The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (3 page)

Gathering up the
remains of the meal, he repacked his satchel and then took up his quarterstaff.
Opening the ironbound door, he slipped back inside the tower. The dank chill
embraced him. Silent and pensive, he made his way back down the long spiral
stairs, passing the faces of the dead. He felt as if history kept watch,
waiting to see if the future would be bright or bleak.

3

The Mordant

The assassin and
the duegar fell prostrate before the Mordant, their faces pressed to the jewel-colored
carpet. Moon-turns ago they’d both come to Lanverness in the guise of jesters,
threats hidden in bright motley. His chained servant, Frederinko, had presented
them to the Rose Queen as tokens of Ur’s friendship. Such gifts could hardly be
refused. Accepted by the queen, the jesters served within her very castle. Now,
clad in simple browns, they’d shed their false colors to answer the summons of
their true lord. 

The Mordant
sipped brandy while seated in front of the roaring hearth. “Rise.” Both men
scrambled to their knees. “Time to account for your stay in the Rose Court.” He gestured to the duegar. “Castor, what magic have you found in the queen’s
castle?”

“None, lord,
save for what the monk brought.”

The Mordant’s
interest quickened. “The monk?”

“Yes, lord.” Castor
flashed a jagged smile, his front teeth filed to points. “A blue-robed monk
came to the Rose Court as an emissary of the Kiralynn Order. After meeting with
the queen, he was given quarters within the castle. His name was Fintan and he
reeked of magic.”

So the monks
openly meddled, how brave
…
and how foolish.
“How did he die?”

Dominic
answered, “Sting of the Assassin. I killed him in his own chambers, cut his
head off, and stole his magic." He flashed a satisfied smile. "It was
a particularly gruesome death, befitting a blue-robed monk. Now his magic will
be yours.” The assassin crept forward, his hand outstretched, a malachite coin
offered on his palm.

The Mordant
snatched up the coin. Rubbing it between his fingers, his senses probed for its
power…but the coin remained dormant. The Mordant was unperturbed. It often took
time for magical links to form with fresh-found focuses. “Do you know what it
does?”

Castor answered.
“No, lord, but it reeks of powerful magic…old magic.”

Powerful magic
...the
words were like an aphrodisiac to the Mordant. He fondled the coin, dancing it
between his fingers. “And how did the queen react to the monk’s death?”

Dominic grinned.
“She fears, my lord, for they know not how it was done.”

“Fear is a good
thing.” He was pleased with his two servants. “And have there been more monks?”

“No, lord. None
that wear blue robes and none that reek of magic,” Castor hesitated, “at least
none that we saw.”

So, the queen
does not keep her jesters close. The woman is not entirely naïve.
“What
else?”

“A child, my
lord,” the assassin answered. “The queen swelled with a bastard child.”

So, the queen
is still of breeding age
…
and she dares to birth a bastard.
He had
not foreseen a child, but it could weave well into his plans. “Who was the
father?”

“None know, my
lord.”

“What became of
this child?”

The assassin
grinned. “Tansy in the queen’s tea. She birthed a stillborn daughter.”

A cold rage
flashed through the Mordant. “You dared to poison the queen?”

The assassin
cringed to the floor. “Only the child, my lord, not the queen.” He abased
himself, pressing his face to the carpet.

"I gave orders
the queen was not to be harmed."

"She's not,
my lord, only the child was harmed, flushed from her body."

The Mordant
stared at his assassin. In truth, it was a brilliant move, for the best way to
unsettle a mere woman was to attack the product of her womb.
“I’ll spare
you, but only because the queen still lives...and because the dead babe will
enhance my plans.”

Pale-faced, the
quaking assassin dared to kneel. "Thank you, my lord."

“Does the queen
know she was poisoned?”

The assassin
flicked a glance at the duegar. “Word of the stillborn birth was smothered by
her own shadowmen, as if it never happened. But Castor heard the queen rant
that it was poison.”

“So she knows…or
at least suspects." The Mordant smiled, considering the delicious
possibilities. "Her own suspicions will keep her off-balance.” He fondled
the malachite coin. “What of the queen's heirs?”

“The queen’s
second son, Prince Danly, died a traitor in Lingard, a casualty of the Flame
War. Her firstborn son and only heir, Prince Stewart, rides to war to confront
the army of the Pentacle.”

So, her sole
heir is at risk.
The Mordant would confirm every detail once he gazed into
the queen’s eyes, once he raped her soul and peered through her memories. He'd
plumb her mind, reading her like an open scroll, but it did no harm to be
forewarned. “Women are always undone by their wombs. One of the many reasons
they are not fit to rule.” The Mordant flashed a sharp smile. “Anything else?”

“No, lord.”

“You’ve done
well. Return to the castle, don your motley and remain vigilant.”

“Yes, lord.”

He waved
dismissal, but the assassin hesitated.

“Dread lord,
might I ask a question?” The assassin cringed, waiting.

The Mordant
relented. “One.”

“Instead of
tansy in the queen’s tea, I could have added nightshade, or any other poison.
Yet you ordered me
not
to kill her. Why, lord, when I could save you all
this trouble and hand you her crown?”

The Mordant
stiffened, staring at the assassin through narrowed eyes. “Your order stands.
You are
not
to kill the queen.”

The assassin
flinched as if lashed. “Yes, lord, but why?”

The Mordant let
a hundred heartbeats pass, a sure sign of his displeasure, but then he
relented, offering a reply lest his servant become overzealous. “Killing is
easy. Taking life pleases the Dark Lord, but it garners the least of his
favors. Our god favors those who have a long reach, those who steer the future
to a dark path while muddying the brightest memories of the past. Kill the
queen while Lanverness prospers and she becomes a martyr, a saint to her
people, a shining beacon of hope. Instead, we shall sully her name and muddy
her legacy, corrupting the queen from within. Her abject failure will keep
future women from any throne, enforcing the Great Dark Divide.” A smile hovered
at his lips, a rush of Dark power flowing through him. He stood, throwing a
daunting shadow across the room. “In this lifetime, I’ve come to change the
past as well the future. I’ve come to wield the power of a god.”

The assassin and
the duegar both cringed low, staring wide-eyed in awe.

"Return to
the queen and await my summons."

Bowing, they
scuttled from the chamber.

Dark power
burned through him. His shadow diminished, leaving him mortal once more. The
Mordant sat alone before the crackling fire, flicking the malachite coin
between his fingers. After a thousand years of life, he stood on the brink of
true immortality. Corrupt the queen and so much would change, bending the past
as well as the future. He flicked the coin with his thumb, watching it rotate
as it tumbled upwards…and then he spied the engraving. Catching the coin, he
held it towards the firelight. Engraved on the face was a shield, worn but
still faintly visible, two crescents flanking a full moon…the ancient symbol of
Azreal. The Mordant stilled.
Azreal
...the city of his first great
triumph. Ancient memories flooded his mind. He remembered her face, her tender
touch, so lovely...so trusting. In that first life, he’d corrupted a sorceress
instead of a queen and started the Great Dark Divide, earning many lifetimes.
And now this coin found its way to his hand. Perhaps the distant past came
calling. He’d lived too long to believe in omens. The Mordant stared at the
coin, amazed that it had survived so many centuries…but it would serve him,
just as surely as this new queen would be corrupted to Darkness, twisted by his
deceptions. Deceive, divide, corrupt and destroy. All the pieces were in motion
for the Great Dark Dance. Soon the power of the gods would be within his grasp.

4

Liandra

Scrolls littered
the queen's solar, the details of running a kingdom. Reports came from high and
from low, from shadowmen, stonemasons, tax collectors, courtiers, merchants,
military advisors, princes and even kings, a web of information flowing to the
Spider Queen. No detail was too small. Liandra waded through the
correspondence, considering the nuances. Plucking precious insights from the
mountain of dross, she took the measure of Erdhe. Like gazing into a crystal
ball, she saw what was and what could be. The answers both pleased and
frightened her. In the south, her kingdom rebounded from the Flame War.
Commerce flowed again, sluggish at first, but her careful prods and incentives
had begun to bear fruit. Her farmers returned to the land and merchants plied
the roads with trade goods. Beef, wine and grain came from Tubor, venison and
furs from Wyeth, exotic goods from the Delta. Her roadways thrummed with the
trundle of wagons bearing trade, the lifeblood of her kingdom. Her markets
bustled, her royal treasury was full, and her people were content. But, in the
north, the army of the Mordant threatened everything. A barbaric horde had
taken Raven Pass, routing the Octagon Knights. The queen shuddered at the grim
thought. She'd always thought the Octagon Knights invincible, a stalwart shield
against the north...but now that shield was broken. Forming a hasty alliance
with Navarre and Wyeth, she'd sent her only remaining son and her army
north...but she did not like the odds. The two armies had yet to clash, but no
matter how many times she read the dispatches and studied the maps, her
conclusions were always bleak. Darkness reached for Erdhe and she had yet to
find the foil.

"Majesty,
it's nearly time." Lady Sarah hovered at the door to the queen's inner
chambers, bearing a reminder of a pleasant distraction.

Weary from
reading, the queen set aside the mountain of scrolls. "Yes, we must look
our best for our royal guest."

The Prince of Ur
had come to Pellanor. A royal emissary from a fabled land, he'd made a showy
entrance to her city. Her shadowmen delivered a full report. Surrounded by
guards in purple tabards, he brought a wagon piled high with treasure chests
and three women swathed in silks. The prince rode a magnificent white stallion
beribboned with gold bells in its mane. The bells struck the queen as an odd,
almost effeminate, detail. Or, perhaps, the bells were merely an expression of
cultural differences. Ur was such a distant land and such an extravagantly
wealthy trading partner, the empire garnered mystery like a bard garnered
songs. All the more reason Liandra was keen to meet the prince. As to the man
himself, her shadowmen described the prince as tall, young, and fair of face,
with shoulder-length blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. They said he had
neither the wide shoulders of an archer nor the swarthy arms of a swordsman, so
perhaps the prince was a scrollish man. That might explain the gift of a chess
set and the request for a private audience…yet why make such a showy entrance
to her city? All of Pellanor whispered of nothing else. Her people were
enthralled and the queen confessed herself intrigued. The prince posed an
interesting riddle, one Liandra intended to solve.

She'd given him
a few days to get settled, and then sent a courtier with a royal invitation to
meet across the chessboard. With the invitation served, the queen set out to
make every detail perfect.

After much
consideration, the queen chose a crushed velvet gown of deep emerald green with
dagged sleeves lined in gold and a vee neckline that showed just enough
cleavage to be tempting, while maintaining a mysterious allure. A diamond tiara
sparkled against her raven-dark hair, while a rope of emeralds accented her
slender neck and plunging bosom. Adding a dab of rose oil for a beguiling scent,
the queen contemplated the mirror. Regal beauty bedecked in confident wealth,
her image struck the perfect tone for their first meeting.

Liandra returned
to her solar to find the mountain of scrolls banished, safely tucked away for
another day. Carefully arranging the folds of her gown, she settled on a
throne-carved chair set before the warmth of the fireplace. A fire blazed in
the hearth, juniper and pine logs releasing a pleasing scent. The prince's
gift, the exquisite chess set carved of onyx and malachite, sat on a small
table between the two chairs. Heroic figures arrayed for an epic battle, she
looked forward to the game. Liandra reveled in the chance to test her wits
against a fresh opponent.

"Will you
have a glass of wine, majesty?" Lady Sarah fluttered around the solar
seeing to last minute details.

"No, we
shall wait for our guest."

A flagon of the
royal cellar's best merlot breathed on a side table along with a platter of
cheese and dried fruits. Lady Sarah would serve the repast, another pair of
trusted eyes and ears to assess the prince, while Sir Durnheart would provide
the protection. Clad in mirror-bright armor, her knight-protector stood
statue-still just beyond the firelight’s reach, only a sword-length away.

If only
Robert were here.
Liandra missed her shadowmaster, her confidant, her
lover…but he was away in Lingard, serving the needs of the kingdom. She would
just have to remember every detail for his return.

Satisfied with
the preparations, the queen gestured to Lady Sarah. “Admit our guest.”

The queen
remained seated, her gaze fixed upon the oak door. The prince had come to her
castle escorted by a portly seneschal and six guards, yet he’d made it plain
the others were to wait in her antechamber.
A private audience for a first meeting
with a prince from a distant land,
how rare, how unexpected…how intriguing.
She found herself flush with anticipation.

Lady Sarah
opened the door and then dropped to a deep curtsy. “Welcome, my lord.”

He strode into
her solar, giving her barely a glance.

Her first
impression was confidence...perhaps even arrogance. Tall, blond, and fair of face
with a neatly trimmed beard...the queen found her shadowmen’s description
accurate yet woefully inadequate. The difference lay in the way he moved.
Striding into her solar, he carried an air of command, his steps bold, his eyes
sharp, his face regal and proud, almost arrogant. But this was not the brash
arrogance of a pampered young royal, she’d seen that many times before.
Instead, he exuded a sense of self-contained power and a cloak of experience
far beyond his twenty-some years. Not a word had been spoken, yet the riddle
deepened and the queen found herself drawn into a web of questions.

The prince
stopped before her, but he did not bow, or even nod. Instead, he gazed upon her
as if taking her measure. “So, this is the queen so many speak of.”

Such an odd
opening...
she gave him a gracious smile. “Welcome to our court. We are
pleased to host a prince from distant Ur.”

For twenty
heartbeats he said nothing. A surprising silence, like a lull before the storm,
but then he gave her a half nod and said, “Distant in leagues but close in
trade. Commerce connects us." His smile deepened. "Trading powers
should meet, don’t you think?”

“Trading
powers,
not trading
partners,
what an interesting turn of phrase.”

“Nothing but the
truth.” He flashed a smile she could not read. “Lanverness dominates the trade
of Erdhe, as Ur dominates trade across the southern seas, hence, my interest in
your kingdom. We are both trading
powers.”

“And are you
attracted to power?”

“Always.”

The single word
conveyed a voracious hunger. A warning shivered in the queen’s mind, yet she
found herself falling into his stare. Blue eyes, young eyes, yet they held
unexpected depths…fascinating depths, fathomless depths, layers of blue, layers
of darkness, an infinite darkness, full of questions, full of commands, full of
power.
No!
A white-hot anger blazed through her, blindingly bright. She
jerked her gaze away as if burnt.

Her heartbeat
thundered as if she'd fled from the deepest dungeon. Puzzled by her own
reaction, she flicked her gaze towards him but avoided his stare. He stood
statue-still, a sword’s length away, yet she felt strangely...violated.

“Will you have
some wine?” Lady Sarah broke the silence.

The queen
startled, confused by the strength of her reaction. A headache throbbed at the
back of her eyes.

“Will you have
some wine, my lord?” Lady Sarah asked again and the strange moment shattered.

The prince
answered, “Yes, I will.”

Liandra thought
she heard a whiplash of anger in his voice, but his face showed no sign of it.
Confused, she watched him, struggling to recover from the strange incident.

He flicked a
glance towards Sir Durnheart. “A blue steel sword.”

The queen was
pleased he’d noticed. “So, you’ve heard of blue steel?”

“Even in Ur we have heard of such swords.” Accepting a goblet of rich red merlot, he took a chair
on the far side of the chessboard. “I see you got my gift.”

The queen sensed
something had shifted between them, some strange intangible balance of power,
yet she did not understand, as if she played a game with unexplained rules.
Unsettled and strangely ill at ease, Liandra struggled to marshal her thoughts,
sensing this encounter was somehow of dire importance. “An exquisite gift, we
thank you for it.”

“Chess is such
an ancient game, a game of kings, a game of power. You can learn so much about
an opponent through a single game of chess, don’t you think?”

“Your thoughts
echo our own.”

“I doubt that.”
He smiled like a fox about to eat a chicken. “Shall we let our armies clash?”

Such a simple
question, yet it took her breath away, as if menace lurked in the very air
between them. Liandra shook her head, confused and troubled by the premonition
of dread. The prince was a riddle, full of challenges and unexpected
contradictions, nothing more. Surely this strange sense of foreboding was
uncalled for. The queen stared at the prince, trying to peel back the layers
beneath his comely facade. She told herself this was just an audience, a first
meeting with a foreign prince…yet Liandra felt as if she swam in an ocean with
limitless depths...an ocean full of dangerous monsters. Perhaps the chessboard
would provide the answers. Liandra fingered a malachite pawn. The game of chess
was both a strength and a familiar refuge. She set her mind on winning the
game. “Yes, let’s play.”