The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (19 page)

27

Liandra Chapter

A false gaiety pervaded the queen’s court. Her lords and
ladies danced till midnight, celebrating a narrow victory over the Flame, but
beneath their gaiety the queen felt an edge of desperation, a frenzied need to
deny that something worse lurked ahead. Liandra danced with the rest,
maintaining her royal image, but she did not celebrate. Unlike the others, the
queen could ill-afford to ignore the encroaching doom. Her shadowmen had
returned bearing their latest crop of secrets, none of it good. The Mordant’s
hordes threatened in the north, holding Raven Pass, the gateway to the south.
The
Mordant,
the name alone conjured nightmares. Wrapped in so many frightful
legends it was hard to separate truth from myth. How did one prepare for a
myth-cloaked evil? Meanwhile her kingdom reeled from a terrible holy war.
Pellanor nearly captured, Lingard in ruins, her army diminished, her peasants
and farmers scattered in fear. She needed to strengthen her defenses, needed to
get her farmers back on the land before the spring planting, and she needed
commerce to resume flow. So many problems, so little time. Little wonder she
was plagued with headaches.

The queen made the obligatory
dances, making sure to change partners often so her royal favors were equally
distributed. Three times she danced with Lord Cenric, dashingly handsome in his
cloak of peacock feathers despite his strange yellow eyes. Laughing in his
arms, the queen sent her court a clear signal that he and his men held her
royal favor. Liandra suspected feathered cloaks would soon become the new
fashion in Pellanor. She made a note to invest in a supplier of feathers.

Satisfied that duty was done, the
queen retreated to her solar. Divested of finery, she sat swathed in a warm
velvet robe, sitting before the fire, sipping a red wine while contemplating
the chessboard. Her shadowmaster, Lord Robert Highgate, appeared and took his
place on the other side. They sat in companionable silence, chess pieces
clashing across the checkered board. Pawns and knights and monks, Liandra’s
mind kept skittering to armies and farmers and defensive walls, a thousand
problems begging to be solved.

Moving his castle across the board,
Robert captured her beleaguered queen, a rare coup. “Where are you?” He reached
across the chessboard to caress her hand. “You’re not concentrating on the
game,” the tone of his voice changed from playful to serious, “or are you?”

So shrewd, he was the one man in
her court she trusted, the one man with the intelligence to see the whole game,
her spymaster, her confidant, her lover. “Yes, the bigger game, the chessboard
of Erdhe.” She met his stare. “So many problems, we feel time strangling us
like a noose.”

“You are not alone. Which problem
plagues you this evening?”

She gave a false laugh. “Too many
to count.” Reaching for the fallen chess pieces, Liandra lined them up like an
army of worries as she recounted her kingdom’s legion of problems. “Famine
threatens if the farmers do not return to the land. Lingard must be rebuilt.
The defenses of Pellanor need strengthening. And then there is the army. How
can the Rose Army stop what the Octagon Knights could not? And what is the
Mordant’s intent, his true game? And who is he anyway? Is he a man or is he a
legend steeped in nightmares? It is hard to play chess against such a shadowy
opponent.”

“Yet you will find a way.” He reset
the chessboard, positioning the white pieces like a flanking army, a row of
pawns in the vanguard. “You count your worries but not your assets. You have
the love of the people, your treasury is full, your shadowmen are unparalleled
spies, you have staunch allies in Navarre, the cat-eyed archers have entered
the game, and the Kiralynn monks have already proven their worth.” He
positioned the white queen in the center, surrounded by knights and monks, “and
none
play the game of chess like the Queen of Lanverness.”

His confidence was like a balm to
her soul. “Flatterer.”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “How else
to woo a queen?”

“Is that what you do? Woo a queen?”
The game moved to a different level, a welcome distraction. She felt herself
aroused.

“Woo her, yes.” He flashed a rakish
smile. “When I’m not making love to her.” His voice was deep with suggestion.

So tempting to let him sweep her
off to bed, to let the heat of his lovemaking drive the worries from her mind,
to indulge the woman instead of the queen, but a crown was not so easily
ignored.

His gaze smoldered. “Together we
might make another child.”

Her breath caught, her bejeweled
hands threading across her empty womb, missing the daughter that might have
been. She’d so wanted the child, despite all the complications to her crown. An
unwed queen, an unnamed father, a risk to her image, a threat to her power…yet
her arms felt achingly empty and Lanverness desperately needed a second heir,
especially given Stewart’s marriage. She reached for a chess piece, fingering a
black knight. “Have you found the murderer?”

“You know I have not. You’ve sent
me chasing shadows.”

“We’ve sent a shadowmaster to catch
a shadow, you must have learned something?”

He leaned back in his chair,
fingering the dagger at his belt. “I’ve talked to your women, your
ladies-in-waiting, and I believe they are loyal.”

She gave him a measured nod,
relieved that his opinion bolstered her own conviction.

“And your healer, Crandor, seems
above reproach.”

“Crandor is an old dear. He’s
served the Tandroths all his life.” She leaned forward. “You must suspect
someone?”

He gave her a level stare. “Have
you considered that there are two unsolved murders in your court?”

She nodded, remembering. “The monk,
Fintan.”

“Brutally beheaded. A murder
designed to instill fear.”

“An emissary of the monks slain
within our own castle.” She recalled the odd details of the monk’s chamber. “A
murder full of riddles and warnings, but no witnesses and no clues.”

“Perhaps the riddles and warnings
are
the clues.”

Hearing the truth in his words, her
skin prickled in warning. “We like how you think, though we fear the
implications.” She stared at the chessboard. “No witnesses and no clues, so you
think the two murders are linked, the monk and the babe?”

“A monk and a royal heir.”

Liandra shivered, chastising
herself for thinking like a mother instead of a queen. “Just so.” She stared
across the chessboard. “Someone plays a larger game.”

He gave her a grim nod.

“But who stalks the monks
and
a
royal heir?”

“That is the question.”

“It seems an unlikely pairing.”

“Yet it is the only clue we have.”

She sat in silence, staring at the
chessboard. Fingering the black knight, Liandra considered the scant clues.
Slaying a babe in the womb was such a fiendish tactic. The act implied a
ruthless enemy who took a long view of the game…a very long view.  And this
enemy was also an enemy of the monks. Liandra shivered at the implications, her
concern doubling. She felt stalked. As if someone made her a pawn within a
greater game. A queen should never be used as a pawn. Her ringed hands
tightened into fists.

“You think too much.”

“Thinking may be our best weapon to
defeat this foe.”

“Agreed, but sometimes you need
warmth to chase away the shadows.” He pulled her to her feet and kissed her
softly. “Perhaps between us, we could make another heir?”

She kissed him back, needing his
solid strength, longing for another child. “You make duty such a pleasure.”

He lifted her into his arms. “If
only I could make all your duties pleasurable.” The train of her robe swept
across the chessboard, scattering pieces in every direction, but she no longer
cared. The heat of his body proved a bonfire to her need. He carried her to the
royal bed, a massive canopied affair of pillows and velvet. Nestled among the
quilts, he lay next to her, his fingers skillfully rousing her. She reached for
his buckles, too many fasteners, hastily stripping away his leathers until it
was just skin against skin. Liandra reveled in the strength of his arms, in the
deftness of his touch. He rolled on top, moving with deliberate strokes, making
the ecstasy last. She moaned with unbridled pleasure, indulging the woman
beneath the crown.

Later, much later, her head nestled
upon his shoulder; she asked the question lodged deep in her heart. “Do you
ever want the subterfuge to end?”

“Subterfuge?” He gave a low
chuckle. “My lady, I am your shadowmaster, and you are the queen of spiders,
between us subterfuge is by far our best weapon.”

“No, not the court game.” She
feared to broach the subject, yet it needed to be said. “The late nights, the
secret passageways, the subtle subterfuge, surely we both deserve more?”

His breath stilled, waiting.

She forced her thought to words.
“We have the nights but come the dawn’s first light my bed is always empty.”

“It is a royal bed,” his voice was
husky with unplumbed depths, “and I know you will never have a king.”

“No, not a king,” she dared to say
it, “but perhaps a prince consort.”

He reared up, surprise on his face.
Propped on one elbow, he gazed down at her. “My queen, you honor me, but your
court will never abide it. Royalty does not flow in my veins.”

“Who in our court has earned it
more?” Outrage mixed with bitterness. “And how dare they gainsay the queen.”

“Image has always been your best
armor.”

He knew her too well. “But perhaps
I want more. This bed is so cold and lonely in the mornings.”

He smiled. “Now you’re thinking
like a woman instead of a queen.”

“We like to think we can do both.”

He laughed a light chuckle that
warmed her heart. Taking her hand, he kissed her palm. “My lady, you do both
exceedingly well.”

“Yet you avoid our question.” 

“A shadowmaster paired with a
spider queen makes for a formidable combination, but only if we maintain the
advantage of secrecy. You said it yourself. A second storm approaches, one that
may prove far more deadly than the first. And if our suspicions about the two
murders prove correct, then we play against a devious and ruthless foe. Now is
not the time to lay down our best weapons. Let us keep our subterfuge till the
storm passes. I can serve you best from the shadows.”

How rare to find a man who did not
grasp at her power. Liandra loved him all the more for it. “But what of my
lonely bed?”

“We still have the nights.”

The worries of her crown intruded,
making her wonder how many nights they truly had before the next storm broke.

“You’re thinking again.” He
smothered her mouth with a kiss, long and deep, tenderness turning to ardor.
“Now about that child.” He rolled on top, and the worries of the gathering
storm were soon forgotten.

28

Megan

Night fell and for once Queen Megan did not fear it. Hidden
deep within her pocket, she fondled the crone’s blue bottle, the answer to her
prayers. To sleep without dreams, she longed for it. By the grace of
belladonna, she’d sleep tonight, foiling the witch’s foul commands.

Servants fluttered around the royal
solar, clearing the remnants of a late night supper. Savory aromas of sea bass
sizzled in garlic butter lingered in the chamber, the king’s favorite. King
Ivor leaned across the table, offering the queen the last flakey bite.

Megan savored the morsel.

The king gave her a contented look.
“These intimate suppers have been lovely…but the king and his queen must be
seen in the great hall.”

After the poisoned feast, she’d
shunned the great hall, haunted by the lingering horror. “It’s too soon.”

He captured her hand, pulling it to
his lips for a gentle kiss. “Darling, if we change our ways, then Iris wins.”
Iron determination flashed across his face. “I’ll not let her win.”

“No, she mustn’t win.”

“Then you’ll join me for dinner in
the great hall?”

“Not yet.” She needed a victory in
the bedchamber ere she set foot in the great hall. “The nightmares are still
too raw.”

“When?”

“Give me two more nights?”

He sighed. “As you wish,” kissing
her hand, as if to seal the bargain. “Come to bed.”

“A glass of brandy first. Will you
join me?”

“Of course.” He flashed a warm
smile, for a small glass of brandy was often a prelude to their lovemaking.

Extracting her hand, she stood and
turned towards the sideboard. Keeping her back to her husband, she filled two crystal
goblets with a thumb’s worth of brandy. Reaching for the bottle hidden within
her pocket, the queen whispered a silent prayer.
By the Maid, by the Mother,
by the Crone, I’ll not be an instrument of your hate.
Unstoppering the
bottle, she carefully poured two drops into the nearest goblet,
two drops
for a dreamless sleep
.

*You swore an oath! Serve me!*
The
witch’s command spiked through her mind.

No!
The queen fought the
command, shocked to feel tentacles of the witch’s will coiling around her,
taking possession of her body.

*You sought to use poison
against me! Poison is my domain. Now you’ll serve!*

The queen’s hand shook above the
goblet, a battle of wills.

Megan watched horrified as her hand
upended the bottle, emptying the poison into the goblet, turning the brandy
into a potion of death. Lifting both goblets, she turned towards the king.

I’ll not do it!
The queen
strove to bring the deathly brew to her own lips, but instead, she watched in
horror as her hand offered it to the king.

“Thank you, my dear.” He took the
goblet of death, raising it in salute towards her.

Screaming in her mind, the queen
watched as he raised it to his lips.

No!
Terror lent her
strength. Something snapped in her mind, banishing the witch. Leaping forward,
she struck the goblet from the king’s hand. Glass shattered against stone, the
deadly poison dripping down the wall.

Startled, the king stared at her.
“Why?”

“
Poison!”

“What poison? You poured it
yourself!”

Bound by the geas, she could not
answer. Trembling, she said, “Hold me?”

He folded her into his arms,
holding her close. “Is it the nightmares? Do you still dream of the feast?”

“Yes.” She clung to him, her face
buried in his chest.

He lifted her into his arms,
carrying her to their bed. “This fear must end.”

“Yes, it has to end.” She snuggled
close to him, warmed by his body, but sleep would not come. In the back of her
mind a cruel voice whispered, *
You serve me now. It’s only a matter of
time.*