The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (23 page)

"I am
Commander Crull, leader of the Third Army of the Pentacle," he extended
his saber hilt-first, "and I've come to serve a god." He knelt,
offering his sword.

The marshal
reeled backwards. He'd expected battle, he'd expected death and glory...but
never surrender. His gaze roved the battlefield, the endless sea of
carnage...and the living army lying prostrate before him.

*The God of
War must have an army*

The words
thundered through him. They felt right, they felt fitting. It was as if the voice
planted a battle standard in his mind, and it was glorious. The marshal echoed
the words of the sword, "The God of War must have an army." He
touched the commander's proffered sword hilt. "I accept your service. I
expect your worship." He raised the Dark Sword to the heavens. "For I
am the God of War!"

His army stood,
banging swords on shields, their voices raised in adulation. "
All hail
the God of War!"

In The South

43

The Priestess

The Priestess
took the time to prepare. After a long soak in a steaming tub, her handmaidens
washed and coiled her raven-dark hair. Naked as a blank canvas, she knelt
before her two chests, considering her arsenal.
Seduction and poison,
she’d
arm herself with both, one for offense, the other for defense.

She started with
seduction. Considering her prey, she chose a sophisticated scent, sandalwood
with a touch of thyme. Subtle yet complex, she dabbed the scent in an alluring
path down and around her curves. For her face, she added crushed malachite to
highlight the depths of her eyes and a hint of ruby coloring on her lips, but
otherwise her face needed no adornment. For undergarments, she chose layers of
the sheerest silk, soft whispers against her skin. Instead of a gown, she chose
a robe of a deep forest green flecked with gold thread, cut low to display her
curves without revealing her depths. For jewelry, she wore the sundered Eye
bound in silver, a reminder of the bitter price she’d paid, a cold weight
dangling between her breasts. Finished, the Priestess gazed in the mirror,
considering the effect. Mystery and sexual sophistication gazed back at her,
the perfect foil for a thousand-year-old soul.

Satisfied, she
dismissed her handmaidens and reached for her poisons. Unlocking the rosewood
chest, she opened drawers and sniffed at stoppered bottles, considering her
choices. So many ways to death, poison was the most devious of weapons, the
subtle kill, tailored to suit each situation, each victim, the perfect weapon
for the Priestess. She might have painted a tincture of nightshade on her
nipples or toes…but death was not her intent, at least not yet, not tonight.
Instead, she sought something with a deliberate method of delivery. A pair of
bracelets caught her gaze, coiled serpents adorned with green enameled scales
on gold, jewelry of the deadliest sort. Cunningly crafted, they coiled from her
wrists to her elbows serving as bracers, but their true bite came from the
hidden needles exposed by a secret touch. She pressed the small button,
releasing the needles along the serpent's spine. The potency of their barbed
bite depended on the chosen poison. A reduction of wolfsbane seemed the perfect
choice. Folklore said that wolfsbane was used to slay the hounds of hell, a
fitting omen for tonight’s prey. Carefully applying the potent mixture, she
made sure it was dry before resetting the needles. A predator's smile slid
across her face, certain a single prick would cause a heart-stopping death. She
raised her arms to the light, admiring her choice. Glittering along her
forearms, the serpentine bracers carried enough hidden poison to kill ten men.
For something less lethal, she chose a serpent ring, anointing the hidden fangs
with henbane, a sleepy alternative to wolfsbane. Armed and dangerous, she was
ready to meet the Mordant.

Steffan glowered
from the shadows. "Don't go."

She caressed his
cheek, aroused by the rough stubble. "You know I must."

Anger burned in
his dark gaze.

"Don't be
jealous."

"You like
me jealous."

His riposte hit
home. She gave him a salacious smile, her voice a velvety purr. "In truth,
I do."

He gave her a
look that declothed her. For half a heartbeat, she thought he might pounce,
strip her clothes off and have her in the hallway, but instead he growled and
trod away.

She found
herself breathlessly disappointed...but she'd set her aim on more dangerous
prey. Gathering her resolve, she made her way out into the twilight.

Since palanquins
were not used in the queen’s city, she had Braxus order a carriage. Serving as
her seneschal, he rode beside her with an escort of six guards.

The sun set in a
glorious glow of russets and gold. Despite the fall of darkness, the queen’s
city came alive with lanterns and candlelight.

She directed the
carriage to the wealthy section of the city. From scrying in the Eye, the
Priestess knew the Mordant came to Pellanor in the guise of a prince of Ur, hiding in plain sight, like a peacock strutting among pigeons. The queen’s city was
rife with rumors. The markets buzzed with talk of his legendary wealth and
excess, yet none seemed to guess his true nature. Darkness hidden in plain
sight, no one expected a peacock to have such deadly claws, yet the Priestess
knew the truth. She touched the sundered moonstone bound in silver, dangling
between her breasts. How dare he break her strongest magic, a gift from the
Dark Lord. The loss enraged her, hardening her resolve.

The carriage
trundled through cobblestone streets, stopping before a mansion alight with
torches. Servants in purple livery rushed to open the carriage door. Escorted
by her men, the Priestess approached the doorway, unsure of her reception.

A fat seneschal
in rich robes greeted her. “He’s been expecting you.” With the slightest of
bows, he welcomed her inside.

From the scrying
bowl, she recognized his pudgy face, a bishop of the Pentacle. In a similar
fashion, she knew the slight men lurking in the shadows were assassins of the
ninth rank.
Death lurking in the doorway,
the Priestess wondered if it
was a pointed message or merely a precaution.

Candlelight
glittered overhead yet the shadows lost none of their potency. Greeting the
bishop with the barest of nods, the Priestess stepped into the devil’s lair.

“He’ll see you
in the throne room...alone.”

Braxus clenched
his sword hilt, a protest on his lips, but she forestalled him. “My men will
wait here.”

“Good.” The
prelate flashed a serpent’s smile, gesturing towards the heart of the mansion.

She followed him
through gilded halls hung with traditional hunting tapestries. The mansion's wealthy
trappings were no doubt a legacy of the previous owner, but the throne room
held none of the deceptive clutter. Lit by braziers, it was empty save for a raised
dais and a gilded throne. A silk banner hung from the vaulted ceiling to the
marble floor, the only adornment, purple emblazoned with the great golden Wyrm.
Beneath the banner, the Mordant sat upon the throne bedecked in false colors.

Half a hundred times
she’d watched him in the scrying bowl, yet nothing prepared her for the raw strength
of his presence.
So young and so fair of face,
yet Darkness thundered
through him like a storm. So much raw power, she wondered that mortals did not
feel his true nature and run shrieking in fear. Gathering her own strength, the
Priestess dared to meet his stare. Power beat against her, trying to cowl her,
yet she stood unbowed, clinging to the knowledge that he was not a god.

He gave her a
lazy smile.

She inclined her
head. “My lord, the Mordant.”

He flashed a
predator’s smile. “The Dark Whore.”

She dared to
correct him. “The Priestess of the Oracle.”

“Yet your Eye is
sundered.”

His words struck
like a slap. Her anger flared, yet she kept her voice controlled. “You had no
right.”

"As the
oldest harlequin,
all
rights are mine."

She rebuked him
with her stare. "The Eye serves the Oracle Priestess."

He gave her a
surly stare. “Why? Are you blind without it?”

“The Eye was a
gift of the Dark Lord.”

“Then let him
fix it.”

His retort
shocked her, a flippant blasphemy, an outrageous arrogance. “You had no right.”

“
Power
gives me every right.
Power
is all that matters.” He stood, his shadow
stretching across the chamber, his voice thundering through the throne room. “For
more than a thousand years I have lived! There are
none
who can stand
against me.”

So he styles
himself a god!
She wanted to run from his power, she wanted to laugh at his
arrogant folly, but instead, she stood her ground. “Then why am I summoned?”

“The Great Dark
Dance has begun. Instead of spying on me from afar, you will serve.”

Her pride got
the better of her. “I ruled my own kingdom.”

“You ruled a
petty backwater, without significance or power. Far better to serve in the
Great Dark Dance.”

She stared at
him through hooded eyes. “How?”

“You can start
by corrupting the men closest to the queen.” He flashed a smile. “After all,
it’s what you do.”

“You want me to
turn them to the Dark?”

“I want you to
add sexual strings to the court puppets.” His smile turned sinister. “I’ve come
to alter history, to sow prejudice and deepen the Great Dark Divide. A queen
cannot be allowed to rule, especially one that rules so well. I will twist her
deeds to infamy. Horror will be heaped on her name so that all of Erdhe will
forever shun a woman’s rule.”

His words
chilled her to the core, giving her notice that even the Oracle Priestess would
not rule...yet she kept her face a mask. “As you wish.” She needed to get away,
she needed to reconsider. “I’ll begin at once.” Nodding to the Mordant, she
turned to leave.

“Where do you
think you are going?”

“Back to the
inn.”

He shook his
head, a viper’s smile on his face. “You will stay in my house, a room has
already been prepared.” His gaze raked across her, considering her curves. “You
will come to my bed when I beckon. And you will use your powers to serve.”

Trapped,
she
was trapped by his power, by his assassins. “What of my men?”

“They can return
to the inn to await service.”

So he seeks
to strip me of my loyal swords.
 
“And what of my handmaidens?”

“Summon them if
you wish.” Settling back on the throne, he gave a negligent wave. "Your
women are of no account.”

“Yes, my lord.”
She turned to leave.

“And
Iris.”

He knows my
true name!
Turning, she kept the shock from her face, meeting his shark’s
stare.

“When I call you
to my bed, I expect you to come. Willing or not, I expect you to serve...,” a
smile broke across his face, "but I think you will like it."

Instead of instilling
fear, her power surged within her, a sexual hunger rising to the challenge. “As
you command.” Seduction laced her voice. She gave him the smallest of nods, and
then followed the seneschal from the throne room.

Braxus paced in
the entranceway, his hand on his sword hilt. Relief flashed across his face when
he saw her. “Shall we go, my lady?”

“I will be
staying here, a guest of the prince.”

Alarm filled his
gaze. She gave him the smallest of nods, confirming his fears. “I want you to
do exactly as I say. Return to the inn and bring my handmaidens and all of my
things.” She drilled him with her stare, making sure he understood.

“Yes, my lady.”

“And then return
to the inn and await further orders.”

"But..."

"You will
await further orders."

Anger rode his
voice, yet he complied. “As you wish.”

She stepped
towards him, kissing him on the cheek. With her lips near his ear, she
whispered. “
Warn Steffan.”

He held her
close, whispering an answer. “
I’ll keep watch.”
Stepping away, he
saluted her, and then he was gone.

She turned to
the seneschal. “I believe a room has been prepared?”

The portly
prelate flashed a rude smile. “Yes, my lady.”

His blatant
rudeness roused her anger. She was sorely tempted to brush against him,
pricking the fat prelate with the poison of her armbands...but she refrained.
It was too soon to sow death among the Mordant's servants. Her face composed in
a demure mask, she followed him up the gilded stairs to a suite of rooms at the
rear of the manse. Large and richly appointed, the inner room was dominated by
a four posted bed piled with embroidered pillows and draped with jewel-colored
silks.

“If you need
anything, Barry will serve you.” He gestured to a slight man hovering at the
doorway, another assassin clad in servant’s purple.

“I need my
handmaidens and my things.”

“As soon as they
arrive.”  He closed the door.

She heard the
lock click.

So he seeks
to cage me.
Feeling confined, she went to the window. The diamond-paned
windows overlooked a walled garden, a bubbling fountain surrounded by statues
and topiaries. Opening the window, she leaned out, staring down. She studied
the garden, listening to the night.
The shadows moved.
A black-clad
assassin stepped into the torchlight. Brazenly staring up her, he nodded,
before retreating into the velvety darkness.

So the gilded
cage is a guarded prison
…
yet he dares to call me to his bed!
A smile
brewed upon her lips,
how arrogant, how foolish
. His powers were
formidable, even frightening, but despite his thousand years, the Mordant was
still a mortal, still a man, subject to a man’s desires.
Desire is the
greatest poison!
The Priestess smiled. She’d bide her time till he summoned
her, and then she’d ply her powers, clashing her will against his, the
sorceress of sex seducing a thousand years of evil. In the realm of the
bedchamber, she had no doubt who would prevail.