The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  A smile creased his face, a glimmer of light in his sea-blue eyes. “My daughter of the sword,” standing, he pulled her to her feet and embraced her. “You are a vision!”

  “Thank you for the armor.”

  “Your Wayfaring gift. Your mother embroidered the surcoat herself.” His voice turned gruff with emotion.

  Jordan struggled to swallow her own pain. Caressing the exquisite embroidery, made dearer by her mother’s own hand, she said, “I’ll cherish it always. I wish…” her voice broke.

  Her father pulled her close. “I know. So do we all.” For a hundred heartbeats, he held her close, and then he stepped away, a determined look on his face. “You ride to war…and to glory.”

  Jordan hugged his words close. To have a father who not only saw her for who she truly was but valued her for it…that was a gift beyond compare. “Thank you, father. I will do my best for Navarre.”

  “I know you will.” He turned and lifted a silver half-helm from the side table. “This is for you.” The helm flashed bright in the sunlight, a sea eagle sculpted on the crest, but what caught her gaze was the crown. A delicate gold crown circled the helm, cresting waves interspersed with rosebuds. “I had the crown added at the last minute, rosebuds for Lanverness and waves for Navarre.” He offered it to her. “For my warrior daughter who will be the next queen of Lanverness. You make me proud, daughter, so very proud.”

  “Thank you, father.” Cradling the helm in the crook of her arm, she stared at him, struggling to hold back the tears. “Keep safe, father.”

  “And you.”

  There was one more thing she needed to say, her words laden with worry. “I’ve kept watch from the tower tops, hoping to spy Juliana’s sails.” Jordan fervently prayed she hadn’t sent her sister on a death quest. “When Juliana comes, and I pray she comes soon, tell her I’m sorry to have missed her.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  Jordan gave her father one last kiss and then stepped back. Saluting the king, she walked from the throne room. Down the tower stairs and through the castle hallways, she saw none of it, acutely aware that she was leaving her childhood home behind. A pair of guards rushed to open the outer doors. Jordan strode from shadowed grief into blazing sunshine. Blinking at the brightness, she found the others waiting in the courtyard, her companions from the Southern Mountains. Thaddeus caught her in a bear-hug. “Keep safe, princess.”

  “And you.” Jordan returned his warm embrace and then stepped away, growing weary of goodbyes. “Are you sure you can’t?” Having come to rely on the Zwardmaster’s friendship and steady wisdom, Jordan knew she’d miss him more than she cared to say.

  “Wish that we could, lass, but we serve the Grand Master.”

  Jordan already knew the answer, but hearing it made her feel even more bereft, as if she’d become insignificant with the loss of her visions.

  Thaddeus leaned close, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t think that way, lass. You heeded the gods’ call and now the future is yours to decide.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “Your dream is also your destiny, that’s a rare thing in this life. Seize it and never let go.” Stepping back, he gave her a jaunty smile. “You’ll make a difference with your sword.”

  The swarthy swordmaster had a knack for knowing just what to say. “I’ll miss your wise counsel.”

  He flashed a rogue’s smile, but she could tell he was touched. “I know.”

  “Keep safe.”

  “And you.”

  She bid her goodbyes to the rest of the Zward and to the monk, Yarl, and then turned to Rafe. “Are you ready?”

  Clad in plain brown leathers, the young monk flashed an eager grin. “I’m ready.” Handing her the reins to an eighteen-hand warhorse, Rafe swung into the saddle of a sturdy roan gelding. Jordan settled the crowned helm on her head and vaulted into the saddle. Her dappled stallion pranced beneath her, spirited and proud, his silver-white coat flashing bright as steel in the sunlight. A pair of guards opened the outer gates, admitting a tangy breath of sea air. Saluting her friends, Jordan gave her stallion his head. The dappled silver leaped to a gallop. They burst through the castle gates, clattering down the ramp and onto the causeway. The tide was out, the turquoise sea retreated. Beds of mussels and bright green anemones lay exposed on either side of the long causeway, the glittering gardens of the sea. Like a magical road, the long causeway stood high and dry, threading a straight path from the castle to the shore. Jordan urged her stallion to a full gallop. Flying across the causeway, she escaped the castle’s grief. Reveling in the stallion’s speed, in the warmth of the sunshine, and the beauty of the turquoise sea, she loosed a joyous laugh, realizing the swordmaster had the truth of it; life was a destiny waiting to be seized.

  She reached the end of the causeway, galloping between the sentinel statues; two giant ospreys chiseled from black basalt. Jordan steered her stallion along the north shore, throwing up clods of wet sand. Slowing to a canter, she surveyed in the view, storing the details in her memory like a keepsake. To the east, the capital city gleamed white in the sunshine, limestone houses climbing the coastal hills. Shaped like a crescent, the white city embraced the harbor, a jewel of turquoise with Castle Seamount thrust up from a spit of land like a dark sword, straight and proud. The beauty and tranquility pierced Jordan’s soul, a city worth fighting for.

  Turning away from the sea, she rode towards the tournament field. An army awaited her. Drawn up in ranks, their battle banners rippled in the steady sea breeze. Two thousand well-trained soldiers clad in blue and red checked tabards of Navarre stood in disciplined columns. Half were pike men, the other half skilled archers. An additional twelve hundred levies swelled the ranks. Clad in leathers and homespun browns, they’d came from villages, towns and farms, answering their king’s call. An undisciplined lot, they sprawled across the hillside, looking like a rag-tag crew, but all of them carried longbows. Jordan smiled to see them, knowing their bows would take a fierce bite from any foe.

  A cluster of officers rode towards her. Major Colson snapped a smart salute. “The army awaits your orders.”

  “And the supply train?” A line of wagons clogged the southern road.

  “Ready to follow.”

  Jordan cast one last look toward the sea, hoping for sails on the northern horizon, but the ocean remained stubbornly empty. Her gaze snapped back to her officers. “Then it’s time we marched north. Give the orders.”

  Officers cantered away, bellowing commands. Wailing conch shells echoed against the hillside, prodding the army to motion. Battle banners billowed and snapped in the wind as the army began to move. Marching in unison, the pike men led the way, their twenty foot pikes angled against their shoulders, steel spear tips glistening like a thicket raised to the cloudless sky.

  Roused by the sight, Jordan asked her stallion for a rear. Standing in the stirrups, she unsheathed her sword and raised it to the heavens. “For Navarre and the Light!”

  “Navarre and the Light!” The men roared her war cry.

  Sheathing her sword, Jordan cantered the length of the column. Taking her place at the front, she slowed her silver to a brisk walk, the solid tramp of boots following behind. A baritone voice bellowed a sea chantey and the men took up the song, tramping to the lively beat. In high spirits, they marched away from the sea, passing through the city gates. Jordan grinned, feeling the tug of glory. She knew battle was a grim business, full of death and dying, but war offered a noble glory to those who fought for a worthy cause. If Darkness dared to invade, then she yearned to make a difference with her sword…and she’d have Stewart by her side. An irrepressible grin filled her face. To battle and to glory, she rode her horse north to war.

  39

  Liandra

  Liandra took the long way, deliberately letting the emissary stew. Delay was a tactic of statecraft the queen had long perfected. When she finally arrived at her solar, Sir Durnheart was already there, standing guard by the doorway. A vision of knightly splen
dor, his great blue sword reared over his shoulder, his armor burnished bright, he bowed his head towards her. “Majesty.”

  The emissary from Ur whirled, his anger quickly subsumed beneath a diplomat’s smile. Tall and gangly, the emissary towered a full head over Sir Durnheart. Tanned bronze by a southern sun, his dark skin made the silver ring piercing his right nostril all the more startling. A thin chain ran from his nose ring to a silver collar at his neck, marking him as a chained servant of Ur. Clad in long silken robes of brilliant purple trimmed in gold, he bowed towards her, an exotic stork wrapped in bright plumage. “I greet thee in the name of my master, the Twelfth-fold prince of Ur.”

  “Had we but known of your wish for an audience, we would have been here to welcome you.”

  “Your majesty is here, now.” Flashing an enigmatic smile, the emissary gestured to the shadows. “We bring you a gift from our master.” A small man in purple livery stepped forward carrying an ornate box.

  Another gift, yet the queen wondered if such lavish gifts implied friendship or a hidden threat. “Your master is generous with his gifts.”

  “It is our way.”

  At the queen’s gesture, Sir Durnheart opened the door. The queen swept into her solar, leaving the others to follow. A pine-scented fire crackled in the hearth, a bottle of red wine breathing on the side table, proving Lady Sarah had set the tableau. The queen took a seat in the throne chair, basking in the fire’s warmth. Offering a smile to the emissary, she gestured to the opposite chair. “Please join us.”

  The chained servant folded his large frame into the straight-backed chair. Beneath his purple cloak, his tanned chest was bare, a wide silver belt cinching a long skirt of pleated white linen. Obviously suited to warmer climes, the queen found his fashion both odd and unsettling. “You’re not bothered by the cold of the north?”

  “Before one gains the chain of service, one is inured to small discomforts such as heat or cold.”

  She knew so little of Ur, all of their customs seemed strange and bizarre. “How long have you worn the chain of service?”

  “This one has been bound since his thirteenth year.” Pride rode his voice, as if it was a great honor. “But I am insignificant compared to the glory of my master, the twelfth-fold prince of Ur.” He gestured to his servant. “Please accept this gift in the name of my master.”

  The servant stepped forward proffering an elaborately carved wooden chest.

  The queen gestured to a side table. “Set it here.” Placing the box on the table, the servant withdrew. The queen’s gaze flicked to Sir Durnheart. Hovering a sword’s length away, the knight made a subtle hand sign indicating that he’d already examined the gift and found no threat.

  The queen examined the small chest. Elaborately carved from rosewood, the box itself was a masterpiece. Knights and wizards battled dragons and hellish beasts, a carved battle raging across the top. Liandra ran her hands across the exquisite detail, wondering at the message beneath the design. The top hinged on two opposite sides. Opening the lid, she found a chessboard inside. Darkest ebony inlaid with squares of polished abalone shell, the chessboard was stunning. Lifting the board into the firelight, Liandra was ambushed by its rare beauty. The abalone squares rippled with smoky colors, beautiful as muted rainbows, while the ebony anchored the board with a pattern of darkest shadow. Smoky iridescent shell contrasted with ebony’s deepest black created a breathtaking effect. Light against Dark, the board shimmered in the firelight as if it held a wizard’s enchantment. “We have never seen its like.”

  The emissary smiled. “My master will be pleased to learn of your pleasure,” he gestured to the box, “but more awaits you.”

  Setting the board aside, the queen looked inside. Nestled in purple velvet sat a chess set unlike any she’d ever seen, one worthy of the magnificent board. The black was carved of ebony, winged dragons for the knights, a bearded wizard for the king, a sultry sorcerous for the queen. Twisted gargoyles served as dark pawns. But the queen was drawn the green figures. Carved of malachite, the green was even more alluring. Armored knights rode rearing stallions, the king and the queen both stately figures, the pawns carved as stalwart foot soldiers with twin roses inlaid in their shields. Liandra reached for a knight, marveling at the detail. Each figure was a hand span tall, exquisitely carved with small sapphires inset for eyes. Cunningly wrought, and weighted on the bottom to keep them from toppling, each piece begged to be played. “Stunning!”

  The emissary nodded towards her. “My master also plays chess. Having heard you are a player of some repute, he wishes to meet you across the chessboard.”

  “Your master is here? In our city?”

  “Within a fortnight, he will arrive.”

  The emissary was full of surprises. “We must prepare a royal welcome, a reception in the grand audience hall, a royal feast, perhaps a dance.”

  The emissary waved his hand like a fluttering bird. “There is no need. My master wishes to meet the queen who rules before he meets your court and your people.” He gestured to the box. “He prefers to begin with a quiet dinner and a game of chess.”

  Such an odd but interesting request, Liandra felt her curiosity quicken. “Your master intrigues us.”

  The emissary chuckled. “He intrigues us all.” His face sobered. “May I tell him you will accede to his request?”

  “We will be delighted to meet him across the chessboard.”

  “Excellent.” The emissary stood. Bowing toward her, he turned to leave.

  Startled by his abrupt retreat, the queen said, “Wait.”

  The emissary turned.

  “We wish to offer your master accommodations within our castle.”

  “There is no need. My master bid me purchase a manse within your fair city. We have been preparing for his arrival.”

  Feeling off balance, the queen said, “Did you purchase a suitable manse?”

  He nodded. “The former owner was a Lord Nealy. The manse has a most impressive wine cellar.”

  She knew the manse, a pretentious and overly gaudy confection in the heart of the wealthy district. “Is wine important to your master?”

  The emissary shrugged. “I live to serve.” He bowed again. “I will send word when my master arrives.” Gathering his cloak, he strode towards the door, his servant on his heels.

  At the queen’s gesture, Sir Durnheart followed. She’d given orders for her shadowmen to trail the emissary. The queen intended to keep a closer watch on the servants of Ur.

  Lady Sarah emerged from the far room. “Another gift?”

  “It seems the prince is full of them.”

  “What does it mean?”

  The queen considered the chessboard. “That he likes chess, that he’s wealthy and gives exquisite gifts, that he prefers private meetings to audience halls, in short, it means that the prince is an intriguing mystery, a royal conundrum. And,” she fingered a malachite knight, “he knows us too well.”

  “You’re intrigued.”

  “Intrigued, yes, but leavened with a healthy dose of apprehension.”

  “Yet you’ll play him.”

  The queen flashed a predatory smile. “Chess is an excellent way to plumb the mind of an opponent, be they friend or foe.”

  “Which is he?”

  “We’ll hope for a friend and plan for a foe.” Liandra set the chess piece aside. “Bring our jewel box.”

  Lady Sarah crossed to the far room, returning with the carved box.

  The queen fingered the design, depressing the secret lever. A hidden compartment opened. A skeleton key set on a silver chain rested within, the key to Castle Tandroth’s hidden passageways. Liandra set the slender chain around her neck, hiding the key within her bodice. “Do you have yours?”

  Lady Sarah delved into her bodice, displaying a twin to the queen’s key.

  Liandra nodded. “Keep it with you always, for we fear Darkness draws near.”

  The Priestess Chapter 40

  Haunted by the nee
d to know, the Priestess climbed the tower to her scrying chamber. For nigh on three moonturns, the Mordant had remained hidden from her sight, a dire malevolence cloaked in impenetrable murkiness. Never before had she been so denied. Night after night, the Mordant thwarted her will, defying the power of the Eye. Like a subtle poison, the not-knowing festered in her soul, gnawing at her like an intolerable threat…but no longer. Fresh from sex, the Priestess thrummed with power, determined to unmask the Mordant’s secret.

  Dark of the moon, a perfect night for scrying. The Priestess shivered in anticipation, the night’s silky darkness magnifying her power. Shuttering the windows against the faint starlight, she knelt, settling the great moonstone into the scrying bowl. The water hissed and bubbled, but the power of the Eye prevailed, turning the water to an inky blackness. The scrying bowl presented a mirrored surface…perfect for reflecting Dark deeds.

  The Priestess cast her will upon the dark waters. “Show me the Mordant, the oldest of the harlequins.” She held her breath, waiting, watching the mirrored surface. For the longest time, she saw nothing. Anxiety clawed at her, surely she would not be denied. The Mordant’s absence proved both infuriating and worrisome. Such a Dark power should never be left to roam unobserved, like welcoming an assassin to your bedchamber. Goaded by pride as much as need, she gripped the sides of the scrying bowl, hurling her will upon the Eye. “Show me the Mordant, the oldest of the harlequins!” The air sizzled with her command. Like a tether to her soul, power flowed out of her, pouring into the great moonstone.

  The moonstone quickened. Images danced across the scrying waters, faint and indistinct, too blurry for detail. Frustrated, she focused her will, demanding clarity. The image sharpened, showing a familiar face. The Mordant, so close his bearded face filled the scrying bowl...as if he stared at her! Fierce with power, his gaze pierced hers! Startled, she flinched away, losing her focus.