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

by Karen Azinger

  "Ransom?"

  "Yes, for the Princess Jemma. If you will not name an heir, then you need the magic of Navarre to get one. Surely the king of Navarre will lend his magic to ransom his daughter."

  "Ransom?" Her mind stumbled on the word.

  He looked at her as if she'd lost her wits. "Yes, you ordered the princess arrested, demanding Navarre relinquish its fertility magic."

  The queen remembered confronting the princess, but ransom? It seemed such a vile and repugnant measure, yet the game of thrones was not for the faint of heart.

  Her shadowmaster pulled a second scroll from his pockets. "And this is a writ for her death."

  "Her death?"

  "As queen you can rescind the order at any time, but by signing it Navarre will know you are serious. Only if they believe your intent will they pay the ransom."

  Events were galloping widely out of control. She'd been locked in mourning for far too long.

  Her shadowmaster set both scrolls on her desk. Dipping a quill in black ink he turned, extending it toward her. "Your signature, majesty, and I will see your will done."

  She stared at the quill, shocked that it had come to this.

  When she hesitated, his voice became a goad. "Majesty, you dare not show weakness."

  Weakness, his words held a kernel of truth, yet his proposal seemed too vile. As if in a trance, the queen found herself walking towards him. Accepting the quill, she sat at the desk. Smoothing the parchment flat, she intended to read both documents, but the words swam before her eyes. How had it come to this, ransoming friends and threatening allies? Revulsion shivered through her. This was not her way, this was not right...this was Darkness come calling. She stared at her deputy shadowmaster, realizing how large his hands were, a hulking brute beneath black robes. Setting the quill aside, she stalled with a question. "What of our Lord Highgate?"

  "He remains in Lingard."

  "But we summoned him home."

  Master Raddock shrugged, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. "Then he has not arrived."

  His words did not ring true. "And what of our Lord Sheriff?"

  "He has not been seen."

  "But we ordered you to find him."

  "Shadowmen combed the city searching for him, but he was not found." Leaning on the desk, he picked up the quill, pressing it into her hand. "Majesty, your heir is of paramount importance. The Rose Throne must be secure. If you will not name an heir then you must get one. Let me help you. Merely sign the documents and I will see your will done."

  She stared at the quill as if it were a viper. Merely sign the documents and her soul will be forever damned. Liandra recalled the malformed creature in her dreams...her face on the shadow. Stifling a gasp, she saw her deputy shadowmaster in a new light. Not a loyal lord, but a dire threat. She took the quill from his hand. "You are right, the crown must be secure, but we grow weary. Leave these for us to sign. We shall read them tonight and then sign them on the morrow."

  For half a heartbeat, she thought he would protest, but instead he bowed towards her, "As you wish," and strode from the royal chamber.

  The door closed and the queen felt a small measure of relief.

  Lady Sarah hovered at the inner doorway.

  The queen gestured for her. "Come."

  Lady Sarah crossed the room, her face pale. "Majesty, you aren't really going to sign those?"

  The queen stared at the coiled scrolls. "This was a trap." Standing, Liandra carried the offending documents to the hearth. Placing them deep in the fire's heart, she watched the parchments curl to black, their treachery consigned to smoke. "We suspect the tentacles of this trap reach far beyond our disloyal shadowmaster. Master Raddock has been corrupted. Our loyal lords are missing and our enemies draw close. We are besieged with threat."

  Lady Sarah's breath caught. "Master Raddock a traitor?" She sank to the chair. "Will you order him arrested?"

  "Not yet. We dare not tip off our enemy before we muster our own offense."

  "What will you do?"

  "First tell me of the princess." Liandra dreaded to ask, yet she needed to know.

  Lady Sarah was hesitant. "You ordered her sent to the dungeons."

  To the dungeons, so that foul memory was true. In her deepest grief, she'd struck at a dear friend, another bitter mistake.

  "But we knew you did not mean it."

  Hope kindled within the queen.

  "We spirited her away to a remote part of the castle."

  "We?"

  "Myself, Lady Amy, and Sir Durnheart."

  She gave her friend a reassuring smile. "You three have done your queen a great service, sparing her from a grievous mistake." Liandra stood and began to pace, plans churning in her mind. "The princess must be released and safely spirited back to Navarre, removing an important piece from the chess game. Once returned to Navarre, she cannot be used against us."

  "Majesty."

  "But her escort must be loyal, her safety is dear to us."

  "Majesty," the anguish of her friend's voice pierced her musing, "the princess is missing!"

  "Missing?" Fear spiked the queen.

  "I've been taking her food at night. I swear no one knew save the three of us, but someone must have followed. When I went to her room the other night, she was gone!"

  A chill gripped the queen. "Then our enemy has her."

  "But who is the enemy?"

  That was the true question. A question she did not yet have an answer for. It troubled her more than she cared to admit that the princess, the sheriff, and Lord Robert were all mysteriously missing, more proof she played against a dangerous foe. But of one thing, the queen was certain. "We must seize the offensive before we are ringed with enemies." She glanced at the window, but the light was already fading, another day lost. "On the morrow, we shall don armor and ride out into our city." Plots within plots, her mind spun a battle plan of details. "We shall ride out on the pretext of inspecting the city walls, but in truth, we must be seen by our people. They must know we are their sovereign queen. With the people securely behind us, we will then deal with our disloyal lords and take back our court." Her gaze fixed on Lady Sarah. "Discreet messages must be sent to our stable master so that our white stallion is ready for us at noon, bejeweled and beribboned for a stately ride. Our armor must be polished to a silvery shine and Sir Durnheart must assemble an honor guard of loyal men. We must have trumpets and royal banners...yet the preparations must be made with the utmost secrecy. Assemble the others, for we have much to plan." A fresh resolve rippled through her. The queen stood within the light of the hearth, eager for the battle to commence. The Rose Throne was hers, and by all the gods, none would take it from her. "On the morrow, we shall take the offensive, and flush our true enemy into the light."

  59

  The Priestess

  The third night finally arrived. Anxious to make her escape, yet the Priestess took her time preparing. Soaking in a great copper tub set before the blazing hearth, she indulged in a last luxury. Small purple buds floated in the water, adding the soothing scent of lavender to the rising steam. Her handmaidens washed and combed her long raven hair. Clean and scented, the Priestess rose from the water, shedding droplets across the carpet like a spring rain. Still wet, she reached for the great moonstone necklace, settling the silver chain around her neck, needing to feel the gemstone against her skin. A potent magic throbbed between her breasts like a second heartbeat. A smile lit her face, knowing the favor of the Dark Lord was still hers, a secret weapon hidden from the Mordant.

  Her handmaidens dried her with soft towels and then plaited her hair into rings and added kohl and crushed amethyst to accentuate her eyes. Painted and coiffed, they helped her dress. The Priestess yearned for her riding leathers and knee-high boots, but the plan dictated she dress as a courtesan, so she chose a diaphanous confection of purple silk with a long slit reaching to mid thigh. The slit offered a tempting tease to male eyes, but in truth it gave her ease of movement. Wh
en the time came, the slit would allow her to straddle a horse, an important practicality hidden beneath allure.

  The Priestess stared into the mirror, satisfied with the kohl-eyed seductress who stared back. She merely needed her serpentine armbands to complete the hidden sting of the ensemble. The last of her poisons, she kept both close at hand, the armbands and ring sitting on a table near the tub, gold and enamel gleaming in the firelight.

  The outer door banged open.

  Startled, the Priestess and her women drew back.

  The Mordant and two dark-clad assassins strode into her chambers. "Good, you're dressed." His stare snapped across her without any sign of interest.

  The Priestess reached for an icy calm. "Why do you invade my privacy?"

  "You have no privacy in my house." The Mordant wore the purple and gold of the Prince of Ur. "Now come, I have something to show you."

  She tried to delay. "I'm preparing for Lord Ferdic."

  "He can wait. Now come."

  It was a command not a request. Her poisoned armbands sat coiled upon the table, a lethal weapon, yet she dared not draw attention to them.

  Reluctant, she followed the Mordant out into the hallway. The two assassins trailed close on her heels. The Mordant strode ahead with an implacable stride, leading her down the hallway, down the marbled stairs, and back towards the wine cellar.

  "The wine cellar?"

  "You'll see."

  They descended the stairs to the small wine cellar. A lounging guard snapped to attention.

  "Open it."

  The guard moved to an enormous wine barrel inset in the wall. He did something with the tap, and then the front of the barrel swung open, revealing a hidden door. Opening the door, he released the fetid stench of a dungeon. The Priestess froze, fearing a trap.

  The Mordant stepped through the doorway. "Come."

  Assassins hovered at her back, herding her forward.

  She had no choice but to follow.

  The Priestess stepped through the wine barrel into a dungeon. Torchlight sputtered in the dank gloom. Cells lined the walls, hopeless faces pressed against iron bars. The dungeon reeked of piss and fear. Somewhere a child sobbed.

  "Come."

  A guard opened a second ironbound door.

  She followed the Mordant down the rough-cut stairs. An earthly chill embraced her. Torchlight glittered below. The stairs opened onto a vaulted chamber, shadows lurking in the corners. A great pentacle was inscribed across the floor, braziers glowing at the five points. A chapel to Darkness, she felt the thrum of power.

  A single sacrifice dripped blood upon the pentacle. Handcuffed, wearing nothing but a soiled loincloth, he dangled from chains, his toes barely touching the stone floor. Partially flayed, his body was crisscrossed with welts, burns and cuts, a litany of torture writ upon his skin. Dark-haired, he moaned, his face swollen, one eye-socket empty and weeping gore.

  Steffan! She screamed his name within her mind. So beaten, she barely recognized his handsome face. Stifling a gasp, the Priestess struggled to appear icy-calm. Fingernails piercing her palms, she stood statue-still.

  The Mordant walked towards his victim. "I found this youngling in my city."

  The Priestess kept her gaze locked on Steffan, counting every cut, every wound, every injury.

  The Mordant circled Steffan as if studying a work of art. "This youngling reeks of Darkness," the Mordant's nostril's flared wide, "yet he did not come and abase himself before me. He did not come to offer homage."

  Steffan's handsome face was ruined, his body broken beyond repair, she quailed to see him so.

  "Instead, the youngling had the effrontery to spy on me. So I followed his Dark scent. I found your paramour-champion cowering like a cockroach in a flea-ridden inn." The Mordant stopped circling, his gaze swiveling back to her. "I looked into his eyes and delved his soul. Do you know what I found?"

  The Priestess kept her stare fixed on Steffan, mourning his pain.

  "I gazed into his soul and I found your name writ upon it."

  Her name, her fault.

  The Mordant strode towards her, blocking her view. He grabbed her chin, lifting her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. His stare thundered into her. "You sought to escape your liege lord." Rage licked his voice. "You, a mere woman, sought to thwart the oldest harlequin."

  She longed to shred his face with her fingernails, to rip out his eyes and gouge his skin, but she had no poison, and her magic was no match for his. Swallowing her rage, she fought to keep her face a stone mask, refusing to answer.

  "There will be no escape." His gaze drilled into her. "You shall serve for as long as you are useful." His hand slid down to her throat. "Even unto eternity." His grip tightened with cruel intent. "Do you understand?"

  "You dared to harm a Dedicate."

  The Mordant barked a laugh. "There is nothing I will not dare. That is why I am the oldest, the strongest, the one destined to rule. That is why you serve." His grip tightened. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Louder." Locked in a choking hold, the Mordant forced her to her knees.

  Barely able to draw breath, yet the Priestess knew not to fight back. She choked out an answer. "Yes."

  His grip tightened.

  Her vision began to darken.

  She felt death draw near. Just when she thought she would succumb, he released her.

  Gasping for life, the Priestess rocked back on her heals. Her throat ached from his chokehold. She remained on her knees, drawing deep breaths, yet she refused to bow her head, offering a subtle defiance. She stared at him, her hatred etched deep in her soul.

  For the longest time, he stared at her, as if studying an insect beneath his boot.

  She kept her face stone-still, her gaze fixed on the Great Wyrm embroidered on his surcoat. Tension coiled between them. She thought he would strike her, but instead he strode past, his boots ringing on stone. "Lord Ferdic will be here within the hour." His voice was dismissive. "You will service him in your chambers. And if he desires your handmaidens, they will serve as well. Do not disappoint."

  She heard his boot steps climb the stairs, but the door did not close. Remaining on her knees, she listened for his arrogant stride. When he did not return, she rushed to Steffan.

  Assassins kept watch from the shadows, but they did not interfere.

  Drawing close to him, a sob escaped her, stricken by his ruined body. "Beloved." He reeked of blood and sweat and seared flesh, all the scents of torture. Needing to touch him, trying not to hurt him, she stroked his face with a feather-soft caress.

  One blue eye flickered open. He stared at her, confusion and pain melting to astonishment. "Cereus! Is it really you?"

  "I'm here, beloved."

  Anguish filled his face, "I tried to fight him but..."

  "Shhhhhh." Her finger caressed his bruised and battered lips. "It will be all right." She sought to calm him, to soothe him. "I can take away the pain. I can make it better." His body was broken beyond repair, his life essence nearly dwindled to nothing. The Priestess quelled her own rage, her own sorrow, focusing on his needs. "Think of me, think of you and me, lovers entwined forever." She kissed him softly on the lips, tenderly at first. Her kisses deepened. She worked her magic upon him. Enthralling him with seduction, she took away his pain, trading agony for pleasure and passion. Steffan kissed her back. Wakened by her touch, his body shook with ardor. He strained towards her, yet she felt his life force waver, growing threadbare-thin. There was only one way to save him. "Remember me! Remember us!" She kissed him deeply. Enfolding him with passion, she used her succubus powers, draining the last of his life force.

  Tears streaked her face...and then it was done.

  He hung lifeless from the chains.

  Dead, yet a smile graced his battered face, a victory against the Mordant.

  She took one last look, memorizing every wound inflicted on his body, a bitter debt to repay, and then she turned and walked away. Her assass
in guards followed like relentless shadows.

  The Priestess refused to shed anymore tears lest she give the Mordant any satisfaction. Walking with regal poise, she crossed the sanctum, putting on a stone-hearted face. She nearly reached the stairs when she heard it.

  Chains rattled behind.

  A flare of Dark power trickled down her back.

  "Cer...eeee...us!"

  She turned. Steffan's corpse still dangled from the chains, but his face was smiling. His eyes glowed bright red like twin lanterns lit by Hell. "I...will...find...you!" His words whispered through the chamber, a promise from beyond the grave. Before she could respond, the red light of his eyes flared bright as oil-soaked torches...and then the light was gone, snuffed out by Darkness. The power withdrew. Nothing but a butchered corpse remained, dangling from the chains like battered meat...yet she knew with certainty that Steffan would live again, granted a new life by the Dark Lord.

  "In another lifetime," she whispered the words like a promise.

  Turning her back on the corpse, she climbed the stairs, passing through the dungeon and into the manse. In the marbled hallway, the Mordant spoke with Bishop Borgan, but neither man looked her way, as if she were beneath notice. The Priestess climbed the stairs as if in a trance. Her assassin-jailors trailed her to the door of her suite but they did not follow inside.

  "Lock the door and let no one enter."

  Her handmaidens gasped to see her, but she ignored their entreaties.

  "Lock the door and tell me when Lord Ferdic arrives. We'll be receiving him here tonight."

  The Priestess paused long enough to don her serpentine armbands and ring. Gold glittered on her forearms, coiled like serpents, the poison needles carefully hidden beneath enameled scales. Armed with poison once more, she retreated to her bedroom. Locking the door, she removed the silver scrying bowl from her cedar chest. The Priestess dared not scry on the Mordant, but she could watch the others. She found herself keenly interested in the fat bishop and the dark-clad assassins. Once woken, a woman's hatred was a dangerous scourge. Plots within plots, she'd find a way to exact vengeance for Steffan...for a woman's broken heart never forgets...and never forgives.