56
Liandra
The queen took comfort in numbers. Sifting through the ledgers and scrolls, she counted silvers spent and golds collected, taking the measure of her kingdom. The revenue of the Royal Ruby mines had soared, owing to the popularity of the dark stones. The farming yields were up, a bountiful autumn harvest filling the granaries to the brim. Her investment in saffron had paid off handsomely and so had the import of Urian brandy. Her treasury was flush with golds, her kingdom prosperous beyond the telling. Such a pity the profits of peace had to be turned to swords. But all the signs pointed to war, a future she could not see any way to avoid.
A knock sounded.
The queen gestured and the page admitted her handsome son. Prince Stewart wore fighting leathers, his dark hair pulled back, exposing his chiseled features…and the scar marring the left side of his face. The signs of war were everywhere.
The prince bowed. “You asked to see me, majesty?”
She gestured to a chair across from her desk. “Yes, we have important matters to discuss.”
He settled in the chair, his long legs stretching across the carpet. Without preamble, he launched into a report on the army. “The recruits continue to pour in and the training goes well. We push the men hard but they understand the need. Given enough time, we’ll have a strong army to defend Lanverness.”
“Time is one luxury we do not have.” She fingered the strand of pearls at her throat. “But we called you here for another matter. One as equally pressing.”
He stared at her, waiting.
“The Tandroth line is thin, a single strand easily broken. We have but one heir, and that heir is the general of our armies. We will not let our line fail. War is coming. You must marry and produce heirs. The sooner you take your bride to bed the better.”
His face paled, coughing as if he’d swallowed a fly. “B-but Mother…”
She forestalled his argument with a raised hand, knowing all too well that young men were eager to bed but slow to wed. “We have found the perfect bride for you, the perfect daughter-in-law. She is of royal blood and comes from an extremely fecund family. She is brilliant as well as beautiful, with a penchant for finances, never one of your strengths. The two of you will make the perfect royal pair. You can manage the army while she manages the royal finances.”
“But Mother…”
“We plan to write to King Ivor and begin negotiations for the royal wedding. The sooner you are wedded and bedded the better.”
“King Ivor?” The prince looked like he’d been struck with a war hammer.
“Yes, King Ivor of Navarre. We thought to talk to you before starting negotiations.
“Your want me to wed Princess Jemma?”
Her royal son seemed particularly slow today. “Yes, of course. The princess proved her courage and loyalty during the rebellion. And she is a rare beauty. The entire court is captivated by her. Beauty is a valuable weapon for a queen, not to mention her skill with finances. She will make you a formidable wife.”
“But I am in love with another.”
“In love?” She stared at her son, always ambushed by his lack of maturity. “Love has nothing to do with choosing a future queen. Royalty marries for duty, for gain, and for progeny. We are not afforded the luxury of love.” She shook her head. “Whoever this other woman is, you best forget her. Put her aside and do your duty to Lanverness.”
“We are hand fasted, promised to each other at Midwinter.”
“Hand fasting is for peasants! You are the crown prince of Lanverness. No one will ever hold you to some silly Midwinter tryst. You will do your duty to the crown and the kingdom, and that duty is to wed Princess Jemma.”
His face pulsed with anger. “You have not even asked her name!”
“Her name is of no consequence. Princess Jemma has all the attributes we seek in a queen. We shall write to King Ivor and begin negotiations for the marriage.”
The prince glared at the queen. “Yes, Mother, write to King Ivor…but ask instead for the hand of Princess Jordan, for she is the woman I love.”
The queen sat back in her chair, shocked by the revelation. “The swordish one!”
“Yes.”
“But she was attacked in the monastery and may not survive her wounds.”
Grief and worry washed in waves across the prince’s face. “She has to live.” He shook his head, the scar pulsing along the side of his face. “Jordan will come back to me.” He stood and began to pace the room, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
The queen had never seen her son so consumed with worry…yet reason must prevail. “Even if she survives, such a severe wound to the abdomen may mean she will never bear children.”
The prince whirled, his face ghost-white. “How do you know this?” He stepped toward her but then stopped, his voice bitter. “Yes, of course, your famed shadowmen.”
“Not everything comes to us through whispers. We share Princess Jemma’s concern for her sister.” She stared at her son, willing him to understand. “You must put aside your feelings and serve the kingdom. It is your duty.” She tried to soften her voice. “Princess Jemma is the perfect match for you.”
“Perfect except for love, Mother.” His voice cut like a sword. “Duty makes for a cold bed. Clearly the vaunted Spider Queen does not need love, but I will have more than duty in my marriage bed.”
His words struck like a slap. The woman buried beneath the crown erupted with long-held rage. “Do you think we do not know what it is to burn for love? To hunger for the tides of passion?” She reined her voice back to a cold anger. “You have no idea what we give up for the crown, what we endure for the throne, always putting the kingdom first. Even you, our heir, our first-born son, do not appreciate our sacrifices.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Mother, I do not wish to fight. Lanverness has never had a better ruler, never seen such prosperity, and all because of the brilliance of the queen. But in this one thing, I must have my way.”
“One does not use the word ‘must’ with queens.”
A knock sounded.
The queen glared at her son. “As the crown prince, it is your duty to serve Lanverness.”
“Duty!” He shook with anger. “Duty keeps me here when my heart bids me to ride into the mountains to be by her side.” His voice turned bitter. “But instead, I stay and I serve, for I have always been the dutiful son.”
“Then set aside your feelings for Princess Jordan and marry the woman who should be the next queen.”
“No. I will not gainsay my heart.”
The knock came again, louder.
The queen’s voice snapped with anger, “Who dares to disturb us?”
The door opened and the Master Archivist braved her wrath. “Excuse the interruption, your majesty, but the monk has returned.”
The look in her shadowmaster’s eyes broke through the queen’s anger. “From Coronth?”
The Master Archivist nodded, his face grim.
The prince shook his head. “That’s not possible! Even if the roads were open, the monk could not have ridden there and back in so little time!”
“Possible or not, the monk has returned and he begs an urgent audience with the queen.” The master stood at the door, waiting for her approval.
The queen gestured. “Show him in.” It seemed her day was to be crowded with arguments and ill tidings.
The master bowed. A short time later, he ushered the monk into her solar.
Her shadowmaster took a position by the side of her desk, a pillar of black. The monk crossed the room and bowed low, a mystery wrapped in robes of midnight blue.
The queen studied the monk, wondering at his secrets. “So you have returned to our court, Master Aeroth.”
The monk’s hazel eyes gave little away. “Yes, I bring news from Coronth.”
“What did you find in the Flame God’s city?”
The monk grimaced. “The so-called religion of the Flame is an abom
ination. Only the Dark Lord would countenance human sacrifice.”
He told her nothing she did not already know. “And what of the rebellion?”
“I met with Prince Justin and his small band of rebels. They make a valiant effort but songs and a few lives saved will never be enough. They must discredit the Pontifax in order to topple this foul religion.”
“And is there any hope that they will succeed.”
“A thin hope.” His face turned thoughtful. “From what I’ve seen and heard, the source of the Pontifax’s power is magic.”
“Magic!” The prince made the word a curse.
The monk nodded. “Magic itself is neither good nor bad. But the Pontifax…” the monk shook his head, “the Pontifax is a perversion. The man makes the foulest use of his magic, using it to deceive, to pretend to be ordained by the gods, to claim to work miracles. May the Lords of Light strike him down for committing such a blasphemy.”
The queen was surprised to see so much anger in the normally stoic monk. “Yes, but what hope do the rebels have against this magic?”
“The type of magic displayed by the Pontifax is almost always associated with a small magical artifact left over from the War of Wizards. If the artifact is lost or stolen, then the Pontifax will lose his magic.”
The queen smiled. “And the crowds will not tolerate the loss of their miracle.”
“Just so.”
“It seems an eloquent and just solution.” The queen fingered the pearls of her necklace. “Why do you give the rebels such slim odds?”
“Because the artifact cannot be discerned by sight. And even if they discover the item, sleight of hand will not work. The Pontifax is magically linked to the artifact. He will know the instant anyone else so much as touches it.”
She saw the nature of the challenge. “Prince Justin is quite resourceful. We will hope that he finds a way to succeed.” She stared at the monk. “But we doubt this news is the reason for your swift return.”
“I returned with all speed to bring you a warning.”
The monks were ever the harbingers of ill tidings. The queen gestured for the monk to continue.
“The Pontifax has amassed a huge army. Judging from the number of tents, I’d venture to say that the army of the Flame exceeds thirty thousand swords.”
“Thirty thousand!” The prince gasped, his face ghost-pale.
The queen shook her head in denial; the number was a death knell for her kingdom. “Too many swords. We cannot face that number alone.” She stared at the monk. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, his face grim.
She looked to her son. “How many?”
“Not enough.” The prince shook his head. “Including the constable force, Lanverness has seven thousand trained swords. We have another three thousand recruits in training, but even if the training was finished tomorrow, we cannot stand against an army of thirty thousand.”
The queen returned her stare to the monk. “You warned that the Dark Lord wants our throne. How can your Order help against this threat?”
He raised his hands as if to ward off her stare. “The Kiralynn Order brings warning, we provide knowledge long forgotten, we advise…that is the nature of our aid.”
“So you’ll watch, and warn, but you won’t get your hands dirty?”
The monk stood statue still.
She needed the monks as allies, but given the numbers against her, she needed more than just warnings. She considered the pieces on the chessboard and took a chance. “Your Order seems to know much about magic.”
The monk’s eyes narrowed but he remained silent.
“We venture to guess that your Order does more than collect knowledge,” the queen studied her opponent, “that it also collects magic.”
The monk was a good player. He kept his face still as stone but his eyes gave him away. The slightest widening told the queen that her guess was true. She sat back in her chair, her voice a sword. “Perhaps the Kiralynn Order can provide some magic to even the odds against the Flame God’s army?”
He raised his hands in protest. “Magic should only be used for peaceful purposes.”
Her patience snapped. “But we don’t have the luxury of peace, do we?” She pressed her argument. “And the enemy will not fight fair.” She stood, piercing him with her stare. “Your Order claims to serve the Light. So how will you help Lanverness defeat this threat from the Dark Lord?”
He bowed his head. “The queen of Lanverness is indeed formidable.”
“We need help, not platitudes.”
“I will pass your request on to the Grand Master.”
It was a start. The queen nodded. “We welcome the help of our allies.”
The monk gave her a wary smile. “By your leave, I will see to the message at once.”
She made her voice gracious. “You have our thanks, both for the warning and for the message.” Liandra waited for the monk to leave and then went to stand in the casement window, needing to feel the sun’s light through the dappled panes. She spoke with her back to her two advisors. “Thirty thousand is too many.”
Neither man offered any suggestions.
She turned and made her decision. “We need the mercenaries of Radagar.”
The prince looked shocked, the master nodded.
Prince Stewart protested, “You cannot trust bought swords.”
“I don’t propose to trust them, only use them.” Pain throbbed at the back of her eyes; she did not need another argument. “Put the mercenaries in the vanguard of the army. Use them as a shield in front of our own soldiers. Blunt the enemy’s weapons on the soldiers of Radagar. Mercenaries can be used without being trusted.”
The prince shook his head. “If the center fails, the whole army is routed. I cannot trust mercenaries in my vanguard.”
Her patience snapped. “We are the queen and you are the general. We will buy you an extra ten thousand swords. Surely with such grim odds, the general can find a way to use them!”
The prince flushed crimson under her glare.
She waved her hand in dismissal. “We have had enough argument for one day. You are dismissed.”
The prince bowed. “Your majesty, I did not mean to argue.”
His tone was full of regret. He was a good son, a young man burdened by great duties. She gave him a soft smile. “We know. We will speak to you tomorrow.”
He knelt and kissed her emerald ring of office, a mixture of concern and wary stubbornness in his face. “Tomorrow?”
It seemed their discussion was not yet done, but she nodded giving him permission to leave. She watched him go, her son who was also a warrior. The Master Archivist moved to follow, but she called him back. “Lord Highgate, we would speak to you.”
He closed the door and stood in front of the cold fireplace, his face composed, his arms behind his back, the counselor waiting on his queen. She studied the man, standing straight as a sword, his gaze keen, the perfect blend of strength and intelligence…such a temptation. So many sacrifices for her throne, for her kingdom, yet what did they accomplish? The woman buried beneath the crown railed for a taste of life…for one night of pleasure. She forced her mind back to the problem at hand. “Do we have a chance against thirty thousand?”
“The mercenaries may buy us some time but they are not the solution.”
“Then what is?”
He hesitated. “You played the monk brilliantly. Perhaps the mysterious monastery will make the difference.”
“A long shot. One we dare not count on.” She sighed. “Pity we do not have a magic artifact to provide a miracle or two.”
“Your majesty will think of something.” He gave her a wry smile. “And if you don’t, I will.”
He was always her rock. She found herself returning his smile, her headache banished. “You managed to win the last game of chess, employing a devious gambit as we recall.”
“A gambit I found in the archives. I need to read scrolls just to keep up with you.”
She laughed. He was her most worthy opponent, her most ardent admirer, her rock. “We shall miss you, Lord Highgate.”
He understood instantly. “Radagar?”
“There is no one else we can send, no one else we trust as much. Lanverness needs the extra swords and whatever else the mercenary court has to sell.”
He nodded.
“And be careful with our golds. The royal purse is fat but not bottomless. We may have need of every gold before this war is finished.”
“As you command.”
She studied his face, his dark penetrating eyes, his confident mouth, the faint scar at his left temple. “The Rose Court will be a lonely place without you.” Liandra fingered the strand of pearls at her throat. “How soon can you leave?”
“I’ll need a day to make all the arrangements, to make sure the queen is well guarded in my absence.”
Returning to the window, she stared down at the castle, wondering if she dared steal one night for herself, one single night of passion. “Lord Highgate…” she held her breath, afraid of the question, afraid of the answer. Liandra shook her head; she could only be the queen. “Lord Highgate, we command you to travel with all speed and come back safe to us.”
She felt the heat of his stare. She turned. His dark gaze burned into her…as if he knew the question in her mind.
“Ask me.” His voice was deep and hoarse.
Longing shivered through her but she could not forget the crown. She stared at him, torn with indecision…wondering if she could trust any man to accept a single night and not press for more.
The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 49
