The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (28 page)

52

Jemma

Another message
pouch from Navarre, but this one bore the complex sea knots that marked it of
special importance. Once a fortnight, Jemma received scrolls from home, a
letter from her father, gossip from her family and friends, reports from her
factors, but the sea knots marked this delivery as something more. Locking the
door to her room, she made fast work of the knots. Opening the pouch, she
peered inside. Nothing…but a message coil.

A message
coil!
It lay on the table like a coiled snake. Only the most dire messages
were sent by coded coil.

Perhaps the
king is dead,
the thought shook her soul. She shuddered, making the hand
sign against evil. The Curse of the Vowels had plagued her family with death,
too much death. Shaking her head against the grim thought, Jemma prayed it was
not so.

Unread, the
message coil waited on the table.

The coiled strip
of parchment bore a carefully inked message scribed in a clear hand. The
message was false unless read the proper way. She stared at it for a hundred
heartbeats but delay would not change the outcome. Taking a steadying breath,
Jemma knelt by her cedar chest and turned the lock. Buried beneath her
keepsakes and scrolls, she found her message rod. Every royal had one, its twin
kept safe in Castle Seamount. Made of turned pine, the two foot rod bore a
single nail at one end. It looked insignificant but a rod of any other
thickness would yield gibberish. Such a simple thing, yet it was the key to
unlocking the royal code. Returning to the table, she pierced the message coil
with the nail and slowly wound the parchment strip around the rod so that only
the first letter of each word showed beneath the nail head. Concentrating on
the task, she refused to read the message until the coil was complete. She
reached the end, her hands shaking. Taking a deep breath, she read the message.
“
Return home with all haste to wear the crown.”

The coiled rod
fell from her hands.
The crown of Navarre
...she was going to be queen!
Her destiny came calling, a rush of elation warring with trepidation.
So her
father was stepping down.
The passing of the Seaside crown came with a pang
of sorrow
.
Jemma knew her mother's death had struck her father like a
well-aimed arrow. She read the words again, resolve pushing away her sorrow.
Her long-held dream was nearly at hand, yet with the crown came a daunting
responsibility. Jemma swore to all the gods, she would be worthy.

A thousand
thoughts hammered her mind. She needed to pack, she needed to return home with
all haste…but she also needed to tell the queen. Her thoughts jarred to a halt
like a ship hitting a rocky shore. Queen Liandra, her mentor and her dear
friend, the one who'd most understand her elation...and her fear, was locked in
her own misery, grief-struck by the death of Stewart.
The queen's only
remaining son,
her brother by marriage, felled in a distant battle. Jemma
worried for the queen, she worried for her sister. So much death, they truly
lived in foul times, yet Jemma longed to seek the queen's advice, to share her
joy and trepidation.

A knock sounded
on the door.

Startled, Jemma
tore the message coil from the rod. “Just a moment.” She threw the coiled
parchment into the blazing hearth, watching to be sure it caught fire, and then
hid the message rod in her chest.

The knock
sounded again, frantic and insistent.

“Coming.” Jemma
smoothed her velvet gown. Trying to appear unflustered, she unlocked the door.

Lady Sarah blew
into the chamber like a stormy gale. Her normally coifed hair was in disarray,
giving the senior lady-in-waiting a wild look. “Princess Jemma, you must help!”

“Is the queen
awake? Is she asking for me?” Jemma had spent long hours keeping vigil by the
queen’s bedside. While the queen slept, the princess spoke of commerce and
market gossip, hoping to ignite a spark of interest, to rouse the queen from
her torpor, all to no avail.

Lady Sarah paced
in front of the hearth. “I'm so worried about the queen. She doesn’t talk and
now she won’t eat. I tell you, I’m at my wit’s end! You must help!”

“Can no one get
through to her?”

“At first her
councilors came, seeking the queen’s approval, but she said not a word. She
just stared, as if she did not even see them. Now they don’t even bother
coming. Only the gods know what decisions they’re making without her approval.”

Jemma swallowed
her unease. "And the healers, what do they say?"

Lady Sarah threw
up her hands in dismay. "They ply her with potions and tell me to keep her
abed.
Abed!
She lays there like a corpse! As if she's the one who died
and not her son." Lady Sarah bit her lip, her voice quavering. “It’s all
coming undone. If only Lord Robert were here. She has to take an interest. She
has to wake and be the queen.”

“I’ll come.
We'll find a way to rouse her.” Jemma took the older woman’s hand, trying to
impart a sense of calm. “I’ve received fresh word from home; perhaps it will
spark the queen to life.”

“Pray that it
does.” Fresh lines of worry scrawled the older woman's face. She looked as if
she'd aged a decade. “Come. I don’t like leaving her for long.”

The two women
made their way through the castle corridors, a whisper of velvet trailing
across the marble floors. Courtiers and lords barely spared them a glance, as
if they were both beneath notice.
As if we don't matter,
the thought
sent a chill down Jemma's back. They reached the queen’s tower and climbed the
stairs. Petitioners normally crowded the antechamber, hoping for a word with
their monarch, but the outer parlor was eerily empty, silent as a tomb. Jemma
shivered at the ill-omen, as if the queen was already dead…or irrelevant.

Sir Durnheart
stood guard at the inner door, his great blue sword looming over his shoulder.

Lady Sarah
hesitated. “Has she asked for anyone?”

“No, my lady.”

The two women
slipped inside the queen's bedchamber. Heavy curtains shuttered the windows,
turning the elegant chamber into a cave. Jemma blinked against the gloom, her
gaze drawn towards the queen. Candles surrounded the great canopied bed, giving
off a soft glow. Deathly still, the air was laden with the stringent smells of
medicinal potions leavened with the scent of burnt candles. Ladies Martha and
Amy kept vigil, sitting by the queen’s bed, silent as a wake.

Jemma approached
the royal bed. The queen lay stiff and pale as a corpse. Her dark hair was
combed, artfully fanned across the silken pillow. Rouge painted her lips, but
the false color only heightened the queen's ghastly pallor. Queen Liandra
looked like a wraith hovering on the brink of death. Jemma stifled a gasp.

Lady Sarah knelt
by the royal bed. Taking the queen's hand, she said, “Majesty, you have a
visitor. Princess Jemma has come to seek your advice.”

The queen made
no response.

A malady of
grief,
Jemma silently railed against the queen's sad state. "This
cannot continue." She looked to Lady Sarah but the older woman had no
answers. Jemma's gaze swept across the chamber as if seeking a culprit, finally
settling on the table strewn with bottled potions. "Take these away."
She pointed to the stoppered bottles as if they held poison. "No more
potions, no more milk of the poppy. The queen must regain her wits."

Lady Amy flung a
hesitant glance towards Lady Sarah.

The older woman
nodded. "Do as she bids. Nothing here has helped."

With a quick
curtsy, Lady Amy gathered the bottles onto a silver tray and bore them from the
chamber.

"And open
the windows, the air smells like a healery instead of a queen's chamber."

Lady Martha
hesitated. "But the air holds a damp chill?"

"Then we'll
stoke the fire, but let the queen breathe fresh air, not the stale smell of
confinement and sickness."

Lady Sarah
nodded. "Do as she says."

The women
bustled about the chamber, removing the shrouds of sickness and mourning. The
windows were thrown open wide, inviting a gust of fresh air and the hearth was
stoked for heat. Logs were added to the grate, crackling in the fireplace,
releasing a welcome breath of pine. Pillows were plumped and quilts added to
the royal bed. The queen lay swathed in fresh comfort...but she did not stir,
as if embalmed by grief.

Princess Jemma
took a seat by the queen.

Lady Sarah drew
the other women from the chamber. She returned to sit by the fireside, her
knitting needles clicking a soothing rhythm.

Jemma took the
queen’s hand, so cold and unresponsive, yet the queen still wore her great
rings, symbols of her anointed power. The rings glittered in the candlelight,
the great emerald and the golden seal. Jemma well knew that power unused could
be lost, stolen by ambitious lords. And the Rose Court was rife with ambitious
lords...if only she could waken the queen. She began to speak, talking of small
things, observations from the castle, the court, and the markets. She hoped to
spark the queen's interest before sharing her news, but the queen remained
waxen and still, her stare vague and uninterested. For three turns of an
hourglass, Jemma kept vigil by the queen's bed. Having depleted her small talk,
she leaned close to the queen's ear, her secret bursting within her. “Majesty,
I've had word from home.” Her voice carried a fever pitch of excitement.

She waited, but
there was no response. 

“Majesty, you
know how the crown is passed in Navarre. The king and the council choose the
heir depending on the needs of the kingdom.” Jemma’s breath caught on her
excitement, a dream and a destiny come true. “I’ve heard word from the king.”
Her excitement bubbled to the surface. Longing to confide in her friend and
mentor, she leaned close to whisper the words. “I’m to be the next queen of Navarre!”

The queen’s gaze
seemed to quicken, a spark of life dispelling her vacant stare. Queen Liandra
drew a sharp breath as if pricked.

Lady Sarah heard
and dropped her knitting, rushing to the bedside.  

Jemma gripped
the queen's hand, willing her back to life. "Majesty, come back to
us!"

The queen took a
gasping breath as if surfacing from a perilous dive. Her eyes regained their
potent focus. She turned her head on the pillow, her gaze fastening on Jemma.
Her voice was a hoarse croak, rusty from long disuse. “Na...varre?”

Joy blossomed in
the princess. “Yes, I will be the next queen of Navarre."

"Navarre?"
The queen clung to the name as if it was a lifeline.

"Yes, I
pray I will rule with all the wisdom that you have taught me, bringing a new
prosperity to the seaside kingdom.”

Queen Liandra
struggled to sit up. “The queen of
Navarre
...he said the fecund would inherit
the earth.” She stared at Jemma, her gaze as sharp as daggers. “Are you
fecund?”

The question
ambushed Jemma.  “What?”

The queen’s
voice held a sepulcher tone. “He said the magic of Navarre will make the queen
fecund.”

Understanding
struck. Jemma released the queen's hand. "Majesty, I told you, the magic
cannot be shared."

The queen's hand
shot out, grabbing Jemma's wrist. “Share your magic! Make us fecund!”

Jemma tried to
pull away, but the queen’s hand tightened like a steel claw.

"We need an
heir, a child of our womb." Liandra leaned forward, her dark hair long and
loose, contrasting to the paleness of her face. Her white nightgown hung on her
thinning frame, making her look like a banshee sprung from the grave. “Share
your magic and we shall have the heir we so desperately need!”

Shock rippled
through the princess. "I told you, majesty, the magic cannot be
shared!"

The queen's dark
eyes held a feverish intensity. "Cannot, or
will not!"
 

Fear spiked
through the princess. Instead of lucidity, the light in the queen's gaze looked
like madness. “No! I cannot!” Jemma recoiled, trying to pull her hand away, but
Queen Liandra held tight, fingernails digging into soft flesh.

“Give us the
magic and we shall get sons and daughters to replace the ones we've lost! Heirs
to secure the Tandroth line! Give us the magic and we shall be fecund!”

Lady Sarah tried
to intervene. “Majesty, what are you doing?”

Venom laced the
queen's voice. “This one claims to be our friend, our daughter, yet she will
not share!”

Jemma tried to
the parry madness with reason. “Majesty, the magic is keyed to the royal
bloodline of Navarre, it will serve no other!”

“Lies! You spew
lies!”

Lady Sarah tried
to ease the queen's grip. “Majesty, release her.”

The queen
bristled. “Do not touch us! We know our mind. We know what we need.”

Jemma tried
again, her voice a desperate plea. “Majesty, this is wrong and you know it!”

“Wrong!” The
queen gave her a scathing glare. “All our life we have served the Light, we
have served our people, ruling for the greater good of our kingdom, yet
this
is how the gods treat us? Every one of our children dead? Our noble line ended?
Our legacy nothing but dust and ashes?” Her rouged lips curled in an ugly
sneer. “If this is what it means to serve the Light, then
we...choose...Darkness!” The queen raised her voice to an imperious shout. “
Guards!
”

The outer door
banged open and Sir Durnheart rushed in, his blue sword raised in his mailed
fists. Two guards with short swords followed close behind him. Seeing nothing
but women, Sir Durnheart lowered his sword, a puzzled look on his face.
"Majesty?"

"There is a
traitor in our midst."

Sir Durnheart
raised his sword.

The queen shoved
princess Jemma away. “Take this one to the dungeons! Let her rot till she comes
to her senses.”