Ignoring the women, his gaze sought the dark shadow standing next to the blazing hearth. Corlin, one of his master assassins, answered his unspoken question. “All is in order. The food and wine both served from your personal stores.”
The Mordant surveyed the room, thick carpets covered a hard-packed dirt floor, fresh silk sheets on the pallet that served as a bed, fragrant steam rising from a cast-iron tub set before a roaring fire. “It will do. See to your men. The women will attend me.”
Smooth as a shadow, the assassin slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Attend me.”
His women rose, surrounding him with soft touches. They stripped him of his travel-stained clothes, a trail of kisses running down his naked chest. He endured their caresses, letting his need build, and then he had his way with them, indulging his every desire. Finally sated, he sank into the heated tub, sipping wine while his women washed him with rosewater. Rising from the tub, he stood before the fire while his women toweled him dry. Replete and drowsy with warmth, the Mordant slept on silken sheets.
Light filtered through the chinks in the mud-daubed farmhouse. He woke rampant with appetite. Potency, like youth, was a fleeting gift, meant to be indulged and savored, but after a thousand years his tastes had grown complex. His three lovelies knew just how to please. The Mordant took his fill and then he supped on dried figs and sweetmeats. Having sated both his appetites, the Mordant stood naked before the blazing fire, his arms stretched wide. “Time to change colors.”
His women opened the cedar chest, pulling sumptuous clothing from within.
Like a bird molting from winter’s drabness, the Mordant spurned his dark colors. Putting off the black, his women clothed him in rich fabrics of velvets and silks, purples trimmed with gold, the raiment of a powerful prince. It seemed gaudy after his blacks, but at least the Empire of Ur had a worthy symbol, the Great Wyrm, a golden dragon eating its own tail, the circular symbol emblazoned across his chest. An ancient symbol, he wondered if the Urians even remembered the deeper meaning. The eater of worlds, the destroyer of life, a fitting symbol for the long-awaited endgame of this great Dark Dance. Amused, the Mordant flexed his muscles, satisfied with the fit.
His women hastened to finish their work. Crimson fastened a shimmering cloth-of-gold cape at his shoulders while Amber buckled a jeweled sword at his waist. Sable knelt before him, offering him a pillow strewn with jewelry. Magnificent rings fashioned from gold, beset with emeralds, onyx and amethyst, elaborate dragons eating their own tails. Pretty baubles yet their true worth lay hidden in the details. Focus-stones endowed with ancient magics were wrought into the rings, a collection gathered over many lifetimes. Jewels glittered on each finger, power hidden beneath wealth’s facade.
“My lord, you look magnificent.” Crimson held a mirror aloft and the Mordant studied the transformation. Tall and blonde, his beard neatly trimmed, a young princeling stared back at him, his face open and honest, just a hint of arrogance in his stance. The monk’s body served him well. Armored with lies and deception, the Mordant stood gird for battle. Satisfied, he strode from the farmhouse.
“Attention!”
Instead of a band of mercenaries, a royal guard snapped to attention in the drizzling rain. Bedecked in purple and gold, his men stood in perfect formation, purple banners fluttering from their spear tips. Even the horses were curried and their tack polished bright, a proper escort for a powerful prince. Major Tarq offered the Mordant a crisp salute, while Bishop Borgan scurried to serve, the plump cleric dressed in the silken robes of a seneschal. “Everything is as you ordered, my prince.”
The oily-tongued cleric even got the Mordant’s stolen title correct. Such attention to self-preservation was ever the hallmark of a good bishop. “And the chests?”
The cleric gestured and a pair of soldiers rushed to open the barn doors, revealing a wagon pulled by a team of white oxen, piled high with ironbound chests. The driver cracked the whip and the oxen lumbered into motion, plowing deep ruts in the mud. The wagon would blunt his speed but the chests were a necessary part of the deception. “Good. My horse.”
Two soldiers emerged from the barn leading a magnificent white stallion, his mane braided with gold bells, a bejeweled saddle on his back. One soldier held the reins while the other dropped to his hands and knees in the mud. The Mordant stepped onto the soldier’s back and swung into the saddle. Accepting the reins, he surveyed his escort.
The farmhouse door opened and soldiers emerged carrying his women across the muddy yard. Swathed in sumptuous traveling robes, they wore thick veils lest their beauty be sullied by the gaze of commoners. Soldiers settled the three women atop caparisoned palfreys. They rode sidesaddle in the center of the troop, princely jewels of another sort.
Impatient to be gone, the Mordant issued a terse command. “Burn it.”
Torches were lit and thrown into each of the buildings. Weathered wood crackled like dry tinder, the fire licking skyward. The Mordant set his spurs to his horse, leaving flames billowing behind him. He’d changed his colors. Bedecked in deception, the oldest harlequin rode for the heart of Lanverness. It was time to break a queen.
37
Liandra
The queen swept into the council chambers, a rustle of amber silk and a dazzling flash of royal jewels. Her loyal lords leaped to their feet, bowing toward her. Winnowed by war, her small counsel had shrunk, shorn of traitors and the faint of heart. In the queen’s eyes, their stalwart qualities far exceeded their lack of numbers.
Liandra took a seat on the oak-carved throne at the table’s head. In Prince Stewart’s absence, Major Ranoth, her military advisor sat on her left. Master Raddock, her deputy shadowmaster, sat on her right while Lord Highgate was away in the north. Liandra offered a smile to Princess Jemma, relieved to see that grief’s harsh yoke was lessened to a bearable sorrow. As a staunch ally and the senior emissary of Navarre, the princess was a most welcome addition to the queen’s council. At the far end of the table sat Lord Cenric, looking dashing and wildly exotic with his golden cat-eyes and his shimmering cloak of peacock feathers. Lord Cenric was rarely in Pellanor, but when he was, Liandra welcomed the cat-eyed lord to her council, hoping to bind him close as a trusted ally. Liandra smiled at the feral lord and received his usual stiff-necked nod in reply.
Her gaze circled the table, noting the harried looks on her councilors’ faces. Lord Sheldon, Lord Saddler, Lord Rickman, her newly appointed treasurer, Lord Canning, and her new scribe, Lord Grange completed her small council. All of them were overworked, taxed by the need to recover from a war barely won, while preparing for the next. Hard times made for hard tasks. “We will start with the war.”
Major Ranoth unrolled a map across the oak table. Brightly painted, the velum portrayed a detailed rendering of cities, castles, forests and rivers stretching from the Delta to the Dragon Spines. A carved wooden knight painted emerald green served as a marker representing the Rose Army. “At last report, the Rose Army is located here, just southeast of Balor. Aside from minor skirmishes, they’ve met with little resistance. So far the greatest challenge is finding food. The collapse of the Flame plunged the countryside in chaos. Food and fodder are both scare. We’ve ordered supplies brought up from Kardiff.”
Lord Saddler asked, “What of Balor?”
Master Raddock answered, “Our reports indicate a divided city besieging itself. The last bastion of the Flame priests seeks to rise from their own ashes using their people as tinder. Balor is a war-torn charnel house.”
Lord Saddler looked to the queen. “What of the refugees that we sent back to fight the Flame?”
The queen felt the question’s sting, a bitter barb to swallow. “War makes hard choices. We can finish the Flame or we can drive north to deter the Mordant, but we cannot do both. The refugees knew the risks.” Her voice carried an ominous tone. “We have chosen to confront the greater evil. For the sake of Erdhe someone must.” Her gaze circled the table and found n
o protests. Only Princess Jemma looked away, her face pale, a reminder that her brother, Prince Justin, led the refugees in Balor.
The queen addressed the princess. “What of Navarre?”
The princess answered, her face composed. “The king has called the banners, summoning archers from every village and hamlet. Combined with the army and the guards, we hope to raise a force of four thousand, more than half of them skilled archers.”
Major Ranoth bowed towards the princess. “So many archers will make a formidable force. When will they march?”
“Within the fortnight. They’ll march north and join the Rose Army at the Snowmelt River.” The princess added a tight smile. “My sister will lead them.”
Liandra stared, ambushed by the sally. “Our daughter-in-law?”
“Yes.”
Outrage strangled the queen. By the Nine Hells, we need a daughter-in-law who rules from a throne and births heirs, not one who fights with a sword. Liandra struggled to contain her thoughts. Bridling her anger, cold calculation took over. The true weight of her son’s decision hit hard, like a lethal sword thrust to the abdomen. “It seems our only heir and our only daughter-in-law both ride to the same battle.” Her words carried a sepulcher doom. “Lanverness risks all in this war.”
She watched the others blanch as the risk hit home.
Dead silence reigned for a hundred heartbeats.
Lord Rickman was the first to rally. “Majesty, perhaps you could…”
The queen forestalled him with a cold glare. “Our son and his children will wear the Rose Crown after us. We shall not sully the Tandroth line by choosing some distant eighth cousin from the distaff side.”
Her councilors flinched from her gaze.
“The matter is closed.”
Anxious ‘ayes’ circled the table, but more than a few lacked conviction.
The queen let her counselors stew, feeling her displeasure. After a sufficient silence, Liandra turned her attention to the cat-eyed lord. “Lord Cenric, will your people join this war?”
“The Treespeaker is aware.”
It was not an answer. Liandra waited but no more was said. The queen fought the urge to pry a response from the feral lord. The cat-eyed archers had proved a boon, saving her city and her crown, but their pride was notoriously prickly. Deciding she dared not risk their ire, at least not at the council table, the queen turned her gaze to Major Ranoth. “And the enemy, where are they?”
“To the best of our knowledge, they continue to hold Raven Pass.”
“They’re holding it, not advancing?”
The major nodded. “So our scouts indicate.”
“Why?”
“Only the Mordant knows.”
The mere mention of his name cast a chill upon the chamber.
The queen rallied her counselors. “The longer they sit in Raven Pass, the longer we have to prepare. Time is a gift we’ll not waste.” She turned to Lord Saddler. “How goes the wall.” She’d learned the value of stout walls from the Flame War, ordering better battlements built around her capital city.
“Every stonemason and bricklayer within a hundred leagues has been hired. They work night and day to raise battlements on the cobbled buildings and erect new gates. We’ve made good progress on the northern section…but it is ugly.”
“War is an ugly business. Finish the wall, for we fear we shall have need of it.” The queen’s gaze turned to Lord Sheldon. “Our city teems with refugees. Too many farmers cower in Pellanor, seeking the illusion of safety. We need them to return to the land.”
The lord nodded. “My constables patrol the main roadways, hunting bandits, deserters and pockets of enemy soldiers. We hang them as fast as we catch them. The crossroad trees groan under the weight of the dead. My constables feed the crows and ravens, making the countryside safe, but the people are reluctant to believe.”
“Then they must be persuaded.”
Lord Sheldon shrugged. “How do we make them leave?”
The queen considered the problem. “People respond to a carrot or a stick. In this case, we shall use a mild switch.” She gestured to her royal scribe. “Issue a royal proclamation levying a tax on all inns, hostels and wayhouses within the great city of Pellanor.”
“A bed tax?”
“No, a head tax.”
Some of her counselors groaned in protest, most notably those who invested in inns, but the queen raised a hand forestalling their argument. “Taxes serve to fill the royal coffers, but they also influence behavior, as most sane people try to avoid them. In this case, we need the people to leave Pellanor and return to the land. A head tax will encourage that. This tax will be enacted immediately, a twenty percent charge added to the price of a room. Let it also be written that this tax shall be revoked on the first day of summer of this very same year. We do not enact this tax for benefit of the royal coffers, nor is it meant as punishment, rather it is intended as a mild goad to get our people back on the land. The spring harvest must be planted and the livestock must be husbanded or all of Lanverness will suffer. So let it be written into law.”
Her scribe’s quill scratched across parchment.
The queen’s gaze circled the table. “Any questions, comments, complaints?” When no issues were raised, she stood. “Then this counsel is dismissed.” Liandra extended her ringed hand for her lords to take their leave, but she kept her gaze on Lord Cenric. Before the feral lord could slink away, she said, “Lord Cenric, will you walk with us?”
Turning from the door, he nodded toward her. “As you wish.”
Dismissing the others, she offered the cat-eyed lord her arm. He took it, leading her out through the doorway. Courtiers pounced like a pack of hungry dogs, but she waved them away. He led her through the marble corridors, a pair of royal guards following at a discrete distance.
“We wonder how your people fare in Onet Forest?”
“Many great-grandfather trees rule the forest and clean streams tumble down from the Southern Mountains, a good place for my people to settle.”
“And Crown Hill?”
“The Flame invaders despoiled many trees, but under our protection the forest will thrive again.”
“And how do you find Pellanor?”
He flashed a pointed grin her way. “The stench is appalling but your markets are fascinating. My people have rarely tasted the pleasures and pitfalls of a stone city.”
“We trust your people feel welcome.”
He gave her a solemn nod. “Some are still unsettled by our eyes, but my people are more welcome in Pellanor than anywhere else in Erdhe…but you did not cull me from the herd to speak of my people.”
“True.” The queen stopped, staring up at him, a dashing figure in his peacock cloak. “We wanted to ask you about the war. Will you fight?”
“We are here. Our bows will help protect Pellanor and its queen.” He nodded to her, a courtly gesture.
“And what of the battle in the north?”
“The Treespeaker will decide.”
Always the same answer, “Yes, but when will she decide and what will her decision be?”
“I do not pretend to know the Treespeaker’s mind…but this Darkness is also our enemy.”
“So you’ll fight?”
For the longest time, he did not answer. His voice dropped to a reluctant whisper. “We are fewer in numbers than you think…but do not underestimate the Treespeaker.”
She stared at him, trying to fathom his golden gaze, but his cat-eyes proved inscrutable. Realizing she’d get nothing more, the queen said, “We would hear more of your Treespeaker.”
Rapid footsteps approached. Liandra turned to find Lady Sarah rushing towards her. Her haste sent a warning to the queen. Turning back to Lord Cenric, she said, “It seems the duties of a queen come calling. We hope to speak with you another time.”
His gaze flicked between the two women. “I ride for Onet Forest on the morrow. We can speak more on my return.” Turning with cat’s grace, he stal
ked the marble hallway with a brisk stride, his peacock cloak shimmering in the afternoon light, an exotic wild-lands prince in her cultured court.
Lady Sarah’s gaze followed the archer’s broad shoulders like a bee stuck to honey.
The queen sidled close. “What is it?”
Flustered, Lady Sarah tore her gaze from the archer. “It’s Lord Frederinko, the emissary from Ur.”
The emissary of Ur, she’d barely thought of the man with so much else on her plate, yet this sudden reminder seemed like an ill-omen. The queen kept her voice level. “What of him?”
“He haunts the door to your solar, refusing to leave until he’s had a private audience.”
A private audience, a pity Robert is still in the north. The queen gestured to her two royal guards, putting them on alert with a subtle hand sign.
A shadowman stepped from behind a pillar. “My queen?”
“Find the Knight Protector and bring him to our solar.”
Bowing, the shadowman sped away.
Turning to Lady Sarah, the queen said, “Come, let us see what Ur wants.”
38
Jordan
The armor was a gift from her father. Supple chainmail polished mirror-bright, a dove-gray surcoat with Navarre’s emblem embroidered in rich colors across the chest, and a new shield emblazoned with red and blue checks surmounted by a white sea eagle with wings spread wide. Everything fit perfectly. Jordan belted on her sword of good Castlegard steel and then twirled her checkered cloak around her shoulders, both gifts from Stewart. She stared in the mirror and a warrior maiden stared back. A smile flickered across her face but her eyes remained solemn, her dreams and her destiny entwined.
Taking a last look at her childhood bedroom, she went to bid farewell to the king. She found him in the throne room, sitting alone on the Driftwood throne. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting waves of blue light across the chamber, as if he sat beneath the sea. Grief had aged her father, his blond hair faded to silver-white, his eyes sagging with sadness, yet he sat on the throne with quiet dignity. Jordan ached to see him so. Crossing the lapis floor, she knelt before him. “Father, I ask for your blessing.”
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 23
