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

THE PRINCE DECEIVER

BOOK SIX OF

THE SILK & STEEL SAGA

Karen L. Azinger

The
Silk & Steel Saga

Book
One: 
The Steel Queen

Book
Two: 
The Flame Priest

Book
Three: 
The Skeleton King

Book
Four: 
The Poison Priestess

Book
Five: 
The Knight Marshal

Book
Six:
The Prince Deceiver

Forthcoming
books by Karen L Azinger

Book
Seven: 
The Battle Immortal

Additional
books by Karen L Azinger

The
Assassin’s Tear

Published by Kiralynn
Epics L.P. 2014

Copyright © Karen L.
Azinger 2014

First published in
the United States of America by Kiralynn Epics 2014

Front Cover Artwork
Copyright Greg Bridges © 2014

Celtic Lettering used
with permission of Alfred M Graphics Art Studio

The Author asserts
the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All characters in
this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or
dead, is purely coincidental.

 Print ISBN  
978-0-9910297-2-3

ebook ISBN 978-0-9910297-3-0

Library of Congress Control
Number:
2014914193

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
 

For Rick

Prologue

Quintus locked
the door to the healery and then shuttered the windows. For the longest time,
he sat at the desk, fondling the quill, considering his words. The message
needed to be short but effective. Only a few words, yet somehow he needed to
make them believe. Candles melted to stubs, the pale wax puddling on his
cluttered desk. With shaking hands, he wrote the coded message:
Castlegard's
mage-stone walls are scarred by a wagon's wheel.
The single sentence
terrified him, as if the very fabric of the world was coming unraveled.
Mage-stone was thought to be everlasting, impervious to the ravages of time,
weather, and war, yet a wagon's axle had marred the great castle's walls. He'd
seen it with his own eyes, felt the scar with his own trembling fingers, yet he
still did not believe it. Quintus prayed the masters in the monastery would
heed his warning despite the lunacy of the message. Staring at the vellum, he
decided to add one last word, a heartfelt plea.
Help
was the first word
that came to mind, but instead he wrote,
Advise!

Rolling the thin
vellum strip into a tight scroll, he slipped it into a tube carved from bone
and affixed it to the jessed leg of his frost owl. "Easy, Snowman."
Tossing tidbits of chicken liver to the great white raptor, he pulled on a
leather falconry glove. "Come."

White wings
bated the air in a silent rush. The great owl alit on his raised glove, eager
for another tidbit. Knowing the owl had far to fly, Quintus was generous with
the liver.

Bracing his arm
against the weight, he carried Snowman out into the castle's main courtyard. The
night was cold and crisp, the north still bound by winter's lingering grasp. A
half moon rode low in the cloudless night, providing just enough light to
burnish Castlegard's stalwart ramparts to a glorious silver. The healer
grimaced, knowing the traitorous truth. The great mage-stone walls were not as
stalwart as they appeared.

Perhaps the
malady can be cured.

He did not know
where the thought came from, but he clung to it, praying the monastery knew the
remedy. All the more reason to send his message.

Pausing at the
corner, he glanced left and right, relieved to find the courtyard empty. The
moon's position marked the hour as midnight, when sleep held sway and only a
few guards walked the walls. Checking to make sure the message tube was secure,
he fed the owl one last bite. "Fly home, Snowman. Fly home and fly fast
and return with the answer to this dire riddle." With a grunt, he hefted
the great owl aloft. White wings snapped open, beating the air. With a hunter's
stealthy silence, the great owl gained height, soaring over the castle walls
like a silvery ghost. The healer's gaze followed the owl south, his words a
whispered prayer. "Hurry home, Snowman, and bring me the answers I
need."

"
Home?
Where
is home if not Castlegard?"

Startled,
Quintus cursed himself for his carelessness. Turning, he found Otto, the master
swordsmith, striding towards him. "You're late to be out."

Tall and bald
and layered with bulging muscles, the big smith prowled across the courtyard
like a winter-starved bear. "I've a smelt of iron ore that needs watching.
What's your excuse?"

Quintus
shrugged. "My frost owl hunts best at night."

"Yet you
told the owl to fly home. Where's home if not Castlegard?"

He stared at the
smith, a plea in his gaze, for he could not answer the question without
imperiling his purpose.

"We're at
war, healer, and an owl might be hunting...or, it might be carrying a message
of betrayal." The big smith moved close, his hands balled into massive
fists, a rumble of threat in his gravelly voice. "So, I'll ask you again,
where is home?"

A trickle of
sweat rolled down the healer's back despite the cold. Secrets he could keep,
but lies always tripped on his tongue. Quintus paled beneath the smith's iron-hard
gaze. Realizing he'd get no reprieve, he made a decision. "Come, I need to
show you something."

"Show me
something?" Suspicion rode the smith's voice.

"Just come.
I need to show someone and it might as well be you."

The smith gave
him a squinty look. "This better not be a trick."

The healer
implored with his gaze. "You'll not believe unless you see for
yourself."

With a terse
nod, the smith followed him across the courtyard to the inner gatehouse. The
spiked portcullis was raised but the ironclad gates were shut for the night.
Fortunately, he knew the guard on duty. "How's your stump, Harold?"

The guard raised
his arm, revealing a leather-bound stump where his left hand should have been.
“It pains me in this damp cold, but I’m better than most. At least I can still
serve.”

Still serve,
such
was the bravery of the maroon knights. For every hale and hearty man who served
the great castle, four more were maimed or graybeards. The winter war took a
grievous toll. Quintus knew the grim tally better than most, for he'd stitched
their wounds and set their bones, returning many of them to service. "I'll
make a poultice for you in the morning. In the meantime, can you let us through
the sally port?"

"This late
at night?"

"I spied a
patch of mushrooms sprouting along the south wall. They're most potent if
harvested by moonlight."

The guard
flicked a questioning glance to the smith but Otto remained silent. Shrugging,
Harold said, "I'll let you through, but don't tarry." He led them
around the gatehouse to a small ironbound door. Half a dozen deadbolts held the
sally port secure. One-handed, the guard wrestled with the bolts and then eased
the door open on silent hinges. "Knock three times when you're ready to
enter."

"Thanks."
The healer slipped through the open doorway, followed by the smith. Behind
them, the ironclad door eased shut, the deadbolts snapping into place with an
ominous sound.

Quintus turned
to confront the grim passageway. An eerie silence reigned. They stood in the
killing corridor, trapped between the soaring mage-stone walls of the inner
castle and the outer ramparts raised by ordinary stonemasons. Desolate of any
cover, the stone-cold corridor seemed a haunted place despite the bright moonlight.

The smith leaned
close, a sneer on his face. "Mushrooms? I always thought you an honest
sort."

"There
are
mushrooms, and I do need them. With so many wounded, my supply of remedies
grows thin."

"And you
pick them by moonlight?" The smith's voice leered with sarcasm.

The healer
shrugged. "An old wives' tale but a convenient excuse." He led the
smith around to the south side of the inner wall to where a small patch of
Donner's mushrooms pushed up through the thin snow crust. He knelt, harvesting
half the crop to his deep pockets, leaving the rest to propagate.

"You
brought me out here for mushrooms?"

The healer
flicked a wary glance to the smith. "No, the mushrooms were just an
excuse. Come." He led the smith back to the inner gate, but instead of
approaching the sally port, he led him to the main gateway. "It happened
two days ago, when the wagons carrying the wounded returned, but you need to
see it for yourself to believe." Quintus ran his hand low along the
mage-stone wall, searching for the gash, half hoping he would not find it.
"Here. It's here." His voice sounded as if it came from a grave. 

"What's
there?" The smith sounded annoyed.

"A scar on
the mage-stone."

"That's
impossible."

"No,
look."

And then the
smith saw. He sucked air through his teeth like a hungry bellows. With a
trembling hand, he touched the wall, fingering the raw scar. His jaw gaped.
"How?"

"The
wagoner took too tight a turn. The rear axle caught on the stone. I thought the
wagon would tip...but the stone gave first."

"But...it's
mage-stone!"

"I
know."

"How can
this be?"

The healer shrugged.
"I don't know. Perhaps the castle's fallen under a Dark Curse."

The smith
cringed, making the hand sign against evil. "Who have you told?"

"None save
you..."

"...and the
owl."

Quintus gave a
cautious nod. "We need answers."

The smith
scowled but he did not argue. "We need to tell the knight-captain."

"No."
He grabbed the smith's arm. "Morale is all that's holding the maroon
together. We dare not dash their faith in the great castle."

"But they
need to know!"

"Only if an
army comes calling."

"We're at
war."

"All the
more reason the knights' morale must not be destroyed."

The smith glared at him, his
massive hands balled into fists, fear and uncertainty warring across his swarthy
face. For half a heartbeat, the healer thought the big smith would end the
argument with a punch. Standing resolute, Quintus parried the smith's brutal
glare with a tally of losses.
"Raven
pass is fallen. The king is dead. The Octagon throne is empty. The knights
battle the ravages of winter as well as the Dark horde, yet still they
fight." He punched the words with conviction. "If you destroy their
faith in the castle, this war could be lost."

"What does a healer know of war?"

"I know the cost! I count it every day in
limbs severed, in wounds stitched, in too many lives lost to death's shroud.
Morale matters, on the battlefield
and
in the healery." His voice
turned hard. "I'll not give death another advantage."

They glared at
each other, locked in a stalemate...till a grudging respect glinted Otto's dark
gaze. A long-held sigh escaped the smith like an emptying bellows. "We'll
keep it secret...for as long as we can."

They'd struck an
uncertain bargain, but Quintus would take what he could get.

"But,"
the smith stabbed the healer's pudgy chest with a blunt finger, "if that
owl brings answers, I want to know."

Rubbing his
bruised chest, Quintus gave a tentative nod.

"I'll be
watching you."

In silence, they
trod through the muddy slush, returning to the sally port. Quintus knocked
three times and the hidden door eased open. Harold ushered them through.
Closing the door behind them, he rammed the bolts home. "Did you get the
mushrooms?"

"Yes I
did." Quintus fished one from his pocket as proof. "Picked by
moonlight, they'll ease pain or induce sleep, depending on the dosage."

Harold grinned.
"Well done! I'll bid you a good night."

"And to
you." He turned away, following the big smith across the courtyard. A grim
silence hovered between them. They were partners of sorts, partners to a
terrible secret. Quintus stared up at the soaring mage-stone walls, walls he
always thought were invincible. First the war and now this. Darkness stalked
the maroon, like a lethal curse come calling. A shiver raced down his spine. In
the depths of his heart, the healer hoped the masters of the monastery believed
his message...but most of all, he prayed there was a cure.