The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (4 page)

5

The Mordant

The door opened
and the Mordant strode into the queen's solar for their first meeting. Luxury
surrounded him: plush carpets beneath his boots, exquisite tapestries gracing
the walls, a room bejeweled with gilded furniture and stunning works of art,
but the setting mattered not. He'd come for the woman ensconced at the heart of
the royal trappings. Stopping a sword's length away, he paused to take her
measure. “So this is the queen so many speak of.” The words purred out of him
as he took in the details. Petite with a buxom figure, her waist was hourglass
trim yet the crows-feet at her eyes betrayed her age. Powders and rouge, no
matter how skillfully applied, could not hide the truth. A woman of middling
years, the queen of Lanverness wore jewels and velvets like armor, but beneath
the royal glamour, the bloom had nearly gone off the rose. A few more years and
she would pass beyond child-bearing age, the last of her beauty fading to gray,
her armor dissolving with age. Glorying in his own stolen youth, the Mordant
struggled to keep a smug smile from his face…but he had not come to gloat.
Hungry to begin, he breathed deep, searching for the taint of Darkness in her
soul.
Ambition laden with pride,
the queen reeked of ambition despite
being a mere woman. Ambition was ever fertile ground for Darkness.

The queen
smiled. “Welcome to our court. We are pleased to host a prince from distant Ur.”

He gave her a
half nod. “Distant in leagues but close in trade. Commerce connects us."
He deliberately deepened his smile, a hunter sighting prey. "Trading
powers should meet, don’t you think?”

“Trading
powers,
not trading
partners,
what an interesting turn of phrase.”

“Nothing but the
truth.”
How he enjoyed weaving a good lie, one of the simple pleasures of
dealing with mere mortals.
“Lanverness dominates the trade of Erdhe, as Ur dominates trade across the southern seas, hence, my interest in your kingdom. We are
both trading
powers.”

“And are you
attracted to power?”

“Always.”

He drilled her
with his stare, silently compelling her to meet his gaze. As if in answer, she
complied. Their stares locked.
Ambition is the key to her soul.
The
Mordant longed to make it rape, to delve the queen and pith her soul like a fly
pinned to parchment…but he had witnesses. A knight with a blue steel sword
stood vigil in the shadows, so this would have to be done delicately.
Restraining his power, the Mordant sought a painless conquest. His gaze lanced
hers, demanding entry. His will pressed inwards, seeking to follow the strands
of ambition. He sought to plumb her soul, to seduce her with Darkness…and met a
wall of blazing Light. Pain pierced him. His own power rebounded on him, a
terrible backlash that stabbed his mind. Fury flamed through him,
how dare
you!
Incandescent with rage, he nearly reached for the gem of pain,
intending to blast the queen to her knees…but he fought the urge.
Destroy
her now and history will not be changed.
His own ambition rescued him. Rage
had nearly undone him. Taking a deep breath, he bridled his anger, forcing
calculated reason to reign.

Shuttering his
gaze, the Mordant considered what he’d learned. Souls like hers were rare, yet
over the ages he’d encountered a few others with shields of Light. Ambition
that truly served the greater good became a potent shield against the Dark.
Such souls often posed stumbling blocks to his plans. He hadn’t expected to
find such soul-strength in a mere woman. She reminded him of someone else, a
dark-haired sorceress, an ancient conquest from his very first lifetime. The
Mordant supposed he would have to do this the old-fashioned way. The thought
brought a sense of mild amusement. Having lived for over a thousand years, he'd
assumed many different roles in many different lifetimes, but the Deceiver was
ever the guise he most enjoyed, the role that most profited the Dark Lord.
Ensorcelling mortals with lies was a game he'd come to love.

“Will you have
some wine?” The frumpy maid intruded.

The Mordant
blinked, shuttering the Darkness of his soul.

“Will you have
some wine, my lord?”

Annoyed, he made
a mental note to have one of his assassins kill the wretched woman. “Yes, I
will.” Accepting a goblet of dark red wine, the Mordant flicked a glance toward
the guardian knight. Standing statue-still in the flickering firelight, he
seemed unaware that anything had transpired. “A blue steel sword.”

The queen gave
him a feeble smile. “So you’ve heard of blue steel?”

The Mordant kept
to his disguise, a congenial smile on his face. “Even in Ur we have heard of
such swords.” He took a chair on the far side of the chessboard. The dark army
already arrayed against her emerald green. “I see you got my gift.”

She seemed distracted,
wounded by his mental assault. “An exquisite gift, we thank you for it.”

“Chess is such
an ancient game, a game of kings, a game of power. You can learn so much about
an opponent through a single game of chess, don’t you think?”

“Your thoughts
echo our own.”

“I doubt that.”
He cursed her within his mind.
I bring you Despair!
Your precious
kingdom shall fall to my lash, your people shall be corrupted, your deeds shall
be sullied, your memory despoiled, and your very name shall become a foul
curse. Your downfall shall seal the fate of future queens. Forevermore, women
shall be forbidden power in Erdhe because of you. The Great Dark Divide shall
be strengthened by your defeat
…
and I shall enjoy that very much.
He
let his smile show his true intent. “Shall we let our armies clash?”

She hesitated, a
hint of dread on her face, almost as if she could read his thoughts. But then
she nodded, her voice brimming with the naive confidence of a feckless mortal.
“Yes, let’s play.”

6

Liandra

Queen Liandra
sat before the chessboard, considering her opening move. By tradition, the
lighter color always moved first. It struck the queen that this was a fallacy.
In truth, Darkness always made the first assault, breaking the peace and
drawing the first blood, leaving the ambushed Light scrambling to mount a
reply. The thought gave her an interesting insight into the natures of Light
and Dark, but this was chess, a game with clearly defined rules. Liandra
focused her mind on the checkered board. Darkest ebony inlaid with squares of
polished abalone shell, the board rippled with smoky iridescence, an exquisite
field of play. Her malachite army stood arrayed against the prince's onyx
legion. Knights and monks stood stalwart against dragons and wizards, her
lighter color giving her the first move. She'd always loved the subtle
intricacies of chess, the challenge of wits and strategies, the ability to see
many moves ahead, yet seated across from the prince, a strange anxiety gripped
her, as if she’d bet her kingdom upon the outcome of the game. Suppressing the
grim foreboding, Liandra considered a range of openings. Finally reaching for
her king’s pawn, she made the first move.

The queen stared
across the chessboard, keen to see the prince’s opening. First moves always
held a wealth of insights, setting the tone for the game while revealing
glimpses of her opponent’s hidden nature.

The prince did
not hesitate. Reaching for a dragon carved of onyx, he opened with a knight,
the trickiest piece on the board.

The move
surprised her, something she’d expect from an older, more mature player. “So
you have a fondness for knights?”

“A fondness, no,
I have nothing but disdain for knights and any piece that does not rule.”

Such a brutal
reply,
yet she soon discovered that it fit his style of play. Instead of
building elaborate feints, he attacked from every angle. Showing no regard for
his pieces, the prince ruthlessly traded his queen for a mere castle. With such
uneven trades, Liandra felt destined for victory, yet somehow the game eluded
her. The prince pressed a relentless attack, keeping her off balance. Under the
fierce assault, Liandra became overly protective of her malachite pieces,
striving to save every one. She knew this was a losing strategy, yet she could
not stop herself. Hunched over the board, she sat absorbed in the play,
desperate to find a solution. The game became a bloody rout, castles, monks and
pawns falling under the prince’s brutal onslaught. Malachite figures littered
the tabletop with reproach. Backed into a corner, Liandra fought for her life.

Carved chess pieces
moved across the board like a silent clash of armies. The queen sought an
escape, she sought a stalemate, yet the noose of onyx-carved figures tightened
around her malachite king like a relentless destiny. The fire snapped and
crackled in the hearth. Intent on the game, not a word was spoken…until he
toppled her king.

“Checkmate.”

Defeated,
the
queen sat stunned.

“You look
surprised.”

Liandra conceded
a nod toward the prince. “As the only child of a king, we were reared upon
strategy and court intrigue.”

"And you
see chess as a reflection of life?"

"To some
extent."

He fingered her
defeated king. “Perhaps you lack an essential quality?”

“And what is
that?”

“Ruthlessness.”
He flashed a feral grin. “An essential quality for a great ruler, but so often
lacking in the fair sex.”

Anger pulsed
through her. "Then you must not know many women.”

“I've known
countless women...but none that rule.”

She met his gaze
across the chessboard. “You’ve met one now.” Her voice flashed with steel.
“Will you play again?”

“Yes, but not
today.” He stood and suddenly his smile transformed from sinister to charming,
as changeable as quicksilver. “Thank you for a most insightful game. Perhaps we
can play again next week?" His smile deepened with murky intent.
"Another clash across the chessboard and you can show me how queens rule.”

“We would be
delighted.” Her voice held a daggered edge.

The prince took
his leave.

The door clicked
closed and relief washed across her. Liandra sagged against the oak-carved
throne. Exhaustion claimed her, as if she’d jousted in a tournament and come
away battered and bruised.
Defeated
, a headache pounded at the back of
her eyes,
and by such an arrogant young man
. The truth rankled. The fire
had burned to embers, letting shadows encroach. Shivering against the darkness,
the queen considered her time with the prince. She’d learned little of Ur, but she’d gained insights into the man. He was not what he seemed. And he was
dangerous. And
he
was in
her
kingdom. Plots within plots, she’d
have to double the shadowmen assigned to the prince and his entourage. She
needed more information. The loss of the first game haunted her like an
ill-omen. Somehow she needed to learn his true game, his true intent…and then she
needed to find a way to defeat him.

7

The Mordant

The messenger
was delivered in a canvas sack. At a gesture from the Mordant, the two
assassins cut the ties and upended the contents, dumping the young man onto the
cold stone floor.

Bound, gagged
and blindfolded, the messenger wore the emerald livery of the Rose Queen.
Screaming through his gag, he squirmed across the pentacle like a green worm.

“Untie him.”

The assassin
slashed the rope bonds and then stepped back into the shadows.

Tugging off the
blindfold, the young man squinted at the dim light. Spitting the gag from his
mouth, he yelled, “How dare you! I’m a royal courier, a messenger for the
queen!”

His voice reeked
of fear despite his bravado. The Mordant breathed deep, savoring the smell.
“Take off your tabard.”

“What?” The
young man flinched backward, his gaze circling the chamber, his eyes widening
in fear. “What is this place?”

They stood in
the sanctum beneath the manse. Cold stone vaulted overhead to a smothering
darkness. Five braziers lit the five points of the pentacle, yet the shadows
held sway. Unbloodied and undedicated, the chamber smelled of mortar and
fresh-cut stone…but that would soon change. “Take off your tabard.” The
Mordant's voice was soothing, reasonable, paternal...almost patient.

The messenger
shrank backwards. “Why?”

“Or my men will
do it for you.”

The young man
glanced at the two assassins, a flash of fear across his face. He started to
undress, his hands shaking.

The Mordant
waited, his arms crossed.
How easy the weak are persuaded.
Breathing
deep, he imbibed the scent of fear.
“And now your pants.”

The messenger
retreated a step, his voice laden with panic. "No."

"Do it now
and things will go easier for you."

The young man's
wide-eyed stare skittered around the unholy chapel, drinking in the menace of
the chamber. Pale and shaking, he complied, adding boots and pants to the
discarded pile of green. Looking younger than his years, he stood shivering in
his small clothes, his skin puckered against the cold.

The Mordant
gestured to the pile of green. “Take these to Tembo.”

“Don’t take my
clothes!”

One of the
assassins leaped to obey. “Yes, my lord.” Oblivious to the young man's protest,
the assassin gathered up the clothes and retreated into the shadows.

The Mordant
smiled. “They will serve a higher purpose…as will you.” He gestured to the
remaining assassin. “Prepare him for sacrifice.”

"What?"
Yelping in fear, the young man leaped to run but the assassin struck like a
scorpion. A single well-aimed punch knocked the messenger to the floor. Pinning
him to the pentacle, the assassin splayed his arms and legs wide. The young man
bucked and fought, raw terror on his face, but he was no match for an assassin
of the ninth rank. The final shackle locked into place, chaining the messenger
spread-eagle to the floor, an unwilling sacrifice stretched across the
pentacle. The assassin drew a dagger from his baldric.

Eyeing the
knife, the messenger flinched back against the cold stone floor. "Don't!"

Three quick
slashes and the captive’s small clothes fell away.

Hot piss
streamed onto the floor, adding the first stink of true terror to the chamber.

"Release
me!" The young man writhed against his bonds, his face contorted in fear.
"
I serve the queen! Release me!"
His screams beat against the
chamber, echoing with an eerie refrain.

The Mordant
smiled, supping on the young man's fear. "Scream all you want, a fitting
chorus for the damned."

“Release me!”

“Come,” the
Mordant gestured to his assassin, “this one needs time to stew in his own
terror.” At a gesture, the braziers dimmed.

Darkness encroached...like
a living beast.

The young man's
screams grew frantic.
"Don't leave me here!"

Crossing the
chamber, the Mordant climbed the stairs, the dark-clad assassin following in his
wake. He reached the prison level and passed through the false barrel, stepping
into the wine cellar. The assassin closed and locked the doors behind him,
snuffing the screams to silence.

Returning to the
manse proper, the Mordant strode to the great room. Sunlight streamed through
diamond-paned windows, casting light across the marble floor. A gilded chair
sat upon a raised dais, serving as a make-shift throne. Behind the throne, a
banner of purple silk ran from the vaulted ceiling to the polished floor, the
Great Wyrm embossed in gold, a dragon eating its own tail, the imperial symbol
of distant Ur.

Twelve duegar
and seven assassins fell prostrate to the marble floor.

The Mordant
crossed the chamber, his boot heels ringing on stone. Climbing the dais, he
took a seat upon the throne. “Rise and tell me what you’ve learned.” He’d sent
his minions scurrying through the queen's city, searching for monks and magic
and Octagon knights. One at a time, they gave their reports.

The Mordant
listened till his anger flared. “You bring me nothing!”

They cringed
from his wrath.

“Where one monk
has died, others will follow. And those others will bring magic." His
voice dropped to a deadly hiss. "I want their magic.
Find
...them.”

“Yes, lord.” The
duegar withdrew half a step, trembling at the Mordant's rage.

“And while you
search, I'll have you spread rumors against the queen.”

One assassin
dared a glance toward his face. “What would you have us say?”

 “Spread fear
about the coming war…and complain of food shortages.”

“But, lord,” the
assassin spoke in a hesitant voice, “the markets overflow with food. No one
will believe us.”

How little they
understood. “Speak a lie loudly and often enough and it will be believed.
Famine follows war and Lanverness still recovers from the Flame War. If the
queen’s people fear a famine, then they will begin to hoard food. If enough
become hoarders, then a food shortage will follow. Lies repeated often enough
take on the substance of truth.”

“Yes, dread
lord. Anything else, lord?”

“Yes.” The
Mordant savored the secret, a gift from one of his best assassins. “Amongst the
lies you shall spread one truth.” His grin widened. “Dirty truths are even more
effective than lies. I'll brand the bitch with her own morals. The queen
considers herself a servant of the Light, yet she bore a stillborn bastard to
some unnamed lover. She thinks her sordid secret is safe, but the common people
love a good scandal above all else. Add a few embellishments and the tale will
spread like wildfire. Whisper a rumor that the queen is a whore, that she bore
a bastard, a malformed creature cursed by the gods. Smothered at birth, it was
buried in an unmarked grave lest the damning truth be known. Born with a tail
and horns, the misbegotten and misshaped babe proves her sins. Such a queen
should never sit upon a throne lest the gods shun her kingdom.”

His men grinned
like slobbering dogs, eager for the task.

“Now go, and do
not disappoint.”

Bowing low, they
scuttled from the room.

The Mordant
smiled. He’d loosed the hounds of deceit, sent to spread lies in taverns, inns,
markets and brothels. Soon the queen’s city would shudder with discontent.

A servant
hovered at the doorway. "My lord, the dispatches have arrived."

"Good."
The Mordant strode from the throne room, weaving his way to Bishop Borgan's
chambers. He found the fat prelate ensconced behind a large cluttered desk.
Feathered quills, paring knives, wax sticks, and rows of stoppered ink bottles
surrounded him. The tools of his trade, the bishop was an expert at forgery and
the art of manipulating wax seals. Carefully rolling a scroll over the heat of
a candle flame, he delicately pried the emerald seal from the parchment. “This
one is from Prince Stewart.”

“Read it.” The
Mordant settled in a chair, fondling the malachite coin as he listened.

The bishop read
the dispatch without inflection.

The Mordant
listened. For the turn of an hourglass they worked through a satchel of
captured dispatches. Sifting through the details, the Mordant decided which to
burn, which to alter, and which to allow through. Wielding nothing more than a
pen and parchment, he spun a web of deceit around the queen. Lies etched in ink
were so easily believed.

The bishop's
quill scratched on parchment as he scribed the Mordant’s response.

Weaving webs of
deceit, the Mordant smiled, enjoying the game. The woman styled herself the
spider
queen,
such a ridiculous title, yet her webs would soon catch nothing but
carefully crafted lies. “Seal it and have Tembo deliver the dispatches. The messenger's
tabard will complete the deception. Once you're done with these, I want you to
approach the queen and confirm a date for our second game of chess.” The
Mordant flashed a cobra’s smile. “The arrogant woman thinks I've come to play
chess with her." His smile deepened to a sneer. "As if toy armies moving
across a checkered board truly matter. While the queen duels with chessmen, the
true game begins."