The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (15 page)

27

Master Rizel

Master Rizel hastened
to answer the summons of the Grand Master. Sunlight pierced the windows,
illuminating the scripted walls. Climbing the steps, he passed through the gold
clad doors inset with lapis Seeing Eyes. A pair of blue-robed monks with
quarterstaffs stood on either side, keeping watch. Nodding to the guards, Master
Rizel entered the audience chamber. Beneath his boots, the mage-stone floor was
painted a rich golden-yellow, making the room welcome to acolytes and
outsiders. Halfway across the chamber, a low railing marked the divide, the
floor abruptly changing from golden-yellow to midnight-blue. Elegant in its
simplicity, the divided floor had a profound effect, the place where the outer
world met the monastery's inner wisdom. As a young acolyte, he thought of it as
the place where inquiry met answers, but as a master, he realized many
questions had no answers, as if the gods kept riddles of their own.

More than thirty
blue-robed monks were already assembled, most were masters who'd witnessed the
invoking. He scanned their faces, noting friends and antagonists. Good debates
required at least two sides, but sometimes he thought his adversarial brethren
were remarkably shortsighted. He prayed their shortsightedness never hurt the
Order...or Erdhe.

Nodding to his
friends, he strode to the low railing, the divide between the golden-yellow
floor from the midnight-blue. Just beyond arm's reach of the railing, the sword
was displayed on a silken pillow. A sword without peer, a sword of legend,
forged by the last great wizard. Even the name sounded dauntless,
Invictus
.

He'd heard how
fresh-faced acolytes swarmed to the chamber to gawk at the sword. Truth be
told, more than a few blue-robed masters had done the same, for such an
Illumination had not been accomplished in nigh on four hundred years. Little wonder
the monastery hummed like a kicked hive.

The sword's
invoking brought hope...but it also brought division.

Factions within
the blue argued for seclusion, for the protection of knowledge, for wielding
the sword solely in defense of the monastery. In the depths of his soul, Rizel
knew the sword was meant to be wielded, but not by a blue-robed monk. The sword
belonged in Castlegard, in the hands of a hero. He'd argued vehemently against
the seclusionists, trying to sway the others. The bitter debate raged through
the hallowed halls for more than a fortnight. Debate and argument were timeworn
forms of learning, a way to test the facets of knowledge, yet this debate had
gained rancor, adding poison to the discourse. Finally, word came that the
Grand Master had made his decision.

Master Rizel
sidled next to Master Adelbart. "What word on the girl?"

The master
calligrapher looked exhausted, deep shadows lining his eyes. "Nimeria
remains locked in a magical swoon, no telling when she'll wake. She's under
Master Garth's care."

"Great
magic exacts a great toll, it was always so, but Nimeria is young and strong.
The young are always so resilient."

Adelbart gave
him a grateful look. "May it be so."

"Garth will
take good care of the girl. She could be in no better hands." Master Rizel
gestured to the blue steel sword. "The others are awed by the sword but
they miss the point. This sword is Light-sent, a boon to Castlegard, while the
girl,
she
is the boon to the Kiralynn Order, a chance to reclaim the
lost art of Illumination."

Master Adelbart
nodded. "You see clearly. The scriptorium hums with young scholars,
burning oil lamps all hours of the day and night. My apprentices strive to
repeat Nimeria's prodigious feat. I envy them their single-minded enthusiasm."
His voice held a shadow of worry. "The young are so keen, yet they do not
fear the consequences."

"The Light
will guide them. Perhaps another Illuminator will rise from among them."

"The Light
willing."

Behind them, the
great golden doors thudded closed, heralding the start of the audience. The
chamber had grown crowded with blue-robed masters, a representation of all
points of view. Master Rizel spied Felix and Normath and others of the
seclusion faction standing near the great mage-glass window. He acknowledged
them with a nod, but there was no debate, for the decision was in the hands of
the Grand Master.

The sound of a
deep-throated gong shimmered through the chamber, drawing all stares to the
blue side of the room.

The Voice
stepped from behind the Star Screen, a gray-haired master with a solemn face.
Sitting cross-legged, he used a striker to light a flame in the brazier inset
in the floor. Incense wafted through the chamber, offering a soothing scent.
"The Grand Master sees you, the Grand Master hears you, draw near to hear
the words of the Grand Master."

The gong sounded
for the second time.

Master Rizel
bowed towards the Star Screen and then settled to the floor, sitting
cross-legged amongst the scattered pillows. His brethren did the same.
Blue-robed monks and masters filled the golden floor, their robes puddled
around them like still ponds.

The Voice
reached behind the Star Screen and accepted a scroll.

Master Rizel
held his breath.

Snapping the
scroll open, the Voice read, "Debate rages within our hallowed halls, yet
this is a time for action, not words. Ancient prophesies rush to be born. The
signs are legion, from the red comet ripping the sky, to the coming of the
crystal blade bearer, to the invocation of the blue steel sword. The Battle
Immortal is upon us." The Voice scanned the assembly, his words ringing
with the Grand Master's authority. "Let there be no debate, the Kiralynn
Order is at war."

A murmur rippled
through the assembly, but Master Rizel remained stone-still.
The failure of
Castlegard's mage-stone,
he does not include it as a sign. Master Rizel pondered
why the latest portent went unstated...and then he understood.
The Grand
Master does not yet have an answer to the riddle.
The realization struck
like a punch to his chest.

The Voice waited
till quiet returned before continuing to read. "All of our knowledge, all
of our history, all of our magic is but a prelude to this battle. To think
otherwise is willful delusion, for the Kiralynn Order already spends our
knowledge, our magic, and our dearest life's blood below the mountains. To think
we can stand apart is foolish and naive."

The gong's voice
shimmered through the chamber.

The Voice held
the scroll to the small fire, turning the Grand Master's written words to
light.

Master Rizel
watched the parchment burn, feeling a sense of great moment, as if the whole world
teetered on a nib of a quill.

The Voice
reached behind the Star Screen accepting a second scroll. Unrolling the
parchment, he read, "An owl has come to the monastery bearing grim tidings
from Lanverness. Master Numar is dead and his focus is lost."

Dead!
Rizel
choked on the news.

Cries of shock
and outrage spread through the chamber.

"How can
this be?"

"Who killed
him?"

"What of
his focus?"

The Voice raised
his hand forestalling the debate. When silence returned, he read, "Serving
as a hidden emissary to the Rose Queen, Numar posed as an apothecary, hiding
within the queen's capital city. Our agent found him and two of his apprentices
dead within his shop, burnt and blackened, blasted by fire. His focus could not
be found."

Burnt and
blackened,
Rizel closed his eyes, sickened by his friend's harsh death.

A strident voice
called from the rear of the chamber. "What of his magic? What focus did he
wield?"

Master Rizel
answered. "A fireball. Numar wielded one of the greatest battle magics in
our arsenal."

A deathly chill
seeped through the chamber.

Felix growled,
"This is why we need to stay within our walls and protect our own."

Master Rizel
snapped, his voice armored with steel. "If Numar died of
fire
then
he died
fighting
." He glared at the others. "His death tells
us much, for what enemy can best a fireball?"

Murmurs
multiplied across the chamber, everyone speaking at once.

The sound of a
gong shimmered through the room, demanding silence.

Quiet returned,
yet a restless undercurrent remained.

"Heed the
wisdom of the Grand Master." The Voice read from a third scroll. "For
over a thousand years the Kiralynn Order has stood apart in the fastness of our
mountain monastery, yet we are also of Erdhe, our fates forever intertwined.
Through the centuries we have striven to thwart Darkness by sharing our
knowledge and our insights with the royals of the southern kingdoms, but
knowledge alone shall not defeat this Darkest of foes. We stand at the turning
of an Age. The decisions we make, the actions we take, shall weigh heavy in the
outcome. We dare not be laggards to the battle. Like Master Numar, the Kiralynn
Order must enter the fray, risking all. To that end, the invoked sword, Invictus,
shall be dispatched to Castlegard with all haste. And the relics of the Star
Chamber shall be brought forth to see if any here can wield them. Let this
decision be written into the annals. May the Lords of Light protect the
Kiralynn Order and save Erdhe from endless Darkness."

"By the
Light, let it be so."

The sound of a
gong shimmered through the chamber.

The Voice
retreated behind the Star Screen, formally ending the audience.

The chamber
erupted in debate, but Master Rizel did not listen, lost in his own thoughts.
The
relics,
the Grand Master released the relics, the most potent magics stored
from another Age. He wondered if anyone alive could still wield them...and then
he considered the second half of the Grand Master's decision.  The full effect hit
him like a poleax. His stare roved across his blue-robed brethren, taking in the
divided floor, the Star Screen and the beauty of the illuminated text scribing
the walls. The Kiralynn Monastery was his home. It was also the most precious
haven of knowledge in all of Erdhe, yet it was no longer protected by
seclusion. If the monastery fell, the victory of Darkness would be absolute. In
the depths of his soul, he knew it was necessary, yet he shuddered at the risk.

28

Jordan

War drums beat a
steady cadence. The army marched north under proud battle banners, the red and
blue checks of Navarre rippling in the wind. Jordan rode in the vanguard, her
silver armor gleaming in the sunlight. With every passing league, her army
gained numbers. They came from villages, hamlets, and farmsteads, with weapons
on one shoulder, a sack of provisions on the other, answering the call of their
king. Clad in homespun browns, most were archers, but a few bore swords.
Doffing their caps at their bonny princess, they swelled the ranks, singing
folksongs to the cadence of the drums.

Keeping to the
roads, her army marched through villages and rolling farmland, and everywhere
the people of Navarre turned out to cheer. Women offered loaves of fresh baked
bread, girls blew kisses, while young lads ran alongside the column,
hero-worship beaming from their faces. Spirits soared and Jordan swelled with pride, but in the back of her mind a foreboding voice warned that her
army got the glory without the bloodshed. War made heroes but it also brought
death.

Knowing time was
of the essence, she pressed her men for more speed. They crossed the coastal
ranges, descending gently rolling hills into flat farmland, marching from
Navarre into Coronth. The countryside looked much the same as the seaside
kingdom, but the difference lay in the people. The Flame religion was dead, yet
the villagers were wary as kicked dogs, watching from behind shuttered windows.
Food grew scarce, the farms picked clean like a plague of locusts, yet they met
no opposition. Her men kept their weapons close and their senses sharp. Pickets
were posted around the camp each night while scouts rode a wide perimeter in
every direction.

The leagues
passed and Jordan grew increasingly anxious to see Stewart. She longed to take
the vanguard and spur ahead, to find his camp and rush into his arms, but the
army was her responsibility, the steady tramp of boots weighing on her like an
iron shackle. She chided herself for her own impatience, knowing every sword
she brought would be sorely needed, but the waiting proved hard. Married for
more than four moon turns, yet she’d spent but one night with her wedded
husband. One precious night, Jordan burned just thinking of him. Her stallion
sensed her need. Tossing his head, he whinnied, biting at the nearest mare.
Embarrassed, she settled her horse, hoping her helmet hid her blush.

The drizzling
rain turned to mist, the morning sun streaming through the clouds. A scout
emerged from the woods, cantering towards her. “Riders approach!”

“Friend or foe?”

The scout
flashed a grin. “They’re clad in emerald green!”

The Rose
Army,
joy leaped in her heart
.
“Sound the conch shells and double
the march time, we'll sup with our allies tonight!”

Cheers answered
her words. The conch shells blew and the war drums quickened their beat, yet it
still seemed a snail’s pace to Jordan. Scanning the horizon, she yearned for
the first glimpse of emerald green banners.

Leagues passed
before she saw them. A troop of thirty knights cantered down the far hillside,
arms and armor shining bright. They bore no battle banners but all their
surcoats were emerald green, white roses emblazoned on their chests. One in
particular caught her gaze. Tall and sure in the saddle, he wore no helm, his
dark hair streaming like a banner.
Stewart!

Her heartbeat
quickened and she yearned to set spurs to her mount, yet she felt an entire
army watching at her back. Keeping her stallion to a steady pace, she bridled
her heart, pulling him towards her with her gaze.

His emerald cloak
flaring behind, he galloped towards her with a smile on his face “You're a
welcome sight!”

An answering
smile blazed across her face. “Navarre brings our bows to the north.”

“As the Rose
brings our swords.” His eyes gleamed bright. “My lady of the seashell!”
Touching the brooch pinned to his cloak, he pivoted his stallion in a showy
turn to ride beside her.

Their knees
nearly touched.

“My husband.”
She yearned to lean across and kiss him, but too many watched.

His gaze burned
into hers. “It’s been too long.”

“Much too long.
The Crimson Keep seems like a dream.”

His voice
dropped to a whisper. “I miss our hovel in the ruins.”

A tarp, a
brazier and a bearskin rug, so simple their wedding bower
, she flushed
remembering, feeling a blush rise crimson across her face. She lowered her head
lest the others notice.

His escort
mingled with her vanguard, emerald green mixing with the red and blue of the
seaside kingdom. Greetings were exchanged, but Jordan heard none of it. “How
long till your camp?”

“Only a few
leagues.” His horse sidled towards her, their knees whispered close.

She longed to
kiss him. “Shall we ride ahead?”

“No.” His hungry
smile told her he wished it otherwise. “Let my men see my bride leading an
army.” Pride filled his voice. “Let them see what kind of queen I’ve wed.” 

His words
touched her like an unexpected gift.

"My queen
of seashells, you bring welcome swords and bows." He gazed at her with
unabashed pride...but then his face sobered. “I got your letters.”

Messengers
traveled so much faster than armies.

His voice
dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Jordan paled at
the memory of so much death. “The gods sent me visions, but I came too late.”

“You answered
their call and you saved some.”

“Not enough, not
nearly enough.”

"Don't say
that. Every life you saved matters."

She had not
written about her mother, a weeping wound too fresh to share. “Have you met the
enemy?”

“Not yet. Our
scouts watch the Snowmelt. If they try to cross, we’ll engage them."

"The river
is in full spate."

"A gift
from the gods. The Snowmelt is at its wildest in the spring...one of our few
advantages. They'll not find it easy to cross."

“And the odds?”

His gaze turned
bleak. “Too grim to name.”

She understood his
reticence. They spoke instead of the war behind them, sharing details of
Lingard and Pellanor and Navarre. The leagues passed and they topped a rise.
Jordan got her first view of the Rose Army. Canvas tents stretched in neat
lines, radiating outward from the central pavilions. Battle banners flew at the
heart of the camp, the crossed roses of Lanverness topped by a prince's crown,
the emerald silk bright against sun-drenched sky.

Scouts came
galloping toward them, their bows raised in greeting. A horn sounded a
welcoming note, summoning soldiers from their tents. A cheer rose from the camp,
echoed by her own army.

"Shall
we?" Stewart waited on her.

Jordan grinned.
"Sound the conch shells and greet our allies!"

Behind her, the
drums beat a merry rhythm while the conch shells added a voice from the sea.
With checkered battle banners streaming overhead, Jordan led her army down the
rise.

Soldiers in
green tabards poured from their tents. Clashing swords against their shields,
they raised a hearty cheer. “
The princess of Lanverness!”

Hearing her
marriage announced by thousands of male voices, Jordan felt her face flame
bright red.

The two armies
met and embraced. Jordan asked Major Colson to settle the men while she
followed Stewart to the central pavilions. Dismounting, she handed her reins to
an eager page. Stiff from the long ride, she met Stewart’s officers, a blur of
fresh faces and new names. She struggled through the introductions, knowing the
niceties needed to be observed, but it seemed a torture to stand so near to
Stewart yet not to touch.

Finally, Stewart
ended her agony, dismissing his officers. “We’ll feast tonight, our two armies
coming together as brothers-in-arms, but for now...I’d like to be alone with my
bride.”

His officers
flashed knowing grins and a few made ribald comments, but Jordan did not care. Stewart took her arm. A jolt passed through her. "This way, my
lady." He led her to the largest pavilion. She gaped in astonishment when
she saw it, for two coats of arms adorned the canvas, the emerald shield of
Lanverness…and the checkered shield of Navarre. Painted side by side, the two
shields were entwined with white roses, a declaration of their marriage...and
their love. “How?”

“I had it
painted before I left Pellanor, a small gift for my bride.” He held the canvas
flap aside. “My lady?”

She stepped
inside, embraced by the warmth of a glowing brazier. A jewel-colored carpet
covered the floor, soft beneath her boots. Two armor stands stood at attention,
waiting for sheaths of steel. A table cluttered with maps filled the center.
And in the rear, a wide bed covered in furs…but this was no ordinary camp bed.
Twice as wide and piled high with furs and pillows, it looked sumptuous...and
inviting.

Drawn to the bed
like iron to a lodestone, her fingers trailing across the sable fur, “And
this?”

“A craftsman
made it for me, two camp beds cunningly fitted together.” He stepped close.
“But I’ve not yet tasted its true purpose.”

A smile burst
across her face. "It's true..."

His lips were on
hers. His kiss consumed her. She clung to him, her hunger answering his. Armor
and clothing became impediments. They tugged at bindings and cursed the
buckles, leaving an empty trail across the pavilion. Finally naked, they fell
across the bed. Skin against skin, the need roared through them. His fingers
found her hot and wet. He trembled above her. "I can't..."

"
Yes!"
She needed no preamble. He mounted her with a deep thrust. She bit back a
moan, knowing an entire army listened just beyond canvas walls, yet she could
not get enough of him. Clutching him close, she urged him on. All too soon, he
shuddered on top. Sweat-drenched, they collapsed on soft furs.

She nestled her
head on his shoulder.

He smoothed a
wayward strand of hair from her face. “I couldn't wait."

"Nor I."
She snuggled against him. "I don’t want to ever be parted.”

“Nor I from
you...but we’ve a war to wage.”

“We’ll fight it
together.” Her fingers traced the scars across his chest and shoulders, a
legacy of the last war.

“Yes, but this
time we fight the Mordant.”

He rolled on his
side. Leaning on an elbow, he peered at her as if memorizing the curves of her
face. “You must promise to live.” 

His sudden
intensity scared her. “What troubles you?”

“Perhaps the
queen’s fears have infected me.”

“What fears?”

“Her dispatches
are full of concerns, about the Mordant's army, about some Prince of Ur who's
come to Pellanor…and about the Tandroth line.” He stared at her. “I am the
queen’s sole heir…and my wife rides to war beside me.”

Her breath
caught, afraid he would order her away, locking her behind castle walls, kept
safe like a broodmare. Anger spiked through her. "The Army of Navarre is
mine
to lead." She stared at him, her words laced with steel, a warning and a
threat. “We both serve by the sword and I will be nowhere else.”

"I know. That's
why you must promise to live."

She met his
gaze. “By Valin, we will
both
live beyond this war!”

He smiled then.
“My warrior bride.” Leaning down, he kissed her, gentle at first then deepening
to a renewed hunger. They made love a second time. Jordan reveled in his arms,
their pleasure magnified by the risk. All too soon, Stewart collapsed beside
her, a smile on his face. “It seems the bed is a success.”

“But, my lord,
we’ve barely tested it!”

“You vixen!” He
rolled on top, pinning her to the furs.

She struggled
against him, escaping his hold, a mocking display of resistance. Laughing, she
leaped from the bed, but he caught her, pulling her back to the warmth.

A voice from
beyond the canvas intruded. “My lord, your captains assemble for the feast.”

He pinned her to
the fur and claimed a deep kiss. "I'm not done with you."

"My
lord," a lad's voice persisted, "the princess's men have brought her
things."

Stewart sighed.
“Duty calls.” He gave her one last kiss and then rose from the bed.  Naked, he
crossed the pavilion to pour a goblet of wine.

Jordan enjoyed
the view, a sheen of sweat glistening across his bare skin, highlighting every
manly muscle.

Lifting the wine
goblet in salute, he winked at her. “Come.”

Yelping in
surprise, Jordan yanked a fur across her nakedness, a combination of hasty
modesty and reluctance to leave the warmth of their bower.

A tow-headed
squire held the canvas flap aside. Two men entered carrying her small chest of
clothes. Averting their eyes, they bowed toward the prince and then left the
pavilion with knowing grins on their faces.

Stewart pulled
on a tunic. “At least the queen will know our marriage is consummated.”

"You mean
my men will know!" Jordan threw a boot, but he dodged aside, a boyish grin
on his face. She felt her face flame red, but in truth she knew there were few
secrets in an army camp. They were wedded and bedded, and if the whole camp
dared to listen, it would not keep her from her husband’s bed. “They’re just
jealous.”

“No doubt.” He
flashed a conspirator’s grin. “But now dinner awaits.”

Darkness
encroached beyond the canvas walls, proving they'd spent hours in
dalliance...yet the time seemed so short to Jordan. They dressed quickly, the
scents of sizzling spit-roasted beef invading their pavilion to rouse their
hunger. Jordan chose a soft tunic of deep blue velvet over leather pants and
knee high boots. Buckling her sword at her waist, she swirled her checkered
cloak around her shoulders.