The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (34 page)

The door eased
open and four black-clad men poured in. Short in stature, yet they moved like
liquid shadows. They moved like
assassins.
A shiver raced down the
queen's spine. How little she knew this enemy.

The dark-robed prince
strode into her chambers. Raddock, the traitor-coward, lurked at his back like
a surly shadow.

At first, the
prince did not even bother to look at her, as if she was insignificant. His
ice-blue gaze roved the chamber, lingering for a moment on her desk. "Did
you sign the documents?"

"What?"
For a nonce, the queen was confused, her mind fixed on death and swords...but
then she remembered the ransom note and the death sentence. "
You?"

He finally
deigned to look at her, a smirk in his gaze.

"Why?"

"To give
you a chance to willingly darken your soul."

Her soul,
his
answer chilled her, yet it also evoked a glimmer of stubborn pride. "We
burnt them. Navarre is our staunch ally. You shall not turn us against the
seaside kingdom."

He stared at
her, as if his ice-blue gaze could pluck the truth from her mind. "No, you
did not sign them." A predator's smile curled his lips. "Pity. I
would have enjoyed raping your soul."

His stare
released her.

Liandra
staggered back a step, a sudden headache threatened at the back of her eyes.

"It matters
not in the end. Bishop Borgan does an excellent imitation of your signature. I
doubt the king of Navarre will note the difference." His smile broadened.
"No one else has."

The scope of the
plot staggered her. "King Ivor will not believe it."

"The ransom
note?" the prince shrugged, "Perhaps not, but his daughter's head in
a basket will surely prod him to action."

The breath
hissed out of her. "You would not dare!"

"Your puny
mind cannot fathom the extent of my dare." He looked at her as if she were
an insect beneath his boot. "Don't worry, everything will be done in your
name." His smile deepened. "A royal execution ordered by the Queen of
Lanverness."

"
Why?"
The question hissed out of her.

"Because
you dared to rule." His gaze turned knife-sharp, his smile raw with hatred.
“I shall heap a memory of hate and horror upon your name such that people will
forever loathe the rule of a queen. History shall remember you as a woman
driven by her empty womb, a bloody-handed queen who ran amok with power, lusting
for more. Your name shall be lasting proof that men should forever hold
dominion over women.”

"So it was
you all along!"

"Now you
begin to understand the magnitude of the game."

"You
sullied our name with lies!"

"I am the
Prince Deceiver."

"Why?"

"For the
Great Dark Divide." He seemed to relish her confusion. "The Dark Lord
sows hatred by three great commandments, divide by sex, divide by beliefs, and divide
by race. First among these is divide by sex, for by pitting men against women it
sunders mortals nearly in half, the greatest single divide. Sowing simple
deceits, the Great Divide drives people to commit acts of atrocity for no
greater reason than “difference.” By invoking a Great Divide, I exult the power
of the Dark Lord, perpetuating his will.” Shadows coalesced around the prince.
He seemed to grow in stature, his voice becoming magnified, a terrible vision
of dark dominance. “By invoking a Divide, I work my will upon Erdhe, forever
changing the past, the present, and the future! By invoking a Divide, I become
a
god
.” His gaze transfixed her, a fathomless stare laden with Darkness.
“Kneel, woman, for in me you see the true power of Darkness made manifest.”

The truth struck
like a fist to her stomach.
"The Mordant!"

"Invoking
my True Name shall not avail you."

"But why
meddle with my kingdom when you have an army great enough to conquer
Erdhe?"

A sneer rode his
lips. "Killing is easy. Taking a life pleases the Dark Lord but it garners
the least of his favors. Others wield swords, while I wield lies, rewriting the
past, corrupting the present, twisting the future." He loomed above her, a
terrible vision of cruelty. "
Kneel
, woman, for you are in the
presence of a god."

She felt
compelled to kneel, to cower before him…but something in her spirit rebelled.
Liandra balled her hands into fists. Fingernails driving into her palms, she
dared to stand erect, lifting her stare to his. “We shall never kneel to
you…for we are a queen.”

His hand lashed
out, striking her face.

The blow knocked
her to her knees.

“
Woman! You
are nothing!”

Pain ripped
through her, as if a wild beast clawed at her stomach. Liandra looked down, expecting
to see a slavering wolf feasting on her insides, but she saw nothing. The pain
intensified. Crumpling to the floor, she sought to stifle a scream, but it
burst out of her. The pain turned to agony, as if she were being ripped apart. She
felt teeth ripping at her skin, strong jaws gnawing on her bones. Her sweat ran
like a river. Liandra writhed upon the floor, clutching her midsection,
screaming in agony.

The pain
stopped.

Her heart
thundered, afraid to move. Sopping with sweat, she shuddered upon the floor.
No
blood,
she stared at herself, surprised to be whole and alive.

"I'll not
kill you...yet." The Mordant's voice was smooth as velvet. "Far better
to let you witness the sullying of your name and the corruption of your legacy,
a torture befitting an arrogant woman who dares to call herself a queen."
The Mordant snapped his gaze to one of the dark-clad assassins. "Dolf,
Scarlin, with me, the rest of you keep watch till sleep claims the castle. If
the queen gives you any trouble, start killing her women." The Mordant
strode from her chamber, the traitor and the two assassins on his heels.

The queen lay on
the floor, sundered by all that had happened, admonishing herself for so many
mistakes.
Checkmated by the enemy.
She hadn't expected bloodshed in her
halls...she hadn't expected
the Mordant
. Shivering, she made the hand
sign against evil, yet it brought her no comfort. Liandra longed to disbelieve,
to imagine any other foe, but the proof was too convincing, too devastating.
The
Mordant,
her mind floundered on his name, a legendary nightmare come
calling. How could a mere mortal hope to best the Mordant? Her mind skittered
away, stricken by the deaths of Sir Durnheart and her loyal guardsmen. And then
she remembered the apothecary-monk burnt by fire...and the monk brutally
beheaded in her very castle. She gasped at the depth of his plotting, how his
schemes had burrowed like tentacles into her kingdom, and she had not known.
She
had not known,
yet something he said came back to her.
Till the castle
sleeps,
her mind fastened on the phrase like a light in the dark. If he
needed to wait till everyone slept, it meant he did not own her castle...not
yet. It meant there was still hope. 

The queen stood.

A dark-haired
assassin drilled her with his stare.

"We need to
see to our women."

He glided
towards her.

She stiffened,
remaining statue-still, uncertain of his intentions.

He snatched her
ceremonial sword from its sheath and then gestured the queen towards her women.

Liandra went to them,
but she kept a watchful gaze on the assassins. Determined to grasp at any hope,
she would bide her time. She would wait and she would watch, spinning her own
plots. A smile flickered across her face, recalling how she'd defeated the
Mordant at chess.
He can be beaten.
The memory offered only the faintest
hope, yet she clung to it. Liandra vowed to all the gods that somehow she would
find a way to foil the Mordant...or die trying.

61

The Mordant

The Mordant sent
the traitor and two of his assassins to clear the throne room. Cloaked in
black, he waited in the shadows, fondling the malachite coin. Evicted guards
dribbled from the throne room casting curious glances his way but none uttered
a word in protest. The palace roiled with confusing rumors. Some whispered the
queen was dead. Others swore a brutal assassination attempt had been foiled
leaving the queen in hiding and the royal tower bloody. Everyone knew the
knight protector was slain, a fact that seemed to lend truth to both rumors.
The Mordant smiled. Listening from the shadows, he sipped the rumors like a
fine wine, savoring the confusion. Instead of danger, the chaos created
opportunities. Most palace guards did not know what to believe or whom to
fight, so they obeyed the first authoritarian figure that came their way. In
this, as in other things, the traitor served his purpose.

Raddock and the
two assassins emerged from the throne room. "All clear."

Indulging a whim,
the Mordant entered the throne room alone.

So this is
the throne room of the Rose Queen.
Corbelled vaults of glistening white
stone soared overhead, the side walls studded with diamond-paned windows
reaching from the checkerboard floor to the vaulted ceiling. Gold fretwork
embellished the windows with roses, swords and scrolls. Braziers stood between
the windows, standing guard against any shadows. Sunlight poured through the
windows, filling the throne room with a glittering brightness, yet the abundant
Light could not hold sway against Darkness. The Mordant strode the length of
the chamber, his dark cloak sweeping across the checkerboard floor like a
stealthy conqueror. He found the throne room shockingly small and mundane compared
to his great basilica in the north. The architecture bespoke wealth rather than
power, the embellishments simpering rather than fearful...yet he liked the
checkerboard floor. Black squares set against white, as if all of Erdhe were
nothing more than a game board. The illusion amused him. The Mordant crossed
the board to mount the dais. A confection of gold roses, the Rose Throne was far
too feminine for his tastes. He'd have it melted down and design another.
Perhaps he'd order a new throne carved from a massive black crystal. He'd heard
whispers of a wondrous new discovery across the Western Sea in the deep mines
of the Tarmack Mountains. Smoky quartz crystals the size of a plow horse, he'd
send his MerChanters to fetch one. He imagined a throne carved from a single
smoky crystal, something dark and imposing, massive and powerful, befitting an
immortal emperor.

Cloaked in
black, the Mordant sat upon the Rose Throne contemplating the Great Dark Dance.

The sunlight
dimmed to gloom. Rain pelted the diamond-paned windows, streaking tears down the
glass as if the heavens wept.
And well they should,
for all of Erdhe was
nearly his.

How easily all
of his enemies fell before him. The monks in Pellanor were dead, charred by
their own fireball. The Rose court fell prey to seduction and corruption,
enacting laws and taxations penned by the Mordant. The queen foolishly allowed
herself to be captured rather than killed, becoming a pawn in the game, a
puppet awaiting fresh strings. The princess of Navarre had proved an unexpected
boon, another pawn awaiting execution, an enticing sacrifice that would forever
damn the queen in the eyes of Erdhe. In the north, the Dark Sword was in play, yielding
a cunning revenge, while his armies poured from Raven Pass, poised to conquer
the south. His only setback was the fall of the Dark Citadel, a loss he still
did not understand. A surprise attack by the upstart knights, he'd reclaim the
Citadel once the south was secured.

He imagined the
map of Erdhe in his mind, every kingdom bearing his stamp.

Soon all of his
enemies would bow before him.

In the meantime,
he had histories to rewrite and a future to corrupt.

He'd dangle the
queen in front of her people, letting her garner the blame for the pain and
chaos that was to come. The Mordant smiled like a hungry serpent, enjoying the
game of deceive and ruin. How he loved the Great Dark Dance. Power surged
through him, a boon from his god.

The Mordant rose
from the throne. Pulling the hood of his robe forward, he hid his face as he
crossed the checkerboard floor, for it was not yet time to come out of the
shadows.

Epilogue

Kath prowled the
deck of the
Sea Sprite,
scanning the ocean for enemy ships. To the west,
the sea stretched to forever, a rolling gauntlet of gray waves flecked with
white teeth, the birthplace of fierce storms. To the east, angry waves battered
against towering black cliffs, a forbidding shoreline full of rocky traps and
treacherous whirlpools, offering death to unwary ships. If the sea turned
hostile, they'd find no safe harbors along the basalt cliffs. The
Sea Sprite
threaded the dangers, sailing between the vast ocean waves and the sinister
coastline, yet to Kath's mind, the most lethal threats were the MerChanter
raiders, relentless predators prowling the sea.

A rogue wave
slapped the prow, sending a frothy spray shooting over the railing. Kath flinched
away but the spray caught her, more rust for her chainmail. She licked the salty
tang from her lips. At least for now, the sea seemed empty of ships. Three
times they'd fought the great triremes, the raider ships bearing down on them
like hungry sharks, their oars churning the ocean to a fearsome beat. Kath
fervently hoped she never saw another trireme in her entire life, but it would
have been a comfort to spy the colorful sails of the Navarren fleet, to know
they weren't alone. It seemed forever since they'd set sail from the Dark
Citadel. Ambushed by MerChanter raiders, the
Sprite
had long since lost
sight of the other merchant ships. Kath wondered how they fared. Alone, the
Sea
Sprite
limped south, bearing a legion of battle scars.

Sailors climbed
the rigging, sewing canvas patches on the mainsail. Tattered sails beat against
broken spars, the checkered canvas straining against a crisp wind. Kath
lingered by the ship's figurehead, the prow blackened and burnt, scorched by
fires. Bloodstains leached into the deck, becoming part of the ship. The north
exacted a bitter toll. Sometimes she wondered if they'd ever escape.

Blaine made his
way towards her, the hilt of his blue steel sword rearing over his right
shoulder. "See anything?" He kept a firm grip on the railing.

"Only
waves."

He scowled,
"I'm sick of them too."

Somehow Kath had
escaped the ravages of seasickness. She thanked the gods for their favor.
"Looks like you finally got your sea legs."

"My legs
belong on land."

"Just
so." Kath knew her painted warriors felt the same. They'd endured much to
follow her south.

His gaze turned
west. "It's getting lower in the sky."

She followed
Blaine's stare towards the red comet, a searing scar hanging low above the
roiling ocean. "I know." Tension riddled her shoulders, feeling
trapped on the ship while the Mordant worked his will upon the south, yet there
was nothing she could do to hasten the voyage. Her hand gripped the crystal
dagger, beseeching Valin's aid. Time was growing late.

"I wonder
what we'll find when we finally reach Navarre."

Kath gave him a
sharp look, wondering if he'd guessed her fear. Many a night she woke sodden
with sweat, dreaming they'd come too late to the south...too late to stop the
Mordant. She'd seen the horrors of the Dark Citadel...and they haunted her. In
her worst nightmares, the south became the north, a land of cruel barbarity,
everyone enslaved to the Mordant's will. A shiver raced down her back. Kath made
the hand sign against evil, shunning the vile visions. "The gods will lend
a hand," but her words held little conviction. 

Blaine gave her
a sour look. "If the gods are in this fight, I wouldn't know it."

She parried his
pessimism with a stout reply. "The Navarren fleet came north."

He gave her a
disgusted look that said he wasn't sure the sea voyage was a good thing.

She supposed
from his perspective it seemed an ill-turn, yet to Kath it was a god-given
boon, the only way to escape the winter's bitter grip on the Dark Citadel, the
only way to follow the Mordant south and bring her army to bear. But they
hadn't escaped yet and if they came too late it would not matter...and she did
not know how the other ships fared. The harsh truths nagged at her, multiplying
her worries.

Blaine leaned on
the railing. "I was meant to wield a sword, not wallow on a ship."

She heard the
bitterness in his voice. "Yet even aboard ship, your sword made a great
difference."

He gave her a
thoughtful look. "In the Citadel, something happened...," but then he
fell silent, as if mulling his words.

For half a
heartbeat, she thought he would say something more, but then the lookout sang a
warning. "
Isles to the port side!"

A hearty cheer
rose from the
Sprite's
crew.

Startled by the
sailors' response, Kath gazed to the left, straining to see, but all she found
were white-capped waves. "Do you see it?"

Blaine shook his
head, "No."

Puzzled, she
made her way back to the aft deck, climbing the stairs to stand by the captain.
"What is it?"

Juliana flashed
a dazzling smile. "The Orcnoth Islands!"

The name meant
nothing to Kath.

"A safe
port and a warm welcome! The Orcnoths owe allegiance to Navarre!" Juliana
pointed to the southeast. "See how the waves break against the rocks like
a white banner against the sea, a sure sign of land. And beyond the Orcnoths,
the sea color brightens from dusky gray to warm turquoise." Juliana
grinned, clapping Kath on the back. "The sea color never lies, my friend.
We're nearly home! We've done it! We've escaped the north!"

Escaped the
north,
the words echoed in Kath's mind like a long-held promise. She
gripped the railing and stared south. Now that she knew what to look for, she
saw the low-slung isles, little more than rocky crags topped by green pasture. Beyond
the isles, she noticed how the southern sea gradually brightened to a welcoming
turquoise.
Nearly home,
though it was not Kath's home, she felt a
welcome warmth spread through her, for it truly meant they'd escaped the north.
Her gaze was drawn to the west. The red comet still lingered on the horizon, not
yet set. For once the comet gave her hope, a reminder that the outcome of the
Battle Immortal was not yet decided. Kath gripped the crystal dagger, keen to
make a difference. Perhaps the gods had not abandoned them after all.