She drank in the sight of him; dismayed to find him gaunt from his mission, a mission she’d sent him on. For a moment, duty stood between them. “You survived Lingard.”
Setting the daggers on the bedside table, he raked his hand through his steel-gray hair. “Lingard was worse than anything we imagined. Like hell come to Erdhe.” His gaze sought hers. “Their so-called religion is an abomination. The Flame must be defeated.”
“And the truth of the Pontifax’s unholy death?”
He grimaced. “I tried, but it seems their foul religion is impervious to truth. Swords must succeed where words failed.”
“That is why we took this gambit, risking Pellanor for a chance to defeat the Flame.”
“Pellanor cannot stand alone. Prince Stewart must come.”
“We have sent a message.”
“Will it be in time?”
“Only the gods know.”
The risks of tomorrow beat against them, stripping away rank and duty. His gaze traveled the length of her, stopping on the hollow of her belly. “The child?”
Sorrow pierced her. “A daughter, lost to poison.”
He hissed in anger. “Poison!” He raked his hair and began to pace. “An assassin in the castle, I should never have left you.”
“You were needed in Lingard. It was a gambit we had to try.” She took a step toward him, longing for his touch. “Robert!”
He turned then, his face aflame. Crossing the chamber, he swept her into his arms, carrying her to the bed tucked in the corner. Such a small bed, but Liandra found she like it. His weight pressed down on her, his hands caressing her silken curves, a deft tease releasing a rush of heat. He cupped her face, his voice husky. “It’s not a queen’s bed.”
“It’s your bed.” She reached for him, hungry with need.
He drew the silken straps from her shoulders, while she fumbled with the bindings on his pants. Too many clothes in the way, she yearned for his touch. Finally released, they came together. Skin to skin, they fed the hunger. Her nails raked his back, impatient to be taken. He entered her without preamble. She moaned at the sudden thrust, arching her back. He rode her hard, coming in a desperate rush. She shuddered with release, stifling a scream. Slick with sweat, he collapsed beside her, his voice a low growl. “I didn’t mean to come so fast.”
“It’s what I wanted, what I longed for.”
Entwined, they touched and talked and touched again, desperate to hold the morning at bay. The second time was much slower, an indulgence of delight building to a crescendo of passion. Liandra shook with the force of it, rocked by fierce waves of pleasure. Finally sated, she nestled against him. “I’ve missed you so.”
“How long can you stay?”
She glanced to the window, the dark already thinning towards dawn. So soon. Liandra sighed in dismay; duty falling on her shoulders like a millstone. “The crown beckons.”
His arms tightened around her. “If the castle falls, you’ll do as we planned?”
“Yes.”
He pulled her close. “And I will be at the gates, trying to hold this city for you.”
She closed her eyes against his words, wanting to order him to remain within the castle, to keep him safe by her side, but she would not unman him, just as he would not unqueen her. “Promise you’ll return to me?”
He caressed her cheek. “We both do what we must.”
It wasn’t enough. “Promise me?”
“I’ll do what I can.” He kissed her deeply, a lingering passion, and then he let her go.
She found her silken gown buried beneath the covers, while he searched for her slippers. Kneeling, he slipped them on her feet. For a moment, he held her captive, gazing up at her. “Be strong tomorrow, my queen.”
“Tomorrow has already caught us.”
“Duty becomes you.” He settled the ermine robe around her shoulders and then gave her one last kiss. “My queen.” She clung to him, loving the strength of his arms, wanting the kiss to last forever, but time intruded, the dawn’s first light tapping impatiently at the window. “The crown beckons.” Releasing him, she took up the dagger and a fresh candle and stepped back into the castle’s secret ways. Despite the terrible odds, she had a war to wage and to win.
80
The Priestess
Moonlight glinted on a storm-tossed sea. Three dark-hulled boats battled the waves. Low and sleek with ten oars to a side, the raiders sliced through the bay like arrows loosed towards a prize. The Priestess rode the lead boat’s prow. Dressed in dark leathers, her raven hair unfurled like a battle banner, she licked the salt spray from her lips, reveling in the taste. Waves slapped the boat, a prelude to a storm, but the Priestess only laughed. Her feet spread wide, she rode the rocking motion, accustomed to the moods of the sea. Fisherman claimed a stern trident-wielding god ruled the briny deep, but the Priestess knew better. The ocean bore a woman’s temperament, all that suppressed rage lurking in the depths, something she knew so well. Gripping the wolf-carved prow, she leaned forward urging the rowers to greater speed, so close to retribution.
Castle Seamount reared ahead, a fist of black stone battered by salt spray. A formidable castle yet she knew its weakness. Spread in a crescent behind the castle, the city of Seaside gleamed white in the moonlight; limestone houses huddled on the hillside, cascading down to the night-dark sea. Black and white, she laughed at the image, as if Navarre had no understanding of gray. She’d always loved gray, that moral murkiness where any decision might hold sway. Tonight she’d test them all, pushing them into the gray, the first step towards Darkness.
Muscles strained and the oars bit deep, the raiders pulling towards the castle. Armor and weapons clanked as her soldiers readied for battle. All of her men wore black, a cloak of subterfuge against the dark. On any other night, she’d fear the castle lookouts, the glint of steel in the moonlight, the foam-flecked wake of a boat slicing the sea, but not this night. She could almost hear the drunken revelry from the city, Royal Nachte, the night when all of Navarre celebrated a dukedom raised to a kingdom. This close to midnight, every soldier in the castle would be nodding into his cups, drunk on celebratory wine. And if her women had done their work, subtle herbs added to the brew would see them sleep till dawn, leaving the castle ripe for the taking. The Priestess laughed, so fitting to stake her claim on Founder’s Night.
A lantern waved from the tower window, proof her women had done their work. Seeing the signal, she urged her men to speed. “Row! Row hard!”
A single lightning bolt cracked the cloud-strewn sky, as if the heavens protested, but the Priestess only laughed, knowing she had a god on her side.
The lead boat neared the castle, angling toward the gaping portal at the base of the westernmost tower. The dukes of old had built for war, raising a castle of black basalt surrounded by pounding waves, but they’d also left themselves an escape route, a sea gate, protected by tides and tricks. The Priestess laughed at the irony. She’d spent a lifetime collecting secrets, a woman’s way to power. The ancient builders thought themselves clever, but their traps and tricks only made the castle more vulnerable. “Slow the oars, and keep to the center.”
The rowers battled the waves, aligning the boat with the gaping portal, a dark mouth cut in the tower’s base. The portcullis was raised, probably rusted into place, iron teeth menacing the archway. As if fate favored her, the tides proved perfect and the boat slipped inside smooth as a lover. Waves slapped the walls, the sound booming through the man-made cave. Her rowers maneuvered the boat alongside the stone dock. One of her soldiers lit a torch. Light flared across basalt walls, the salty smell of the sea hanging heavy in the air. Barnacles, mussels and starfish encrusted the lower walls, jewels from the sea dripping with cold. The Priestess balanced on the prow. Timing her jump, she leaped onto the stone walkway. Her boots skidded on green slime, but she kept her balance.
Soldiers swarmed onto the dock, Otham and Hugo at her back. “There’s no door.”
�
�It’s there, if you know how to find it.”
Hugo studied the landing. “Why are swords embedded in the wall?” Buried halfway to the hilt, a dozen great swords impaled the side wall, as if waiting for the hand of a hero.
The Priestess gave him a knowing smile. “All part of the secret.”
“I don’t like it.” Her captain growled. “Without a door, this portal becomes a trap.” He scanned the arched ceiling. “There’s murder holes overhead. If were caught here we’ll die screaming.”
“Do you doubt me?” Her voice struck like a cold lash.
“No, mistress.”
“Then watch and learn.” She snapped a command. “More light.”
Soldiers jostled behind, producing a pair of torches. Flickering flames revealed the details. Twelve two-handed great swords protruded waist-high from the wall, their blades half buried in the slime-slick stone. Time and the sea had taken their toll. Rust coated the great blades, pitting the steel dark with age, but the hilts still displayed their intricate designs. The Priestess walked along them, lightly caressing their hilts. Each sword was different. A spiny sea dragon entwined the hilt of the first, while the second displayed a royal osprey with wings spread wide. Poetry forged into steel, the swords told a story, the legend of Navarre’s founding. She fingered a hilt shaped like a crown, praying the ancient mechanism still worked. So much rust and neglect, peace had a way of eroding the weapons of war, but it gave her hope that the guards had not changed the secret order.
“Lady, we dare not tarry.”
Her captain was beginning to annoy, but she heard truth beneath his words. “Start with the first, the sword closest to the sea.”
Hugo stepped in front of the first sword, the hilt entwined with a sea dragon. “What would you have me do? Pull it from the stone?”
“Nothing so dramatic, merely push it down.”
Dark runnels incised beneath each blade were barely visible in the gloom. Hugo grasped the hilt and pushed. At first the sword resisted, till Hugo brought his full strength to bear. Uttering a rusty groan, the sword levered downward, tilting toward the walkway. “Levers, the swords are levers!” He flashed a grin, moving toward the second sword. “Lower the swords and the door opens?”
“Stop.”
He froze at her command, his hand poised above the second hilt.
“Nothing so simple. Only certain swords and only in a certain order. Choose the wrong sword and a warning bell tolls in the tower.” She gave him a wicked smile, pointing to the ceiling. “Choose poorly and scalding oil will erupt from the murder holes. Castle Seamount is not without teeth.”
Her captain sobered, backing away from the second sword. “Which sword?”
“The fifth, the sword of the invaders, the one with the dragon-prowed longboat for a cross hilt.”
“Are you sure?”
The Priestess only nodded, her face a mask. She watched as he reached for the fifth sword, praying the order still held true. Hugo followed her instructions. One by one, he pitted his strength against the swords, till six were tilted down toward the walkway. And through it all the murder holes gaped empty and the warning bell remained silent, nothing but the cold slap of the sea marking time against the basalt walls.
“And now the last, the royal osprey of Navarre.”
Hugo moved to the osprey sword. Grasping the hilt, he slowly pushed the blade down.
Stone ground against stone, and a dark door eased open, a secret way into the castle.
Relief washed through her. “The trusting fools never changed the order.” The Priestess gave a throaty laugh. “Welcome to Castle Seamount.”
81
Liandra
Dawn came with a grim relentlessness, as if the world could not wait for war. Liandra stood amongst her women, trading silks for cold hard steel. Silence held sway in her chamber, the gravity of the threat pervading her women. Piece by piece, the armoring of the queen held all the solemnity of a sacred ritual. Breastplate and helm, gorget and greaves, she gained a sheath of steel curves. Her reflection glittered in the mirror, her armor polished to a blinding brightness, yet her mouth tasted of ashes, war was such a bitter pursuit. Liandra stared at the silvered stranger. It seemed fate favored irony. Guile and gold, spies and strategy, beauty and wit, these were Liandra’s best weapons, yet fate thrust a sword in her hand. She wondered if she’d die a warrior queen.
Lady Sarah knelt, girding the sword at her waist. “Be safe, my queen.”
Her words snapped the queen’s mind back to the chamber.
Her women knelt as if asking for a blessing, but Liandra had only warnings to give. “Listen for the trumpets. If the alarm sounds then know that one of the castle gates is fallen.” Her gaze settled on Lady Sarah. “If a gate falls, you must seek sanctuary in the hidden passageways. Do not delay.” As an afterthought, she added, “And take the royal jewels with you, we shall not cede them to the enemy.”
Lady Lindsey began to cry.
The queen laid a gauntleted hand upon her head. “Be brave and heed our words, for you have served us well.”
Liandra turned to leave but Lady Sarah grabbed her hand. “Come back to us!”
“We will see this game to the end.” Burdened by their tears, the queen turned and left the chamber.
Sir Durnheart and a handpicked guard of ten soldiers snapped to attention. The soldiers wore helms and shields and thick coats of mail. Shields within Castle Tandroth, another sign of the grim odds set against them. She gave them a royal nod and then led the way through the castle corridors.
Beyond the Queen’s Tower, the castle hallways were choked with frightened citizens, refugees seeking succor from the war. They huddled along the walls, mostly women and children, a few gray-haired men among them. Clutching their scant possessions, they stared as she passed, fear writ large across their faces, but she had no hope to give, only grim determination.
She reached an outer doorway and a guard leaped to open it. The queen stepped from the castle’s warmth to the rampart’s winter chill. A bitter wind snatched at her emerald cloak, a cold and forbidding morning.
Soldiers and archers snapped to attention, their faces pale but determined. She gave them a steely smile, infusing her voice with courage. “We are with you.” Her words raised a cheer among the men.
Their conviction brought a tear to her eye. Such bravery deserved better than war, but evil must be defeated. Acknowledging their cheers, the queen made her way along the battlements to the barbican protecting the castle’s north gate.
Princess Jemma waited on the rampart. Dressed in huntsman’s leathers, with knee-high boots and a padded jerkin, the checkered shield of Navarre blazed proudly over her heart. The petite princess bore a shortbow, a quiver of arrows attached to her belt. The sight of the archer-princess brought a smile to the queen’s face, steel melded with velvet, the perfect betrothal for her royal son.
“We see you are dressed for the hunt.”
“We hunt the Flame. I’m told every bow will be needed.” The princess flashed a smile of pride, her sweeping hand presenting a dozen Navarren guards ranged behind her, all of them with longbows. “There are no finer archers in all of Erdhe.”
“Your bows are most welcome. As are you.” Three times the queen had asked the princess to flee Pellanor and three times she’d refused. Liandra would not despoil her courage by asking again. Instead she said, “Your presence is dear to us. If the castle falls, stay close. We will retreat to the hidden passageways.”
The princess gave her a grim nod. “Yes, majesty.”
A trumpeter joined them. The queen had ordered one stationed above every gate.
A jangle of weapons and armor came from below, soldiers mounting horses in the castle’s keep. The queen stared down at them, her gaze catching on one in particular, Robert. He’d traded his dark shadowmaster’s robes, dawning burnished chainmail and a cloak of emerald green. So strange to see him in bright colors; war changed them all. He wore no helm, his silver-gray ha
ir shimmering in the morning light, as if taunting the enemy. Fear shuddered through her, knowing bravery could be a doom. Liandra longed to call him back, to order him to her side, but instead her eyes drank him in, memorizing every detail. He looked dashing in armor, so confident and sure, vaulting into the saddle with the verve of a much younger man. Gathering the reins, he asked his dappled stallion for a trot, leading his men through the gate.
Liandra rushed across the narrow battlement, staring down into the cobbled street, refusing to lose sight of him.
He must have felt her stare, for he turned his horse, his gaze finding her on the battlement. From the saddle, he offered her a courtly bow. “We ride to your defense, my queen!”
Liandra tugged a silk scarf from her belt. “Wear our token to battle and bring it back to us!” She released the silk, a flutter of emerald embroidered with gold roses. The vagaries of the wind were kind, taking her token straight toward him.
He caught it in his mailed fist. Holding it to his face, he breathed her scent, and then tucked it beneath his chainmail, close to his heart. Unsheathing his sword, he asked his stallion for a rear. Brandished his blade aloft, he yelled, “For the queen!”
“For the queen!” The shout echoed through the street.
He flashed her one last smile, and then he turned, spurring his stallion down the cobbled street.
Her gaze clung to him, watching until he disappeared in the distance. Liandra leaned against the battlement. “And now we wait.”
Princess Jemma moved to stand by her side, a comforting presence.
By the queen’s order, the castle gates remained open, offering sanctuary to her people. Citizen’s streamed toward the gates, the young and the old, sacks of belongings slung across their shoulders. She’d ordered her guards to let them bring nothing save food and blankets. Some wept in protest but the guards remained steadfast. A strange collection of belongs piled along the street, mounds of discarded clothing, a small wooden chest, a pair of silver candelabras, blacksmith’s tools, a carpenter’s saw, cast iron skillets, a child’s cradle, all the precious gleanings of lives turned upside down by war. Liandra watched the pile grow high. “War is such a waste.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 49
