The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 17

  The crone’s voice quavered. “Sometimes the runes respond to a higher question, a force or a predicament that overshadows the petitioner.” Her wrinkled hand gestured to the spread of runes. “This pattern must refer to the Curse of the Vowels.”

  The queen’s mouth turned desert dry, yet she needed to know. “Why?”

  “I see Wunjo, the rune of happiness lying face down, happiness turned to sorrow, and this is Thurisaz, the demon rune lying in a position of strong influence, and here, Naudiz, the rune of need lying close to the heart. But the worst is this rune.” With a shaking hand, the crone reached for the rune marker lying at the star’s very center. Face-down, the glass was dark purple, so dark it was nearly black. The crone turned the rune, revealing the bright gold symbol. “This is Kauno, the Torch, rune of light and life inverted to darkness…”

  “…and death.”

  The crone gave a grim nod.

  “No, death cannot be the answer!” Fear laced the queen’s voice.

  “Majesty, remember what I said. Oft times the runes describe the influence, not the answer. This spread surely refers to the Curse of the Vowels, to the death and sorrow visited upon Navarre’s royal house.” She gazed at the queen, her voice full of entreaty. “Cast the runes again and seek a fresh answer.”

  The queen shivered, feeling the gods’ hands at work. “No. I want no more foretellings.” She smothered the quaver in her voice. “I need help of a more practical sort, a bottle of your best sleeping draught. I seek a dreamless sleep, not to wake till sunrise.”

  “Then you’ll be wanting Valerian tea…”

  The queen leaned across the table, gripping the old woman’s hands, the wrinkled skin as dry as parchment. “Matilda, if ever you loved me, like the daughter you never had, then you’ll give me your strongest sleeping draught, for none else will serve.”

  Foreboding flickered in the old woman’s eyes. “Given the rune pattern, I fear it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the best sleeping draughts are also deadly poisons. The difference is in the dosage. Sometimes that difference is slender.”

  Poison, the weapon of the witch, a shiver raced down the queen’s spine, yet she refused to be defeated. Perhaps with the crone’s help, she’d turn the witch’s best weapon against her. “Show me.”

  Matilda went to the shelves, returning with a small stoppered bottle, dark blue in color. Clutching the bottle close, the crone gave the queen a hesitant look. “Tincture of Belladonna, the queen of all sleeping draughts, best taken with wine. Two drops brings a feeling of euphoria followed by dreamless sleep. But take care with the dosage lest you sleep forever. Two drops for sleep…four drops to kill, a slender difference between slumber and death.”

  “Two drops for sleep…four for death, I’ll remember.” The queen slid a small purse of gold coins onto the table and then extended her hand.

  “Are you sure, Majesty?”

  “Yes.”

  The crone set the bottle in her hand. The queen held it tight, the answer to her most dire need. “Blessings of the Mother be upon you,” she took her leave of the crone. Clutching the bottle in her deepest pocket, the queen returned to the bustling market. Sleep, a dreamless sleep, tonight she’d foil the witch, beating Iris at her own game.

  26

  The Mordant Chapter

  Silent and forbidding, the dark hull sliced through night-darkened waters, ghosting into the harbor. With three tiers of oars and a bronze ram fashioned like a toothy snout, the coastal raider loomed over the fishing vessels like a shark among minnows yet there was no hue and cry. Smooth as a sheathing sword, the MerChanter ship slipped into a berth near the harbor mouth. The Mordant watched from the prow. Wrapped in dark robes, he shivered with sickness, leaning on a pair of assassins posing as servants. Sagging against their strength, he studied the town, comparing memories to the present. So much had changed. In a past life this same harbor had been nothing more than a cove for smugglers. Now a formidable castle brooded above a burgeoning town, a martial warning mixed with a merchant’s welcome, the perfect place to begin.

  Lines were slung from the ship with nary a command. An eerie silence smothered the trireme, the top deck empty save for the captain and a pair of mates, but the Mordant felt the others. Cowering below, the crew hid, swathed in terror. Fear clouded the ship like a fine perfume, teasing a smile to the Mordant’s face. How little they knew what they carried.

  The boarding plank thunked against the dock with a sharp finality. The two assassins eased the Mordant toward the ramp. He passed the captain without speaking; the man’s haunted eyes saying more than enough.

  Wracked by seasickness, the Mordant leaned heavy on his servants. How he hated the sea, a bitter enemy leeching at his powers, yet he’d dared the voyage to leap ahead of his army. Once again, his will prevailed, all part of a master plan.

  A fat harbormaster scuttled towards them. His servants intercepted the man. A thick purse changed hands and nothing more was said. The Mordant hid his smile. Of all the southern kingdoms, Radagar was ever the whore, and whores he knew very well.

  They reached the end of the dock and the Mordant hissed a command. “Wait.” His servants froze, holding him erect. The Mordant stepped from the dock, planting his boots on firm land. For a moment, the sea held sway, a terrible dizziness rocking him, but then he felt it. Darkness rushed to fill him, a surging power rising from his boots. Like a banished curse, the torpor of the sea-god fled. His powers returned, yet his hands still shook with a pitiful palsy, his body weak from the long sea passage. Disgusted, he hid his hands within his robe. There was always a price, but this time the goal was more than worth the temporary indignity. “Get me to an inn.”

  Men in dark cloaks glided from an alleyway. Swords in hand, they circled the Mordant like an honor guard. Their leader, a swarthy man with a thick beard sketched a deep bow. “My Lord, we’ve awaited your coming. All is in order.”

  The Mordant nodded. “Lead the way.”

  His escort led him through dim-lit alleys to the back steps of an inn. The Mordant soon found himself ensconced in a sumptuous chamber, a four-poster bed draped in gold velvet, a fire crackling in the hearth, all the luxuries of a palace suite. Satisfied with the accommodations, he sat before the hearth soaking up the fire’s warmth, yet the smell of the sea still lingered. His clothes repulsed him, stinking of salt and sickness. “Undress me.” His assassins disrobed him and then washed him in rose-scented water. Finally cleansed, he sank into the feather bed, a welcome haven from the sway of the sea.

  For three days he nested in the inn. While his body recovered, his mind craved news of the southern kingdoms, fodder for his plots. He summoned Bishop Borgan while supping on garlic roast lamb and the inn’s best wines. The portly prelate had been sent ahead to prepare the way.

  Clad in merchant’s robes of sumptuous silk, the bishop bowed low before the Mordant. “Everything has been prepared, just as you ordered.”

  “Good.” The Mordant sat before the blazing hearth, sipping a fine brandy. “What news of the south?”

  “Much has happened while you sailed south. The Cobra crown has changed hands. Cyrus is dead, killed by poison. Razzur has claimed the crown.

  “And what of this Razzur?”

  “They say he wants to return Radagar to the old ways, to restore pride and honor to the desert-descendants.”

  “Honor,” the Mordant spat the word with contempt. “What do mercenaries know of honor?” Such a change did not favor his plans. “Honor is a rank stupidity that reeks of the Light. I like it not. Dispatch an assassin to Salmythra. Holdor has the skills. One assassin of the ninth rank should be sufficient for the Cobra crown to change hands once more.”

  “Will you favor another contender?”

  “I favor chaos. Let the princes fight for the crown.”

  Borgan bowed. “As you command.”

  “And tell our brokers in Radagar they may begin selling Vetra.”

  The bishop pa
led, “But my lord, Radagar as ever been a secret ally to the north!”

  The Mordant flashed a chilling smile. “Erdhe is changing. Those who think of themselves as allies will soon learn they are mere vassals. They live to serve. Pass the word that Vetra is to be sold in the marketplaces, but only in Radagar. The MerChanters will bring a steady supply to the usual smuggling ports.” The Mordant smile deepened to a predatory grin. “Let the rot begin.”

  The bishop bowed low. “As you command.”

  “Now tell me of the other kingdoms, especially Lanverness.” The Mordant sipped brandy while he listened. The news did not disappoint. Neither did his youthful body, for he soon regained his vigor. Standing before the blazing hearth, the Mordant flexed his muscles. The resiliency of youth was such a potent gift, yet so fleeting, even for an immortal. Smiling, he reveled in his stolen youth. Summoning his servants, he dressed in dark leathers, practical and nondescript, perfect for traveling.

  In the dead of the night, the Mordant slipped from Radagar’s coastal city. He led his men east, putting the sea’s salty stink at his back. Sixty mounted men formed his guard, mostly assassins and magic-sniffing duegar, a hand-picked cadre of killers sent south from the Dark Citadel. Laden with weapons, they dressed in dark leathers and carried no banners, their cloaks empty of emblems. Save for four leather chests strapped to a string of packhorses, they traveled lean, just a shadowy band of menace slipping through Radagar’s countryside.

  The Mordant set a blistering pace, carving a serpentine path across the mercenary kingdom. Riding at night, they avoided cities and stayed in towns only long enough to resupply. Anyone that stood in their way was quickly cut down. Horses died under the lash, ridden to death, a casualty of speed. When a duegar was thrown from his horse and his leg badly mangled from the fall, the Mordant had him put down like a dog. He drove his men hard and the horses harder, brooking no delay. The great game was in motion, the pieces moving across the board towards a great Dark Destiny. Time was of the essence.

  27

  Liandra Chapter

  A false gaiety pervaded the queen’s court. Her lords and ladies danced till midnight, celebrating a narrow victory over the Flame, but beneath their gaiety the queen felt an edge of desperation, a frenzied need to deny that something worse lurked ahead. Liandra danced with the rest, maintaining her royal image, but she did not celebrate. Unlike the others, the queen could ill-afford to ignore the encroaching doom. Her shadowmen had returned bearing their latest crop of secrets, none of it good. The Mordant’s hordes threatened in the north, holding Raven Pass, the gateway to the south. The Mordant, the name alone conjured nightmares. Wrapped in so many frightful legends it was hard to separate truth from myth. How did one prepare for a myth-cloaked evil? Meanwhile her kingdom reeled from a terrible holy war. Pellanor nearly captured, Lingard in ruins, her army diminished, her peasants and farmers scattered in fear. She needed to strengthen her defenses, needed to get her farmers back on the land before the spring planting, and she needed commerce to resume flow. So many problems, so little time. Little wonder she was plagued with headaches.

  The queen made the obligatory dances, making sure to change partners often so her royal favors were equally distributed. Three times she danced with Lord Cenric, dashingly handsome in his cloak of peacock feathers despite his strange yellow eyes. Laughing in his arms, the queen sent her court a clear signal that he and his men held her royal favor. Liandra suspected feathered cloaks would soon become the new fashion in Pellanor. She made a note to invest in a supplier of feathers.

  Satisfied that duty was done, the queen retreated to her solar. Divested of finery, she sat swathed in a warm velvet robe, sitting before the fire, sipping a red wine while contemplating the chessboard. Her shadowmaster, Lord Robert Highgate, appeared and took his place on the other side. They sat in companionable silence, chess pieces clashing across the checkered board. Pawns and knights and monks, Liandra’s mind kept skittering to armies and farmers and defensive walls, a thousand problems begging to be solved.

  Moving his castle across the board, Robert captured her beleaguered queen, a rare coup. “Where are you?” He reached across the chessboard to caress her hand. “You’re not concentrating on the game,” the tone of his voice changed from playful to serious, “or are you?”

  So shrewd, he was the one man in her court she trusted, the one man with the intelligence to see the whole game, her spymaster, her confidant, her lover. “Yes, the bigger game, the chessboard of Erdhe.” She met his stare. “So many problems, we feel time strangling us like a noose.”

  “You are not alone. Which problem plagues you this evening?”

  She gave a false laugh. “Too many to count.” Reaching for the fallen chess pieces, Liandra lined them up like an army of worries as she recounted her kingdom’s legion of problems. “Famine threatens if the farmers do not return to the land. Lingard must be rebuilt. The defenses of Pellanor need strengthening. And then there is the army. How can the Rose Army stop what the Octagon Knights could not? And what is the Mordant’s intent, his true game? And who is he anyway? Is he a man or is he a legend steeped in nightmares? It is hard to play chess against such a shadowy opponent.”

  “Yet you will find a way.” He reset the chessboard, positioning the white pieces like a flanking army, a row of pawns in the vanguard. “You count your worries but not your assets. You have the love of the people, your treasury is full, your shadowmen are unparalleled spies, you have staunch allies in Navarre, the cat-eyed archers have entered the game, and the Kiralynn monks have already proven their worth.” He positioned the white queen in the center, surrounded by knights and monks, “and none play the game of chess like the Queen of Lanverness.”

  His confidence was like a balm to her soul. “Flatterer.”

  He gave her a wolfish grin. “How else to woo a queen?”

  “Is that what you do? Woo a queen?” The game moved to a different level, a welcome distraction. She felt herself aroused.

  “Woo her, yes.” He flashed a rakish smile. “When I’m not making love to her.” His voice was deep with suggestion.

  So tempting to let him sweep her off to bed, to let the heat of his lovemaking drive the worries from her mind, to indulge the woman instead of the queen, but a crown was not so easily ignored.

  His gaze smoldered. “Together we might make another child.”

  Her breath caught, her bejeweled hands threading across her empty womb, missing the daughter that might have been. She’d so wanted the child, despite all the complications to her crown. An unwed queen, an unnamed father, a risk to her image, a threat to her power…yet her arms felt achingly empty and Lanverness desperately needed a second heir, especially given Stewart’s marriage. She reached for a chess piece, fingering a black knight. “Have you found the murderer?”

  “You know I have not. You’ve sent me chasing shadows.”

  “We’ve sent a shadowmaster to catch a shadow, you must have learned something?”

  He leaned back in his chair, fingering the dagger at his belt. “I’ve talked to your women, your ladies-in-waiting, and I believe they are loyal.”

  She gave him a measured nod, relieved that his opinion bolstered her own conviction.

  “And your healer, Crandor, seems above reproach.”

  “Crandor is an old dear. He’s served the Tandroths all his life.” She leaned forward. “You must suspect someone?”

  He gave her a level stare. “Have you considered that there are two unsolved murders in your court?”

  She nodded, remembering. “The monk, Fintan.”

  “Brutally beheaded. A murder designed to instill fear.”

  “An emissary of the monks slain within our own castle.” She recalled the odd details of the monk’s chamber. “A murder full of riddles and warnings, but no witnesses and no clues.”

  “Perhaps the riddles and warnings are the clues.”

  Hearing the truth in his words, her skin prickled in warning. “We like how yo
u think, though we fear the implications.” She stared at the chessboard. “No witnesses and no clues, so you think the two murders are linked, the monk and the babe?”

  “A monk and a royal heir.”

  Liandra shivered, chastising herself for thinking like a mother instead of a queen. “Just so.” She stared across the chessboard. “Someone plays a larger game.”

  He gave her a grim nod.

  “But who stalks the monks and a royal heir?”

  “That is the question.”

  “It seems an unlikely pairing.”

  “Yet it is the only clue we have.”

  She sat in silence, staring at the chessboard. Fingering the black knight, Liandra considered the scant clues. Slaying a babe in the womb was such a fiendish tactic. The act implied a ruthless enemy who took a long view of the game…a very long view. And this enemy was also an enemy of the monks. Liandra shivered at the implications, her concern doubling. She felt stalked. As if someone made her a pawn within a greater game. A queen should never be used as a pawn. Her ringed hands tightened into fists.

  “You think too much.”

  “Thinking may be our best weapon to defeat this foe.”

  “Agreed, but sometimes you need warmth to chase away the shadows.” He pulled her to her feet and kissed her softly. “Perhaps between us, we could make another heir?”

  She kissed him back, needing his solid strength, longing for another child. “You make duty such a pleasure.”

  He lifted her into his arms. “If only I could make all your duties pleasurable.” The train of her robe swept across the chessboard, scattering pieces in every direction, but she no longer cared. The heat of his body proved a bonfire to her need. He carried her to the royal bed, a massive canopied affair of pillows and velvet. Nestled among the quilts, he lay next to her, his fingers skillfully rousing her. She reached for his buckles, too many fasteners, hastily stripping away his leathers until it was just skin against skin. Liandra reveled in the strength of his arms, in the deftness of his touch. He rolled on top, moving with deliberate strokes, making the ecstasy last. She moaned with unbridled pleasure, indulging the woman beneath the crown.