The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (20 page)

29

Jordan

Death and funerals and royal mourning, it was not the
homecoming Jordan imagined. She climbed the stairs to the castle’s topmost
tower, a breath of cold sea air blowing through the arrow-slit windows.
Castle
Seamount,
the only home she’d ever known but the great castle chafed at her
like a sea creature that had long outgrown its shell. Each morning she sought
the tower tops, needing a view of the restless ocean, as if the roiling waves
mirrored her soul. The castle felt small and confining, yet she remained at the
king’s request, but everything had changed. The seaside kingdom was plunged
into deepest mourning. The Curse of the Vowels had come calling, spewing death
and betrayal. Warned by the gods, she’d ridden halfway across Erdhe, desperate
to save her family and capture her aunt, but she’d failed at both. So many
deaths, but at least the rightful king still ruled Navarre. She consoled
herself with the thought but it seemed a cold comfort.

Jordan reached the tower top and
unlatched the heavy door, stepping out onto the windswept battlement. A stiff
westerly snatched at her short sandy-blonde hair, her checkered cloak streaming
behind like a velvet wing. She paced the winter-cold ramparts, consumed with
worry. The dreams that had driven her across Erdhe had stopped with an
abruptness that took her breath away. No more visions from the gods, as if they
no longer had a use for her, or perhaps she’d failed them. Gripping her sword
hilt, she pushed that grim thought away. For the longest time, she’d wished the
visions away, feeling burdened with a freakish curse. But now that they’d fled,
Jordan felt strangely adrift, like a ship without a rudder, abandoned by the
gods to wander uncharted seas. Hugging her checkered cloak close, her thoughts
turned to Stewart. Their marriage in the Crimson Tower almost seemed a dream, a
fairytale come true. The mere thought warmed her heart…but she hadn’t yet told
her royal parents. With all the death and sorrow of the poisoned feast, she’d
not found the right moment. Such news deserved a celebration not the crepe of
mourning.

Seagulls cawed, circling the tower.
Jordan leaned out to watch them dance the wind. Swooping and turning with a
carefree grace, they dove towards the frothing ocean, fishing for minnows. Jordan laughed, delighting in their freedom, but then she spied a banner of white on Osprey Tower. White cloth rippling against the slate-gray sky, it looked like a signal of
surrender…or distress. Jordan leaned out for a better view. A woman in a silken
shift tottered onto the crenellated rampart, the wind whipping her auburn-gray
hair.

“
Mother!”
The wind snatched
at Jordan’s startled cry. A chill gripped her throat, a premonition of dread.
Her heart thundering, she raced for the doorway and plunged down the steps,
taking them two at a time. Reaching the bottom, she burst through the door into
the main hallway, startling the servants and guards.
“Get the king! Bring
him to Osprey Tower!”
Servants scattered to do her bidding, but Jordan never slowed. She reached the tower entrance and raced up the stairs. The topmost
door gaped open. Praying for time, Jordan burst through the doorway and skidded
to a sudden stop. Her mother stood barefoot atop the battlement, the wind
billowing her silken shift like a shroud, one step away from death.
“Mother,
no!”

Her mother turned, teetering on the
edge, her long hair wild and disheveled, her face haggard, her eyes glazed,
looking like a mad banshee.

Jordan gaped, shocked by her
mother’s appearance. “Mother
don’t!
”

Madness glared from her mother’s
eyes. “Get away from me!” The queen howled a piercing shriek. “Get out of my
mind! I won’t do it, you hear, I won’t do your bidding.”

Jordan took a single step, her hand
extended. “Mother, it’s me, come down from there.”

“I swore an oath to you, but I
won’t do it. I’ll take my own life first.”

And then Jordan saw the dagger
clutched in her mother’s fist. “Please mother, it’s only me, your daughter,
Jordan, come down from there.” She crept forward, her voice soft and cajoling.

“Jordan?”
The queen uttered
her daughter’s name like a talisman. For a heartbeat, the madness fled her
gaze. “My daughter of the sword, I’ve missed you so.” Something in her voice
shifted, gaining a touch of iron resolve. “It’s fitting that you’re here. Of
all my children, you’ll understand the best.” The queen stared down at the long
drop, at the waves pounding the tower’s base. “Yes, I finally understand.”

“Understand what, mother?”

Her mother danced barefoot along
the edge, a brilliant smile flashing on her careworn face. “Here, standing on
the knife-edge between life and death, I’m finally free of her geas.”

“Mother, come down from there.”

“No, you must listen.” Her voice
dropped to a conspirator’s whisper. “The Curse of the Vowels is not done.” Her
mother shook her head, anger in her voice. “The witch plagues my dreams, always
whispering, demanding allegiance. I try to refuse, but it’s so hard.” She
looked down at her hand, hefting the dagger like a poisonous snake. “I woke
this morning, clutching this. A dagger meant for the king’s heart, hid beneath
my very pillow. She orders me to kill my own dear husband, to slay him in our
bed.” The queen flung the dagger into the sea, a bright glitter of steel. “Last
evening…I nearly
poisoned
him!” She shuddered at the words, horror
etched across her face. “But now I understand the runes. The gods spoke the
truth.” Steel entered her mother’s voice. “I’ve never wielded a sword, but I
can fight. I won’t let her win.”

Jordan crept forward, gauging the
distance. “Come down from there, mother. All of Navarre will protect you.”

A gust of wind snatched at her
mother’s shift, a billow of white silk, so fleeting and insubstantial. Jordan reached for it, but her mother flitted away, dancing along the edge.

“Don’t!” Her mother’s voice turned
hard. “I swore an oath and now she haunts me. She’s a witch, a sorceress, a
black-hearted bitch. You can’t protect me from my dreams. You can’t protect me
from
her
.”

“Protect you from whom?”

“
Iris!”
Her mother spat the
name, making it a cruse. “She’s a bitch, a witch, trying to poison us all. Now
she poisons my mind, poisons my very dreams, but I won’t do her bidding, not
now, not ever.” Her mother swayed on the parapet, buffeted by the wind. “I’ll
spoil her plans. I’ll have the final victory. The sea will absolve me from all
oaths. You’ll see, you’ll understand. I do this for love.” Her mother smiled, a
blinding smile full of triumph. And then she fell backwards, her arms spread
wide like a sacrifice.

 “
No!”
Jordan lunged, her fingers snagging a whisper of silk but the white cloth slipped through her grasp.
Her mother tumbled backward without a cry, a streak of white plummeting silent
to the sea. But it was not a clean fall, her head thudding against the castle
walls. “
No!”
Jordan screamed in denial, but it made no difference. A
pinwheel of white, the fall seemed to last forever, like a nightmare etched in
her mind. Her mother’s body landed hard amongst the rocks, bright blood
blossoming on her white shift, her limbs bent to impossible angles like a rag
doll tossed from the tower top.

“What is it?” The king raced to her
side, peering to the sea below.

Jordan choked on the words, her
voice thick with grief. “It’s mother!”

The king loosed a keening wail. “
Megan!
My Megan!”

Jordan crumpled to her knees,
dissolving into tears. “She said it was the Curse of the Vowels. The curse
claimed her and I never saw it coming!” Without the visions, she’d had no
warning, no foresight. Jordan shuddered, a sob escaping her. “We’ve lost so
much…and now mother!”

30

Liandra

Candles burned to stubs and still she had no answers.
Liandra plucked another scroll from the pile, squinting at the spidery script,
one of a hundred she’d read that day. Scrolls overflowed her desk, spilling
onto side tables while hundreds more sat stacked in baskets along the wall.
Liandra was drowning in parchment, yet her gaze kept returning to the ancient
scrolls, histories penned by forgotten scholars, some so old the ink had nearly
faded.

A knock from the inner door,
Liandra smiled, welcoming the distraction.

The secret door swung silently open
and the Master Archivist stepped into her solar. “Still reading?”

“Still?” she rubbed her tired eyes,
“more like always.” 

Tall in dark robes, he moved across
her solar like a fluid shadow. “What is it tonight? Urgent requests from
Lingard? Complaints from the carpenters’ guild? Ledgers from the treasury? Or
dispatches from the army?”

“All and none. You’d think we’d be
content with rebuilding our kingdom but…”

“You’ve started a new inquiry.”

Her spymaster never missed a trick.
“So you’ve heard.”

“The archivists stir like bees
carrying parchments to the queen’s chamber. I’d have to be blind not to
notice.” He stood behind her, his hands kneading the stress from her shoulders.
“You’re tense with worry.”

Liandra closed her eyes, melting in
the momentary bliss. The fire snapped and crackled, and for a while she knew
nothing but the balm of his hands.

“What do you seek?” His question
brought her back to the riddle at hand.

“The Mordant.”

For half a heartbeat his hands
stilled, and then continued. “What have you learned?”

“His name stretches back through
antiquity…or versions of it.”

“As a man or a myth?”

“Perhaps both.” She gestured to the
basket of scrolls lining the walls. “One scroll speaks of the Lord Mordranth,
another of the Lord Morganth, there’s one reference to a Sir Mordred and
several tell of a Prince Mordrith. Are they misspellings or coincidences? Are
they same man, the same soul, or merely names that sound the same?”

“Coincidences are often history’s
harshest lessons.”

She rubbed her weary eyes. “Lessons
repeated until we learn them?”

“Just so.” The fire snapped and
crackled. His hands slowed. “I always thought the Mordant referred to a title
rather than a man…until Lord Turner.”

Liandra shivered. “A parboiled
corpse dancing in the cauldron, its red eyes glowing with the light of hell,”
she made the hand sign against evil. “Who could forget? Our nightmares are not
so easily shed.”

“Just so.” His hands resumed their
comforting work. “So what have you learned?”

“Little enough. History taunts us.
The Mordant’s name looms across time like an omnipresent threat, the eternal
bane of Erdhe, causing so much death and destruction, yet so many details are
maddeningly absent.” She plucked at the scroll in her lap. “This scroll speaks
of the War of Wizards, hinting at a counselor named Mordranth. The scribe’s
handwriting is atrocious, but if you puzzle through the ancient script, it
reads like the aftermath of a tidal wave, detailing terrible devastation yet
there is little to describe the inciting incident. Not a scrap of evidence to
provide any insight to his motives or methods. We need to know the why of it.”
The queen considered what she’d read. “And then there are the quiet times,
where the Mordant’s influence seems to disappear, like a tidal wave subsumed back
into the sea.” She stared at the mountain of scrolls. “The Mordant is like a
re-occurring plague…or an eternal riddle, casting a pall across Erdhe.”
Frustration laced her voice. “We need to understand the man within the myth. We
need to know what he wants.” 

“The motive is obvious, conquest
and destruction.”

“Yes, but it is the methods we
seek.”

“To know your enemy.”

“Precisely.”

His hands withdrew and he moved
around her desk, taking a seat on a stool in front of the roaring fire. Sitting
sword-straight, he stared at her, his dark eyes as keen as a hawk’s, his face
lined with thought. Liandra knew she had his full attention and the weight of
his considerable intellect…but she missed the comfort of his hands.

“It seems obvious enough. His army
has taken Raven Pass and defeated the Octagon Knights. His legions are poised
to conquer the southern kingdoms.” He gave her a shrewd look, “yet you expect
something else, something worse?”

Liandra nodded. “His army is the
most immediate threat…but it seems too
obvious
.”

To his credit, he took her
seriously. “You’ve read half a hundred scrolls, you must have discerned
something?”

There was a fleeting feeling she
got from reading the histories, but it seemed little more than a woman’s
intuition. She hesitated to voice it.

“Tell me.”

She tried to explain. “The Mordant
seems…slippery.”

“How so?”

“It is not what is in the scrolls,
but rather what is missing. As if his methods are so devious and convoluted
they defy description.” She had another thought. “Or perhaps they defy notice,
ambushing their victims.”

“Explain.”

“War has always existed, a waste of
lives and a swath of destruction, but it is almost as if the Mordant brings
something more terrible, something subtler than war. The oldest scrolls hint at
something deeper, something ominous. Almost as if,” she fingered a scroll,
reluctant to give voice to the thought.

“Tell me.”

Drawing strength from his stare,
she gave breath to her fear, “In the Mordant’s shadow, civilization is
unraveled, forced back into darkness, as if mankind as a whole is lessened,
diminished, becoming more beast than man. Where he reigns, truth and justice
have no meaning. Civilizations are destroyed, trampled to rubble, and then he
disappears, leaving mankind to wallow in the chaos.”

A chill descended on her chambers.

“And the Mordant has been dormant
for a long time.”

She nodded.

“I begin to understand your
inquiry.” He gave her a leveling stare. “There must be more in the histories.
Most victors like to brag.”

“And therein lies the problem!” She
plucked a scroll from her lap. “Our histories were written by the few that
survived! Most did not know the storm approached till it consumed them. The
survivors wrote of the aftermath, the destruction, the suffering, but never of
the strategies that brewed the storm.”

“And you’re searching for the man
beneath the myth?”

“Or the monster.” Their stares
locked.

His face etched in thought, her
shadowmaster reached for a chess piece, the black king. “But if the Mordant
doesn’t stay to rule what he’s conquered, then what’s the point?”

His question chilled her. “Perhaps
the destruction is the point.”

He gave her a hollow-eyed stare.

“Or perhaps he takes a longer
view…a much longer view.”

“Like Lord Turner.”

The queen nodded. “More life.”

“He gains more life by destroying
civilizations?”

“Just so.” The shadows in the room
seemed to lengthen. The queen shivered.

“But how do we defeat such a foe?”

Her voice was grim. “I don’t know,
but somehow we must find a way.”

“The Kiralynn monks must know
more.”

“Yet they did nothing when it came
to Lord Turner.”

“True, they came late to
Lanverness, but since then, their help has made a difference. There’s no
telling what they know.”

“True enough.” She considered the
monks. “But of late they’ve been scarce from our court, ever since the death of
Fintan.”

“The
murder
of Fintan,” he
scowled.

“Have you made any progress?”

He shook his head no.

“Perhaps it is all part of a
greater threat.” Liandra could feel the tension building in her shoulders.

“I like it not.” He took a troubled
breath. “So how do we prepare?”

“Remain vigilant. Expect something
devious and twisted. Expect deception.”

 He gave her a flinty smile, “Life
as usual in the Rose Court.” His smile faded. “And in the meantime, we solve
the problems we can.”

She nodded. “Rebuild Lingard,
strengthen the army, get the farmers back on the land and the merchants back on
the road. Commerce must flow and the grain must be sowed else we will not
survive another war.” Always the same litany of problems, Liandra grew weary
just thinking about it.

He must have sensed her distress.
“One step at a time. What news from the crown prince?”

“The Rose Army marches north
through Coronth. So far they’ve met little resistance. It seems the Flame has
burnt itself out. Chaos rules Coronth, leaving the countryside parched of hope
and food.”

“And Balor?”

“If any of the cursed Flame priests
survive, they’ll be entrenched in Balor. We’ve advised Stewart to avoid the
city, leaving that hornet’s nest for another time.”

He gave her a measured look. “A
people parched of hope might welcome the steady rulership of a queen.”

She’d thought of that, a chance to
double her holdings. “But first we have a war to win. With the fall of the
Flame, Lanverness has lost a buffer to the north. If our army fails, the
Mordant’s legions will sweep through Coronth like a scythe.”

“It could be worse. The Flame might
have allied with the Mordant.”

“So true.” Liandra shuddered at the
thought. She gave him a hooded stare. “Your shadowmen bring rumors of a new queen
in Rhune.”

He nodded. “A queen named Selene.
She styles herself as the monarch of the moon, a most pretentious title,
another riddle that needs to be plumbed.”

“We need allies, not enemies.”

“And what of Navarre?”

She winced at the question, like poking
an open wound. “We’ve sent word to King Ivor. We await his answer, wondering if
he accepts the marriage.”

“And you do not?”

She’d railed at Stewart when he’d
spoke of his unauthorized marriage, unleashing a torrent of anger, but the deed
was done, the marriage blessed and consummated, albeit in some ruined tower
without the queen’s consent. “At least she is a princess of Navarre, though not the one of our choosing. We console ourselves with the alliance.”

“My lady, I know you better than
that.” His words were soft. “You cannot deny the prince what you do not deny
the queen.”

She looked away, feeling her cheeks
color with heat. “There is that.”

“The crown prince will find
strength in love…as we do.”

His voice was rough and full of
meaning. She fought for composure. “When do you leave?”

“On the morrow.”

Her breath caught. “So soon?”

“The sooner to get back to you.” He
looked away, twirling a gold ring on his finger, her love token to him. “I’ll
ride hard to the north, to secure the borders. Then to Lingard to ensure the
crown’s golds are well spent. The fortress must rise from the ashes as a symbol
of strength, a stout defense against the Mordant’s hordes. Then your web of
shadowmen must be rebuilt and there is none but the queen’s shadowmaster to see
it done.”

The queen knew the necessity of the
trip, but the woman bitterly mourned the parting. “We shall miss you.” A spark
leaped between them. “Let’s not waste the night.”

He crossed the distance in three
strides, closing his mouth on hers. Urgency sparked between them. Liandra drank
him in, reveling in his strength, his smell, his touch. Silk ripped away as he
carried her to the bed. “Hurry!” She clung to him, her fingers loosening his
bindings. The last bindings broke as he tumbled on top. For a while, all the
duties of the crown were forgotten.