The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Read online

  Soldiers in green tabards poured from their tents. Clashing swords against their shields, they raised a hearty cheer. “The princess of Lanverness!”

  Hearing her marriage announced by thousands of male voices, Jordan felt her face flame bright red.

  The two armies met and embraced. Jordan asked Major Colson to settle the men while she followed Stewart to the central pavilions. Dismounting, she handed her reins to an eager page. Stiff from the long ride, she met Stewart’s officers, a blur of fresh faces and new names. She struggled through the introductions, knowing the niceties needed to be observed, but it seemed a torture to stand so near to Stewart yet not to touch.

  Finally, Stewart ended her agony, dismissing his officers. “We’ll feast tonight, our two armies coming together as brothers-in-arms, but for now...I’d like to be alone with my bride.”

  His officers flashed knowing grins and a few made ribald comments, but Jordan did not care. Stewart took her arm. A jolt passed through her. "This way, my lady." He led her to the largest pavilion. She gaped in astonishment when she saw it, for two coats of arms adorned the canvas, the emerald shield of Lanverness…and the checkered shield of Navarre. Painted side by side, the two shields were entwined with white roses, a declaration of their marriage...and their love. “How?”

  “I had it painted before I left Pellanor, a small gift for my bride.” He held the canvas flap aside. “My lady?”

  She stepped inside, embraced by the warmth of a glowing brazier. A jewel-colored carpet covered the floor, soft beneath her boots. Two armor stands stood at attention, waiting for sheaths of steel. A table cluttered with maps filled the center. And in the rear, a wide bed covered in furs…but this was no ordinary camp bed. Twice as wide and piled high with furs and pillows, it looked sumptuous...and inviting.

  Drawn to the bed like iron to a lodestone, her fingers trailing across the sable fur, “And this?”

  “A craftsman made it for me, two camp beds cunningly fitted together.” He stepped close. “But I’ve not yet tasted its true purpose.”

  A smile burst across her face. "It's true..."

  His lips were on hers. His kiss consumed her. She clung to him, her hunger answering his. Armor and clothing became impediments. They tugged at bindings and cursed the buckles, leaving an empty trail across the pavilion. Finally naked, they fell across the bed. Skin against skin, the need roared through them. His fingers found her hot and wet. He trembled above her. "I can't..."

  "Yes!" She needed no preamble. He mounted her with a deep thrust. She bit back a moan, knowing an entire army listened just beyond canvas walls, yet she could not get enough of him. Clutching him close, she urged him on. All too soon, he shuddered on top. Sweat-drenched, they collapsed on soft furs.

  She nestled her head on his shoulder.

  He smoothed a wayward strand of hair from her face. “I couldn't wait."

  "Nor I." She snuggled against him. "I don’t want to ever be parted.”

  “Nor I from you...but we’ve a war to wage.”

  “We’ll fight it together.” Her fingers traced the scars across his chest and shoulders, a legacy of the last war.

  “Yes, but this time we fight the Mordant.”

  He rolled on his side. Leaning on an elbow, he peered at her as if memorizing the curves of her face. “You must promise to live.”

  His sudden intensity scared her. “What troubles you?”

  “Perhaps the queen’s fears have infected me.”

  “What fears?”

  “Her dispatches are full of concerns, about the Mordant's army, about some Prince of Ur who's come to Pellanor…and about the Tandroth line.” He stared at her. “I am the queen’s sole heir…and my wife rides to war beside me.”

  Her breath caught, afraid he would order her away, locking her behind castle walls, kept safe like a broodmare. Anger spiked through her. "The Army of Navarre is mine to lead." She stared at him, her words laced with steel, a warning and a threat. “We both serve by the sword and I will be nowhere else.”

  "I know. That's why you must promise to live."

  She met his gaze. “By Valin, we will both live beyond this war!”

  He smiled then. “My warrior bride.” Leaning down, he kissed her, gentle at first then deepening to a renewed hunger. They made love a second time. Jordan reveled in his arms, their pleasure magnified by the risk. All too soon, Stewart collapsed beside her, a smile on his face. “It seems the bed is a success.”

  “But, my lord, we’ve barely tested it!”

  “You vixen!” He rolled on top, pinning her to the furs.

  She struggled against him, escaping his hold, a mocking display of resistance. Laughing, she leaped from the bed, but he caught her, pulling her back to the warmth.

  A voice from beyond the canvas intruded. “My lord, your captains assemble for the feast.”

  He pinned her to the fur and claimed a deep kiss. "I'm not done with you."

  "My lord," a lad's voice persisted, "the princess's men have brought her things."

  Stewart sighed. “Duty calls.” He gave her one last kiss and then rose from the bed. Naked, he crossed the pavilion to pour a goblet of wine.

  Jordan enjoyed the view, a sheen of sweat glistening across his bare skin, highlighting every manly muscle.

  Lifting the wine goblet in salute, he winked at her. “Come.”

  Yelping in surprise, Jordan yanked a fur across her nakedness, a combination of hasty modesty and reluctance to leave the warmth of their bower.

  A tow-headed squire held the canvas flap aside. Two men entered carrying her small chest of clothes. Averting their eyes, they bowed toward the prince and then left the pavilion with knowing grins on their faces.

  Stewart pulled on a tunic. “At least the queen will know our marriage is consummated.”

  "You mean my men will know!" Jordan threw a boot, but he dodged aside, a boyish grin on his face. She felt her face flame red, but in truth she knew there were few secrets in an army camp. They were wedded and bedded, and if the whole camp dared to listen, it would not keep her from her husband’s bed. “They’re just jealous.”

  “No doubt.” He flashed a conspirator’s grin. “But now dinner awaits.”

  Darkness encroached beyond the canvas walls, proving they'd spent hours in dalliance...yet the time seemed so short to Jordan. They dressed quickly, the scents of sizzling spit-roasted beef invading their pavilion to rouse their hunger. Jordan chose a soft tunic of deep blue velvet over leather pants and knee high boots. Buckling her sword at her waist, she swirled her checkered cloak around her shoulders.

  Stewart looked dashing in a surcoat of emerald green, a sapphire blue sword belted by his side. The sword piqued her interest, yet she held her questions for another time.

  He offered his arm, a gallant gesture. “My lady.”

  She took his arm, knowing two armies would be watching.

  He led her from their pavilion to a large fire. The captains were already seated in a circle around the crackling flames. The others stood at their approach, bowing to the royal pair, more than a few with knowing grins on their faces. Jordan struggled to contain a rising blush.

  Stewart made another round of introductions. His officers mingled with hers, emerald green offset by the red and blue checkers of Navarre. Jordan sat with Stewart on her left and Lord Dane, a handsome man with a rogue’s smile on her right. Her own officers were already present, Major Colson, her second, Varnick, the captain of her pike men, Cyril, the captain of her archers, and her friend, Rafe, though he chose to wear leathers instead of the blue robes of his Order.

  Wooden plates were passed, piled high with choice cuts of spit-roasted beef ladled with gravy, pan fried onions with spring mushrooms, winter leeks, spring carrots and a crusty flatbread. Squires circled the campfire, keeping tankards full with a frothing dark ale. Jordan tasted the beef, juicy and thick, licking the grease from her fingers. “Do you always eat so well?”

  Stewart raised his tankard in
salute. “We killed the fatted calf to celebrate your arrival. Eat well, for tomorrow we’re back to war rations.”

  Jordan enjoyed the savory meal and the easy camaraderie. As the ale flowed, the talk turned boisterous, mostly boasts about past exploits on the battlefield or in the bedroom, but none spoke of tomorrow, avoiding the uncertain future. Jordan made it a point to speak with each of Stewart’s officers, seeking to learn their true natures. Mathis told the most ribald jokes, Kelso was quiet and steady, but Dane seemed to know Stewart the best, a boyhood companion and sword brother. Jordan refilled his tankard, plying the handsome lord for tales of her husband's boyhood.

  Stewart leaned close. "He's a rogue, you shouldn't listen to him."

  Jordan smiled, "A rogue, all the more reason to listen! I want to hear everything!"

  The campfire crackled, spitting sparks towards a star spangled sky. They laughed and talked, the stories growing more preposterous as the ale flowed. Several of the men sat slumped with their eyes closed, succumbed to the feast. Jordan savored every moment, the good food, the hearty company of honest warriors…and Stewart, near enough to touch.

  Soft footsteps came from behind, soft and stealthy.

  Jordan whirled, her hand on her sword hilt. She froze, surprised to see a figure robed in midnight-blue. Firelight flickered across his face, her memory supplying a name. “Aeroth!”

  He gave her a grave nod. “We need to talk.”

  She got Stewart’s attention, watching his eyes widen at the sight of the monk, proof his appearance was unexpected. Rafe saw and joined them. They slipped away from the campfire, leading the monks back to their pavilion. Jordan's stomach churned with foreboding. Aeroth's sudden appearance could not bode well. She'd had one moment of stolen peace with Stewart and the war came calling like a relentless doom.

  29

  Master Rizel

  The tome sat like a dead weight in his arms. He'd found it in a remote part of the Great Archive, high on a shelf, covered in centuries of dust. Long forgotten, the tome was either hidden or misplaced, yet he had no doubt it was a true treasure, a trove of knowledge waiting to be rediscovered. His fingers caressed the leather bindings, so old they were nearly brittle. The ornate silver clasp was tarnished by time, yet the workmanship was exquisite. But it was the name embossed on the cover that signaled its true worth, the name of the last Illuminator to walk the monastery's hallowed halls. Old, so very old, Master Rizel handled the tome with great care, but it felt heavy in his arms. It felt like a desperate risk, it felt like a last resort. One he prayed the Order would never need.

  He reached the alcove where the others were assembled. Pouring over mountains of scrolls and ancient tomes, the monastery's brightest minds sought to solve the riddle of mage-stone, to learn why Castlegard's walls were failing and what could be done about it. For more than a fortnight the lanterns had burned bright in the Great Archive, the blue-robed masters working through the long nights, yet the answer remained elusive, as if the riddle were posed by the gods.

  A hushed silence prevailed. So engrossed in their studies, no one looked his way when he returned to the alcove. Master Rizel carefully set the ancient tome on the table. He sank into a chair, his eyes aching from long hours of reading. His gaze roved the others, seeking a spark of excitement, but he found none. Most had their noses buried in musty tomes, learned bloodhounds on the trail of knowledge, seeking the solution to a perilous riddle. He cleared his throat, a loud disturbance for the Archives. "Anything?"

  Blinking like owls thrust into bright sunshine, the masters looked at him from across the scroll-littered table. Lurinda shook her head no, a subtle but damning gesture echoed by the others. Finally, Master Grimshaw spoke, his gravelly voice tinged with defeat. "There's nothing in the prophecies." Bald as an egg, his skin the color of tanned leather, the master had a blacksmith's muscled build, yet he was one of the most learned scholars of the ancient prophesies. "I've searched the oldest quatrains from the Orb. So many of the dire portents of this time are foretold in the ancient writings. I've found numerous passages dealing with the Mordant being reborn in the southern kingdoms, the fiery comet heralding his rebirth, the start of the Battle Immortal, the claiming of the crystal dagger, yet there is no mention of mage-stone."

  "None at all?"

  "Not of mage-stone," Master Grimshaw shook his head, "but there is one quatrain that might refer to Castlegard." Opening a thick tome, he read, "North becomes south as castles fall. Victory balances on the unforeseen blade."

  Master Olgarth seized the words. "The unforeseen blade could be Invictus!"

  "Or it could be the crystal dagger."

  "Or some other unknown sword."

  Ever the pessimist, Master Rugar groused, "The Mordant's spent a millennia hoarding magic, you can bet he's got a magical sword of his own. Perhaps more than one."

  Mistress Lurinda shook her head. "It must mean the crystal dagger."

  "It could mean Invictus."

  The alcove erupted in argument. Prophesies were ever a messy business, as if the gods only spoke in riddles. The debate raged back and forth, yet most of the arguments were conjecture not solid conclusions. Master Rizel listened with half an ear, his mind worrying the words of the quatrain. North becomes south as castles fall, he liked it not. Such an ill-omened portent, he could not conceive of Castlegard, the great enclave of the Octagon Knights, falling. And if the mage-stone of Castlegard's walls could fail...the mage-stone of the monastery might be doomed as well. They needed a solution, a remedy to heal the threat. Endless debate would not avail them. Master Rizel stood, invoking an abrupt silence. "It seems the prophecies are silent on the matter of mage-stone, but what of our loremasters? Perhaps the study of magic holds the answers we seek?"

  Everyone's gaze swiveled to Master Vernius. Old to the point of being called ancient, the shriveled loremaster sat puddled in his robes of midnight-blue, yet his gaze was bird-bright. "Mage-stone was ever one of the Order's highest magics, yet that power was lost to us long ago." His voice quavered, as thin as fine parchment, everyone straining to listen. "Much that was written about mage-stone is gone, lost in the great fire of the first century."

  Master Rizel's disappointment bit deep, for it seemed all routes of inquiry led to dead ends...or more questions.

  "But," Master Vernius raised a single finger, reclaiming everyone's attention, "there is something I remember, a rumor passed down to me by my old master, may the Lords of Light grant peace to his soul."

  Everyone leaned forward to listen.

  "Master Calipurs told a tale about Master Julian, the loremaster of the third century. He claimed that Julian was obsessed with recovering the lost magic of mage-stone. Julian sent the Zward scouring the southern kingdoms searching for tomes and parchments, seeking to restore what was lost. Julian hoped copies of the Order's writings survived beyond the Southern Mountains, thus evading the fire's obliviating embrace. The same Zward who erased the monastery from the maps of men, searched the length and breadth of Erdhe for writings on mage-stone, and do you know what they found?"

  Silence throbbed like an expectant heartbeat, everyone hanging on the tale.

  "They found nothing."

  Master Rugar gasped in frustration. "That's because scrolls were never taken from the monastery!"

  "No, not true." Master Vernius's sharp gaze circled the assembly. "They found nothing because someone else searched for them first."

  A shiver raced down Master Rizel's spine. "What do you mean?"

  "Three of the searching Zward were brutally murdered and one disappeared, never to be found. When the Zwardmaster investigated the murders he returned with unsettling rumors. It seemed skilled killers searched for those very same scrolls, slaying the Zward in cunning ambushes. Some named the killers servants of the Mordant."

  The breath hissed out of Master Rizel. "And you believe those killers found the scrolls, found them before the Zward?"

  Master Vernius nodded. "Just so."

 
The conclusion hit like a sword thrust. "Then the decay of Castlegard's mage-stone may somehow be caused by the Mordant?"

  Master Vernius gave the smallest of nods.

  A grim silence gripped the assembly.

  Master Rizel had to ask the question. "Could this same curse be visited on the monastery's mage-stone?"

  Master Vernius shrugged. "Without the lost scrolls, who can say?"

  The tension gripping the chamber deepened to an ominous hush.

  Master Rugar stirred, anger lashing his voice to indignation. "But the prophecies make no mention of this! They warn of every other dire portent but not the failure of mage-stone! How can the prophecies be so silent on mage-stone?"

  Master Grimshaw answered, his voice ominous. "The ending of an Age."

  Everyone turned his way.

  "We've reached the ending of an Age, when all things are possible...when prophecies are fulfilled, or they become undone." His gaze circled the assembly. "Perhaps the timeline is shifted...and new destinies reign."

  His words fell like a doom.

  Master Rizel stared in shock, for without the prophecies the Order was blind. He hardened his resolve, reaching for the last resort. "We dare not go blind into the Battle Immortal. To solve this riddle we need to seek one who might remember."

  "Remember!"

  The word echoed through the gathering, evoking disbelief, and even outright scorn. More than a few masters looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  Master Grimshaw said, "Explain."

  "I found this tome." Master Rizel caressed the time-worn binding. "Written by Gwendolyn, the last great Illuminator. I know not if it was lost or deliberately hidden, for I found it on a remote shelf, covered in centuries of dust."

  "A lost tome from Gwendolyn?" Master Vernius leaned forward, "I've not heard of such a thing."

  "Nor I, till I found it." With reverent hands, Master Rizel opened the tome to the page marked by the red tassel. The vellum was brittled by age, but the colors gleamed bright, the calligraphy crisp and exquisite, a peerless work of illuminated art. "It speaks of a relic, a relic the monastery keeps hidden within the vaults beneath the Star Chamber." He stared at the others. "If this text holds true, then that very relic may permit us to speak to one who remembers."