The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 4
“Chess is such an ancient game, a game of kings, a game of power. You can learn so much about an opponent through a single game of chess, don’t you think?”
“Your thoughts echo our own.”
“I doubt that.” He smiled like a fox about to eat a chicken. “Shall we let our armies clash?”
Such a simple question, yet it took her breath away, as if menace lurked in the very air between them. Liandra shook her head, confused and troubled by the premonition of dread. The prince was a riddle, full of challenges and unexpected contradictions, nothing more. Surely this strange sense of foreboding was uncalled for. The queen stared at the prince, trying to peel back the layers beneath his comely facade. She told herself this was just an audience, a first meeting with a foreign prince…yet Liandra felt as if she swam in an ocean with limitless depths...an ocean full of dangerous monsters. Perhaps the chessboard would provide the answers. Liandra fingered a malachite pawn. The game of chess was both a strength and a familiar refuge. She set her mind on winning the game. “Yes, let’s play.”
5
The Mordant
The door opened and the Mordant strode into the queen's solar for their first meeting. Luxury surrounded him: plush carpets beneath his boots, exquisite tapestries gracing the walls, a room bejeweled with gilded furniture and stunning works of art, but the setting mattered not. He'd come for the woman ensconced at the heart of the royal trappings. Stopping a sword's length away, he paused to take her measure. “So this is the queen so many speak of.” The words purred out of him as he took in the details. Petite with a buxom figure, her waist was hourglass trim yet the crows-feet at her eyes betrayed her age. Powders and rouge, no matter how skillfully applied, could not hide the truth. A woman of middling years, the queen of Lanverness wore jewels and velvets like armor, but beneath the royal glamour, the bloom had nearly gone off the rose. A few more years and she would pass beyond child-bearing age, the last of her beauty fading to gray, her armor dissolving with age. Glorying in his own stolen youth, the Mordant struggled to keep a smug smile from his face…but he had not come to gloat. Hungry to begin, he breathed deep, searching for the taint of Darkness in her soul. Ambition laden with pride, the queen reeked of ambition despite being a mere woman. Ambition was ever fertile ground for Darkness.
The queen smiled. “Welcome to our court. We are pleased to host a prince from distant Ur.”
He gave her a half nod. “Distant in leagues but close in trade. Commerce connects us." He deliberately deepened his smile, a hunter sighting prey. "Trading powers should meet, don’t you think?”
“Trading powers, not trading partners, what an interesting turn of phrase.”
“Nothing but the truth.” How he enjoyed weaving a good lie, one of the simple pleasures of dealing with mere mortals. “Lanverness dominates the trade of Erdhe, as Ur dominates trade across the southern seas, hence, my interest in your kingdom. We are both trading powers.”
“And are you attracted to power?”
“Always.”
He drilled her with his stare, silently compelling her to meet his gaze. As if in answer, she complied. Their stares locked. Ambition is the key to her soul. The Mordant longed to make it rape, to delve the queen and pith her soul like a fly pinned to parchment…but he had witnesses. A knight with a blue steel sword stood vigil in the shadows, so this would have to be done delicately. Restraining his power, the Mordant sought a painless conquest. His gaze lanced hers, demanding entry. His will pressed inwards, seeking to follow the strands of ambition. He sought to plumb her soul, to seduce her with Darkness…and met a wall of blazing Light. Pain pierced him. His own power rebounded on him, a terrible backlash that stabbed his mind. Fury flamed through him, how dare you! Incandescent with rage, he nearly reached for the gem of pain, intending to blast the queen to her knees…but he fought the urge. Destroy her now and history will not be changed. His own ambition rescued him. Rage had nearly undone him. Taking a deep breath, he bridled his anger, forcing calculated reason to reign.
Shuttering his gaze, the Mordant considered what he’d learned. Souls like hers were rare, yet over the ages he’d encountered a few others with shields of Light. Ambition that truly served the greater good became a potent shield against the Dark. Such souls often posed stumbling blocks to his plans. He hadn’t expected to find such soul-strength in a mere woman. She reminded him of someone else, a dark-haired sorceress, an ancient conquest from his very first lifetime. The Mordant supposed he would have to do this the old-fashioned way. The thought brought a sense of mild amusement. Having lived for over a thousand years, he'd assumed many different roles in many different lifetimes, but the Deceiver was ever the guise he most enjoyed, the role that most profited the Dark Lord. Ensorcelling mortals with lies was a game he'd come to love.
“Will you have some wine?” The frumpy maid intruded.
The Mordant blinked, shuttering the Darkness of his soul.
“Will you have some wine, my lord?”
Annoyed, he made a mental note to have one of his assassins kill the wretched woman. “Yes, I will.” Accepting a goblet of dark red wine, the Mordant flicked a glance toward the guardian knight. Standing statue-still in the flickering firelight, he seemed unaware that anything had transpired. “A blue steel sword.”
The queen gave him a feeble smile. “So you’ve heard of blue steel?”
The Mordant kept to his disguise, a congenial smile on his face. “Even in Ur we have heard of such swords.” He took a chair on the far side of the chessboard. The dark army already arrayed against her emerald green. “I see you got my gift.”
She seemed distracted, wounded by his mental assault. “An exquisite gift, we thank you for it.”
“Chess is such an ancient game, a game of kings, a game of power. You can learn so much about an opponent through a single game of chess, don’t you think?”
“Your thoughts echo our own.”
“I doubt that.” He cursed her within his mind. I bring you Despair! Your precious kingdom shall fall to my lash, your people shall be corrupted, your deeds shall be sullied, your memory despoiled, and your very name shall become a foul curse. Your downfall shall seal the fate of future queens. Forevermore, women shall be forbidden power in Erdhe because of you. The Great Dark Divide shall be strengthened by your defeat…and I shall enjoy that very much. He let his smile show his true intent. “Shall we let our armies clash?”
She hesitated, a hint of dread on her face, almost as if she could read his thoughts. But then she nodded, her voice brimming with the naive confidence of a feckless mortal. “Yes, let’s play.”
6
Liandra
Queen Liandra sat before the chessboard, considering her opening move. By tradition, the lighter color always moved first. It struck the queen that this was a fallacy. In truth, Darkness always made the first assault, breaking the peace and drawing the first blood, leaving the ambushed Light scrambling to mount a reply. The thought gave her an interesting insight into the natures of Light and Dark, but this was chess, a game with clearly defined rules. Liandra focused her mind on the checkered board. Darkest ebony inlaid with squares of polished abalone shell, the board rippled with smoky iridescence, an exquisite field of play. Her malachite army stood arrayed against the prince's onyx legion. Knights and monks stood stalwart against dragons and wizards, her lighter color giving her the first move. She'd always loved the subtle intricacies of chess, the challenge of wits and strategies, the ability to see many moves ahead, yet seated across from the prince, a strange anxiety gripped her, as if she’d bet her kingdom upon the outcome of the game. Suppressing the grim foreboding, Liandra considered a range of openings. Finally reaching for her king’s pawn, she made the first move.
The queen stared across the chessboard, keen to see the prince’s opening. First moves always held a wealth of insights, setting the tone for the game while revealing glimpses of her opponent’s hidden nature.
The prince did not hesitate. Reachin
g for a dragon carved of onyx, he opened with a knight, the trickiest piece on the board.
The move surprised her, something she’d expect from an older, more mature player. “So you have a fondness for knights?”
“A fondness, no, I have nothing but disdain for knights and any piece that does not rule.”
Such a brutal reply, yet she soon discovered that it fit his style of play. Instead of building elaborate feints, he attacked from every angle. Showing no regard for his pieces, the prince ruthlessly traded his queen for a mere castle. With such uneven trades, Liandra felt destined for victory, yet somehow the game eluded her. The prince pressed a relentless attack, keeping her off balance. Under the fierce assault, Liandra became overly protective of her malachite pieces, striving to save every one. She knew this was a losing strategy, yet she could not stop herself. Hunched over the board, she sat absorbed in the play, desperate to find a solution. The game became a bloody rout, castles, monks and pawns falling under the prince’s brutal onslaught. Malachite figures littered the tabletop with reproach. Backed into a corner, Liandra fought for her life.
Carved chess pieces moved across the board like a silent clash of armies. The queen sought an escape, she sought a stalemate, yet the noose of onyx-carved figures tightened around her malachite king like a relentless destiny. The fire snapped and crackled in the hearth. Intent on the game, not a word was spoken…until he toppled her king.
“Checkmate.”
Defeated, the queen sat stunned.
“You look surprised.”
Liandra conceded a nod toward the prince. “As the only child of a king, we were reared upon strategy and court intrigue.”
"And you see chess as a reflection of life?"
"To some extent."
He fingered her defeated king. “Perhaps you lack an essential quality?”
“And what is that?”
“Ruthlessness.” He flashed a feral grin. “An essential quality for a great ruler, but so often lacking in the fair sex.”
Anger pulsed through her. "Then you must not know many women.”
“I've known countless women...but none that rule.”
She met his gaze across the chessboard. “You’ve met one now.” Her voice flashed with steel. “Will you play again?”
“Yes, but not today.” He stood and suddenly his smile transformed from sinister to charming, as changeable as quicksilver. “Thank you for a most insightful game. Perhaps we can play again next week?" His smile deepened with murky intent. "Another clash across the chessboard and you can show me how queens rule.”
“We would be delighted.” Her voice held a daggered edge.
The prince took his leave.
The door clicked closed and relief washed across her. Liandra sagged against the oak-carved throne. Exhaustion claimed her, as if she’d jousted in a tournament and come away battered and bruised. Defeated, a headache pounded at the back of her eyes, and by such an arrogant young man. The truth rankled. The fire had burned to embers, letting shadows encroach. Shivering against the darkness, the queen considered her time with the prince. She’d learned little of Ur, but she’d gained insights into the man. He was not what he seemed. And he was dangerous. And he was in her kingdom. Plots within plots, she’d have to double the shadowmen assigned to the prince and his entourage. She needed more information. The loss of the first game haunted her like an ill-omen. Somehow she needed to learn his true game, his true intent…and then she needed to find a way to defeat him.
7
The Mordant
The messenger was delivered in a canvas sack. At a gesture from the Mordant, the two assassins cut the ties and upended the contents, dumping the young man onto the cold stone floor.
Bound, gagged and blindfolded, the messenger wore the emerald livery of the Rose Queen. Screaming through his gag, he squirmed across the pentacle like a green worm.
“Untie him.”
The assassin slashed the rope bonds and then stepped back into the shadows.
Tugging off the blindfold, the young man squinted at the dim light. Spitting the gag from his mouth, he yelled, “How dare you! I’m a royal courier, a messenger for the queen!”
His voice reeked of fear despite his bravado. The Mordant breathed deep, savoring the smell. “Take off your tabard.”
“What?” The young man flinched backward, his gaze circling the chamber, his eyes widening in fear. “What is this place?”
They stood in the sanctum beneath the manse. Cold stone vaulted overhead to a smothering darkness. Five braziers lit the five points of the pentacle, yet the shadows held sway. Unbloodied and undedicated, the chamber smelled of mortar and fresh-cut stone…but that would soon change. “Take off your tabard.” The Mordant's voice was soothing, reasonable, paternal...almost patient.
The messenger shrank backwards. “Why?”
“Or my men will do it for you.”
The young man glanced at the two assassins, a flash of fear across his face. He started to undress, his hands shaking.
The Mordant waited, his arms crossed. How easy the weak are persuaded. Breathing deep, he imbibed the scent of fear. “And now your pants.”
The messenger retreated a step, his voice laden with panic. "No."
"Do it now and things will go easier for you."
The young man's wide-eyed stare skittered around the unholy chapel, drinking in the menace of the chamber. Pale and shaking, he complied, adding boots and pants to the discarded pile of green. Looking younger than his years, he stood shivering in his small clothes, his skin puckered against the cold.
The Mordant gestured to the pile of green. “Take these to Tembo.”
“Don’t take my clothes!”
One of the assassins leaped to obey. “Yes, my lord.” Oblivious to the young man's protest, the assassin gathered up the clothes and retreated into the shadows.
The Mordant smiled. “They will serve a higher purpose…as will you.” He gestured to the remaining assassin. “Prepare him for sacrifice.”
"What?" Yelping in fear, the young man leaped to run but the assassin struck like a scorpion. A single well-aimed punch knocked the messenger to the floor. Pinning him to the pentacle, the assassin splayed his arms and legs wide. The young man bucked and fought, raw terror on his face, but he was no match for an assassin of the ninth rank. The final shackle locked into place, chaining the messenger spread-eagle to the floor, an unwilling sacrifice stretched across the pentacle. The assassin drew a dagger from his baldric.
Eyeing the knife, the messenger flinched back against the cold stone floor. "Don't!"
Three quick slashes and the captive’s small clothes fell away.
Hot piss streamed onto the floor, adding the first stink of true terror to the chamber.
"Release me!" The young man writhed against his bonds, his face contorted in fear. "I serve the queen! Release me!" His screams beat against the chamber, echoing with an eerie refrain.
The Mordant smiled, supping on the young man's fear. "Scream all you want, a fitting chorus for the damned."
“Release me!”
“Come,” the Mordant gestured to his assassin, “this one needs time to stew in his own terror.” At a gesture, the braziers dimmed.
Darkness encroached...like a living beast.
The young man's screams grew frantic. "Don't leave me here!"
Crossing the chamber, the Mordant climbed the stairs, the dark-clad assassin following in his wake. He reached the prison level and passed through the false barrel, stepping into the wine cellar. The assassin closed and locked the doors behind him, snuffing the screams to silence.
Returning to the manse proper, the Mordant strode to the great room. Sunlight streamed through diamond-paned windows, casting light across the marble floor. A gilded chair sat upon a raised dais, serving as a make-shift throne. Behind the throne, a banner of purple silk ran from the vaulted ceiling to the polished floor, the Great Wyrm embossed in gold, a dragon eating its own tail, the imperi
al symbol of distant Ur.
Twelve duegar and seven assassins fell prostrate to the marble floor.
The Mordant crossed the chamber, his boot heels ringing on stone. Climbing the dais, he took a seat upon the throne. “Rise and tell me what you’ve learned.” He’d sent his minions scurrying through the queen's city, searching for monks and magic and Octagon knights. One at a time, they gave their reports.
The Mordant listened till his anger flared. “You bring me nothing!”
They cringed from his wrath.
“Where one monk has died, others will follow. And those others will bring magic." His voice dropped to a deadly hiss. "I want their magic. Find...them.”
“Yes, lord.” The duegar withdrew half a step, trembling at the Mordant's rage.
“And while you search, I'll have you spread rumors against the queen.”
One assassin dared a glance toward his face. “What would you have us say?”
“Spread fear about the coming war…and complain of food shortages.”
“But, lord,” the assassin spoke in a hesitant voice, “the markets overflow with food. No one will believe us.”
How little they understood. “Speak a lie loudly and often enough and it will be believed. Famine follows war and Lanverness still recovers from the Flame War. If the queen’s people fear a famine, then they will begin to hoard food. If enough become hoarders, then a food shortage will follow. Lies repeated often enough take on the substance of truth.”
“Yes, dread lord. Anything else, lord?”
“Yes.” The Mordant savored the secret, a gift from one of his best assassins. “Amongst the lies you shall spread one truth.” His grin widened. “Dirty truths are even more effective than lies. I'll brand the bitch with her own morals. The queen considers herself a servant of the Light, yet she bore a stillborn bastard to some unnamed lover. She thinks her sordid secret is safe, but the common people love a good scandal above all else. Add a few embellishments and the tale will spread like wildfire. Whisper a rumor that the queen is a whore, that she bore a bastard, a malformed creature cursed by the gods. Smothered at birth, it was buried in an unmarked grave lest the damning truth be known. Born with a tail and horns, the misbegotten and misshaped babe proves her sins. Such a queen should never sit upon a throne lest the gods shun her kingdom.”