The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 41

  62

  Liandra

  The queen was never one to miss an opportunity. The monks’ interest in the princess of Castlegard might prove the opening she’d long looked for. Something stirred in Erdhe. Liandra sensed a deeper game, something beyond the politics of mere kingdoms. Darkness claimed Coronth and Lanverness could be next. The monks knew something and the queen refused to enter the game blind.

  Pulling her ermine cloak close, she stepped out onto the frosted balustrade, a cold morning for such dire thoughts. At a gesture her guards fell back and she continued on alone. She found him leaning against the battlement, staring down into the sparring yard, the sound of swords drifting upwards. She took a moment to admire the view. Sir Cardemir was a man built for power, tall and imposing with a knight’s broad shoulders and a tapered waist, yet Liandra knew a shrewd mind lurked beneath the chain mailed exterior. Born the fifth son of a powerful duke, he openly chaffed at his lesser position, using his sword to win acclaim. But victory in the tournament field was hollow compared to a duke’s seat. His burning ambition had not gone unnoticed. The queen had plans for Sir Cardemir, but only if he passed her test.

  She continued toward him and he turned as if sensing her presence. Always the gallant, he gave her a courtly bow, the wind tugging at his powder blue cloak. “My queen.” He flashed a deep smile, his auburn hair framing a ruggedly handsome face. “Your summons was a pleasant surprise, but why the battlements?”

  “Walk with us.”

  He offered his arm and she accepted, the clang of swords forming a counterpoint to her thoughts. “There are many paths to power.”

  His gaze turned her way, snared with interest.

  “Your desire for a seat on our royal council has not gone unnoticed, but we need to be sure that your mind and your tongue are as sharp as your sword, and that your loyalty is unswerving.”

  He leaned toward her, a bear baited by the scent of honey.

  “We have decided to send an emissary to the Kiralynn monks, to their bastion of secrets set deep in the Southern Mountains.”

  “But I thought the monks a myth?”

  “Exactly what they would have you believe. The monks work hard to hide behind their myths but those who wear a crown know otherwise.”

  “A royal secret,” a hungry smile crossed his face but it soon turned to shrewdness. “What you really want is a spy.”

  “No need to be rude. Emissary is a much more polite term, though it serves the same purpose.”

  “But why me? I’m no diplomat.”

  “There’s a chance the monks may overlook a shrewd mind hidden beneath chainmail. And your skill with a sword will endear you to the others.”

  “Others?”

  The queen paused to stare down into the sparring yard, watching as two women danced the steel amongst a dozen knights. “You are to accompany the princesses of Castlegard and Navarre to the mountain monastery.”

  “Hence our meeting on the battlement.”

  The queen watched as the princess of Castlegard dodged a blow and then ducked inside the reach of the knight, her sword striking his breastplate. “Are they as good as reports indicate?”

  “They are amazing,” a hint of admiration crept into his voice, “especially the shorter one, the princess of Castlegard. Despite her lack of reach and strength she has a sixth sense for the sword, displaying a skill I’d never thought to see in a woman.”

  The queen raised an eyebrow. “Then we’ve chosen wisely.”

  His grin evaporated. “But the Southern Mountains are far from the Rose Court.”

  She resumed walking. “Don’t think of it as an exile, think of it as an opportunity.”

  “For how long?”

  “Three months if you are very shrewd. Bring us the secrets of the monks and you shall have a seat on our council. But it must be done delicately. We wish to forge an alliance not make an enemy. Invite them to send an emissary to our court. We would put a face to the monks instead of having them lurk in the shadows.”

  “But if the monks are so secretive will they welcome an emissary, especially one that is not invited?”

  It was a shrewd question, just the type she expected from him. “Let your mission become known throughout the court. The monks have spies everywhere. They will make their wishes known before your party ever leaves the Rose Court.”

  “And once there?”

  “Gain their trust and win their secrets. We would know the source of their power, and their interest in the southern kingdoms. We wish to learn the nature of their game. Do this and you will win our royal favor.”

  Ambition kindled his gaze. “It shall be as you command.”

  Kissing her emerald ring, he lingered over her hand. It was not unpleasant. “Will you need an introduction?”

  “To the princesses?” He gave her a rogue’s smile. “Charm is the best introduction to any woman.”

  For a moment she wondered at the depth of his ambition. “Careful, lest you overreach.”

  He had the intelligence to look chagrined. “Majesty, I am ever your servant, for none can outshine the Rose Queen. I’ll merely offer the wild hawk a velvet glove instead of a mailed fist.”

  “See that you remember your mission.”

  “Always.” He gave her a sweeping bow and then sauntered from the battlement.

  The queen lingered, gazing down at the sparring ground. Her decision was made and the die cast. She’d send her emissary to the monks, seizing the chance to learn their secrets, but she wondered if she’d loosed a fox among the royal hens. Only time would tell.

  63

  Steffan

  The Dark Lord gave Steffan three gifts when he surrendered his soul at the Oracle. The first gift was the luck of the dice. Unable to lose without concentrating, Steffan amassed a small fortune in golds at the dicing tables. His wealth bought him a lavish lifestyle with plenty of golds to advance the Dark Lord’s plans. Life was good in the service of the Dark Lord.

  The Dark Lord’s second gift was a lesson on human nature. By understanding human nature, the Dark Lord gave Steffan the means to twist and corrupt the souls of men. By unlocking the secret motives of those around him, Steffan manipulated lords and commoners alike, puppets dancing to the strings of their desires. With bribes of gold, power, sex, and religion, he created the Lord Raven and then schemed his way into controlling the kingdom of Coronth.

  The third gift from the Dark Lord was the most powerful of all. The third gift would enable him to reach beyond Coronth, unleashing a terrible chaos among the kingdoms of Erdhe, the chaos the Dark Lord so craved. The third gift was the vision of prophecy.

  The Dark Oracle showed Steffan visions of many possible futures. In the waters of the Oracle, he’d learned how the Dark Lord tended the threads of different possibilities, herding the kingdoms of Erdhe toward terrible futures where all of mankind bowed to the Dark Lord’s will. The futures were wildly divergent, but a handful of common events were inevitable. These common events held the key to duping others into believing he had a true gift of prophecy. Seduced by prophecy, the people would eagerly follow any leader who could foresee the future.

  Steffan used the first two gifts to secure his influence on the Pontifax. Now it was time to use the third gift to reach beyond Coronth. He started by arranging a dinner with the Pontifax when the Keeper was absent. As the two men dined on expensive delicacies and extravagant wines, Steffan drew on all of his skill to weave a vision of the future, a future where the Pontifax ruled over all of Erdhe. In this future, the Pontifax was revered as a demigod, the Beloved of the Flame God. Befitting his exalted status, he lived in unbelievable luxury, his many palaces making the Residence look like a hovel. His treasury overflowed with gems and bars of gold. Fathers willingly brought their virginal daughters to the temple begging for special blessings. Steffan painted a vision lavish with luxury, each detail designed to ensnare the imagination.

  Sipping a glass of Urian brandy, the Pontifax gave his counselor an i
ndulgent grin. “My dear Lord Raven, this all sounds marvelous but it is only a dream, nothing more.”

  Knowing that the hook had been set, Steffan infused his voice with humility. “Enlightened One, despite all you have achieved in Coronth, you still underestimate the power of religion. The people will do anything for the promise of heaven…even throw their lives away in a religious war.” Steffan leaned forward, his voice intense. “Do not underestimate the power of a single fanatical warrior, let alone an army of them. A fanatic does not care about common sense or logic, he does not care about the odds in battle, he does not even care about his own life…he cares only about his reward in heaven. Where other warriors surrender or flee in panic, the fanatic is unstoppable, fighting to the death. Fanatical warriors of the Flame are the true untapped power of Coronth.” Dropping his voice to a whisper he added, “You are the beloved of the Flame God, you are the religious leader of the people…only the Enlightened One can awaken the awesome power that slumbers just below the surface of Coronth.”

  The Pontifax had a hungry look on his face yet he kept his silence. The man was tempted but not convinced. Having prepared the field, Steffan planted the seed. “Enlightened One, I have a confession to make… a secret to tell.” Putting anguish in his voice, he said, “I feel compelled to reveal this secret to you so that you can achieve your true destiny…though I fear what you might think of me.” He hid his gaze from the Pontifax, his face composed in a mask of fear.

  The Pontifax took the bait. “There is nothing you cannot tell me. Surely you can share this secret with me?”

  Maintaining his mask, Steffan took a tortured breath. “There is a blessing, or perhaps a curse, that runs through my family, through the house of Raven.” Dropping his voice to a reluctant whisper, he said, “Males of my line who are born with a white lock of hair, inevitably develop dreams of true seeing.”

  Shock caused the Pontifax to drop his own mask. Naked greed flashed from his eyes.

  Steffan hid his smile; the glimpse of greed proved the old charlatan was smart enough to grasp the limitless value of prophecy.

  The Pontifax leaned forward, his voice rich with paternal undertones. “And have you experienced these dreams of true seeing?”

  “Yes, Enlightened One, it is how I knew to come to Coronth. My dreams told me to seek out the master of the Flames. Together I knew we would do great things.”

  “And what do your dreams tell you now?”

  Adding a touch of fear to his voice, Steffan asked, “You won’t reject me because of the taint in my blood?”

  The Pontifax gave Steffan a benevolent smile. “Perhaps this taint, as you call it, is actually a gift. Now tell me of your dreams and together we’ll make sense of the future.”

  “You must understand that I cannot control these dreams. They come of their own accord…but lately I have risen each morning with the same vision seared into my mind. A dream so real, so vivid, that I am compelled to share it with you. I swear on my soul, it is a dream that could change the world!” Steffan stared into the eyes of the Pontifax, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “Holy One, in two turns of the moon, there will be a great sign in the night sky. The heavens themselves will foretell your victory, for the Flame God will brand the sky with his mark. A red star will blaze a path across the heavens etching a wound in the dark of night. This red star signals your ascent to greatness.”

  The Pontifax studied Steffan, his face skeptical.

  “Now is the time! Rouse the people! Call them to arms! Build an army of fanatics and tell them that the Flame God will grant them a celestial sign for all to see, proof of a righteous Holy War.” Exerting his full powers of persuasion, Steffan whispered, “I have seen it, Holy One. Under the light of the red star, your armies will advance across Erdhe. Nothing can stand in their way. The religion of the Flame God will spread across Erdhe and you, the Pontifax, the Beloved of the Flame…will be the demigod that rules over all.” In a hushed voice, Steffan added, “It can happen, Holy One, but only if you dare to use my visions the same way you use your ruby amulet.” His stare drilled into the Pontifax. “Dare to unleash the Holy War and take all of Erdhe into your hands.”

  The Pontifax had a glazed look of an addict. Steffan waited, letting the temptations work their own form of magic.

  A shrewd look filled the high priest’s face. He studied his counselor through hooded eyes, his voice dropping to a deadly rasp. “How much faith do you put in your visions?”

  “I’d stake my life, my very soul, upon their truth!”

  The Pontifax whispered, “So be it! I will take your advice and call the people to arms. I will build an army and foretell the coming of the red star. I will do all this, but…if the star does not appear as foretold, then the army will stay home and my ambitions will remain within Coronth.” Staring at Steffan with hooded eyes, the Pontifax added, “If the red star does not appear, then, as the price of failure, the Lord Raven will walk the Test of Faith.”

  The logs snapped and crackled in the fireplace, the only sound in the small room. Steffan kept his face still as stone, struggling to hide his elation.

  “Is this acceptable…or will you recant your visions?”

  Bowing his head in surrender, Steffan replied, “I know my dreams are true. I know it is your destiny to start a Holy War and claim all the kingdoms of Erdhe for the Flame God. If you agree that the Lord Raven will remain by your side as your trusted advisor through all the victories to come, then I will agree to your price. If the red star does not appear as foretold then I will walk into the Flames of my own accord.”

  The Pontifax gave him a predatory smile. “So be it.”

  Steffan hid his smile. In the privacy of his mind, he saluted the Dark Lord. The seed of war had found fertile ground in Coronth. The three gifts of the Dark Lord would bear their bitter fruit and Steffan would have his chance at immortality. He could feel the Darkness gathering, ready to feast on all of Erdhe.

  64

  Jordan

  Jordan loved a good mystery. After giving the Octagon knights the slip, she and Kath followed the clues through the twists and turns of Castle Tandroth like a game of seek and find. “This has to be it.” She checked the clue. “Seek protection in the hall of martial prowess.” They stood in the doorway of a lofty dining hall. Sunlight flooded through stained glass windows embellished with jousting knights, sending rainbows of color across the wood floor. Battle banners hung from the rafters, emblems of so many proud houses. Jordan spied the red wyvern of Kardiff, the iron fist of Lingard, and the silver seahorse of Graymaris amongst the lesser houses. “This must be the place, but why here?”

  Kath approached the long table. “Jordan, look.”

  She joined her sword sister and gaped at her find. Arrayed on the table were a shield and a helm. Rimmed in sparkling silver, the shield was small and round but cunningly wrought, the crest of Navarre enameled in the center, a winged osprey upon a checkered field of red and blue. Beside the shield sat a helm. The shield was a thing of beauty but the half helm was magnificent. Studded with garnets, the helm gleamed red in the sunlight, a golden hawk perched upon the top, a maroon octagon inscribed above the nose guard. Kath picked it up and tried it on, sparkling links of silvered chainmail protecting the back of her neck. It seemed a perfect fit.

  “I’m glad you like my gifts.” A knight stepped from the far shadows, his pale blue surcoat embroidered with a silver seahorse.

  “The seahorse knight,” the words whispered from Kath.

  The knight inclined his head. “So you’ve noticed my blade work upon the sparring grounds, though we’ve yet to cross swords.” He came towards them, a handsome man with auburn hair framing a noble face. “I never thought to meet two princesses so good with the sword.” Jordan expected to hear sarcasm but his voice held only admiration. He made a courtly bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Sir Cardemir of Graymaris.”

  Jordan’s gaze narrowed. “But why the gifts and the string of clues?”


  “I sought a better way to meet, something more memorable than a cold introduction by the queen. Please accept the gifts from one who hopes to be your traveling companion.”

  The seahorse knight was full of riddles. “Companion? What are you talking about?”

  “The queen has appointed me as her emissary to the Kiralynn monks.” His gaze turned serious. “I seek to join you in your travels to the monastery, if you’ll have me?”

  His question seemed sincere, as if they truly had a choice. Jordan turned towards Kath, a knowing look passing between them. “He is good with a sword.” Kath nodded, a mischievous smile breaking across her face, “and he knows enough to ask instead of commanding.” A look of agreement flashed between them. Kath turned towards the seahorse knight and gave their answer. “Your sword is welcome among us. We leave within a fortnight.”

  The knight grinned. “Then we are well met. Perhaps you’ll join me for dinner before we depart?”

  Jordan said, “Come to soup night.”

  “Soup night?”

  Kath answered. “It’s Duncan’s idea. A night of good hearty soup, warm conversations, and no titles.”

  Sir Cardemir frowned. “Duncan?”

  Kath flashed a dazzling smile. “You’ll meet him at soup night.”

  “Then I will strive to be intrigued,” he gave them a courtly bow, “until soup night.” He turned and left, his pale blue cloak swaying from his shoulders, a jaunty swagger in his step, as if he was accustomed to conquest.

  Kath and Jordan shared a look. “That was something.” Jordan was the first to laugh. “At least he’s easy on the eyes.”

  Kath lifted the helm, admiring the workmanship. “And his gifts are amazing. I’ve never seen a finer helm.”

  Jordan sobered. “A gift of arms instead of lace or silk, it shows rare insight, especially for a knight.”