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Steffan
Pellanor, the very name stuck in Steffan’s throat like a bone. He’d lost everything, his army, his power, his priests, nothing left but the clothes on his back and a piebald mare for a mount. Rage thundered through him. He should have ruled the richest kingdom in Erdhe, should have worn a gold crown upon his brow, but somehow everything had gone terribly wrong. His army routed, the city lost, victory snatched from his hands, tricked by a mere woman. Yet the Dark Lord had spared him; that had to count for something.
Nameless and alone, he rode west, fleeing the Rose Army. At first his saddlebags hung empty, but thanks to the Dark Lord’s gift, they soon filled. Steffan plied the dice in villages and hamlets, making sure to lose just enough not to be challenged. The gift of dice might have seemed a minor power to some, but Steffan leveraged his winning ways into a small fortune, an endless purse of gold. Even in war-ravaged Lanverness, he found men willing to gamble and women willing to bed him. His rakish good looks and his luck of the dice served him well. Wealth flowed his way, his purse bulging with golds, his saddlebags full of silken finery.
Steffan’s circumstances improved, yet the scars of war were everywhere, from the refugees clogging the roads to the abandoned farmlands and the hasty graveyards. Stares followed him as he rode through the countryside. Uneasy with the attention, he dyed his white forelock to match his black hair and put off his raven cloak, hiding it in his saddlebags lest someone recognize him. Seeking richer pickings, he turned his mare towards cities untouched by the war. In the great city-fortress of Kardiff, he traded his piebald mare for a gleaming black stallion, a mount befitting his true aspirations. Lingering for several moonturns, he plied the dice, leeching luxuries from the queen’s loyal subjects, but the pleasures soon grew stale. Even his many mistresses could not please him, unable to compete with his dreams. He missed the Priestess in his bed. He missed the thrum of power in his hands. He missed the great Dark Dance.
Ambition goaded him to action. Steffan turned his ear toward gossip, collecting scraps of hearsay and innuendo. Sifting through the many-colored threads, he wove a fresh picture of Erdhe. Everything was changing. Lanverness reeled from war, while Coronth lay stricken from the Flame’s collapse. From the coast he heard strange whispers of a poisoned feast, Navarre’s royal family decimated by an ancient curse. And from the distant north, he heard rumors of the Mordant. Darkness swept across Erdhe like an implacable tide, yet Steffan’s own power waned, slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. His position might have seemed hopeless to some, but Steffan knew chaos oft provided the best opportunities. And then he heard a rumor that piqued his interest. A new queen had arisen claiming a corner of Coronth and whispers said she was a raven-haired beauty. Steffan packed his saddlebags and rode north.
Spring lit the trees with the first hint of green. Peasants emerged to work the fields while merchants and traders reclaimed the roads. A nervous peace prevailed, yet beneath it all the pall of war lingered. Bands of soldiers straggled north, deserters mixed with the wounded and the vanquished. Clogging the roads, they hid their Flame-colors beneath peasant’s cloaks of brown or dun. Their halberds were gone, abandoned or surrendered, but Steffan spied swords beneath their cloaks and desperation on their faces. Defeated but still dangerous, he spurred his stallion to a gallop, keeping his distance, hiding his purse as well as his name.
Rolling farm fields gave way to small villages. The boundaries of kingdoms were not writ upon the land, but Steffan knew when he crossed into Coronth. Signs of the Flame were legion, but instead of thriving temples he found only blackened shells. The Flame Army’s defeat had sounded the death knell of belief. The religion of the Flame collapsed, becoming a casualty of war. Betrayed by promises of victory, the people’s anger sparked to a fearsome rage. As he rode north, Steffan found temples reduced to charred timbers, priests murdered or fled, whole villages turned secretive and wary. The war had ripple effects he’d never expected. The collapse of the Flame galled him. Perhaps he should have stayed in Coronth and plied the powers of religion instead of turning to war, but that coin was already spent. Better to look to the future than live mired in the past.
Steffan pressed northward, lingering just long enough to collect gossip and golds. Always he asked about the raven-haired queen. A tankard of ale bought a fistful of rumors. Villagers bragged of the new queen’s intoxicating beauty and the way she ruled with a firm hand. Some even spoke with affection, as if they preferred a queen to the Flame. Such talk singed his pride, but Steffan swallowed his anger. If only the villagers knew whom they spoke to, but in truth he was glad the Lord Raven went unnoticed. He didn’t fancy being caged and broiled alive like the priests, so he took what he needed and rode north, keeping his name to himself.
Most villages were sparse with food but rich with rumors. All the rumors led to Rhune, an ancient holdfast in the southwest corner of Coronth. Famous for its hot springs, Rhune was the ancient seat of winter palaces, a retreat for royals through the ages. He’d visited in his vagabond years, drawn by flocks of wealthy widows, but that was long before the war. Curious to see the changes, Steffan timed his arrival for mid-morning. Riding down the main street, he caught the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from the bakery while the ring of hammers came from the forge, proof the town still flourished. The main street was paved with cobbles and the three inns were large and spacious. Even the smaller homes and shops were built of dressed stone, bedecked with prancing lions carved into lintels and keystones, the proud symbols of a bygone royalty. Wealth clung to the ancient city like a comforting blanket, just the type of place the Priestess would favor. So she’d come to Coronth to be a queen, bitterness rose like bile in Steffan’s throat. Rhune should have been his, just a small portion of a larger kingdom, but he’d risked it all on war. Steffan swallowed the thought, knowing he’d come for a gamble of different sort.
He took a room at the best inn, ordered a soaking tub, a girl to wash his back, and a bottle of their best brandy. Come evening he dressed in his finest black leathers, twirling a cape of sleek otter fur around his shoulders, black as midnight and rich as sin. Glancing in a mirror, he approved of his dark attire, a perfect compliment to his dashing good looks. Tucking a sapphire ring in his belt pouch, he left the inn and mounted his stallion.
He followed the road out of town, cantering through blossoming cherry orchards. White petals fell like soft snow, strewn before him like a conqueror’s tribute, as if the very land mocked his return. Anger snarled through Steffan. He spurred his horse to a gallop, churning the petals to dust.
The landscape changed from rural to royal. Sculpted gardens and statuary heralded the keep. Most of the statues were headless, marble monarchs felled by religion. Steffan wondered if the palace had fared any better. Topping a hill, his gaze was captured by Silverspire. Tall and elegant, the slender keep was clad in white marble, glittering like its namesake in the rising moonlight. Part palace, part military stronghold, Silverspire reeked of ancient wealth, the winter home of pampered royals, the perfect setting for the Priestess.
Putting spurs to his mount, Steffan rode to the great iron gates, struck by the color of the guards’ tabards. Gone was the blue of bygone royals or the red of the Flame. Instead all the soldiers wore dusky purple, the changing faces of the moon emblazoned in a golden circle on their tabards. Another color, another emblem, the woman was as changeable as quicksilver, but for all her airs, Steffan expected her to be the same between the bed sheets. That woman he knew very well.
A pair of guards moved to block his way, hands on their sword hilts.
Steffan pulled his mount to a halt. “I’m here to see the lady of the keep.”
“You mean the queen.”
So her guards were protective. “As you say.”
A bearded captain emerged from the gate. “And who are you to be asking for an audience?”
An audience, the woman was definitely putting on airs, but Steffan could play the
game with the best of them. “Lord Steffan of Darkmoor.”
One of the guards grumbled, “Darkmoor, ain’t never heard of no Darkmoor, but I think I’ve seen this one before.”
Steffan swallowed his unease, keeping his gaze fixed on the captain. “Your queen expects me.”
Their stares locked. The captain looked skeptical but he clearly wasn’t willing to brave the wrath of his mistress. “I’ll send a runner. Meanwhile you wait here.”
Told to wait outside the gates, Steffan hid his ire. The guards shared a jest around a brazier, while Steffan sat stoic on his horse, warmed by thoughts of the coming night. Just thinking about her made him hard. More stars emerged and the night sky deepened to indigo. He was beginning to wonder just how long the bloody woman would keep him waiting when a page came running. “The Lady will see you now.”
Iron gates clanged open and he rode through thick walls into a cobbled courtyard. The sweet sounds of a fountain greeted him, a pride of marble lions spouting water into a central basin. Whole and undefiled, the lions had fared better than their royal masters. Perhaps the keep remained intact. A page scrambled to claim his horse while a pair of guards gave him an appraising stare. “Your weapons.”
Steffan gave them an amiable smile. “Is this really necessary? The lady awaits.”
“Your weapons.”
He relinquished the sword from its scabbard and the knife from his belt sheath, but that left him with the dirk hidden in his right boot and another tucked at the back of his belt. The guards never checked, waving him through. Steffan hid a smile, vigilant but not thorough. He climbed the steps to the inner keep, to massive doors studded with silver, another sign of flaunted wealth. Steffan appreciated their elegant beauty, surprised the silver had survived the rise and fall of the Flame.
A young page-boy liveried in dusky purple opened the doors. “This way, m’lord.”
At least the page showed some deference. Steffan followed the lad into the depths of the keep, a pair of guards keeping pace at his back. Colorful tapestries lined the hallways while his boots rang on polished marble. The keep lived up to its reputation, a sumptuous palace fit for royalty, proving the lady kept her taste for luxury. Steffan approved her choice, anticipating the luxuries to come. He wondered where she’d choose to meet him, perhaps a moonlit garden, or better yet, a well-appointed bedroom. Spurred by desire, he quickened his pace. The lad led him to a pair of tall doors fashioned like butterfly wings. Sparkling with stained glass and semi-precious stones, the butterfly doors screamed of royal wealth and whimsical excess…but they also dashed his hopes. So it was not to be a garden or a bedroom…but a formal audience hall. Guards rushed to open the butterfly doors, revealing an elegant throne room. Vaulted ceilings of white marble arched overhead while moonlight poured through mullioned windows, silvering the chamber. Steffan hesitated, brought like a suppliant to her audience chamber, anger blazed through him. He crossed the marble expanse, his gaze seeking the seductress of his dreams. A vision in dusky silks, she sat alone on a silver throne, a minstrel strumming a lute at her feet. Every curvaceous detail exceeded his memories. Desire took hold. Like a moth drawn to a dark flame, he strode across the moonlit marble to stand before her throne. His gaze drank her in. Lush curves swathed in shimmering silk, her mouth ripe and full, her dark hair cascading past her shoulders, but it was her eyes that caught and held him, so full of wicked promise.
“So the Priestess of the Isle has become the Lady of the Moon,” he gave her a sweeping bow. “Beauty to rival my dreams, I’ve crossed kingdoms to find you.” His voice oozed charm but silence was his only answer. “I did not come empty handed.” The ring flashed in his hands, a cornflower-blue sapphire the size of his thumb surrounded by diamonds, a queenly gift guaranteed to make a woman swoon.
The Priestess gestured to the minstrel. “Mario.”
The motley-colored dandy leaped up, his hand extended for the ring. Steffan glared, but the minstrel waited and the Priestess watched. He relinquished the ring, fuming as the fop knelt to slip it on her finger. Like a well-trained pet, the minstrel retreated down the dais to reclaim his lute. The Priestess held her hand aloft, the sapphire jewel sparkling in the moonlight. “Yes, a pretty bauble, no doubt won at dice.”
She was going to make him work for it, Steffan swallowed a scowl. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Better than most.”
Her smugness pushed him to anger. “Queen Selene, the Lady of the Moon. Another name change?”
“Actually the same, Selene Cereus, a rare night blooming flower. Appropriate, don’t you think?”
Steffan shrugged, “Another name, another kingdom,” his voice turned surly, “but this time you took something of mine.”
She raised an eyebrow, “Was it yours or was it lost? And who are you to complain, Lord Steffan of Darkmoor?”
The false title struck like a slap. Steffan narrowed his gaze. “You’ve changed your colors.”
“Purple becomes us, a fitting color for my queendom.”
He barked a laugh. “Queendom? That isn’t even a word.”
“Why is it any less of a word than kingdom?”
This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. Instead of lovers reunited they were bickering like an old married couple. He sought a different tack. “And now you’re the lady of Rhune. But why the moon?”
“A fitting symbol. Men are like the sun, strong and glaring and always in your face, while women are more subtle, like the night, dark and mysterious and always changing.” She gave him a look more intimate than touch.
This was the woman he longed for. Encouraged, Steffan flicked his gaze to the minstrel. “We don’t need an audience.”
She gave a negligent wave. “Mario, leave us.”
The minstrel kissed the hem of her gown and then bowed his way from the chamber.
The simpering fop raised Steffan’s ire. “I’m surprised the palace survived the Flame.”
“It was infested with bishops, and bishops like their luxuries.” She flashed a triumphant smile. “When they saw the size of my army they dropped their robes and fled.”
Anger flamed within him. “So you trampled my religion.”
“No, merely swept aside the ashes. Defeat killed your religion, the defeat of the Pontifax, the defeat of your army, and the harsh yoke of your priests. When a fanatical religion falls, it falls hard, leaving a gaping emptiness. My army merely filled the void.”
Her words rankled but he knew she spoke the truth. “Much has changed.”
“Yes, I’ve used my army while you lost yours.”
“Your army used to be mine.”
“We had an agreement, I held up my end, or did the mercenaries of Radagar not turn and serve you?”
More barbs, he decided to sling some of his own. “I thought you sought the crown of Navarre?”
Her eyes flashed in warning. “I took my revenge and then I claimed Rhune.” She leaned back in the throne, a pose designed to expose her cleavage to best advantage, a dark jewel amongst the glittering silver. “The palace becomes me.”
He grew tired of slinging arguments. “Rumors say the Mordant comes south.”
For a long time, silence hung between them. “I know.” Her words fell like dirt into a grave.
“We should be allies, working together, scheming to profit from the chaos to come.”
She gave a throaty laugh. “You think he brings profit in his wake? Then you know him not.”
“Chaos always brings opportunity,” he leaned toward her, “especially to those who know how to use it.”
“The Mordant brings more than chaos.”
Her words held the ring of prophecy. She’d always stood closer to the Dark, a fey power wrapped around her like a cloak. Even far from the Dark Isle, she remained the Oracle Priestess. He envied her power. “What do you know? What have you seen?”
“Too much and too little.”
A chill passed through him. “As bad as that?”
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nbsp; Her face was grave. “It is not like dealing with mere mortals. He is the oldest Harlequin, the talon of the Dark Lord.”
“All the more reason to work together.”
She stared at him, her eyes dark and fathomless.
Understanding struck. “You have a plan, you always have a plan.” She said nothing but the glint in her eyes gave proof to his words.
Steffan leaned towards her. “I can help you.”
Still no answer.
Steffan decided to roll the dice. “You could use me.” He waited, balanced on a knife-edge.
“Finally the truth.” Her gaze raked across him. “You’re cunning, and comely, and still favored by the Dark Lord…and you give great pleasure in bed.” Her voice caressed him and he grew hard in spite of himself. “This time we’ll do it my way.” Her eyes gleamed with wicked intentions as she rose from the throne. A slit on her gown revealed a flash of shapely white thigh. She prowled down the dais like a predator, her scent surrounding him in a haze of suggestion. His nostrils flared, breathing deep, sandalwood and something else, something mysterious and wantonly sexy. “I remember that scent.” His manhood strained towards her, like iron to a loadstone.
“I wore it on our first night.”
His imagination exploded.
“Come.” Her voice purred down his spine as she led him to a side door. Sundered by her scent, by every curvaceous detail, he followed, his gaze drinking her in, imbibing her like a heady wine. Graceful and evocative and curvaceous, she led him on a shimmering tease down the long hallway. Enamored by the view, he grew engorged by every sultry detail. Torchlight flickered across silky skin as she slowly shed her gown, leaving a diaphanous trail. Steffan walked as if in a trance. He tripped and nearly fell. And then he noticed the smooth marble floor had given way to rough cut stone. Stairs descended down. For half a heartbeat Steffan wondered if she led him to the dungeons, but then he caught a whiff of her scent and he did not care.
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 20
