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

by Karen Azinger

  They fled to the outer chamber, closing the door behind them.

  The Priestess prowled her bedroom like a caged beast. The Mordant defanged her with his every move, chaining her sexuality to his own purpose, stealing her poisons. Rage thundered through her, gradually annealing to a smoldering anger, another score to settle with the Mordant. Thankfully she still had her serpent armbands and ring. Lethal jewelry loaded with enough poison to kill ten men, yet now she needed to hoard her poisonous sting to its best advantage.

  She bitterly regretted answering the Mordant's summons. Everything had gone wrong...yet she'd won back the Eye.

  The Eye! Her hand slipped to the great moonstone dangling between her breasts. Fused together by searing passion and stolen magic, the Great Eye was whole once more...and the Mordant did not know it. What he did not know could hurt him. A smile teased her face.

  Shuttering the windows against prying eyes, she went to her cedar chest, delving through her silken finery till she found her silver scrying bowl. Kneeling by the bowl, she filled it with water from a pewter ewer. Releasing the pale moonstone from its wire cage, she fondled the oval stone, marveling at its silken feel, smooth and flawless once more. Whispering a prayer to Darkness, she lowered the ancient gem into the crystal clear water.

  The Priestess held her breath, waiting.

  Powers clashed. The water spat and roiled, fighting the stone, proof of the moonstone's potency. Darkness prevailed and the water turned inky black, a fitting surface to reflect Dark deeds.

  Shrugging off her gown, she knelt naked over the bowl, her raven-black hair cascading down like a shuttering veil. Her breath whispered across the dark water, "Yours to use." She petitioned the Dark God, wondering if he would answer her entreaty despite the nearness of the Mordant. She shivered, anxious with need. "Do not forsake me, Lord."

  Darkness answered, surrounding her, enfolding her, impaling her.

  Smitten by her god, the Priestess writhed with pleasure and pain, ecstasy balanced on the knife-edge of agony. She bit back a scream as the god delved deep, filling her with Darkness, and then the divine presence withdrew.

  "Thank you, Lord." Her voice trembled with smoky pleasure, a succubus fulfilled.

  Brimming with power, she cast her will upon the Dark waters. "Show me Steffan." Images appeared on the mirror-dark water. She found him asleep, his dark hair tousled, the sheets twisted around him as if he fought in his dreams. He slept alone...and that pleased her. She watched his restless sleep, watched him toss upon the sheets, and then she entered his dreams.

  By swearing an oath to her, he'd opened himself to the power of the Eye.

  Wielding the moonstone, she slipped into his dreams. *Steffan, hear me!*

  *How? Where?*

  She felt his eagerness...and his puzzlement. *Here, love, in your dreams. Think of me and I am here.*

  The link was uncannily strong. He thought of her naked in his arms...and she was there. More than any dream she'd ever entered, this felt like reality. She could almost feel the strength of his need as he nuzzled her neck. *I need you.*

  So this was how he imagined her. *You need to think.* She drew back from him, lest passion cloud his mind. Steffan reached for her, but she evaded him. *No, we need to talk. We need to thwart the Mordant.*

  Fear blasted through his mind, banishing all thoughts of passion. *He saw me!*

  His fear was contagious. *He saw you?* She had hoped to keep him hidden, a dagger in the dark.

  *I kept watch outside the mansion. It was noontime, the street was crowded. I was one among many, yet his stare locked onto me like an arrow shot in the dark.*

  A sense of foreboding gripped her. *He saw you, yet he let you live?*

  *He more than saw me. His gaze invaded me!* She felt his frustration, his fear. *It felt like rape.*

  Her own fear festered. *Steffan, you are but a youngling in the eyes of Darkness, a fresh-sworn dedicate still living your first lifetime. If the Mordant plumbs your mind, he will rape you of every thought, every intent. You must stay away from him.*

  *I'll not leave you.*

  She felt his conviction, she felt his love...and the strength of it stunned her. The Priestess nearly lost control of her magic. Love was something others dreamt of, something always denied her, for passion was her true domain...yet Steffan's dream did not lie. Caught off guard by the strength his love, the Priestess struggled to bridle her emotions and keep her wits. *It was a mistake to come here, a terrible mistake. The Mordant deems himself a god. He will not share power. He will not suffer us to live unless we serve. You must keep your distance, yet I need your help to escape.*

  *How can I help?*

  A wave of dizziness washed across her, she felt her power fading. Unwilling to forfeit this chance, she struggled to keep the link. *In three nights I'll be sent to service Lord Ferdic. Get Braxus and the others and plan an ambush. Slay the Mordant's men and have horses ready. We'll flee the city and then cross an ocean to escape the Mordant's reach.*

  Her power was stretched too thin, the link began to waver. *I cannot stay! In three nights at Lord Ferdic's. Be ready!*

  *I'll be there...*

  Steffan's image vanished, severing the link. Exhausted, the Priestess slumped to the carpet, reeling with dizziness. Speaking through dreams drained so much more power than mere scrying, yet a smile rode her ruby lips. The power of the Great Eye was hers once more...and in three nights she'd escape the Mordant's greedy grasp. The oldest harlequin had stolen her poisons, but not her magic, proving he was not infallible. A smile graced her lips. Succumbing to sleep, she dreamt of Steffan, glorying in her own Dark prowess.

  54

  The Mordant

  The traitor fell prostrate before him, his arms spread wide in abasement. He'd turned this one in a single soul-searing gaze, proving the queen did not have as many loyal lords as she thought. The Mordant finished reading the scroll and then set it aside. The petty Darkness of the man's soul called to him, a tool waiting to be used. "Tell me of the queen."

  The traitor rose to his knees. "The queen is felled by grief. She's taken to her bed, closeted with her women, ignoring her counselors and all matters of state."

  "Good." The Mordant fondled the malachite coin, tumbling it between his fingers, a latent power destined to serve his will...just as all of Erdhe would soon serve. "While the woman wallows in grief, much ill will be done in her name. See Bishop Borgan before you leave. He has a stack of scrolls for discreet delivery to those lords turned to the service of Ur."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Now tell me of the other matter."

  "The princess?"

  "Yes."

  "I was not privy to the scene, but I heard whispers from some of the queen's lesser women."

  "And?"

  "It seems Lady Sarah took it upon herself to withhold the queen's dosage of poppy milk. Released from the poppy's entangling dreams, the queen woke to find the princess seated beside her. Perhaps the poppy milk addled her mind, for rumors say the queen flew into a rage and ordered the princess imprisoned."

  Imprisoned, the Mordant savored the word, so the queen takes the first step towards Darkness. How easily the woman succumbed, yet the Mordant savored the triumph. Plots within plots, he'd despoil the arrogant woman's soul, pushing her towards Darkness while turning allies against allies. Divide and conquer was ever the first rule of Darkness. A satisfied smile slipped across his face. "Imprisonment is but the first step. Set your own men to guarding the princess. Her death is of the utmost importance."

  "Her death?"

  "Yes, but the timing must be right. When the queen awakens, she will seek your advice. You must push her towards further atrocities."

  "The queen's women are stirred like angry hornets buzzing a nest, refusing all admittance to the royal chambers."

  The Mordant made a dismissive gesture. "They're only women."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "The queen will gainsay them. She will strive to reclaim the re
ins of power, and when she does, she will need her loyal advisors. You will be waiting to serve her."

  The traitor smiled. "And how will I advise her?"

  "The queen wants something from the king of Navarre, something she believes she desperately needs. To gain this boon, she will need to barter with coin of equal value. Advise her to hold the princess's life in ransom against her need."

  "Ransom?"

  "Yes, advise her to barter the life of the princess for the magic of Navarre." The Mordant fondled the malachite coin."And when Navarre refuses, as they must, you will advise the queen to follow through on her threat." The Mordant flashed a sinister smile. "Remind her that anything less would be a blatant show of weakness. In a land brimming with kings, queens dare not be seen as weak. Weakness will topple a crown, especially if it is held by a woman." His voice hardened. "The queen must make good on her threat, and the execution must be done in public."

  "In public?"

  "A public execution will compound the sin and will enrage Navarre to war. Allies fighting against allies, the queen will be forever branded as a corrupt ruler, a woman scheming for war merely for the sake of her empty womb. Her very name shall be reviled, eternally cursed in the annals of Erdhe, a lasting warning that women are not meant to rule." And the Great Dark Divide shall be served, enacting the will of the Dark God. Tendrils of ecstasy shuddered through the Mordant, proof of the Dark Lord's pleasure.

  The Mordant stiffened as the Voice of the Dark God boomed through his mind, dangling the ultimate promise. *Everlasting life is within thy grasp...all of Erdhe shall cower before thee.* The Mordant savored the words, everlasting life!

  As if coming out of a trance, the Mordant snapped his gaze back to the traitor. "Go...and work my will upon the queen. Keep a sharp watch lest she stray from the plan. And secure the princess, the pawn in our game."

  Bowing low, the traitor retreated, closing the door behind him.

  The Mordant fondled the malachite coin. The schemes of centuries would finally bear their Dark fruit. Everything was falling into place. It was only a matter of time.

  55

  Jemma

  A key turned in the lock. Jemma startled awake. Dark and cold and dusty, her strange surroundings puzzled her...and then she remembered. Imprisoned! For half a heartbeat she considered feigning sleep, but the chance was soon lost. Lantern light pierced the darkness, and with it came a familiar face.

  Startled to see her friend, Jemma leaped from the bed. "Lady Sarah!" Her gaze fixed on the older woman. "Have you come to free me?"

  The lady slipped into the chamber, her arms full of bedding and the swaying lantern. Lady Amy followed, struggling to carry two baskets.

  Their burdens betrayed the bitter answer. "Oh." Jemma considered dashing for the open door...till Sir Durnheart appeared. The knight shut the door with his heel and then dumped a load of kindling by the cold hearth.

  Jemma sank back to the bed, numbed by the bitter truth.

  Lady Sarah clucked like a mother hen. "It's so chilly in here, you'll catch your death of cold." Latching the window, she bustled about, dusting and setting the chamber to rights. Lady Amy set a loaf of bread, a bowl of fresh churned butter, and a flask of mead on a blanket beneath the window, as if she were laying a picnic for a summer day. Sir Durnheart knelt, kindling a fire in the hearth. The blaze soon sprang to life, releasing a welcome heat.

  So they'd come to gild the prison. Still clothed, Jemma sat perched atop the musty bed, her hands clasping her knees, watching her friends turned captors.

  The knight moved from the hearth to the door, blocking any chance at escape.

  Lady Amy approached, her face chagrined. "We've brought fresh linens for the bed."

  "Let me go and I'll save you the trouble."

  Lady Amy stared at her shoes. "We're only trying to help."

  In her heart, Jemma knew she spoke the truth. Her friends had spared her the horror of the dungeons, but everything about this was wrong. "You know this is not right."

  Lady Sarah looked chagrined. "We cannot disobey the queen."

  "But the queen would not want this."

  "Yet she ordered it." Lady Sarah's voice turned gentle, even pleading. "Let us make the bed."

  Jemma stood and moved to the corner. Her back to the wall, she watched in sullen silence as the two women stripped the dusty bed and remade it with fresh linens and a thick comforter. Finished with the bed, Lady Amy set the lantern on the hearth mantle and then gathered up her empty baskets. The two women turned towards the door.

  "Wait!" Jemma stepped from the corner, suddenly afraid they'd leave without answers. "I have to know what's happening."

  Lady Sarah nodded. She gestured to Lady Amy. The knight escorted Lady Amy from the chamber, closing the door behind them. The lock did not click, but Jemma was certain the knight stood guard beyond the door. She stared at her friend. "You must let me go."

  Lady Sarah looked stricken. "We serve the queen."

  "But this is lunacy!"

  The older woman sighed. "This is the milk of the poppy, this is the madness of a mother's grief, this is a queen with too many burdens. All or none, the queen is not herself."

  "Then release me!"

  "I cannot gainsay the queen more than I already have."

  "I'll sneak out of the castle and leave Pellanor. I swear I'll return to Navarre and forget this ever happened."

  "It's too late for that."

  Something in her tone gave warning. Jemma drew a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"

  Lady Sarah sank to the bed, looking weary beyond her years. "After ordering your...," she struggled with the word, her mouth twisting in distaste, "arrest, the queen was so agitated that Healer Crandor insisted on dosing her with more of his potions, but instead of calming her, the queen became agitated, flying into a wild rage. Her majesty ranted about you and Navarre, screaming about the need to bear a child." Lady Sarah stared at Jemma, regret filled her brown eyes. "It was grief, or the potions speaking, but the damage is done."

  "Damage?" Jemma did not like the sound of this.

  "We were trying to protect you and the queen." Lady Sarah made a feeble wave. "We sought to keep her majesty secluded till she came back to her senses, but others heard the rant." The older woman took a deep breath. "We brought you here to spare you from the dungeons, but now you must stay for you own protection."

  "My protection?"

  "Others who love the queen less might obey her commands to the letter. They're looking for you."

  A chill shivered down Jemma's back. So the dungeon remains a very real threat, her heart jolted to a wild gallop. She struggled to marshal her thoughts. "Who knows I'm here?"

  "Only we three. We'll keep you hidden, we'll keep you safe. And when the queen comes to her senses this will all be put to rights."

  Jemma prayed for it to be so, but prayer was rarely enough. "Can you not smuggle me out of the castle?"

  The lady gave her a warning look. "Don't press me to disobey my queen more than I already have."

  Stalemate, she knew Lady Sarah walked a thin line between duty and honor. Jemma reached for the other woman's hand, offering a gentle touch of thanks. "I'm sorry. You've done so much for me, but this is hard."

  "Hard for us all." Lady Sarah stood. "I must get back to the queen. I fear to leave her unattended." She gave Jemma a beseeching look, her voice a mixture of concern and contrition. "Keep safe. I'll return when I can." With a nod toward the princess, she exited the chamber.

  The key turned in the lock, a damning sound.

  Still a prisoner, but at least her cage was more comfortable. She went to the small window and watched the dawn rise across the castle, but the light brought no cheer. Madness stalked the queen, and somehow Jemma had been caught by it, snared by a web of insanity. She feared the consequences, for herself...and all of Erdhe.

  56

  Steffan

  Steffan dreamt of her, but this time it seemed so real, so much more than just a dr
eam. Naked, she came to him, lush and ripe, her raven-dark hair cascading to her hips. He swept her into his arms and carried her to his bed. Her scent was intoxicating, desire suffused with mystery. "Cereus!" he whispered her name, his voice laden with hunger. So tempting to have his way with her, to ease the throbbing ache in his loins, but he knew the sweet delay would only heighten his pleasure a thousand fold. A skilled lover, he decided to make her beg for it. Trailing kisses down her throat, his hands worked their own magic.

  A sound intruded.

  He longed to remain, to quench his desire, but a sixth sense warned him to be wary.

  Reluctant to leave her arms, yet he swam awake.

  He woke to an empty bed. Lying warm beneath the quilt, his manhood still rampant, his sleep-drunk gaze roved the night-darkened room. Nothing seemed amiss. Steffan rankled his nose at the room's stale smell. Piss pots and stale ale, the smell disgusted him. Despite pockets full of gold, he'd taken a cheap room at a dodgy inn in the city's shadier side and told no one where he stayed, not Braxus, not Donklin, not even the Priestess when she came to visit his dreams. Her words of warning no longer fell on deaf ears. He'd crossed stares with the Mordant...and lost. Steffan knew he dared not be found. He shuddered at the memory of those probing eyes flaying his soul. Coming to Pellanor was a perilous mistake. Better to take ship to a foreign shore and start their own Dark Dance. At least the Priestess had a plan. One more night of hiding in this dank hole and then he'd snatch Cereus from the Mordant's guards and carry her far beyond his foul reach. Steffan smiled, thinking of their future together.

  The sound came again, a subtle scratching at the door.

  Perhaps it was mice, or a petty thief, yet it paid to be cautious. His hand slipped beneath the pillow, seeking his throwing knife.

  The door burst open.

  A pair of dark-clad men leaped through the doorway. Crouching on either side of his bed, they glared like hounds on a tether.

  Servants of the Mordant, Steffan's heartbeat hammered. Two against one, he tightened his grip on his throwing dagger, yet he kept it hidden, attempting bluster instead. "What are you doing? Get out!" He made his voice a shout, hoping to draw others, though he knew it was a weak ploy. Denizens of the shady quarter tended to flee rather than fight. "Get out!"