Her gaze lingered on the chest, wiped clean of blood. The gruesome bits were gone, removed by her shadowmen for discrete burial, yet the queen could imagine the severed head, the monk’s eyes vacant with death. “The positioning of the head tells us the murderer meant to instill terror.”
“Exactly. And it was crudely done, hacked from the neck.”
The queen shivered at the gross brutality. “Such an awful death.”
“Yet some of the details do not ring true.”
“Tell us.”
“There was no sign of a struggle.”
Her gaze circled the room, noting the clothes dumped from a chest, the rumpled bed, and the toppled chair.
He studied her, interpreting the passage of her gaze. “The room was searched, yes, but the signs of struggle were missing from the body.”
Her gaze snapped back to his.
“I examined the body before they took it away. There were no bruises, no broken fingernails, no skinned knuckles, no sign of a struggle from the monk.”
“Then he was unconscious or dead before the head was taken.”
“But the body bore no wounds, no clues to death other than the severed head.”
“Poison?”
He nodded. “Possibly.”
“Subtlety hidden beneath brutality, a dangerous combination.”
“Precisely.”
“Death and terror combined.”
“Perhaps you’ve gained a new enemy?”
An ominous thought, yet she liked the way their minds fit together, solving the riddle. “There’s something else?” She read it in the tension of his shoulders.
“Yes.” He acknowledged her insight with a nod. “The door was not locked, but it was latched from inside.”
“From inside?”
He nodded.
She crossed to the mullioned windows. “Were these latched?”
“Closed but not latched.”
She opened the windows admitting a breath of cold morning air. Leaning out, she gazed below. Dawn lingered on the horizon, yet she spied the cobbled courtyard below, a death’s drop away. She turned, craning for a view above. The windows on this side of the castle were unevenly spaced and the walls smooth-cut stone, no easy way to climb from one room to another. Puzzled, she closed the windows against the chill. “What did he do, fly?”
Their gazes met across the room.
“Rumors say the monks wield forgotten magic.”
“And the enemy of the monks might wield the same.”
He nodded, his face grim.
“And the monks’ true enemy is Darkness.” Liandra shivered. She could almost feel tentacles of evil reaching for her throne.
“At the very least an assassin of great skill lurks within your court.”
An assassin of great skill, the words thundered through her mind.
“Majesty, you must take great care, for yourself…and the child.”
And the child, the words echoed between them, something spoken that could no longer be hidden by gesture or subterfuge.
“Majesty, your secret is safe with me.”
Her hands folded protectively across the swell of her belly. She wanted this child, wanted a daughter to learn her ways, but she would not have the babe used as a chain to bind her to any man. “We’ll wear no man’s yoke.”
He waited, his face carved of stone.
Her voice held a dangerous edge, a monarch trapped by the nature of her sex. “Will you swear to relinquish all paternal rights to this child, so that it is our child, and ours alone? Never to be claimed? Never to be spoken of again?”
As far as she knew, he had no other issue from his loins. It was a lot to ask of a man…but she was a queen.
His voice dropped to a harsh rasp. “Madam, by all the gods, the child is yours, as is the throne.”
He understood!
An edge of desperation crept into his voice. “But do not banish me from your service…do not keep me from your side.”
The ice surrounding her heart cracked. “Robert!” She went to him.
He took her in his arms, a haven of strength and wanting. Lighting leaped between them. She knew he felt it too. He hugged her close and then he knelt, taking her ringed hand. “For the queen,” he kissed the great emerald, but then he turned her hand, pressing an ardent kiss to her palm, “and for the woman,” and then he leaned forward, placing a tender kiss on the telltale swell of her child, “and for the child that belongs to the queen.”
A shiver ran through her. “I’ve missed you so.”
He rose and took her in his arms. “You are always my queen. Always.”
Such strong arms, providing protection without a claim of possession, she let herself lean against him, soaking up his strength. For a hundred heartbeats she reveled in his touch, but the crown was always there. Duty called and she stepped away. He did nothing to hinder her.
Liandra turned and walked to the fireplace, cold with ashes, cold as her royal bed. She ran her hand along the mantle, keeping her back to him, buying a breath of time. “The monk’s death is a grievous blow.” She turned to face him, the queen once more. “He came offering an alliance of knowledge, bringing warnings against the Mordant. This assassin strikes at the worst possible time, depriving us of a much needed ally.”
“Perhaps not.”
Her gaze snapped to his, reveling in his rapier-sharp mind.
He finished his thought. “The worst time would have been before the monk met with you.”
She nodded. “Proving the assassin reacts instead of plotting, he plays catch-up. He is not as devious as he first appears.”
Her shadowmaster nodded. “Just so,” but his voice held a warning, “He is still very dangerous and very skilled.”
Plots within plots, her mind traveled a different path. “It might be best if our alliance remains hidden.”
His dark gaze snapped to hers. “One can see the advantages…” but she heard the catch in his voice.
“Lady Sarah will know the truth, of course, as will Master Raddock.”
He nodded.
“Meanwhile this assassin must be found. We will know the hand behind the dagger.”
He gave her a formal nod. “As you command.”
She lingered, her gaze drinking him in. “We will find ways to meet.”
Hope quickened in his gaze.
“But in public, we will continue to show our displeasure.”
He flashed a conspirator’s smile. “I will endeavor to weather the royal storm.”
She could not help but smile, she’d missed him so. He kissed her hand, a wealth of promises in his touch. Liandra longed to linger, but duty called. Assuming a regal mask, she turned and opened the door. Her entourage snapped to attention, startled by her sudden appearance. She threw a scathing glance into the room, her voice crackling with anger. “Do not pester us with unproven theories. We are not pleased.” Turning in a swirl of velvet, she swept down the hallway, her loyal lords struggling to keep pace.
Her mind thrummed with possibilities. A powerful ally was dead, murdered by an unknown assassin, but another ally was returned to her, a stalemate of sorts. But crowns were not preserved by stalemates. Plots within plots, Liandra needed to unmask the enemy, the assassin, and the mind behind him. Time choked tight like a noose around her throat. Too many enemies gathered around, she dare not make a single mistake.
31
Stewart
Someone kicked him awake. A guard growled, “No rest for the wicked, move your bones.” Stewart groaned and found himself lying in the mud, huddled between Gedry and Timmons for warmth. Cold and aching, he stretched and sat up; a prisoner roped in a line of misery.
“Sam’s dead.”
“Got a deader here!” The guard moved down the line, kicking and prodding as he went. When he reached the dead man, he hacked the body with his halberd. Stewart shuddered at the gruesome sound of cleaved meat, but the dead man made no protest.
“Yep, he’s a deader
.”
Stewart looked away; even the dead found no rest among the servants of the Flame.
A pair of guards approached, passing out bowls of gruel and cups of water. Stewart gulped his down, licking the bowl clean despite the sour taste. All too soon, the bowls were collected and the prisoners prodded to their feet. They made a quick toilet, another indignity. Guards jeered while the prisoners dropped their pants, but Stewart took advantage of the roped shuffle to whisper a command. “Look for something sharp, we escape or die in the flames.”
Whips cracked and the guards herded them onto the road. Roped in a line, the prisoners began their shuffle north, another long day of slow agony. Fifth in line, Stewart scanned the road as he walked, his head swinging from left to right, desperate to find something sharp, something metal, anything to cut his bonds. At first he stayed alert, searching every footprint and wagon rut, but then he fell into a weary rhythm, his muscles aching, his eyes glazing over.
Pain flared across his back, the biting sting of a whip. Stewart flinched, stifling a scream.
“Faster, you heathen dogs!”
Stewart shambled faster while muttering a thousand curses. Hatred burned in him like a bonfire. Any religion that could make men so cruel did not deserve to exist. The queen was right; they fought a war of annihilation. If he ever got his blue sword back, he’d rid the land of the cursed Flame, but first he needed something sharp, something metal, anything to cut his bonds. He sent a prayer to Valin asking for aid, but the gods ignored him. The day dragged on, the sun creeping across a soggy sky and still he found nothing.
Hoof beats approached at a gallop. Hope surged in Stewart. He lifted his head, straining for a glimpse, but instead of emerald green, all the tabards were red.
“Off the road! Move, you sinners!” Whips cracked, and the prisoners scrambled to get off road. A few crouched, taking advantage of the unexpected rest. Stewart kept his head down, sneaking glances at the approaching riders. Red tabards emblazoned with black flames, the worst of the enemy. A cleric led the troop, a stern-faced man, his rank denoted by his strange mitered helm. The sight of the cleric sent a spike of fear through Stewart.
The cleric pulled his horse to a halt. “Who’s in charge here?”
The sergeant answered. “I am, Sergeant Bernier of the Fifth.”
“Any lords among your prisoners?”
The sergeant barked a rude laugh, but he quickly sobered under the cleric’s harsh glare. “Just infidel dogs, my lord, soldiers taken in battle, nothing but muddy scum.”
The cleric turned his gaze to the prisoners. “Any lords among you? Speak up, and you’ll get better treatment, decent food and the hope of ransom.”
Stewart slouched, hearing nothing but lies in the cleric’s words. He kept his gaze on the ground, praying the others kept his secret.
“Straighten up!” Whips cracked and the guards moved among them. “Answer the lord bishop!”
Stewart wiped his face, smearing mud across his cheek.
The cleric urged his stallion to a walk, surveying the line of prisoners. He rode past Stewart, but then he turned back, the horse coming to a halt in front of the prince. Stewart felt the cleric’s stare, like a brand searing into him, but he kept his head bowed and his eyes averted. “You there, with the coal-black hair, what’s your name and rank?”
Stewart remained mute, wishing the cleric gone.
A sword poked him in the back. “Answer the lord bishop or I’ll lop your ugly head off.”
Keeping his gaze fixed on the mud, Stewart blurted his middle name, “Arthur”, and quickly added, “a foot soldier.”
“You seem like more.”
Sweat erupted beneath his tunic. Stewart kept his gaze lowered, uncertain how to escape the bishop’s scrutiny, but then Timmons shuffled forward. “I’m the one you want. I’m the bloody duke of Kardiff!”
Down the line, Dalt stepped forward. “I’m the earl of Graymaris!”
Owen yelled, “I’m the baron of Lingard.”
Beside him, Gedry shouted, “And I’m the prince of roses! Send me to Pellanor and you’ll have wagons full of bloody gold!”
Pride warred with gratitude; Stewart swore he’d find a way to win their freedom.
“Liars! Liars the lot of you.” The bishop yanked on the reins, making the stallion stamp and snort. “Infidel dogs! You’ll all burn in the Flames for your lies!”
Whips cracked and the guards laid into the prisoners, a fury of blows. Stewart hunched with the others, taking stripes across his back. The cleric rode away, a gallop of hooves tearing up the road. Stewart kept his head down, enduring the lash. But then he saw it; a gleam of metal churned into mud, a bit of broken spur.
Guards moved among the prisoners, wielding whips with a savage vengeance. In the confusion, Stewart sidled next to Gedry. “Look, on the far side of the road.” He gestured with his gaze.
“I see it.”
The prince shared a look of triumph with the scout. “Pass the word.”
“Back on the road!” The sergeant rode up and down the line, bellowing orders. “Get moving, you scum! You’re all fodder for the Flames!”
Guards herded them back onto the muddy road.
Stewart hissed, “To the far side!”
The others answered, surging across the road. Stewart pretended to trip, lunging for the bit of metal. Gedry and Timmons fell with him, a tangle of prisoners. Stewart palmed the broken spur. Whips cracked, and Stewart felt the sting across his back. Gedry screamed, catching a lash in the face. They struggled to their feet, keeping their heads bowed.
“Get moving, you filthy scum!”
The rope tugged forward and they were moving again, a shamble of muddy prisoners herded north, but one hid a smile. Stewart kept his head bowed, the broken spur clutched in his fist. It seemed the gods had heard him after all.
32
Liandra
Soldiers filled the courtyard, most of them mercenaries, red cobras emblazoned on a field of pea-green, the emblem of Radagar. Liandra watched from the battlement as the final preparations were made. Twelve wagons laden with heavy chests formed the heart of the cavalcade, the massive chests secured with ropes and thick tarps imprinted with the royal seal of Lanverness. The queen sent the bulk of her treasury south to the fortress of Graymaris, along with four lords from her council, a dozen lesser nobles, and the entire troop of mercenaries.
Foreign soldiers in our castle, Liandra shuddered, feeling a sudden aversion to the mercenaries. Soldiers trained in Radagar, bought for the price of gold, she was glad she’d decided to send them south, although it would leave her capital woefully short of defenders. Plots within plots, she traded one gamble for another, betting wits could still defeat swords.
A cold wind battered the castle. Liandra hugged her silk shawl tight, wishing for her ermine cloak.
Below, the swirling chaos resolved into order. Her loyal lords, dapper in armor and velvet, sat atop caparisoned stallions as if they rode to war, when in truth, they led the retreat, leaving their queen to hold the capital. Contempt roiled within her, but Liandra kept it hidden. Far better to let them have their petty illusions, men served best when they thought themselves heroes.
“Our loyal lords,” her voice echoed through the courtyard, every face lifting toward the battlement. “We charge you to take our treasury south to Graymaris. Keep it safe and march with all haste, for the wealth and hope of Lanverness rides with you.” She spread her arms wide in a gesture of blessing. “May the Lords of Light grant you safe journey.”
Her lords made courtly bows from their saddles, proud beneath their battle banners.
“For the Queen!” A single foot soldier cheered and the others took it up. “The Queen!” The cheer echoed through the courtyard, tempered by the silence of mercenaries.
Liandra gestured to the gates, convinced she’d made the right choice.
The great gates swung open and the horses spurred forward. Her loyal lords rode first, resplendent beneath snap
ping banners. Behind them, the wagons rumbled to motion, pulled by teams of massive draft horses. The great weight of the chests held the cavalcade to a slow walk, but such was the burden of wealth. Finally the mercenaries began to march, a long slither of pea-green following the wagons, boot heels tramping in unison against the cobblestone streets. Liandra shivered as if caught in a cloud of prescience, the sounds of war marching through her capital, the very thing she sought to avoid.
“Majesty?” Sir Durnheart stood at her right shoulder, his voice full of concern.
She raised a hand, forestalling him, needing to listen. Something was wrong; something was missing. And then she realized it, beneath the sounds of marching, the people were silent. Fearing abandonment, they watched but they did not cheer. Their silence put the cavalcade in a new light, highborn rats escaping a sinking ship.
She gathered her skirts, a rustle of bright silks, and made her way along the battlement to the barbican above the castle’s outer gate. Mounting the stairs, she stood at the crenellated wall, staring down into the city streets. Her people crowded the streets, their faces sullen, watching the procession of wealth, somber as a funeral. She needed to give them hope. Removing her shawl despite the cold, she released it to the wind. It sailed out above the crowd, a twist of emerald silk, bright as any battle banner. A few looked skyward, staring at the length of the shimmering green. One boy spied the queen, pointing to the barbican. “The queen stays!”
Faces turned her way, full of skepticism, but then they saw her, emerald silks standing proud upon the castle walls. The queen watched as their faces came alight, a cheer rippling through the crowd till it became a roar. “The queen stays!” A thousand voices echoed the refrain, a tidal wave of hope.
Their cheers pierced her heart. She clutched the battlement, knowing this was the reason she schemed and fought. The gratitude of her people outweighed the worth of any amount of gold. Liandra drank in their cheers, storing them away like a secret strength. For two hours, she stood upon the battlement despite the cold, letting her people see their queen. Only when the last of the cavalcade disappeared into the streets, did she retreat from the barbican.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 26
