The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (31 page)

57

Jemma

The light faded
to dusk and still no one came. Jemma paced her prison, walking from the bed, to
the door, to the lead-paned window. Every time she reached the door, she
pressed her ear to the solid oak to listen, but heard nothing. Every time she
reached the window, she stood on tiptoes to look out, seeing nothing but a
lethal drop to the battlements below.
Nothing,
she bit her lip in
frustration. In all her childhood fairy tales, imprisoned princesses were
always rescued by handsome knights, but she feared no one would come for her. A
missing princess, yet few would know. She assumed her own guardsmen were
imprisoned. If the queen dared to imprison a princess, then she'd not hesitate
to imprison her guardsmen from Navarre. Jemma only hoped they were well
treated. Her lord father would be expecting an answer to his letter, but
Navarre was a long way away and it could easily take at least a moon-turn
before her own letters were missed. Her best hope was Cenric, but the forest
lord had gone south to help his people settle in the queen's gift.
Her
handsome archer
, she sorely missed him, but the cat-eyed forest lord came
and went from Pellanor like a windborne leaf. She prayed for his return, certain
he'd search for her, but she knew it could be a moon-turn or more before he
made his way back to the queen's city.
A moon-turn,
it seemed like
forever. She fondled the bracelet he'd given her, hand-carved beads of polished
wood, each bead bearing a different leaf pattern. Her fingers sought the
hemlock leaf, knowing it was his clan. They'd only had stolen moments together,
archery lessons in the castle yard, a gallop through the sun-dappled forest, a
campfire dinner under diamond-bright stars. Cherished memories turned to
longing. Despite their many differences, Jemma could not get enough of his
touch. If only he'd come for her.

Dusk dimmed to
night and still no one came.

Her worry
deepened. It was not like her friends to abandon her.
But are they my friends?
The question nagged at her. Perhaps something was wrong. At least last time
they'd brought ample food, a picnic basket brimming with delicacies, a feast
fit for a queen. Jemma nibbled on a piece of sharp cheese. Adding a log to the
hearth, she stoked the fire, bringing a blaze of welcome warmth to the small
chamber. For the sixth time she tried to pick the lock with the slender knife,
to no avail. She swore she'd have someone teach her the trick once she escaped.
Who knew lock picking was a skill she'd need as a princess.

A princess,
soon to be a queen,
yet she sat here imprisoned.

Frustration and
worry gnawed at her, yet she sat impotent within her cage. Snatching up the
wineskin, she crawled into bed, hiding the slender knife under her pillow. Sipping
the wine, a good merlot, she watched the firelight, waiting for someone to
come.

Jemma woke with
a start.

A tap, tap,
tapping came from the window.
It must be a bird,
for the tower was too
high for anything else. The chamber had turned cold, the fire burnt to embers.
Jemma burrowed beneath the cover's warmth, trying to reclaim sleep.

Tap, tap, tap,
the noise was insistent.

Night darkened
the small windowpane, the embers in the hearth giving a faint light.

Tap, tap, tap,
the noise came again, an annoying sound that would not let her sleep.

Jemma reached
beneath her pillow for the slender eating knife. The knife was short and the
blade dull, but it was the only weapon she had. Clutching the small knife like
a dagger, she slipped from beneath the quilt's warmth and crept toward the
night-darkened window.

Tap, tap, tap,
it sounded like metal on glass.

Curious, she
crept along the wall, trying to stay out of the window's sight, her bare feet
silent on the cold stone floor. She reached the window and tried to peer out
but the glass was mirrored by darkness, reflecting the hearth's feeble glow.
Pressed to the wall, she waited, but the tapping did not return. Curiosity
warred with caution...and curiosity won. She reached up and opened the latch.
Throwing the window wide open, she stepped in front, the knife held at the
ready.

Nothing.

The window
framed a cloudy night, nothing but chilly darkness beyond her lonely tower.

A key rattled in
the door to her prison.

The princess
whirled, her heartbeat hammering.
Lady Sarah!
But then she realized it
was too late for the lady. A chill of foreboding shivered down her spine.
Jemma
tightened her grip on the small knife, praying the key would not fit the lock.
Barefoot and vulnerable in her night shift, she edged away from the door.

A scraping sound
came from behind her.

A deadly chill
gripped her. Feeling a predator's hard stare, she whirled to face the window.

A black thing
crouched on the windowsill. Arms and legs bent like a spider, it grinned at her
with a man's face!

A scream burst
out of her.

The door banged
open and someone grabbed her from behind. A soft cloth drenched in bitterness
pressed against her face. She screamed but the cloth only pressed harder,
muffling her outrage. Hairy arms held her tight, pressed against a man's broad
chest. Jemma struggled, bucking against her assailant, but the man held her
firm.

"That's it,
princess, scream all you want, twill make the potion work all the faster."

Too late, she
tried to hold her breath. A tingling numbness invaded her body. She tried to
fight back, to slash at him with the knife, but her efforts grew feeble, the
knife slipping from her fingers to clatter useless to the floor.

Laughter rumbled
deep in her assailant's chest. "That's it princess, sleep tight. Where
you're going, none will ever find you."

58

Liandra

Liandra swam in
and out of darkness. Her mouth tasted bitter...and so did her heart.
Stewart,
she flinched away from that throbbing pain as if it were a white hot coal.
Avoiding the worst hurt, her mind skittered to other matters, fastening on the
princess of Navarre. A memory pierced her, the shocked look on the princess's
sweet face. Another memory assailed her.
The fecund will inherit Erdhe.
A
desperate need shivered through the queen, all the pieces falling into place.
As the sovereign queen, Liandra needed Navarre's magic for the sake of her
kingdom, for the sake of her unborn children, for her lost heir, for her very
soul. Confined by silken sheets, she thrashed against her bonds, screaming commands.
"Bring us the magic! Give it to us!"

More bitterness
poured down her throat.

My son!

She welcomed the
mind-numbing darkness, yet nightmares chased her into the depths. Someone tried
to remove her royal rings, but she fought against them, screaming for the
guards. Clutching her rings in tight fists, Liandra retreated back to her
dreams, clinging to the fog of not-knowing, but the others intruded, prodding
her with words.
Words, what do words matter when our only son is dead?
Fleeing the nightmare, she looked for Robert, needing the comfort of his arms,
but when she turned upon the pillow, she found herself embracing his corpse,
his dead lips pressed to hers.

Screams poured
out of her.

Liandra woke
screaming and they forced more bitterness down her throat.

She plunged back
into a dense fog. At first she found it comforting, a place where reality could
no longer harm her, but then she began to feel hunted. The feeling grew to a
terrifying dread. She caught a sideway glimpse of a malformed creature made of
inky darkness...and Liandra knew it hungered for her soul. Relentless in its
pursuit, it bore a face that was both familiar and strange.
Eternal
damnation,
the shadow scared her enough to face reality, but when she tried
to wake, Liandra realized she was lost. The fog became a trap, a quicksand of
the mind, slowing her thoughts, sapping her will, locking her in nightmares.
She ran through a mirrored maze, a thousand versions of her own face staring
back at her, each one bearing a different emotion. Terrified, accusing,
desperate, a spectrum of emotions beat against her, all of them pushing her
towards the dark hunter. In the blink of an eye, the images changed, showing
the malformed creature.
She
became the shadow! Darkness stared back at
her, and it wore her face. Liandra screamed, yet no one heard.

Locked in a maze
of nightmares, it was weeping that pulled her back.

The sound of a
woman weeping honest tears.

Clinging to the
sound, Liandra struggled awake and found herself in the royal bed.

"Majesty,
you must come back to us." Lady Sarah knelt by the bed, gripping the
queen's hand, tears dampening the velvet quilt.

Liandra's stare
roved her bedchamber, noting the black crape hung in mourning on the casement
windows. Sorrow pierced her heart. The queen woke to a mother's grief, harsh
and biting. "So...it's...true."

Her voice was a
hoarse croak, yet Lady Sarah heard. "Majesty!" She gripped the
queen's hand as if to anchor her in the present. "Majesty, stay with us!
It's all coming undone. You are sorely needed."

"No...more...poppy."
Her voice was hoarse with disuse.

"No,
majesty, no more."

Liandra
struggled to sit up, surprised by her weakness. Even her mind felt groggy, too
tired to ask a myriad of questions. "How...long?"

"Nearly
four weeks."

Four weeks,
it
seemed like the blink of an eye...it seemed like an eternity.

Her
ladies-in-waiting came flocking, plying her with soup and tea. The queen let
herself be pampered, slipping in and out of sleep. At first a few spoonfuls
filled her stomach. Refusing more she fell asleep only to wake with a ravenous
hunger. "We wish to rise."

They washed her,
and combed her dark hair, and dressed her in a maroon gown of softest velvet.
Helped from bed, she sat in a chair by the hearth, supping on onion soup,
fresh-baked scones and slivers of trout. Her body still felt feeble but her
mind sharpened like a knife to the whetstone. "Tell us of our son."

Lady Sarah bit
her lip.

The queen was
insistent. "Tell us."

Lady Sarah
nodded, her voice soft with sorrow. "They say he died bravely, fighting to
hold Eye Bridge."

So it was
true,
a part of her had hoped it was just an evil dream, yet this time she
refused to flee the truth despite the pain. Binding her heart with iron bands,
she chose to be the queen not the mother. "His body, do they bring it back
to Pellanor?"

"Majesty, I
do not know."

Liandra chewed
the scone, but the taste had fled. She set the dish aside. "And what of
his wife, the Princess Jordan?"

"Majesty, I
do not know."

"And our
court, what can you tell us of our court?"

Lady Sarah
flinched away as if scalded.

Alarms sounded
within the queen's mind. "When I woke, you said it was all coming undone.
What is coming undone?"

Lady Sarah
paled.

"You must
tell us, for we are queen."

"Majesty,
so many things have gone wrong." Lady Sarah shook her head, despair in her
gaze.

"Tell us of
our court."

The answer came
with great reluctance. "Save for three of your most loyal lords, your
courtiers no longer come calling to your chambers."

Ice impaled her
heart.
A queen ignored is no longer a queen.
Stricken by a mother's
grief, she'd imperiled her crown. Liandra gripped the arms of her chair, and
then she remembered her royal rings.
Perhaps it was not a dream.
The
queen's stare fixed on her friend. "We dreamt that someone sought to
remove our royal rings?"

"Yes."

So it was
true, they sought to steal her power.
"Who dared?"

"Lord
Canning, but even in your grief, you fought against him. Sir Durnheart evicted
the craven from your chambers. He has not returned."

The last lord
raised is the first to turn against us.
Liandra tightened her grip on her
rings. "Sir Durnheart shall be raised to a baron for his actions...and
Lord
Canning shall become deeply acquainted with our dungeons." The queen
struggled to master her rage. "Now tell us of our loyal lords. Who can we
count upon?"

"Sir
Durnheart rarely leaves his post, even sleeping outside your chambers."

"Such staunch
loyalty shall not be forgotten, and the others?"

"Lord
Saddler comes calling every other day and Master Raddock haunts the outer
chambers at random hours, always asking for you."

Her loyal
goldsmith raised to a lord and her deputy shadowmaster
.
"So we
retain the loyalty of coin and shadows. What of Lord Robert?" Liandra
found herself hungry for any word of him.

Lady Sarah slumped.
"Nothing, majesty."

Nothing,
the word beat against her, raising nightmares.
If Robert has not come, then
perhaps he too is dead.
Her heart quailed at the thought...but something
inside her refused to believe it.
If he has not come, then we are surrounded
by conspiracy.
The queen straightened in her chair. She would not yield her
throne without a fight. "We need information and then we need to act.
Summon Master Raddock to attend us." She glanced toward the nearest
mirror, dismayed by the haggard women reflected in the glass. "But first
we need to look like the queen. Attend us."

Her women
surrounded her, plying their skills. The queen traded her soft velvet gown for
shimmering silks of emerald green with a narrow waist and dagged sleeves lined
with glittering cloth of gold. Her raven-black hair was teased into an
elaborate confection, studded with diamonds and topped with a glittering crown.
Jewels draped her neck, a great emerald dangling among her cleavage. But her
face required the most work, carefully painted to erase years and mimic rosy
health and a brimming vitality. The queen studied her reflection. Her women had
accomplished much, yet the mirror was not entirely fooled. Liandra knew she
would have to complete the illusion by dint of her own personality.

Lady Amy
returned from the outer chamber. "Your deputy shadowmaster is here."

"Good, send
him in. Lady Sarah, stay close, the rest of you are dismissed." The queen
stood. Deliberately turning her back to the outer door, she faced the hearth, basking
in the fire's warmth.

The queen heard
the door open, and she heard him enter, and then she heard his footsteps pause.
Summoning steel to her gaze, she turned in time to see a startled look dart
across his face. Clearly he'd expected a bedridden woman, not a jewel bedecked
queen. She extended her ringed hand. "We are pleased by your
loyalty."

Never a
courtier, yet he fell to his knee and kissed her royal ring. "Majesty, it
is good to see you well!"

"We have
been abed too long." She gestured for him to rise. "Past time we reclaimed
our royal duties." The queen struck at the heart of the matter. "Tell
us of our court."

The pug-faced
shadowmaster told her what her ladies would not. "Majesty, your lords
scramble to find an heir."

An icy dagger
spiked her heart, yet she kept her face stone-still. "So they count us
dead already."

"No, but
they fear a war instead of a smooth succession."

Stiff backed,
she stared at him. "The naming of an heir remains the royal prerogative of
the ruling monarch."

"True, but
with Prince Stewart dead, and you taken to your bed, they feared an empty
throne."

"They bury
us before we have died."

"Majesty,"
exasperation rode his voice, "if you will not name an heir, then you must
get one." He pulled a rolled parchment from the pocket of his robe.
"I've drawn up the terms of ransom. You need only sign it and I will see
it sent by the swiftest courier."

"Ransom?"

"Yes, for
the Princess Jemma. If you will not name an heir, then you need the magic of
Navarre to get one. Surely the king of Navarre will lend his magic to ransom
his daughter."

"Ransom?"
Her mind stumbled on the word.

He looked at her
as if she'd lost her wits. "Yes, you ordered the princess arrested,
demanding Navarre relinquish its fertility magic."

The queen remembered
confronting the princess, but
ransom?
It seemed such a vile and
repugnant measure, yet the game of thrones was not for the faint of heart.

Her shadowmaster
pulled a second scroll from his pockets. "And this is a writ for her
death."

"Her
death?
"

"As queen
you can rescind the order at any time, but by signing it Navarre will know you
are serious. Only if they believe your intent will they pay the ransom."

Events were
galloping widely out of control. She'd been locked in mourning for far too
long.

Her shadowmaster
set both scrolls on her desk. Dipping a quill in black ink he turned, extending
it toward her. "Your signature, majesty, and I will see your will
done."

She stared at
the quill, shocked that it had come to this.

When she
hesitated, his voice became a goad. "Majesty, you dare not show
weakness."

Weakness,
his
words held a kernel of truth, yet his proposal seemed too vile. As if in a
trance, the queen found herself walking towards him. Accepting the quill, she
sat at the desk. Smoothing the parchment flat, she intended to read both
documents, but the words swam before her eyes.
How had it come to this,
ransoming friends and threatening allies?
Revulsion shivered through her.
This
was not her way, this was not right...this was Darkness come calling.
She
stared at her deputy shadowmaster, realizing how large his hands were, a
hulking brute beneath black robes. Setting the quill aside, she stalled with a
question. "What of our Lord Highgate?"

"He remains
in Lingard."

"But we
summoned him home."

Master Raddock
shrugged, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. "Then he has not
arrived."

His words did
not ring true. "And what of our Lord Sheriff?"

"He has not
been seen."

"But we
ordered you to find him."

"Shadowmen
combed the city searching for him, but he was not found." Leaning on the
desk, he picked up the quill, pressing it into her hand. "Majesty, your
heir is of paramount importance. The Rose Throne must be secure. If you will
not name an heir then you must get one. Let me help you. Merely sign the
documents and I will see your will done."

She stared at
the quill as if it were a viper.
Merely sign the documents and her soul will
be forever damned.
Liandra recalled the malformed creature in her dreams...her
face on the shadow. Stifling a gasp, she saw her deputy shadowmaster in a new
light.
Not a loyal lord, but a dire threat.
She took the quill from his
hand. "You are right, the crown must be secure, but we grow weary. Leave
these for us to sign. We shall read them tonight and then sign them on the
morrow."

For half a
heartbeat, she thought he would protest, but instead he bowed towards her,
"As you wish," and strode from the royal chamber.

The door closed
and the queen felt a small measure of relief.

Lady Sarah
hovered at the inner doorway.

The queen
gestured for her. "Come."

Lady Sarah
crossed the room, her face pale. "Majesty, you aren't really going to sign
those?"

The queen stared
at the coiled scrolls. "This was a trap." Standing, Liandra carried
the offending documents to the hearth. Placing them deep in the fire's heart,
she watched the parchments curl to black, their treachery consigned to smoke.
"We suspect the tentacles of this trap reach far beyond our disloyal
shadowmaster. Master Raddock has been corrupted. Our loyal lords are missing
and our enemies draw close. We are besieged with threat."