The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (30 page)

54

The Mordant

The traitor fell
prostrate before him, his arms spread wide in abasement. He'd turned this one
in a single soul-searing gaze, proving the queen did not have as many loyal
lords as she thought. The Mordant finished reading the scroll and then set it
aside. The petty Darkness of the man's soul called to him, a tool waiting to be
used. "Tell me of the queen."

The traitor rose
to his knees. "The queen is felled by grief. She's taken to her bed,
closeted with her women, ignoring her counselors and all matters of
state."

"Good."
The Mordant fondled the malachite coin, tumbling it between his fingers, a
latent power destined to serve his will...just as all of Erdhe would soon
serve. "While the woman wallows in grief, much ill will be done in her
name. See Bishop Borgan before you leave. He has a stack of scrolls for
discreet delivery to those lords turned to the service of Ur."

"Yes, my
lord."

"Now tell
me of the other matter."

"The
princess?"

"Yes."

"I was not
privy to the scene, but I heard whispers from some of the queen's lesser
women."

"And?"

"It seems
Lady Sarah took it upon herself to withhold the queen's dosage of poppy milk.
Released from the poppy's entangling dreams, the queen woke to find the
princess seated beside her. Perhaps the poppy milk addled her mind, for rumors
say the queen flew into a rage and ordered the princess imprisoned."

Imprisoned,
the
Mordant savored the word,
so the queen takes the first step towards
Darkness.
How easily the woman succumbed, yet the Mordant savored the
triumph. Plots within plots, he'd despoil the arrogant woman's soul, pushing
her towards Darkness while turning allies against allies. Divide and conquer
was ever the first rule of Darkness. A satisfied smile slipped across his face.
"Imprisonment is but the first step. Set your own men to guarding the
princess. Her death is of the utmost importance."

"Her
death?"

"Yes, but
the timing must be right. When the queen awakens, she will seek your advice.
You must push her towards further atrocities."

"The
queen's women are stirred like angry hornets buzzing a nest, refusing all
admittance to the royal chambers."

The Mordant made
a dismissive gesture. "They're only women."

"Yes, my
lord."

"The queen
will gainsay them. She will strive to reclaim the reins of power, and when she
does, she will need her loyal advisors. You will be waiting to serve her."

The traitor
smiled. "And how will I advise her?"

"The queen
wants something from the king of Navarre, something she believes she
desperately needs. To gain this boon, she will need to barter with coin of
equal value. Advise her to hold the princess's life in ransom against her
need."

"Ransom?"

"Yes,
advise her to barter the life of the princess for the magic of Navarre."
The Mordant fondled the malachite coin."And when Navarre refuses, as they
must, you will advise the queen to follow through on her threat." The
Mordant flashed a sinister smile. "Remind her that anything less would be
a blatant show of weakness. In a land brimming with kings, queens dare not be
seen as weak. Weakness will topple a crown, especially if it is held by a
woman." His voice hardened. "The queen must make good on her threat,
and the execution must be done in public."

"In
public?"

"A public
execution will compound the sin and will enrage Navarre to war. Allies fighting
against allies, the queen will be forever branded as a corrupt ruler, a woman
scheming for war merely for the sake of her empty womb. Her very name shall be
reviled, eternally cursed in the annals of Erdhe, a lasting warning that women
are not meant to rule."
And the Great Dark Divide shall be served,
enacting the will of the Dark God.
Tendrils of ecstasy shuddered through
the Mordant, proof of the Dark Lord's pleasure.

The Mordant
stiffened as the Voice of the Dark God boomed through his mind, dangling the
ultimate promise
.
*Everlasting life is within thy grasp...all of
Erdhe shall cower before thee.*
The Mordant savored the words,
everlasting
life!

As if coming out
of a trance, the Mordant snapped his gaze back to the traitor. "Go...and
work my will upon the queen. Keep a sharp watch lest she stray from the plan.
And secure the princess, the pawn in our game."

Bowing low, the
traitor retreated, closing the door behind him.

The Mordant
fondled the malachite coin. The schemes of centuries would finally bear their
Dark fruit. Everything was falling into place. It was only a matter of time.

55

Jemma

A key turned in
the lock. Jemma startled awake. Dark and cold and dusty, her strange
surroundings puzzled her...and then she remembered.
Imprisoned!
For half
a heartbeat she considered feigning sleep, but the chance was soon lost.
Lantern light pierced the darkness, and with it came a familiar face.

Startled to see
her friend, Jemma leaped from the bed. "
Lady Sarah!"
Her gaze
fixed on the older woman. "Have you come to free me?"

The lady slipped
into the chamber, her arms full of bedding and the swaying lantern. Lady Amy
followed, struggling to carry two baskets.

Their burdens
betrayed the bitter answer. "Oh." Jemma considered dashing for the
open door...till Sir Durnheart appeared. The knight shut the door with his heel
and then dumped a load of kindling by the cold hearth.

Jemma sank back
to the bed, numbed by the bitter truth.

Lady Sarah
clucked like a mother hen. "It's so chilly in here, you'll catch your
death of cold." Latching the window, she bustled about, dusting and
setting the chamber to rights. Lady Amy set a loaf of bread, a bowl of fresh
churned butter, and a flask of mead on a blanket beneath the window, as if she
were laying a picnic for a summer day. Sir Durnheart knelt, kindling a fire in
the hearth. The blaze soon sprang to life, releasing a welcome heat.

So they'd
come to gild the prison.
Still clothed, Jemma sat perched atop the musty
bed, her hands clasping her knees, watching her friends turned captors.

The knight moved
from the hearth to the door, blocking any chance at escape.

Lady Amy
approached, her face chagrined. "We've brought fresh linens for the
bed."

"Let me go
and I'll save you the trouble."

Lady Amy stared
at her shoes. "We're only trying to help."

In her heart,
Jemma knew she spoke the truth. Her friends had spared her the horror of the
dungeons, but everything about this was wrong. "You know this is not
right."

Lady Sarah
looked chagrined. "We cannot disobey the queen."

"But the
queen would not want this."

"Yet she
ordered it." Lady Sarah's voice turned gentle, even pleading. "Let us
make the bed."

Jemma stood and
moved to the corner. Her back to the wall, she watched in sullen silence as the
two women stripped the dusty bed and remade it with fresh linens and a thick
comforter. Finished with the bed, Lady Amy set the lantern on the hearth mantle
and then gathered up her empty baskets. The two women turned towards the door.

"
Wait!"
Jemma stepped from the corner, suddenly afraid they'd leave without answers.
"I have to know what's happening."

Lady Sarah
nodded. She gestured to Lady Amy. The knight escorted Lady Amy from the chamber,
closing the door behind them. The lock did not click, but Jemma was certain the
knight stood guard beyond the door. She stared at her friend. "You must
let me go."

Lady Sarah
looked stricken. "We serve the queen."

"But this
is lunacy!"

The older woman
sighed. "This is the milk of the poppy, this is the madness of a mother's grief,
this is a queen with too many burdens. All or none, the queen is not
herself."

"Then
release me!"

"I cannot
gainsay the queen more than I already have."

"I'll sneak
out of the castle and leave Pellanor. I swear I'll return to Navarre and forget
this ever happened."

"It's too
late for that."

Something in her
tone gave warning. Jemma drew a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"

Lady Sarah sank
to the bed, looking weary beyond her years. "After ordering your...,"
she struggled with the word, her mouth twisting in distaste, "arrest, the
queen was so agitated that Healer Crandor insisted on dosing her with more of
his potions, but instead of calming her, the queen became agitated, flying into
a wild rage. Her majesty ranted about you and Navarre, screaming about the need
to bear a child." Lady Sarah stared at Jemma, regret filled her brown
eyes. "It was grief, or the potions speaking, but the damage is
done."

"Damage?"
Jemma did not like the sound of this.

"We were
trying to protect you and the queen." Lady Sarah made a feeble wave.
"We sought to keep her majesty secluded till she came back to her senses,
but others heard the rant." The older woman took a deep breath. "We
brought you here to spare you from the dungeons, but now you must stay for you
own protection."

"
My
protection?"

"Others who
love the queen less might obey her commands to the letter. They're looking for
you."

A chill shivered
down Jemma's back.
So the dungeon remains a very real threat,
her heart
jolted to a wild gallop. She struggled to marshal her thoughts.  "Who
knows I'm here?"

"Only we
three. We'll keep you hidden, we'll keep you safe. And when the queen comes to
her senses this will all be put to rights."

Jemma prayed for
it to be so, but prayer was rarely enough. "Can you not smuggle me out of
the castle?"

The lady gave
her a warning look. "Don't press me to disobey my queen more than I
already have."

Stalemate,
she
knew Lady Sarah walked a thin line between duty and honor. Jemma reached for
the other woman's hand, offering a gentle touch of thanks. "I'm sorry.
You've done so much for me, but this is hard."

"Hard for
us all." Lady Sarah stood. "I must get back to the queen. I fear to
leave her unattended." She gave Jemma a beseeching look, her voice a
mixture of concern and contrition. "Keep safe. I'll return when I
can." With a nod toward the princess, she exited the chamber.

The key turned
in the lock, a damning sound.

Still a
prisoner,
but at least her cage was more comfortable. She went to the small
window and watched the dawn rise across the castle, but the light brought no
cheer. Madness stalked the queen, and somehow Jemma had been caught by it,
snared by a web of insanity. She feared the consequences, for herself...and all
of Erdhe.

56

Steffan

Steffan dreamt
of her, but this time it seemed so real, so much more than just a dream. Naked,
she came to him, lush and ripe, her raven-dark hair cascading to her hips. He
swept her into his arms and carried her to his bed. Her scent was intoxicating,
desire suffused with mystery.
"Cereus!"
he whispered her name,
his voice laden with hunger. So tempting to have his way with her, to ease the
throbbing ache in his loins, but he knew the sweet delay would only heighten
his pleasure a thousand fold. A skilled lover, he decided to make her beg for
it. Trailing kisses down her throat, his hands worked their own magic.

A sound
intruded.

He longed to
remain, to quench his desire, but a sixth sense warned him to be wary.

Reluctant to
leave her arms, yet he swam awake.

He woke to an
empty bed. Lying warm beneath the quilt, his manhood still rampant, his
sleep-drunk gaze roved the night-darkened room. Nothing seemed amiss. Steffan
rankled his nose at the room's stale smell.
Piss pots and stale ale,
the
smell disgusted him. Despite pockets full of gold, he'd taken a cheap room at a
dodgy inn in the city's shadier side and told no one where he stayed, not
Braxus, not Donklin, not even the Priestess when she came to visit his dreams. Her
words of warning no longer fell on deaf ears. He'd crossed stares with the
Mordant...and lost. Steffan knew he dared not be found. He shuddered at the
memory of those probing eyes flaying his soul. Coming to Pellanor was a perilous
mistake. Better to take ship to a foreign shore and start their own Dark Dance.
At least the Priestess had a plan. One more night of hiding in this dank hole and
then he'd snatch Cereus from the Mordant's guards and carry her far beyond his
foul reach. Steffan smiled, thinking of their future together.

The sound came
again, a subtle scratching at the door.

Perhaps it was
mice, or a petty thief, yet it paid to be cautious. His hand slipped beneath
the pillow, seeking his throwing knife.

The door burst
open.

A pair of
dark-clad men leaped through the doorway. Crouching on either side of his bed,
they glared like hounds on a tether.

Servants of
the Mordant,
Steffan's heartbeat hammered.
Two against one,
he
tightened his grip on his throwing dagger, yet he kept it hidden, attempting
bluster instead. "What are you doing?
Get out!
" He made his
voice a shout, hoping to draw others, though he knew it was a weak ploy.
Denizens of the shady quarter tended to flee rather than fight.
"Get
out!"

A dark-robed
figure appeared in the doorway. "There you are." The Mordant stepped
into the room, a nightmare come calling.

Steffan edged
backwards, his head against the wall, the knife hidden beneath the quilt.
"How did you find me?"

"Darkness
has its own scent." The Mordant's nostrils flared wide. "Only a
youngling, yet your soul brims with it."

Steffan locked
his stare on the Mordant's lips, trying to avoid the deadly snare of his gaze.
"What do you want?"

"You should
have asked that question when you first saw me. You should have dropped to your
knees and begged to serve a higher Darkness."

Steffan
stammered an answer. "I...didn't know."

"Didn't
you? Then why were you spying?"

Sweat erupted
across his skin, bearing the stink of fear. Sometimes the truth served better
than a lie. "The woman...I want the woman."

A sneer curdled
the Mordant's lips. "
A woman?"
His voice solidified with
certainty. "The succubus."

Steffan nodded,
his throat desert-dry.

 
"Your
desires betray you, proving you are as stupid as you are weak."

Steffan hurled a
reply. "I'm a Dedicate of the Dark Lord."

"A
youngling of little value."

Steffan tried a
desperate gambit. "I have a Dark Gift."

The Mordant
flashed a skeptical smile. "What gift?"

"I'm
skilled with dice. I never lose. With me in your service, you'll never want for
gold."

"Yes, I see
your worth," the Mordant gestured to the dingy room, "a youngling
cowering in a flea-ridden inn."

Desperation made
him indignant. "I'm sworn to the Dark Lord! My soul is his!"

"The Dark
Lord rules in Hell." The Mordant's voice struck like a slap. "
I
rule here. I'll send him your soul when I'm done."

Death grinned at
him. Steffan did not hesitate. He hurled the knife, aiming for the Mordant's
jugular.

A dark-clad
assassin sprang to action, his hand snaking out like a toad's tongue.

Steffan stared,
slack mouthed.

The dagger
pierced the assassin's outstretched palm, impaling him like a nail through
flesh, yet he did not scream.

Steffan erupted
from the bed, running for the open window.

Pain caught him.
His legs crumpled. Steffan fell face-first to the dingy floor. Impaled by a
sharp pain, as if a sword skewered his back, he stifled a scream.

"How dare
you!" The Mordant's voice was a harsh hiss.

The agony
doubled. A scream ripped out of him. His right hand flailed backwards, reaching
for the sword, but he found nothing...yet the blade turned, grinding through
bone and flesh. "
No!"
Steffan howled in torment, like nothing
he'd ever endured.

The agony
stopped.

Steffan clung to
the floor, panting like a dog, afraid to move.

A boot nudged
his side. "Look at me."

Afraid to
comply, terrified to disobey, he rolled over.

"Look at
me."

Steffan lifted
his gaze.

The Mordant
stared down at him. "Your thoughts are mine." Darkness slammed into
him, a scythe ripping through his mind, flaying his thoughts, skewering his
soul.