The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (17 page)

23

Megan

Megan, Queen of Navarre, dreaded the night. Avoiding the
royal bedchamber, she haunted the castle ramparts, evading sleep, yet sleep
could not be escaped. Exhaustion and the king’s loving arms conspired against
her, pulling her back to the royal bedchamber. Night after night, she struggled
to remain awake, but sleep always claimed her. Ever since the poisoned feast
she’d been plagued by ill-omened dreams. No matter how much wine she drank, the
nightmares hounded her. Sleep became a bitter enemy, a battlefield of wills.
Memories of the poisoned feast tortured her mind, forcing her to re-live that
fateful evening. In her mind’s eye, she watched as Igraine crumpled dead upon
the floor while Ian clawed his throat bloody, choking on poison. The Curse of
the Vowels was real, a nightmare come calling, plaguing her family. Megan
shuddered against the memories, hearing the witch laugh as she held the
promised antidote aloft. Like a marionette, she watched herself cross the great
hall to kneel before Iris, swearing fealty to the witch in the hopes of saving
her husband and his kin. *
I, Megan of Navarre, acknowledge Iris as the
rightwise queen of Navarre and pledge…and pledge my loyalty to you.*
 The
foul pledge seared her soul. Locked in the nightmare, she tossed and turned
upon silken sheets, desperate to escape.

Laughter rippled through her mind,
cruel and mocking.
*You said the words, you swore the oath, and now you must
obey.*

*
No, you’re long gone, banished
from the castle. You’re nothing but a nightmare, a wicked illusion.*

*Gone but not forgotten.*
The
words stabbed her mind, full of malice,
*You swore to serve me. Reach for
the dagger hidden beneath the pillow and use it!*

*There is no dagger and I will
never  serve you.*

*The dagger awaits, hidden by
your own hand.*

*No, you lie!*

*Serve me, or you will never
sleep again. Now reach for the dagger and do my bidding!*

The queen struggled to refuse, but
the invading voice was relentless, a cold-blooded witch harping commands.
*Reach
for the dagger and slay your husband. Kill the king as he sleeps. Seal your vow
of fealty with his blood.*

*No, never!* 
Megan thrashed
against the command, but her traitorous hand slowly crept beneath the pillow.
She reached for the dagger…but found nothing!
There was nothing there!
Relief
flooded through her…chased by cruel laughter.

*You reached for the dagger!*
Triumph
laced her sister-in-law’s voice, a menace invading her mind.
*Next time, the
dagger will await your hand!*

*No, I’ll never do it!*
 She
thrashed against sodden sheets, desperate to wake.

*
You swore an oath. You serve me
now! It is only a matter of when!*

*No!*
The queen screamed in
denial but the words clogged in her throat.

“Megan, wake up.”

Strong arms held her. Megan
startled awake.

Ivor was there, holding her close.
“You were moaning in your sleep. Another bad dream?”

She wanted to warn him, to tell him
the truth, but the words would not come, as if the witch had placed a geas upon
her tongue. “Yes…a nightmare.”

He pulled her close, tucking her in
the crook of his arm. “You’re safe here with me.”

But are you safe with me?
The
question froze her heart. The witch had said it was only a matter of time.
Huddled next to her husband, Megan shivered, praying to be released from the
foul spell. The Curse of the Vowels had extracted a terrible toll, reaving the
royal Is. By all the gods, the witch would not have her husband too.

24

Liandra Chapter

Silk became her so much more than steel. Queen Liandra shed
her armor, but she wielded pomp and ceremony like a sword. Ordering formal
receptions, she heaped praise and honors on the heroes of the Flame War.
Loyalty was rewarded, courage feted, promotions flowed, and the people’s morale
was bolstered, but in the privacy of her solar the queen girded for another
war.

Flanked by her son, Crown Prince
Stewart, by Lord Dane, second in command of the Rose Army, and her
shadowmaster, Lord Highgate, the queen met with emissaries of the Deep Green. A
page opened the outer door and a breath of wilderness swept into her court.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the three men wore huntsman’s leathers, striding
into her solar with an insular pride. Smelling of woodsmoke and cedar and pine,
they stood before her throne offering the barest of nods.

The queen supposed a nod was all
their stiff-necked pride would allow, and though she found it irksome, she
offered a gracious smile. “You are welcome in our court.”

Lord Cenric wore his cloak of
peacock feathers, half a hundred turquoise eyes shimmering in the firelight, a
magnificent dash of exotic elegance mixed with feral wildness. The feathered
cloak was striking, but it was the men’s eyes that made the greatest
difference. Golden cat-eyes set in a man’s face, their eyes gleamed unnaturally
bright in the firelight. Like demon eyes come to life, their golden eyes were
startling, evoking a primal fear, the stuff of childhood nightmares, but their
actions proclaimed them allies, and the queen was desperately short of allies.

Liandra inclined her head. “We have
received you in our formal audience hall, proclaiming you Friends of Lanverness
before our court, but we wish to do more. We owe you and your people a debt of
thanks for turning the tide of battle. We wish to make you forever welcome
within our kingdom.” She gestured and Prince Stewart offered Cenric a scroll
festooned with wax seals and emerald ribbons. “This royal writ is a deed to two
tracts of land. The nearest is Crown Hill, a royal hunting preserve just north
of Pellanor. The second tract is much larger, Onet Forest, a large stand of old
growth forest nestled against the Southern Mountains and our border with Wyeth.
The crown deeds them both to you, hoping that your people will settle the
forest, forever adding your strength and friendship to the kingdom of Lanverness.”

Cenric’s nostrils flared as if
scenting the air. “We do not think of the forest as something
owned
.”

Hearing the distaste in his voice,
the queen hastened to smooth his ruffled feathers. “Then think of it as a
stewardship, a grant for your people to live within the forest.”

“And the trees? Will this
parchment
spare them from axe and fire?”

“If that is your wish.”

Cenric stood stock-still, his
nostril’s flared wide. For several heartbeats nothing was said, but then he
flashed a smile, offering the queen an unexpected bow. “The Rose Queen is both
wise and wily.”

“So you accept?”

“Gladly. Long have my people sought
a welcome within the southern kingdoms. We will protect Onet Forest, dwelling beneath leaf and bough, far enough away to let your people grow accustomed to
our eyes. And at Crown Hill we will keep a smaller clan near to your court. By
our presence, the trees will be kept safe.” He hefted the scroll. “We will
accept this charge with the honesty with which it is given. My people will
settle the forest and keep your laws while always following the wisdom of the
Treespeaker.”

The Treespeaker again
, they
brandished the name like a monarch…or a sorceress.
“We would meet with
your Treespeaker to hear her wisdom for ourselves.”

“Then you must travel to the Deep
Green, for she will never leave it.”

More mystery wrapped in riddles.
“Monarchs rarely leave their domain, so instead we wish for more time to
talk with you. We would make you a member of our court, Lord Cenric. We wish to
talk with you and hear tales of your home in the Deep Green.”

“As you wish.” With a swirl of his
peacock cloak, Cenric and his clansmen took their leave with the barest of
nods.

The door clicked shut and the feral
wildness was gone.

Behind her, Stewart released a long
held breath. “Deftly done, mother.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Not so deft.
Lord Cenric knows we need his bows, but the best deals are those in which both
sides prosper.”

Her shadowmaster said, “Let us hope
there is enough prosperity to go around.”

“We must do better than hope. By
wits, by golds, and by swords, we must ensure it.” The queen’s gaze turned to
Prince Stewart and Lord Dane. “What plans for the war in the north?”

Lord Dane spread a map across the
table. “By all reports, the Mordant’s army remains here, in Raven Pass. The Octagon Knights have been defeated, but we suspect they’re mounting some type
of rear action.”

The queen studied the map. “A war
in winter,” the mere words carried a deadly chill.

Prince Stewart’s face was grim. “A
terrible war to fight. And if the rumors of the Mordant’s numbers are even half
true…” he shook his head, “may the gods aid them.”

“We can’t leave it to the gods. If
the Octagon still fights, then we must help them.”

“How?” Prince Stewart stared at
her. “By the time we march north the Octagon will be defeated or holed up in
one of their castles.”

“Swords are not the only way to
lend aid.” She reached across the map, tapping a bejeweled finger on the great
eight-sided castle drawn in bold ink. “If the knights wage a winter war then
Castlegard will know of it. They’ll sorely need food and horses and other
supplies. Our gold can buy them that. We’ll send to Harvesthold, purchasing
food and horses, ordering the farmers of Tubor to deliver them north to
Castlegard.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “If nothing else, it will buy us
time.”

“Time?” The prince quirked an
eyebrow.

“The most precious of commodities.
The longer the knights fight, the more time we shall have to prepare.” She
leaned back against the carved throne, fingering her necklace of royal rubies.
“After the Flame War, we sorely need more time to recover from the damage.” Her
gaze turned to the prince. “What of your plans for the army?”

“Numbers rule in warfare. Given the
size of the Mordant’s horde, we dare not meet them in a pitched battle.
Instead, we’ll fight another war of attrition, nibbling away at their flanks,
taking small bites, trying to whittle them down to a fightable size, much the
same as we did with the Flame. But it will take much more map, a lot more map.”
His finger traced a path from Pellanor north. “We’ll march fast, trying to
reach the Snowmelt before they cross.”

The queen nodded. “Better to fight
the length of Coronth than Lanverness.”

“Just so.” His face turned grim.
“But war will eventually come to Lanverness.”

The words sounded like a doom. “We
know.” The queen took a steadying breath. “We shall have to be prepared. When
will you leave?”

“We’ll march within a fortnight.”

“Then the wedding will be a rushed
affair, for we’ll want an heir seeded before you leave.”

The prince gaped. “Mother…”

The queen forestalled him with a
raised hand. “King Ivor consents to the marriage and so does Princess Jemma, so
bend a knee and ask her. While you woo the maiden, we’ll make the official
arrangements. This alliance with Navarre is important and you will not find a better
wife for your future queen.”

“Mother, I…”

Lord Dane interrupted. “Perhaps I
can take my leave? There’s much to be done before the army is ready to march.”

A strange look passed between her
son and Lord Dane. The queen offered her ringed hand. “See to the army, for so
much depends on it.”

The young lord kissed her ring and
then beat a hasty retreat.

“Lord Dane seems eager.”

The prince muttered, “I cannot
blame him.” Taking a deep breath, he gripped the hilt of his blue steel sword
and raised his stare to the queen. “Mother, we must speak of my marriage. I
cannot marry Princess Jemma…”

She cut him off. “More of your
romantic falderal. Love may come in due time, but for now we need this alliance
and we need more heirs. It is your duty as crown prince and it is all
arranged.”

“I can not…”

“Of course you can!”

Looking exasperated, the prince
fairly shouted the words. “I’m already married.”

The queen gasped. “
What?”

“I’m married.” The prince stood
sword-straight, his back to the roaring fire, the saber scar prominent on his
face. “I married Princess Jordan at the Crimson Keep.” His voice softened. “So
you have your alliance with Navarre, and in time, the gods willing, you’ll have
your heirs.”

The queen felt like a ship without
sails. “Where? When?”

“After I escaped the brigands and
before we attacked Lingard.” A smile burst across his face, as bright as
sunrise. “Jordan saved me. It was if the gods brought us together. So I had to
marry her, I couldn’t wait.”

“Where did this happen?”

“At Crimson Keep, an ancient ruin
just south of Lingard.”

“Married in a ruin? As if that’s
not an ill-omen.”

“Mother!”

The queen sifted through the scant
details seeking an escape. “And who married you?”

“One of the Kiralynn monks said the
words. We wed beneath the stars and all the gods.” He gave her a shrewd look.
“And there were witnesses, mother, Ronald Rognald, and the monks and some of my
royal guard. And by now the King of Navarre will have heard the news from Jordan.” His voice turned hard. “This marriage of my heart shall not be put aside.”

“And where is your…wife?”

“In Navarre, we both know the
importance of duty.” 

“You speak of duty, but what of
your children, my heirs?”

“Gods, mother! Give us time.”

“But what if she can’t?”

“What?”

The truth needed to be said, an
ugly suspicion she’d harbored since word came from the monastery. “What if she
isn’t capable?”

The prince paled, clearly ambushed.
“What do you mean?”

“Princess Jordan was attacked in
the monk’s monastery, dealt a terrible wound to the abdomen. The monks healed
her…but what if she is no longer fertile?”

The prince sank to the nearest
chair, his face ashen. “I saw the scar, a terrible wound…but she is healed,
whole and well.”

“Is she?” The queen slumped in the
throne, sundered by the turn of events. “You are our only living child, our
only heir. Without grandchildren, our line ends.”

“There will be children. The gods
can not be that cruel.” Forced confidence filled his voice but his face
remained pale.

“Never count on the gods. We’ve
found them to be a fickle lot.”

Lord Highgate said, “The royal line
of Navarre is unusually fecund.”

The prince sent a grateful look
towards the shadowmaster. Rising, he stood with his hand gripping his blue
steel sword. “I’ve married for love, to a princess royal, sealing the alliance
between Navarre and Lanverness. We are wedded and bedded and in time there will
be children.”

“May it be so.”

“Be happy for us, mother.”

She ceded him a mother’s smile. “We
wish you joy in your marriage, we truly do. But we also wish you children.”
Worry laced her voice. “War comes, and we need more heirs.”

“Give us time and I will place a
grandchild in your arms.” Bowing, the prince took his leave.

For the longest time, the queen
stared into the fire, the golden flames crackling around pine logs. Her son’s
marriage had ambushed her, shocked her, even stunned her, casting doubt on her
own choices. She’d succeeded as a queen, guiding and preserving her kingdom…but
perhaps she’d failed as a woman, dooming the Tandroth line to extinction.

Her shadowmaster broke her gaze by
stepping in front of the fire. “He will make a fine king.”

“How do you know?”

He gave her a warm smile. “He
married for love. And he dared defy the strongest queen I know.”

“There is that.”

“You worry too much.”

“There is much to worry about.” She
gazed at him, sorrow in her heart. “If only our daughter had lived. A daughter
to love…and a second heir to secure the Tandroth bloodline.”

Concern flashed across his face.
“You still think it was poison?”

“We know it.” Her words lashed with
rebuke. “The babe was alive and well.” The queen laced her hands across her
empty womb. “We felt her kick. We felt her grow…and then she was murdered.
Killed before she took her first breath.”

“I should have been here. I should
have protected you.”

The queen shook her head. “We were
at war. You were needed elsewhere, but Robert, now that you’re here, you must
find this murderer. We fear an enemy lurks within our castle. You must find
this killer of babes and gain justice for our daughter.”

He knelt before her. “I will scour
the shadows for her murderer.”

“Find the killer, for we cannot
rest until it is done.”

He kissed her ring. “As you
command,” and took his leave, softly closing the door behind him.

Alone, the queen sat in front of
the fireplace. Light and shadow danced across her solar. In her heart, Liandra
knew a murderer lurked within her court, yet the killer left no clues and no
witnesses. How does one catch a murderer when he leaves no trace, disappearing
like mist in the dawn’s first light? At least Robert believed her, but she’d
set her shadowmaster a difficult task. She craved justice for her unborn
daughter…and she needed to feel safe in her own castle. Staring into the fire,
Liandra shivered despite the heat. In the depths of her soul, she felt Darkness
draw near…and she knew she was not ready