The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6)

by Karen Azinger

  His footsteps slowed to a reverent hush. One did not lightly disturb the peace of the Great Archive, yet it seemed to him there was no better place to discuss the sword.

  Heads turned as he passed. Blue-robed masters rose from their chairs, abandoning their studies to follow the sword. He strode to the heart of the archive, to a large table lit by sunlight, and there he placed the sword. A sword summoned by an illuminated scroll, he shivered at the thought, proof the sword should be discussed among the ancient histories.

  Monks and masters gathered around, a flock of blue-robed scholars.

  He waited till the gathering stilled and then he spoke, shattering the silence. "An Illuminator has come among us."

  Gasps circled the gathering. Masters who were usually stone-faced, gaped. Little wonder they looked amazed, for high magic of this sort had not been seen in the monastery for nigh on four hundred years.

  "Who?"

  "An acolyte, a sixteen-year old girl."

  Amazement rippled around the table.

  Master Carlisle, a half-blind ancient with pale wisps of white hair haloing his wrinkled face, raised a quavering voice. "We should not be so surprised."

  The others stilled to listen.

  "The turning of an Age is upon us. Wonders and terrors will abound."

  "But a mere child of sixteen?"

  Master Carlisle answered. "One of the very reasons we keep the young ones sequestered is so they do not know how much has been lost. We teach them the ways of Illumination and then give them the chance to try. They believe it is possible, while we, with all our learning, believe it is not. That is why a child has succeeded where so many masters have failed."

  "Where is this prodigy of a child?"

  Master Rizel answered. "Smitten by a deep swoon after the invoking, Master Adelbart and the others are carrying her to the healery, to the care of Master Garth. High magic always exacts a great toll."

  "Why this sword?"

  "Master Adelbart said the child was drawn to the Sword Codex. She said the swords of old are needed in the Darkest times."

  "Out of the mouths of babes."

  "The gods work in mysterious ways."

  A murmur of assent rippled through the room.

  Master Felix bent over the sword, examining the runes. "I see from the maker's mark, this sword was forged by Orrin."

  The masters stilled for all were well familiar with the name of the last great wizard of the Kiralynn Order.

  Master Rizel felt their stares fix on him, potent with questions. He lifted the sword so all could see the details. "The sword does indeed bear Orrin's mark. When the Illumination was read in the scriptorium, the child Named this sword in the summoning." His gaze circled the others. "This is Invictus, the last blue steel blade forged by Orrin Surehammer."

  Many masters blanched pale, recognizing the name...yet not all remembered.

  "Forged by one of our own."

  "The sword returns to its true home, sent to protect the monastery."

  Anger blazed through Master Rizel. "This sword does not belong here! It was never meant to be wielded by a blue robed monk. Knowledge, magic and quarterstaffs, these are our weapons, not steel. This sword belongs in the hands of the Octagon Knights."

  Master Felix bristled. "Yet it is here, within our cloistered walls, a boon of the Light."

  "It came to us because we hold the sole knowledge of Illumination."

  "Exactly!" Felix pounced, his eyes aglow with conviction. "And that precious knowledge must be protected at all costs!"

  "At the cost of all of Erdhe? I think not!" His gaze roved the others, finding a mixture of support. "While we dither, Darkness conquers!" His voice sparked with warning. "Those who serve the Light often fail because they watch rather than act."

  Felix countered. "Exactly! We dare not let the last bastion of Knowledge fall."

  Rizel glared. "Knowledge unwielded is wasted. We must take the fight to the Mordant. This sword must go to the Octagon." He held the sword aloft. "You are all steeped in history and lore. I trust you recognize the name if not the blade's design? This is Invictus," the name alone sent a chill down his spine, "the sword forged for the end of days, for the Battle Immortal!"

  Many monks startled at the revelation, but Felix continued to bluster. "All the more reason to wield it in defense of the monastery!"

  Arguments erupted among the gathering, a discord of voices.

  Master Carlisle rapped his cane on the table. A startled silence returned. The ancient master gave them a baleful glare. "Arguments will not avail you. While we debate, Darkness acts, Darkness prevails. Summoned by Illumination, this sword, wrapped in legend and prophecy, comes to us at a time when the red comet hangs low in the sky. This sword is a matter of the Battle Immortal, a matter only the Grand Master can decide. May his wisdom ever be guided by the Light."

  An uneasy truce prevailed.

  "By the Light." Agreement rippled through the gathering. The others began to disperse.

  Felix gave him an angry glare, but he quelled his arguments...for now.

  Master Rizel stared at the sword, certain in his soul it belonged in the hands of the Octagon Knights, yet Master Carlisle had the truth of it. The sword's fate would be decided by the Grand Master...may his wisdom ever be guided by the Light.

  23

  The Knight Marshal

  Blood-spattered and mud-smeared, the marshal spun to a halt. The battle was over, yet he was not tired...but his armor was covered in gore. He wiped at the filth and found more filth. He no longer had a sigil or a color…unless it was blood and mud, the colors of war. How fitting, he flashed a hungry grin, his stare roving the mountain trail. Corpses littered the mud-soaked ground, proof of his prowess. A few twitched and moaned, the dying among the dead, but none dared to stand against him. Look at their cloaks…but he nudged the nagging thought aside. Flush with victory, he held the dark sword aloft as if challenging the gods.

  Laughing, he roamed the battlefield, seeking a foe.

  "Help me!" A helmeted soldier crawled through the mud. "Water! Give me water!"

  A kneeler! Anger flashed through the marshal. In three strides he was on the man, the Dark Sword whispering a keening wail. With single slice he took the head and then hacked the body to pieces. He could not abide kneelers, cowards who refused to fight.

  *Invincible...we are invincible!* The Dark Sword crooned a siren's song in his mind.

  The marshal knew the sword spoke the truth. He’d lost track of how many battles he’d won, how many men he’d killed. The battles became a blur of ecstasy, the dark sword alive in his hands like a living legend. Every fight was a thing of beauty, a celebration of slaying. His foes fought as if encased in rusted armor. So slow, so obvious, he anticipated their every move, dealing death with every blow. Wielding the Dark Sword, he moved through the battlefield like a whirlwind, like a scythe…like a god!

  No enemy blade ever touched him. He emerged from battle without a nick, without a scratch. He did not tire, he did not ache, he did not hurt…he felt young! Yet he was always hungry, and his empty eye socket itched something infernal, like a thousand stinging nettles, but otherwise he felt fit as a stallion, eager for the next battle.

  *Wield me! Wield me and I will make you a god!* The Dark Sword whispered promises drenched in glory. The ichor of victory thrummed in his very veins. He dreamt of battle, he dreamt of war...till he could think of nothing else.

  "Osbourne!" A stranger's voice echoed through the green-fledged mountains.

  The marshal whirled, spying a lone knight on the ridge top. A fresh foe, he vaulted into the saddle, wheeling his warhorse toward the knight.

  "Remember the maroon!"

  He spurred his stallion to a frothing gallop, keen to fight.

  "Remember Castlegard!"

  The enemy knight sat mounted on a warhorse yet he did not move. He did not flee and he did not charge, a riddle sitting on the ridge top, a sentinel blocking the trail.

  "Reme
mber King Ursus!"

  The marshal charged toward the enemy at a full gallop. Standing in the stirrups, he raised the Dark Sword over his head for a two handed cleave.

  The enemy never flinched. Empty handed, he sat upon his horse, a battleaxe strapped to his side, the pommel of a great sword rearing over his right shoulder. Gird for war, yet the foe hurled nothing but empty words.

  *Kill him!* The Dark Sword slavered for another soul.

  Enraged, the marshal stretched to his full height, the Dark Sword held poised to strike. He'd cleave the knave from shoulder to groin, cutting him in half with one fell stroke.

  "Remember your honor!"

  So close, he could see the knight's sad eyes and drooping mustache...a familiar face.

  The marshal hesitated.

  The knight raised his shield, a maroon octagon emblazoned on burnished silver. Sunlight reflected on the polished surface, skittering across the marshal's face. Dazzled by the light, he was pierced by latent memories. Lothar! The marshal twitched his stallion aside, but it was too late. The two warhorses collided with a thunderous crash. His stallion kept his footing, but the other buckled from the blow. The knight tried to leap clear, but his boot tangled in the stirrup. The knight's horse toppled backwards, throwing his rider to the ground with a bone-jarring crash.

  The Dark Sword descended like a scythe, keening for blood.

  Wide-eyed, the knight stared up at him, pinned beneath his horse. "Osbourne!"

  *Kill him!*

  The marshal struggled to slow the blade, a grim tug of wills.

  The Dark Blade swept downward, yet he willed the blade's descent to slow...to stop. The sword stopped a hair's breadth from the knight's throat.

  Enraged, the Dark Blade keened for blood. *Kill him!*

  The marshal yanked the blade away. Struggling to prevail, he roared his frustration at the fallen knight. "Are you afraid?"

  The knight did not answer.

  "You should be!" The marshal turned aside.

  The felled horse whinnied. Snorting with effort, it lumbered to its feet and then shied away, shaken but not harmed.

  The fallen knight remained sprawled on the ground, his face ashen, his shield sigil-down in the mud, his hands well away from his weapons.

  The marshal turned his horse in circles, carving a path around the fallen knight. "Why won't you fight me?"

  "For the same reason you won't slay me."

  Memories intruded, unwanted memories. Caught between the sword's desire to kill...and his strange need to spare this man's life, the marshal pulled his stallion to a halt. Such a familiar face, a name flitted in and out of his mind. "Do I know you?"

  "Lothar...my name is Lothar...and you are the knight marshal of the maroon."

  The words beat against him...but they found little purchase.

  "Look at my face, look at my surcoat...we are brothers, we are friends!"

  The face was familiar...and so was the surcoat. Lothar...his friend, his brother-in-arms. Memories came crashing back. And then he noticed the blood. Blood beaded across the knight's throat in a thin hairline slice, a cut that could have taken his head. Horror roared through him, realizing that he'd nearly slain his friend. "Lothar...run!"

  The knight shook his head, his words coming in a tumbled rush. "You're losing your soul to the sword. Better if you give it up and come back with me. The Octagon needs you. We need the marshal back. Come with me. Come back to the maroon."

  Memories of brotherhood, of friendship shared, roared through his mind...but they were soon drowned by the Dark Sword's clamor. *Kill him.* The marshal shook his head, struggling to quell the command, struggling to hold on to his humanity.

  The knight tried one last plea. "Come back to us and lead us to victory!"

  Victory, the word roared through his mind like a battle cry, but the Dark Sword gave victory a new meaning. The marshal gripped the peerless blade, his gaze skewering the knight. "Run, Lothar. Run if you value your life!"

  24

  Alric

  A bell chimed in the mountain mews. Alric leaped from his pallet, grabbed a lantern and scrambled up the stairs to the tower top. A brisk wind blew in through the open windows, carrying a bone-numbing chill, a gift from the snowbound peaks. Alric reached the tower's crown, shuddering against the cold despite his fur-lined cloak. A great frost owl sat on the central perch. Regal and seemingly impervious to the mountain chill, the owl's snowy-white feathers glistened in the lantern light, its eyes glowing like golden orbs. "You're a beauty." Alric used his soothing voice. The owl bated his wings and the bell chimed again, triggered by the owl's weight, or perhaps by its impatience. Frost owls were uncommonly clever birds, the pride of the mountain mews.

  Carefully setting the lantern aside, he pulled on a thick leather gauntlet. "Such a beauty, yet I'll wager you've had a long flight." Alric murmured sweet nothings, his tone mattering more than his words, his voice calm and soothing as a caress. From the pouch at his belt, he took a choice tidbit scavenged from the monastery's kitchen. With his gauntleted hand, he offered the owl a chicken liver. The great owl looked hungry, yet he took the offering with a delicate snap of his curved beak. "There you go. You're home now, safe from your long journey." Alric fed the bird, curbing its hunger. Twice more the bird bated, ringing the bell.

  "No need for that, you've got my attention." He fed the bird till it was well and truly settled. Tugging off his gauntlet, Alric stroked the bird's downy chest before working on the leather jess. He checked the embossed mark. Castlegard, the name of the great castle shimmered in his mind like a legend. "You've flown a long way, little wonder you're so hungry." With deft fingers, he removed the small bone-carved message tube secured by the jess. "That's it, my beauty." Calming the owl with his voice, he settled the precious tube deep in his pocket. He tugged the gauntlet back on, the leather sleeve rising nearly to his shoulder, a protective sheath against the owl's sharp talons. Tempting the bird with another savory tidbit, he offered his forearm to the great owl. "Come, my beauty, we'll find you a warmer perch."

  The frost owl accepted the bribe, hopping onto Alric's forearm.

  The perch bobbed in the absence of the owl's weight, causing the bell to chime overhead.

  "Whoooooo" the great owl hooted his inquisitive call.

  "Just me, my beauty, me and your winged brethren." Taking up the lantern, he carefully carried the owl down the central stairs. Other frost owls slept on their perches, their white feathers glinting in the lantern light. A few stared at him as he passed, watching with their golden eyes. Of late, the mews had been busy, frost owls flying from all parts of Erdhe, bearing messages to the mountain monastery, but this was the first from Castlegard in a long while. He wondered what tidings brought this one so far south, but the message was not his to read.

  Finding an empty perch, he settled the great frost owl next to an owl newly come from Salmythra. "There you go." He filled the food bowl, watching to make sure the owl was content, and then he raced down the remaining stairs. A welcome warmth flowed up from the mage-stone floor, heated by the thermal springs, another wonder of the monastery.

  Tugging off the leather gauntlet, he plunged his hands into the basin, quickly washing. Raking his fingers through his sandy-blond hair, he straightened his golden robes and tidied the knot of his rope belt. Only an acolyte yet he knew the mews was his true calling. The scriptorium and all its scholarly studies held little appeal. He'd learned to read well enough, and he was even better at maps, but Alric much preferred spending time with the magnificent raptors. The other acolytes could keep the scriptorium with all its musty scrolls, for Alric chased loftier dreams. If the gods favored him, perhaps he'd show an aptitude for magic and gain a chance to wield one of the owl rings. To soar like a frost owl, to fly above the mountain peaks, nothing could be more glorious.

  "Whoooooo," an owl hooted as if reminding him to hurry. Golden eyes watched him from the rafters.

  Unlatching the door, he stepped from the tower into the
brisk wind. Spring came late to the mountains, the lofty peaks refusing to shed their snowy cloaks. Hunched against the biting wind, Alric scurried across the courtyard. Stars glittered overhead in the endless vault of night. The moon had already set, proving the lateness of the hour. Most in the monastery would be fast asleep in their beds, but one master was always assigned to receive the owl-borne messages. Alric fingered the bone message tube tucked deep in his pocket, wondering at its tidings.

  The rune-carved door creaked open as he slipped inside. Warmth embraced him, as if he'd stepped into summer. Torchlight glittered in the long hallway, dancing along smooth mage-stone walls. Calligraphy filled every hallway, the elegant script entwined with illuminated knights and castles, a reminder of dire prophecies. Intent on his mission, Alric sped past the calligraphy with nary a glance, making his way to the open doorway.

  He heard the soft sound of conversation, proving the master was not alone.

  Pausing to straighten his robes, Alric stepped through the doorway. "A frost owl has come to the mews bearing a message from Castlegard."

  The conversation shattered to silence. Master Caleb sat behind the desk, parchments and inks scattered across the desktop. Master Athar leaned against the far wall, his eyes widening at the mention of the great castle. "We've not heard from Castlegard in many a moon turn."

  "True enough." Master Caleb extended his hand for the tube.

  Alric gave him the tube and then hovered by the doorway. Oft times the master needed a runner to take messages through the monastery. As an acolyte owl-keeper, that was part of Alric's duties, but first the message needed to be decoded and read. Standing in the shadows, he watched as Master Caleb opened the bone tube, extracting the small coil of vellum. Reaching for a thick tome, the master thumbed through it with practiced ease, using a cipher to decode the message. His quill scratched across parchment as he scribed the decoded words in a sure and steady hand.