The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (21 page)

31

Jordan

Grief annealed to a dull numbness that eventually smoldered
into rage. Her mother’s funeral was a fortnight past yet the pain was fresh as
a sword stroke. Jordan paced the chamber, railing at the gods. She’d answered
the gods’ call, riding to Castle Seamount with all haste. After chasing her
wicked aunt from the castle ramparts, she’d returned to the great hall to
witness her family’s desperation. The survivors knelt, lapping at antidote
puddled on the floor, the meager remnant from the shattered flask. The king and
queen both survived the poison…but it was a lie. Hounded by nightmares, her
beloved mother paid the death-price for the family curse. Jordan gripped her sword hilt longing for vengeance. Evil was real but she’d never imagined it could
strike with such a long arm. The gods had much to answer for.

The doors opened and a page dressed
in the checkered livery of Navarre bowed toward her. “The king will see you
now.”

Jordan smoothed her leather jerkin,
tucked her sandy-blonde hair behind her ears, and followed the page down the
hall to the throne room. A pair of guards opened the doors and then snapped to
attention.

Waves of soft blue-green light
lapped the small round chamber. Sunlight streamed through the domed windows,
the stained glass depicting a rolling ocean, layers of blue and turquoise and
sea green. The shifting sea colors proved enticing, beckoning her forward. As a
child, she’d been entranced by the throne room, like walking into an underwater
enchantment. The breathtaking beauty was still there, though much of the wonder
was gone. Jordan crossed the lapis floor engraved with sea charts to stand
before the Seaside Throne. She bowed low to her father, the king. Bedecked in
robes of blue velvet, King Ivor sat upon a throne carved of driftwood adorned
with polished seashells. The royal council stood on either side of the dais,
their numbers greatly diminished by murder, so many of her aunts and uncles
slain by the Curse of the Vowels.

Jordan waited in silence, sundered
by the strain evident in her father’s face. Gray dominated his hair and
grief-worn tracks engraved his face, as if he’d aged two decades in two weeks.

“Daughter,” the king gave her a wan
smile. “Age has caught me.” A protest sprang to her lips but he stilled her
with a raised hand. “The Royal Is have passed their time. Iris struck at our
strength and our heart. Our loss is too great to be borne, yet our tasks are
multiplied. It is time to pass the crown.”

“No, it’s too soon!”

The king raised a hand, quelling
her protest. “There is much you do not know. While we have grown weak, evil has
grown stronger. Dire news comes from the north. The Octagon has fallen. The
Mordant marches south.”

Jordan gaped. “How? When?” The news
struck like an arrow to her chest. 

“Raven Pass is broken and the
knights are scattered. A horde of Darkness claims the way south. War is nearly
upon us.”

The Octagon Knights defeated,
the
news staggered her. “But I never saw this! The gods gave me no visions of the
knights.”

“Perhaps they did.”

Jordan struggled to understand.

“We listened to your council and
ordered the merchant fleet to sail north. Perhaps the gods gave you warning of
our need, sending the fleet to seek allies in the far north.”

“The gods are too cryptic by half.”
The weight of so much loss beat against her. “Isador, Igraine, Ian, Mary…and
now
mother
,” her voice broke with pain, “all died because I came too
late!”

“Ivy, Garth, and your king
lived
because you came in time.” King Ivor gave her a piercing stare. “And perhaps
the kingdom will be saved because we sent the fleet north.”

“But I came too late!”

The king’s voice overrode hers.
“You
came,
you heeded the voice of the gods and you made a great
difference.” His voice softened. “My daughter of the sword, we must put grief
aside and deal with the threats arrayed against us.”

Jordan took a deep breath,
struggling to turn her mind to the problem. “War comes from the
north…Lanverness will fight.”

The king nodded. “An army already
exhausted by war, but yes, Lanverness will fight. Even as we speak, the Rose
Army marches north, but we are here to talk of Navarre. It is time to pass the
crown.”

A chill gripped her. “But our
Wayfarings are not yet done.”

“War changes everything. Navarre needs a strong leader to battle the Dark tides. The council has deliberated and a
decision has been made. In times of war a warrior is called to the throne.”
King Ivor gestured toward his only remaining sibling. Ivy stepped forward
bearing the Sea Crown upon a velvet pillow. Sculpted of silver, the curling
waves formed an elegant crown studded with sapphires and rubies. Beneath the
dome’s blue-green light the crown seemed to glow with the colors of the sea.
“Jordan, heir of Navarre, will you accept the Sea Crown?”

The king’s words seemed
otherworldly. Jordan stared at the crown, an honor and a duty. She’d dreamt of
it as a child, but so much had changed. Her mind groped for another solution.
“If the crown calls a warrior then why not Jared? He chose Castlegard for his
Wayfaring, surely Jared would be best?” Her words faltered as her father’s face
paled to ghost-white. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Jared is dead.”

“
Dead?”
Her handsome brother
was
dead
? Jordan staggered backwards, wondering how much more pain she
could bear. “When? How?”

“He never reached Castlegard,
ambushed by brigands on the road to his Wayfaring. We believe it was thugs
serving the Flame.”

Ambushed, murdered,
the
words beat against her. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“There was nothing you could do.
Your mother and I thought it best to let you finish your Wayfaring without the
shadow of death staining your life.” The king’s voice turned bitter. “But death
hunts our house like hounds loosed from Hell. Navarre needs a warrior and you
have always chosen the sword.” His voice turned hard as steel. “I will ask
again, daughter of the sword, will you wear the Sea Crown?”

Her mouth tasted of ashes. “I can
not.”

“You
can not?”
 

A murmur of outrage rippled through
the council.

Jordan cursed her own silence,
another mistake. “I can not because I am married to Prince Stewart of
Lanverness.”

“
Married!”

“Without the king’s consent!”
Outrage
ripped through the council.

The king gave her a hollow-eyed
stare. “But Jemma is betrothed to the prince.”

It was worse than she thought.
“Betrothed by the machinations of the Spider Queen, but
I
was always his
love. I married Stewart less than two moonturns ago. A wartime wedding
witnessed by monks of the Kiralynn Order and consummated in the ruins of the Crimson Tower. We are wedded and bedded and my future lies with Lanverness.” Her voice
faded to a whisper. “I know it’s wrong to wed without the king’s consent, but
this is war, and I thought I’d lost him.” She steadied her voice. “I’m sorry,
father. I meant to tell you, but with all the death and betrayals, there never
seemed a moment for happiness.”

The king sank into the throne as if
diminished. “
Married.
” The whispered word carried a tone of desperation.

The council closed around her,
peppering her with questions, but she ignored them, her gaze fixed on the king.

“Be gone.” The king gave his
council a feeble wave. “Leave us.”

“But majesty?”

A flicker of iron filled the king’s
voice. “Leave us!” 

The council retreated, closing the
doors behind them. Alone with the king, Jordan sank to her knees. “Forgive me,
father?”

He gave her a weary smile. “You
were always headstrong.” His gaze held hers. “Do you love him?”

“Very much.”

“Love is not supposed to influence
royal marriages…but how can it not?” He gave her a knowing smile and then took
her hand, becoming the father instead of the king. “My dearest daughter, I
cannot gainsay you for following your heart, for I did the same.”

For the first time, Jordan noticed how her father’s hands shook, his skin spotted with age. Gripping his hand,
she stilled her face, smothering shock mixed with grief.

“From the moment I first saw your
mother, I loved her. I loved her so very much; I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Grief claimed him. Jordan clung to his hand, trying to share her strength. Her
father stifled his tears. Taking a long shuddering breath, his face stilled. He
looked like a man girding for a last battle. Releasing her, he leaned back in
the throne, the king once more. “You’ve gained a husband, and a royal marriage,
and Navarre is bound closer to Lanverness, but you’ve set me a fine nettle,
daughter. War comes yet we are caught without a wartime leader. First Jared is
taken from us, then Isador, and now you. Evil stalks us, stealing our strength.
I fear for Navarre.”

“I cannot wear the crown but you’ve
not lost my sword.”

He looked at her, a well of
questions in his gaze.

“You said that Lanverness would
fight.”

He nodded.

“Stewart will lead the Rose Army
and I will lead the archers of Navarre. Together we will hold the Dark tide at
bay.”

“So you’ll do what the Octagon
Knights could not?”

She quailed at the thought. “We’ll
do our best.”

“And the Sea Crown?”

“Offer it to Jemma. She’s learned
much from the Spider Queen. She’ll make a fine ruler. Evil strikes at Navarre in more ways than just swords. If anyone can weave a defense against the long
tentacles of Darkness, it is Jemma.” Thinking of her petite sister, Jordan
added. “Jemma’s always wanted the crown, as does Juliana.”

“So it comes down to my petite
beauty and the sea captain,” the king steepled his hands, lost in thought. For
the longest time, he said nothing. Jordan sank to the lapis floor, sitting
cross-legged by the throne, keeping vigil. Eventually the king roused himself.
“Nothing is as I expected. So many dreams turned to dust, yet the realm must be
protected.” He looked down at her. “Navarre needs your sword, daughter. You
will be given command of the army and I will meet with the council to decide
the fate of the throne. Together we must steer a course through this tempest of
evil. But this time I wonder if any safe harbor can be found.” He gestured
toward the closed doors. “Call the council, for we have much to discuss.”

She bowed to him and then crossed
the lapis floor to summon the council, but she could not get the image of his
shaking hands from her mind. Grief had aged the king far beyond his years. So
much death, so much loss, Jordan wondered if evil had struck a mortal blow to Navarre.

32

Steffan

Pellanor
, the very name stuck in Steffan’s throat
like a bone. He’d lost everything, his army, his power, his priests, nothing
left but the clothes on his back and a piebald mare for a mount. Rage thundered
through him. He should have ruled the richest kingdom in Erdhe, should have
worn a gold crown upon his brow, but somehow everything had gone terribly
wrong. His army routed, the city lost, victory snatched from his hands, tricked
by a mere woman. Yet the Dark Lord had spared him; that had to count for
something.

Nameless and alone, he rode west,
fleeing the Rose Army. At first his saddlebags hung empty, but thanks to the
Dark Lord’s gift, they soon filled. Steffan plied the dice in villages and
hamlets, making sure to lose just enough not to be challenged. The gift of dice
might have seemed a minor power to some, but Steffan leveraged his winning ways
into a small fortune, an endless purse of gold. Even in war-ravaged Lanverness,
he found men willing to gamble and women willing to bed him. His rakish good
looks and his luck of the dice served him well. Wealth flowed his way, his
purse bulging with golds, his saddlebags full of silken finery.

Steffan’s circumstances improved,
yet the scars of war were everywhere, from the refugees clogging the roads to
the abandoned farmlands and the hasty graveyards. Stares followed him as he
rode through the countryside. Uneasy with the attention, he dyed his white
forelock to match his black hair and put off his raven cloak, hiding it in his
saddlebags lest someone recognize him. Seeking richer pickings, he turned his
mare towards cities untouched by the war. In the great city-fortress of
Kardiff, he traded his piebald mare for a gleaming black stallion, a mount
befitting his true aspirations. Lingering for several moonturns, he plied the
dice, leeching luxuries from the queen’s loyal subjects, but the pleasures soon
grew stale. Even his many mistresses could not please him, unable to compete
with his dreams. He missed the Priestess in his bed. He missed the thrum of
power in his hands. He missed the great Dark Dance.

Ambition goaded him to action.
Steffan turned his ear toward gossip, collecting scraps of hearsay and
innuendo. Sifting through the many-colored threads, he wove a fresh picture of
Erdhe. Everything was changing. Lanverness reeled from war, while Coronth lay
stricken from the Flame’s collapse. From the coast he heard strange whispers of
a poisoned feast, Navarre’s royal family decimated by an ancient curse. And
from the distant north, he heard rumors of the Mordant. Darkness swept across
Erdhe like an implacable tide, yet Steffan’s own power waned, slipping through
his fingers like sand through an hourglass. His position might have seemed
hopeless to some, but Steffan knew chaos oft provided the best opportunities.
And then he heard a rumor that piqued his interest. A new queen had arisen
claiming a corner of Coronth and whispers said she was a raven-haired beauty.
Steffan packed his saddlebags and rode north.

Spring lit the trees with the first
hint of green. Peasants emerged to work the fields while merchants and traders
reclaimed the roads. A nervous peace prevailed, yet beneath it all the pall of
war lingered. Bands of soldiers straggled north, deserters mixed with the
wounded and the vanquished. Clogging the roads, they hid their Flame-colors
beneath peasant’s cloaks of brown or dun. Their halberds were gone, abandoned
or surrendered, but Steffan spied swords beneath their cloaks and desperation
on their faces.
Defeated but still dangerous,
he spurred his stallion to
a gallop, keeping his distance, hiding his purse as well as his name.

Rolling farm fields gave way to
small villages. The boundaries of kingdoms were not writ upon the land, but
Steffan knew when he crossed into Coronth. Signs of the Flame were legion, but
instead of thriving temples he found only blackened shells. The Flame Army’s
defeat had sounded the death knell of belief. The religion of the Flame
collapsed, becoming a casualty of war. Betrayed by promises of victory, the
people’s anger sparked to a fearsome rage. As he rode north, Steffan found temples
reduced to charred timbers, priests murdered or fled, whole villages turned
secretive and wary. The war had ripple effects he’d never expected. The
collapse of the Flame galled him. Perhaps he should have stayed in Coronth and
plied the powers of religion instead of turning to war, but that coin was
already spent. Better to look to the future than live mired in the past.

Steffan pressed northward,
lingering just long enough to collect gossip and golds. Always he asked about
the raven-haired queen. A tankard of ale bought a fistful of rumors. Villagers
bragged of the new queen’s intoxicating beauty and the way she ruled with a
firm hand. Some even spoke with affection, as if they preferred a queen to the
Flame. Such talk singed his pride, but Steffan swallowed his anger. If only the
villagers knew whom they spoke to, but in truth he was glad the Lord Raven went
unnoticed. He didn’t fancy being caged and broiled alive like the priests, so
he took what he needed and rode north, keeping his name to himself.

Most villages were sparse with food
but rich with rumors. All the rumors led to Rhune, an ancient holdfast in the
southwest corner of Coronth. Famous for its hot springs, Rhune was the ancient
seat of winter palaces, a retreat for royals through the ages. He’d visited in
his vagabond years, drawn by flocks of wealthy widows, but that was long before
the war. Curious to see the changes, Steffan timed his arrival for mid-morning.
Riding down the main street, he caught the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from
the bakery while the ring of hammers came from the forge, proof the town still
flourished. The main street was paved with cobbles and the three inns were
large and spacious. Even the smaller homes and shops were built of dressed
stone, bedecked with prancing lions carved into lintels and keystones, the
proud symbols of a bygone royalty. Wealth clung to the ancient city like a
comforting blanket, just the type of place the Priestess would favor.
So
she’d come to Coronth to be a queen
, bitterness rose like bile in Steffan’s
throat. Rhune should have been his, just a small portion of a larger kingdom,
but he’d risked it all on war. Steffan swallowed the thought, knowing he’d come
for a gamble of different sort.

He took a room at the best inn,
ordered a soaking tub, a girl to wash his back, and a bottle of their best
brandy. Come evening he dressed in his finest black leathers, twirling a cape
of sleek otter fur around his shoulders, black as midnight and rich as sin.
Glancing in a mirror, he approved of his dark attire, a perfect compliment to
his dashing good looks. Tucking a sapphire ring in his belt pouch, he left the
inn and mounted his stallion.

He followed the road out of town,
cantering through blossoming cherry orchards. White petals fell like soft snow,
strewn before him like a conqueror’s tribute, as if the very land mocked his
return. Anger snarled through Steffan. He spurred his horse to a gallop,
churning the petals to dust.

The landscape changed from rural to
royal. Sculpted gardens and statuary heralded the keep. Most of the statues
were headless, marble monarchs felled by religion. Steffan wondered if the
palace had fared any better. Topping a hill, his gaze was captured by
Silverspire. Tall and elegant, the slender keep was clad in white marble,
glittering like its namesake in the rising moonlight. Part palace, part
military stronghold, Silverspire reeked of ancient wealth, the winter home of
pampered royals, the perfect setting for the Priestess. 

Putting spurs to his mount, Steffan
rode to the great iron gates, struck by the color of the guards’ tabards. Gone
was the blue of bygone royals or the red of the Flame. Instead all the soldiers
wore dusky purple, the changing faces of the moon emblazoned in a golden circle
on their tabards. Another color, another emblem, the woman was as changeable as
quicksilver, but for all her airs, Steffan expected her to be the same between
the bed sheets.
That
woman he knew very well. 

A pair of guards moved to block his
way, hands on their sword hilts.

Steffan pulled his mount to a halt.
“I’m here to see the lady of the keep.”

“You mean the queen.” 

So her guards were protective. “As
you say.”

A bearded captain emerged from the
gate. “And who are you to be asking for an audience?”

An audience,
the woman was
definitely putting on airs, but Steffan could play the game with the best of
them. “Lord Steffan of Darkmoor.”

One of the guards grumbled, “
Darkmoor,
ain’t never heard of no Darkmoor, but I think I’ve seen this one before.”

Steffan swallowed his unease,
keeping his gaze fixed on the captain. “Your queen expects me.”

Their stares locked. The captain
looked skeptical but he clearly wasn’t willing to brave the wrath of his
mistress. “I’ll send a runner. Meanwhile you wait here.”

Told to wait outside the gates,
Steffan
hid his ire. The guards shared a jest around a brazier, while Steffan sat stoic
on his horse, warmed by thoughts of the coming night. Just thinking about her
made him hard. More stars emerged and the night sky deepened to indigo. He was
beginning to wonder just how long the bloody woman would keep him waiting when
a page came running. “The Lady will see you now.”

Iron gates clanged open and he rode
through thick walls into a cobbled courtyard. The sweet sounds of a fountain
greeted him, a pride of marble lions spouting water into a central basin. Whole
and undefiled, the lions had fared better than their royal masters.  Perhaps
the keep remained intact. A page scrambled to claim his horse while a pair of
guards gave him an appraising stare. “Your weapons.”

Steffan gave them an amiable smile.
“Is this really necessary? The lady awaits.”

“Your weapons.”

He relinquished the sword from its
scabbard and the knife from his belt sheath, but that left him with the dirk
hidden in his right boot and another tucked at the back of his belt. The guards
never checked, waving him through. Steffan hid a smile,
vigilant but not
thorough.
He climbed the steps to the inner keep, to massive doors studded
with silver, another sign of flaunted wealth. Steffan appreciated their elegant
beauty, surprised the silver had survived the rise and fall of the Flame.

A young page-boy liveried in dusky
purple opened the doors. “This way, m’lord.”

At least the page showed some
deference. Steffan followed the lad into the depths of the keep, a pair of
guards keeping pace at his back. Colorful tapestries lined the hallways while
his boots rang on polished marble. The keep lived up to its reputation, a
sumptuous palace fit for royalty, proving the lady kept her taste for luxury.
Steffan approved her choice, anticipating the luxuries to come. He wondered
where she’d choose to meet him, perhaps a moonlit garden, or better yet, a
well-appointed bedroom. Spurred by desire, he quickened his pace. The lad led
him to a pair of tall doors fashioned like butterfly wings. Sparkling with
stained glass and semi-precious stones, the butterfly doors screamed of royal
wealth and whimsical excess…but they also dashed his hopes.
So it was not to
be a garden or a bedroom
…
but a formal audience hall.
Guards rushed
to open the butterfly doors, revealing an elegant throne room. Vaulted ceilings
of white marble arched overhead while moonlight poured through mullioned
windows, silvering the chamber. Steffan hesitated,
brought like a suppliant
to her audience chamber,
anger blazed through him. He crossed the marble
expanse, his gaze seeking the seductress of his dreams. A vision in dusky
silks, she sat alone on a silver throne, a minstrel strumming a lute at her
feet. Every curvaceous detail exceeded his memories. Desire took hold. Like a
moth drawn to a dark flame, he strode across the moonlit marble to stand before
her throne. His gaze drank her in. Lush curves swathed in shimmering silk, her
mouth ripe and full, her dark hair cascading past her shoulders, but it was her
eyes that caught and held him, so full of wicked promise.

“So the Priestess of the Isle has
become the Lady of the Moon,” he gave her a sweeping bow. “Beauty to rival my
dreams, I’ve crossed kingdoms to find you.” His voice oozed charm but silence
was his only answer. “I did not come empty handed.” The ring flashed in his
hands, a cornflower-blue sapphire the size of his thumb surrounded by diamonds,
a queenly gift guaranteed to make a woman swoon.

The Priestess gestured to the
minstrel. “Mario.”

The motley-colored dandy leaped up,
his hand extended for the ring. Steffan glared, but the minstrel waited and the
Priestess watched. He relinquished the ring, fuming as the fop knelt to slip it
on her finger. Like a well-trained pet, the minstrel retreated down the dais to
reclaim his lute. The Priestess held her hand aloft, the sapphire jewel
sparkling in the moonlight. “Yes, a pretty bauble, no doubt won at dice.”

 
She was going to make him work
for it
, Steffan swallowed a scowl. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Better than most.”

Her smugness pushed him to anger.
“Queen Selene, the Lady of the Moon. Another name change?”

“Actually the same, Selene Cereus,
a rare night blooming flower. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

Steffan shrugged, “Another name,
another kingdom,” his voice turned surly, “but this time you took something of
mine
.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Was it
yours or was it lost? And who are you to complain, Lord Steffan of
Darkmoor?”

The false title struck like a slap.
Steffan narrowed his gaze. “You’ve changed your colors.”