The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 6

  The cat-eyed man had been his friend. Chained in the unholy sanctuary beneath the Dark Citadel, the Mordant had tortured the cat-eyed man, yet somehow he'd repulsed the Mordant’s soul-probe. Pierced by a hundred cursed daggers and left to suffer as an offering to Darkness, yet he'd endured. Later, much later, Bryce had found a way to follow a magical thread and speak with the cat-eyed man from afar. He'd hoped to thwart the Mordant by sharing his plans, but that valiant warrior had died, succumbing to his wounds. Now the Mordant fixed his deadly gaze upon the Rose Queen.

  Spellbound with worry, Bryce spied through his keyhole as the two met. At first the Mordant was charming and courteous, the Dark threat coiled behind his eyes like a cobra’s lethal strike. Bryce railed against his prison, desperate to warn the queen, all to no avail. Crouched in his gray prison, he’d felt their stares cross...and then the blinding flash of light beat against the Mordant, invoking his rage. Hope and fear crashed against Bryce like two competing tidal waves. When the waves calmed, hope bled away while the Mordant’s rage remained, annealed to a cold, malevolent hate. The queen had somehow repulsed the Mordant's mental assault, but she seemed oblivious to the threat standing before her. Smothering his rage, the Mordant took a seat across the checkered board. The two played chess like civilized people...but the queen knew not what type of vile monster she battled. The oldest harlequin, an emissary of Darkness, a thousand years of evil hidden beneath youth's stolen facade...played chess. Within his prison, Bryce shuddered, barely able to watch. He could not imagine what terrible fate awaited the queen.

  Later, Bryce considered all he'd learned. The Mordant's every move dripped with malevolent purpose. Moon-turns ago, he'd planted assassins within the queen's court, one assassin hidden as a jester, death hidden beneath jovial deceit. But the Kiralynn Order had also entered the game. By spying through the keyhole, Bryce knew that a brother monk had come to the queen’s court, proof of her importance, yet the monk had died, murdered by the assassin’s foul poison. Plots within plots, Darkness foiled the Light...but where one monk had failed, another would take his place...even if that one was trapped within the gray prison of the Mordant's mind.

  Bryce had to try. He had to give meaning to this terrible imprisonment.

  And then the gods lent a hand.

  The death of the monk brought an unexpected boon. The monk's malachite coin sat on the table nearest the bed. The Mordant kept it close, intending to bond with it, but Bryce knew it would never serve the harlequin, for somehow, while the Mordant fondled the malachite coin, the magic of the focus found its way to his prison. Piercing the gray haze, it formed a bond with Bryce. A coin from ancient Azreal, his mind dazzled with the implications. Like an ancient curse that had finally found its mark, the coin had come to the Mordant’s hand. Bryce felt it on the bedside table, calling to him, so close but yet so far. He yearned to hold it in his hand, to unleash the magic within. He knew not what it did, but it gave him hope.

  But before he could wield it, Bryce needed to gain control of his hand.

  Tendrils of thought slipped through his prison. Bryce focused on the Mordant's right hand. He willed his hand to move, like trying to flex a rusty gauntlet. Straining against his bonds, he fought to work his will…but nothing happened. Remembering his time onboard the ship, he sought to rethread the connections between his mind and his flesh. Refusing to be defeated, he kept at it…and felt the smallest finger twitch. Elation thrummed through him.

  Sunlight pierced the windows and the Mordant stirred.

  Bryce retreated to his prison, dampening his emotions. The coin had come to him for a reason. Perhaps the Lords of Light had finally heard his pleas. He’d bide his time and keep watch and find a way to make a difference.

  10

  Liandra

  For the second time, the queen met the prince across the chessboard. Liandra vowed this game would be different. Not only did she intend to win, but this time she’d drill him with questions, seeking to unearth his intentions, his motives, his plans. Before this game finished, she'd peer behind his youthful face and courtly manners to discern his true nature.

  The prince entered her solar with a confident smile. Clad in a sumptuous robe of dark purple, his fingers glittered with jeweled rings, a blunt reminder of Ur's formidable wealth. His face was so youthful, the queen guessed his age at twenty-two, a young man just entering his prime, yet every aspect of his bearing screamed of royal privilege. He carried himself with a rare confidence that belied his years. A royal riddle, the prince was intriguing and deeply mysterious despite his youth.

  He took a seat opposite her. “Once more we meet across the chessboard."

  "We trust this outcome will be different.”

  The prince flashed a haughty smile, yet his blue eyes remained cold as ice. “Your beauty is exceeded only by your unbridled confidence.”

  "Unbridled?"

  He gave an elegant shrug. "Having lost the first battle, there is no reason to believe you shall win the second."

  The queen smothered a tart reply, her desire for victory multiplied.

  Light against dark, the exquisite chessboard sat between them, a lavish gift from the prince. Malachite knights, monks, and soldiers stood in straight ranks, ready to battle his phalanx of onyx dragons, wizards, and gargoyles. Chess was a game of wits, patience and strategy, a game the Spider Queen intended to win.

  He gestured to the board. “Yours to begin.”

  “We opened the last game. Shouldn’t you take the lighter side?”

  “Never.” He gave her a courtly nod. “As a gentleman, I’ll play the Dark, ceding the first move to the queen.”

  His words held an unexpected edge, yet the queen accepted the advantage. Besides, green was ever her color. She scrutinized the board, considering her first move. Expecting a bloody conflict, Liandra decided to strike first. She chose a bold move, opening with her queen’s knight, setting up a strong attack. “Your gift is an interesting choice, knights against dragons, reality vying against myth.”

  “Myth or metaphor?” The prince opened with his king’s pawn, advancing the gargoyle by one space.

  An intriguing reply…and he makes a conservative opening, more proof the prince is layered with riddles. The queen considered the board while plying him with questions. “Myths we understand, but if dragons, wizards and gargoyles are meant as a metaphor then we confess to be confused. What is the message behind your gift?"

  His gaze remained fixed on the board, as if consumed by the game, yet the queen refused to let silence reign. "Surely you know the intent behind your own gift?”

  “Intent should be discovered, not explained. Why take the mystery out of life?” The prince moved another pawn.

  Such a mature answer for one so young. She took a stab at his meaning. “As the Empire of Ur is ever shrouded in myth?”

  “Conveniently so.”

  Liandra moved her queen across the board. Already the game was shaping up to be an epic struggle, a convoluted tangle of moves, so different from the first bloody onslaught. Black evaded green, always slipping away from her traps, as if he was afraid to engage. The prince displayed a devious mind, so different from his ruthless attack of their first game. He played the second game like an intricate dance, delaying the inevitable clash. Move and counter move, the tension built to a fever pitch.

  A log fire snapped and crackled in the hearth, releasing a breath of pine. Bathed in the ruby glow of the firelight, they sat across from each other, goblets of wine and platters of cheese long forgotten.

  The queen eased back in her chair, forcing herself to take a break. “We are curious about your title, the twelfth-fold prince of Ur?”

  “Merely a measure of my nearness to the throne.”

  “So you have eleven brothers?”

  “Hundreds.” He flashed a startling smile. “We are legion, for the Emperor has many wives and many more concubines.”

  A harem, the queen hid her distaste. “So how is succession decided?” />
  “By deeds, by duels, by the machinations of the harem, by the knife of an assassin, and ultimately, by the Emperor’s favor.”

  “So you’ve come to Erdhe to set yourself apart?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Or perhaps you’ve come to evade the assassins?” She could not resist the jab.

  “I have no fear of assassins.” His dragon took her castle, the first major loss of the game. “I find it passing strange that your lords let a queen rule alone.”

  “And why is that strange?” Her queen took his pawn, gaining access to his castle.

  “When a royal line narrows to a single queen it takes a perilous risk.” He shot a pointed glance across the chessboard. “I hear you have but one living heir.”

  Liandra gave a terse nod, disliking the turn of question. Her hand stole across her empty womb, mourning her lost daughter.

  “Another reason women should never rule.” He fondled the fallen pawn. “Kings sow their seed across many women while queens risk their life at every childbirth.”

  “True, yet it does not lessen our ability to rule.”

  He shrugged. “But it risks your royal line.”

  Anger spiked her voice. “Unlike Ur, our court is not mired in assassins and duels.”

  “That is your loss, for such trials winnow out the weak, ensuring only the strong and the worthy wear the crown.”

  “There is much more to ruling than knives and assassins. We value intelligence and honor in our monarchs, not cunning and deception.”

  "Spoken like a queen instead of king."

  His words struck like an underhanded cut, yet the queen refused to be baited. Liandra fixed her gaze on the board. Crowded with pieces, the game was becoming tricky, feints within feints, plots within plots, so different from their first game…almost as if she played an entirely different opponent. For such a young man, the prince was laden with unexpected mysteries. He played a deep game, a complex game.

  “Is Navarre not an ally of Lanverness?”

  His question ambushed her, drawing her attention from the board. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because the royal line of Navarre is so very fecund. They say the fecund shall inherit the earth.”

  “Yet Navarre remains a small kingdom while Lanverness prospers beyond all telling.”

  “If you are truly allies then why does Navarre not share their magic.”

  “Their magic?” Startled, she met his stare across the chessboard.

  “How else can the seaside queens bear so many tuplets and live? Yet they do not share this magic with you?”

  Magic! His reply spiked her with doubt. It was widely known that the royal line of Navarre was exceptionally fertile...but she'd never considered magic as the key to the riddle.

  “You have but one heir. Navarre’s magic could strengthen your line, giving you multiple children with a single birth." He gave her a barbed look. "Spare children can be very profitable. Surety for your throne, alliances by marriage to spread your influence to other kingdoms, security for your borders. So much to be had for the getting of a gaggle of children. After all, why conquer kingdoms when you can gain them by marriage?”

  His words ambushed her. Flustered, she stared at him, desperate to discern his intent.

  He moved his castle, threatening her king. “Check.”

  So the conversation is merely a distracting diversion. Liandra forced her mind back to the game. Dark pieces surrounded her king, threatening to hand her a second defeat. While she’d focused on building a subtle attack, he’d slowly surrounded her king, trapping him in a corner. Liandra studied the board. In three moves, he’d checkmate her king, winning the game. Refusing to accept defeat, she scrambled to mount a defense. Out of necessity, she moved her king, evading the check, but he moved his queen, tightening the noose.

  He flashed a wolf’s grin. “The outcome is evident.”

  Refusing to concede, she studied the board. Evading would gain her nothing, so instead, she decided to attack. Her father had often said that the best defense was a good offense. Liandra reached for her monk, moving the malachite cleric the length of the board in a diagonal attack. “Check.”

  Annoyance flashed across his face. “You peck at me like a hen, when you know the game is over.”

  “We know no such thing.” She continued to attack, every move checking his king, driving him backwards. None were killing blows, yet while she attacked, she kept hope alive, keeping his pieces from closing on her king. Relentless, she chased him into a corner. Bringing all of her remaining pieces to bear, she threatened him with a pawn. “Checkmate!” The word was sweet upon her lips.

  Rage flashed across his face but was quickly smothered beneath a congenial mask...but his eyes told the truth. Something ominous gleamed in the depths of his eyes, something akin to hatred.

  The queen stilled, a rabbit hiding from the hawk’s bloody talons, but then the prince smiled and she doubted her own insight.

  Reaching forward, he toppled his own king. “A victory for the Queen of Lanverness. That makes one game apiece, the third game will tell the tale.” The prince offered her his felled king. "To the winner goes the spoils." He drilled her with his stare. So sharp, his gaze cut her like icy daggers.

  Unable to blink, unable to look away, the queen felt assaulted...she felt defiled.

  "Will you have more wine?" Lady Sarah blustered into the chamber, a tray in hand.

  Light flared behind the queen's eyes. Liandra broke from his stare, her head throbbing.

  The prince snarled. Standing abruptly, he knocked the chess pieces across the board. "You shall not win." His voice was a low hiss, a barely audible threat.

  The queen struggled to ignore her throbbing headache. “The last game is not even begun.”

  “This endgame is closer than you think.”

  “Your arrogance will be your undoing. Even a pawn can topple a king.”

  He sneered. “Only in myths.”

  “Myths are metaphors for life; any bard will tell you that.”

  “Bards and pawns, I’ll grant you the riffraff of life, the dross of the back alleys, for they shall never defeat magic and cunning. But then, what does a mere woman know of either? How can a woman ever wield true power?” Turning abruptly, his cape swept across the board, toppling the few remaining pieces. Without a backward glance, the prince strode from the chamber.

  The queen remained in her chair, staggered by the prince's parting words. You shall not win. She stared at the chessboard. So many pieces toppled across the board, the prince left wreckage in his wake.

  "Are you well, majesty?" Lady Sarah hovered close, concern on her face. "So sorry to interrupt, but I didn't like the way he was staring at you."

  "You did well to interrupt." The queen rubbed her forehead.

  Lady Sarah gathered up the cheese platter and forgotten wine goblets. "Will you play him again, majesty?"

  "We suspect we are entangled in some game to which we barely know the rules."

  "How can you play a game when you don't know the rules?"

  "Life often entangles us in the games of others. The real question is learning how to win even if you are blind to the rules."

  Lady Sarah gave her a puzzled look. "How do you do that, majesty?"

  The queen gave her friend a wan smile. "Know your enemy. Know yourself. And then make your own rules."

  "Is that what you're doing?"

  "We try." The queen closed her eyes, hoping to dull her headache.

  "Can I bring you something?"

  "Leave the wine."

  "As you wish." Filling the queen's goblet, the lady retreated from the chamber.

  The queen sat alone before the toppled chess set, malachite soldiers and ebony gargoyles scattered across the iridescent board. Two chess games, each as different as night and day. The prince was far more complex than he first seemed and his barbed talk of Navarre and the precarious nature of her own royal line put her teeth on edge. Some deeper game was at
work here. Magic to quicken a child, the thought wormed itself into her mind. Plots within plots. Liandra reached for a goblet of red wine. She’d won the second game, but somehow she felt as if she’d lost.

  11

  The Mordant

  The Mordant returned to his manse, seething with anger, cursing the queen. Twice she'd foiled his soul-strike, but he'd defeat her with chains of a different sort. Adding insult to injury, she'd snatched victory from defeat in the chess match. The silly board game mattered not, yet the loss rankled. The thrice-damned woman would soon find herself mired in the true game. Beleaguered with lies, she'd lose her prestige and her precious crown. A sinister smile crossed his face. Retreating to his solar, he sought his magic.

  So many focuses, so much magic to choose from. An eon of lifetimes spent seeking magic had brought him a dragon's hoard of focuses. The Mordant craved power, the elixir of the gods. Unlocking the ironbound jewel box, he removed the velvet-lined drawers, sensing the magic within. For centuries, his minions had scoured Erdhe, stealing focuses of every size, shape and description. Despite his best efforts, some remained stubbornly insensate to his touch. He'd left those impotent tools behind, locked in his treasure vault in the Dark Citadel. But many more awakened to his touch. Like a lover he fondled them, courted them, cajoling forth their inner secrets till their magic served his beck and call. He'd brought the most powerful with him. Hidden as a wealth of adornments, the Mordant fondled the rings and armbands arrayed on red velvet, magical focuses fashioned into jewelry. Some held trifling powers, like the ability to light a candle with a snap of his fingers. Such a seemingly trivial magic, yet even this small focus had the ability to captivate the minds of mere mortals. Deception was such a delicious game. To captivate, to dominate, to charm, to control...how he loved to twist mortal souls to the Dark through mesmerizing deceit. A shiver akin to sexual ecstasy ran through him. The Mordant craved the Great Dark Dance.