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

  Startled gazes circled the table, returning to him with a storm of questions.

  "Come and read for yourselves."

  One by one, the venerable masters came forward to read the page and study the illuminated images. Nothing was said, but many sharp glances were cast his way. A few offered him a respectful nod, but many more turned pale, as if the text offered only a grim doom.

  He wondered if they were right.

  Master Grimshaw was the last to read the illuminated passage. "It sounds possible, and Gwendolyn was an Illuminator of great renown...yet there is great risk."

  Master Rizel answered. "Dire times require dire measures. And we've exhausted all other lines of inquiry." He said what he knew many were thinking. "And we will surely lose this war if we do nothing."

  Master Grimshaw gave him a measured look, his voice a deep rumble. "Who will dare to wield this relic?"

  Master Rizel drew a deep breath. "I will. I found the tome, so it seems fitting that I bear responsibility...though I know not if the relic will waken to my touch."

  For once there was no debate. "So be it."

  Master Grimshaw said, "When will you make the attempt?"

  "As soon as I've given my report to the Grand Master. I see no advantage in waiting."

  The other masters bowed towards him, a mark of deep respect. Together they invoked the words of the Order. "Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge, may the Light grant you the knowledge and wisdom that you seek."

  Master Rizel heard the worry laden in their voices. In truth, he shared their fears, for magic could be wild and unpredictable. Staring down at the illuminated page, he studied the details, for he'd just bet his life on the obscure passage.

  30

  Jordan

  Night held sway, the camp noises muted to slumbering snores. While the captains sprawled around the campfire, sated from the feast, Jordan and Stewart slipped away, leading the two monks back to their pavilion. The guards snapped to attention as they passed inside. “We’re not to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dismissing his squire, Stewart stoked the brazier, throwing light across the pavilion. “When did you arrive?”

  Aeroth replied. “Just now.”

  Jordan's gaze snapped to the tussled bed and the bits of clothing trailing across the carpet, telltale signs of their earlier lovemaking. Heat flamed her face, wishing there was somewhere else to meet.

  Stewart poured the wine, offering a cup to the blue-robed monk. “And my sentries did not notice?”

  “None notice the owl, and I would keep it that way.” He gave them a piercing look, a reminder of their vows of secrecy made at Crimson Keep. “Do you have a map? And I could use some food.”

  Aeroth looked weary, his face drawn, his eyes sunken. Jordan supposed being the owl took its toll.

  Rafe slipped outside, asking the guards to bring a plate of food from the feast, and then returned to stand by her side.

  Stewart unrolled a vellum scroll across the map table, the brightly painted kingdoms of Erdhe illuminated by the brazier's light.

  Aeroth stared down at the map, his face grim. “I bring word from the north. The forces of Darkness are marching, no longer content to hold Raven Pass.”

  A shiver of dread whispered through Jordan.

  Aeroth leaned over the map, stabbing a finger at Raven Pass. “The Mordant’s forces defeated the Octagon and took the pass and there they remained, spreading tentacles through the Dragon Spines, fighting the maroon knights and pillaging the farmers and holdfasts…until now.”

  “What of the Octagon?”

  “The knights have been waging a winter war, attacking in the mountain passes. They fight valiantly, exacting a stiff toll, but their numbers have dwindled. Their remaining forces seem to be retreating to Castlegard.”

  Rafe gasped, “They’re giving up?”

  “They fought valiantly.” Aeroth glared at the younger monk, his voice harsh with rebuke. “Their deeds are worthy of a bard’s song. Their bravery bought the south time.”

  “Time we sorely needed.” Stewart said, “What of the enemy?”

  “The Mordant divides his forces, sending all his cavalry and a herd of Taals eastward along the Snowmelt.”

  Stewart scowled, “We dare not let them cross the Snowmelt.” He stared at the map. “How many?”

  “Two thousand or more.”

  Two thousand, the number echoed in Jordan’s mind like a curse. A small army in the south, yet she knew it was only a fraction of the enemy's forces. Little wonder the knights retreated to their stronghold.

  “And what of the Octagon Bridge?”

  “When I last flew over it, the maroon knights held it still.”

  Jordan stared at the map, seeing the hard truth written upon it. “We have to hold Eye Bridge.” The men looked at her. “With the Snowmelt in full spate, they’ll need the bridge to cross. The Snowmelt is the south’s best defense. We dare not let it be breached.”

  Aeroth's words fell like a doom. “You may be too late.”

  “Why?”

  “The cavalry and a contingent of Taals are riding east at a blistering pace. Either they seek to cross the bridge, or they're riding for Castlegard.”

  Jordan said, “Cavalry without infantry?”

  Aeroth nodded, “Except for a hundred Taals.”

  “Taals?”

  “Ogre-like beings, deformed by magic, over eight feet tall and immensely strong.”

  Stewart cursed, “By Valin’s stones, we’re fighting monsters as well as numbers?”

  Aeroth drilled him with his stare. “You're fighting more than you know. It was magic that won Raven Pass for the Pentacle. Magic blasted the gates letting the horde bring their numbers to bear.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have seen the aftermath. As the owl, I flew over the walls of Raven Pass. The stonework is buckled and broken, the great gates blasted to dust. The wall gapes like a toothless crone.”

  “How?”

  Aeroth shrugged. “The Mordant has ever sought magic. Throughout the Ages he's hungered for it, sought it, collected it, ever adding more magic to his hoard. Magic is power, the type of power he craves above all others. Make no mistake. The Mordant will wield every trick, every magic, bringing all his powers to bear to win the Battle Immortal.”

  “And you have nothing to counter it? It was your magic that helped us retake Lingard.”

  “Ellis has taken her orb back to the mountains. I bring you knowledge, use it well.”

  Stewart scowled, a glint of anger blazing in his eyes, but Jordan drew the discussion back to the map. “If the enemy sends only cavalry, then speed must matter. Cavalry alone means a lightning raid. The Mordant must want something dearly...and he wants it taken fast." She looked at the others, watching as the insight hit them. “Cavalry alone will never take Castlegard, so what does the Mordant want?”

  Her question fell like a stone into deep water.

  Aeroth said, “I like it not. The Mordant does nothing without a reason.”

  Stewart said, “If he sends only his cavalry, what of the rest?”

  “Half their infantry still holds Raven Pass…while the other half marches west.”

  "West?" A shiver of foreboding raced down Jordan's spine.

  Stewart asked, “How much is half?”

  Aeroth looked grim. “Forty thousand or more.”

  The number fell like a doom.

  Stewart gaped. “Forty thousand is half?”

  Aeroth nodded. “Give thanks to the Octagon, or you’d be facing far worse odds.”

  Stewart reached for a goblet. Filling it with wine, he took a long gulp.

  Rafe asked, “West to where? There’s nothing in the west but forest and a few farmsteads.”

  But Jordan knew the map held the answer. “The Serpentines, they’re going to try and cross at the Serpentines.” Her voice turned cold. "And then they'll march south...to Navarre."

  St
ewart stared at her. “Can it be done?”

  “The Serpentines are tricky, shifting sandbars changing with every season. Maps of the Serpentines are worthless, the river banks convulse like an angry snake every springtime.” She considered tales she’d heard from fisherman chasing salmon. “Much will depend on the Snowmelt.”

  Stewart nodded, his face grave. “Then our battle plan is set.” He turned to Aeroth. “Can you warn the maroon knights and get them to hold the Octagon Bridge?”

  “I need food and a day to rest, but yes, I can warn them.”

  “Good, you’ll have both.” His finger traced a path across the map. “I’ll take all of my cavalry and my light infantry and quick-march to Eye Bridge. We’ll seal the bridge, blocking the way south.” He turned to Jordan, his face pale. “And you, my dear wife, must take my heavy infantry and your army and find a way to seal the Serpentines.”

  The weight of the task fell hard across her shoulders…as did the knowledge they’d be separated. “I’ll find a way.”

  Stewart gave her a solemn nod. “We march in two days time.”

  Two days, yet she kept her face as still as stone.

  “Benly!” Stewart called for his squire.

  The tow-headed lad appeared, his eyes heavy with sleep.

  “Find a quiet tent for Aeroth and Rafe. Bring them food and drink and whatever else they need.” Stewart turned to the two monks. "We'll speak more in the morning."

  The boy led the monks from the pavilion.

  The canvas flap fell closed and Jordan dropped her mask. “Two days?”

  “We dare not delay in war…or love.” Stewart stepped towards her, a deep hunger kindling his gaze. “One more night,” his gaze burned into her. "Do you think we might make a child?"

  A child in wartime, it seemed so dangerous, so reckless...yet she'd stopped taking the infusion of vigean root days ago, leaving it in her saddlebag as if she too yearned for a child. "Do we dare?"

  "How do we not?" Need flashed between them like lightning. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to their fur-tossed bed.

  31

  Jordan

  Morning came too soon. Sounds of the camp intruded, an army preparing for war. Reluctant yet resigned, they left the warmth of the furs. In somber silence, Jordan donned her armor, burnished steel for her body, a facade of stone for her heart. As a wife, she could have cried at their parting, but as a general, she could not. Buckling her sword at her waist, she strode towards the canvas flap, keeping a tight rein on her resolve.

  “Wait.” Stewart called her back.

  She turned, struggling to contain her emotions.

  “This is for you.” He settled a slender chain around her neck. A gold ring dangled from it. “When we wed at the Crimson Keep, I had no ring to give you.” He gave her a soft smile. “Signet rings are awkward under gauntlets, so I had it set on a chain.”

  She lifted the heavy ring of pure gold. A signet ring, etched deep with a royal seal. Encircled by engraved waves for Navarre, the heart of the seal bore the shield of Lanverness surmounted by a petite crown. The meaning lanced her heart.

  He closed her hand around the ring. "With this ring you wield authority within Lanverness, a princess of the Rose Court...and my wife."

  The stone façade protecting her heart nearly cracked.

  He pressed a fervent kiss upon her closed hand. “Take care, my love.”

  A single tear escaped. “And you.” She lunged for him, needing to feel his arms around her. Armor to armor, the steel of war clanked between them. "Armor," she shook her head, her voice wry, "is not meant for love." The brief levity fled her voice. "I miss you already."

  “And I you, but this war must be won. Despite the grim odds, I believe we’ll find a way.”

  His voice carried such conviction. “How can you be so certain?”

  “The gods spared us for a reason. They saved you from certain death in the monastery and then gave you visions so you could save me from Skarn and his brigands. Second chances are rare. They should never be wasted.”

  “In war or in love?”

  “Both.” He kissed her, tenderness tinged with passion. "Do you think we made a child?"

  She wanted it to be so, but she also feared it. "Only the gods know."

  His voice whispered across her forehead. "Then I'll pray for it."

  She pulled him close, but their armor intruded, steel clanking against steel.

  He gave her a wry smile. “Duty calls.”

  They separated. Jordan struggled to regain her stone mask. “Keep safe, my love.”

  “And you.”

  Settling her helm on her head, Jordan stepped from the pavilion. For half a heartbeat, sunlight glinted on burnished armor, dazzling her. Two armies waited arrayed on the field, the blue and red of Navarre mingling with the green of Lanverness. Battle banners snapped in the brisk breeze, a jaunty sight were it not for their parting.

  Rafe held her stallion. The big warhorse tossed his silvered mane, stamping with impatience to run. The leather-clad monk gave her a leg up and then mounted a bay gelding, riding by her side.

  She gave Stewart one last lingering look and then turned her face toward duty. “Let’s march!” Jordan gave the order and the signaler blew the conch shell, sending the eerie sound of the sea breaking across the farmland. The war drums answered, taking up their steady beat. Saluting Stewart, she wheeled her stallion toward the north and cantered to the front of the column, answering the call of war.

  32

  Master Rizel

  Master Rizel waited for the sun to reach its zenith, that time of day when the Light held sway and shadows were banished to dust motes. With deep solemnity he opened the narrow rune-carved chest and took up the staff. In ordinary light, it appeared as nothing more than a gnarled quarterstaff, an eight foot rod of polished wood with iron shoddings at both ends, but it was so much more. Few knew it was a relic from another Age, one of the greatest treasures of the monastery. His hands caressed the polished ironwood, straining to sense the magic within. Knots and swirls dotted its length, the wood-grained patterns worn smooth with time, yet he sensed no magic, no arcane spark. The staff remained dormant to his touch. Perhaps his gambit was a fool's errand. Perhaps he'd pay with his life, yet the Order needed answers. They could not go blind into the Battle Immortal.

  A knock sounded on the door to his cell. He wanted no persuasions, no eleventh hour arguments, so he ignored it, but the knock persisted, growing louder and more demanding. In a rare flash of anger, he yanked the door open. "Will you wake the dead?"

  Ambrose waited on the far side, worry scrawled across his handsome face. "Don't do this."

  He ushered his friend inside, closing the midnight-blue door behind him lest others come to dissuade him. "It's been debated and decided and now it must be done."

  His friend paced the chamber, raking his hand through his pale blond hair, his gaze darting toward the ironwood staff. "I fear for you. None of the relics have been wielded in centuries. For all any of us know, that could be a simple wooden staff you're holding in your hands, the true relic lost long ago."

  The argument hit hard, compounding his nagging fear, but he refused to swerve from his course. "What choice do we have? We've searched the ancient annals and there are no answers!"

  "You're taking a terrible risk."

  "The red comet sinks low in the sky...and this latest portent cannot be ignored."

  Ambrose stopped pacing. "But at what cost?"

  "Whatever it takes." The calmness of his words belied the tension coiled like a snake in his stomach. "Time has nearly caught us. We stand on the cusp of a new Age. We dare not let Darkness prevail."

  His friend glowered.

  Master Rizel parried his look with hard-won conviction. "This was my idea, Ambrose. I convinced the council of the wisdom of this path, so I alone must bear the risk."

  "At least take this." His friend pulled a guide's amulet from his pocket, an oval medallion inscribed wi
th a Seeing Eye dangling from a golden chain.

  "No."

  "But..."

  Rizel's voice was firm. "On this the annals are clear. The amulet will negate the magic of the staff." He gave his friend a wan smile. "It's as if the ancient wizards set a price on their magic."

  "What price?"

  "The price of belief."

  "But..."

  Rizel forestalled his friend's argument. "A sixteen year-old girl illuminated a blue steel sword, how can we masters dare do less?"

  Ambrose slumped in resignation. "Then the gods go with you. May you find the knowledge you seek."

  "And you." Embracing his friend, he took up the staff. Pulling his cowled hood over his head as a signal for seclusion, he made his way through the hallowed halls. None spoke as he passed, his ironshod staff clicking a determined rhythm on the polished mage-stone floors. Halls of midnight-blue gave way to floors of golden-yellow. Acolytes stared as he passed, but they kept silent, respecting the raised cowl of his robe. His gaze swept past the acolytes to linger on the calligraphy. The colors dazzled, wisdom writ on every wall. Pride mingled with a fierce sense of protectiveness claimed him. More than just his home, the monastery was the last bastion of knowledge, worth any risk.

  Opening a rune-carved door, he stepped out into the bright sunshine. Blue sky arched overhead like a great vast bowl, empty of clouds, clear and cold and keen...but the sky held a fatal flaw, the red comet riding low in the west. The red scar neither rose nor set. It hung night and day, through cloud and sun, an unnatural smear slowly sinking toward the western horizon, a blight upon the sky, a portent of death and destruction. Making the hand sign against evil, he crossed the outer courtyard. Warmth rose from beneath his boots providing a patina of comfort. On the far side a blue-robed master waited for him.

  Master Grimshaw lowered his cowl. "So it's now."

  "We need answers." Master Rizel shrugged, gripping the staff. "I see no reason to delay."