The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Read online

  His hands withdrew and he moved around her desk, taking a seat on a stool in front of the roaring fire. Sitting sword-straight, he stared at her, his dark eyes as keen as a hawk’s, his face lined with thought. Liandra knew she had his full attention and the weight of his considerable intellect…but she missed the comfort of his hands.

  “It seems obvious enough. His army has taken Raven Pass and defeated the Octagon Knights. His legions are poised to conquer the southern kingdoms.” He gave her a shrewd look, “yet you expect something else, something worse?”

  Liandra nodded. “His army is the most immediate threat…but it seems too obvious.”

  To his credit, he took her seriously. “You’ve read half a hundred scrolls, you must have discerned something?”

  There was a fleeting feeling she got from reading the histories, but it seemed little more than a woman’s intuition. She hesitated to voice it.

  “Tell me.”

  She tried to explain. “The Mordant seems…slippery.”

  “How so?”

  “It is not what is in the scrolls, but rather what is missing. As if his methods are so devious and convoluted they defy description.” She had another thought. “Or perhaps they defy notice, ambushing their victims.”

  “Explain.”

  “War has always existed, a waste of lives and a swath of destruction, but it is almost as if the Mordant brings something more terrible, something subtler than war. The oldest scrolls hint at something deeper, something ominous. Almost as if,” she fingered a scroll, reluctant to give voice to the thought.

  “Tell me.”

  Drawing strength from his stare, she gave breath to her fear, “In the Mordant’s shadow, civilization is unraveled, forced back into darkness, as if mankind as a whole is lessened, diminished, becoming more beast than man. Where he reigns, truth and justice have no meaning. Civilizations are destroyed, trampled to rubble, and then he disappears, leaving mankind to wallow in the chaos.”

  A chill descended on her chambers.

  “And the Mordant has been dormant for a long time.”

  She nodded.

  “I begin to understand your inquiry.” He gave her a leveling stare. “There must be more in the histories. Most victors like to brag.”

  “And therein lies the problem!” She plucked a scroll from her lap. “Our histories were written by the few that survived! Most did not know the storm approached till it consumed them. The survivors wrote of the aftermath, the destruction, the suffering, but never of the strategies that brewed the storm.”

  “And you’re searching for the man beneath the myth?”

  “Or the monster.” Their stares locked.

  His face etched in thought, her shadowmaster reached for a chess piece, the black king. “But if the Mordant doesn’t stay to rule what he’s conquered, then what’s the point?”

  His question chilled her. “Perhaps the destruction is the point.”

  He gave her a hollow-eyed stare.

  “Or perhaps he takes a longer view…a much longer view.”

  “Like Lord Turner.”

  The queen nodded. “More life.”

  “He gains more life by destroying civilizations?”

  “Just so.” The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen. The queen shivered.

  “But how do we defeat such a foe?”

  Her voice was grim. “I don’t know, but somehow we must find a way.”

  “The Kiralynn monks must know more.”

  “Yet they did nothing when it came to Lord Turner.”

  “True, they came late to Lanverness, but since then, their help has made a difference. There’s no telling what they know.”

  “True enough.” She considered the monks. “But of late they’ve been scarce from our court, ever since the death of Fintan.”

  “The murder of Fintan,” he scowled.

  “Have you made any progress?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Perhaps it is all part of a greater threat.” Liandra could feel the tension building in her shoulders.

  “I like it not.” He took a troubled breath. “So how do we prepare?”

  “Remain vigilant. Expect something devious and twisted. Expect deception.”

  He gave her a flinty smile, “Life as usual in the Rose Court.” His smile faded. “And in the meantime, we solve the problems we can.”

  She nodded. “Rebuild Lingard, strengthen the army, get the farmers back on the land and the merchants back on the road. Commerce must flow and the grain must be sowed else we will not survive another war.” Always the same litany of problems, Liandra grew weary just thinking about it.

  He must have sensed her distress. “One step at a time. What news from the crown prince?”

  “The Rose Army marches north through Coronth. So far they’ve met little resistance. It seems the Flame has burnt itself out. Chaos rules Coronth, leaving the countryside parched of hope and food.”

  “And Balor?”

  “If any of the cursed Flame priests survive, they’ll be entrenched in Balor. We’ve advised Stewart to avoid the city, leaving that hornet’s nest for another time.”

  He gave her a measured look. “A people parched of hope might welcome the steady rulership of a queen.”

  She’d thought of that, a chance to double her holdings. “But first we have a war to win. With the fall of the Flame, Lanverness has lost a buffer to the north. If our army fails, the Mordant’s legions will sweep through Coronth like a scythe.”

  “It could be worse. The Flame might have allied with the Mordant.”

  “So true.” Liandra shuddered at the thought. She gave him a hooded stare. “Your shadowmen bring rumors of a new queen in Rhune.”

  He nodded. “A queen named Selene. She styles herself as the monarch of the moon, a most pretentious title, another riddle that needs to be plumbed.”

  “We need allies, not enemies.”

  “And what of Navarre?”

  She winced at the question, like poking an open wound. “We’ve sent word to King Ivor. We await his answer, wondering if he accepts the marriage.”

  “And you do not?”

  She’d railed at Stewart when he’d spoke of his unauthorized marriage, unleashing a torrent of anger, but the deed was done, the marriage blessed and consummated, albeit in some ruined tower without the queen’s consent. “At least she is a princess of Navarre, though not the one of our choosing. We console ourselves with the alliance.”

  “My lady, I know you better than that.” His words were soft. “You cannot deny the prince what you do not deny the queen.”

  She looked away, feeling her cheeks color with heat. “There is that.”

  “The crown prince will find strength in love…as we do.”

  His voice was rough and full of meaning. She fought for composure. “When do you leave?”

  “On the morrow.”

  Her breath caught. “So soon?”

  “The sooner to get back to you.” He looked away, twirling a gold ring on his finger, her love token to him. “I’ll ride hard to the north, to secure the borders. Then to Lingard to ensure the crown’s golds are well spent. The fortress must rise from the ashes as a symbol of strength, a stout defense against the Mordant’s hordes. Then your web of shadowmen must be rebuilt and there is none but the queen’s shadowmaster to see it done.”

  The queen knew the necessity of the trip, but the woman bitterly mourned the parting. “We shall miss you.” A spark leaped between them. “Let’s not waste the night.”

  He crossed the distance in three strides, closing his mouth on hers. Urgency sparked between them. Liandra drank him in, reveling in his strength, his smell, his touch. Silk ripped away as he carried her to the bed. “Hurry!” She clung to him, her fingers loosening his bindings. The last bindings broke as he tumbled on top. For a while, all the duties of the crown were forgotten.

  31

  Jordan

  Grief annealed to a dull numbness that eventually
smoldered into rage. Her mother’s funeral was a fortnight past yet the pain was fresh as a sword stroke. Jordan paced the chamber, railing at the gods. She’d answered the gods’ call, riding to Castle Seamount with all haste. After chasing her wicked aunt from the castle ramparts, she’d returned to the great hall to witness her family’s desperation. The survivors knelt, lapping at antidote puddled on the floor, the meager remnant from the shattered flask. The king and queen both survived the poison…but it was a lie. Hounded by nightmares, her beloved mother paid the death-price for the family curse. Jordan gripped her sword hilt longing for vengeance. Evil was real but she’d never imagined it could strike with such a long arm. The gods had much to answer for.

  The doors opened and a page dressed in the checkered livery of Navarre bowed toward her. “The king will see you now.”

  Jordan smoothed her leather jerkin, tucked her sandy-blonde hair behind her ears, and followed the page down the hall to the throne room. A pair of guards opened the doors and then snapped to attention.

  Waves of soft blue-green light lapped the small round chamber. Sunlight streamed through the domed windows, the stained glass depicting a rolling ocean, layers of blue and turquoise and sea green. The shifting sea colors proved enticing, beckoning her forward. As a child, she’d been entranced by the throne room, like walking into an underwater enchantment. The breathtaking beauty was still there, though much of the wonder was gone. Jordan crossed the lapis floor engraved with sea charts to stand before the Seaside Throne. She bowed low to her father, the king. Bedecked in robes of blue velvet, King Ivor sat upon a throne carved of driftwood adorned with polished seashells. The royal council stood on either side of the dais, their numbers greatly diminished by murder, so many of her aunts and uncles slain by the Curse of the Vowels.

  Jordan waited in silence, sundered by the strain evident in her father’s face. Gray dominated his hair and grief-worn tracks engraved his face, as if he’d aged two decades in two weeks.

  “Daughter,” the king gave her a wan smile. “Age has caught me.” A protest sprang to her lips but he stilled her with a raised hand. “The Royal Is have passed their time. Iris struck at our strength and our heart. Our loss is too great to be borne, yet our tasks are multiplied. It is time to pass the crown.”

  “No, it’s too soon!”

  The king raised a hand, quelling her protest. “There is much you do not know. While we have grown weak, evil has grown stronger. Dire news comes from the north. The Octagon has fallen. The Mordant marches south.”

  Jordan gaped. “How? When?” The news struck like an arrow to her chest.

  “Raven Pass is broken and the knights are scattered. A horde of Darkness claims the way south. War is nearly upon us.”

  The Octagon Knights defeated, the news staggered her. “But I never saw this! The gods gave me no visions of the knights.”

  “Perhaps they did.”

  Jordan struggled to understand.

  “We listened to your council and ordered the merchant fleet to sail north. Perhaps the gods gave you warning of our need, sending the fleet to seek allies in the far north.”

  “The gods are too cryptic by half.” The weight of so much loss beat against her. “Isador, Igraine, Ian, Mary…and now mother,” her voice broke with pain, “all died because I came too late!”

  “Ivy, Garth, and your king lived because you came in time.” King Ivor gave her a piercing stare. “And perhaps the kingdom will be saved because we sent the fleet north.”

  “But I came too late!”

  The king’s voice overrode hers. “You came, you heeded the voice of the gods and you made a great difference.” His voice softened. “My daughter of the sword, we must put grief aside and deal with the threats arrayed against us.”

  Jordan took a deep breath, struggling to turn her mind to the problem. “War comes from the north…Lanverness will fight.”

  The king nodded. “An army already exhausted by war, but yes, Lanverness will fight. Even as we speak, the Rose Army marches north, but we are here to talk of Navarre. It is time to pass the crown.”

  A chill gripped her. “But our Wayfarings are not yet done.”

  “War changes everything. Navarre needs a strong leader to battle the Dark tides. The council has deliberated and a decision has been made. In times of war a warrior is called to the throne.” King Ivor gestured toward his only remaining sibling. Ivy stepped forward bearing the Sea Crown upon a velvet pillow. Sculpted of silver, the curling waves formed an elegant crown studded with sapphires and rubies. Beneath the dome’s blue-green light the crown seemed to glow with the colors of the sea. “Jordan, heir of Navarre, will you accept the Sea Crown?”

  The king’s words seemed otherworldly. Jordan stared at the crown, an honor and a duty. She’d dreamt of it as a child, but so much had changed. Her mind groped for another solution. “If the crown calls a warrior then why not Jared? He chose Castlegard for his Wayfaring, surely Jared would be best?” Her words faltered as her father’s face paled to ghost-white. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Jared is dead.”

  “Dead?” Her handsome brother was dead? Jordan staggered backwards, wondering how much more pain she could bear. “When? How?”

  “He never reached Castlegard, ambushed by brigands on the road to his Wayfaring. We believe it was thugs serving the Flame.”

  Ambushed, murdered, the words beat against her. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “There was nothing you could do. Your mother and I thought it best to let you finish your Wayfaring without the shadow of death staining your life.” The king’s voice turned bitter. “But death hunts our house like hounds loosed from Hell. Navarre needs a warrior and you have always chosen the sword.” His voice turned hard as steel. “I will ask again, daughter of the sword, will you wear the Sea Crown?”

  Her mouth tasted of ashes. “I can not.”

  “You can not?”

  A murmur of outrage rippled through the council.

  Jordan cursed her own silence, another mistake. “I can not because I am married to Prince Stewart of Lanverness.”

  “Married!”

  “Without the king’s consent!” Outrage ripped through the council.

  The king gave her a hollow-eyed stare. “But Jemma is betrothed to the prince.”

  It was worse than she thought. “Betrothed by the machinations of the Spider Queen, but I was always his love. I married Stewart less than two moonturns ago. A wartime wedding witnessed by monks of the Kiralynn Order and consummated in the ruins of the Crimson Tower. We are wedded and bedded and my future lies with Lanverness.” Her voice faded to a whisper. “I know it’s wrong to wed without the king’s consent, but this is war, and I thought I’d lost him.” She steadied her voice. “I’m sorry, father. I meant to tell you, but with all the death and betrayals, there never seemed a moment for happiness.”

  The king sank into the throne as if diminished. “Married.” The whispered word carried a tone of desperation.

  The council closed around her, peppering her with questions, but she ignored them, her gaze fixed on the king.

  “Be gone.” The king gave his council a feeble wave. “Leave us.”

  “But majesty?”

  A flicker of iron filled the king’s voice. “Leave us!”

  The council retreated, closing the doors behind them. Alone with the king, Jordan sank to her knees. “Forgive me, father?”

  He gave her a weary smile. “You were always headstrong.” His gaze held hers. “Do you love him?”

  “Very much.”

  “Love is not supposed to influence royal marriages…but how can it not?” He gave her a knowing smile and then took her hand, becoming the father instead of the king. “My dearest daughter, I cannot gainsay you for following your heart, for I did the same.”

  For the first time, Jordan noticed how her father’s hands shook, his skin spotted with age. Gripping his hand, she stilled her face, smothering shock mixed with grief.
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  “From the moment I first saw your mother, I loved her. I loved her so very much; I can’t believe she’s gone.” Grief claimed him. Jordan clung to his hand, trying to share her strength. Her father stifled his tears. Taking a long shuddering breath, his face stilled. He looked like a man girding for a last battle. Releasing her, he leaned back in the throne, the king once more. “You’ve gained a husband, and a royal marriage, and Navarre is bound closer to Lanverness, but you’ve set me a fine nettle, daughter. War comes yet we are caught without a wartime leader. First Jared is taken from us, then Isador, and now you. Evil stalks us, stealing our strength. I fear for Navarre.”

  “I cannot wear the crown but you’ve not lost my sword.”

  He looked at her, a well of questions in his gaze.

  “You said that Lanverness would fight.”

  He nodded.

  “Stewart will lead the Rose Army and I will lead the archers of Navarre. Together we will hold the Dark tide at bay.”

  “So you’ll do what the Octagon Knights could not?”

  She quailed at the thought. “We’ll do our best.”

  “And the Sea Crown?”

  “Offer it to Jemma. She’s learned much from the Spider Queen. She’ll make a fine ruler. Evil strikes at Navarre in more ways than just swords. If anyone can weave a defense against the long tentacles of Darkness, it is Jemma.” Thinking of her petite sister, Jordan added. “Jemma’s always wanted the crown, as does Juliana.”

  “So it comes down to my petite beauty and the sea captain,” the king steepled his hands, lost in thought. For the longest time, he said nothing. Jordan sank to the lapis floor, sitting cross-legged by the throne, keeping vigil. Eventually the king roused himself. “Nothing is as I expected. So many dreams turned to dust, yet the realm must be protected.” He looked down at her. “Navarre needs your sword, daughter. You will be given command of the army and I will meet with the council to decide the fate of the throne. Together we must steer a course through this tempest of evil. But this time I wonder if any safe harbor can be found.” He gestured toward the closed doors. “Call the council, for we have much to discuss.”

  She bowed to him and then crossed the lapis floor to summon the council, but she could not get the image of his shaking hands from her mind. Grief had aged the king far beyond his years. So much death, so much loss, Jordan wondered if evil had struck a mortal blow to Navarre.