The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (22 page)

“Purple becomes us, a fitting color
for my queendom.”

He barked a laugh. “
Queendom?
That
isn’t even a word.”

“Why is it any less of a word than
kingdom?”

This wasn’t going the way he’d
planned. Instead of lovers reunited they were bickering like an old married
couple. He sought a different tack. “And now you’re the lady of Rhune. But why
the moon?”

“A fitting symbol. Men are like the
sun, strong and glaring and always in your face, while women are more subtle,
like the night, dark and mysterious and always changing.” She gave him a look
more intimate than touch. 

This was the woman he longed
for.
Encouraged, Steffan flicked his gaze to the minstrel. “We don’t need
an audience.”

She gave a negligent wave. “Mario,
leave us.”

The minstrel kissed the hem of her
gown and then bowed his way from the chamber.

The simpering fop raised Steffan’s
ire. “I’m surprised the palace survived the Flame.”

“It was infested with bishops, and
bishops like their luxuries.” She flashed a triumphant smile. “When they saw
the size of my army they dropped their robes and fled.”

Anger flamed within him. “So you
trampled my religion.”

“No, merely swept aside the ashes.
Defeat killed your religion, the defeat of the Pontifax, the defeat of your
army, and the harsh yoke of your priests. When a fanatical religion falls, it
falls hard, leaving a gaping emptiness. My army merely filled the void.”

Her words rankled but he knew she
spoke the truth. “Much has changed.”

“Yes, I’ve used my army while you
lost yours.”

“Your army used to be
mine
.”

“We had an agreement, I held up my
end, or did the mercenaries of Radagar not turn and serve you?”

More barbs, he decided to sling
some of his own. “I thought you sought the crown of Navarre?”

Her eyes flashed in warning. “I
took my revenge and then I claimed Rhune.” She leaned back in the throne, a
pose designed to expose her cleavage to best advantage, a dark jewel amongst
the glittering silver. “The palace becomes me.”

He grew tired of slinging
arguments. “Rumors say the Mordant comes south.”

For a long time, silence hung
between them. “I know.” Her words fell like dirt into a grave.

“We should be allies, working
together, scheming to profit from the chaos to come.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “You
think he brings profit in his wake? Then you know him not.”

“Chaos always brings opportunity,”
he leaned toward her, “especially to those who know how to use it.”

“The Mordant brings more than
chaos.”

Her words held the ring of
prophecy. She’d always stood closer to the Dark, a fey power wrapped around her
like a cloak. Even far from the Dark Isle, she remained the Oracle Priestess.
He envied her power. “What do you know? What have you seen?”

“Too much and too little.”

A chill passed through him. “As bad
as that?”

Her face was grave. “It is not like
dealing with mere mortals. He is the oldest Harlequin, the talon of the Dark
Lord.”

“All the more reason to work
together.”

She stared at him, her eyes dark
and fathomless.

Understanding struck. “You have a
plan, you always have a plan.” She said nothing but the glint in her eyes gave
proof to his words.

Steffan leaned towards her. “I can
help you.”

Still no answer.

Steffan decided to roll the dice.
“You could use me.” He waited, balanced on a knife-edge.

“Finally the truth.” Her gaze raked
across him. “You’re cunning, and comely, and still favored by the Dark Lord…and
you give great pleasure in bed.” Her voice caressed him and he grew hard in
spite of himself. “This time we’ll do it
my
way.” Her eyes gleamed with
wicked intentions as she rose from the throne. A slit on her gown revealed a
flash of shapely white thigh. She prowled down the dais like a predator, her
scent surrounding him in a haze of suggestion. His nostrils flared, breathing
deep, sandalwood and something else, something mysterious and wantonly sexy. “I
remember that scent.” His manhood strained towards her, like iron to a
loadstone.

“I wore it on our first night.”

His imagination exploded.

“Come.” Her voice purred down his
spine as she led him to a side door. Sundered by her scent, by every curvaceous
detail, he followed, his gaze drinking her in, imbibing her like a heady wine.
Graceful and evocative and curvaceous, she led him on a shimmering tease down
the long hallway. Enamored by the view, he grew engorged by every sultry
detail. Torchlight flickered across silky skin as she slowly shed her gown,
leaving a diaphanous trail. Steffan walked as if in a trance. He tripped and
nearly fell. And then he noticed the smooth marble floor had given way to rough
cut stone. Stairs descended down. For half a heartbeat Steffan wondered if she
led him to the dungeons, but then he caught a whiff of her scent and he did not
care.

A guard raced to open a bronze
door.

He followed her into the moonlight,
a spray of stars overhead. Chilly night air rushed to embrace him, but it did
nothing to cool his ardor. They stood in a rocky grotto, cave walls bathed by
moonlight. Steam rose from a bubbling hot spring, a cauldron of frothing water,
releasing a faint scent of brimstone.

“You’re going to like this.”

He had no doubt.

She began to undress him, her hands
making every movement a caress. She found the knife at his back and the one in
his boot but it only seemed to amuse her. For a while, she lingered over his
belt, slowly drawing out the leather, and then he stood naked in the moonlight,
blowing streams of mist into the chill night air like a beast on the verge of a
rampage.

“Not yet.” Her whisper restrained
him.

His nostrils flared, a stallion
chasing a mare in heat.

She reached for an amber bottle,
pouring a libation of oil on his chest. Slippery and smooth and smelling of
herbs, it released an inner heat. Her hands followed the oil, igniting every
part of him. A torture of touch, her fingers trailed down and around, clutching
him tight.

Breathing like a bull in rut, he
struggled to maintain control. “I can’t wait.” 

“If you want it, you must swear.”

This was madness. “Swear what?”

Her lips cascaded down his chest.
“You know.” Her fingers did something unmentionable. He strained with need,
bucking against her hold. Fingernails raking against tender flesh, she
constrained him, driving him to a frenzy. It was too much to bear. “I swear!”

“Do it now.”

He ripped the last vestige of silk
from her shoulders and then lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his
oil-soaked hips. And then he took her, like a stallion mounting the moon. Over
and over again, he screamed his lust into the night, staking his claim to her.
And when he was finally sated, his whole body quivering with ecstasy, he
carried her to the lip of the frothing spring. Still inside of her, he tumbled
them into the water.

Heat embraced him. The deep-seated
heat soothed his every muscle. Separated by the fall, Steffan floated to the
frothing surface. Lying on his back, he stared upward, entranced at the stars.
He felt as if he floated in a dream. “What have you done to me?”

A throaty laugh was the only reply.
And then she was next to him, her hands finding all the right places. “Let me
show you what it’s like in water.” He turned to embrace her and nothing else
mattered.

33

Liandra

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows
bestowing a flush of colors on the marble gods. Liandra found the princess
grieving in the royal chapel. Pale in a gown of dark velvet, Princess Jemma
knelt before the statue of winged Marut, the goddess of justice. Her hands
clasped, her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, every line of her body bespoke
prayer alloyed with grief. Dismissing her guards at the door, the queen crossed
the checkered floor, a soft rustle of emerald silks. “We grieve for your loss.”

Startled, Princess Jemma looked up.
Tears glistened in her eyes. “A messenger came today…my mother…” her voice
broke. She struggled to swallow a sob.

Such courage, such beauty,
Liandra
ached to see the pain etched on the young woman’s face. “Sometimes grief has to
be shared in order to be endured. Come and sit with us.”

Wiping her tears, the princess
rose, following the queen to the royal pew. Elaborately embroidered pillows
softened the oaken bench. The two women sat side by side beneath the soaring
vault. Pierced by sunbeams, the stained glass windows illumed the chapel with
dazzling colors. Ruby reds, sapphire blues and emerald greens, the jewel-box
colors painted the stone-carved lacework with vibrant hues. A delicate
confection of polished stonework melded with light, so beautiful it soothed the
soul. Staring at the soaring ceiling, Liandra imbibed the chapel’s peace. “My
mother died in childbed, giving birth to my stillborn brother. I barely
remember her…but I grieved hard for my father.”

The princess shook her head in
bitter denial. “My mother wished ill on no one. She did not deserve to die…”
her voice cracked with grief.

“She must have been a marvelous
woman.”

“She found pleasure in the smallest
things. A colorful seashell washed on the beach, a sea eagle’s feather found on
the rampart, a rainbow at sunrise, she found joy in them all, yet she was
always the queen, and always…our mother.” Stories poured out. For more than two
turns of the hourglass, the princess shared memories large and small. Liandra
listened to the emotions laced beneath the words. By the time the sun dipped
towards a russet sunset, the princess’s sharp grief had bled to a bearable
sorrow.

Falling silent, the princess cast a
grateful glance toward the queen. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, my dear.”
The queen swallowed her own emotion. “We wished for you to be our own dear
daughter-in-law.”

“I know. In many ways, I wished for
it too. But Jordan will make your son very happy and she will be a fine queen.”

“And what of you?”

The princess stilled. “The murder
of the Royal Is was terrible…but mother’s loss will break my father’s heart.”

The queen waited.

“Father will pass the crown.” The
words were spoken with sadness underscored by cold conviction.

“Will you reach for it? Will you
dare to try for the seaside crown?”

“Reach for it, no, though I dearly
want it.” The princess shook her head. “No, the seaside crown must be freely
given. The king and council will decide what is best for the kingdom. It is our
way.”

Such a worthy woman to wear a
crown,
“They could not choose better.”

“Thank you, but we shall see. The
council chooses the heir best fit to serve the times. Dark times are upon us.”

“Just so.” The queen studied her
apprentice. “So you won’t return to Navarre?”

“Not unless bidden.”

“We are pleased to have you by our
side.” The queen had to ask. “Having lost the Rose Crown, can you be content
with the crown of Navarre?”

“
Yes!
” A spark gleamed in
the princess’s eyes. “It’s the challenge, you see. Lanverness is so well run,
the treasury full, prosperity shared among the people,” the princess shrugged,
her cheeks blushing, “the next queen will feel like a caretaker!”

Liandra was smitten by the compliment.

“In Navarre, I’ll have the chance
to build something fresh, to steer the kingdom in a new direction.” She flashed
a competitive smile towards the queen. “A chance to grow Navarre till it rivals the prosperity of mighty Lanverness!” 

A knowing smile flashed between the
two women. The queen well understood the deep-seated need to grow a kingdom, to
spread prosperity, to make an indelible difference. The princess truly was the
daughter of her heart. “We shall welcome Navarre’s prosperity. All of Erdhe
will be richer for it.”

The two women sat in companionable
silence, sharing dreams as grand as the chapel’s soaring stonework. The sunset
deepened to a crimson glow, painting the chapel the color of dried blood. Queen
Liandra shuddered at the ill-omen, her mind turning from dreams to threats.
“Darkness reaches for Erdhe.”

The princess’s voice dropped to a
grim hush. “I know.”

“All of our dreams will be for
naught if the shadows are not defeated.”

The princess had no reply.

Liandra stared aloft at the
delicate confection of lace-work stone, the soaring vault imbued with an airy
grace, now drenched in bloody twilight. “In such a chapel, one almost expects
the gods to care.”

“Do you think they listen?”

“They must, for evil is real, and
without their help, our chances are bleak…yet we’ve always felt the gods help
those who help themselves. We dare not sit idle.”

Mired in worry, the two women
watched the fading light. Twilight colors dimmed, quenching to darkness, but
once the sun set, the candlelight flickered and glowed. Pinpricks of light that
had seemed insubstantial in the day held the darkness at bay.
Candles of
light,
if enough people held the light in their hearts then perhaps
darkness could be defeated by mere mortals.
Strength in many,
Liandra held
to the slender thought, for she knew dire darkness threatened all of Erdhe.

34

Steffan

Steffan woke naked and sticky, groaning as the morning’s dim
light pierced the shutters. Rolling over, he kicked an empty wine goblet from
the bed. His hand groped beneath silken covers, finding nothing but a tangle of
sheets.
Another empty bed.
Steffan cursed the dark-haired Priestess. His
manhood stood rampant, eager for another tumble, yet he had nothing but his own
hand for satisfaction, a dull choice compared to the dark-haired vixen.
Memories of the night assailed his mind, her scent lingering on his skin. His
ache grew to a throb. Just thinking about the woman made him hungry, but no
matter how hard he rode her through the night, the mornings were always the same.
He always woke alone. The empty bed mocked him; the Priestess took this
business of ruling far more seriously than any woman should.

Frustrated, he rolled from bed and
made a quick toilet, splashing cold water from the basin across his arms and
chest. Steffan shivered, the water chilly enough to dampen even his ardor, such
a waste. Ransacking a chest, he pulled on leather riding pants and knee-high
boots, a warm jerkin of the finest crushed velvet and then twirled his black
cloak around his shoulders. Almost as an afterthought, he buckled his sword
belt at his waist. A princely gift from the Priestess, he’d come to favor the
sword, a fine rapier with a jewel-encrusted hilt, the weapon of a lord. Making
a quick rake through his raven-dark hair, he strode from their chambers,
descending the tower stairs two at a time.

His boot heels rang with authority
against the cultured stone. Servants in the purple and gold livery of the moon
bowed at his passing. He snagged a goblet of wine from a servant’s tray. “Where
is my lady?”

“I believe the queen is in the
audience chamber, my lord.”

The
queen,
the title alone
was enough to sour his stomach. Steffan quaffed the wine in one long draught,
taking the edge off his thirst. “Of course she is.” He tossed the empty goblet
upon the tray and continued down the hallway. Rounding the corner, he found a
pair of soldiers guarding the jeweled butterfly doors, but instead of snapping
a salute, their halberds crossed with a clash.

Steffan gave them a venomous stare.
“Announce me.”

The guard on the left fidgeted but
the one on the right looked resolute. “The queen gave strict orders, my lord.”

“What orders?” His voice was a
dangerous growl.

“Orders that the Lord Steffan was
not to be admitted.”

Steffan drilled him with his stare
but the guard did not flinch. “You dare refuse your lord?” he twisted the words
like a dagger, but the guard remained statue-still. Steffan glowered, wondering
if the man’s stiff loyalty had been bought between bedroom sheets. He wouldn’t
put it past her. Anger spiked through him, but arguing would only diminish his
standing. “No matter.” He turned on his heels, his black cape flaring behind
him, and strode toward the outer doors. “Tell the
queen,
I’ve gone
riding.”

At least the outer guards had sense
enough to rush and open the doors in his path, a sop to his pride. Ignoring the
guards’ salutes, he strode from the keep into the brisk morning air. Rain
spattered his face, the sky laden with dark clouds, another gloomy day. He
crossed the courtyard and entered the stables. “Saddle my horse and be quick
about it.” A stable hand leaped to obey, entering the stall of his black
gelding. “Not the black, I’ll take the red.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Samuel threw him a
reproachful look before slipping into the red’s stall. The stallion bellowed.
Ironshod hooves thundered against the doors hard enough to split skulls. The
stable lad yelped and cursed but eventually got the roan saddled. Eighteen
hands high and trained for war, the roan had a demon’s temper, but Steffan enjoyed
the challenge. Accepting a leg up, he vaulted into the saddle. A flick of the
reins and the roan burst into a full gallop. They thundered out of the stables
and into the yard. Guards scrambled, scattering to avoid the stallion’s hooves.
Steffan charged the outer gates like a demon loosed from hell. At the last
moment, the gates swung wide and they sped into the countryside. Steffan
laughed, feeling an oppressive weight slough from his shoulders. He reveled in
the keep’s luxuries, but he could not abide the woman’s cloying airs. Putting
spurs to his mount, he rode cross-country.

Escaping the keep’s shadow, he
galloped through the surrounding woodlands and orchards, everything cloaked in
the budding green of spring. Rain beat against his face, but he did not care.
Riding low in the saddle, he let the stallion have its head, the countryside
becoming a green blur. He pressed for more speed. The Priestess was a boon in
the bedroom but a bitch in the council chambers. This business of ruling had
gone to her head, and now she barred him from the audience hall.
Him,
the
Lord Steffan Raven, the true ruler of Coronth, the general of a holy war, a
leader of men, yet what had
she
done besides spread her legs? Fury
pulsed through him, it wasn’t right for a man to be set below a woman; it
destroyed the natural order of things.

Lightning flashed overhead
releasing a cold torrent of rain. 

Suddenly drenched, the storm
quenched Steffan’s rage. Mopping the wet hair from his eyes, he slowed his
stallion to a walk. Old-growth trees crowded close to the trail. He’d ridden
far, farther than usual. A chill of foreboding shivered down his back, perhaps
he should have brought his guard. His stallion snorted and reared, nearly
throwing him. Regaining his balance, Steffan settled his mount, “It’s just
rain,” but he wondered if he spoke the truth. Lightning forked overhead, adding
a threat to the forest gloom. And then he saw them. Armed men blocked the
trail. Filthy and unshaven, bits of red hidden amongst homespun brown, they looked
like a rough lot. Deserters most likely or soldiers turned brigands. Steffan
stole a glance behind and found a dozen more sealing his retreat. He swore
under his breath, his hand stealing to his sword.

“No need for that, my Lord Raven.”

The title alone was enough to give
him pause. “Who dares bar my way?”

“A bishop seeking a lord.”

Steffan hesitated, sensing a trap
of a different sort. “The religion of the Flame is banned by the Lady of the
Moon.”

“And such a sin it is. That’s why
we’ve come seeking a
lord
instead of
queen
.”

Cautiously interested, Steffan
pressed for more. “Does this bishop have a name?”

“Bishop Tilden of the fourth
brigade.”

The name sparked a memory, a
dangerous man and a dangerous claim, for only the most fanatical of bishops served
with the Flame Army. “The name is familiar, but as I recall the bishop was
plump of face and wore finer robes.”

The man shrugged. “Hard times make
hard men.”

Steffan crossed stares with the
cleric, matching memories to the face, finding enough details to be satisfied.
“What do you want?”

“A lord who knows the worth of good
men.”

“You mean a lord who pays?”

“You were always quick, Lord
Raven.” The cleric cracked a hungry smile. “Preferably in gold.”

“And in return?”

“Sixty sharp swords at your beck and
call, ready to do any service. And I do mean
any
service, m’lord.”

He liked the suggestion, a band of
secret swords at his beck and call, a hidden edge to counter the arrogance of
the Priestess. “Why not offer your swords to the queen? Her gold is as good as
mine.”

The cleric hawked and spat. “The
witch has a way of looking inside of a man. She won’t take priests, and never a
bishop.”

Even better,
Steffan
suppressed a grin
.
“And how will I reach you?”

“You like to ride in the mornings.
Wear a red cloak and one of us will find you along the way.”

“And if I can’t leave the keep?”

The cleric grinned. “We’ve got a
few mice tucked within Silverspire’s walls. Get word to one of them and your
whispers will be heard.”

Steffan waited but no names were
forthcoming. Making his decision, he pulled a purse from his belt and tossed it
to the cleric.

The bishop made an easy grab, the
purse hitting his hand with the resounding chink of heavy coin. Tugging on the
drawstrings, he poured gold upon his palm. More than one brigand gasped at the
sight. With practiced ease, the bishop vanished the coins beneath his cloak.
“At your service, my Lord Raven.”

“I left that title at the gates of
Pellanor.”

“Another thrice-damned queen,” the
bishop spat. “We’ve all got pasts that are better buried.”

“And the mice?”

“A stable hand named Samuel, a
scullery lad named Hinton, and a pot boy named Gill.”

Where there were three mice there
were bound to be more. Steffan knew the stable lad. “You’re using children?”

“Sharp ears and sharp eyes, the
boys all served as acolytes to the Flame.” The cleric sneered, “Your witch
delves men but she can’t be bothered checking the children.”

So she isn’t perfect,
the
words gave hope to his plans. “So we have a deal?”

The cleric gave him a half bow, “We
do, my lord.” The bishop gestured and the brigands melted back into the forest.

Steffan set spurs to his stallion,
his mind ablaze. His luck had not deserted him. He’d gained unexpected allies,
a hidden dagger at his beck and call. Steffan laughed, feeling the Dark Lord’s
guiding hand return to his shoulder. Plans churned in his mind, the Priestess
would ignore him at her peril.
The
Lord Raven was back in the game, and this time the prize would be his.
Grinning, he turned for the keep, urging his horse to a gallop.
“One
lifetime is not enough!”