The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (29 page)

Jemma gaped,
unable to speak.

Lady Sarah knelt
by the queen's bed. "Majesty, you are not yourself!"

"We know
our will." The queen pointed an accusing finger towards the princess.
"This one betrays our greatest need."

Sir Durnheart
hesitated.

Anger spiked the
queen's voice. “Obey us!”

Sir Durnheart
bowed. Grabbing the princess by the arm, he lifted her to her feet. “Come.” He
ushered her from the royal chambers.

Jemma stumbled,
shocked by the queen’s transformation. “That was not the queen.”

The knight
supported her, his gauntleted hand clamping a firm grip on her arm. “The queen
is grief-struck. She is not herself.”

But he did not
release her.
He did not release her
...Jemma considered running, but the
knight kept a firm grip, holding her tight. “What will you do?”

The knight gave
her a terse look. "Obey my queen." He hurried her down the corridor,
two guards trailing behind, their hands on their swords.

Her mouth gaped.
"
The...dungeon?"
 The words choked her throat.

Sir Durnheart
turned, never loosening his grip. "You two return and guard the queen. Let
no one pass till I return."

The two
guardsmen snapped brisk salutes and then turned, striding back towards the
queen's chamber.

Sir Durnheart
tugged on her arm, nearly lifting her from the floor. "Come."

Jemma rushed to
keep pace. "Where...
not the dungeon?"

"No,"
the knight bit the answer.

"
Then
...
where?"

“A distant part
of the castle. I'll imprison you with loyal swords standing guard at the door.”

Imprisoned!
Jemma
felt as if a nightmare engulfed her. “This is wrong."

“Yes,” the
knight gave her a sideways glance, “yet I'm sworn to obey.”

Castle Tandroth
was a labyrinth of passageways. Jemma lost track of the twists and turns. They
left the gilded hallways for shadowy corridors. He took her to a remote part of
the castle, his grip firm as steel on her arm. Jemma considered crumpling to
the floor, behaving like a deadweight, making him carry her...but such a
response had no dignity. She walked in a trance, her thoughts beating against
her, frantic with the terrible turn of fate.
The queen is not herself!
Perhaps
she should have screamed, yet she knew he spared her the dungeon. For that, at
least, she was grateful. Better to avoid attention and wait for a chance to
escape. She sagged against him, yet he propelled her up the spiral stairs. So
many steps, she lost count.

He reached an
oak door. "I'll have food and wine brought. You'll not be ill
treated." Opening the door, Sir Durnheart thrust her inside.

Thrust off
balance, she tripped and fell. "No!" Jemma lunged for the door, but
it slammed in her face. A key turned in the lock, such a damning sound. "
No!"
Her resolve cracked...she beat against the oak door till her hands hurt, a
trickle of tears on her face. "
Release me! By all the Lords of Light,
release me!"

Nothing.

The silence beat
against her. Jemma slumped to the floor. Her mind bruised, her heart numbed,
she turned to face her prison. Dusty and spare, the small tower room was
clearly long unused. A narrow bed with a faded quilt was pushed against one
wall, a cracked chamber pot sat in the corner, a stool tilting at a drunken
angle sat in front of a dead hearth. The chamber held no adornment...and no
warmth. A coating of dust across the floor bore the lonely marks of her own
footprints...and nothing else, proof the chamber was long forgotten. Biting
back a sob, she crossed to the small mullioned window, the only source of
light. The air smelled stale, choking her with more proof of her confinement. Desperate
for fresh air, she clawed at the window latch. Pushing open the lead-paned
window, she gulped fresh air. Standing on tiptoe, she peered out. Her room was
in a tower top, nothing but rooftops and battlements below. A sob caught in her
throat.
Imprisoned!
Retreating from the harsh view, she left the window
gaping open. A cool breeze haunted the chamber with the scent of freedom.
Curled on the musty bed, she watched the daylight fade to darkness. At
noon-time she'd been offered a crown...at sunset she was a prisoner. The
reversal of fortune hit like a hammer blow, as if she'd stepped into insanity.
Tears threatened, but she held them back. Jemma shuddered, feeling darkness
close around her.

53

The Priestess

Returning from
another late night, the Priestess stared from the carriage window, yet she saw
nothing. The Mordant treated her like a high-priced courtesan, sending her on
assignations with rich nobles and influential lords. She gave them a single
night of incomparable sex, dangling the promise of more, and they forfeited
their souls to Darkness, working the Mordant's will upon the queen's kingdom.
How easily she subverted the queen's loyal lords, but the Priestess despised
being used. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, yet the nightly dalliances
also served her own purpose, for she needed to feed. Locking her victims in the
throes of passion, she unleashed the succubus. Indulging her own hunger, she
drank deep from their life essence. Drunk on sex, she left her victims snoring
on their beds, her true name written in the sweat on their chests.

Staring out the
carriage window at the night-darkened city, a laugh bubbled to her lips. Twenty
years from now, Pellanor would be plagued by old men, aged beyond their years by
the kiss of a succubus.
A plague of sex upon your city,
her laughter
turned to gallows humor, realizing the price of their passion would only be
paid if the Mordant let them live. She wondered how many would survive the
Mordant's brutal reign, herself included.

Forcing the grim
thought away, she breathed in the night air, watching the passing lanterns
illuminating the queen's city. In truth, she liked Pellanor, a city brimming
with a wealth of opportunities, a plethora of amusements. A pity its rich diversity
would not survive the Mordant's rule.

The carriage
rounded a corner, turning onto a familiar street.
Nearly back to my prison,
she
gripped the handle of the door, tempted to jump, but she knew the thought was
foolish. Instead of escape, she'd only injure herself. A pair of dark-clad
assassins followed her every move, keeping watch like hungry hounds. Her hand
moved to the serpent-shaped armband coiling her forearm, the hidden needles
armed with one of her deadliest poisons...but not tonight. Better to wait till
her plans were in place.

The carriage
slowed to a stop. A dark-clad assassin appeared at the door. Opening it for
her, he offered his hand, playing the servant, a snide smile on his dusky face.
Ignoring his attitude, she accepted his help from the carriage, as any great
lady would.

Guards
surrounded her, ushering her into the mansion. Lantern light lit the
entranceway, yet the great house was silent. The revelers had gone home, or
perhaps the Mordant had gone out, seeking pleasure or purpose of his own
devising.

She climbed the
stairs, the two dark-clad assassins following close as shadows. She made her
way down the long hallway, carpet soft beneath her slippered feet. The door to
Bishop Borgan's suite gaped open, candlelight spilling into the hallway. The
Priestess despised the fat prelate, but information was a weapon she sorely
needed. Loosening her robe to reveal a hint of cleavage, she struck a
suggestive pose in the frame of his doorway. She needn't have bothered for the fat
prelate had his nose stuck in a mound of scrolls.

"No revels
tonight?"

He flicked a
bored glance her way. "Not tonight, but there's one planned for the
morrow. Wear something special. The Mordant will expect you to mingle with the
guests and display your wears."

Like a harlot
up for bid,
she kept the sneer from her voice, "Of course."

"How did
you find Lord Weathering?"

A shrewd man
but a fool for sex,
"He's eager to serve the prince of Ur."

Dipping a quill
in ink, the bishop opened a thick ledger. "Very good."

"And my
next assignation?"

The bishop
thumbed through the pages, an erudite whoremaster. "In three nights,
you're to go to a Lord Ferdic. The Mordant wants him to propose a writ to
double the taxation on taverns. Squeeze the people's pleasures and their hate for
the queen will escalate to a bonfire."

Their petty
schemes mattered not a copper to her. "In three nights." Having
gained the information she needed, the Priestess turned to leave.

"And,
Iris," a satisfied smile filled his jowly face, "the Mordant appreciates
your ardent service."

She bristled
with hate, resenting the use of her true name. "I'm sure he does."
The Priestess longed to poison the fat pig, but not tonight. Keeping her face
composed, she glided down the hallway to her own suite of rooms.

An assassin
rushed to open the door. Without giving him a glance, she crossed the threshold
of her gilded prison. The door closed behind her, the key turning in the lock.

Her two
handmaidens slept in chairs in front of the smoldering hearth. They'd clearly sought
to await her return, but the late hour had caught them. She let them sleep.
Shedding her cloak, she made her way to the inner bedroom.

Forced to serve
the Mordant, she felt the need to reaffirm her power to kill. Seeking the
solace of her poisons, she knelt in front of her rosewood chest, her harvest of
deathly delights. Taking care lest she trigger the poison-tipped needles, she
unlocked the chest. Easing the lid open...she found it empty!

Empty!

Her heartbeat
thundered, her hands shook with rage as she hurriedly opened the small drawers,
searching for any scrap of poison. Someone had ransacked her chest, taking her
hoard of velvet pouches and stoppered bottles. Even the secret compartments
were empty.
Nothing!
They'd taken everything, stealing all her precious
poisons! How dare they! A scream of rage ripped out of her. Feeling like a
beast declawed, she howled for all that was lost.

Her handmaidens
came running. "
Mistress?"
 

"Who was in
here?"

They trembled in
the doorway. "None while we were here."

Lydia paled.
"They offered us dinner served in the courtyard," her voice dropped
to a repentant whisper, "a chance to be outside."

It was not their
fault, but her rage was not easily caged. "Leave me."

They fled to the
outer chamber, closing the door behind them.

The Priestess
prowled her bedroom like a caged beast. The Mordant defanged her with his every
move, chaining her sexuality to his own purpose, stealing her poisons. Rage thundered
through her, gradually annealing to a smoldering anger, another score to settle
with the Mordant. Thankfully she still had her serpent armbands and ring.
Lethal jewelry loaded with enough poison to kill ten men, yet now she needed to
hoard her poisonous sting to its best advantage.

She bitterly
regretted answering the Mordant's summons. Everything had gone wrong...yet
she'd won back the Eye.

The Eye!
Her
hand slipped to the great moonstone dangling between her breasts. Fused
together by searing passion and stolen magic, the Great Eye was whole once
more...and the Mordant did not know it.
What he did not know could hurt him.
A smile teased her face.

Shuttering the
windows against prying eyes, she went to her cedar chest, delving through her
silken finery till she found her silver scrying bowl. Kneeling by the bowl, she
filled it with water from a pewter ewer. Releasing the pale moonstone from its
wire cage, she fondled the oval stone, marveling at its silken feel, smooth and
flawless once more. Whispering a prayer to Darkness, she lowered the ancient
gem into the crystal clear water.

The Priestess
held her breath, waiting.

Powers clashed.
The water spat and roiled, fighting the stone, proof of the moonstone's
potency. Darkness prevailed and the water turned inky black, a fitting surface
to reflect Dark deeds.

Shrugging off
her gown, she knelt naked over the bowl, her raven-black hair cascading down
like a shuttering veil. Her breath whispered across the dark water, "Yours
to use." She petitioned the Dark God, wondering if he would answer her
entreaty despite the nearness of the Mordant. She shivered, anxious with need.
"Do not forsake me, Lord."

Darkness
answered, surrounding her, enfolding her, impaling her.

Smitten by her
god, the Priestess writhed with pleasure and pain, ecstasy balanced on the
knife-edge of agony. She bit back a scream as the god delved deep, filling her
with Darkness, and then the divine presence withdrew.

"Thank you,
Lord." Her voice trembled with smoky pleasure, a succubus fulfilled.

Brimming with
power, she cast her will upon the Dark waters. "Show me Steffan."
Images appeared on the mirror-dark water. She found him asleep, his dark hair
tousled, the sheets twisted around him as if he fought in his dreams. He slept
alone...and that pleased her. She watched his restless sleep, watched him toss
upon the sheets, and then she entered his dreams.

By swearing an
oath to her, he'd opened himself to the power of the Eye.

Wielding the
moonstone, she slipped into his dreams.
*Steffan, hear me!*

*How? Where?*

She felt his
eagerness...and his puzzlement.
*Here, love, in your dreams. Think of me and
I am here.*

The link was
uncannily strong. He thought of her naked in his arms...and she was there. More
than any dream she'd ever entered, this felt like reality. She could almost
feel the strength of his need as he nuzzled her neck.
*I need you.*

So this was
how he imagined her. *You need to think.*
She drew back from him, lest passion
cloud his mind. Steffan reached for her, but she evaded him.
*No, we need to
talk. We need to thwart the Mordant.*

Fear blasted through
his mind, banishing all thoughts of passion.
*He saw me!*

His fear was
contagious.
*He saw you?*
She had hoped to keep him hidden, a dagger in
the dark.

*I kept watch
outside the mansion. It was noontime, the street was crowded. I was one among
many, yet his stare locked onto me like an arrow shot in the dark.*

A sense of
foreboding gripped her.
*He saw you, yet he let you live?*

*He more than
saw me. His gaze invaded me!*
She felt his frustration, his fear.
*It
felt like rape.*

Her own fear
festered.
*Steffan, you are but a youngling in the eyes of Darkness, a
fresh-sworn dedicate still living your first lifetime. If the Mordant plumbs
your mind, he will rape you of every thought, every intent. You must stay away
from him.*

*I'll not
leave you.*

She felt his
conviction, she felt his love...and the strength of it stunned her. The
Priestess nearly lost control of her magic. Love was something others dreamt
of, something always denied her, for passion was her true domain...yet
Steffan's dream did not lie. Caught off guard by the strength his love, the
Priestess struggled to bridle her emotions and keep her wits.
*It was a
mistake to come here, a terrible mistake. The Mordant deems himself a god. He
will not share power. He will not suffer us to live unless we serve. You must
keep your distance, yet I need your help to escape.*

*How can I
help?*

A wave of
dizziness washed across her, she felt her power fading. Unwilling to forfeit
this chance, she struggled to keep the link.
*In three nights I'll be sent to
service Lord Ferdic. Get Braxus and the others and plan an ambush. Slay the
Mordant's men and have horses ready. We'll flee the city and then cross an
ocean to escape the Mordant's reach.*

Her power was
stretched too thin, the link began to waver.
*I cannot stay! In three nights
at Lord Ferdic's. Be ready!*

*I'll be
there...*

Steffan's image
vanished, severing the link. Exhausted, the Priestess slumped to the carpet,
reeling with dizziness. Speaking through dreams drained so much more power than
mere scrying, yet a smile rode her ruby lips. The power of the Great Eye was
hers once more...and in three nights she'd escape the Mordant's greedy grasp.
The oldest harlequin had stolen her poisons, but not her magic, proving he was
not infallible. A smile graced her lips. Succumbing to sleep, she dreamt of
Steffan, glorying in her own Dark prowess.