The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  A guard raced to open a bronze door.

  He followed her into the moonlight, a spray of stars overhead. Chilly night air rushed to embrace him, but it did nothing to cool his ardor. They stood in a rocky grotto, cave walls bathed by moonlight. Steam rose from a bubbling hot spring, a cauldron of frothing water, releasing a faint scent of brimstone.

  “You’re going to like this.”

  He had no doubt.

  She began to undress him, her hands making every movement a caress. She found the knife at his back and the one in his boot but it only seemed to amuse her. For a while, she lingered over his belt, slowly drawing out the leather, and then he stood naked in the moonlight, blowing streams of mist into the chill night air like a beast on the verge of a rampage.

  “Not yet.” Her whisper restrained him.

  His nostrils flared, a stallion chasing a mare in heat.

  She reached for an amber bottle, pouring a libation of oil on his chest. Slippery and smooth and smelling of herbs, it released an inner heat. Her hands followed the oil, igniting every part of him. A torture of touch, her fingers trailed down and around, clutching him tight.

  Breathing like a bull in rut, he struggled to maintain control. “I can’t wait.”

  “If you want it, you must swear.”

  This was madness. “Swear what?”

  Her lips cascaded down his chest. “You know.” Her fingers did something unmentionable. He strained with need, bucking against her hold. Fingernails raking against tender flesh, she constrained him, driving him to a frenzy. It was too much to bear. “I swear!”

  “Do it now.”

  He ripped the last vestige of silk from her shoulders and then lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his oil-soaked hips. And then he took her, like a stallion mounting the moon. Over and over again, he screamed his lust into the night, staking his claim to her. And when he was finally sated, his whole body quivering with ecstasy, he carried her to the lip of the frothing spring. Still inside of her, he tumbled them into the water.

  Heat embraced him. The deep-seated heat soothed his every muscle. Separated by the fall, Steffan floated to the frothing surface. Lying on his back, he stared upward, entranced at the stars. He felt as if he floated in a dream. “What have you done to me?”

  A throaty laugh was the only reply. And then she was next to him, her hands finding all the right places. “Let me show you what it’s like in water.” He turned to embrace her and nothing else mattered.

  33

  Liandra

  Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows bestowing a flush of colors on the marble gods. Liandra found the princess grieving in the royal chapel. Pale in a gown of dark velvet, Princess Jemma knelt before the statue of winged Marut, the goddess of justice. Her hands clasped, her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, every line of her body bespoke prayer alloyed with grief. Dismissing her guards at the door, the queen crossed the checkered floor, a soft rustle of emerald silks. “We grieve for your loss.”

  Startled, Princess Jemma looked up. Tears glistened in her eyes. “A messenger came today…my mother…” her voice broke. She struggled to swallow a sob.

  Such courage, such beauty, Liandra ached to see the pain etched on the young woman’s face. “Sometimes grief has to be shared in order to be endured. Come and sit with us.”

  Wiping her tears, the princess rose, following the queen to the royal pew. Elaborately embroidered pillows softened the oaken bench. The two women sat side by side beneath the soaring vault. Pierced by sunbeams, the stained glass windows illumed the chapel with dazzling colors. Ruby reds, sapphire blues and emerald greens, the jewel-box colors painted the stone-carved lacework with vibrant hues. A delicate confection of polished stonework melded with light, so beautiful it soothed the soul. Staring at the soaring ceiling, Liandra imbibed the chapel’s peace. “My mother died in childbed, giving birth to my stillborn brother. I barely remember her…but I grieved hard for my father.”

  The princess shook her head in bitter denial. “My mother wished ill on no one. She did not deserve to die…” her voice cracked with grief.

  “She must have been a marvelous woman.”

  “She found pleasure in the smallest things. A colorful seashell washed on the beach, a sea eagle’s feather found on the rampart, a rainbow at sunrise, she found joy in them all, yet she was always the queen, and always…our mother.” Stories poured out. For more than two turns of the hourglass, the princess shared memories large and small. Liandra listened to the emotions laced beneath the words. By the time the sun dipped towards a russet sunset, the princess’s sharp grief had bled to a bearable sorrow.

  Falling silent, the princess cast a grateful glance toward the queen. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome, my dear.” The queen swallowed her own emotion. “We wished for you to be our own dear daughter-in-law.”

  “I know. In many ways, I wished for it too. But Jordan will make your son very happy and she will be a fine queen.”

  “And what of you?”

  The princess stilled. “The murder of the Royal Is was terrible…but mother’s loss will break my father’s heart.”

  The queen waited.

  “Father will pass the crown.” The words were spoken with sadness underscored by cold conviction.

  “Will you reach for it? Will you dare to try for the seaside crown?”

  “Reach for it, no, though I dearly want it.” The princess shook her head. “No, the seaside crown must be freely given. The king and council will decide what is best for the kingdom. It is our way.”

  Such a worthy woman to wear a crown, “They could not choose better.”

  “Thank you, but we shall see. The council chooses the heir best fit to serve the times. Dark times are upon us.”

  “Just so.” The queen studied her apprentice. “So you won’t return to Navarre?”

  “Not unless bidden.”

  “We are pleased to have you by our side.” The queen had to ask. “Having lost the Rose Crown, can you be content with the crown of Navarre?”

  “Yes!” A spark gleamed in the princess’s eyes. “It’s the challenge, you see. Lanverness is so well run, the treasury full, prosperity shared among the people,” the princess shrugged, her cheeks blushing, “the next queen will feel like a caretaker!”

  Liandra was smitten by the compliment.

  “In Navarre, I’ll have the chance to build something fresh, to steer the kingdom in a new direction.” She flashed a competitive smile towards the queen. “A chance to grow Navarre till it rivals the prosperity of mighty Lanverness!”

  A knowing smile flashed between the two women. The queen well understood the deep-seated need to grow a kingdom, to spread prosperity, to make an indelible difference. The princess truly was the daughter of her heart. “We shall welcome Navarre’s prosperity. All of Erdhe will be richer for it.”

  The two women sat in companionable silence, sharing dreams as grand as the chapel’s soaring stonework. The sunset deepened to a crimson glow, painting the chapel the color of dried blood. Queen Liandra shuddered at the ill-omen, her mind turning from dreams to threats. “Darkness reaches for Erdhe.”

  The princess’s voice dropped to a grim hush. “I know.”

  “All of our dreams will be for naught if the shadows are not defeated.”

  The princess had no reply.

  Liandra stared aloft at the delicate confection of lace-work stone, the soaring vault imbued with an airy grace, now drenched in bloody twilight. “In such a chapel, one almost expects the gods to care.”

  “Do you think they listen?”

  “They must, for evil is real, and without their help, our chances are bleak…yet we’ve always felt the gods help those who help themselves. We dare not sit idle.”

  Mired in worry, the two women watched the fading light. Twilight colors dimmed, quenching to darkness, but once the sun set, the candlelight flickered and glowed. Pinpricks of light that had seemed insubstantial i
n the day held the darkness at bay. Candles of light, if enough people held the light in their hearts then perhaps darkness could be defeated by mere mortals. Strength in many, Liandra held to the slender thought, for she knew dire darkness threatened all of Erdhe.

  34

  Steffan

  Steffan woke naked and sticky, groaning as the morning’s dim light pierced the shutters. Rolling over, he kicked an empty wine goblet from the bed. His hand groped beneath silken covers, finding nothing but a tangle of sheets. Another empty bed. Steffan cursed the dark-haired Priestess. His manhood stood rampant, eager for another tumble, yet he had nothing but his own hand for satisfaction, a dull choice compared to the dark-haired vixen. Memories of the night assailed his mind, her scent lingering on his skin. His ache grew to a throb. Just thinking about the woman made him hungry, but no matter how hard he rode her through the night, the mornings were always the same. He always woke alone. The empty bed mocked him; the Priestess took this business of ruling far more seriously than any woman should.

  Frustrated, he rolled from bed and made a quick toilet, splashing cold water from the basin across his arms and chest. Steffan shivered, the water chilly enough to dampen even his ardor, such a waste. Ransacking a chest, he pulled on leather riding pants and knee-high boots, a warm jerkin of the finest crushed velvet and then twirled his black cloak around his shoulders. Almost as an afterthought, he buckled his sword belt at his waist. A princely gift from the Priestess, he’d come to favor the sword, a fine rapier with a jewel-encrusted hilt, the weapon of a lord. Making a quick rake through his raven-dark hair, he strode from their chambers, descending the tower stairs two at a time.

  His boot heels rang with authority against the cultured stone. Servants in the purple and gold livery of the moon bowed at his passing. He snagged a goblet of wine from a servant’s tray. “Where is my lady?”

  “I believe the queen is in the audience chamber, my lord.”

  The queen, the title alone was enough to sour his stomach. Steffan quaffed the wine in one long draught, taking the edge off his thirst. “Of course she is.” He tossed the empty goblet upon the tray and continued down the hallway. Rounding the corner, he found a pair of soldiers guarding the jeweled butterfly doors, but instead of snapping a salute, their halberds crossed with a clash.

  Steffan gave them a venomous stare. “Announce me.”

  The guard on the left fidgeted but the one on the right looked resolute. “The queen gave strict orders, my lord.”

  “What orders?” His voice was a dangerous growl.

  “Orders that the Lord Steffan was not to be admitted.”

  Steffan drilled him with his stare but the guard did not flinch. “You dare refuse your lord?” he twisted the words like a dagger, but the guard remained statue-still. Steffan glowered, wondering if the man’s stiff loyalty had been bought between bedroom sheets. He wouldn’t put it past her. Anger spiked through him, but arguing would only diminish his standing. “No matter.” He turned on his heels, his black cape flaring behind him, and strode toward the outer doors. “Tell the queen, I’ve gone riding.”

  At least the outer guards had sense enough to rush and open the doors in his path, a sop to his pride. Ignoring the guards’ salutes, he strode from the keep into the brisk morning air. Rain spattered his face, the sky laden with dark clouds, another gloomy day. He crossed the courtyard and entered the stables. “Saddle my horse and be quick about it.” A stable hand leaped to obey, entering the stall of his black gelding. “Not the black, I’ll take the red.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Samuel threw him a reproachful look before slipping into the red’s stall. The stallion bellowed. Ironshod hooves thundered against the doors hard enough to split skulls. The stable lad yelped and cursed but eventually got the roan saddled. Eighteen hands high and trained for war, the roan had a demon’s temper, but Steffan enjoyed the challenge. Accepting a leg up, he vaulted into the saddle. A flick of the reins and the roan burst into a full gallop. They thundered out of the stables and into the yard. Guards scrambled, scattering to avoid the stallion’s hooves. Steffan charged the outer gates like a demon loosed from hell. At the last moment, the gates swung wide and they sped into the countryside. Steffan laughed, feeling an oppressive weight slough from his shoulders. He reveled in the keep’s luxuries, but he could not abide the woman’s cloying airs. Putting spurs to his mount, he rode cross-country.

  Escaping the keep’s shadow, he galloped through the surrounding woodlands and orchards, everything cloaked in the budding green of spring. Rain beat against his face, but he did not care. Riding low in the saddle, he let the stallion have its head, the countryside becoming a green blur. He pressed for more speed. The Priestess was a boon in the bedroom but a bitch in the council chambers. This business of ruling had gone to her head, and now she barred him from the audience hall. Him, the Lord Steffan Raven, the true ruler of Coronth, the general of a holy war, a leader of men, yet what had she done besides spread her legs? Fury pulsed through him, it wasn’t right for a man to be set below a woman; it destroyed the natural order of things.

  Lightning flashed overhead releasing a cold torrent of rain.

  Suddenly drenched, the storm quenched Steffan’s rage. Mopping the wet hair from his eyes, he slowed his stallion to a walk. Old-growth trees crowded close to the trail. He’d ridden far, farther than usual. A chill of foreboding shivered down his back, perhaps he should have brought his guard. His stallion snorted and reared, nearly throwing him. Regaining his balance, Steffan settled his mount, “It’s just rain,” but he wondered if he spoke the truth. Lightning forked overhead, adding a threat to the forest gloom. And then he saw them. Armed men blocked the trail. Filthy and unshaven, bits of red hidden amongst homespun brown, they looked like a rough lot. Deserters most likely or soldiers turned brigands. Steffan stole a glance behind and found a dozen more sealing his retreat. He swore under his breath, his hand stealing to his sword.

  “No need for that, my Lord Raven.”

  The title alone was enough to give him pause. “Who dares bar my way?”

  “A bishop seeking a lord.”

  Steffan hesitated, sensing a trap of a different sort. “The religion of the Flame is banned by the Lady of the Moon.”

  “And such a sin it is. That’s why we’ve come seeking a lord instead of queen.”

  Cautiously interested, Steffan pressed for more. “Does this bishop have a name?”

  “Bishop Tilden of the fourth brigade.”

  The name sparked a memory, a dangerous man and a dangerous claim, for only the most fanatical of bishops served with the Flame Army. “The name is familiar, but as I recall the bishop was plump of face and wore finer robes.”

  The man shrugged. “Hard times make hard men.”

  Steffan crossed stares with the cleric, matching memories to the face, finding enough details to be satisfied. “What do you want?”

  “A lord who knows the worth of good men.”

  “You mean a lord who pays?”

  “You were always quick, Lord Raven.” The cleric cracked a hungry smile. “Preferably in gold.”

  “And in return?”

  “Sixty sharp swords at your beck and call, ready to do any service. And I do mean any service, m’lord.”

  He liked the suggestion, a band of secret swords at his beck and call, a hidden edge to counter the arrogance of the Priestess. “Why not offer your swords to the queen? Her gold is as good as mine.”

  The cleric hawked and spat. “The witch has a way of looking inside of a man. She won’t take priests, and never a bishop.”

  Even better, Steffan suppressed a grin. “And how will I reach you?”

  “You like to ride in the mornings. Wear a red cloak and one of us will find you along the way.”

  “And if I can’t leave the keep?”

  The cleric grinned. “We’ve got a few mice tucked within Silverspire’s walls. Get word to one of them and your whispers will be heard.”

  Steffan wai
ted but no names were forthcoming. Making his decision, he pulled a purse from his belt and tossed it to the cleric.

  The bishop made an easy grab, the purse hitting his hand with the resounding chink of heavy coin. Tugging on the drawstrings, he poured gold upon his palm. More than one brigand gasped at the sight. With practiced ease, the bishop vanished the coins beneath his cloak. “At your service, my Lord Raven.”

  “I left that title at the gates of Pellanor.”

  “Another thrice-damned queen,” the bishop spat. “We’ve all got pasts that are better buried.”

  “And the mice?”

  “A stable hand named Samuel, a scullery lad named Hinton, and a pot boy named Gill.”

  Where there were three mice there were bound to be more. Steffan knew the stable lad. “You’re using children?”

  “Sharp ears and sharp eyes, the boys all served as acolytes to the Flame.” The cleric sneered, “Your witch delves men but she can’t be bothered checking the children.”

  So she isn’t perfect, the words gave hope to his plans. “So we have a deal?”

  The cleric gave him a half bow, “We do, my lord.” The bishop gestured and the brigands melted back into the forest.

  Steffan set spurs to his stallion, his mind ablaze. His luck had not deserted him. He’d gained unexpected allies, a hidden dagger at his beck and call. Steffan laughed, feeling the Dark Lord’s guiding hand return to his shoulder. Plans churned in his mind, the Priestess would ignore him at her peril. The Lord Raven was back in the game, and this time the prize would be his. Grinning, he turned for the keep, urging his horse to a gallop. “One lifetime is not enough!”

  35

  The Priestess

  The Priestess sat upon a throne gained neither by marriage nor inheritance but by the dint of her own hand. Having carved a kingdom from the corner of Coronth, she raised her moon banner above a royal keep and set a crown upon her head, yet despite her triumph not a single monarchy acknowledged her court…till now. When the messengers first brought word, she’d scoffed at the notion; a doomed kingdom extending a hand of friendship to the Oracle Priestess, but then curiosity got the better of her. Uncertain times made for uncertain bedfellows. She decided to answer the letter. Promising safe passage, she instructed the emissaries to arrive in the early morning, the better to shield them from Steffan’s prying eyes.