The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (32 page)

Lady Sarah's
breath caught. "Master Raddock a traitor?" She sank to the chair.
"Will you order him arrested?"

"Not yet.
We dare not tip off our enemy before we muster our own offense."

"What will
you do?"

"First tell
me of the princess." Liandra dreaded to ask, yet she needed to know.

Lady Sarah was
hesitant. "You ordered her sent to the dungeons."

To the
dungeons,
so that foul memory was true.
In her deepest grief, she'd
struck at a dear friend, another bitter mistake.

"But we
knew you did not mean it."

Hope kindled
within the queen.

"We
spirited her away to a remote part of the castle."

"We?"

"Myself,
Lady Amy, and Sir Durnheart."

She gave her
friend a reassuring smile. "You three have done your queen a great
service, sparing her from a grievous mistake." Liandra stood and began to
pace, plans churning in her mind. "The princess must be released and
safely spirited back to Navarre, removing an important piece from the chess
game. Once returned to Navarre, she cannot be used against us."

"Majesty."

"But her
escort must be loyal, her safety is dear to us."

"Majesty,"
the anguish of her friend's voice pierced her musing, "the princess is
missing!"

"Missing?"
Fear spiked the queen.

"I've been
taking her food at night. I swear no one knew save the three of us, but someone
must have followed. When I went to her room the other night, she was
gone!"

A chill gripped
the queen. "Then our enemy has her."

"But who is
the enemy?"

That was the
true question. A question she did not yet have an answer for. It troubled her
more than she cared to admit that the princess, the sheriff, and Lord Robert
were all mysteriously missing, more proof she played against a dangerous foe.
But of one thing, the queen was certain. "We must seize the offensive
before we are ringed with enemies." She glanced at the window, but the
light was already fading, another day lost. "On the morrow, we shall don
armor and ride out into our city." Plots within plots, her mind spun a
battle plan of details. "We shall ride out on the pretext of inspecting
the city walls, but in truth, we must be seen by our people. They must know we
are their sovereign queen. With the people securely behind us, we will then
deal with our disloyal lords and take back our court." Her gaze fixed on
Lady Sarah. "Discreet messages must be sent to our stable master so that
our white stallion is ready for us at noon, bejeweled and beribboned for a
stately ride. Our armor must be polished to a silvery shine and Sir Durnheart
must assemble an honor guard of loyal men. We must have trumpets and royal
banners...yet the preparations must be made with the utmost secrecy. Assemble
the others, for we have much to plan." A fresh resolve rippled through
her. The  queen stood within the light of the hearth, eager for the battle to
commence. The Rose Throne was hers, and by all the gods, none would take it
from her. "On the morrow, we shall take the offensive, and flush our true
enemy into the light."

59

The Priestess

The third night
finally arrived. Anxious to make her escape, yet the Priestess took her time
preparing. Soaking in a great copper tub set before the blazing hearth, she
indulged in a last luxury. Small purple buds floated in the water, adding the soothing
scent of lavender to the rising steam. Her handmaidens washed and combed her
long raven hair. Clean and scented, the Priestess rose from the water, shedding
droplets across the carpet like a spring rain. Still wet, she reached for the
great moonstone necklace, settling the silver chain around her neck, needing to
feel the gemstone against her skin. A potent magic throbbed between her breasts
like a second heartbeat. A smile lit her face, knowing the favor of the Dark
Lord was still hers, a secret weapon hidden from the Mordant.

Her handmaidens
dried her with soft towels and then plaited her hair into rings and added kohl
and crushed amethyst to accentuate her eyes. Painted and coiffed, they helped
her dress. The Priestess yearned for her riding leathers and knee-high boots,
but the plan dictated she dress as a courtesan, so she chose a diaphanous
confection of purple silk with a long slit reaching to mid thigh. The slit
offered a tempting tease to male eyes, but in truth it gave her ease of
movement. When the time came, the slit would allow her to straddle a horse, an
important practicality hidden beneath allure.

The Priestess
stared into the mirror, satisfied with the kohl-eyed seductress who stared
back. She merely needed her serpentine armbands to complete the hidden sting of
the ensemble. The last of her poisons, she kept both close at hand, the
armbands and ring sitting on a table near the tub, gold and enamel gleaming in
the firelight.

The outer door
banged open.

Startled, the
Priestess and her women drew back.

The Mordant and
two dark-clad assassins strode into her chambers. "Good, you're
dressed." His stare snapped across her without any sign of interest.

The Priestess
reached for an icy calm. "Why do you invade my privacy?"

"You have
no privacy in my house." The Mordant wore the purple and gold of the Prince
of Ur. "Now come, I have something to show you."

She tried to
delay. "I'm preparing for Lord Ferdic."

"He can
wait. Now come."

It was a command
not a request. Her poisoned armbands sat coiled upon the table, a lethal
weapon, yet she dared not draw attention to them.

Reluctant, she
followed the Mordant out into the hallway. The two assassins trailed close on
her heels. The Mordant strode ahead with an implacable stride, leading her down
the hallway, down the marbled stairs, and back towards the wine cellar.

"The wine
cellar?"

"You'll
see."

They descended
the stairs to the small wine cellar. A lounging guard snapped to attention.

"Open
it."

The guard moved
to an enormous wine barrel inset in the wall. He did something with the tap,
and then the front of the barrel swung open, revealing a hidden door. Opening
the door, he released the fetid stench of a dungeon. The Priestess froze,
fearing a trap.

The Mordant
stepped through the doorway. "Come."

Assassins
hovered at her back, herding her forward.

She had no
choice but to follow.

The Priestess
stepped through the wine barrel into a dungeon. Torchlight sputtered in the
dank gloom. Cells lined the walls, hopeless faces pressed against iron bars.
The dungeon reeked of piss and fear. Somewhere a child sobbed.

"Come."

A guard opened a
second ironbound door.

She followed the
Mordant down the rough-cut stairs. An earthly chill embraced her. Torchlight
glittered below. The stairs opened onto a vaulted chamber, shadows lurking in
the corners. A great pentacle was inscribed across the floor, braziers glowing
at the five points.
A chapel to Darkness,
she felt the thrum of power.

A single
sacrifice dripped blood upon the pentacle. Handcuffed, wearing nothing but a soiled
loincloth, he dangled from chains, his toes barely touching the stone floor.
Partially flayed, his body was crisscrossed with welts, burns and cuts, a
litany of torture writ upon his skin. Dark-haired, he moaned, his face swollen,
one eye-socket empty and weeping gore.

Steffan!
She
screamed his name within her mind. So beaten, she barely recognized his
handsome face. Stifling a gasp, the Priestess struggled to appear icy-calm. Fingernails
piercing her palms, she stood statue-still.

The Mordant
walked towards his victim. "I found this youngling in my city."

The Priestess
kept her gaze locked on Steffan, counting every cut, every wound, every injury.

The Mordant
circled Steffan as if studying a work of art. "This youngling reeks of
Darkness," the Mordant's nostril's flared wide, "yet he did not come
and abase himself before me. He did not come to offer homage."

Steffan's
handsome face was ruined, his body broken beyond repair, she quailed to see him
so.

"Instead,
the youngling had the effrontery to spy on me. So I followed his Dark scent. I
found your paramour-champion cowering like a cockroach in a flea-ridden
inn." The Mordant stopped circling, his gaze swiveling back to her.
"I looked into his eyes and delved his soul. Do you know what I
found?"

The Priestess
kept her stare fixed on Steffan, mourning his pain.

"I gazed
into his soul and I found
your
name writ upon it."

Her
name,
her
fault.

The Mordant
strode towards her, blocking her view. He grabbed her chin, lifting her face, forcing
her to meet his gaze. His stare thundered into her. "You sought to escape
your liege lord." Rage licked his voice. "You, a mere woman, sought
to thwart the oldest harlequin."

She longed to
shred his face with her fingernails, to rip out his eyes and gouge his skin, but
she had no poison, and her magic was no match for his. Swallowing her rage, she
fought to keep her face a stone mask, refusing to answer.

"There will
be no escape." His gaze drilled into her. "You shall serve for as
long as you are useful." His hand slid down to her throat. "Even unto
eternity." His grip tightened with cruel intent. "Do you
understand?"

"You dared
to harm a Dedicate."

The Mordant
barked a laugh. "There is nothing I will not dare. That is why
I
am
the oldest, the strongest, the one destined to rule. That is why
you
serve."
His grip tightened. "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Louder."
Locked in a choking hold, the Mordant forced her to her knees.

Barely able to
draw breath, yet the Priestess knew not to fight back. She choked out an
answer. "Yes."

His grip
tightened.

Her vision began
to darken.

She felt death
draw near. Just when she thought she would succumb, he released her.

Gasping for
life, the Priestess rocked back on her heals. Her throat ached from his
chokehold. She remained on her knees, drawing deep breaths, yet she refused to
bow her head, offering a subtle defiance. She stared at him, her hatred etched
deep in her soul.

For the longest
time, he stared at her, as if studying an insect beneath his boot.

She kept her
face stone-still, her gaze fixed on the Great Wyrm embroidered on his surcoat.
Tension coiled between them. She thought he would strike her, but instead he
strode past, his boots ringing on stone. "Lord Ferdic will be here within
the hour." His voice was dismissive. "You will service him in your
chambers. And if he desires your handmaidens, they will serve as well. Do not
disappoint."

She heard his
boot steps climb the stairs, but the door did not close. Remaining on her
knees, she listened for his arrogant stride. When he did not return, she rushed
to Steffan.

Assassins kept
watch from the shadows, but they did not interfere.

Drawing close to
him, a sob escaped her, stricken by his ruined body.
"Beloved."
He
reeked of blood and sweat and seared flesh, all the scents of torture. Needing
to touch him, trying not to hurt him, she stroked his face with a feather-soft
caress.

One blue eye
flickered open. He stared at her, confusion and pain melting to astonishment.
"
Cereus!
Is it really you?"

"I'm here,
beloved."

Anguish filled
his face, "I tried to fight him but...
"

"Shhhhhh."
Her finger caressed his bruised and battered lips. "It will be all
right." She sought to calm him, to soothe him. "I can take away the
pain. I can make it better." His body was broken beyond repair, his life
essence nearly dwindled to nothing. The Priestess quelled her own rage, her own
sorrow, focusing on his needs. "Think of me, think of you and me, lovers
entwined forever." She kissed him softly on the lips, tenderly at first.
Her kisses deepened. She worked her magic upon him. Enthralling him with
seduction, she took away his pain, trading agony for pleasure and passion.
Steffan kissed her back. Wakened by her touch, his body shook with ardor. He
strained towards her, yet she felt his life force waver, growing
threadbare-thin. There was only one way to save him. "
Remember me!
Remember us!"
She kissed him deeply. Enfolding him with passion, she
used her succubus powers, draining the last of his life force.

Tears streaked
her face...and then it was done.

He hung lifeless
from the chains.

Dead, yet a
smile graced his battered face, a victory against the Mordant.

She took one
last look, memorizing every wound inflicted on his body, a bitter debt to
repay, and then she turned and walked away. Her assassin guards followed like
relentless shadows.

The Priestess
refused to shed anymore tears lest she give the Mordant any satisfaction.
Walking with regal poise, she crossed the sanctum, putting on a stone-hearted
face. She nearly reached the stairs when she heard it.

Chains rattled
behind.

A flare of Dark
power trickled down her back.

"Cer...eeee...us!"

She turned.
Steffan's corpse still dangled from the chains, but his face was smiling. His
eyes glowed bright red like twin lanterns lit by Hell.
"I...will...find...you!"
His words whispered through the chamber, a promise from beyond the grave.
Before she could respond, the red light of his eyes flared bright as oil-soaked
torches...and then the light was gone, snuffed out by Darkness. The power
withdrew. Nothing but a butchered corpse remained, dangling from the chains
like battered meat...yet she knew with certainty that Steffan would live again,
granted a new life by the Dark Lord.

"In another
lifetime," she whispered the words like a promise.

Turning her back
on the corpse, she climbed the stairs, passing through the dungeon and into the
manse. In the marbled hallway, the Mordant spoke with Bishop Borgan, but
neither man looked her way, as if she were beneath notice. The Priestess
climbed the stairs as if in a trance. Her assassin-jailors trailed her to the
door of her suite but they did not follow inside.

"Lock the
door and let no one enter."

Her handmaidens
gasped to see her, but she ignored their entreaties.

"Lock the
door and tell me when Lord Ferdic arrives. We'll be receiving him here
tonight."

The Priestess
paused long enough to don her serpentine armbands and ring. Gold glittered on
her forearms, coiled like serpents, the poison needles carefully hidden beneath
enameled scales. Armed with poison once more, she retreated to her bedroom.
Locking the door, she removed the silver scrying bowl from her cedar chest. The
Priestess dared not scry on the Mordant, but she could watch the others. She
found herself keenly interested in the fat bishop and the dark-clad assassins.
Once woken, a woman's hatred was a dangerous scourge. Plots within plots, she'd
find a way to exact vengeance for Steffan...for a woman's broken heart never
forgets...and never forgives.