at least, she was grateful. Better to avoid attention and wait for a chance to escape. She sagged against him, yet he propelled her up the spiral stairs. So many steps, she lost count.

  He reached an oak door. "I'll have food and wine brought. You'll not be ill treated." Opening the door, Sir Durnheart thrust her inside.

  Thrust off balance, she tripped and fell. "No!" Jemma lunged for the door, but it slammed in her face. A key turned in the lock, such a damning sound. "No!" Her resolve cracked...she beat against the oak door till her hands hurt, a trickle of tears on her face. "Release me! By all the Lords of Light, release me!"

  Nothing.

  The silence beat against her. Jemma slumped to the floor. Her mind bruised, her heart numbed, she turned to face her prison. Dusty and spare, the small tower room was clearly long unused. A narrow bed with a faded quilt was pushed against one wall, a cracked chamber pot sat in the corner, a stool tilting at a drunken angle sat in front of a dead hearth. The chamber held no adornment...and no warmth. A coating of dust across the floor bore the lonely marks of her own footprints...and nothing else, proof the chamber was long forgotten. Biting back a sob, she crossed to the small mullioned window, the only source of light. The air smelled stale, choking her with more proof of her confinement. Desperate for fresh air, she clawed at the window latch. Pushing open the lead-paned window, she gulped fresh air. Standing on tiptoe, she peered out. Her room was in a tower top, nothing but rooftops and battlements below. A sob caught in her throat. Imprisoned! Retreating from the harsh view, she left the window gaping open. A cool breeze haunted the chamber with the scent of freedom. Curled on the musty bed, she watched the daylight fade to darkness. At noon-time she'd been offered a crown...at sunset she was a prisoner. The reversal of fortune hit like a hammer blow, as if she'd stepped into insanity. Tears threatened, but she held them back. Jemma shuddered, feeling darkness close around her.

  53

  The Priestess

  Returning from another late night, the Priestess stared from the carriage window, yet she saw nothing. The Mordant treated her like a high-priced courtesan, sending her on assignations with rich nobles and influential lords. She gave them a single night of incomparable sex, dangling the promise of more, and they forfeited their souls to Darkness, working the Mordant's will upon the queen's kingdom. How easily she subverted the queen's loyal lords, but the Priestess despised being used. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, yet the nightly dalliances also served her own purpose, for she needed to feed. Locking her victims in the throes of passion, she unleashed the succubus. Indulging her own hunger, she drank deep from their life essence. Drunk on sex, she left her victims snoring on their beds, her true name written in the sweat on their chests.

  Staring out the carriage window at the night-darkened city, a laugh bubbled to her lips. Twenty years from now, Pellanor would be plagued by old men, aged beyond their years by the kiss of a succubus. A plague of sex upon your city, her laughter turned to gallows humor, realizing the price of their passion would only be paid if the Mordant let them live. She wondered how many would survive the Mordant's brutal reign, herself included.

  Forcing the grim thought away, she breathed in the night air, watching the passing lanterns illuminating the queen's city. In truth, she liked Pellanor, a city brimming with a wealth of opportunities, a plethora of amusements. A pity its rich diversity would not survive the Mordant's rule.

  The carriage rounded a corner, turning onto a familiar street. Nearly back to my prison, she gripped the handle of the door, tempted to jump, but she knew the thought was foolish. Instead of escape, she'd only injure herself. A pair of dark-clad assassins followed her every move, keeping watch like hungry hounds. Her hand moved to the serpent-shaped armband coiling her forearm, the hidden needles armed with one of her deadliest poisons...but not tonight. Better to wait till her plans were in place.

  The carriage slowed to a stop. A dark-clad assassin appeared at the door. Opening it for her, he offered his hand, playing the servant, a snide smile on his dusky face. Ignoring his attitude, she accepted his help from the carriage, as any great lady would.

  Guards surrounded her, ushering her into the mansion. Lantern light lit the entranceway, yet the great house was silent. The revelers had gone home, or perhaps the Mordant had gone out, seeking pleasure or purpose of his own devising.

  She climbed the stairs, the two dark-clad assassins following close as shadows. She made her way down the long hallway, carpet soft beneath her slippered feet. The door to Bishop Borgan's suite gaped open, candlelight spilling into the hallway. The Priestess despised the fat prelate, but information was a weapon she sorely needed. Loosening her robe to reveal a hint of cleavage, she struck a suggestive pose in the frame of his doorway. She needn't have bothered for the fat prelate had his nose stuck in a mound of scrolls.

  "No revels tonight?"

  He flicked a bored glance her way. "Not tonight, but there's one planned for the morrow. Wear something special. The Mordant will expect you to mingle with the guests and display your wears."

  Like a harlot up for bid, she kept the sneer from her voice, "Of course."

  "How did you find Lord Weathering?"

  A shrewd man but a fool for sex, "He's eager to serve the prince of Ur."

  Dipping a quill in ink, the bishop opened a thick ledger. "Very good."

  "And my next assignation?"

  The bishop thumbed through the pages, an erudite whoremaster. "In three nights, you're to go to a Lord Ferdic. The Mordant wants him to propose a writ to double the taxation on taverns. Squeeze the people's pleasures and their hate for the queen will escalate to a bonfire."

  Their petty schemes mattered not a copper to her. "In three nights." Having gained the information she needed, the Priestess turned to leave.

  "And, Iris," a satisfied smile filled his jowly face, "the Mordant appreciates your ardent servic
e."

  She bristled with hate, resenting the use of her true name. "I'm sure he does." The Priestess longed to poison the fat pig, but not tonight. Keeping her face composed, she glided down the hallway to her own suite of rooms.

  An assassin rushed to open the door. Without giving him a glance, she crossed the threshold of her gilded prison. The door closed behind her, the key turning in the lock.

  Her two handmaidens slept in chairs in front of the smoldering hearth. They'd clearly sought to await her return, but the late hour had caught them. She let them sleep. Shedding her cloak, she made her way to the inner bedroom.

  Forced to serve the Mordant, she felt the need to reaffirm her power to kill. Seeking the solace of her poisons, she knelt in front of her rosewood chest, her harvest of deathly delights. Taking care lest she trigger the poison-tipped needles, she unlocked the chest. Easing the lid open...she found it empty!

  Empty!

  Her heartbeat thundered, her hands shook with rage as she hurriedly opened the small drawers, searching for any scrap of poison. Someone had ransacked her chest, taking her hoard of velvet pouches and stoppered bottles. Even the secret compartments were empty. Nothing! They'd taken everything, stealing all her precious poisons! How dare they! A scream of rage ripped out of her. Feeling like a beast declawed, she howled for all that was lost.

  Her handmaidens came running. "Mistress?"

  "Who was in here?"

  They trembled in the doorway. "None while we were here."

  Lydia paled. "They offered us dinner served in the courtyard," her voice dropped to a repentant whisper, "a chance to be outside."

  It was not their fault, but her rage was not easily caged. "Leave me."