The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (2 page)

In The South

1

The Mordant

Hammers pounded
against stone, a cacophony of noise announcing the queen’s city. Scaffolds
surrounded the outer walls, stonemasons working to convert cobbled buildings
into stout battlements.
So, this is the queen's city.
The effect was
laughable, like putting armor on a whore. The Mordant smiled at the feeble
defense.
Mortals think mere walls can hold back Darkness. How little the
queen understands her true enemy.

Under false
banners, the Mordant led his entourage towards the city gates at a stately trot.
Bedecked in jewels and clad in a purple surcoat, he rode a magnificent white
stallion curried to a shine. Golden bells woven into the stallion's mane chimed
with every prancing step, all part of the ruse. Royal banners fluttered
overhead, the Great Wyrm embroidered in gold thread, proudly proclaiming a
prince of Ur. His entourage was similarly attired, resplendent in purple and
gold, completing the deceit. His women rode sidesaddle, tempting curves swathed
in colorful silks, attracting stares like bees to honey. Behind him, a team of
white oxen struggled to pull a wagon laden with treasure chests, a tease to the
greedy. His cadre of assassins and dwarf-sized duegars came last, dressed as
servants. Ignored and overlooked, they trailed a respectful distance behind,
danger hidden in plain sight. As a final touch, a hundred Citadel guards had
changed their colors, donning the purple and gold of imperial Ur. Clad in
burnished armor bearing the sigil of the Great Wyrm, they surrounded his troop
with a ring of potent swords. Jewels, women, and steel, his escort presented
the perfect blend of pampered royalty swathed in appropriate protection.

Bells chiming,
the Mordant and his escort neared the city walls.

Stares turned
their way, the sound of hammers slowing to a stop. Peasants, stonemasons and
passing merchants craned for a better view. The Mordant felt their envy. He
watched the way they ogled his women and the wagon piled high with treasure chests.
Even the queen's guards fell prey to the delusion. Leaning on their spears, soldiers
in emerald tabards watched from half-finished towers, yet no alarm was raised.
Unaware of the danger, the city’s ironclad gates stood open like a hungry maw
slavering for commerce.

His seneschal,
Bishop Borgan, bellowed in a sonorous voice, “Make way for the Twelfth-fold
Prince of Ur!”

Merchants and
peasants scuttled to get off the road, while guards in green tabards stood to
attention by the open gates.

"Make way
for the Prince of Ur!"

The shadow of
the gatehouse drew near. Without a single challenge, the Mordant rode through
the gates of Pellanor into the queen's city.

Wide cobbled
streets bustled with the noon-time crowd. Avid stares turned towards his
entourage. A pathway opened through the throng, the awe-struck crowd gaped in
wonder at the royal display. Many smiled, while others clapped or waved in
greeting. So open and so trusting, the populous proved their naivety. Clearly,
they’d never felt a tyrant’s lash...but that would soon change. He’d barely
entered the city and already the Mordant had the queen’s measure: a weak and
lenient ruler, a woman besotted with the acquisition of wealth. A smile curled
his lips. He'd met thousands of her sort, all easily lured to Darkness.

His gaze roved
the crowd, taking in the details. A small man clad in simple leathers slipped
from the throng to approach Major Tarq. The Mordant recognized his face, one of
the assassins he’d sent ahead to prepare the way. Walking next to the major,
the assassin served as a guide, directing them through the tangled streets.

Signs of
prosperity increased as they rode deeper into the city. Markets overflowed with
goods and the people appeared well-fed and content. Scents of cinnamon,
cardamom and other exotic spices wafted through the market, mingling with the
enticing smells of spit-roasted meats and fresh baked breads, proving Pellanor
had an abundance of food despite the recent war. Bright velvets became more
common, sparkling like jewels against the commoners’ homespun browns. The Mordant
studied the riot of faces. Women mingled with men, the rich amongst the poor,
with only a few swords in sight, evidence of a pampered city awash in too many
freedoms...but all of this would soon change, for he'd come to bring ordered Darkness
to all of Erdhe.

A castle thrust
up from the city's sprawling center, a bright confection of airy towers and
winged buttresses, bespeaking luxury instead of strength, indulgence instead of
dominance. Shops grew to the very walls of the castle, negating its military
value. So unlike the Dark Citadel, it looked like a pampered palace instead of
a fortress stronghold. A sneer lit the Mordant's face. Judging by the castle
alone, Pellanor would be an easy conquest.

They turned off
the main thoroughfare, winding through a district filled with large mansions
and small manicured gardens. Servants in bright livery stood by the doors. Fountains
danced in the gardens, a waste of water. The very air smelled perfumed, flowers
climbing trellises and spilling from window boxes. The district reeked of pampered
luxury, the perfect hiding place for lethal Darkness.

Their guide led
them to a large stone manse, glittering with diamond-paned windows. A servant
rushed to hold his stallion as the Mordant dismounted. A pair of tall oak doors
opened, disgorging a bevy of servants in purple livery. Bowing low, they
welcomed the Mordant to his mansion.

He strode
through the doorway, followed by assassins, duegars and fawning servants. Sunlight
streamed through diamond-paned windows, illuminating a large marble
entranceway. Tapestries bright with hunting scenes graced the walls, a gilded
stairway climbed to a second floor. A large chandelier hung suspended overhead,
glittering with crystals and golden cherubs. Gaudy and garish, the entranceway
bespoke an owner with too much wealth and too little taste. Satisfied with the
subterfuge, the Mordant said, “This will serve." Scanning the servants
prostrate on the marble floor, he added, "You may rise.”

His servants
hastily stood.

Frederinko
towered above the others, distinctive in his silver collar and nose chains. “Welcome
to Pellanor, my lord.” Bronzed from a lifetime spent beneath Ur's southern sun,
the chained servant was the lone kernel of truth in the Mordant’s elaborate deception.
Seized by MerChanters' raiders and carried to the far north at the Mordant’s
bidding, he’d broken the eunuch’s will in the bloody cavern beneath the Dark
Citadel. Now a dedicate of Darkness, the eunuch served as the Mordant’s
emissary to the Rose Court. With a courteous bow, the chained servant gestured
toward the gilded stairway. “Would you like to see the rest of the manse?”

“Show me the
cellar.”

“As you wish.”

The Mordant
followed the chained servant toward the rear of the house. Bishop Borgan, Major
Tarq, his master assassin, Dolf, and Rollo, a snargon of the duegars, stayed
close, providing a mixture of protection and service.

A doorway in a
shadowy alcove opened to stairs leading down. Thick stone walls embraced the
stairway with a cellar’s wintery chill. The stairs led to a small room crowded
with wine casks stacked floor to ceiling. 

Frederinko
stepped to an enormous barrel inset in the wall. “Stonemasons worked tirelessly
to complete the modifications you required.”

“Have they been
silenced?”

“Silent as a
grave.” Turning the tap on the large barrel, the eunuch tugged and the lid
swung open, revealing a hidden passage.

The Mordant
gestured and Dolf plumbed the passage followed by Rollo. There was no need for
him to tax his powers while others lived to serve. While he waited on their
inspection, the Mordant turned to Frederinko. “Tell me of the queen.”

Frederinko
flashed a shark’s smile. “The queen toils like a drone bee, struggling to
repair the ravages of the Flame War. She builds walls and rekindles commerce, but
her actions prove her deepest nightmares come from the north. When Raven Pass fell, she scrambled to rebuild her army and forge a patchwork alliance. Her sole
heir marches north with the Rose army, a futile attempt to delay the
inevitable.”

The Mordant suppressed
a grin, for wars ever provided the best distractions
.
“What of Dominic
and Castor?”

“Dressed as
jesters, both were accepted as gifts and reside in the castle.”

“Good. Send word
that I’ll meet with them on the morrow. I’ll need a full report.”

“As you
command.”

Dolf and Rollo
returned, making the hand signal that all was safe.

The Mordant
stepped through the opening, entering a pristine dungeon. Caged cells stretched
away on either side, yet the chilled air carried nothing but the ascetic scents
of mortar and fresh-cut stone.

Frederinko
gestured left and right. “Cells enough to hold fifty people or more, and there
are even two oubliettes if you wish to invoke the subtlest of tortures.” Crossing
the corridor, he unlocked an ironbound door. “This way to the sanctum.”

Dolf lifted a
torch from the wall, leading the way down the narrow stairs.

The Mordant
followed, emerging into a large stone-cloistered chamber. Darkness arched
overhead, the ceiling soaring to a corbelled vault shrouded in shadows. Torchlight
flickered in the gloom, revealing a blank canvas. Bone-cold and grave-dank, the
sanctum was empty of symbols save for a single great pentacle inscribed across
the floor, silver inset in the dull granite. Man-high braziers stood at the
five points of the pentacle. Sculpted in bronze, the twisted figures writhed
like tortured souls straining for release. Simple in its design, the sanctum
echoed the configuration of the Dark Citadel’s bloody cavern, but it was new
and unused…and devoid of power, a chapel waiting to be dedicated. The Mordant
yearned to awaken the Darkness, to summon the divine Dark to the very heart of
the queen's city. Striding to the pentacle, he stood in the center and closed his
eyes, reaching for his god. He found the Dark God lurking at the edge of
reality, slavering for worship in the heart of Lanverness. “Yes, this will do.”

His eyes snapped
open, his gaze fastening on Major Tarq. “Sacrifices are needed to open the
gateway. Bring me orphans and pickpockets and other riffraff, people who shall
not be missed. Later, we’ll be more blatant in our offerings.”

“As you command.”
The major saluted, fist to breastplate.

His gaze turned
to the snargon. “Have your duegar run regular sweeps of the city streets. If
the meddling monks aren’t already infesting the city, they soon will be. Sniff out
their magic and you’ll find their bolt holes. I want reports of any magic, any monks…or
knights of the Octagon found within Pellanor.”

The snargon
bristled, “But we can only…”

The Mordant
glared. “You have eyes. Use them.”

The snargon
bowed low, stepping back into the shadows.

Bishop Borgan
said, “Shall I send word to the queen requesting an audience?”

The Mordant’s
gaze snapped to the portly bishop disguised as a seneschal. "Stupid does
not serve me."

The bishop
blanched, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

"All of
Pellanor speaks of our arrival…though they know not who I am.” The simple
deception amused the Mordant, wakening a fierce passion for the hunt. “The queen
will seek an audience with us. The arrogant bitch will invite her own doom...and
we, being obliging guests, shall accept.” A thrill coursed through him, an
eagerness to reach the end game. His voice crackled with power, ominous with
prediction. “In this lifetime, all of my enemies shall be shattered. Let the Great
Dark Dance begin.”

2

Master Numar

The dark of the
moon, such an ill-omened time, yet he understood why Aeroth chose it for their
moon-turn meeting. Shrugging the satchel onto his back, Master Numar chose a stout
staff from the stand near the door and set off from the shop at a brisk walk.
Wielding his quarterstaff like a walking stick, he made his way through the
cobbled streets of Pellanor.

Late at night,
yet the streets were not entirely empty. A neighboring shopkeeper walked by,
doffing his cap in greeting. Master Numar smiled, replying with a friendly nod.
A master of the Kiralynn Order, yet he'd exchanged his midnight blue robes for
the simple garb of an apothecary. He looked the part. His long white beard,
brushed and carefully cultivated, drew the respect of many, a timeworn mark of
a venerable elder. He could act decrepit when it suited him, but in truth, he
was in robust health despite his sixty-three years.

Candlelight
flickered from many windows, brightening the street. The queen's city never
truly slept. Despite the ravages of the Flame War, commerce returned to
Pellanor like a long lost lover. Shops were re-opened, damages repaired, and
homes rebuilt. Soon the markets brimmed with goods. People flocked to the city,
spending their hard-earned coin with renewed vigor. Even his small apothecary shop
flourished in the wake of the war. The master was truly impressed. He'd only met
the queen once, but she was a formidable ruler, truly skilled at commerce. If
ever a city and its monarch deserved to be saved from Darkness, it was Pellanor
and its steadfast queen. He prayed the Lords of Light protected both.

For more than
the turn of an hourglass, he walked the cobbled streets, threading his way
towards the tower. He kept a sharp watch for skulking shadows, for even the
queen's city had its share of ill-doers, yet he was not truly worried. With a
powerful focus nestled in his left pocket and his quarterstaff in his hand,
there was little he feared. Perhaps it was his confidence, or the way he
handled his quarterstaff, or perhaps his plain brown robes bespoke a man who
was not worth robbing. Whatever the reason, he met no trouble on his late night
stroll.

He turned from
the street of tailors onto the street of chandlers. Wooden signs bearing
painted candles hung over shop doors for those who could not read. Trade was
the lifeblood of Pellanor, but the pursuit of coins sometimes seemed like a
rabid religion. Some might decry the avid pursuit of commerce as a blasphemy,
yet the queen's city offered more peace, prosperity and comforts than any other
city in Erdhe. Pellanor's markets overflowed with everything from the ordinary
to the exotic. Like a trail of tempting breadcrumbs, he followed the line of shops
all the way to the tower. Torchlight beckoned at the end of the street,
heralding his destination.

Rising from the
clutter of commerce, the Ancestral Spire soared like a needle reaching for the
very heavens. Built of polished granite, the soaring tower glittered in the
torchlight, an impressive feat of stonemasonry. The master's gaze followed the
spire to its lofty height, well aware of the tower's history. In times long
past, the surrounding area had been a royal cemetery, but Pellanor gobbled land
like a drunk swills ale. Even back then, the Rose monarchs were famed for their
skill at commerce. Aware of the land's rising value, the reigning monarch
ordered the Spire built and then exhumed his royal ancestors, enshrining them
in the tower. Folklore said the vacated cemetery sold for a king's ransom while
the tower became the most sought-after burial place in all of Erdhe. Sprawling
ever outwards, the city gobbled the surrounding land, erasing all signs of the
cemetery, but the tower remained as a monument to the royal line, a venerable
landmark of Pellanor and the perfect place to meet Aeroth.

A pair of guards
in emerald tabards stood watch by the brass doors, yet by royal decree the tower
was ever open to the people. Master Numar paid a copper, the fee for
admittance, and entered the arched doorway. A hushed stillness embraced him. He
shivered, feeling the sudden chill of cloistered stone. The Spire was hollow, a
marvel of stonemasonry rising to a lofty vault. Beneath the pinnacled vault was
a small chapel. Austere yet elegant, the round chapel held a stone altar draped
in shimmering cloth of gold. An oil lantern burned bright upon the altar,
representing the eternal Light. A dozen braziers surrounded the altar,
releasing clouds of incense. The heavenly scent wafted upwards like prayers
rising to the tower's gold-leafed pinnacle.

The chapel's
simplicity, coupled with the spire's soaring heights, evoked feelings of peace
and humility. Master Numar bowed low in reverence to the Light, but he'd not
come to worship. Instead, he took the long stairs that curled around the outer
walls, spiraling upwards to the lofty pinnacle. It was here, on either side of
the stairs, that the ancient royals were interred. Stone sarcophagi were inset
in the walls and banister, their effigies chiseled in lustrous white marble.
Kings and queens, knights and dukes, the ancient royalty crowded together,
lining the walls of the spire. The early tombs showed their age, the
stone-chiseled details faded by time and touch. Faces with blunt noses, folded
hands without fingers, marble swords without blades, the effigies stared blind
from the wall, yet he felt their presence, as if the ancestors of Lanverness
kept watch. Torchlight danced across marble kings and granite knights,
sparkling on the polished stone, granting a patina of warmth. Heraldic symbols
of royalty were everywhere, orbs, scepters, crowns and a garden of stone roses.
He read the chiseled names as he made his way up the stairs, a lesson in
Pellanor's history. The tombs became more elaborate the further he climbed, the
details chased with gold and silver filigree and inset with semi-precious
stones. Halfway to the top, he found tombs topped with marble bards strumming
lutes alongside pudgy merchants draped in jewels, proof of the tower's
prestige. Fame or great wealth bought admittance to the spire, the monuments
and urns of elevated commoners vying for space amongst the royals. And then,
abruptly, the effigies and the fine carvings stopped, nothing but empty
sarcophagi and plain walls awaiting future luminaries. Something about the
blank walls made him shiver, a stark reminder that death waits for us all.

The stairs
suddenly felt lonely. Master Numar hastened his steps, reaching the top of the
spire. Opening the ironbound door, he stepped out onto the parapet. A night
breeze snatched at his beard, lukewarm compared to the spire's stony chill. The
rampart encircled the spire, offering a peerless view of the queen's city. He
strolled once around the spire, making sure the rampart was empty. Satisfied,
he returned to the eastern view, staring across the city's sprawling expanse.
Candles, lanterns and torches lit the cobbled streets with thousands of softly
glowing pinpricks, as if the city sought to rival the stars. And at the heart
of it all rose Castle Tandroth, its towers rising above the city like a stone
scepter. He could have stared at the view for hours, mesmerized by the lights
and the bird's eye view, but he'd come to the tower with a purpose. Shrugging
his satchel from his shoulders, he removed a pillar candle. He lit the candle
and set it on the rampart, a signal for Aeroth, and then he sat on the stone
floor, setting his back to the spire. From his satchel he removed a roasted
chicken, a loaf of brown bread laden with raisins, and a flask of fine Tubor
wine. Familiar with the price of magic, he knew Aeroth would be ravenous. The spit-roasted
chicken smelled mouthwatering, but he settled back to wait for his friend.

He did not have
long to wait.

A frost owl
circled the spire, white wings spread wide, gliding on the night breeze. Silent
and seemingly effortless, the great owl circled the tower twice before
alighting on the rampart.

Master Numar
held his breath, always dazzled by the power of magic.

"Whooooo!"
The owl gave its inquisitive cry and then blinked. Feathers ruffled, the frost
owl shuddered, a faint nimbus of light surrounding it. The great owl stretched
and blurred till a blue robed monk stood in its place. Unconcerned with the
spire's dizzying height, Aeroth stepped down from the rampart.

The two masters
clasped arms. "Well met."

Aeroth looked
exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Master Numar voiced his concern.
"You look tired, my friend."

"I've spent
too long in the owl."

"You need
rest."

"I've too
many leagues to travel, too many places to watch. Much is happening in the
north."

Master Numar's
interest burned bright, but he gestured to the repast. "Sit and eat, and
then we'll talk." 

They sat
cross-legged, sharing the meal. Aeroth attacked the chicken, tearing off a
juicy drumstick. Master Numar cut a sliver from the breast, nibbling on the
crispy skin. The chicken proved tender and tasty, seasoned with rosemary just
the way he liked it, but he knew his friend's needs far exceeded his own
hunger.

Aeroth finished
the first leg and started on the second. "Tell me of Pellanor."

Master Numar
uncorked the wineskin. "The queen's city flourishes. Commerce returns
almost as if the Flame War never happened."

"And the
queen?"

"A
formidable monarch, she used the Order's gift of Napthos wisely. Instead of
saving the hellfire to protect herself and her royal city, she used it to trap
her enemy in Lingard." Master Numar swirled the wineskin. "I wonder how
many kings would have made such a daring choice."

Aeroth gave him
a pointed look. "So you met her?"

"It seemed
necessary. With the comet low in the sky, we need to work more closely with the
sovereigns of the south."

Aeroth pointed a
chicken bone his way. "Yet your robes are brown."

"After
Fintan's gruesome death, I'll not wear the blue below the southern
mountains."

"A warning
to us all." Aeroth looked distraught. "Did you learn anything of his
killer?"

Master Numar
frowned. "The killer lurks in the queen's castle, yet her shadowmen have
no clue."

"Then we
have an enemy in the city."

"Just so.
That's why I suggested we meet here. The dead will keep our secret."

Aeroth reached
for the wineskin. "And what of Fintan's focus?"

A chill
feathered down the master's back. "Lost. After his murder, I searched his
room, I searched his belongings, it was not there."

Aeroth hissed.
"That focus was powerful."

"But the
enemy might not be able to wield it. Magic can be stubborn, choosing the hand
that wields it."

"Pray that
it is so. The Order cannot afford to lose more magic, let alone have it turned
against us."

Master Numar
broke the bread, offering a chunk of the raisin loaf to Aeroth. "Tell me
of the north."

"Raven Pass
has fallen."

The breath
hissed out of him, a dire stroke against the south. "How?"

"The
Mordant used magic, destroying the gates. His hordes poured through the walls
and then he tricked the Octagon King into single combat. The king is dead. The
knights continue to fight, chewing on the enemy, but it is like a dog harrying
a lion. The outcome is inevitable unless something shifts the balance."

"What of
the blade bearer?"

"There is
no word...but there is hope."

Master Numar
pounced on the word. "Hope?"

"The king
of Navarre listened to his daughter. He agreed to send the merchant fleet north
to the Dark Citadel."

Master Numar's
breath caught. "
The Dark Citadel!"

Aeroth nodded.
"Princess Jordan had visions that the blade bearer is there."

"In the
very lair of the Mordant?"

Aeroth gave him
a grim nod.

Master Numar
could not imagine it. Every tale of the far north reeked of nightmares, yet, if
the girl had somehow defeated the citadel, it was a victory undreamt.
"And?"

"The fleet
has not been seen in Navarre, so all assume it sailed north." Aeroth's
voice dropped to an ominous whisper. "I tell you, Numar, finding that
fleet taxed the owl to the very limits." He shook his head as if warding
off a nightmare. "The owl was not meant to cross the sea. I slept for a
fortnight when I reached land." He shuddered. "I pray that I never
have to do that again." Aeroth leaned close. "And I'll tell you
something else. I'm having dreams, dreadful night terrors, of birds bearing the
faces of men...as if the two are melded together, demon-forged into one foul
creature."

Master Numar
hissed. "Soul magic?"

Aeroth made the
hand sign against evil. "I don't know. But I tell you this, evil creeps
across Erdhe, working in more ways than we know. Hold your secrets close. Take
care with whom you keep company and be forewarned."

Master Numar
fingered the focus nestled deep in his pocket. "I will. And you must do
the same."

Both men set to
eating the raisin bread. Talking of small things, they passed the wineskin back
and forth. Master Numar mentioned the arrival of the Prince of Ur in the
queen's city. Both men marveled that Ur would send an imperial prince all the
way to Erdhe. Finished with the meal, Aeroth stood upon the rampart. "I'll
see you at the next dark of the moon."

"I'll be
here."

Aeroth
shimmered, flaring with a soft white light, and then the frost owl stood in his
place, talons balanced on the rampart. "Whoooo." Spreading its white
wings wide, the owl glided from the tower, soaring over the queen's city.

Master Numar
watched till the owl disappeared, swallowed by the gathering clouds. For the
longest time he stared north, consumed with thoughts of the Dark Citadel.
Aeroth had brought strange tidings. The Battle Immortal was a tangle of
conflicts, battles wrapped in subterfuge hidden beneath ancient riddles, yet he
needed to focus on Pellanor. An assassin lurked in the queen's castle, a killer
of monks. He fingered the focus in his pocket, bolstered by thoughts of its
magic.