Choosing among the bejeweled baubles, he clad himself in power.
Of all his focuses, there were two he valued above all others, two that were never far from his hand. One was the red crystal from the Staff of Pain. The staff itself was a confection of iron fashioned to reflect the menace of a wizard’s staff combined with the regal authority of a king’s scepter. The Mordant was not above using symbols to dominate, but the staff itself was ordinary iron. The true power resided in the red crystal fixed atop iron prongs. A shard of crimson quartz as long as his middle finger, the crystal held the power of pain, inducing excruciating agony in any foe within sword-striking distance. To wield the crystal, the Mordant merely needed to imagine the torture and his foe felt the affliction. How delicious to watch an unsuspecting enemy drop to the ground and writhe in torment, merely by flexing one's will. The crystal of pain provided a power he'd found extremely useful over many lifetimes. Removing the red crystal from the staff's crown, he placed it deep in his right pocket.
The second focus he cherished above all others offered a far subtler power. He fingered the medallion-shaped cameo carved from bone. The sculpture depicted a two-faced head in relief, a man gazing to the right, a woman to the left. The two-faced relief hinted at the power lurking within. How rare to find a magic that only served a harlequin. Pinning the cameo brooch to his butternut-brown cloak, the Mordant stepped before the full-length mirror...and willed his appearance to change.
His face began to melt. His reflected features danced and morphed, as if a second face sought to escape from within. His nose grew more bulbous, his eyebrows becoming thick and bushy as caterpillars. His blond hair darkened to black with faint streaks of gray. His chest filled out with muscles and the beginnings of a beer gut. So uncanny to watch the changes, yet he felt only a faint tingling of magic across his skin. The Mordant studied the mirror, focusing on each detail, willing them to change till they matched his memories. Satisfied, his new visage slowly annealed, locking into place.
The Mordant staggered, feeling the sudden drain in power. Magic always took its toll...but it did not take him long to recover.
Straightening, he stared in the mirror.
A face from another lifetime peered back. A man of middling years with sun-weathered skin and salt and pepper hair. He'd chosen the face of a ruthless general, although none now alive would recognize it. His new face had the maturity to be believed without being too memorable. Already clad in tailored clothes of non-descript brown, the Mordant relaxed his stance, slouching to fit the role of a moderately successful merchant. He practiced walking before the mirror, pretending he carried more weight and more years. Beneath the altered image, he wore the vital body of the young monk. Relying on memories from another lifetime, he walked like an older man, his weight centered in his gut.
A pity the cameo could not make him younger, or fitter, or stronger, for the transformation was pure illusion. The Mordant peered in the mirror, studying the changes. The only visible detail that remained the same was the cameo brooch pinned to his cloak. For some reason, the brooch had to remain visible or the illusion would vanish.
Fortunately, the brooch was an oddity that seemed to fit almost any illusion. Cameos were rare, and the quality of the sculptured profile was exquisite, implying a master's hand, but the materials were ordinary bone and brass. The cheap materials belied its priceless value, diverting covetous eyes.
Satisfied with his appearance, the Mordant buckled on a belt with a heavy purse of coins, and then he remembered the malachite coin, his latest acquisition. Acquired from the pocket of a murdered monk, the coin remained a mystery, yet it offered the promise of more power. He fondled the malachite coin, willing it to waken. Determined to keep it close, he lodged it deep in an inside pocket.
Locking the ironbound jewel box with his remaining focuses, he returned it to a larger chest. Locking the chest, he reset the poisoned needle.
Wearing the face of a stranger, the Mordant stepped from his solar.
A snargon of the duegars and two assassins waited for him, all three clad in common street clothes. The snargon's nostrils flared wide, scenting the presence of powerful magic, while the two assassins stood poised to deal with any intruders. Staring with wary eyes, their hands dropped to their daggers.
The Mordant wielded the crimson shard, spiking the three with pain.
The two assassins stiffened, their hands convulsing on their daggers, while the snargon dropped to his knees, groaning in agony.
The pain lasted for only a heartbeat, just enough to prove his true nature. Passwords could be stolen or bought, but the crystal of pain was his to wield.
The snargon climbed to his feet and bowed low. "My lord, the Mordant, what will you have of us?"
"My name is Master Cahill, a wealthy wine merchant, and I'll have you three escort me into the queen's city. Dolf and Corlin, you're to stay a discreet distance away, keeping watch in case you are needed. Tonkin, stay closer, but only speak to me if you scent magic. If the monks dare to draw near, I expect to be forewarned. Otherwise, the three of you are to stay in the shadows, while I weave some magic of my own. It is time to besmirch the queen's good name."
"As you command, my lord."
He led his escort out into the cobbled street. His three shadows quickly scattered, disappearing into the supper-time crowd. The Mordant walked among the queen's people, Darkness cloaked in deceit, and they knew it not. Such a colorful crowd, young and old, rich and poor, busy with their tiny lives. The chaotic jumble grated against the Mordant, so starkly different from the ordered pattern of the Dark Citadel. Studying the sounds and scents of the city's everyday life, he followed the flow till he found a popular tavern, the perfect place to sow his lies. The Mordant smiled, reveling in his role as the Deceiver. The queen thought he'd come to play chess, but this was the true game. He looked forward to an evening of spreading lies. There was nothing quite so powerful as a lie believed. And none were better at selling lies than the Mordant.
12
Liandra
Magic to quicken a child. The thought teased and tormented the queen's mind till she could think of nothing else. Liandra yearned for another child, for Robert's daughter, lost to foul poison, the murderer still lurking within her castle. For Danly's twin sister, murdered in her womb, Danly's birth cord wrapped around her neck in a deadly stranglehold. Liandra had buried two fresh-birthed daughters. The bitter losses still cut like spears to her heart, inflicting wounds that never healed. Four times the queen had swelled with child, and four times she'd carried the babes near to term, yet only one child lived, her firstborn son and only heir...and now he rode to war against the Mordant. As a woman, Liandra yearned for the daughter she'd never had...as a queen, she needed to secure her royal line...and her throne.
In everything else, she'd succeeded, but not this, as if the gods mocked her for being a woman who dared to rule.
Magic to quicken a child. She was still young enough to bear one more babe, one more chance to ease the ache in her heart, one more chance to bring security to her throne. And if the magic could ensure a multiple birth, all the better. As a woman and a queen, it was a chance she had to seize.
But how to do it?
Liandra considered summoning the princess to her solar, but it seemed too formal, too pointed...so she contrived a casual meeting instead. Three days later, her shadowmen brought word that the princess practiced archery in the castle's courtyard, the perfect opportunity.
Sunlight danced across the plush carpet, providing a believable alibi to stroll the castle's parapets. Abandoning the mountain of dispatches heaped on her desk, Liandra set her quill aside. "The sunlight beckons, we shall take a walk on the parapets."
Lady Sarah looked up from her knitting. "Shall I join you, majesty?"
"No, you look content. We shall take Sir Durnheart."
"As you wish, majesty."
Liandra settled a delicate lace shawl across her shoulders, more for adornment than warmth,
and swept from her solar. She dismissed her guards save for her knight protector. Sir Durnheart followed at a discreet distance, the hilt of his great blue sword rearing over his right shoulder.
Maulkin, one of her shadowmen, a plain-looking man clad in dark clothing, stepped from an alcove. "This way, majesty." He led her through the labyrinth corridors of her castle and out onto the perfect parapet for viewing the archery butts. Arrows thumped targets with a deadly rhythm, belying the bright beauty of the day. Below in the courtyard, the princess of Navarre practiced with two of her guards...and Lord Cenric. So the forest lord was back from the south. He cut a dashing figure with his broad shoulders and flowing cloak of peacock feathers.
The queen watched from the battlement as they skewered targets with arrows. The princess was good, but the forest lord never missed the target's heart. Their skill at archery was expected, but what took the queen by surprise were the warm smiles and easy comraderie that passed between the two. So the princess was smitten with the forest lord...but then half her court swooned over the man, including Lady Sarah. But as she watched, it seemed to the queen that the cat-eyed archer was equally bespelled by the petite princess. What an interesting and unexpected turn of events. Liandra considered how to use the relationship to her advantage.
Princess Jemma noticed the queen watching from the battlement. She smiled, giving a bright wave.
The queen motioned her shadowman near. "Invite Princess Jemma to walk with us on the parapets."
"As you wish." Maulkin strode towards the nearest doorway.
Laughter drifted up from below. The queen watched as the archers reclaimed their arrows, comparing scores. They unstrung their bows and wiped down the staves, the feather-cloaked lord hovering close to the petite princess.
Her shadowman appeared below, interrupting the charming tableau.
Lord Cenric looked up, his strange cat-eyes glinting golden in the sunlight. He offered the queen a nod, the only homage his stiff-necked pride would allow. Turning back to the princess, he won a smile from her face, and then sauntered off like a regal peacock strutting among drab pigeons.
The queen had to admit that the forest lord gave good strut...but he was hardly a proper suitor for a princess royal.
Maulkin returned with the princess in tow.
"So nice to see you enjoying the sunshine, majesty." She gave a graceful curtsy despite wearing a suede jerkin over leather pants. Her mannish garb was distasteful to the queen's sensibilities, but Liandra had to admit that the formfitting leather showed the princess's petite curves to excellent advantage.
"Spring has finally come south. We could not resist a stroll beneath the sun-warmed sky. Walk with us." The queen turned to walk the parapet at a leisurely pace, the princess falling into step beside her. "You are an excellent archer, my dear, but we believe Lord Cenric won the day."
"He's an uncanny shot! I've never seen him miss the target's heart. When it comes to the longbow, there are none better in all of Navarre."
The princess gushed like a love-struck girl. "And do you practice with him often?"
"As often as I can. He's helping me hone my skills."
The queen cast a sideways glance toward the princess. "And are you sure it is the target's heart he's aiming for?"
The princess fell silent, a blush heating her face.
The queen considered her protégé, still so young yet so blazingly competent. "Springtime love can be heady as an elixir," the queen softened her voice, "but never forget you are royal born. The crown is your true destiny."
"The crown of Navarre is a longed-for possibility...not a certain destiny."
So it was as serious as that. The queen took a different tack. "The forest lord cuts a dashing figure. Half my court swoons over him, yet what do you really know of him? He seems...so much older?"
"He is older." The princess's blush deepened, but a stubborn glint shone from her eyes. "And he was married, but his wife recently died of the flux. It's one of the many reasons he answered the Treespeaker's call to lead his rangers to the aid of Lanverness."
"And we remain extremely grateful for that aid...but you seem to know quite a bit about forest politics."
"He talks to me."
"The surest way to win the heart of a quick-witted woman. Your archer does indeed know how to hit the target."
The princess stopped, her face changing from embarrassment to chagrin. "Do you think me a fool?"
"Never that." Liandra's heart went out to the young woman. "But you are young and full of so much promise. We do not wish to see you make a mistake."
"And you think he's a mistake?"
Such a knife-edged question. The queen resumed walking. "Lord Cenric has proven himself to be brave and stalwart. He is proud and carries himself with noble bearing, and he certainly cuts a splendid figure in his peacock cloak...but does he bring Navarre any political advantage besides archers?"
"Always politics." Her voice held a bitter edge.
"Always a queen. If you thought with your head instead of your heart, you would say the same."
"But I am thinking with my heart," wonder brightened the young woman's face, "for the first time in my life!"
So it was worse than she thought. "Be cautious. That is our best advice. For love is a poison that eats wits."
Defiance flashed across the young woman's face. "Yet the most capable queen to rule in all of Erdhe nearly bore a love child."
The dagger struck close to the bone. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the queen froze as if ice were armor.
The princess gasped, dropping to a deep curtsy. "I'm so sorry, majesty, that was unkind and uncalled for."
The queen recovered her mask. "Uncalled for, yes, yet it proves you have not lost your wits...or your claws."
The princess blanched pale. "I'm so sorry, majesty, but I'm so confused. There must be a way to serve the crown...and also have love."
Such a heartfelt plea, Liandra ached for the young woman despite her ill-considered words. "That is the riddle, the true challenge for a queen who dares to rule." She beckoned for the princess to rise. "Come, walk with us. We royal women must stick together, for all the world is against us."
The princess fell into step beside the queen. For a while they said nothing. Walking in companionable silence, they gazed from the crenellated ramparts across the bustling heart of Pellanor. Spring brightened the queen's city with fresh leaves budding on trees, herbs sprouting in gardens, and window boxes laden with flowers. Like a new gown, the fresh green color lent Pellanor an air of hope and renewal, but the illusion was marred by the sound of hammers striking stone, proof the defensive wall slowly grew to surround her city. A walled city. Liandra had never wanted that for Pellanor...but war changed many things. Another reason she needed a spare heir. "Tell us of this forest lord who has captured the heart of a princess."
Delighted by the queen's prompting, the princess launched into a monologue of archery lessons, long walks, intimate dinners and small kindnesses. The queen listened intently, gleaning insights to the forest lord and his reclusive people. The princess painted a picture of subtle courtship and small delights, yet the queen sensed they'd not yet slept together. Liandra kept her relief to herself, glad that young love had not entirely trampled royal wits and proper decorum.
The princess fell silent. "A copper for your thoughts?"
The queen smiled. "We trust they are worth far more than a mere copper."
The princess waited, an anxious look in her green eyes.
The queen stepped carefully. "It is easy to see his allure, and he is a lord of the forest...but would your father, the king, approve?"
"What do you think?"
"You are his daughter. You know King Ivor better than we do."
The princess looked pensive. "What if you were to write him? To vouch for Lord Cenric?"
A favor for a favor, just the opening she'd hoped for. "We might consider it. You are like a daughter to us and Lord Cenric has done much to aid Lanve
rness."
The princess brightened. "And his people are gaining acceptance in Erdhe. Just the other day I saw Durin in the market and his golden cat-eyes barely caused a stir."
"How was the mood in the marketplace?" The queen steered the conversation towards commerce and market gossip. As always, the princess provided a remarkable crop of insights. Liandra enjoyed discussing the state of her kingdom with the princess, but when the ideas began to wane, she broached the question close to her heart. "We heard something interesting the other day, that the royal tuplets of Navarre are quickened by magic. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Yes?" So the Prince of Ur was right. The queen's hopes leaped. "Such a small answer for such a large question."
The princess shrugged. "Magic is feared by most people, so while we do not deny it, neither do we trumpet it from the castle ramparts."
"We've always known the royal line of Navarre was extremely fecund...but we never considered magic."
"Most people don't. They can't consider what they don't believe."
"Since the death of Lord Turner, we've come to believe in many things. Those glowing red eyes of the harlequin haunt us still." The queen suppressed a shudder. "We confess that magic seems like a force for evil...but if used to quicken a child, it would be a boon to any woman."
"As heirs to Navarre, we were taught that magic is like a sword, the intent depends on the hand that wields it."
"How does it work?"
"Magic?" The princess gave a light laugh. "You'd do better to ask a philosopher."
"No, the magic that quickens conception, how does that work?" The queen held her breath, hoping, yearning.
"I do not know. It is a closely kept secret held by the king and queen and one other. The knowledge is only passed once the new monarch is chosen and accepted."
The queen listened closely but she heard no guile in the young woman's voice...but neither did she get the answers she so sorely needed. Liandra decided to set subtleties aside and joust straight for the target's heart. "Can this magic be shared?"
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 7
