The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (16 page)

Stewart looked
dashing in a surcoat of emerald green, a sapphire blue sword belted by his
side. The sword piqued her interest, yet she held her questions for another
time.

He offered his
arm, a gallant gesture. “My lady.”

She took his
arm, knowing two armies would be watching.

He led her from
their pavilion to a large fire. The captains were already seated in a circle
around the crackling flames. The others stood at their approach, bowing to the
royal pair, more than a few with knowing grins on their faces. Jordan struggled
to contain a rising blush.

Stewart made another
round of introductions. His officers mingled with hers, emerald green offset by
the red and blue checkers of Navarre. Jordan sat with Stewart on her left and
Lord Dane, a handsome man with a rogue’s smile on her right. Her own officers
were already present, Major Colson, her second, Varnick, the captain of her
pike men, Cyril, the captain of her archers, and her friend, Rafe, though he
chose to wear leathers instead of the blue robes of his Order.

Wooden plates
were passed, piled high with choice cuts of spit-roasted beef ladled with
gravy, pan fried onions with spring mushrooms, winter leeks, spring carrots and
a crusty flatbread. Squires circled the campfire, keeping tankards full with a
frothing dark ale. Jordan tasted the beef, juicy and thick, licking the grease
from her fingers. “Do you always eat so well?”

Stewart raised
his tankard in salute. “We killed the fatted calf to celebrate your arrival.
Eat well, for tomorrow we’re back to war rations.”

Jordan enjoyed the savory meal and the easy camaraderie. As the ale flowed, the talk turned
boisterous, mostly boasts about past exploits on the battlefield or in the
bedroom, but none spoke of tomorrow, avoiding the uncertain future. Jordan made it a point to speak with each of Stewart’s officers, seeking to learn their
true natures. Mathis told the most ribald jokes, Kelso was quiet and steady,
but Dane seemed to know Stewart the best, a boyhood companion and sword
brother. Jordan refilled his tankard, plying the handsome lord for tales of her
husband's boyhood.

Stewart leaned
close. "He's a rogue, you shouldn't listen to him."

Jordan smiled,
"A rogue, all the more reason to listen! I want to hear everything!"

The campfire
crackled, spitting sparks towards a star spangled sky. They laughed and talked,
the stories growing more preposterous as the ale flowed. Several of the men sat
slumped with their eyes closed, succumbed to the feast. Jordan savored every moment, the good food, the hearty company of honest warriors…and Stewart, near
enough to touch.

Soft footsteps
came from behind, soft and stealthy.

Jordan whirled, her hand on her sword hilt. She froze, surprised to see a figure robed in
midnight-blue. Firelight flickered across his face, her memory supplying a
name. “
Aeroth!”

He gave her a
grave nod. “We need to talk.”

She got Stewart’s
attention, watching his eyes widen at the sight of the monk, proof his
appearance was unexpected. Rafe saw and joined them. They slipped away from the
campfire, leading the monks back to their pavilion. Jordan's stomach churned
with foreboding. Aeroth's sudden appearance could not bode well. She'd had one
moment of stolen peace with Stewart and the war came calling like a relentless
doom.

29

Master Rizel

The tome sat
like a dead weight in his arms. He'd found it in a remote part of the Great
Archive, high on a shelf, covered in centuries of dust. Long forgotten, the
tome was either hidden or misplaced, yet he had no doubt it was a true
treasure, a trove of knowledge waiting to be rediscovered. His fingers caressed
the leather bindings, so old they were nearly brittle. The ornate silver clasp was
tarnished by time, yet the workmanship was exquisite. But it was the name
embossed on the cover that signaled its true worth, the name of the last
Illuminator to walk the monastery's hallowed halls. Old, so very old, Master
Rizel handled the tome with great care, but it felt heavy in his arms. It felt
like a desperate risk, it felt like a last resort. One he prayed the Order
would never need.

He reached the
alcove where the others were assembled. Pouring over mountains of scrolls and
ancient tomes, the monastery's brightest minds sought to solve the riddle of
mage-stone, to learn why Castlegard's walls were failing and what could be done
about it. For more than a fortnight the lanterns had burned bright in the Great
Archive, the blue-robed masters working through the long nights, yet the answer
remained elusive, as if the riddle were posed by the gods.

A hushed silence
prevailed. So engrossed in their studies, no one looked his way when he
returned to the alcove. Master Rizel carefully set the ancient tome on the
table. He sank into a chair, his eyes aching from long hours of reading. His
gaze roved the others, seeking a spark of excitement, but he found none. Most
had their noses buried in musty tomes, learned bloodhounds on the trail of
knowledge, seeking the solution to a perilous riddle. He cleared his throat, a
loud disturbance for the Archives. "Anything?"

Blinking like
owls thrust into bright sunshine, the masters looked at him from across the
scroll-littered table. Lurinda shook her head
no
, a subtle but damning
gesture echoed by the others. Finally, Master Grimshaw spoke, his gravelly voice
tinged with defeat. "There's nothing in the prophecies." Bald as an
egg, his skin the color of tanned leather, the master had a blacksmith's
muscled build, yet he was one of the most learned scholars of the ancient
prophesies. "I've searched the oldest quatrains from the Orb. So many of
the dire portents of this time are foretold in the ancient writings. I've found
numerous passages dealing with the Mordant being reborn in the southern
kingdoms, the fiery comet heralding his rebirth, the start of the Battle
Immortal, the claiming of the crystal dagger, yet there is no mention of mage-stone."

"None at
all?"

"Not of
mage-stone," Master Grimshaw shook his head, "but there is one
quatrain that might refer to Castlegard." Opening a thick tome, he read,
"
North becomes south as castles fall. Victory balances on the
unforeseen blade."

Master Olgarth
seized the words. "The unforeseen blade could be Invictus!"

"Or it
could be the crystal dagger."

"Or some
other unknown sword."

Ever the
pessimist, Master Rugar groused, "The Mordant's spent a millennia hoarding
magic, you can bet he's got a magical sword of his own. Perhaps more than one."

Mistress Lurinda
shook her head. "It must mean the crystal dagger."

"It could
mean Invictus."

The alcove
erupted in argument. Prophesies were ever a messy business, as if the gods only
spoke in riddles. The debate raged back and forth, yet most of the arguments
were conjecture not solid conclusions. Master Rizel listened with half an ear,
his mind worrying the words of the quatrain.
North becomes south as castles
fall,
he liked it not. Such an ill-omened portent, he could not conceive of
Castlegard, the great enclave of the Octagon Knights, falling. And if the
mage-stone of Castlegard's walls could fail...the mage-stone of the monastery
might be doomed as well. They needed a solution, a remedy to heal the threat. Endless
debate would not avail them. Master Rizel stood, invoking an abrupt silence.
"It seems the prophecies are silent on the matter of mage-stone, but what
of our loremasters? Perhaps the study of magic holds the answers we seek?"

Everyone's gaze
swiveled to Master Vernius. Old to the point of being called ancient, the
shriveled loremaster sat puddled in his robes of midnight-blue, yet his gaze
was bird-bright. "Mage-stone was ever one of the Order's highest magics,
yet that power was lost to us long ago." His voice quavered, as thin as
fine parchment, everyone straining to listen. "Much that was written about
mage-stone is gone, lost in the great fire of the first century."

Master Rizel's
disappointment bit deep, for it seemed all routes of inquiry led to dead ends...or
more questions.

"But,"
Master Vernius raised a single finger, reclaiming everyone's attention,
"there is something I remember, a rumor passed down to me by my old
master, may the Lords of Light grant peace to his soul."

Everyone leaned
forward to listen.

"Master Calipurs
told a tale about Master Julian, the loremaster of the third century. He
claimed that Julian was obsessed with recovering the lost magic of mage-stone. Julian
sent the Zward scouring the southern kingdoms searching for tomes and
parchments, seeking to restore what was lost. Julian hoped copies of the
Order's writings survived beyond the Southern Mountains, thus evading the fire's
obliviating embrace. The same Zward who erased the monastery from the maps of
men, searched the length and breadth of Erdhe for writings on mage-stone, and
do you know what they found?"

Silence throbbed
like an expectant heartbeat, everyone hanging on the tale.

"They found
nothing."

Master Rugar
gasped in frustration. "That's because scrolls were never taken from the
monastery!"

"No, not
true." Master Vernius's sharp gaze circled the assembly. "They found
nothing because someone else searched for them first."

A shiver raced
down Master Rizel's spine. "What do you mean?"

"Three of
the searching Zward were brutally murdered and one disappeared, never to be
found. When the Zwardmaster investigated the murders he returned with
unsettling rumors. It seemed skilled killers searched for those very same
scrolls, slaying the Zward in cunning ambushes. Some named the killers servants
of the Mordant."

The breath
hissed out of Master Rizel. "And you believe those killers found the
scrolls, found them before the Zward?"

Master Vernius
nodded. "Just so."

The conclusion
hit like a sword thrust. "Then the decay of Castlegard's mage-stone may
somehow be caused by the Mordant?"

Master Vernius
gave the smallest of nods.

A grim silence
gripped the assembly.

Master Rizel had
to ask the question. "Could this same curse be visited on the monastery's
mage-stone?"

Master Vernius
shrugged. "Without the lost scrolls, who can say?"

The tension
gripping the chamber deepened to an ominous hush.

Master Rugar
stirred, anger lashing his voice to indignation. "But the prophecies make
no mention of this! They warn of every other dire portent but not the failure
of mage-stone! How can the prophecies be so silent on mage-stone?"

Master Grimshaw
answered, his voice ominous. "The ending of an Age."

Everyone turned
his way.

"We've
reached the ending of an Age, when all things are possible...when prophecies
are fulfilled, or they become undone." His gaze circled the assembly.
"Perhaps the timeline is shifted...and new destinies reign."

His words fell
like a doom.

Master Rizel
stared in shock, for without the prophecies the Order was blind. He hardened
his resolve, reaching for the last resort. "We dare not go blind into the
Battle Immortal. To solve this riddle we need to seek one who might
remember."

"Remember!"

The word echoed
through the gathering, evoking disbelief, and even outright scorn. More than a
few masters looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

Master Grimshaw
said, "Explain."

"I found
this tome." Master Rizel caressed the time-worn binding. "Written by
Gwendolyn, the last great Illuminator. I know not if it was lost or deliberately
hidden, for I found it on a remote shelf, covered in centuries of dust."

"A lost
tome from Gwendolyn?" Master Vernius leaned forward, "I've not heard
of such a thing."

"Nor I,
till I found it." With reverent hands, Master Rizel opened the tome to the
page marked by the red tassel. The vellum was brittled by age, but the colors
gleamed bright, the calligraphy crisp and exquisite, a peerless work of
illuminated art. "It speaks of a relic, a relic the monastery keeps hidden
within the vaults beneath the Star Chamber." He stared at the others.
"If this text holds true, then that very relic may permit us to speak to
one who remembers."

Startled gazes
circled the table, returning to him with a storm of questions.

"Come and
read for yourselves."

One by one, the
venerable masters came forward to read the page and study the illuminated
images. Nothing was said, but many sharp glances were cast his way. A few
offered him a respectful nod, but many more turned pale, as if the text offered
only a grim doom.

He wondered if
they were right.

Master Grimshaw
was the last to read the illuminated passage. "It sounds possible, and
Gwendolyn was an Illuminator of great renown...yet there is great risk."

Master Rizel
answered. "Dire times require dire measures. And we've exhausted all other
lines of inquiry." He said what he knew many were thinking. "And we
will surely lose this war if we do nothing."

Master Grimshaw gave
him a measured look, his voice a deep rumble. "Who will dare to wield this
relic?"

Master Rizel drew
a deep breath. "I will. I found the tome, so it seems fitting that I bear
responsibility...though I know not if the relic will waken to my touch."

For once there
was no debate. "So be it."

Master Grimshaw
said, "When will you make the attempt?"

"As soon as
I've given my report to the Grand Master. I see no advantage in waiting."

The other masters
bowed towards him, a mark of deep respect. Together they invoked the words of
the Order. "Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge, may the
Light grant you the knowledge and wisdom that you seek."

Master Rizel
heard the worry laden in their voices. In truth, he shared their fears, for
magic could be wild and unpredictable. Staring down at the illuminated page, he
studied the details, for he'd just bet his life on the obscure passage.