The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Later, much later, her head nestled upon his shoulder; she asked the question lodged deep in her heart. “Do you ever want the subterfuge to end?”

  “Subterfuge?” He gave a low chuckle. “My lady, I am your shadowmaster, and you are the queen of spiders, between us subterfuge is by far our best weapon.”

  “No, not the court game.” She feared to broach the subject, yet it needed to be said. “The late nights, the secret passageways, the subtle subterfuge, surely we both deserve more?”

  His breath stilled, waiting.

  She forced her thought to words. “We have the nights but come the dawn’s first light my bed is always empty.”

  “It is a royal bed,” his voice was husky with unplumbed depths, “and I know you will never have a king.”

  “No, not a king,” she dared to say it, “but perhaps a prince consort.”

  He reared up, surprise on his face. Propped on one elbow, he gazed down at her. “My queen, you honor me, but your court will never abide it. Royalty does not flow in my veins.”

  “Who in our court has earned it more?” Outrage mixed with bitterness. “And how dare they gainsay the queen.”

  “Image has always been your best armor.”

  He knew her too well. “But perhaps I want more. This bed is so cold and lonely in the mornings.”

  He smiled. “Now you’re thinking like a woman instead of a queen.”

  “We like to think we can do both.”

  He laughed a light chuckle that warmed her heart. Taking her hand, he kissed her palm. “My lady, you do both exceedingly well.”

  “Yet you avoid our question.”

  “A shadowmaster paired with a spider queen makes for a formidable combination, but only if we maintain the advantage of secrecy. You said it yourself. A second storm approaches, one that may prove far more deadly than the first. And if our suspicions about the two murders prove correct, then we play against a devious and ruthless foe. Now is not the time to lay down our best weapons. Let us keep our subterfuge till the storm passes. I can serve you best from the shadows.”

  How rare to find a man who did not grasp at her power. Liandra loved him all the more for it. “But what of my lonely bed?”

  “We still have the nights.”

  The worries of her crown intruded, making her wonder how many nights they truly had before the next storm broke.

  “You’re thinking again.” He smothered her mouth with a kiss, long and deep, tenderness turning to ardor. “Now about that child.” He rolled on top, and the worries of the gathering storm were soon forgotten.

  28

  Megan

  Night fell and for once Queen Megan did not fear it. Hidden deep within her pocket, she fondled the crone’s blue bottle, the answer to her prayers. To sleep without dreams, she longed for it. By the grace of belladonna, she’d sleep tonight, foiling the witch’s foul commands.

  Servants fluttered around the royal solar, clearing the remnants of a late night supper. Savory aromas of sea bass sizzled in garlic butter lingered in the chamber, the king’s favorite. King Ivor leaned across the table, offering the queen the last flakey bite.

  Megan savored the morsel.

  The king gave her a contented look. “These intimate suppers have been lovely…but the king and his queen must be seen in the great hall.”

  After the poisoned feast, she’d shunned the great hall, haunted by the lingering horror. “It’s too soon.”

  He captured her hand, pulling it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Darling, if we change our ways, then Iris wins.” Iron determination flashed across his face. “I’ll not let her win.”

  “No, she mustn’t win.”

  “Then you’ll join me for dinner in the great hall?”

  “Not yet.” She needed a victory in the bedchamber ere she set foot in the great hall. “The nightmares are still too raw.”

  “When?”

  “Give me two more nights?”

  He sighed. “As you wish,” kissing her hand, as if to seal the bargain. “Come to bed.”

  “A glass of brandy first. Will you join me?”

  “Of course.” He flashed a warm smile, for a small glass of brandy was often a prelude to their lovemaking.

  Extracting her hand, she stood and turned towards the sideboard. Keeping her back to her husband, she filled two crystal goblets with a thumb’s worth of brandy. Reaching for the bottle hidden within her pocket, the queen whispered a silent prayer. By the Maid, by the Mother, by the Crone, I’ll not be an instrument of your hate. Unstoppering the bottle, she carefully poured two drops into the nearest goblet, two drops for a dreamless sleep.

  *You swore an oath! Serve me!* The witch’s command spiked through her mind.

  No! The queen fought the command, shocked to feel tentacles of the witch’s will coiling around her, taking possession of her body.

  *You sought to use poison against me! Poison is my domain. Now you’ll serve!*

  The queen’s hand shook above the goblet, a battle of wills.

  Megan watched horrified as her hand upended the bottle, emptying the poison into the goblet, turning the brandy into a potion of death. Lifting both goblets, she turned towards the king.

  I’ll not do it! The queen strove to bring the deathly brew to her own lips, but instead, she watched in horror as her hand offered it to the king.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He took the goblet of death, raising it in salute towards her.

  Screaming in her mind, the queen watched as he raised it to his lips.

  No! Terror lent her strength. Something snapped in her mind, banishing the witch. Leaping forward, she struck the goblet from the king’s hand. Glass shattered against stone, the deadly poison dripping down the wall.

  Startled, the king stared at her. “Why?”

  “Poison!”

  “What poison? You poured it yourself!”

  Bound by the geas, she could not answer. Trembling, she said, “Hold me?”

  He folded her into his arms, holding her close. “Is it the nightmares? Do you still dream of the feast?”

  “Yes.” She clung to him, her face buried in his chest.

  He lifted her into his arms, carrying her to their bed. “This fear must end.”

  “Yes, it has to end.” She snuggled close to him, warmed by his body, but sleep would not come. In the back of her mind a cruel voice whispered, *You serve me now. It’s only a matter of time.*

  29

  Jordan

  Death and funerals and royal mourning, it was not the homecoming Jordan imagined. She climbed the stairs to the castle’s topmost tower, a breath of cold sea air blowing through the arrow-slit windows. Castle Seamount, the only home she’d ever known but the great castle chafed at her like a sea creature that had long outgrown its shell. Each morning she sought the tower tops, needing a view of the restless ocean, as if the roiling waves mirrored her soul. The castle felt small and confining, yet she remained at the king’s request, but everything had changed. The seaside kingdom was plunged into deepest mourning. The Curse of the Vowels had come calling, spewing death and betrayal. Warned by the gods, she’d ridden halfway across Erdhe, desperate to save her family and capture her aunt, but she’d failed at both. So many deaths, but at least the rightful king still ruled Navarre. She consoled herself with the thought but it seemed a cold comfort.

  Jordan reached the tower top and unlatched the heavy door, stepping out onto the windswept battlement. A stiff westerly snatched at her short sandy-blonde hair, her checkered cloak streaming behind like a velvet wing. She paced the winter-cold ramparts, consumed with worry. The dreams that had driven her across Erdhe had stopped with an abruptness that took her breath away. No more visions from the gods, as if they no longer had a use for her, or perhaps she’d failed them. Gripping her sword hilt, she pushed that grim thought away. For the longest time, she’d wished the visions away, feeling burdened with a freakish curse. But now that they’d fled, Jordan felt strangely adrift, like a ship
without a rudder, abandoned by the gods to wander uncharted seas. Hugging her checkered cloak close, her thoughts turned to Stewart. Their marriage in the Crimson Tower almost seemed a dream, a fairytale come true. The mere thought warmed her heart…but she hadn’t yet told her royal parents. With all the death and sorrow of the poisoned feast, she’d not found the right moment. Such news deserved a celebration not the crepe of mourning.

  Seagulls cawed, circling the tower. Jordan leaned out to watch them dance the wind. Swooping and turning with a carefree grace, they dove towards the frothing ocean, fishing for minnows. Jordan laughed, delighting in their freedom, but then she spied a banner of white on Osprey Tower. White cloth rippling against the slate-gray sky, it looked like a signal of surrender…or distress. Jordan leaned out for a better view. A woman in a silken shift tottered onto the crenellated rampart, the wind whipping her auburn-gray hair.

  “Mother!” The wind snatched at Jordan’s startled cry. A chill gripped her throat, a premonition of dread. Her heart thundering, she raced for the doorway and plunged down the steps, taking them two at a time. Reaching the bottom, she burst through the door into the main hallway, startling the servants and guards. “Get the king! Bring him to Osprey Tower!” Servants scattered to do her bidding, but Jordan never slowed. She reached the tower entrance and raced up the stairs. The topmost door gaped open. Praying for time, Jordan burst through the doorway and skidded to a sudden stop. Her mother stood barefoot atop the battlement, the wind billowing her silken shift like a shroud, one step away from death. “Mother, no!”

  Her mother turned, teetering on the edge, her long hair wild and disheveled, her face haggard, her eyes glazed, looking like a mad banshee.

  Jordan gaped, shocked by her mother’s appearance. “Mother don’t!”

  Madness glared from her mother’s eyes. “Get away from me!” The queen howled a piercing shriek. “Get out of my mind! I won’t do it, you hear, I won’t do your bidding.”

  Jordan took a single step, her hand extended. “Mother, it’s me, come down from there.”

  “I swore an oath to you, but I won’t do it. I’ll take my own life first.”

  And then Jordan saw the dagger clutched in her mother’s fist. “Please mother, it’s only me, your daughter, Jordan, come down from there.” She crept forward, her voice soft and cajoling.

  “Jordan?” The queen uttered her daughter’s name like a talisman. For a heartbeat, the madness fled her gaze. “My daughter of the sword, I’ve missed you so.” Something in her voice shifted, gaining a touch of iron resolve. “It’s fitting that you’re here. Of all my children, you’ll understand the best.” The queen stared down at the long drop, at the waves pounding the tower’s base. “Yes, I finally understand.”

  “Understand what, mother?”

  Her mother danced barefoot along the edge, a brilliant smile flashing on her careworn face. “Here, standing on the knife-edge between life and death, I’m finally free of her geas.”

  “Mother, come down from there.”

  “No, you must listen.” Her voice dropped to a conspirator’s whisper. “The Curse of the Vowels is not done.” Her mother shook her head, anger in her voice. “The witch plagues my dreams, always whispering, demanding allegiance. I try to refuse, but it’s so hard.” She looked down at her hand, hefting the dagger like a poisonous snake. “I woke this morning, clutching this. A dagger meant for the king’s heart, hid beneath my very pillow. She orders me to kill my own dear husband, to slay him in our bed.” The queen flung the dagger into the sea, a bright glitter of steel. “Last evening…I nearly poisoned him!” She shuddered at the words, horror etched across her face. “But now I understand the runes. The gods spoke the truth.” Steel entered her mother’s voice. “I’ve never wielded a sword, but I can fight. I won’t let her win.”

  Jordan crept forward, gauging the distance. “Come down from there, mother. All of Navarre will protect you.”

  A gust of wind snatched at her mother’s shift, a billow of white silk, so fleeting and insubstantial. Jordan reached for it, but her mother flitted away, dancing along the edge.

  “Don’t!” Her mother’s voice turned hard. “I swore an oath and now she haunts me. She’s a witch, a sorceress, a black-hearted bitch. You can’t protect me from my dreams. You can’t protect me from her.”

  “Protect you from whom?”

  “Iris!” Her mother spat the name, making it a cruse. “She’s a bitch, a witch, trying to poison us all. Now she poisons my mind, poisons my very dreams, but I won’t do her bidding, not now, not ever.” Her mother swayed on the parapet, buffeted by the wind. “I’ll spoil her plans. I’ll have the final victory. The sea will absolve me from all oaths. You’ll see, you’ll understand. I do this for love.” Her mother smiled, a blinding smile full of triumph. And then she fell backwards, her arms spread wide like a sacrifice.

  “No!” Jordan lunged, her fingers snagging a whisper of silk but the white cloth slipped through her grasp. Her mother tumbled backward without a cry, a streak of white plummeting silent to the sea. But it was not a clean fall, her head thudding against the castle walls. “No!” Jordan screamed in denial, but it made no difference. A pinwheel of white, the fall seemed to last forever, like a nightmare etched in her mind. Her mother’s body landed hard amongst the rocks, bright blood blossoming on her white shift, her limbs bent to impossible angles like a rag doll tossed from the tower top.

  “What is it?” The king raced to her side, peering to the sea below.

  Jordan choked on the words, her voice thick with grief. “It’s mother!”

  The king loosed a keening wail. “Megan! My Megan!”

  Jordan crumpled to her knees, dissolving into tears. “She said it was the Curse of the Vowels. The curse claimed her and I never saw it coming!” Without the visions, she’d had no warning, no foresight. Jordan shuddered, a sob escaping her. “We’ve lost so much…and now mother!”

  30

  Liandra

  Candles burned to stubs and still she had no answers. Liandra plucked another scroll from the pile, squinting at the spidery script, one of a hundred she’d read that day. Scrolls overflowed her desk, spilling onto side tables while hundreds more sat stacked in baskets along the wall. Liandra was drowning in parchment, yet her gaze kept returning to the ancient scrolls, histories penned by forgotten scholars, some so old the ink had nearly faded.

  A knock from the inner door, Liandra smiled, welcoming the distraction.

  The secret door swung silently open and the Master Archivist stepped into her solar. “Still reading?”

  “Still?” she rubbed her tired eyes, “more like always.”

  Tall in dark robes, he moved across her solar like a fluid shadow. “What is it tonight? Urgent requests from Lingard? Complaints from the carpenters’ guild? Ledgers from the treasury? Or dispatches from the army?”

  “All and none. You’d think we’d be content with rebuilding our kingdom but…”

  “You’ve started a new inquiry.”

  Her spymaster never missed a trick. “So you’ve heard.”

  “The archivists stir like bees carrying parchments to the queen’s chamber. I’d have to be blind not to notice.” He stood behind her, his hands kneading the stress from her shoulders. “You’re tense with worry.”

  Liandra closed her eyes, melting in the momentary bliss. The fire snapped and crackled, and for a while she knew nothing but the balm of his hands.

  “What do you seek?” His question brought her back to the riddle at hand.

  “The Mordant.”

  For half a heartbeat his hands stilled, and then continued. “What have you learned?”

  “His name stretches back through antiquity…or versions of it.”

  “As a man or a myth?”

  “Perhaps both.” She gestured to the basket of scrolls lining the walls. “One scroll speaks of the Lord Mordranth, another of the Lord Morganth, there’s one reference to a Sir Mordred and several tell of a Prince Mordrith
. Are they misspellings or coincidences? Are they same man, the same soul, or merely names that sound the same?”

  “Coincidences are often history’s harshest lessons.”

  She rubbed her weary eyes. “Lessons repeated until we learn them?”

  “Just so.” The fire snapped and crackled. His hands slowed. “I always thought the Mordant referred to a title rather than a man…until Lord Turner.”

  Liandra shivered. “A parboiled corpse dancing in the cauldron, its red eyes glowing with the light of hell,” she made the hand sign against evil. “Who could forget? Our nightmares are not so easily shed.”

  “Just so.” His hands resumed their comforting work. “So what have you learned?”

  “Little enough. History taunts us. The Mordant’s name looms across time like an omnipresent threat, the eternal bane of Erdhe, causing so much death and destruction, yet so many details are maddeningly absent.” She plucked at the scroll in her lap. “This scroll speaks of the War of Wizards, hinting at a counselor named Mordranth. The scribe’s handwriting is atrocious, but if you puzzle through the ancient script, it reads like the aftermath of a tidal wave, detailing terrible devastation yet there is little to describe the inciting incident. Not a scrap of evidence to provide any insight to his motives or methods. We need to know the why of it.” The queen considered what she’d read. “And then there are the quiet times, where the Mordant’s influence seems to disappear, like a tidal wave subsumed back into the sea.” She stared at the mountain of scrolls. “The Mordant is like a re-occurring plague…or an eternal riddle, casting a pall across Erdhe.” Frustration laced her voice. “We need to understand the man within the myth. We need to know what he wants.”

  “The motive is obvious, conquest and destruction.”

  “Yes, but it is the methods we seek.”

  “To know your enemy.”

  “Precisely.”