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

by Karen Azinger

  60

  Liandra

  The queen traded silk for steel. Her women worked in silence, for there was something solemn about donning armor, a ceremony of deadly intent. Liandra much preferred the comfort of glamorous silk, but during the Flame War she'd come to appreciate the value of burnished steel. Polished to a slivery glow, she'd discovered that armor multiplied a monarch's ability to inspire steadfast courage and loyalty. Clad in armor, she'd stood atop her castle ramparts, a beacon against doubt, a relentless hope against hard odds. She'd won the Flame War and now she needed to reclaim her people and her court, a battle of wits and image against a shadowy foe. Anger brewed within her, bolstered by steel. Her courtiers sought to ignore their sovereign monarch, such a travesty could not be allowed. She would have their fealty or their heads. Trading silk for steel, she donned the image of an invincible queen.

  Her women fluttered around, tightening greaves and gorget. A gold-hilted short sword was buckled to her side, an emerald cloak affixed to her shoulders. Liandra studied herself in the mirror. Glimmering glorious in reflected light, her silver armor melded to her curves, enhancing her womanly form, a warrior queen once more.

  "Will you have the helm, majesty?"

  The crowned helm was tempting, another image of royalty, but Liandra preferred her people to see her face and her dark mane of lustrous hair. "No, we'll have nothing come between us and our people."

  "Then, majesty, you are ready." Lady Sarah dropped to a deep curtsy, a puddle of bright silk. "You are magnificent."

  Her women all dropped to curtsies, admiration mirrored on their faces.

  Touched by their devotion, the queen gestured for them to rise. "You have all done well. Be of good cheer, for we ride not to war but to purposeful image." Liandra cast a parting glance in the mirror. She needed to reassert her power and then find those who were missing. She'd spent too long mired in grief.

  Sir Durnheart strode into her chamber. A handsome hero in armor, the hilt of his blue steel sword rearing over his right shoulder, he dropped to one knee. "Majesty, you are a vision."

  His reaction pleased her. "Our knight protector, you are as gallant as you are loyal." She gestured for him to rise. "Is everything prepared?"

  "Ten loyal guards stand ready outside your chamber. Another twenty will be waiting in the courtyard with the horses."

  "Good. We'll ride north through the city to the outer gate, circle the wall, and return from the south. The more people who see us the better. On our return to the castle, we'll keep all our guards in attendance till our disloyal lords are dealt with. Those who will not swear fealty will face the dungeon or the headsman's axe."

  "Yes, majesty." He saluted, his gauntleted fist pressed to his silvery breastplate.

  "Then let us begin." The queen strode from her solar to the outer antechamber.

  Ten guardsmen snapped to attention, their burnished breastplates embossed with twin roses.

  Behind her, Sir Durnheart snapped an order. "Salute the queen!"

  The guardsmen drew their swords and held them aloft, crossing them in a ringing archway.

  Liandra gave the guardsmen a gracious smile, appreciating their gallant gesture. She marched beneath the crossed swords, Sir Durnheart following behind. Her smile deepened, enjoying the martial splendor.

  Armor and swords held their own powerful mystique, adding a swagger to her step. The queen found herself taking longer strides than she ever would in jewels and silks. She pondered the difference, enjoying the boldness, wondering if armor made men rash as well as bold.

  Liandra led her loyal men down the long marbled hallway, a clank of arms and armor following behind. Her forebears stared down from gilded frames, paintings of her royal ancestors keeping watch on the castle. She wondered if her ancestors would be scandalized to see a queen in armor, yet Liandra would wield any image to protect her throne.

  A clatter of footsteps approached up the long marble stairs.

  Master Raddock appeared, huffing from the long climb, a bevy of guards in emerald tabards following in his wake. "Majesty, you must return to your chambers." Her dark-robed shadowmaster blocked the way forward.

  "Must is not a word used with princes." The queen's anger sparked. "We know what you've done. Drop to your knees and swear fealty or pay the traitor's price."

  He gave her a surly smile. "Madam, it is you who do not understand. Return to your chambers at once."

  "Guards!" The queen's voice barked with command. "Arrest this traitor and escort him to the dungeons."

  Swords whispered from scabbards. A pair of emerald-cloaked guards stepped from behind the queen, their swords leveled at the shadowmaster's heart. "You heard the queen, yield or die."

  Raddock flashed a sinister smile. "It is you who will die!" He made a hand gesture and a pair of soldiers in emerald tabards leaped from behind him. Swords drawn, they engaged the queen's guards. Steel clanged against steel in the marble hallway as men fought for their very lives.

  The queen stared, shocked by the fighting.

  Sir Durnheart yelled, "Protect the queen!" He gripped her arm, pulling her backward, while more of her guards rushed to join the fray.

  Shouting above the clamor, the queen sought to end the conflict. "Lay down your arms and stop this madness! Surrender and you will be spared!" but her words had no effect. More soldiers in emerald tabards forced their way up the stairs. Among them were short men garbed all in black. The queen watched horrified as the dark-clad men darted among the clashing soldiers, wielding knives and slashing hamstrings. The marbled hallway became a bitter battlefield, blood spraying the gilded walls.

  Sir Durnheart pulled her backward, one gauntleted hand gripping her forearm, the other holding his blue steel sword at the ready. "Fall back! Protect the queen!"

  Outnumbered, her loyal guards died screaming before the queen's very eyes, consumed by the onslaught.

  When only two loyal guards remained, Sir Durnheart released her. "An honor to serve you, majesty." He gave her a heartfelt look revealing a smolder of unspoken passion.

  His look pierced her heart, for she'd never suspected.

  Sir Durnheart stepped close, his voice a fervent whisper. "I'll hold them as long as I can." Turning, he strode towards the onslaught. "Run, majesty!"

  As the last guards died, Sir Durnheart leaped forward, unleashing his blue steel sword.

  Liandra knew she should run, knew she should seek the safety of the hidden passageways, but she could not bear to leave him. Unable to turn away, her gaze locked on her gallant knight, praying for him to prevail.

  "For the Queen!" Roaring his battle cry, Sir Durnheart attacked. The swing of his blue sword spanned the width of the hallway, holding the enemy at bay. He fought three at once, slicing heads from bodies and arms from shoulders with a single stroke of his sapphire blade. Blood fountained and men screamed, releasing the stink of death. The blue blade became a blur. Swords shattered and chainmail cut like leather. Sir Durnheart fought like a whirlwind, he fought like a champion. None could stand in his path. The enemy fell before him like wheat before the scythe, dying beneath the blue steel sword. Cut and parry, he pushed the traitors back, forcing them all the way to the marbled stairs. Victory was within his grasp.

  And then the clangor suddenly stopped.

  Sir Durnheart teetered at the top of the stairs.

  For half a heartbeat, Liandra feared he was wounded, but then he turned towards her, elation lighting his handsome face. "We won!"

  Relief rushed through her. She stepped towards him. "Our champion!" Corpses littered the hallway, yet she threaded a way through them, needing to be certain he was not wounded. "Are you hurt?" She searched his face.

  "Not a scratch." A grin beamed across his handsome face. He hefted his sword aloft. "They were no match for blue steel."

  "Blue steel in the hands of a champion." Her golds were never better spent. "You saved us. You were magnificent!"

  He hefted his blue steel sword. "You gave me a ma
gnificent blade."

  For half a heartbeat, their stares locked, sharing the elated of victory...but then the ugly truth of the battle struck the queen. Betrayed by her shadowmaster, ambushed in her own castle, Liandra surveyed the dead and dying. "And Raddock? Where is the turned-cloak traitor?" She did not see the dark-robed shadowmaster among the dead. All the dead wear emerald green, the swift brutality of the battle remained a shock. "We did not expect an open rebellion." And then she spied one of the dark-clad men lying dead among the corpses. "Our enemy is bolder than we thought." The hallway stank of death and dying. Corpses stared at her with accusing eyes. This battle seemed her fault, a checkmate she should have foreseen, a trap she should have avoided.

  Sir Durnheart hovered protectively at her side. Blood dripped from his blue steel sword, yet his voice was tender with concern. "Majesty, you should return to your chambers while I seek more loyal swords."

  She stared at the dead as if they held an unplumbed riddle.

  "Come," he sheparded her back towards her chambers.

  They nearly reached the door when a voice rang out. "Stop!"

  The queen turned to find Raddock standing at the top of the stairs with six of the dark-clad men at his back.

  "So the traitor returns." The queen faced him across a hallway strewn with death. "It seems you are a coward as well as a betrayer."

  "I serve a higher power."

  "A higher power?" His words made no sense, yet she sought to draw him out.

  He strode towards her, his hands held wide in supplication, yet his a face was a surly threat. The dark-clad men kept pace with Raddock, staying close like bodyguards, yet they bore no swords, only knives sheathed at their belts. "I did not want to go to him, but you insisted."

  "Him?"

  "I found power in his gaze."

  Sir Durnheart raised his blue steel sword. "Come no closer lest you seek death."

  Raddock came to a stop three sword-lengths away, but a sneer rode his thuggish face. "You think a sword makes you powerful? You've no idea what true power is."

  The queen gave him a scathing look. "Who is this enemy you serve?"

  Footsteps rang on the marble floor.

  Raddock's sneer evaporated, his dark eyes betraying a flicker of fear. "See for yourself." Stepping aside, he bowed low, opening a pathway down the hall.

  A lone man approached. Boot steps rang on marble as he strode amongst the dead. His hooded cowl was drawn forward, hiding his face with darkness. Cloaked from head to toe in deepest black, he appeared as a faceless silhouette, yet he conveyed a sense of power and menace, his floor-length cloak swirling around him like an embracing shadow.

  A sense of foreboding slithered down the queen's back.

  Beside her, Sir Durnheart stiffened, his blue sword raised as a warning and a threat.

  The cloaked stranger stopped five sword-lengths away. Pale hands bejeweled with rings reached up to draw back the hooded cowl.

  A gasp escaped the queen. "You!"

  "Checkmate." The Prince of Ur had traded imperial purple for darkest black. A subtle smile rode his ruddy lips but his ice-blue eyes were implacable. "I told you I would win the last game."

  The queen knew better than to bandy words with a viper. "Kill him!"

  Sir Durnheart leaped to the attack.

  The black-clad men moved faster. Lightning-quick, they raised narrow tubes to their mouths and blew.

  Sir Durnheart gasped. Twisting in mid air, he crumpled to the floor, armor clattering against cold marble. Her knight fell well short of the prince, his blue steel sword falling useless from his gauntleted hand. Groaning, Sir Durnheart turned towards her. His gaze sought hers, his eyes stricken with pain. Blood frothed at his mouth, darts riddling his throat and face. "Run!"

  His dying word jolted her from shock. Liandra leaped for the door.

  She rushed inside her solar, slamming the sturdy oak door behind her. Her hands shook as she rammed home the iron bolt. Her heartbeat hammering, she backed away from the door, shocked by the enemy, shocked by Sir Durnheart's death.

  "Majesty!" a plaintive whisper at her back.

  The queen whirled.

  A dark-clad stranger held Lady Sarah to his chest, a knife threatening at her throat.

  Another ambush, two of her women were slumped on the floor, puddles of unmoving silk. The others cowered on the far side of her solar, fear on their faces.

  The queen gasped. "How?"

  Lady Sarah answered. "He came in through the window."

  The casement window stood open, yet her solar was at the top of the tower. The answer made no sense.

  The dark-clad intruder spoke. "Unbolt the door or she dies."

  "Don't hurt her." The queen sidled away from the door, yearning for the safety of the castle's hidden passageways.

  Lady Sarah stifled a gasp, a drop of blood at her throat.

  "Last chance, unbolt the door or she dies."

  "Don't harm her." The queen could not risk her friend's life. Moving back to the door, she drew the heavy bolt and then stepped away.

  The door eased open and four black-clad men poured in. Short in stature, yet they moved like liquid shadows. They moved like assassins. A shiver raced down the queen's spine. How little she knew this enemy.

  The dark-robed prince strode into her chambers. Raddock, the traitor-coward, lurked at his back like a surly shadow.

  At first, the prince did not even bother to look at her, as if she was insignificant. His ice-blue gaze roved the chamber, lingering for a moment on her desk. "Did you sign the documents?"

  "What?" For a nonce, the queen was confused, her mind fixed on death and swords...but then she remembered the ransom note and the death sentence. "You?"

  He finally deigned to look at her, a smirk in his gaze.

  "Why?"

  "To give you a chance to willingly darken your soul."

  Her soul, his answer chilled her, yet it also evoked a glimmer of stubborn pride. "We burnt them. Navarre is our staunch ally. You shall not turn us against the seaside kingdom."

  He stared at her, as if his ice-blue gaze could pluck the truth from her mind. "No, you did not sign them." A predator's smile curled his lips. "Pity. I would have enjoyed raping your soul."

  His stare released her.

  Liandra staggered back a step, a sudden headache threatened at the back of her eyes.

  "It matters not in the end. Bishop Borgan does an excellent imitation of your signature. I doubt the king of Navarre will note the difference." His smile broadened. "No one else has."

  The scope of the plot staggered her. "King Ivor will not believe it."

  "The ransom note?" the prince shrugged, "Perhaps not, but his daughter's head in a basket will surely prod him to action."

  The breath hissed out of her. "You would not dare!"

  "Your puny mind cannot fathom the extent of my dare." He looked at her as if she were an insect beneath his boot. "Don't worry, everything will be done in your name." His smile deepened. "A royal execution ordered by the Queen of Lanverness."

  "Why?" The question hissed out of her.

  "Because you dared to rule." His gaze turned knife-sharp, his smile raw with hatred. “I shall heap a memory of hate and horror upon your name such that people will forever loathe the rule of a queen. History shall remember you as a woman driven by her empty womb, a bloody-handed queen who ran amok with power, lusting for more. Your name shall be lasting proof that men should forever hold dominion over women.”

  "So it was you all along!"

  "Now you begin to understand the magnitude of the game."

  "You sullied our name with lies!"

  "I am the Prince Deceiver."

  "Why?"

  "For the Great Dark Divide." He seemed to relish her confusion. "The Dark Lord sows hatred by three great commandments, divide by sex, divide by beliefs, and divide by race. First among these is divide by sex, for by pitting men against women it sunders mortals nearly in half, the greatest single divide.
Sowing simple deceits, the Great Divide drives people to commit acts of atrocity for no greater reason than “difference.” By invoking a Great Divide, I exult the power of the Dark Lord, perpetuating his will.” Shadows coalesced around the prince. He seemed to grow in stature, his voice becoming magnified, a terrible vision of dark dominance. “By invoking a Divide, I work my will upon Erdhe, forever changing the past, the present, and the future! By invoking a Divide, I become a god.” His gaze transfixed her, a fathomless stare laden with Darkness. “Kneel, woman, for in me you see the true power of Darkness made manifest.”

  The truth struck like a fist to her stomach. "The Mordant!"

  "Invoking my True Name shall not avail you."

  "But why meddle with my kingdom when you have an army great enough to conquer Erdhe?"

  A sneer rode his lips. "Killing is easy. Taking a life pleases the Dark Lord but it garners the least of his favors. Others wield swords, while I wield lies, rewriting the past, corrupting the present, twisting the future." He loomed above her, a terrible vision of cruelty. "Kneel, woman, for you are in the presence of a god."

  She felt compelled to kneel, to cower before him…but something in her spirit rebelled. Liandra balled her hands into fists. Fingernails driving into her palms, she dared to stand erect, lifting her stare to his. “We shall never kneel to you…for we are a queen.”

  His hand lashed out, striking her face.

  The blow knocked her to her knees.

  “Woman! You are nothing!”

  Pain ripped through her, as if a wild beast clawed at her stomach. Liandra looked down, expecting to see a slavering wolf feasting on her insides, but she saw nothing. The pain intensified. Crumpling to the floor, she sought to stifle a scream, but it burst out of her. The pain turned to agony, as if she were being ripped apart. She felt teeth ripping at her skin, strong jaws gnawing on her bones. Her sweat ran like a river. Liandra writhed upon the floor, clutching her midsection, screaming in agony.