The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (19 page)

"What of
the blade bearer?"

"The
crystal dagger has gone north of the Dragon Spine Mountains...we've heard
nothing more."

"Much will
depend on the daughter of my bloodline."

Your
bloodline...
the knowledge staggered the monk, yet he forced his mind back
to the question at hand. "But how can mage-stone fail?"

The king gave
him a daggered look. "Have you forgotten so much?"

Master Rizel
waited, gripping the scepter. "How can mage-stone be scarred?"

"By failed
intent. The mage-stone of Castlegard is imbibed with the honor of the Octagon.
The two are inseparable. For a thousand years, steadfast honor has kept the
mage-stone adamant. If it fails then the honor of the Octagon is sullied and my
line fails."

Insight hit the
master like a slap from an iron-gloved hand.
For Honor and the
Octagon...Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge...
these were
more than just words, they were sacred vows, the essence of the knights, the
essence of the Order. The insight staggered him. Their magical roots ran deeper
than he'd ever fathomed.

The king drilled
him with his stare. "Look to lore for the answer you seek. The high magics
of the ancient wizards were so powerful they sought safeguards lest they fall
to the hands of Darkness. So the wizards imbued their greatest workings with
purpose, with intent." His voice turned ominous. "Consider the power
of words. Betray the intent and the magic will crumble."

Master Rizel
said, "I always thought it just a motto."

"Castlegard's
words are potent, a creed, a belief, a pledge. Betray the motto and you betray
the purpose." The king gave him a searing look. "The crumbling of the
great castle proves the intent is soiled if not broken...and I suspect the
bloodline is broken as well." His voice turned grim as a grave. "Your
Order breaks its oath to me." The king grew in size and menace, appearing
more like a wraith than a man. "Keep your vow and restore my
bloodline."

A cold wind
sprang up, swirling around the monk like a deadly vortex. Master Rizel fought
to hold his place against the gathering storm. "Can the magic be
restored?"

"Keep your
oath! Restore the purpose!"

An angry gust
battered against the master, snuffing the Ethereal Flames from the scepter.

With a roar, the
king disappeared in a swirl of white. 

The wind intensified,
snatching at Rizel's hair and robes, stinging his face with cold. Assaulted by
the whirlwind, he was harried and pushed.
Keep your vow,
the ghostly
words thundered through the fog, coming from a hundred voices.
Keep your vow
for the hour grows late.
A dense white surrounded him, stealing all his
senses. Prodded and pushed, he stumbled and fell. The golden scepter clattered
against the stony ground, but instead of rune-carved gold it was nothing more
than a wooden quarterstaff. Locking his fist on the wooden shaft, he staggered
to his feet. Blood poured from a cut on his forehead. Harried by the wind, he
staggered blindly through the Mist, clutching the staff like a talisman.
Beseeching the gods for aid, he stumbled forward and stepped into the light.

Sunlight dazzled
him. He fell to his knees in thanks. The vengeful wind was gone, replaced by
the stillness of the clear mountain sky.

Ambrose was
there, gripping his arm, anchoring him to the land of the living. Behind him
stood Master Grimshaw, concern etched on his ebony face. Ambrose pulled him to
his feet. "You're alive!" His eyes widened in alarm. "You're
bleeding! And burned! What happened in there?"

Master Rizel
shivered despite the sunlight. "It's worse than we feared. Somehow
Darkness has corrupted the Octagon Knights...and we've failed the King in the
Mist."

33

Jordan

The days fell
into a relentless rhythm. Riding from dawn till dusk, Jordan snatched hasty
meals with her captains and then spread her bedroll around the campfire, always
sleeping with her weapons close at hand. At night, she dreamt of Stewart, but
her dreams proved unreliable. Most times she dreamt of their last night
together, lying entwined on his sumptuous camp bed, other times she dreamt of
their wedding bower at the Crimson Keep, but too often she woke with a scream
hovering on her lips, plagued by visions of death and bloodshed. Shaking and
covered in sweat, Jordan told herself they were only nightmares, only her
imagination, yet she fretted over the terrible odds. War was a grim undertaking
where numbers mattered.
Forty thousand,
how could the north muster so
many?
Ten to one
, the odds hammered her mind. Such impossible odds, yet
somehow the enemy had to be stopped. Jordan glared at the heavens, unsure if
she should laugh…or weep. Any seasoned general would say the enemy's numbers
alone ensured a bitter loss, but the consequences of defeat were too terrible
to imagine. Somehow she had to find an advantage, something beyond swords.

Marching to a
steady drumbeat, her war host reached the Snowmelt River, the icy-cold divide
between the southern kingdoms and the Domain of Castlegard. This time of year,
the river glowed like green jade, a sure sign the cold waters swelled with
glacier melt. Beautiful yet treacherous, the springtime thaw made the Snowmelt
wild and unpredictable, a raging barrier between the north and the south. Needing
a better view, Jordan cantered to the nearest hilltop, her officers trailing
behind. From the wooded bluff, she gazed upon the river. A broad ribbon of
jade-green swirled with white she watched as treacherous eddies formed and
disappeared, small whirlpools compounding the river's danger. As she watched, a
felled tree came roaring downstream, tangled branches reaching toward the sky
like a desperate hand. The tree was immense, yet it sped by in a few
heartbeats, proof of the river’s fierce power. And then she saw a sheep,
bloated and dead, floating feet up, caught in the river's embrace.

Beside her Rafe
whistled, his gaze tracking the dead sheep. “The enemy’s going to cross
that
?”

“Not here.
Closer to the coast, the curves of the Serpentines tame the river.” Jordan
considered the stories she’d heard. “They say the curves slow the Snowmelt but
they also make the river tricky with sandbars. If the Snowmelt can be crossed,
it will depend on the luck of the sandbars.”

“Perhaps luck
won’t favor the Mordant.”

"What are
the odds of that happening?"

Rafe looked
away.

Jordan sighed. “We
can’t leave it to luck. We’ve got to be sure.” Spurring her horse to a canter,
Jordan led her army along the river's southern bank. Conch shells blew and the
army hastened their pace, battle banners rippling in the wind. They searched
for any place the enemy might ford. Thankfully the Snowmelt remained a wild,
unbreachable barrier. Jordan beseeched the gods to keep it so.

She settled her
horse to a steady walk. Her gaze kept roving to the north shore. The raging
Snowmelt formed a barrier but it was also a divide. Gently rolling farmland cradled
the south side, while the north shore held towering fir trees. Wild and dark, a
dense old-growth forest swept to the very edge of the Snowmelt, a feral
wilderness full of shadows and threats. Jordan peered north, trying to pierce
the forest’s secrets. Her sixth sense screamed in warning. An entire army could
lurk in the dense green and she would not know it. Jordan warned her scouts to
keep their longbows close.

Ten to one
,
the odds kept pounding at her mind. Jordan stared at the river, wondering if
the tumbling jade-green water could be an ally as well as a barrier. The river
seemed alive, a fast-flowing patchwork of swirls and eddies, yet it seemed to
have subtle patterns. Like river-scrawled calligraphy, the frothing white
etched a pattern, but it was one she could not read.
A pattern, a message
...the
idea teased her mind.

“Rafe, will you
do something for me?”

The monk stared
at her with fervent eyes. “Anything.”

His avid
attraction embarrassed her at times, yet she counted him a good friend. “Take a
handful of guards and a battle banner and ride hard for the coast. At the mouth
of the Snowmelt, you’ll find a small fishing village. Tell them you ride on my
behalf, for they owe allegiance to the king of Navarre. Talk to the villagers
and bring back someone who knows the river’s secrets, someone who can read the
messages scrawled in the eddies.” Her gaze turned to the jade-green water
swirled with white. “We need to make an ally of the Snowmelt.”

Rafe looked
chagrined. “You're sending me away? But I know nothing of rivers or fishermen.”

Jordan laughed.
“Seek knowledge, protect knowledge, share knowledge! Who else should I send? My
scouts can track hoof prints and follow armies, but I need someone who can ferret
out knowledge and wisdom. Someone who knows how to ask questions and weigh
answers.” Her gaze turned serious. “Find me a fisherman who can read the river
and knows the Serpentines.” Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Else we
cannot win.”

He bowed in the
saddle as if accepting a geas. “I’ll find someone for you.”

“Thank you.” She
turned and called ten names, giving them orders to accompany the monk and obey
his commands. “And, Rafe.”

His gaze snapped
towards her.

“Hurry.”

He nodded,
putting spurs to his mount.

Jordan watched
them gallop west, a small knot of men riding beneath a bright battle banner.
They carried a slender hope. She prayed she hadn’t sent them on a fool’s
errand.
Ten to one,
the odds were overwhelming, yet if the enemy crossed
the river she would not hesitate to order her army to attack. Her gaze clung to
the river, wild and wide, praying for aid. If the Snowmelt was not her ally,
then she saw no future save death.

34

Quintus

Quintus reached
for his quarterstaff, although in his hands it was more of a walking stick than
a weapon. His pruning knife was sheathed at his belt, but only plants needed to
fear that small blade. As a healer, he'd never taken to weapons training, but
in times of war it seemed imprudent to go outside the castle walls without some
protection. He grabbed a cold chicken leg he'd pilfered from the kitchen and
thrust it deep into a pouch, intending to save it for his midday meal. Straps
for his gathering pouches crisscrossed his chest, leather satchels hanging
empty at each hip. Divided into numerous pockets, the satchels were perfect for
gathering medicinal herbs. With the steady stream of wounded, his supplies were
running dangerously low. He hated this war.

His gaze flicked
to his frost owl's perch, still empty, a worry of another sort. Snowman was
long overdue. A chilling thought gripped him,
what if the masters have no
answer?
Quintus shuddered, making the hand sign against evil, refusing to
let his thoughts drift to darkness.

Closing the door
on the healery, he crossed the great courtyard, assaulted by the sounds of
wooden training swords clacking against shields. This latest levy of peasants'
sons was so young and so very green, yet they came bright-eyed to the training
yard, eager to learn the sword. The veteran knights that taught them were
either graybeards or maimed, yet their visible scars mattered not to the young.
All too soon they'd don their maroon surcoats and take up sharp-edged weapons,
dross for the gristmill of war. As Castlegard's healer, Quintus well knew the
terrible toll of war, but he'd also witnessed how steadfast belief could
triumph against the worst odds. He would not gainsay the young their
starry-eyed invincibility.

Quintus reached
the inner gates and found them open for the noontime passage. Giving the guards
a friendly wave, he strode between the mage-stone gates. His heartbeat
quickened. Like iron to a lodestone, his gaze swept to the right, to the scar
marring the mage-stone wall.
Still there.
A cold fist gripped his heart.
Every time he passed this way, he surreptitiously checked the scar, always
hoping it was gone, nothing more than a delusion...but the scar was always
there, the nightmare too true. Mage-stone was supposed to be invincible,
impervious to time, weather, and war, yet the great castle was scarred by a
wagon wheel.
A wagon wheel,
he shuddered at the thought, as if somehow
the very fabric of the world was coming unraveled. Surely the gods would
intervene...or perhaps they did not care.

Gloomy thoughts
dogged his steps. It did not help that he trod a path through the killing
corridor, the walled gorge between the soaring mage-stone battlements of the
inner castle and the outer ramparts raised by ordinary stonemasons. Such a grim
and terrible place. Desolate of any cover, the corridor was an eerie and
ominous place, a stone killing field, a trap designed for death. Even in broad
daylight, the corridor gave him the shivers, as if angry ghosts stalked his
shadow.

Spying a troop
of guards marching ahead, Quintus hurried his steps. Matching their stride, he
fell in behind them, grateful for a living escort through the chilling
corridors of no-man's-land.

Even at the
soldiers' quick gait, the long trek seemed to take forever. Finally he spied
the outer gatehouse. Quintus felt a profound sense of relief, glad to be rid of
the grim corridor.

Guards in maroon
cloaks walked the crenellated battlements, battle banners fluttering overhead.
The great ironbound gates stood open, the toothy portcullis raised, and the
drawbridge lowered as it often was at noontime. A wagon trundled across,
bearing goods from the nearby town. Quintus made sure to hail the guards so
they'd know he'd left the castle. His quarterstaff in hand, he crossed the
drawbridge, escaping the towering corridors of stone for the bright sunshine of
springtime.

Buttercups
blossomed on the greensward, clumps of golden yellow dotting the vast carpet of
fresh green that encircled the castle. A herd of sheep munched placidly in the
distance, keeping the greensward cropped while providing the castle with a
steady source of wool and mutton. Shaggy and dingy white, they looked like lazy
clouds tethered to the green. The herder boy, Jon, raised a hand in greeting. A
clumsy lad, Quintus had set his bones more than once. Replying with a cheerful
wave, Quintus stepped off the muddy road to meander south across the vast
greensward. Still soggy from the snowmelt, the grass squished wet beneath his
boots. The puddled dampness mattered not, for he'd come for the springtime
flowers. Like a bee, he fluttered from one crop to the next, collecting
cuttings for his satchels. Dandelions sprouted amongst the buttercups, a
cheerful flower with so many uses. Harvesting both the roots and leaves, he
made sure to leave half the patch untouched to ensure future crops. Leaving the
dandelions he moved towards a clump of blood root, stooping to clip the
delicate white flowers, a cure for fevers. His satchels began to bulge with
cures, but the find that thrilled him the most was the feathery leaves of the
yarrow plant. Renowned for its ability to stop bleeding, Quintus was
hard-pressed to harvest only half the crop. Carefully stowing the leaves and
flowers in a side pouch, he moved on, approaching the forest's edge.

Mighty oak trees
towered overhead, sheathed in springtime green. Quintus passed from sunshine
into shade, seeking to renew his supply of mosses used to staunch wounds. He
stumbled over an exposed root, but caught himself with his quarterstaff. Spying
a nettle bush, he stopped to collect leaves for an infusion to remedy colds.
Moving deeper into the forest, his gaze roved the shady green looking for more
cures. And then he saw them. A thicket of rusty swords reared from the forest
floor, their blades sunk deep in the dark loam, marking the graves of fallen
heroes. Shields dangled overhead, some moss-covered and dulled by time, but all
of them bore the same sigil, emblazoned with the maroon octagon of Castlegard.

He trod hallowed
ground, the gravesite of heroes, the oldest Shield Forest of the maroon. Using
his quarterstaff as a walking stick, Quintus wandered amongst the shields. So
many were freshly hung that they still glimmered silver, reflecting spears of
sunlight, undimmed by the ravages of time. As a healer, death was his enemy,
but Quintus always found the Shield Forest to be soothing to the spirit, a
place of peace where all those who died under the maroon banner were remembered
and honored. Surrounded by centuries of heroes, he walked amongst the rusting
swords. A warbler burst into song, adding a feathered melody to the peace of
the forest. Other birds twittered overhead, bright feathers flitting from
branch to branch. Quintus paused to breathe deep the scents and sounds of the
forest, overcome with an abiding sense of peace. Somehow the Shield Forest
offered a kind of solace, as if death was not the end.

Leaves rustled
overhead, strummed by a light breeze, calling him back to his task. Quintus
continued his quest, studying the forest with an herbalist's eyes. He spied a
clump of mistletoe and used his staff to knock it from the branches. White
berries budding among waxy green leaves, he added the mistletoe to his
collection.

And then he
noticed something odd.

The birdsong had
fallen silent, as if a predator stalked the woods.

A shiver raced
down his back,
he felt watched.

Quintus whirled,
nearly tripping over an exposed root. Regaining his balance, he brought his
quarterstaff to bear in a cross-body block. The staff felt clumsy in his hands,
yet he held it with a desperate grip. Sweat beaded his forehead. He scanned the
forest, listening, seeking enemy eyes. Every shield and every sword became the
perfect hiding place for foes. His heartbeat quickened. Every shadow seemed to
hold menace, the peace of the forest suddenly banished.

"Whoooooo."

Golden eyes
stared at him.

Snowman glided
towards him on silent wings.

Quintus sagged
in relief. "It's you."

The great frost
owl alighted on the cross hilt of a rusting sword. "Whoooo."

"What took
you so long?" The owl had an uncanny knack of always finding him, even in
the most unexpected places. "I'm glad you're back. Did you bring me an
answer?" Snowman looked lean, as if the hunting had been thin on his long
journey north. Quintus fished the cold chicken leg from his pouch. "Here
you go." He offered the chicken leg to the owl's delicate grasp. "You
need this more than I do." While the owl feasted on chicken, the drumstick
clutched in his formidable talon, Quintus checked the message jess. With
shaking hands, he removed the small bone tube. A small parchment was coiled
inside, but this was not the place. He thrust the tube deep into his collection
satchel. "I'll meet you back at the healery."

Snatching up his
quarterstaff, he hurried north. Taking a direct path, he saw nothing as he
strode through the forest, neither shields, nor swords, nor medicinal plants,
his mind fastened on the small message parchment coil in his satchel.

Emerging from
the leafy shade, his footsteps slowed, momentarily dazzled by the bright
sunlight and the view of the great castle. Slanting sunbeams burnished
Castlegard's towering walls to a silvery glow, maroon battle banners rippling
in the breeze. Reflections of the battlements shimmered in the deep green moat,
casting an image of everlasting might. His heart quailed, for he knew the image
was an illusion...unless the message held a cure.

Desperate for an
answer, he beat a straight path across the greensward. The hour was later than
he thought, he dared not tarry. Sweating, his lungs puffing like a bellows,
Quintus was the last to cross the drawbridge before the guards began to raise
it for the night.

He followed the
others through the stone corridor without speaking a word. So distracted was
he, that he did not even check the scar on the inner gate. Rushing across the
great yard, he returned to the healery. Locking the door, he unburdened his
satchels and then circled the chamber lighting every candle and lantern,
seeking to dispel every scrap of shadow. With shaking hands, he reclaimed the
message tube and drew forth the coiled parchment. His heartbeat thundered as he
dared to look.
It was in code.
Another ominous sign. He unlocked his
codex and deciphered the message.

Three times he
read the message before consigning the parchment to the candle flame. "
The
mage-stone magic is tied to intent. Darkness has corrupted the Octagon. Restore
honor to the maroon. Aid comes in the form of a sword."
His hands
shook as the small strip of parchment went up in smoke.
Restore honor to the
maroon,
the message made no sense. The maroon knights fought with valor. He
saw it in the wounded, in the maimed veterans who found ways to serve, in the
war-weary knights who returned to the battlefield. Beleaguered and sorely
outnumbered, the knights fought a desperate winter war against an evil foe...so
how had Darkness corrupted the maroon? And what was he supposed to do about it?

He paced a path
across the healery, wracking his mind for an answer to the riddle.
"Restore honor to the maroon," he repeated the words of the message,
but they made no sense. And then it hit him.
"For Honor and the
Octagon,"
the knights' words whispered out of him, hitting him like a
lightning bolt. He stood statue-still, his hands shaking, his mind whirling.
Mage-stone
magic is tied to intent.
Quintus shook his head at the elegant beauty of
it. He'd always thought the words were just a battle cry, a heraldic motto, an
inspiring phrase, but in truth they were so much more. Honor was the very
bedrock on which the great mage-stone castle was founded. Honor was something
the Dark could never understand. Something that could not be faked or mimicked
for true honor went bone-deep. He marveled at the elegant wisdom of the ancient
wizards. The answer had been right in front of him all along...yet it was also
a riddle. How was
he
supposed to restore honor to the maroon...and how
exactly had the Octagon's honor been lost?

Only a
healer...the knights don't even know I'm a monk!
Befuddled, Quintus sat at
his desk, watching the candles burn to wax puddles, feeling as if the weight of
the great castle had collapsed on his shoulders. Shadows crowded the room as
night knocked on his window, yet now that he had an answer, he knew not what to
do.