The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (23 page)

35

The Priestess

The Priestess sat upon a throne gained neither by marriage
nor inheritance but by the dint of her own hand. Having carved a kingdom from
the corner of Coronth, she raised her moon banner above a royal keep and set a
crown upon her head, yet despite her triumph not a single monarchy acknowledged
her court…till now. When the messengers first brought word, she’d scoffed at
the notion; a doomed kingdom extending a hand of friendship to the Oracle Priestess,
but then curiosity got the better of her. Uncertain times made for uncertain
bedfellows. She decided to answer the letter. Promising safe passage, she
instructed the emissaries to arrive in the early morning, the better to shield
them from Steffan’s prying eyes. 

As the hour for the audience
dawned, her thoughts spun with possibilities. This meeting could lead to so
much more than mere talk. The possibilities were delicious, ransom, seduction,
subversion, entrapment, or even a secret alliance. The Priestess considered
them all. Much would depend on the emissary and his message. Keeping the
possibilities in mind, the Priestess took pains to set the stage. After much
thought, she selected a samite sheath of dusky purple, so dark it was nearly
midnight, and a necklace of moonstones clasped in silver to dangle amongst her
cleavage. Glamorous as a dark jewel, the Priestess took a seat upon the silver
throne. Her battle commander, General Tarmin, a burly, bearded warrior clad in
a purple surcoat of the moon, stood three steps below the dais, his hand on his
sword hilt, a possessive glint in his dark eyes.

Rain drummed against the mullioned
windows. Somewhere down the hall a slow leak dripped onto the marble floor.
Such an irritating sound, it soured her mood, as if one loose shingle could
belie the opulence of her captured court. She considered summoning her minstrel
to obscure the annoyance, but bards had loose tongues and music would diminish
the occasion. The Priestess speared a guard with her glare. “Put a bucket under
it.” 

The guard sputtered, “A bucket?”

Irritation rode her voice, “Use
your helm.”
If not your head.

With a sheepish nod, the guard sped
to obey, but it did little to solve the problem. The wet drip changed to a
metallic ping, more annoying than the first, but there was nothing to be done
about it. Smoothing her face, the Priestess nodded to her commander. General
Tarmin relayed her order, “Admit the envoys.”

Guards in purple rushed to open the
butterfly doors. Five men strode into the hall, spurs jangling, their hands
hovering over empty scabbards, proving they were seasoned warriors instead of
diplomats, men accustomed to saddles and swords, yet they showed the good sense
to eschew their queen’s colors. Instead of emerald green they wore common
leathers and darker colors implying a rare blend of caution and shrewdness. She
wondered if the choice best reflected the men or their queen.

The Priestess fingered her
moonstone necklace, a flash of jewels bedazzling her cleavage. For more than
three moonturns a queen’s crown had sat upon her brow, yet the first sovereign
to recognize her royal claim was another woman. The Oracle’s Eye allowed her to
spy on many in the Rose Court but never the Spider Queen herself. Curiosity
sharpened her interest. She studied the envoys for hints of their queen.

Reaching her dais, the five men
offered courtly bows, not deep enough to be fawning, nor shallow enough to be
insulting. The Priestess parried their courtliness with a sultry smile.
“Welcome to the realm of the moon.”

Three of the envoys stood
slack-jawed, captured by her allure. Heat reddened their faces, their stares
lost in her cleavage, but the oldest among them merely smiled, drawing her
interest. A hawk-faced man with iron gray hair and sharp eyes, he gave her a
respectful nod. “I bring greetings and well wishes from Queen Liandra of
Lanverness to Queen Selene of the moon court. Her majesty is pleased to see a
queen arise from the ashes of Coronth.”

Details often made the man; the
speaker wore an elaborately tooled sword belt and a gold ring upon his right
hand, both signs of wealth…or royal favor. The Priestess made her voice a
caress, “And your name?”

“Lord Highgate, Master Archivist
and councilor to the queen.”

She’d scried the dark-souled members
of the Rose Court, yet his face remained unfamiliar.
An honest councilor, a
true rarity in war-torn times.
“An archivist, someone who deals in musty
tomes? You don’t look the type.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“But why choose an archivist as a counselor…or
an envoy?”

“My queen loves to read,” he gave
her a sharp smile, “and history matters.”

“Does it?” She leaned back in the
throne. “The Flame war is still raw upon the land yet your queen dares send a
high councilor?”

“Precisely because of that war. My
queen desires to know her nearest neighbors, especially one who arises from the
ashes of a false religion. Like a comet, you’ve appeared from nowhere to claim
a throne.”

His choice of words struck her as
prophetic; how little he understood what the red comet presaged. “Silvery
words, so you’re a diplomat, not a spy?”

“Is there a difference?”

Amused, she rewarded him with a
throaty laugh. “An honest courtier, how rare.” She measured him with her stare.
“When you return to Pellanor, what will you report to your queen?”

“Too soon to tell.”

“First impressions?” She leaned
back in the silvery throne, arching her back to flaunt her cleavage.

His gaze raked across all that was
offered and then returned to her face. “Glamour enough to steal a man’s soul…and
the skill to use it.”

Her voice was a silky purr. “Honest
and
insightful, how refreshing.” Enjoying the verbal joust, she gave him
a smoky gaze. “And how will I use it?”

“Madam, that is the question.” He
gestured and one of his companions stepped forward bearing a bundle wrapped in
a shimmering cloth of gold. “Please accept this gift as a token of friendship
from my queen.”

General Tarmin inspected the bundle
and then offered it to the Priestess.

Her fingers assessed the cloth,
finding its weight of the highest quality. Inside, she discovered a vellum
scroll rolled on a spindle of carved ivory. The spindle was exquisite, the ends
carved into delicate rosebuds, a not-too-subtle reminder of the gift giver.
Unrolling the vellum, she half expected a letter or a treaty but instead her
gaze was captured by the brilliance of an illuminated manuscript. Gold and
jewel-toned inks swirled across the page, the capital letters adorned with
castles and crowns. The vellum was new, so the work was a copy, but the scroll was
a masterpiece nonetheless. Intricate calligraphy bedazzled with adornment, she
read the title, “
Emrath’s Fall
.” She gave him a puzzled stare. “Your
queen sends a fable?”

“Is it a fable? Or a history?”

“Anything from before the War of
Wizards is at best a fable. Myths grow on histories like moss to the trees.”
She fingered the vellum, considering the scroll. “An odd gift. The
craftsmanship is peerless, but I must confess the intent is puzzling.”

“Perhaps we can all learn from
history.”

“Such an odd message. Is your queen
always such a riddle?”

“
Women
are riddles, although
some are wiser than others, especially my queen.”

She heard honest admiration in his
voice, and for half a heartbeat she envied the Spider Queen. Somewhere down the
hall, the leak dripped into the soldier’s helm like the pluck of a badly tuned
harp. Annoyed, she set the scroll aside. “Tell me of your queen.”

“Queen Liandra hopes that the rose
and the moon will be more compatible than the flame.”

“So she seeks peace rather than
conquest?”

“Always.”

The Priestess gave a throaty laugh.
“Doubtful. The Spider Queen is not as benign as you would have us believe. She
conquers by the coin rather than the sword.”

He gave her a rueful smile, as if
she’d scored a touch. “Swords destroy while coins build. Good trade is
beneficial to both parties.”

“Now you speak like a merchant
instead of a diplomat.”

“Is there a difference?” 

She liked his wry wit, an
interesting reflection on his queen. “Tell me of the woman beneath the rose
crown.”

“The two are ever the same. Queen
Liandra is first, last, and always, the queen.”

Such a stalwart reply, such a ready
and flattering defense, yet she wondered. Seeking to unsettle him, she slowly
licked her lips and then undressed him with her gaze. Her stare lingered on his
codpiece and then flicked to his face, an invitation and a dare. His eyes
widened, a hint of wry amusement curving his mouth, but then he gave her a
knowing smile. Like a knight errant entering the lists, he dipped his head
towards her. “And
I
serve only my queen.”

His voice was laced with deep
undertones over iron conviction. His resolve surprised her while stoking her
own desire. “Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“Pity.”

He gave her a courtly bow.

Such a comely counselor, a heady
mixture of mature experience, sharp wit, and fierce loyalty, the Priestess
found herself aroused. Iron-gray hair and a time-chiseled face yet he stood
like a man accustomed to the sword. A purr of desire built in her throat. She
considered capturing him, holding him for ransom while she pitted his
convictions against her considerable charms. She considered it, but then
discarded the idea…at least for now. “We accept your queen’s gift and consent
to peace between our kingdoms.”

“A wise choice.” He bowed again,
deeper this time. “But my queen hoped for an alliance as well as peace.”

“One does not propose marriage on
the first tryst.”

“One might if haste is a
necessity.” His gaze turned serious. “You know the Mordant has taken Raven Pass.”

She stilled to hear his name spoken
aloud, answering with the barest of nods.

“A military alliance would serve
both our kingdoms.”

“Perhaps, yet we are reluctant to
tie the knot.”

A scowl flitted across his face.
“Where will you stand if the north comes crashing down?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“What remains to be seen? The
coming of the north, or your choice on where to stand?”

“Both.” She tired of the verbal
sparring. “You’ve served your queen well and gained a peace between us. Let
that be enough for now.” She extended her ringed hand. “You may take your leave
of us.”

Climbing the dais, he kept his gaze
locked on hers. Taking her proffered hand, he bowed, bestowing a soft but
courtly kiss, his gaze fixed on her face. Beneath his gentle touch, she felt
his swordsman’s calluses, proof he was much more than just a spry wit. She gave
him a suggestive smile, imagining his calloused hands on her bodice. Leaning
forward, she ensnared him with her scent, honeysuckle and nightshade mingled
with pure allure. She watched his nostrils flair, his gaze delving her bosom.
He breathed deep, clearly tempted by her trap.

He stepped back, his face firm.
“Beauty to rival the moon…yet I serve but one queen.”

Surprise slapped her. She struggled
not to gape, knowing no mere mortal could resist the full brunt of her charms
lest they were a full-cut eunuch…or deeply smitten by true love. Understanding
struck like sharp dagger. The Priestess found herself envying the Spider Queen.

He retreated down the dais, never
turning his back on her.

Such a pity,
“Perhaps we
shall meet again?”

“If my queen wills it.”

His steadfast loyalty was growing
irksome. The Priestess suppressed a sudden desire to hurt him out of pure
spite. “We wish you a safe journey.”

“Please consider my words and the
gift of my queen.”

She nodded, waving dismissal.

The envoys bowed and then turned
with military precision. She watched them stride the length of the marble hall,
broad shoulders and a flutter of dark cloaks. The butterfly doors closed behind
them, morning light filtering through the bejeweled glass casting a rainbow of
colors on the white marble floor. For the longest time she sat upon the silver
throne, considering the man, the message, and the rival queen behind them, an
intriguing conundrum. The longer she sat, the more her anger built. Sorely
tempted to send a squad of soldiers to capture him, she imagined the outcome.
Chained and bound, she’d have her way with him, pitting her charms against his
resolve, a delightful challenge. “General Tarmin.”

He snapped to attention. “Yes, my queen.”

The command quivered on the tip of
her tongue, but instead, she stayed the order, making a rare sacrifice to the
god of Eros. Dismissing the general with a wave, she whispered the words, “I
send him back to you,” as if the love god and the Spider Queen both listened.

Her gaze dropped to the scroll in
her lap.
A gift from a queen
, she fingered the vellum, wondering if the
Spider Queen was as formidable as her counselor. Perhaps the gift held a deeper
insight. The Priestess unrolled the scroll. The calligraphy was a masterwork,
gold script embellished with jewel-bright illuminations, but the tale was an
odd choice, a fable from before the War of Wizards. The story told of a
sorcerous queen tricked into causing great destruction.
A woman scorned, a
woman duped by her lover, everything lost in the conflict,
the Priestess
wondered at the message beneath the words. She scanned the script till her gaze
broke upon a name like a wave shattering upon a rocky shore. Misspelled, yet
close enough to hint at the truth, she read the name aloud.

“
The Lord Mordranth.”

The name alone sounded like a doom.
The Priestess considered the message buried beneath the words.
So the Spider
Queen knows!
Or perhaps she merely guessed. A lucky guess…or perhaps a
shrewd insight…or worse yet, perhaps the Kiralynn monks meddled. Her mind
shuddered at the thought. Either way, the game was growing complicated.
Opportunities were bred by complications…and so were the risks of mistakes. The
Priestess could not afford a mistake. She’d grown accustomed to wearing a
crown, but with the Mordant threatening the southern kingdoms, her hold on
Rhune was precarious at best. Plots within plots, she’d have to tread
carefully, weaving her way through a maze of risks to grow her own power.
One
lifetime was not enough;
she felt the prize within her reach. She’d play
the Great Dark Game and make her own bid for immortality.