The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (26 page)

47

Liandra

The queen paced
her solar, anxious to speak to the monk. Twilight came and went and still Lady
Sarah did not return. Liandra began to fear she’d sent her friend into danger.
Ladies-in-waiting were not shadowmen, yet this was Pellanor, what ill could
befall her? The queen’s imagination ran wild. Finally a gentle knock on the
door assuaged her anxiety.

“Come.”

Lady Sarah
slipped inside…but she came alone, her hooded cloak beaded in raindrops, as if
stained by tears. Curtsying, she stepped towards the fire, a hint of rebuke in
her voice. “Majesty, you’ve let the fire burn down.”

One look at her
friend’s pale face and the queen knew something had gone awry. Liandra watched
as Lady Sarah added logs to the hearth, stoking the fire to a bright blaze. The
queen longed for answers, yet she knew the simple domestic chore served to calm
her friend’s unease. With the fire blazing, the lady set a tea kettle to brew.

Unable to wait
any longer, the queen said, “Tell us.”

Lady Sarah sank
to the nearest chair, her face pale. “Majesty, I could not deliver your
letter.” She removed the sealed parchment, setting it on a side table. “I went
to apothecary row and found the white unicorn over the doorway, just as you
said…but the shop was blackened and burned to a hollow shell.”

“Burned?” Fire
was a risk in any city, yet Liandra had heard nothing of a major blaze.

“Burned from
inside, just that one shop."

Just the one,
it stank of treachery. "How?"

"I talked
to one of the other shop owners, purchasing a pouch of chamomile tea as an
excuse to gather gossip."

The queen
waited. "And?"

“Most of the
shopkeepers gave me fearful looks, but one talked." Lady Sarah’s voice
sank to a whisper. “Majesty, they said it was
sorcery
." She cast a
fearful look towards the queen. "Fireballs in the dead of night, glowing
bright as the sun, but the blaze did not spread, as if it sought a single
target and then expired. The next morning, the shop was naught but a blackened
shell, everything destroyed.” Her voice cracked with strain. “And at the
blackened heart, they found four bodies, burnt to char. Whispers say it was
dark magic.”

Dark magic
…
in
our city,
a shiver raced down the queen’s spine.
“When did this
happen?"

"Two nights
ago."

As if someone
knew she would reach out to the monks.
"But who caused the fire?”

“No one knows.”
Lady Sarah stared at the queen. “They fled…or took their secrets to a fiery
grave.”

So the monks
are dead
…
or gone into hiding.
The queen began to pace, she'd counted
on the monks' knowledge...on their aid.
Dark magic in her city,
but it
would not be the first time. Memories of Lord Turner’s gruesome death plagued
her.
An animated corpse capering in the boiling cauldron
, who could
forget those glowing red eyes, a nightmare sprung straight from hell. A shudder
passed through her. Perhaps another one of those
things
lurked in her
city. Magic was the domain of the monks. If only she knew how to contact them. She
recalled their web of spies, the way their scrolled messages appeared as if by
magic. Perhaps they would approach her; she clung to the hope, for surely
Darkness stalked her throne.

The queen rang a
hand bell, summoning a page. When the tow-headed lad appeared, she snapped an
order. "Summon Master Raddock to our solar."

Liandra continued
to pace, a storm of threats in her mind.
If only Robert were here,
she'd
sent him a dispatch, summoning him home, but he'd yet to return...or reply,
another ominous sign. Liandra felt as if a noose tightened around her.

Finally, her
deputy shadowmaster appeared, a rumpled crow in dark robes. "You summoned
me, majesty?"

Lady Sarah rose
to leave, but the queen gestured for her to remain seated. "Tell our
deputy shadowmaster all you learned at the apothecary shop."

Lady Sarah
complied. The queen listened to the recounting, sifting through the details,
but her conclusion did not change. She rounded on her shadowmaster. "Why
have we not heard of this?"

He made a
placating gesture. "Your shadowmen are stretched thin. We cannot chase
every ill rumor in the city."

Steel laced the
queen's voice. "This is one rumor you
will
chase. We need to know
every detail of this fire. We need to know who started it. But most of all, we
need to know if anyone survived and where they went. And we need to know it
now!"

Annoyance
flashed across his sallow face, but it was quickly swallowed. "Yes,
majesty."

Her anger boiled
over. "Now go. Return to us with answers."

He gave her a
perfunctory bow and then retreated from her solar. The door clicked shut and
the queen continued to pace.

Lady Sarah dared
to interrupt, a quaver in her voice. "Majesty, do you truly think it was
dark magic?"

Liandra stopped
pacing, her ringed hands balling to fists. "We are not sure. We only know
that we reached out to the monks for their aid, and now they are dead or
fled." Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "As a queen, we dare not
believe in coincidences. Someone plays a deep game against us. We feel darkness
crowding close. Our enemy is several moves ahead, as if he anticipates our
every move."

"But who is
this enemy, majesty?"

"That is the
secret we must discover...ere he turns the game against us."

48

The Mordant

The red-haired
lord hung by his wrists, suspended from chains. His once-handsome face was
swollen with bruises, his naked torso crisscrossed with cuts. His blood dripped
onto the pentacle, a fitting tribute for the Dark God.

The Mordant
circled the prisoner, studying the body like a work of art. In the hands of a
skilled torturer, pain was a scalpel, exposing the raw soul. His voice was velvety
soft, a keen contrast to the sharp blade. "Tell me of the queen. Tell me
what she fears. Tell me what she suspects. Save yourself the pain." 

He stroked the
prisoner with his voice, but the red-haired lord only glowered, remaining
stubbornly silent.

"My men
caught your boy, the one you sent to spy on me. But the urchin proved of little
use. He knew your name but nothing more."

Silence was the
only answer.

The Mordant
whirled. Wielding the knife like an artist's paintbrush, he slashed the rune-carved
blade across the Sheriff's chest in an exquisite arc. Blood spurted in a line,
crimson across pale skin, adding to the mosaic of cuts.

The Sheriff
jerked like a hooked fish, his teeth clamped shut against a scream.

"Scream all
you want, for no one will hear you."

The Sheriff
slung from the chain, slick with sweat and blood.

The Mordant
smiled. "Pain but nothing permanent. Not yet. I hope you appreciate my
restraint."

"You're a
monster." The Sheriff spat the words. "And the queen will have your head."

"Will she
now?" The Mordant's voice was a soft purr. "Who does she think I
am?"

The Sherriff did
not answer.

The Mordant
considered his prey. So many of the queen's lords had succumbed to bribes,
while others fell to sexual favors, but a few remained stalwart like rocks
standing against breaking waves. Even their souls proved impervious to his
probes, hence the need for more mundane methods like torture. Never before had
so many resisted his probing gaze. Their iron defense puzzled him...troubled him...angered
him. He hadn't expected the queen to have gathered so many honest lords.
"Tell me this, why do you serve her?"

The Sheriff
glared, his naked chest glistening with sweat and blood.

"Answer
this one question and we are done for the day."

"You would
not understand."

"Try
me."

"Because
she
serves!
"

The answer made
no sense.

The Sheriff
barked a rude laugh tinged with madness.

"Explain."
The Mordant's voice strained with danger.

"
She
serves her people. The queen brings prosperity and peace, a type of bounty a
fiend like you knows not."

His hand snaked
out, scoring two more cuts. A flap of skin hung down, exposing raw muscle.

The prisoner
grimaced...but he did not scream.

"You'll
scream before I'm done with you. You'll scream and beg for death." The
Mordant longed to slash the Sheriff's insolent throat, but he fought the
impulse. "I will teach you what it means to serve." He flicked a
glance to Gron. "Let him hang for another two turns of the hourglass to
ripen and then put him in a cell. I need him whole and unbroken or he cannot
serve."

The torturer
bowed low. "Yes, lord."

"And patch
him up. I want him healed to hurt again."

"Yes, dread
lord."

Tossing the
bloody knife upon a tray, the Mordant strode across the chamber and climbed the
stairs. An assassin rushed to open the door. The Mordant passed from the Dark
sanctuary into the dungeon, the holding cells for the damned. Haggard faces
pressed against the bars, their desperate stares suddenly averted as they
caught sight of him. The Mordant breathed deep their scent of fear, a potent
aphrodisiac mollifying his anger, but he did not tarry.

Stepping through
the wine barrel, he returned to the manse proper. An assassin closed and locked
the hidden door, stoppering the scents and sounds of the dungeon. The Mordant
climbed the stairs, leaving the wine cellar behind.

Sunlight lanced
through the diamond-paned windows, causing him to squint at the sudden
brightness. The day was still young, proving the time spent in the dungeons
moved at its own intense pace. He stopped to wash the blood from his hands and
then made his way to Bishop Borgan's room.

The fat prelate
sat behind a desk cluttered with parchments, ink bottles, feathered quills, and
sticks of brightly colored sealing wax, the tools of an expert forger.

"Is it
done?" The Mordant sat in a chair opposite the bishop.

"Just
finished." The bishop handed him a parchment. "Take care lest you
smear the ink."

The Mordant
studied the parchment. The penmanship was slanted and quickly scratched,
conveying a hurried, harried look. An ink stain in the corner added a nice
touch, compounding the impression of frantic urgency. The bishop truly was an
artist when it came to forgery. The Mordant read the dispatch, carefully considering
each word. A smile slithered across his face. "Yes, this will do. I grow
bored with the waiting. Send it."

The bishop
reclaimed the parchment, carefully affixing a wax seal. "I'll have one of
the young ones deliver it."

"Good."
His smile deepened, flushed with anticipation. Still aroused from his work in the
dungeon, the Mordant added, "Tell Iris I'll have her in my bed
tonight."

The prelate
flashed a salacious smile. "Yes, lord."

The Mordant
strode from the chamber, his purple cloak swirling behind him, the great Wyrm
embroidered across his surcoat. Everything was falling into place, all his
carefully laid plans. Soon Lanverness would be his for the taking, the keystone
to claiming his next lifetime. And then he'd change his colors one last time,
revealing the Darkness within.

49

The Priestess

The Mordant
summoned her to his bed. An assassin knocked on her door, bringing word of his
lord's desire. The Priestess was mildly amused by the choice of messenger,
unable to decide if it was merely ironic or a portent of things to come. Either
way the date was set.
Tonight!

Twilight
deepened to darkness and still she prepared. The Priestess managed every detail
with utmost care, her skill and art roused to a formidable challenge. Seduction
was the ultimate poison, leaching into the soul and subverting the will.
Tonight she’d ply her powers on a thousand-year-old evil. Such an old soul,
such a dangerous foe, but despite his years, the Mordant was still mortal. He
was still a man, and men she knew very well. A cunning smile graced her face,
anticipating the challenge. A man’s needs often trumped his reason. Needs had a
way of becoming weaknesses. All men were slaves to sex. The Priestess planned
to master the Mordant in his own bedchamber, exacting her own brand of
vengeance while chaining him with his most primal need.
The Mordant chained,
the thought alone brought unspeakable pleasure.

The Priestess
studied the mirror. She’d given much thought to his seduction. For such an
experienced partner, she decided layered mysteries were the key to his enthrallment.
She began with layers of scent to tease his senses, tracing fragrant trails
across her skin, a rare aphrodisiac leading him on a merry pathway to pleasure.
Layers of silk to tease his eye, she chose gowns from her cedar chest, each
more diaphanous than the next. Soft and mysterious, the silken layers would
entangle his gaze while she slowly revealed her secret delights. And last but
certainly not least, she planned on using layers of technique. Methods of
delight melded with magic, she'd wield both pain and pleasure, enthralling his
mind while ensnaring his senses. Tonight would be like no other.  She'd stoke
his passion to an unbearable bonfire.

Her handmaidens
hovered about, completing the details. Her raven-dark hair was braided into
complex rings, a confection designed to slowly unravel. Accenting her eyes with
kohl, they dusted her eyelids with crushed malachite and added a tint of ruby
to her lush lips, but nothing more. By design, she kept her guise simple yet
complex, the perfect conundrum to ensorcell a thousand-year-old soul.

The Priestess
gazed in the mirror and a dark temptress stared back, a sultry smile on her
face.

Pleased with the
effect, she dismissed her handmaidens. Kneeling by her rosewood chest, she
unlocked her store of deathly delights. Her gaze caressed the vials of lethal
possibilities, considering her choices. She'd answer the summons of the
Mordant, bringing seduction to his bed, but not without her best defense. Her
serpentine bracelets were too obvious, a ruse she'd never get past his assassin
guards. For tonight’s prey, she needed something far more subtle, yet carefully
controlled, a poison designed as a hidden dagger. Carefully trimming the
smallest fingernail on her left hand, she filed it to a razor-sharp edge. Beneath
the nail, she painted her most potent poison, a deadly concoction of
nightshade, crushed angel’s trumpet, and tincture of yew. A single scratch, a
single drop of drawn blood and he'd die a most hideous death.

Of course the
poison was only a prudent precaution, far better to enslave the oldest
harlequin to her will with sex.

Her preparations
complete, she settled a silver chain around her neck. The sundered Eye dangled
between her breasts, her only jewelry. Bound in a cage of silver wire, she wore
the broken moonstone as reminder of her bitter loss, a score that needed to be
settled. The oldest harlequin had shattered the great gemstone, stealing the
scrying power of the Eye. A gift from the Dark Lord, the Eye was a focus of
great magic, but the moonstone was not her only power. Taking a deep breath,
she summoned the Darkness within. Power thrummed through her, waking a ravenous
need. The Succubus of Darkness, she was the Lover to the Dark Lord. Desire
throbbed in her very veins. Seduction entwined with death, she was the very
embodiment of pure allure.

Her powers
awakened, her deadliest poison hidden beneath her smallest fingernail, the
Priestess was armed to engage the Mordant.

Her handmaidens
rushed to open the door. She glided down the long hallway, her slippered feet
soft on thick carpets. Assassins stared from the shadows but they did not
hinder her passage. She’d come to know the Mordant’s mansion but she’d yet to
breach his bedchamber.

Candles
flickered at the hallway's end.

She reached the final
door and paused, her stare fixed on the doorknob.

An assassin
abandoned his post, rushing to open the door.

The Priestess
smiled, more proof her appearance had the desired effect.

She stepped into
the Mordant’s bedchamber, a soft whisper of silk.

Brightness was
her first impression. An abundance of candles lit the chamber with too much
light. A large four-posted bed piled with pillows dominated the chamber's
heart, yet the Mordant sat behind a desk piled with scrolls, as if her presence
was an interruption instead of a carnal delight. The Priestess ignored the not-so-subtle
slight, focusing on her victim. Fair-haired and young of face, he hid his age
well, until he lifted his gaze. Ancient and fathomless, his eyes radiated
implacable power.

Their stares
crossed, the air between them crackling with power.

Undaunted, the
Priestess glided across the room, dropping to a deep curtsy. “You summoned me,
my lord.”

“Yes, you may
begin.” Setting a scroll aside, he leaned back in the chair. Clad in a crushed velvet
robe of deep crimson, the open vee at his neck revealed pale chest hairs, yet
he remained seated at the desk, sipping a goblet of red wine.

He's going to
make me work for it
, she smothered a smile, undeterred by his opening
sally. "Shall I strive to please you?" her voice was low and sultry
and full of suggestion, "Or shall I make
you
please
me
?"

He flashed a
serpent's smile. "If you think to compel me, it will never happen."

So the terms
are set, like a gauntlet thrown down, yet how little he knows me.
Rising to
the challenge, she gracefully glided around the room, snuffing candles. Setting
the mood, she made it a suggestive game, her fingers slowly sliding up the long
tapered lengths…to gently snuff the flames. Smoke rose from her fingertips like
a trail of sizzling passion, her polished nails glittering gold in the waning
light. One by one she dimmed the candles, leaving just enough light to see by…and
just enough shadows to subtly obscure. Passion flourished on the knife-edge
between the hidden and the revealed.

She returned to
her starting point, standing in front of his desk.

He remained
statue-still, yet she felt his dark gaze drinking her in.

Having seduced
his stare, the Priestess began to dance. Slow and sensuous, she twirled before
him, weaving an enticing trail of scent and silk and seduction. Every gesture
held a promise and a tease, a dance of a thousand delights. Her hands molded
her curves like the hands of a lover, and then swooped lower, offering a
promise of fulfillment. Silk whispered across skin as she slowly shed
diaphanous layers. And all the while, her gaze smoldered, never leaving his.

She licked her
lips, full of suggestion. One by one, she twirled away each silken layer,
turning them into a perfumed lash. Like colored ribbons she wove them through
the air, accentuating her every movement. A silken whip snaked out, entwining
the Mordant’s neck. She gave a suggestive tug, yet he resisted. A flick of her
wrist and the silk released him…but it left her scent on his skin, marking him
with a tease of another sort. She saw his nostrils flair wide. Twice more she
teased him and twice more he refused.

The Mordant
remained statue-still but his eyes had darkened, betraying his arousal.

The Priestess
reached the last silken layer. Instead of removing it, she made it a cloak, a
shawl, a diaphanous curtain. Reveal and hide, she gave him tantalizing glimpses
of her naked perfection. Dancing behind the silk veil, she teased and taunted,
but never revealed the whole. And as she danced, she slowly unbound her hair.
Raven-black tresses cascaded to her thighs. Silken and scented, she used her
hair as a second cloak. She danced before him, every glance provocative, every
movement a beckoning promise.

Coming to a
sudden stop, she gave him a smoldering stare more intimate than touch. Her
voice was low and throaty. “Come to me, my lord.”

Still he
resisted.

For the second
time, she licked her lips. "Come and taste my pleasures." She twirled
the last silken layer into a lash and snapped it towards his neck.

The Mordant
caught the lash. He stood, shrugging his robe from his shoulders. Naked, he
revealed his rampant manhood.

She gave the
silken leash a tug.

He tugged back.

Dropping the
silk lash, she fled for the bed.

The Mordant gave
chase.

An animal thrill
rushed through her, prey enticing a powerful predator. She reached the bed and
knelt with her submissive side bared towards him, pale curves alluring against
the dark furs. And then he was on her...in her. Pressing her face-down into the
pillows, he took her swift and hard. She let him have his way. When his pace
slackened, she rolled. Keeping him trapped inside her, she reversed their
positions. Straddling him, she pinned him to the bed and took control. With
excruciating slowness, she stroked his length. A gasp escaped him, proof of her
affect.

She plied her
powers keeping him rock hard. Painstakingly slow, she rode him up and down,
taking his measure. Part pleasure, part torment, she teased and tortured him,
but she did not let him come. Deciding to sate her own needs, she indulged her
every whim. Tasting, teasing, touching, she used him in every way imaginable.
Pain and pleasure came in shuddering waves as she plied him with every trick,
every technique. Twice he arched his back, straining with a guttural growl, yet
she would not release him, her magic holding him in thrall. Gifting him with
uncommon stamina, she rode him through the night. He growled in frustration,
but she would not let him reach his peak, exacting a petty vengeance. Lashing
him with her hair, she taunted him, holding him on the very knife-edge of
climax. His whole body bucked and shuddered beneath her, slick with sweat.
Agony and ecstasy became a blur. His eyes became glazed, drunk on sex. The
Priestess deepened her hold. Weaving a spell of enthrallment, she set a trap of
obsession lodged deep in his soul. Satisfied with the spell, she took her
pleasure in a different way. Connected by sex, she unleashed the succubus.
Ravenous, she began to feed on his life force…and found herself intoxicated.
A
thousand years of life,
she delved into a deep bottomless well of velvety
Darkness, brimming with power.
Hers for the taking.
His life force was
like nothing she'd ever encountered. So many flavors of Darkness blended
together in an ancient brew, she nearly swooned with the first taste. The
succubus within reveled at the feast, howling for more. Drinking long and hard,
she tapped his strength till she pulsed with magic, a vessel brimming with
power, stoked by a heady elixir. Reeling with power, she set the last binding
spell and released her victim to his pleasure.

Answering the
unspoken compulsion, the Mordant strained upwards like a lunging bull.
Thrusting deep, he roared his triumph.

Sodden with
sweat, he collapsed back onto the pillows.

The Priestess
lay next to her vanquished foe. Power thrummed through her veins, a succubus
finally sated. Suppressing a satisfied smile, she nestled her head on his
shoulder, her raven hair spread across his chest like a cloak.
Now you wear
my colors!
His breathing slowed to a deep sleep, issuing a soft snore.

Restless with
imbibed power, the Priestess flicked her gaze to the far window. The dawn’s
first light probed the curtains. She’d ridden him all night…a night he’d never
forget, a night indelibly etched in his Dark soul. Triumph blazed through her.
She’d conquered the oldest harlequin. She'd drunk his power and set her
obsession deep in his soul. As the Priestess of the Oracle, the Succubus of
Darkness, she had no peer. To seal her triumph, she wrote her true name in the
sweat glistening on his chest.

A hand snaked
out and grabbed her wrist.

Shocked, she
tried to pull away, but his grip was iron-hard.

“You thought to
master me!” Rage rode his voice. “I
am
Darkness!” He threw her to the
floor like a discarded strumpet.

Leaping from the
bed, he stood naked over her.

Before she could
rise, pain seared through her, as if every nerve in her body burned with fire.
Wracked with agony, she convulsed across the carpet. A scream burst out of her.
"No!"
  A thousand knives stabbed her, yet no wounds appeared.
She tried to crawl away, but the pain followed, doubling in intensity.
Collapsing, she bit back a wail. Her limbs twitched and shuddered. Her body
convulsed, becoming an instrument of torture. Gripped with agony, she writhed
at his feet.
“Stop it! Stop it!”

His voice
dripped with venom. “You sought to seduce me. In this realm,
I
am the
Lord of Darkness,
I
am your god…and you are but a trollop bound to my
bed. You shall
worship
me!”

Desperate to end
the pain, she began to crawl towards her tormentor. She stretched out her left
hand, the poisoned fingernail reaching towards him. One scratch, one cut, and
he'd die a hideous death, ending her torment.