The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (7 page)

11

The Mordant

The Mordant
returned to his manse, seething with anger, cursing the queen. Twice she'd
foiled his soul-strike, but he'd defeat her with chains of a different sort.
Adding insult to injury, she'd snatched victory from defeat in the chess match.
The silly board game mattered not, yet the loss rankled. The thrice-damned
woman would soon find herself mired in the true game. Beleaguered with  lies,
she'd lose her prestige and her precious crown. A sinister smile crossed his
face. Retreating to his solar, he sought his magic.

So many focuses,
so much magic to choose from. An eon of lifetimes spent seeking magic had brought
him a dragon's hoard of focuses. The Mordant craved power, the elixir of the
gods. Unlocking the ironbound jewel box, he removed the velvet-lined drawers,
sensing the magic within. For centuries, his minions had scoured Erdhe,
stealing focuses of every size, shape and description. Despite his best
efforts, some remained stubbornly insensate to his touch. He'd left those
impotent tools behind, locked in his treasure vault in the Dark Citadel. But
many more awakened to his touch. Like a lover he fondled them, courted them,
cajoling forth their inner secrets till their magic served his beck and call.
He'd brought the most powerful with him. Hidden as a wealth of adornments, the
Mordant fondled the rings and armbands arrayed on red velvet, magical focuses fashioned
into jewelry. Some held trifling powers, like the ability to light a candle
with a snap of his fingers. Such a seemingly trivial magic, yet even this small
focus had the ability to captivate the minds of mere mortals. Deception was
such a delicious game. To captivate, to dominate, to charm, to control...how he
loved to twist mortal souls to the Dark through mesmerizing deceit. A shiver
akin to sexual ecstasy ran through him. The Mordant craved the Great Dark
Dance.

Choosing among
the bejeweled baubles, he clad himself in power.

Of all his
focuses, there were two he valued above all others, two that were never far
from his hand. One was the red crystal from the Staff of Pain. The staff itself
was a confection of iron fashioned to reflect the menace of a wizard’s staff
combined with the regal authority of a king’s scepter. The Mordant was not
above using symbols to dominate, but the staff itself was ordinary iron. The
true power resided in the red crystal fixed atop iron prongs. A shard of
crimson quartz as long as his middle finger, the crystal held the power of
pain, inducing excruciating agony in any foe within sword-striking distance. To
wield the crystal, the Mordant merely needed to imagine the torture and his foe
felt the affliction. How delicious to watch an unsuspecting enemy drop to the
ground and writhe in torment, merely by flexing one's will. The crystal of pain
provided a power he'd found extremely useful over many lifetimes. Removing the red
crystal from the staff's crown, he placed it deep in his right pocket.

The second focus
he cherished above all others offered a far subtler power. He fingered the 
medallion-shaped cameo carved from bone. The sculpture depicted a two-faced
head in relief, a man gazing to the right, a woman to the left. The two-faced
relief hinted at the power lurking within. How rare to find a magic that only
served a harlequin. Pinning the cameo brooch to his butternut-brown cloak, the
Mordant stepped before the full-length mirror...and willed his appearance to
change.

His face began
to melt. His reflected features danced and morphed, as if a second face sought
to escape from within. His nose grew more bulbous, his eyebrows becoming thick
and bushy as caterpillars. His blond hair darkened to black with faint streaks
of gray. His chest filled out with muscles and the beginnings of a beer gut. So
uncanny to watch the changes, yet he felt only a faint tingling of magic across
his skin. The Mordant studied the mirror, focusing on each detail, willing them
to change till they matched his memories. Satisfied, his new visage slowly
annealed, locking into place.

The Mordant
staggered, feeling the sudden drain in power. Magic always took its toll...but
it did not take him long to recover.

Straightening,
he stared in the mirror.

A face from
another lifetime peered back. A man of middling years with sun-weathered skin
and salt and pepper hair. He'd chosen the face of a ruthless general, although
none now alive would recognize it. His new face had the maturity to be believed
without being too memorable. Already clad in tailored clothes of non-descript
brown, the Mordant relaxed his stance, slouching to fit the role of a
moderately successful merchant. He practiced walking before the mirror,
pretending he carried more weight and more years. Beneath the altered image, he
wore the vital body of the young monk. Relying on memories from another
lifetime, he walked like an older man, his weight centered in his gut.

A pity the cameo
could not make him younger, or fitter, or stronger, for the transformation was
pure illusion. The Mordant peered in the mirror, studying the changes. The only
visible detail that remained the same was the cameo brooch pinned to his cloak.
For some reason, the brooch had to remain visible or the illusion would vanish.

Fortunately, the
brooch was an oddity that seemed to fit almost any illusion. Cameos were rare,
and the quality of the sculptured profile was exquisite, implying a master's
hand, but the materials were ordinary bone and brass. The cheap materials belied
its priceless value, diverting covetous eyes.

Satisfied with
his appearance, the Mordant buckled on a belt with a heavy purse of coins, and
then he remembered the malachite coin, his latest acquisition. Acquired from
the pocket of a murdered monk, the coin remained a mystery, yet it offered the
promise of more power. He fondled the malachite coin, willing it to waken.
Determined to keep it close, he lodged it deep in an inside pocket.

Locking the
ironbound jewel box with his remaining focuses, he returned it to a larger chest.
Locking the chest, he reset the poisoned needle.

Wearing the face
of a stranger, the Mordant stepped from his solar.

A snargon of the
duegars and two assassins waited for him, all three clad in common street
clothes. The snargon's nostrils flared wide, scenting the presence of powerful
magic, while the two assassins stood poised to deal with any intruders. Staring
with wary eyes, their hands dropped to their daggers.

The Mordant
wielded the crimson shard, spiking the three with pain.

The two assassins
stiffened, their hands convulsing on their daggers, while the snargon dropped
to his knees, groaning in agony.

The pain lasted
for only a heartbeat, just enough to prove his true nature. Passwords could be
stolen or bought, but the crystal of pain was his to wield.

The snargon
climbed to his feet and bowed low. "My lord, the Mordant, what will you
have of us?"

"My name is
Master Cahill, a wealthy wine merchant, and I'll have you three escort me into
the queen's city. Dolf and Corlin, you're to stay a discreet distance away,
keeping watch in case you are needed. Tonkin, stay closer, but only speak to me
if you scent magic. If the monks dare to draw near, I expect to be forewarned.
Otherwise, the three of you are to stay in the shadows, while I weave some
magic of my own. It is time to besmirch the queen's good name."

"As you
command, my lord."

He led his
escort out into the cobbled street. His three shadows quickly scattered,
disappearing into the supper-time crowd. The Mordant walked among the queen's
people, Darkness cloaked in deceit, and they knew it not. Such a colorful
crowd, young and old, rich and poor, busy with their tiny lives. The chaotic
jumble grated against the Mordant, so starkly different from the ordered pattern
of the Dark Citadel. Studying the sounds and scents of the city's everyday
life, he followed the flow till he found a popular tavern, the perfect place to
sow his lies. The Mordant smiled, reveling in his role as the Deceiver. The
queen thought he'd come to play chess, but this was the true game. He looked
forward to an evening of spreading lies. There was nothing quite so powerful as
a lie believed. And none were better at selling lies than the Mordant.

12

Liandra

Magic to quicken
a child.
The thought teased and tormented the queen's mind till she could
think of nothing else. Liandra yearned for another child, for Robert's
daughter, lost to foul poison, the murderer still lurking within her castle.
For Danly's twin sister, murdered in her womb, Danly's birth cord wrapped
around her neck in a deadly stranglehold. Liandra had buried two fresh-birthed
daughters. The bitter losses still cut like spears to her heart, inflicting wounds
that never healed. Four times the queen had swelled with child, and four times
she'd carried the babes near to term, yet only one child lived, her firstborn
son and only heir...and now he rode to war against the Mordant. As a woman,
Liandra yearned for the daughter she'd never had...as a queen, she needed to
secure her royal line...and her throne.

In everything
else, she'd succeeded, but not this, as if the gods mocked her for being a
woman who dared to rule.

Magic to
quicken a child.
She was still young enough to bear one more babe, one more
chance to ease the ache in her heart, one more chance to bring security to her
throne. And if the magic could ensure a multiple birth, all the better. As a
woman and a queen, it was a chance she had to seize.

But how to do
it?

Liandra
considered summoning the princess to her solar, but it seemed too formal, too
pointed...so she contrived a casual meeting instead. Three days later, her
shadowmen brought word that the princess practiced archery in the castle's
courtyard, the perfect opportunity.

Sunlight danced
across the plush carpet, providing a believable alibi to stroll the castle's
parapets. Abandoning the mountain of dispatches heaped on her desk, Liandra set
her quill aside. "The sunlight beckons, we shall take a walk on the
parapets."

Lady Sarah
looked up from her knitting. "Shall I join you, majesty?"

"No, you
look content. We shall take Sir Durnheart."

"As you
wish, majesty."

Liandra settled
a delicate lace shawl across her shoulders, more for adornment than warmth, and
swept from her solar. She dismissed her guards save for her knight protector.
Sir Durnheart followed at a discreet distance, the hilt of his great blue sword
rearing over his right shoulder.

Maulkin, one of
her shadowmen, a plain-looking man clad in dark clothing, stepped from an
alcove. "This way, majesty." He led her through the labyrinth
corridors of her castle and out onto the perfect parapet for viewing the
archery butts. Arrows thumped targets with a deadly rhythm, belying the bright
beauty of the day. Below in the courtyard, the princess of Navarre practiced with
two of her guards...and Lord Cenric. So the forest lord was back from the
south. He cut a dashing figure with his broad shoulders and flowing cloak of
peacock feathers.

The queen
watched from the battlement as they skewered targets with arrows. The princess
was good, but the forest lord never missed the target's heart. Their skill at
archery was expected, but what took the queen by surprise were the warm smiles
and easy comraderie that passed between the two. So the princess was smitten
with the forest lord...but then half her court swooned over the man, including
Lady Sarah. But as she watched, it seemed to the queen that the cat-eyed archer
was equally bespelled by the petite princess. What an interesting and
unexpected turn of events. Liandra considered how to use the relationship to
her advantage.

Princess Jemma
noticed the queen watching from the battlement. She smiled, giving a bright
wave.

The queen
motioned her shadowman near. "Invite Princess Jemma to walk with us on the
parapets."

"As you wish."
Maulkin strode towards the nearest doorway.

Laughter drifted
up from below. The queen watched as the archers reclaimed their arrows,
comparing scores. They unstrung their bows and wiped down the staves, the
feather-cloaked lord hovering close to the petite princess. 

Her shadowman
appeared below, interrupting the charming tableau.

Lord Cenric
looked up, his strange cat-eyes glinting golden in the sunlight. He offered the
queen a nod, the only homage his stiff-necked pride would allow. Turning back
to the princess, he won a smile from her face, and then sauntered off like a
regal peacock strutting among drab pigeons.

The queen had to
admit that the forest lord gave good strut...but he was hardly a proper suitor
for a princess royal.

Maulkin returned
with the princess in tow.

"So nice to
see you enjoying the sunshine, majesty." She gave a graceful curtsy
despite wearing a suede jerkin over leather pants. Her mannish garb was
distasteful to the queen's sensibilities, but Liandra had to admit that the formfitting
leather showed the princess's petite curves to excellent advantage.

"Spring has
finally come south. We could not resist a stroll beneath the sun-warmed sky.
Walk with us." The queen turned to walk the parapet at a leisurely pace,
the princess falling into step beside her. "You are an excellent archer,
my dear, but we believe Lord Cenric won the day."

"He's an
uncanny shot! I've never seen him miss the target's heart. When it comes to the
longbow, there are none better in all of Navarre."

The princess
gushed like a love-struck girl. "And do you practice with him often?"

"As often
as I can. He's helping me hone my skills."

The queen cast a
sideways glance toward the princess. "And are you sure it is the target's
heart he's aiming for?"

The princess
fell silent, a blush heating her face.

The queen
considered her protégé, still so young yet so blazingly competent.
"Springtime love can be heady as an elixir," the queen softened her
voice, "but never forget you are royal born. The crown is your true destiny."

"The crown
of Navarre is a longed-for possibility...not a certain destiny."

So it was as
serious as that.
The queen took a different tack. "The forest lord
cuts a dashing figure. Half my court swoons over him, yet what do you really
know of him? He seems...so much older?"

"He is
older." The princess's blush deepened, but a stubborn glint shone from her
eyes. "And he was married, but his wife recently died of the flux. It's
one of the many reasons he answered the Treespeaker's call to lead his rangers
to the aid of Lanverness."

"And we
remain extremely grateful for that aid...but you seem to know quite a bit about
forest politics."

"He talks
to me."

"The surest
way to win the heart of a quick-witted woman. Your archer does indeed know how
to hit the target."

The princess
stopped, her face changing from embarrassment to chagrin. "Do you think me
a fool?"

"Never
that." Liandra's heart went out to the young woman. "But you are
young and full of so much promise. We do not wish to see you make a mistake."

"And you
think he's a mistake?"

Such a
knife-edged question.
The queen resumed walking.  "Lord Cenric has
proven himself to be brave and stalwart. He is proud and carries himself with
noble bearing, and he certainly cuts a splendid figure in his peacock
cloak...but does he bring Navarre any political advantage besides
archers?"

"Always
politics." Her voice held a bitter edge.

"Always a
queen. If you thought with your head instead of your heart, you would say the
same."

"But I
am
thinking with my heart," wonder brightened the young woman's face,
"for the first time in my life!"

So it was
worse than she thought.
"Be cautious. That is our best advice. For
love is a poison that eats wits."

Defiance flashed
across the young woman's face. "Yet the most capable queen to rule in all
of Erdhe nearly bore a love child."

The dagger
struck close to the bone. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the queen froze as if
ice were armor.

The princess gasped,
dropping to a deep curtsy. "I'm so sorry, majesty, that was unkind and
uncalled for."

The queen
recovered her mask. "Uncalled for, yes, yet it proves you have not lost
your wits...or your claws."

The princess
blanched pale. "I'm so sorry, majesty, but I'm so confused. There must be
a way to serve the crown...and also have love."

Such a heartfelt
plea, Liandra ached for the young woman despite her ill-considered words.
"That is the riddle, the true challenge for a queen who dares to
rule." She beckoned for the princess to rise. "Come, walk with us. We
royal women must stick together, for all the world is against us."

The princess
fell into step beside the queen. For a while they said nothing. Walking in
companionable silence, they gazed from the crenellated ramparts across the
bustling heart of Pellanor. Spring brightened the queen's city with fresh
leaves budding on trees, herbs sprouting in gardens, and window boxes laden
with flowers. Like a new gown, the fresh green color lent Pellanor an air of
hope and renewal, but the illusion was marred by the sound of hammers striking
stone, proof the defensive wall slowly grew to surround her city.
A walled
city
. Liandra had never wanted that for Pellanor...but war changed many
things. Another reason she needed a spare heir. "Tell us of this forest
lord who has captured the heart of a princess."

Delighted by the
queen's prompting, the princess launched into a monologue of archery lessons,
long walks, intimate dinners and small kindnesses. The queen listened intently,
gleaning insights to the forest lord and his reclusive people. The princess
painted a picture of subtle courtship and small delights, yet the queen sensed
they'd not yet slept together. Liandra kept her relief to herself, glad that
young love had not entirely trampled royal wits and proper decorum.

The princess
fell silent. "A copper for your thoughts?"

The queen
smiled. "We trust they are worth far more than a mere copper."

The princess
waited, an anxious look in her green eyes.

The queen
stepped carefully. "It is easy to see his allure, and he is a lord of the
forest...but would your father, the king, approve?"

"What do
you think?"

"You are
his daughter. You know King Ivor better than we do."

The princess
looked pensive. "What if you were to write him? To vouch for Lord
Cenric?"

A favor for a
favor,
just the opening she'd hoped for. "We might consider it. You
are like a daughter to us and Lord Cenric has done much to aid
Lanverness."

The princess
brightened. "And his people are gaining acceptance in Erdhe. Just the
other day I saw Durin in the market and his golden cat-eyes barely caused a
stir."

"How was
the mood in the marketplace?" The queen steered the conversation towards
commerce and market gossip. As always, the princess provided a remarkable crop
of insights. Liandra enjoyed discussing the state of her kingdom with the
princess, but when the ideas began to wane, she broached the question close to
her heart. "We heard something interesting the other day, that the royal
tuplets of Navarre are quickened by magic. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"
So the Prince of Ur was right.
The queen's hopes leaped. "Such a
small answer for such a large question."

The princess
shrugged. "Magic is feared by most people, so while we do not deny it,
neither do we trumpet it from the castle ramparts."

"We've
always known the royal line of Navarre was extremely fecund...but we never
considered magic."

"Most
people don't. They can't consider what they don't believe."

"Since the
death of Lord Turner, we've come to believe in many things. Those glowing red
eyes of the harlequin haunt us still." The queen suppressed a shudder.
"We confess that magic seems like a force for evil...but if used to
quicken a child, it would be a boon to any woman."

"As heirs
to Navarre, we were taught that magic is like a sword, the intent depends on
the hand that wields it."

"How does
it work?"

"Magic?"
The princess gave a light laugh. "You'd do better to ask a
philosopher."

"No, the
magic that quickens conception, how does that work?" The queen held her
breath, hoping, yearning.

"I do not
know. It is a closely kept secret held by the king and queen and one other. The
knowledge is only passed once the new monarch is chosen and accepted."

The queen
listened closely but she heard no guile in the young woman's voice...but
neither did she get the answers she so sorely needed. Liandra decided to set
subtleties aside and joust straight for the target's heart. "Can this
magic be shared?"

"Shared?"
The princess paused, turning to face her.

"Magic to
quicken a child would be a boon to any woman, but especially to a royal
queen...with only one heir."

The princess
gaped, her eyes going wide.

The queen
dropped her voice to a whisper, her gaze drilling the princess. "Royal to
royal, woman to woman, we ask for Navarre to share this birth-magic." The
princess started to reply but the queen forestalled her. "We ask this as a
queen who has but one heir, an heir who rides to war against the Mordant with
his wife, your sister, by his side. The Tandroth line is stretched perilously
thin." Iron filled her voice. "We shall not let the Rose line perish
from Erdhe." The queen softened her tone, her heart rising to her voice.
"That love child you spoke of was sorely wanted, a long-sought daughter of
our heart, a babe to fill our aching arms, a spare heir to secure our royal line
and our throne. We tell you this so that you know the importance of our
request." The queen's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper laden with need.
"Will Navarre share this birth magic with your closest ally?"