The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (27 page)

Pain pounded
through her, deepening to an unbearable agony. Feeling as if her insides were
being torn asunder, she collapsed to the carpet, clutching her stomach.
Consumed by pain, her feeble attempt to poison him fled. Screams ripped out of
her throat as she writhed across the floor. She thought she would die, murdered
by Dark magic. A keening wail burst out of her, the sound of a wild animal caught
in a trap.

The agony
intensified. She felt as if she were being flayed alive. Ripping with pain, her
screams became muted, smothered to ragged whimpers. Tears streamed down her
face, green with malachite. She began to yearn for death...and remembered her
fingernail.

The pain
stopped.

Suddenly gone,
she gasped in surprise. She lay on the floor, shocked by the sweet absence of
pain. Smothering a whimper, she froze statue-still lest the pain return. Sodden
with sweat, she found herself panting, her body quivering with remembered
agony.

“Now you know
who is master here.” The Mordant nudged her with his bare foot, but she was too
weak to rise. His raised his voice to a shout. “Come!”

The door opened
and a pair of black-clad assassins rushed to answer their master's call.

“Take this one
to her room.”

Strong hands
grabbed her, roughly lifting her from the floor.

“And, Iris.”

The assassins
stopped, one of them lifting her head so that she could see the Mordant's face.

“The next time I
summon you to my bed, you will come as a mere woman, as a meek woman. You will
offer yourself to me and you will take what I choose to give without touching a
drop of your power.” He gave her a chilling stare. “I like spirit in my horses
and my hunting dogs…not my women. Am I understood?”

Her voice was
hoarse from screaming, yet she croaked a reply. “Yes, lord.”

He made a
dismissive gesture and the assassins carried her from the room.

Devastated by
the reversal of fortunes, she lay supine in their arms. Insensate like a
corpse, they carried her back to her room and dumped her inside the door. She
heard the door close and the lock turn, a prisoner once more.

Slick with
sweat, she shivered with the aftershocks of agony. She rubbed her eyes, her
hands coming away smeared with malachite, kohl, and tears.
Tears!
Humiliated
and defeated, the Priestess curled on her side, riven by the ordeal. She’d
never known such extreme pain…or such shame. For half a heartbeat, she
considered scoring her own flesh with her poisoned fingernail...but then
he
would
win. Despair threatened to crush her…but then a spark of outrage glittered in
her soul.
She was the Priestess of the Oracle
...
how dare he treat her
this way.
The Mordant's words replayed in her mind. Her thoughts fastened
on a deeper profanity...and she began to see his undoing. 
How dare he style
himself a god!
 Outrage shuddered through her. There was but one Lord of
Darkness, one Dark God…and he ruled this realm and the next. The Priestess knew
their god better than most. Their lord was all-powerful, but he was also a
jealous god. Hell hath but one power and that power never shared.

Her voice
whispered a hoarse prayer. "My Dark Lord, my Dark God, he dares to rival
you. Let me be the instrument of your
vengeance!
"

A second pulse
beat between her breasts.

The Priestess
stiffened in surprise…and then she remembered the sundered Eye. Wrapped in
silver wire, it dangled on a chain nestled in her cleavage. She took it in her
shaking hands and breathed upon it. A heartbeat answered. She gasped in
amazement, feeling the gathering power within. Instead of three sundered
fragments...the Eye was fused together, whole once more. A wild giddiness
gripped her. She must have drawn far more power from the Mordant than she'd
known, power enough to heal the Eye. A smile lit her face. Draining so much
power would have its consequences. She'd tapped deep into the well of his
life-force, drawing decades from him, cutting short his unnatural lifespan.
He'd not miss it now, but he'd feel her vengeance later, ambushed by the early
onslaught of old age. A victorious smile slid across her face. She imagined him
bent and riddled by the early assault of old age. The Priestess gripped the
great moonstone tight, triumph lighting her face. Fused together by passion and
pain, the Eye of the Oracle was whole and unsundered...proof the Dark Lord had
not abandoned her. The Great Dark Dance continued but not as the Mordant
expected. The Priestess remained a formidable player. The game was far from
done.

50

Steffan

Impatient for
word of the Priestess, Steffan began to haunt the streets around the prince's
mansion. His sellswords kept watch, confirming that she lived, but he needed to
see for himself. Midday was always the best time to spy, the cobbled streets
crowded with merchants, craftsmen and minstrels come to ply the wealthy for
coin. Amidst the bustling commerce, the scents of flowering jasmine wafted down
the street, as if the wealthy cast perfume upon the very air. Steffan sneezed,
annoyed by the cloying scent. Threading his way through the crowd, he spied
Donklin lurking in the shadows of a side street. Sauntering across, he joined
the sellsword captain. "What word?"

Donklin leaned
against a wrought iron railing twined with flowering honeysuckle. "I'll
tell you this," he cast a baleful glance across the street, "yer
prince is a cautious fellow."

"Why?"

"The manse
is bursting with servants...'cept they ain't no servants, they're veteran swords."

A shiver of
foreboding raced down Steffan's back. "How can you tell?"

Donklin
shrugged. "The way they stand, the way their stares prowl the streets for
enemies, the way their hands hover where their swords should be." He
flicked a glance toward Steffan. "Takes one to know one." Plucking a
white flower from the vine, the sellsword popped the honeysuckle in his mouth
and chewed. Seeing Steffan's stare, he shrugged. "Sweet as honey only
chewier." His face sobered. "Tell you somethin' else. The short ones
in dark clothing, they're the most dangerous. You best keep away from them.
They look small, but they glide like prowling cats and are damned difficult to
track in a crowd, disappearing like smoke in the breeze."

The more Steffan
heard, the more he worried. "So have you seen the prince?"

 "Aye, the
prince and the seductress. They come and go at all hours, 'specially at
night." Donklin gave him a narrow stare. "Tell you this, whatever yer
plannin' it best be outside the manse. Too damn many swords inside to tangle
with."

Steffan had no
intention of invading the Mordant's lair. "What about the alleyway in
back? Anything suspicious there?"

"Plenty
suspicious. Two of my swords have gone missing."

A chill shivered
down Steffan's back. "Dead or caught?"

"No way to
tell, 'cept if we find a body." Donklin spat a chewed flower and plucked
another.

Anger riddled
Steffan's voice. "I warned you not to get caught."

"And I
warned them," Donklin bristled, "but those dark-clad bastards are
scary as hell. Best avoid them. I don't post any watchers back there no more. A
waste of swords."

Steffan bridled
his anger. "Tell me about the woman. When do you see her?"

"Mostly at
night, but it's hard to catch a glimpse. The prince's guards shuffle her in and
out of waiting carriages, and there's always a couple of those black-clad
bastards keeping close watch on her. My guess is the prince has got her on a
tight leash."

A tight
leash,
the Priestess was not the type of woman to be kept on a leash.
"Anything else?"

"Yeah, the
prince likes to revel, and he spares no expense. Merchants deliver all manner
of wine and food during the day. Lordlings and their ladies arrive at night, all
decked with velvets and jewels, the carriages coming thick as starlings. Lights
blaze from the manse till the wee hours." Donklin gave him a pointed look.
"A dapper lordling like yerself might wrangle an invite to the feast. See
yer lady fer yerself." 

It was a
thought, a dangerous thought, yet it appealed to the gambler in him. "I'll
consider it." He tossed the captain a purse stuffed with golds. "Pay
your men and keep them watching."

Donklin weighed
the purse, a smile creasing his craggy face. "Happy to serve."

Steffan ambled
out into the street. Falling in behind a troupe of mummers, his gaze raked the
manse. So many diamond-paned windows gleaming golden in the reflected sunlight,
he wondered if the Priestess peered from one and knew he kept watch.
"Soon,"
he whispered the word like a promise.

Movement at the
mansion's arched doorway drew his gaze. Servants in purple tabards poured out,
standing tense on either side of the door. Watching them, Steffan knew Donklin
had the truth of it.
Dressed like servants yet they move like soldiers
braced to meet a foe.

A magnificent
white stallion was led to the doorway, its mane braided with bells, its saddle
trappings glimmering with jewels. Stamping and snorting, the stallion showed
its spirit, fighting the groom. An excellent judge of horses, Steffan knew the
stallion alone was worth a small fortune, the arrogance of wealth on brazen
display.

The mummers
stopped to gawk.

Steffan lingered
behind them, using them as a screen.

The soldiers
dressed as servants tensed. Four of the black-clad men flowed out of the
doorway. Short in stature, yet they moved like liquid death, taking positions
around the stallion.

Steffan held his
breath, aware he should walk on, yet compelled to watch...and then he saw him,
the fair-haired prince of Ur. He was tall, but his build was ordinary, like a young
man who'd spent his short lifetime wielding a quill instead of a sword. His
shoulder-length ash-blond hair was neatly trimmed in the latest style. Clad in sumptuous
silks, his clothing was of the finest quality, dyed a deep imperial purple, the
Great Wyrm of Ur boldly embroidered in gold across his chest. Jewels glittered
on his fingers, yet he wore no sword. Swinging into the saddle with practiced
ease, he took up the reins and quickly mastered the fretting stallion.

So this is
the Mordant.

Fascinated,
Steffan studied his rival. The prince mastered the stallion with ease,
displaying a clear knack for horsemanship, and he showed excellent taste in
tailors, but otherwise he looked quite ordinary. Neither handsome nor
physically daunting, his most imposing feature was the richness of his trappings.
A common thrush bedecked in peacock's plumage,
Steffan was not
impressed.

A sneer rode his
face,
so this is the oldest harlequin, the one who dares to cage my Cereus.
His
hands slipped to the throwing dagger sheathed at his belt.

The Mordant was
so arrogant, he did not even wear armor. Bedecked in bright silks, he made an
easy target. A single well-thrown dagger and Steffan could forever end this
arrogant threat.

The Mordant
urged his stallion to a showy prance, his servant-guards keeping pace around
him.

Steffan sidled
forward, drawing closer, angling for a better position. Easing the dagger from
its sheath, he held the wicked-keen blade by the tip.

The Mordant drew
near, close enough for an easy kill. He looked unaware, a noble out for an afternoon
ride.

Steffan took a
deep breath, poised to throw.

The Mordant's
gaze suddenly snapped towards Steffan.

Their stares
locked.

A thousand years
of Darkness slammed into Steffan like a thunderbolt, pinioning his soul.

*How dare
you!*
The words boomed in his mind.

Steffan
quivered, unable to breathe, unable to move. Something Dark reached inside of
him, slithering through his soul. He felt raped, he felt violated. Sweat
erupted across his skin, the dagger falling from his useless hand, clattering
on the cobbles.

*I see you. I
know your Dark soul. You shall grovel before me!*

The Mordant
released him, riding past.

Steffan gasped
and staggered backwards. Shocked to be alive, he turned and fled, desperate to
escape that searing gaze.

51

Liandra

Riddled with
doubts, Liandra paced a path in front of the hearth, seeking solutions to half
a hundred questions. Dispatches littered her desk, yet the mound of scrolls
only raised more problems. Robert remained in Lingard despite her instructions
to return with all haste, her Lord Sheriff was missing and no one knew where or
why, and now she learned that the monks posing as apothecaries were either dead
or fled.
Dead in her city
, yet she seemed the last to know. Frustration
warred with rage. She was the Spider Queen, she'd threaded her shadowmen like
silk strands through the courts of Erdhe, yet her inquiries brought nothing but
riddles. Feeling beleaguered, Liandra tread a path in the wool carpet.

Missing allies,
dark magic and dangerous rumors, the problems tightened like a vexing noose.
The queen’s mind fastened on the last. Someone stirred false rumors against
her. A queen needed the faith of her people to rule. “We need to be seen.”

 “Seen,
majesty?” Lady Sarah sat before the hearth, her knitting forgotten.

“To quell the
false rumors we need to be seen, to remind our people that we rule and rule
well.” Liandra considered the possibilities. Pomp and pageantry never failed to
impress. "We shall ride out to inspect the city wall. And we shall wear
our armor to remind our people that we saved them from the Flame.”

Lady Sarah
sighed, “Silk is so much easier than steel.”

“True, but armor
has its own allure, and we need every advantage.”

“When?”

“On the morrow,
assuming the sun shines. We seek the glitter of steel, not a rusty drizzle.”

“I’ll get the
ladies polishing.” Curtsying, Lady Sarah went to rouse the others to their
tasks.

Liandra felt her
burdens lessened by one, yet so many problems remained.
Dark magic in her
city, the monks dead or fled,
she resumed pacing, hounded by a hundred
problems, a myriad of questions plaguing her mind. Three times the fire burned
to embers, and three times Lady Sarah added logs to the grate, stoking the fire
to a roaring blaze. The queen took comfort in the heat and the light, yet she
found no answers. Growing weary, she settled in a chair, staring into the
flames, worrying a riddle with too many questions and not enough facts.

An urgent
pounding startled her. Flustered, Liandra realized she must have dozed in the
chair. Still clad in her silk gown, a wool blanket was tucked across her lap.
Tugging the blanket aside, she glanced at the diamond paned window. Night ruled
the sky, proving she'd slept longer than she thought.

A fist pounded
the outer door.

Annoyance spiked
through the queen, angered by the rude urgency. “Come, but you'd best have a
good reason for your pounding.”

The door burst
open and her deputy shadowmaster flew in like an angry crow, his dark robes
flapping. He ushered a mud-splashed messenger into her solar. Breathing hard,
as if he'd run the length of the palace, Master Raddock blurted the message.
“Majesty, terrible tidings have come from the north.”

His words struck
like a slap, yet the queen hid behind a stone mask. “Tell us.”

Master Raddock
gestured to the boy. Clad in the emerald green tabard of a royal courier, the
freckle-faced lad was ghost-pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, his clothing
rumpled and mud-splattered. “Majesty, they told me to ride hard for Pellanor. I
came as fast as I could.” The lad wavered on his feet, clearly exhausted.
Dropping to one knee, he proffered a battered scroll towards her. “Majesty, the
prince is dead.”

The words made
no sense. “What?”

The boy’s voice
quavered. “Prince Stewart is dead, killed at the battle of Eye Bridge.”

Her heartbeat
galloped at wild pace, as if it could outrun the grim tidings. "No, you
are mistaken." The voice sounded so calm, so collected, it could not be
hers.

The boy extended
the scroll towards her. "Majesty, he fell fighting the Mordant's army at
Eye Bridge. They said he fought bravely."

"
No, it
cannot be!"

The lad
proffered the scroll towards her.

She struck it
from his hand, as if it was a poisonous snake.

The messenger gasped,
but the queen did not care. Liandra balled her ringed hands into fists,
desperately clinging to her disbelief.

Master Raddock
recovered the scroll. "Majesty, I checked the seal myself, the message is
valid. You must listen to reason."

"
Reason!"
She loosed her rage on the fat crow. "
Who are you to tell us of
reason? Are you an anointed queen? Are you a mother?
We cannot lose our
firstborn son, our stalwart warrior, our only heir!"
She reined in
her voice, yet her words cut all the deeper. "If our son dies, our reign
will all be for naught!" Liandra was a petite woman, yet her rage was
fearsome, a towering wall of denial. She pointed a warning finger at her
shadowmaster. "Tell us not of reason, for this cannot be!"

Her shadowmaster
cowered before her.

The
messenger-boy lowered his gaze, tears streaming his dirty face.

Liandra waited,
her ringed hands balled into fists.

Lady Sarah flew
towards her. Taking the scroll from the shadowmaster's hands, she opened it
with shaking hands. "Majesty," a heavy sorrow laced her friend's
voice, "he speaks the truth. It says Prince Stewart is dead."

 “
No!”
The
words pierced her mind, pierced her heart. “
It cannot be!”

Someone was
screaming, a terrible keening sound.

"
My
son!"
The queen fled from reason, shrieking like a banshee.
"By
all the gods, it cannot be!"

Courtiers came
and went from her chambers, but she did not care. A flask was forced to her
lips, a draught of bitterness, a draught of tears. Liandra swallowed the potion
and felt herself fall…like falling into a bottomless well…like falling into
forgetfulness. Swallowed by darkness, she welcomed oblivion.