A dark-robed figure appeared in the doorway. "There you are." The Mordant stepped into the room, a nightmare come calling.
Steffan edged backwards, his head against the wall, the knife hidden beneath the quilt. "How did you find me?"
"Darkness has its own scent." The Mordant's nostrils flared wide. "Only a youngling, yet your soul brims with it."
Steffan locked his stare on the Mordant's lips, trying to avoid the deadly snare of his gaze. "What do you want?"
"You should have asked that question when you first saw me. You should have dropped to your knees and begged to serve a higher Darkness."
Steffan stammered an answer. "I...didn't know."
"Didn't you? Then why were you spying?"
Sweat erupted across his skin, bearing the stink of fear. Sometimes the truth served better than a lie. "The woman...I want the woman."
A sneer curdled the Mordant's lips. "A woman?" His voice solidified with certainty. "The succubus."
Steffan nodded, his throat desert-dry.
"Your desires betray you, proving you are as stupid as you are weak."
Steffan hurled a reply. "I'm a Dedicate of the Dark Lord."
"A youngling of little value."
Steffan tried a desperate gambit. "I have a Dark Gift."
The Mordant flashed a skeptical smile. "What gift?"
"I'm skilled with dice. I never lose. With me in your service, you'll never want for gold."
"Yes, I see your worth," the Mordant gestured to the dingy room, "a youngling cowering in a flea-ridden inn."
Desperation made him indignant. "I'm sworn to the Dark Lord! My soul is his!"
"The Dark Lord rules in Hell." The Mordant's voice struck like a slap. "I rule here. I'll send him your soul when I'm done."
Death grinned at him. Steffan did not hesitate. He hurled the knife, aiming for the Mordant's jugular.
A dark-clad assassin sprang to action, his hand snaking out like a toad's tongue.
Steffan stared, slack mouthed.
The dagger pierced the assassin's outstretched palm, impaling him like a nail through flesh, yet he did not scream.
Steffan erupted from the bed, running for the open window.
Pain caught him. His legs crumpled. Steffan fell face-first to the dingy floor. Impaled by a sharp pain, as if a sword skewered his back, he stifled a scream.
"How dare you!" The Mordant's voice was a harsh hiss.
The agony doubled. A scream ripped out of him. His right hand flailed backwards, reaching for the sword, but he found nothing...yet the blade turned, grinding through bone and flesh. "No!" Steffan howled in torment, like nothing he'd ever endured.
The agony stopped.
Steffan clung to the floor, panting like a dog, afraid to move.
A boot nudged his side. "Look at me."
Afraid to comply, terrified to disobey, he rolled over.
"Look at me."
Steffan lifted his gaze.
The Mordant stared down at him. "Your thoughts are mine." Darkness slammed into him, a scythe ripping through his mind, flaying his thoughts, skewering his soul.
57
Jemma
The light faded to dusk and still no one came. Jemma paced her prison, walking from the bed, to the door, to the lead-paned window. Every time she reached the door, she pressed her ear to the solid oak to listen, but heard nothing. Every time she reached the window, she stood on tiptoes to look out, seeing nothing but a lethal drop to the battlements below. Nothing, she bit her lip in frustration. In all her childhood fairy tales, imprisoned princesses were always rescued by handsome knights, but she feared no one would come for her. A missing princess, yet few would know. She assumed her own guardsmen were imprisoned. If the queen dared to imprison a princess, then she'd not hesitate to imprison her guardsmen from Navarre. Jemma only hoped they were well treated. Her lord father would be expecting an answer to his letter, but Navarre was a long way away and it could easily take at least a moon-turn before her own letters were missed. Her best hope was Cenric, but the forest lord had gone south to help his people settle in the queen's gift. Her handsome archer, she sorely missed him, but the cat-eyed forest lord came and went from Pellanor like a windborne leaf. She prayed for his return, certain he'd search for her, but she knew it could be a moon-turn or more before he made his way back to the queen's city. A moon-turn, it seemed like forever. She fondled the bracelet he'd given her, hand-carved beads of polished wood, each bead bearing a different leaf pattern. Her fingers sought the hemlock leaf, knowing it was his clan. They'd only had stolen moments together, archery lessons in the castle yard, a gallop through the sun-dappled forest, a campfire dinner under diamond-bright stars. Cherished memories turned to longing. Despite their many differences, Jemma could not get enough of his touch. If only he'd come for her.
Dusk dimmed to night and still no one came.
Her worry deepened. It was not like her friends to abandon her. But are they my friends? The question nagged at her. Perhaps something was wrong. At least last time they'd brought ample food, a picnic basket brimming with delicacies, a feast fit for a queen. Jemma nibbled on a piece of sharp cheese. Adding a log to the hearth, she stoked the fire, bringing a blaze of welcome warmth to the small chamber. For the sixth time she tried to pick the lock with the slender knife, to no avail. She swore she'd have someone teach her the trick once she escaped. Who knew lock picking was a skill she'd need as a princess.
A princess, soon to be a queen, yet she sat here imprisoned.
Frustration and worry gnawed at her, yet she sat impotent within her cage. Snatching up the wineskin, she crawled into bed, hiding the slender knife under her pillow. Sipping the wine, a good merlot, she watched the firelight, waiting for someone to come.
Jemma woke with a start.
A tap, tap, tapping came from the window. It must be a bird, for the tower was too high for anything else. The chamber had turned cold, the fire burnt to embers. Jemma burrowed beneath the cover's warmth, trying to reclaim sleep.
Tap, tap, tap, the noise was insistent.
Night darkened the small windowpane, the embers in the hearth giving a faint light.
Tap, tap, tap, the noise came again, an annoying sound that would not let her sleep.
Jemma reached beneath her pillow for the slender eating knife. The knife was short and the blade dull, but it was the only weapon she had. Clutching the small knife like a dagger, she slipped from beneath the quilt's warmth and crept toward the night-darkened window.
Tap, tap, tap, it sounded like metal on glass.
Curious, she crept along the wall, trying to stay out of the window's sight, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. She reached the window and tried to peer out but the glass was mirrored by darkness, reflecting the hearth's feeble glow. Pressed to the wall, she waited, but the tapping did not return. Curiosity warred with caution...and curiosity won. She reached up and opened the latch. Throwing the window wide open, she stepped in front, the knife held at the ready.
Nothing.
The window framed a cloudy night, nothing but chilly darkness beyond her lonely tower.
A key rattled in the door to her prison.
The princess whirled, her heartbeat hammering. Lady Sarah! But then she realized it was too late for the lady. A chill of foreboding shivered down her spine. Jemma tightened her grip on the small knife, praying the key would not fit the lock. Barefoot and vulnerable in her night shift, she edged away from the door.
A scraping sound came from behind her.
A deadly chill gripped her. Feeling a predator's hard stare, she whirled to face the window.
A black thing crouched on the windowsill. Arms and legs bent like a spider, it grinned at her with a man's face!
A scream burst out of her.
The door banged open and someone grabbed her from behind. A soft cloth drenched in bitterness pressed against her face. She screamed but the cloth only pressed harder, muffling her outrage. Hairy arms held
her tight, pressed against a man's broad chest. Jemma struggled, bucking against her assailant, but the man held her firm.
"That's it, princess, scream all you want, twill make the potion work all the faster."
Too late, she tried to hold her breath. A tingling numbness invaded her body. She tried to fight back, to slash at him with the knife, but her efforts grew feeble, the knife slipping from her fingers to clatter useless to the floor.
Laughter rumbled deep in her assailant's chest. "That's it princess, sleep tight. Where you're going, none will ever find you."
58
Liandra
Liandra swam in and out of darkness. Her mouth tasted bitter...and so did her heart. Stewart, she flinched away from that throbbing pain as if it were a white hot coal. Avoiding the worst hurt, her mind skittered to other matters, fastening on the princess of Navarre. A memory pierced her, the shocked look on the princess's sweet face. Another memory assailed her. The fecund will inherit Erdhe. A desperate need shivered through the queen, all the pieces falling into place. As the sovereign queen, Liandra needed Navarre's magic for the sake of her kingdom, for the sake of her unborn children, for her lost heir, for her very soul. Confined by silken sheets, she thrashed against her bonds, screaming commands. "Bring us the magic! Give it to us!"
More bitterness poured down her throat.
My son!
She welcomed the mind-numbing darkness, yet nightmares chased her into the depths. Someone tried to remove her royal rings, but she fought against them, screaming for the guards. Clutching her rings in tight fists, Liandra retreated back to her dreams, clinging to the fog of not-knowing, but the others intruded, prodding her with words. Words, what do words matter when our only son is dead? Fleeing the nightmare, she looked for Robert, needing the comfort of his arms, but when she turned upon the pillow, she found herself embracing his corpse, his dead lips pressed to hers.
Screams poured out of her.
Liandra woke screaming and they forced more bitterness down her throat.
She plunged back into a dense fog. At first she found it comforting, a place where reality could no longer harm her, but then she began to feel hunted. The feeling grew to a terrifying dread. She caught a sideway glimpse of a malformed creature made of inky darkness...and Liandra knew it hungered for her soul. Relentless in its pursuit, it bore a face that was both familiar and strange. Eternal damnation, the shadow scared her enough to face reality, but when she tried to wake, Liandra realized she was lost. The fog became a trap, a quicksand of the mind, slowing her thoughts, sapping her will, locking her in nightmares. She ran through a mirrored maze, a thousand versions of her own face staring back at her, each one bearing a different emotion. Terrified, accusing, desperate, a spectrum of emotions beat against her, all of them pushing her towards the dark hunter. In the blink of an eye, the images changed, showing the malformed creature. She became the shadow! Darkness stared back at her, and it wore her face. Liandra screamed, yet no one heard.
Locked in a maze of nightmares, it was weeping that pulled her back.
The sound of a woman weeping honest tears.
Clinging to the sound, Liandra struggled awake and found herself in the royal bed.
"Majesty, you must come back to us." Lady Sarah knelt by the bed, gripping the queen's hand, tears dampening the velvet quilt.
Liandra's stare roved her bedchamber, noting the black crape hung in mourning on the casement windows. Sorrow pierced her heart. The queen woke to a mother's grief, harsh and biting. "So...it's...true."
Her voice was a hoarse croak, yet Lady Sarah heard. "Majesty!" She gripped the queen's hand as if to anchor her in the present. "Majesty, stay with us! It's all coming undone. You are sorely needed."
"No...more...poppy." Her voice was hoarse with disuse.
"No, majesty, no more."
Liandra struggled to sit up, surprised by her weakness. Even her mind felt groggy, too tired to ask a myriad of questions. "How...long?"
"Nearly four weeks."
Four weeks, it seemed like the blink of an eye...it seemed like an eternity.
Her ladies-in-waiting came flocking, plying her with soup and tea. The queen let herself be pampered, slipping in and out of sleep. At first a few spoonfuls filled her stomach. Refusing more she fell asleep only to wake with a ravenous hunger. "We wish to rise."
They washed her, and combed her dark hair, and dressed her in a maroon gown of softest velvet. Helped from bed, she sat in a chair by the hearth, supping on onion soup, fresh-baked scones and slivers of trout. Her body still felt feeble but her mind sharpened like a knife to the whetstone. "Tell us of our son."
Lady Sarah bit her lip.
The queen was insistent. "Tell us."
Lady Sarah nodded, her voice soft with sorrow. "They say he died bravely, fighting to hold Eye Bridge."
So it was true, a part of her had hoped it was just an evil dream, yet this time she refused to flee the truth despite the pain. Binding her heart with iron bands, she chose to be the queen not the mother. "His body, do they bring it back to Pellanor?"
"Majesty, I do not know."
Liandra chewed the scone, but the taste had fled. She set the dish aside. "And what of his wife, the Princess Jordan?"
"Majesty, I do not know."
"And our court, what can you tell us of our court?"
Lady Sarah flinched away as if scalded.
Alarms sounded within the queen's mind. "When I woke, you said it was all coming undone. What is coming undone?"
Lady Sarah paled.
"You must tell us, for we are queen."
"Majesty, so many things have gone wrong." Lady Sarah shook her head, despair in her gaze.
"Tell us of our court."
The answer came with great reluctance. "Save for three of your most loyal lords, your courtiers no longer come calling to your chambers."
Ice impaled her heart. A queen ignored is no longer a queen. Stricken by a mother's grief, she'd imperiled her crown. Liandra gripped the arms of her chair, and then she remembered her royal rings. Perhaps it was not a dream. The queen's stare fixed on her friend. "We dreamt that someone sought to remove our royal rings?"
"Yes."
So it was true, they sought to steal her power. "Who dared?"
"Lord Canning, but even in your grief, you fought against him. Sir Durnheart evicted the craven from your chambers. He has not returned."
The last lord raised is the first to turn against us. Liandra tightened her grip on her rings. "Sir Durnheart shall be raised to a baron for his actions...and Lord Canning shall become deeply acquainted with our dungeons." The queen struggled to master her rage. "Now tell us of our loyal lords. Who can we count upon?"
"Sir Durnheart rarely leaves his post, even sleeping outside your chambers."
"Such staunch loyalty shall not be forgotten, and the others?"
"Lord Saddler comes calling every other day and Master Raddock haunts the outer chambers at random hours, always asking for you."
Her loyal goldsmith raised to a lord and her deputy shadowmaster. "So we retain the loyalty of coin and shadows. What of Lord Robert?" Liandra found herself hungry for any word of him.
Lady Sarah slumped. "Nothing, majesty."
Nothing, the word beat against her, raising nightmares. If Robert has not come, then perhaps he too is dead. Her heart quailed at the thought...but something inside her refused to believe it. If he has not come, then we are surrounded by conspiracy. The queen straightened in her chair. She would not yield her throne without a fight. "We need information and then we need to act. Summon Master Raddock to attend us." She glanced toward the nearest mirror, dismayed by the haggard women reflected in the glass. "But first we need to look like the queen. Attend us."
Her women surrounded her, plying their skills. The queen traded her soft velvet gown for shimmering silks of emerald green with a narrow waist and dagged sleeves lined with glittering cloth of gold. Her raven-black hair was teased into an elaborate confec
tion, studded with diamonds and topped with a glittering crown. Jewels draped her neck, a great emerald dangling among her cleavage. But her face required the most work, carefully painted to erase years and mimic rosy health and a brimming vitality. The queen studied her reflection. Her women had accomplished much, yet the mirror was not entirely fooled. Liandra knew she would have to complete the illusion by dint of her own personality.
Lady Amy returned from the outer chamber. "Your deputy shadowmaster is here."
"Good, send him in. Lady Sarah, stay close, the rest of you are dismissed." The queen stood. Deliberately turning her back to the outer door, she faced the hearth, basking in the fire's warmth.
The queen heard the door open, and she heard him enter, and then she heard his footsteps pause. Summoning steel to her gaze, she turned in time to see a startled look dart across his face. Clearly he'd expected a bedridden woman, not a jewel bedecked queen. She extended her ringed hand. "We are pleased by your loyalty."
Never a courtier, yet he fell to his knee and kissed her royal ring. "Majesty, it is good to see you well!"
"We have been abed too long." She gestured for him to rise. "Past time we reclaimed our royal duties." The queen struck at the heart of the matter. "Tell us of our court."
The pug-faced shadowmaster told her what her ladies would not. "Majesty, your lords scramble to find an heir."
An icy dagger spiked her heart, yet she kept her face stone-still. "So they count us dead already."
"No, but they fear a war instead of a smooth succession."
Stiff backed, she stared at him. "The naming of an heir remains the royal prerogative of the ruling monarch."
"True, but with Prince Stewart dead, and you taken to your bed, they feared an empty throne."
"They bury us before we have died."
"Majesty," exasperation rode his voice, "if you will not name an heir, then you must get one." He pulled a rolled parchment from the pocket of his robe. "I've drawn up the terms of ransom. You need only sign it and I will see it sent by the swiftest courier."
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 31