The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (17 page)

30

Jordan

Night held sway,
the camp noises muted to slumbering snores. While the captains sprawled around
the campfire, sated from the feast, Jordan and Stewart slipped away, leading
the two monks back to their pavilion. The guards snapped to attention as they
passed inside. “We’re not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dismissing his
squire, Stewart stoked the brazier, throwing light across the pavilion. “When
did you arrive?”

Aeroth replied.
“Just now.”

Jordan's gaze
snapped to the tussled bed and the bits of clothing trailing across the carpet,
telltale signs of their earlier lovemaking. Heat flamed her face, wishing there
was somewhere else to meet.

Stewart poured
the wine, offering a cup to the blue-robed monk. “And my sentries did not
notice?”

“None notice the
owl, and I would keep it that way.” He gave them a piercing look, a reminder of
their vows of secrecy made at Crimson Keep. “Do you have a map? And I could use
some food.” 

Aeroth looked
weary, his face drawn, his eyes sunken. Jordan supposed being the owl took its
toll.

Rafe slipped
outside, asking the guards to bring a plate of food from the feast, and then
returned to stand by her side.

Stewart unrolled
a vellum scroll across the map table, the brightly painted kingdoms of Erdhe
illuminated by the brazier's light.

Aeroth stared
down at the map, his face grim. “I bring word from the north. The forces of
Darkness are marching, no longer content to hold Raven Pass.”

A shiver of
dread whispered through Jordan. 

Aeroth leaned
over the map, stabbing a finger at Raven Pass. “The Mordant’s forces defeated
the Octagon and took the pass and there they remained, spreading tentacles
through the Dragon Spines, fighting the maroon knights and pillaging the
farmers and holdfasts…until now.”

“What of the
Octagon?”

“The knights
have been waging a winter war, attacking in the mountain passes. They fight
valiantly, exacting a stiff toll, but their numbers have dwindled. Their
remaining forces seem to be retreating to Castlegard.”

Rafe gasped,
“They’re giving up?”

“They fought
valiantly.” Aeroth glared at the younger monk, his voice harsh with rebuke.
“Their deeds are worthy of a bard’s song. Their bravery bought the south time.”

“Time we sorely
needed.” Stewart said, “What of the enemy?”

“The Mordant
divides his forces, sending all his cavalry and a herd of Taals eastward along
the Snowmelt.”

Stewart scowled,
“We dare not let them cross the Snowmelt.” He stared at the map. “How many?”

“Two thousand or
more.”

Two thousand,
the number echoed in Jordan’s mind like a curse. A small army in the south,
yet she knew it was only a fraction of the enemy's forces. Little wonder the
knights retreated to their stronghold.

“And what of the
Octagon Bridge?”

“When I last
flew over it, the maroon knights held it still.”

Jordan stared at the map, seeing the hard truth written upon it. “We have to hold Eye Bridge.” The men looked at her. “With the Snowmelt in full spate, they’ll need the
bridge to cross. The Snowmelt is the south’s best defense. We dare not let it
be breached.”

Aeroth's words
fell like a doom. “You may be too late.”

“Why?”

“The cavalry and
a contingent of Taals are riding east at a blistering pace. Either they seek to
cross the bridge, or they're riding for Castlegard.”

Jordan said,
“Cavalry without infantry?”

Aeroth nodded,
“Except for a hundred Taals.”

“Taals?”

“Ogre-like
beings, deformed by magic, over eight feet tall and immensely strong.”

Stewart cursed,
“By Valin’s stones, we’re fighting monsters as well as numbers?”

Aeroth drilled
him with his stare. “You're fighting more than you know. It was magic that won Raven Pass for the Pentacle. Magic blasted the gates letting the horde bring their numbers to
bear.”

“How do you know
this?”

“I have seen the
aftermath. As the owl, I flew over the walls of Raven Pass. The stonework is
buckled and broken, the great gates blasted to dust. The wall gapes like a
toothless crone.”

“How?”

Aeroth shrugged.
“The Mordant has ever sought magic. Throughout the Ages he's hungered for it,
sought it, collected it, ever adding more magic to his hoard. Magic is power,
the type of power he craves above all others. Make no mistake. The Mordant will
wield every trick, every magic, bringing all his powers to bear to win the
Battle Immortal.”

“And you have
nothing to counter it? It was your magic that helped us retake Lingard.”

“Ellis has taken
her orb back to the mountains. I bring you knowledge, use it well.”

Stewart scowled,
a glint of anger blazing in his eyes, but Jordan drew the discussion back to
the map. “If the enemy sends only cavalry, then speed must matter. Cavalry
alone means a lightning raid. The Mordant must want something dearly...and he
wants it taken fast." She looked at the others, watching as the insight
hit them. “Cavalry alone will never take Castlegard, so what does the Mordant
want?”

Her question
fell like a stone into deep water. 

Aeroth said, “I
like it not. The Mordant does nothing without a reason.” 

Stewart said,
“If he sends only his cavalry, what of the rest?”

“Half their infantry
still holds Raven Pass…while the other half marches west.”

"
West?
"
A shiver of foreboding raced down Jordan's spine.

Stewart asked,
“How much is half?”

Aeroth looked
grim. “Forty thousand or more.”

The number fell
like a doom.

Stewart gaped. “
Forty
thousand
is
half?
”

Aeroth nodded.
“Give thanks to the Octagon, or you’d be facing far worse odds.”

Stewart reached
for a goblet. Filling it with wine, he took a long gulp.

Rafe asked,
“West to where? There’s nothing in the west but forest and a few farmsteads.”

But Jordan knew the map held the answer. “The Serpentines, they’re going to try and cross at
the Serpentines.” Her voice turned cold. "And then they'll march south...to
Navarre."

Stewart stared
at her. “Can it be done?”

“The Serpentines
are tricky, shifting sandbars changing with every season. Maps of the
Serpentines are worthless, the river banks convulse like an angry snake every
springtime.” She considered tales she’d heard from fisherman chasing salmon.
“Much will depend on the Snowmelt.”

Stewart nodded,
his face grave. “Then our battle plan is set.” He turned to Aeroth. “Can you
warn the maroon knights and get them to hold the Octagon Bridge?”

“I need food and
a day to rest, but yes, I can warn them.”

“Good, you’ll
have both.” His finger traced a path across the map. “I’ll take all of my
cavalry and my light infantry and quick-march to Eye Bridge. We’ll seal the
bridge, blocking the way south.” He turned to Jordan, his face pale. “And you,
my dear wife, must take my heavy infantry and your army and find a way to seal
the Serpentines.”

The weight of
the task fell hard across her shoulders…as did the knowledge they’d be separated.
“I’ll find a way.”

Stewart gave her
a solemn nod. “We march in two days time.”

Two days,
yet
she kept her face as still as stone.

“Benly!” Stewart
called for his squire.

The tow-headed
lad appeared, his eyes heavy with sleep.

“Find a quiet
tent for Aeroth and Rafe. Bring them food and drink and whatever else they
need.” Stewart turned to the two monks. "We'll speak more in the
morning."

The boy led the
monks from the pavilion.

The canvas flap
fell closed and Jordan dropped her mask. “
Two days?”

“We dare not
delay in war…or love.” Stewart stepped towards her, a deep hunger kindling his
gaze. “One more night,” his gaze burned into her. "Do you think we might
make a child?"

A child in
wartime,
it seemed so dangerous, so reckless...yet she'd stopped taking the
infusion of vigean root days ago, leaving it in her saddlebag as if she too
yearned for a child. "Do we dare?"

"How do we
not?" Need flashed between them like lightning. He scooped her into his
arms and carried her to their fur-tossed bed.

31

Jordan

Morning came too
soon. Sounds of the camp intruded, an army preparing for war. Reluctant yet
resigned, they left the warmth of the furs. In somber silence, Jordan donned
her armor, burnished steel for her body, a facade of stone for her heart. As a
wife, she could have cried at their parting, but as a general, she could not.
Buckling her sword at her waist, she strode towards the canvas flap, keeping a
tight rein on her resolve.

“Wait.” Stewart
called her back.

She turned,
struggling to contain her emotions.

“This is for
you.” He settled a slender chain around her neck. A gold ring dangled from it.
“When we wed at the Crimson Keep, I had no ring to give you.” He gave her a
soft smile. “Signet rings are awkward under gauntlets, so I had it set on a
chain.”

She lifted the
heavy ring of pure gold.
A signet ring,
etched deep with a royal seal.
Encircled by engraved waves for Navarre, the heart of the seal bore the shield
of Lanverness surmounted by a petite crown. The meaning lanced her heart.

He closed her
hand around the ring. "With this ring you wield authority within
Lanverness, a princess of the Rose Court...and my wife."

The stone façade
protecting her heart nearly cracked.

He pressed a
fervent kiss upon her closed hand. “Take care, my love.”

A single tear
escaped. “And you.” She lunged for him, needing to feel his arms around her.
Armor to armor, the steel of war clanked between them. "Armor," she
shook her head, her voice wry, "is not meant for love." The brief
levity fled her voice. "I miss you already."

“And I you, but
this war must be won. Despite the grim odds, I believe we’ll find a way.”

His voice
carried such conviction. “How can you be so certain?”

“The gods spared
us for a reason. They saved you from certain death in the monastery and then
gave you visions so you could save me from Skarn and his brigands. Second
chances are rare. They should never be wasted.”

“In war or in
love?”

“Both.” He
kissed her, tenderness tinged with passion. "Do you think we made a
child?"

She wanted it to
be so, but she also feared it. "Only the gods know."

His voice
whispered across her forehead. "Then I'll pray for it."

She pulled him
close, but their armor intruded, steel clanking against steel.

He gave her a
wry smile. “Duty calls.”

They separated.
Jordan struggled to regain her stone mask. “Keep safe, my love.”

“And you.”

Settling her
helm on her head, Jordan stepped from the pavilion. For half a heartbeat,
sunlight glinted on burnished armor, dazzling her. Two armies waited arrayed on
the field, the blue and red of Navarre mingling with the green of Lanverness.
Battle banners snapped in the brisk breeze, a jaunty sight were it not for
their parting.

Rafe held her
stallion. The big warhorse tossed his silvered mane, stamping with impatience
to run. The leather-clad monk gave her a leg up and then mounted a bay gelding,
riding by her side.

She gave Stewart
one last lingering look and then turned her face toward duty. “Let’s march!” Jordan gave the order and the signaler blew the conch shell, sending the eerie sound of the
sea breaking across the farmland. The war drums answered, taking up their
steady beat. Saluting Stewart, she wheeled her stallion toward the north and
cantered to the front of the column, answering the call of war.

32

Master Rizel

Master Rizel
waited for the sun to reach its zenith, that time of day when the Light held
sway and shadows were banished to dust motes. With deep solemnity he opened the
narrow rune-carved chest and took up the staff. In ordinary light, it appeared
as nothing more than a gnarled quarterstaff, an eight foot rod of polished wood
with iron shoddings at both ends, but it was so much more. Few knew it was a
relic from another Age, one of the greatest treasures of the monastery. His
hands caressed the polished ironwood, straining to sense the magic within.
Knots and swirls dotted its length, the wood-grained patterns worn smooth with time,
yet he sensed no magic, no arcane spark. The staff remained dormant to his
touch. Perhaps his gambit was a fool's errand. Perhaps he'd pay with his life,
yet the Order needed answers. They could not go blind into the Battle Immortal.

A knock sounded
on the door to his cell. He wanted no persuasions, no eleventh hour arguments,
so he ignored it, but the knock persisted, growing louder and more demanding.
In a rare flash of anger, he yanked the door open. "Will you wake the
dead?"

Ambrose waited
on the far side, worry scrawled across his handsome face. "Don't do
this."

He ushered his
friend inside, closing the midnight-blue door behind him lest others come to
dissuade him. "It's been debated and decided and now it must be
done."

His friend paced
the chamber, raking his hand through his pale blond hair, his gaze darting
toward the ironwood staff. "I fear for you. None of the relics have been
wielded in centuries. For all any of us know, that could be a simple wooden
staff you're holding in your hands, the true relic lost long ago."

The argument hit
hard, compounding his nagging fear, but he refused to swerve from his course.
"What choice do we have? We've searched the ancient annals and there are
no answers!"

"You're
taking a terrible risk."

"The red
comet sinks low in the sky...and this latest portent cannot be ignored."

Ambrose stopped
pacing. "But at what cost?"

"Whatever
it takes." The calmness of his words belied the tension coiled like a
snake in his stomach. "Time has nearly caught us. We stand on the cusp of
a new Age. We dare not let Darkness prevail."

His friend
glowered.

Master Rizel
parried his look with hard-won conviction. "This was my idea, Ambrose. I
convinced the council of the wisdom of this path, so I alone must bear the
risk."

"At least
take this." His friend pulled a guide's amulet from his pocket, an oval
medallion inscribed with a Seeing Eye dangling from a golden chain.

"No."

"But..."

Rizel's voice
was firm. "On this the annals are clear. The amulet will negate the magic
of the staff." He gave his friend a wan smile. "It's as if the
ancient wizards set a price on their magic."

"What
price?"

"The price
of belief."

"But..."

Rizel
forestalled his friend's argument. "A sixteen year-old girl illuminated a
blue steel sword, how can we masters dare do less?"

Ambrose slumped
in resignation. "Then the gods go with you. May you find the knowledge you
seek."

"And
you." Embracing his friend, he took up the staff. Pulling his cowled hood
over his head as a signal for seclusion, he made his way through the hallowed
halls. None spoke as he passed, his ironshod staff clicking a determined rhythm
on the polished mage-stone floors. Halls of midnight-blue gave way to floors of
golden-yellow. Acolytes stared as he passed, but they kept silent, respecting
the raised cowl of his robe. His gaze swept past the acolytes to linger on the
calligraphy. The colors dazzled, wisdom writ on every wall. Pride mingled with
a fierce sense of protectiveness claimed him. More than just his home, the
monastery was the last bastion of knowledge, worth any risk.

Opening a
rune-carved door, he stepped out into the bright sunshine. Blue sky arched
overhead like a great vast bowl, empty of clouds, clear and cold and keen...but
the sky held a fatal flaw, the red comet riding low in the west. The red scar
neither rose nor set. It hung night and day, through cloud and sun, an
unnatural smear slowly sinking toward the western horizon, a blight upon the
sky, a portent of death and destruction. Making the hand sign against evil, he
crossed the outer courtyard. Warmth rose from beneath his boots providing a
patina of comfort. On the far side a blue-robed master waited for him.

Master Grimshaw
lowered his cowl. "So it's now."

"We need
answers." Master Rizel shrugged, gripping the staff. "I see no reason
to delay."

"And this
is the relic?" He gestured to the ironwood staff.

"By all
accounts, yes."

"It looks
so ordinary." A weighted silence hung between them, an acknowledgement of
the risk. "May the Lords of Light guide you." 

"May the
Light guide us all." Chafing at the delay, Master Rizel took his leave.

Guards rushed to
open the outer gates, admitting a frosty breath of cold. Snow crested the
mountains, locked in winter's last embrace. His gaze flicked to the sun,
hovering at its zenith. Drawing strength from the sunlight, he passed beyond
the warmth of the monastery into the mountain vastness.

The great gates
emblazoned with Seeing Eyes closed behind him with a deep thud. He felt their stare
at his back. The silence of the mountains weighed on him. Alone, he made his
way down the ice-slick path, bracing himself on the quarterstaff.

The trail
disappeared into a wall of white.

A dense white
fog encircled the monastery like a moat of magic, but there was no bridge
across this moat, no easy way to pass. An ensorcelled protection from a bygone
Age, the Guardian Mist blocked his path, a trial of magic mingled with intent.
Master Rizel hesitated at the edge, for he well knew the perils. He'd traversed
the sentient fog hundreds of time, but never with such risk, and never with
such dire need. Gripping the staff, he sent a heartfelt prayer to Lords of
Light, beseeching their favor...but he knew the gods were a fickle lot, helping
those who helped themselves. Casting a sharp-eyed stare towards the heavens, he
hoped for a sign, but his gaze found naught but the red comet searing the pale
blue sky, the symbol of the Mordant. "So be it."

Gathering his
resolve, he gripped the staff and stepped into the Mist.

Bright sunlight
was instantly shuttered to a murky dimness. The chilly fog strangled him like choking
hands. Sounds became muted and smothered, severing his last ties to the outside
world. Even the ground disappeared beneath his boots, hidden by the swirling
white. Thick, potent, and laden with menace, the Guardian Mist enveloped him,
lapping at his face. Resisting the urge to hold his breath, he strode into the
white void. A sixth sense warned him to shuffle his feet and test his footing,
but he refused to be cowed by fear. Walking boldly, he strode into the Mist,
keeping his head held high and his hand locked on the staff, an illusion of
confidence.

His gaze sought
to pierce the Mist, but he saw nothing but cold white in every direction. The
farther he walked, the greater the risk. A shiver raced down his back. Tightening
his grip on the ironshod staff, he willed it to waken. The relic proved
stubborn, appearing like nothing more than a lowly quarterstaff. Doubts
assailed him. Perhaps he'd misread the text, missing some subtle clue. Perhaps
Ambrose was right and the true relic was long lost, leaving him holding nothing
but an ordinary stick. Or perhaps the tome he found was a lie, the brilliant
illumination painted amongst the calligraphy merely a scribe's fantasy. Yet, if
a sixteen-year-old girl could invoke a blue steel sword, then surely he could
find a way to wield the relic. He clung to his belief, putting his faith in the
staff. 

Something
flitted ahead.

He caught a
bright glimpse of golden-yellow, the color of an acolyte's robes, yet he knew
it could not be. Tightening his grip on the staff, he plowed a path through the
mist, ignoring the illusion.

The flash of
golden-yellow came again.

Surrounded by
dense fog, his gaze leaped to any color, like a drowning man grasping for a
floating log, yet he knew it was false. The Mist toyed with him. Annoyed, he
shouted. "I'll not be fooled by your tricks, I've come with solemn
purpose."

"
What
purpose?"

The Mist
answered with a boy's voice, full of youthful exuberance. The choice of voice
puzzled Rizel, yet he answered. "I've come for knowledge long lost."

"
Knowledge...knowledge...knowledge..."
the refrain echoed around him, a chorus of many voices coming from all
directions.

He shouted above
them. "I seek knowledge to defeat the Dark!"

"
Seek...seek...seek..."
the refrain came like a chant...or a taunt.

Tiring of the
ruse, he bellowed, "Show yourself!"

A dead, flat
silence was the only reply.

He felt watched,
surrounded, the hairs prickling at the back of his neck.

The boy's voice
came again. "
What will you risk? What will you dare? What price will
you pay?"

He grasped at
the boy's voice, seeking an ally among enemies. "Anything!"

"
What
knowledge do you seek?"

"I seek the
riddle of mage-stone. Can it be broken? Can it be healed?"

"
Your
Order protects knowledge. Have the monks failed their charge?"

Having no
answer, he waited, hoping, his heart thumping loud in his chest. The pause was
interminable.

"
Swear
on your life that you seek answers to this one riddle and nothing else."

Answers to
one riddle,
it seemed such an odd thing to swear. Rizel hesitated. One did
not swear lightly to the Guardian of the Mist, yet he saw no other way.
"You have my word. I so swear."

The Mist swirled
around him, dense and impenetrable, as if the Guardian considered his reply.

The flash of
golden-yellow came again, but this time it moved toward him. A boy stepped from
the Mist, a fresh-faced acolyte of twelve years, a youth on the verge of
manhood. A mop of unruly soot-dark hair threatened to hide his jewel-blue eyes.
Pushing the hair from his face, the lad quirked an impish smile.

Master Rizel
staggered backwards, recognizing his younger self.
"How?"

"All things
are possible in the Mist."

"Why
you?"

The lad grinned.
"Whom would you trust more?"

Another odd
reply
, yet before he could frame an answer, the lad said, "Come if you
want answers." The boy darted into the Mist, yet he did not disappear, his
golden robes shining bright like a beacon in the fog.

Master Rizel
hesitated. Following illusions in the Mist was ill-advised, a ploy to lead the
unwary to a deadly drop, yet what choice did he have? Gripping the staff, he
hurried to follow his younger self.

The boy
quickened his pace. Master Rizel rushed to keep up. Wary of a trap, he strained
to see through the swirling white, but he saw nothing save the boy.

The lad came to
a sudden stop. Turning, he wore a solemn look on his youthful face. "This
is where we part."

Confused, Master
Rizel looked around, but he saw nothing but white.

The lad's voice
dropped to an earnest whisper. "Remember our vows, the vows we took when
we gained the blue. Hold to them." His voice dropped to a hush. "And
beware, for illusions are real in the Mist. They can hurt you, even kill
you." The boy cocked his head, as if listening to another voice. "Hold
to your vows!" Turning, he faded into the white.

"Wait!"
But the boy was already gone. Master Rizel peered into the white, seeing
nothing but fog in every direction...but then the mist began to thin, like a
curtain pulled away by a giant hand. A towering cliff face appeared, a vertical
wall of granite. Carved into the mountainside were four enormous columns, like
the entrance to an ancient temple. An eight pointed star was chiseled into the
lintel. Embedded lichen lent the symbol a golden hue.
"The Star
Knights!"
The words whispered out of him. The temple was old, the
features smoothed and blunted by time and weather, yet the daunting scale was
awe inspiring. He'd never seen its like...and he'd never heard a whisper of its
existence.
Another illusion!
Yet the Mist must have brought him here for
a reason. Intrigued, he strode towards the temple.

Massive columns
stood like sculpted guardians, carved from ancient granite. He touched the
column's base, surprised to find it stone-firm beneath his hand. If this was an
illusion, it was well done. Passing beneath the shaded portico, he saw a door.
On closer inspection, it was more of a gate. Battle axes, spears, swords,
halberds and maces, the trophies of some long-forgotten war were forged
together to form a gate. Rusted weapons of every make and description formed
the patchwork barrier. A metal plate with a keyhole bound the two halves
together. Impressed above the keyhole was the image of a hand, a Seeing Eye
emblazoned on the palm. Rust encrusted the ancient weapons, yet their edges
seemed sharp, still thirsting for blood. Peering between the patch-worked
weapons, he saw a passageway slanting down, another mystery. He rattled the
gate, pushing and tugging, careful to avoid the edged blades, yet the lock held
firm. Searching around the columns, he found no key.

"I
wonder." Returning to the gate, he set his naked palm against the plate.
His hand was a perfect fit. A shiver slid down his back, yet the gate remained
locked.
Remember your vows,
the boy's words echoed in his mind.
"Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge."