Grown attuned to his captor’s misery, Bryce waited for the perfect moment. The Mordant’s twisted rituals took the heaviest toll. Sundered by magic and wracked by seasickness, the Mordant fell into a death-like torpor. While his jailor lay insensate, Bryce took his chance. Like a thief in the night, he reached beyond his prison, nothing more than a thin wisp of thought. Small and unobtrusive, he avoided anything significant, merely seeking control of the left hand. Memories strengthened the link. Like donning a living glove, he took possession of skin, and blood, and sinew. Wood beneath his hand, he nearly swooned from the touch. A sea breeze caressed the hairs on the back of his hand, as gentle as a lover. Bryce shivered with longing, swamped by the sensation of touch. So many senses so long denied, a flood of emotion swept through him, but Bryce fought for control, refusing to be distracted. Straining with effort, he willed the hand to move.
Nothing happened.
Stiff as rusted armor, the hand refused to obey. Bryce raged in his prison, refusing to let the opportunity be nothing more than a god-cursed tease. Focusing all his effort, he willed the smallest finger to move. Still nothing. He strained like a man trying to shift a mountain…and then it happened. The smallest finger twitched.
And then the Mordant groaned.
Bryce pulled back, retreating to his prison. He made himself small, a lost soul hiding from his jailor’s wrath, but no punishment came. Elation flooded through him, he’d taken the first step toward defeating the Mordant.
But one victory did not win the war. Bryce bided his time, practicing control. He started with the smallest finger, and then two, and then the entire fist. When the hand clenched tight, triumph flowed through him like a bonfire.
The days passed. Sometimes the Mordant slept in his cabin, while other days the assassins carried him aloft, creating a padded bed on the rear deck. As the assassins kept vigil, the Mordant slept curled on his side, like a cat warmed by the sun. Peering from his spy hole, Bryce watched the restless sea change from slate gray to turquoise blue. As the days passed his control grew and so did his plan. The Mordant hated the sea. Plagued by seasickness, it was as if the sea rejected him, rejected his Darkness. Perhaps the sea would be his downfall.
Storms claimed the ship for nigh on a week. The Mordant’s seasickness worsened, a prime opportunity, yet he remained in his cabin, confined by illness and foul weather. Bryce thought he might go mad with waiting, but then the storms cleared and the assassins carried the Mordant aloft.
Swathed in a nest of blankets, they settled the Mordant near the ship’s railing, a clear view of the sea between the carved railings. Bryce waited, timing the swell of the waves and the attention of the assassins. When the sailors brought the mid-day meal, Bryce took his chance. Focusing his will on the left hand, he reached toward the railing. The hand moved, flopping on the deck, but not far enough. Bryce struggled for control, like pushing thoughts through molasses. He focused his will and the hand crept across the deck. Fingers grasped the railing, the feel of salt-stained wood beneath his touch. Like a drowned man, Bryce clung to the railing, struggling to regain his strength. So close but yet so far. One strong pull and he’d roll the Mordant between the railings, dumping the enemy into the foam-crowned waves. Bryce stared at the sea, at the rolling waves, like a promise of freedom, a promise of release. He wondered what it would be like to drown. He wondered if he’d even feel it. Death held the promise of release, to kill a monstrous evil while ending a hellish imprisonment, yet his conscience plagued him. In his heart of hearts, Bryce knew he should wait for the crystal dagger, but he yearned for release. The sea offered him a chance that would not come again. Desperate for release, he tugged the Mordant towards the railing. The waves helped, rocking the deck, adding speed to the roll.
The Mordant groaned.
Bryce panicked, feeling the Mordant rise from his torpor. He tugged on the railing with all of his strength.
“My Lord, are you well?” The assassin was there, rolling the Mordant well away from the edge.
Inside his prison, Bryce howled in frustration.
“Land ho!” The cry rang from the mast tops. The crew cheered, swarming the deck. Sails snapped in the wind as the ship hove towards shore.
Bryce watched as the ship sped towards land, towards a great crescent-shaped harbor surmounted by a gray castle. The end of the voyage, the end of hope. Despair crashed down like a castle portcullis sealing his doom. He’d lost his secret alliance with the sea, his best chance to slay the fiend…and the cursed Mordant reached the southern kingdoms unopposed. Already he could feel his jailor regaining his power, regaining control. Consumed by misery, Bryce curled in a ball, a prisoner once more.
22
The Priestess
Another sleepless night. Restless with the need to know, the Priestess climbed the stairs to Silverspire’s tallest tower. Moonlight glowed through the open window, silvery and bright, but it was Darkness she sought. Lighting a single candle, she shuttered the windows, snuffing the moon’s pale glow. The single candle guttered, a frail circle of light surrounded by a rich velvety Darkness. She’d made the tower chamber her private haven, tapestries lining the walls, silken pillows strewn across the floor, her chapel to the Dark. The silver scrying bowl waited in the center, already filled with spring water. The Priestess knelt among the cushions. Reaching within her tight-fitting bodice, she removed the great moonstone. Cradling the oval gem in her hands, she breathed upon the milk-white stone. It wakened with her breath, glowing with an otherworldly light. A legend of darker times, the Eye of the Oracle throbbed like a heartbeat within her hands. Power thrummed through her, a luxurious delight. As the Oracle Priestess, it was her right to wield the moonstone, her right to use the Eye to spy on the servants of the Dark. The Priestess reveled in the power.
She lowered the moonstone into the scrying bowl. The water hissed and spat like a boiling cauldron. It was always this way, a clash of competing powers. The Priestess held her breath, but Darkness held sway. The waters calmed, turning midnight-black, a perfect mirror for Dark deeds. The Priestess knelt, her raven-dark hair forming a silky curtain surrounding the scrying bowl. Gathering her power, she breathed upon the water. “Show me the servants of the Dark Lord.”
Mirror-dark waters rippled with images, giving the Priestess a bird’s eye. Her gaze sought Navarre, waves crashing against Castle Seamount, the dark castle thrust up from the ocean like a defiant fist. Jealousy and rage spiked through her. By right of blood and conquest, the crown of Navarre should have been hers if not for her meddling niece. A snarl curled her lips, wishing vengeance upon her kin. But all was not lost. She’d left death in her wake, the royal family decimated by poison. While her kin mourned their loss, her revenge lingered, a coiled serpent hidden within the royal household, a dagger poised at the kingdom heart. Laughter rippled out of her, plots within plots, she’d always known that schemes were better than swords, the true reason women were meant to rule, but she kept that secret to herself.
Her thoughts roved elsewhere. Images flowed across the water, following her thoughts. She found him sprawled in a large bed, two raven-haired beauties naked by his side, more proof he yearned for her. “Oh Steffan, how your pride blinds you, yet the truth is writ upon your face.” A throaty laugh escaped her, “Desire is the greatest poison.” No matter how many women he took to his bed, Steffan would never find her equal. She’d watched from her scrying bowl as he squandered his army in Pellanor, letting a crown slip through his fingers, yet the Dark Lord spared him for the great Dark Dance. Handsome and arrogant even in sleep, she studied his face, the white streak in his hair dyed black, proof of his shame and his failure. Plots within plots, if the Dark Lord had a use for Steffan then perhaps she did too, something to consider for when he came calling.
Turning from pleasures to threats, the Priestess leaned low, breathing upon the waters. The scene changed, this time moving north to Raven Pass. A vast horde threatened the southern kingdoms, but it was their master, the Mordant, th
at worried her far more than all their ravening swords. For the thousandth time, she searched among them for the darkest soul, for the oldest harlequin, but she found no trace of him. Fear spiked through her. She liked it not that he remained hidden. She scoured Erdhe, searching everywhere, yet she’d found no trace of his dark powers. His absence felt like a doom waiting to descend. It gnawed at her mind, preying on her imagination, scaring her more than she cared to admit.
Suddenly weary, the Priestess pulled back from the scrying bowl. The Eye dimmed to a dull white gem, its power drained, nothing more than a large moonstone lying fallow beneath clear waters. So many images, so much Darkness afoot in Erdhe, the Priestess had much to consider. The kingdoms of Erdhe were changing, like a battlefield trampled by the gods yet few mortals understood the rules. Dire change brought great opportunity but only to those bold enough to risk everything. Schemes and plots tumbled through her mind. Erdhe was sundered by war, yet the greatest hammer stroke had yet to fall. The Mordant remained hidden, yet she sensed his handiwork beneath the Dark weave. With the oldest harlequin embedded in the game, chaos and strife were sure to follow. The Priestess shivered at the threat…beguiled by the risk…enthralled by the reward. She dared to play the Dark Dance, but first she needed to fortify her strength.
Sheathing the great moonstone in a black velvet bag, she unlocked her rosewood chest, careful to turn the skeleton key to the left instead of the right. Avoiding the poisoned needle, she opened the chest, releasing familiar scents of dried herbs and dark ingredients, her hoard of deathly delights. She hid the Eye in a secret compartment beneath the poisons, a single treasure among a thousand deaths. Locking the chest, she raised her voice to be heard beyond the thick oak door. “Come.”
The door creaked open. General Tarmin stood guard, his hand on his sword hilt. His gaze sought hers, his eyes glazed like a man enthralled.
“Come and worship my Darkness.”
The door closed behind him. His sword belt thumped to the thick carpet. He shed his armor to stand naked and rampant before her. “My priestess…my queen!”
A large hairy bear-of-a-man, she took him among the scented pillows. He plowed her hard and deep, a primal coupling full of earthy lustiness. With every stroke, she drew on his vitality, stealing moonturns from his natural lifespan. Power flowed through her, renewing her prowess. Her scent, her touch, her magic enthralled him, multiplying his stamina. Clutching him tight, she rode him hard, giving him waves of pleasure. Surfeit with power, she released him. Bellowing his triumph, he arched his back, his face a snarl of ecstasy. Sated with sex and oblivious to his loss, he collapsed beside her, succumbing to sleep. Soft snores echoed through the chamber. Rolling free from his embrace, she wrote her true name in the sweat of his chest, deepening her hold on him, another conquest on her path to power.
23
Megan
Megan, Queen of Navarre, dreaded the night. Avoiding the royal bedchamber, she haunted the castle ramparts, evading sleep, yet sleep could not be escaped. Exhaustion and the king’s loving arms conspired against her, pulling her back to the royal bedchamber. Night after night, she struggled to remain awake, but sleep always claimed her. Ever since the poisoned feast she’d been plagued by ill-omened dreams. No matter how much wine she drank, the nightmares hounded her. Sleep became a bitter enemy, a battlefield of wills. Memories of the poisoned feast tortured her mind, forcing her to re-live that fateful evening. In her mind’s eye, she watched as Igraine crumpled dead upon the floor while Ian clawed his throat bloody, choking on poison. The Curse of the Vowels was real, a nightmare come calling, plaguing her family. Megan shuddered against the memories, hearing the witch laugh as she held the promised antidote aloft. Like a marionette, she watched herself cross the great hall to kneel before Iris, swearing fealty to the witch in the hopes of saving her husband and his kin. *I, Megan of Navarre, acknowledge Iris as the rightwise queen of Navarre and pledge…and pledge my loyalty to you.* The foul pledge seared her soul. Locked in the nightmare, she tossed and turned upon silken sheets, desperate to escape.
Laughter rippled through her mind, cruel and mocking. *You said the words, you swore the oath, and now you must obey.*
*No, you’re long gone, banished from the castle. You’re nothing but a nightmare, a wicked illusion.*
*Gone but not forgotten.* The words stabbed her mind, full of malice, *You swore to serve me. Reach for the dagger hidden beneath the pillow and use it!*
*There is no dagger and I will never serve you.*
*The dagger awaits, hidden by your own hand.*
*No, you lie!*
*Serve me, or you will never sleep again. Now reach for the dagger and do my bidding!*
The queen struggled to refuse, but the invading voice was relentless, a cold-blooded witch harping commands. *Reach for the dagger and slay your husband. Kill the king as he sleeps. Seal your vow of fealty with his blood.*
*No, never!* Megan thrashed against the command, but her traitorous hand slowly crept beneath the pillow. She reached for the dagger…but found nothing! There was nothing there! Relief flooded through her…chased by cruel laughter.
*You reached for the dagger!* Triumph laced her sister-in-law’s voice, a menace invading her mind. *Next time, the dagger will await your hand!*
*No, I’ll never do it!* She thrashed against sodden sheets, desperate to wake.
*You swore an oath. You serve me now! It is only a matter of when!*
*No!* The queen screamed in denial but the words clogged in her throat.
“Megan, wake up.”
Strong arms held her. Megan startled awake.
Ivor was there, holding her close. “You were moaning in your sleep. Another bad dream?”
She wanted to warn him, to tell him the truth, but the words would not come, as if the witch had placed a geas upon her tongue. “Yes…a nightmare.”
He pulled her close, tucking her in the crook of his arm. “You’re safe here with me.”
But are you safe with me? The question froze her heart. The witch had said it was only a matter of time. Huddled next to her husband, Megan shivered, praying to be released from the foul spell. The Curse of the Vowels had extracted a terrible toll, reaving the royal Is. By all the gods, the witch would not have her husband too.
24
Liandra Chapter
Silk became her so much more than steel. Queen Liandra shed her armor, but she wielded pomp and ceremony like a sword. Ordering formal receptions, she heaped praise and honors on the heroes of the Flame War. Loyalty was rewarded, courage feted, promotions flowed, and the people’s morale was bolstered, but in the privacy of her solar the queen girded for another war.
Flanked by her son, Crown Prince Stewart, by Lord Dane, second in command of the Rose Army, and her shadowmaster, Lord Highgate, the queen met with emissaries of the Deep Green. A page opened the outer door and a breath of wilderness swept into her court. Tall and broad-shouldered, the three men wore huntsman’s leathers, striding into her solar with an insular pride. Smelling of woodsmoke and cedar and pine, they stood before her throne offering the barest of nods.
The queen supposed a nod was all their stiff-necked pride would allow, and though she found it irksome, she offered a gracious smile. “You are welcome in our court.”
Lord Cenric wore his cloak of peacock feathers, half a hundred turquoise eyes shimmering in the firelight, a magnificent dash of exotic elegance mixed with feral wildness. The feathered cloak was striking, but it was the men’s eyes that made the greatest difference. Golden cat-eyes set in a man’s face, their eyes gleamed unnaturally bright in the firelight. Like demon eyes come to life, their golden eyes were startling, evoking a primal fear, the stuff of childhood nightmares, but their actions proclaimed them allies, and the queen was desperately short of allies.
Liandra inclined her head. “We have received you in our formal audience hall, proclaiming you Friends of Lanverness before our court, but we wish to do more. We owe you and your people a debt of t
hanks for turning the tide of battle. We wish to make you forever welcome within our kingdom.” She gestured and Prince Stewart offered Cenric a scroll festooned with wax seals and emerald ribbons. “This royal writ is a deed to two tracts of land. The nearest is Crown Hill, a royal hunting preserve just north of Pellanor. The second tract is much larger, Onet Forest, a large stand of old growth forest nestled against the Southern Mountains and our border with Wyeth. The crown deeds them both to you, hoping that your people will settle the forest, forever adding your strength and friendship to the kingdom of Lanverness.”
Cenric’s nostrils flared as if scenting the air. “We do not think of the forest as something owned.”
Hearing the distaste in his voice, the queen hastened to smooth his ruffled feathers. “Then think of it as a stewardship, a grant for your people to live within the forest.”
“And the trees? Will this parchment spare them from axe and fire?”
“If that is your wish.”
Cenric stood stock-still, his nostril’s flared wide. For several heartbeats nothing was said, but then he flashed a smile, offering the queen an unexpected bow. “The Rose Queen is both wise and wily.”
“So you accept?”
“Gladly. Long have my people sought a welcome within the southern kingdoms. We will protect Onet Forest, dwelling beneath leaf and bough, far enough away to let your people grow accustomed to our eyes. And at Crown Hill we will keep a smaller clan near to your court. By our presence, the trees will be kept safe.” He hefted the scroll. “We will accept this charge with the honesty with which it is given. My people will settle the forest and keep your laws while always following the wisdom of the Treespeaker.”
The Treespeaker again, they brandished the name like a monarch…or a sorceress. “We would meet with your Treespeaker to hear her wisdom for ourselves.”
“Then you must travel to the Deep Green, for she will never leave it.”
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 15
