The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (9 page)

Flinching
backwards, Master Numar narrowly avoided the blade.

The dwarf used
the diversion to scuttle away, running down the alley. The master leaped after
him, desperate to stop him. The dwarf was quick, but the quarterstaff's length
shortened the gap. Wielding the polished ironwood in an overhand strike, the
master landed a solid blow. The dwarf buckled to his knees and then dropped
like a heavy sack. Skidding to a stop, Master Numar crouched beside the
crumpled dwarf. His hand searched for a heartbeat, but he'd struck too hard.
The dwarf's skull was caved in, felled by a killing blow. Struggling to regain
his breath, Master Numar slumped beside the dwarf, bitten by regret. "You
should have told me the name." Rolling the little man over, he searched
his clothing, but found no clue to his master's identity.
Dead and forever
silent,
the master knew he needed to get away from the corpse. Seeking the
subterfuge of age, he leaned on his quarterstaff, using it like a walking
stick, and made his way back to the cobblestone streets.

A magic-sniffing
dwarf...and vile lies levied against the queen.
Darkness had come to
Pellanor. He needed to warn the others. He needed to keep vigilant and unmask
the enemy before death came calling to his very doorstep.

15

The Priestess

Forsaking her
queen’s crown, the Priestess rode south in search of immortality. Leaving Rhune
in General Tarmin’s capable hands, she traveled to Pellanor in the guise of a
wealthy noblewoman. Steffan rode by her right side, her consort bedecked as a
wealthy lord. Braxus rode to her left, serving as her handsome seneschal, while
faithful Hugo rode point, her steadfast captain of the guard. Her two
handmaidens, Lydia and Tara, trailed behind wearing modest attire. Thirty
plain-dressed soldiers, loyal swordsmen who’d come with her from the Oracle
Isle, surrounded her small party with a protection of sharp steel, discouraging
robbers and cutthroats. A pair of pack horses carried two wooden chests, both
laden with her womanly wiles. The larger cedar chest held elegant silks, and
jewels, and scents, her trappings of seduction, while the smaller rosewood
chest held her harvest of deathly delights. Armed with her best weapons,
seduction and poison, the Priestess set a fast pace, eager to claim her
destiny.

They rode south,
passing beyond her small kingdom and into Lanverness. The countryside bloomed
bright green in the full throat of spring, yet the signs of war were legion.
For every thriving village, the next was burned and blackened, abandoned to
crows. For every two fields tilled by farmers, a third lay fallow. The
Priestess counted the scars of war. Death and destruction lay like a heavy yoke
across Lanverness, yet the queen’s people struggled to rebuild their lives. The
villagers and farmers put up a brave fight, determined to recover their
prosperity, but a far greater danger stalked the Rose kingdom, doomed by the
Mordant’s attention. Lanverness was fodder for the gods, though few mortals
knew it.

They trotted
past another burnt farmhouse, the timbers blackened, the roof caved in like a
toothless mouth. The Priestess watched Steffan, seeking signs of shame or
pride, but he showed neither. Instead, he grew more sullen with every passing
league. Brooding beneath a hooded cloak, he kept his face hidden in shadows.

The Priestess
matched her stallion's pace to his gelding’s stride. “What troubles you?”

He flashed an
angry scowl, spitting the name like a curse. “Pellanor.”

Nothing more
needed to be said. She knew he loathed returning to Pellanor, to the place of
his defeat, but every game of power had its price, and this was his. Her own price
hung around her neck. Shuddering at the horror of her last scrying, she reached
within her bodice to touch the remnants of the Eye. Her most powerful magic
sundered by the Mordant, yet she'd refused to relinquish the remnants. She'd
had the three pieces of the great moonstone fitted together and bound with a
cage of silver wire. An ancient relic entombed in silver, she wore it on a
chain around her neck, a memory of power lost and vengeance vowed.

The trip south
seemed to take forever, but on a sunny morning they finally gained the
outskirts of the queen’s city. Scaffolding spider-webbed the city walls,
workmen scurrying up and down ladders. The central gate was completed, twin
towers proudly supporting a crenellated barbican over a pair of ironclad gates.
Flanking the gatehouse, stonemasons troweled a white paste of crushed stone
over a crude patchwork of cobbled buildings. The Priestess assumed the white
paste strengthened the walls and towers while hiding the ugly patchwork
beneath. Glistening white, the finished walls sparkled bright in the sunlight,
casting an image of enduring strength and prosperity. “Beautiful,” the word
came unbidden to her lips, but the walls held a deeper message. Built on
cobbled buildings, they bespoke a practical mind hidden beneath beauty's
veneer, the hallmarks of a ruling queen.
Well done, sister
, the
Priestess flashed a feline smile, appreciating the double entendre.

The ironbound
gates stood open, welcoming the flow of commerce. Guards in emerald tabards watched
from above, yet they proved oblivious to the hidden threat riding towards them.
Following a merchant's wagon piled high with colorful fabrics, the Priestess
and her entourage passed through Pellanor's gates without pause.

Steffan spurred
ahead, guiding them through the cobbled streets. The queen’s city sprawled in
every direction, dwarfing even mighty Salmythra. The Priestess stared,
impressed by the colorful bustle, yet Steffan knew his way, threading a path
through the crowds. He led them unerringly towards the wealthy district, to an
upper class tavern bearing the name of ‘The Silver Swan’. Lads in gray livery
rushed to take their horses. Dust-stained and travel-weary, the Priestess and
her entourage climbed the steps to the inn. 

Braxus, serving
as her seneschal, negotiated for their rooms. Paying extra golds, he secured
the entire second floor. The innkeeper, a hooked-nosed man with a bad limp, was
lavish in his groveling, insisting on showing the Priestess to her room. “So
pleased to have you grace my inn.” He gestured towards the staircase. “If you’d
come a few moon-turns sooner, we’d not have had rooms available. The city was
bursting with refugees from the war, but the queen’s blight drove them back to
the countryside, taking the very bread from my mouth.”

“The queen’s
blight?” The turn of phrase caught her attention.

“A bloody tithe
squeezed from innkeepers to pay for the queen’s wall.” He ushered her down the
hallway to the last room. “They’re calling it a folly, saying it will never be
finished in time. The queen sucks us all dry with her tithes and taxes. A
bloody great waste, if you ask me.” He unlocked the door, showing her to a
well-appointed room. A large four-poster bed thick with quilts dominated the
chamber, a copper washbasin sat in the corner, damask curtains hung on the
window. The faint scent of dried lavender provided an unexpected feminine
touch. “Saved me best room for your ladyship.” Executing a clumsy bow, he
handed her the iron key. “Ask for Burt if you need anything.”

“I’ll be needing
a tub and plenty of hot water.”

Steffan pressed
a gold coin into the innkeepers hand, “And a bottle of your best brandy,” as he
ushered the man from the room. The door closed and they were finally alone.
Steffan kicked off his boots and sprawled on the bed. “Feather mattress and
thick quilts, not bad. The rooms are small, but the beds are comfy and the
meals are tasty. As I recall, their roast quail is particularly good.”

The Priestess
removed her travel-stained cloak. “Don’t get too comfortable, you’re not
staying.”

“What?” He gave
her a sharp-eyed glare.

“Remember why
we're here. We’re playing against the oldest harlequin, we’ll need every
advantage. The Mordant expects me, but not you. You’re our dagger hidden in the
dark.”

He gaped at her.
"And just what do you expect me to do against the Mordant?"

She bit her lip.
"I don't know."

He scowled, “So for
no real reason, I’m banished from your side?”

She gave him a
coy smile, “Not at night.”

Steffan flashed
a wolf's smile. "That's more like it." He prowled towards her, but a
knock interrupted.

She forestalled
him. “Come.”

Her men entered
carrying her two chests, the cedar and the rosewood, seduction and poison
sitting side by side. A parade of servants followed bearing an enormous copper
tub and buckets of steaming water. The innkeeper reappeared, flourishing a
bottle of brandy and two goblets. Steffan nabbed the bottle, ushering the man
to the door.

Her handmaidens
came to attend her. Lydia knelt to remove her boots, while Tara added oils and
scents to the bath water, creating an alchemy of feminine delights.

Steffan poured
himself a large goblet of brandy and then sprawled on the bed, watching as her
clothes came off. A lusty smile filled his face, a cat anticipating a bowl of
cream.

The Priestess
felt his stare, enjoying his rising hunger. She made it a tease, slowly
divesting the layers. Naked, she stepped into the tub. Steam rising in curls
around her, she gave him a come-hither glance.

Lydia reached for a sponge, but Steffan said, “I’ll do that.”

Her handmaidens
retreated with knowing smiles, closing the door behind them.

Steffan knelt by
the tub, lathering the sponge. “Am I truly banished?”

“For your own
protection. Surprise is our ally.”

He nibbled her
ear, caressing her skin with the soapy sponge, lathering all her curves. “Will
you really go to him?”

“I must.”

The sponge moved
down and around, leaving a soapy trail. She groaned in delight. Abandoning the
sponge, he gathered her breasts in his hands, the soap making the orbs slick
and slippery. “But I’ll see you at night.”

“Yes.” She
groaned with pleasure.

“Will you let
him touch you?”

He’d never
minded before.
“It’s what I do.”

“Must you?” His
teeth grazed her nipple, a burst of pain and pleasure.

 “You know I
must.” She reached for the bindings on his trousers, her hands slippery with
soap, yet she freed him from the leather. “I’ll need all my wiles against him.”

He groaned,
moving against her. “But will you let him touch you…like this?” Slick with
soap, his hand delved down below the water. Finding her hidden gate, he plunged
deep.

“Yes!”
She
arched her back, speared with delight.

He shucked his
trousers like a snake shedding skin, and then he was in the tub with her. Sloshing
water over the sides, he forced her knees apart. And then he was in her. She
shuddered in ecstasy, rocking waves across the soapy water. Her long legs
wrapped around him, riding him hard. Lifting her onto his hips, he stood,
staying deep inside her. She clung to him, fingernails raking across his back, shuddering
with his every stroke. Water droplets fell like rain as they rode their
pleasure. He bellowed his ecstasy as they both came.

Stepping from
the tub, he carried her to the bed, collapsing on a mound of towels. Wet and
slick, he pinned her to the bedding, his voice husky with hidden intent. “Don't
go." He tightened his grip. "I don’t want you to go. Not to him.”

"You know I
must. It’s what I do.”

“Is there no
other way?”

“Seduction is my
best weapon.”

“And poison is
the other!” His voice leaped with fervor. “Why not kill him and be done with
it!”

“Shhhhhhh,” she
hissed in warning. “We dare not kill him, not without consent of the Dark Lord.
Would you risk our god's wrath?”

“No.” His voice
was surly but she spied a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“We tread a dangerous
path, carving power from the Mordant’s shadow.”

 “Can we keep
what you carve?” His gaze blazed bright. "Will there be enough for the two
of us?"

“The Dark Lord
encourages his dedicates to compete for his favors, but to do that, we must
enter the Great Dance. That's the real reason we're here. I’ll dance with the
Mordant, learn his plans, learn his weaknesses, and then we’ll plot our own moves.”

“So you’ll go to
him. You'll bed him.” Bitterness laced his voice.

Perhaps he
truly loves me,
her breath caught at the thought. Caressing his face, she
tried to soften the harsh lash of truth. “I’ll
always
be the Oracle
Priestess, the dark succubus, the queen of sex.”

Steffan
straddled her, his face fierce with the need to possess. “Then go to him with
my scent on your skin and my seed deep in you,” and then he took her again and
again, rough and hard, as if to brand her with his own mark. 

16

Tokar

His brother was
missing. Three days missing...which meant he was dead, for no snargon of the
duegars would disobey the Mordant. Those who could scent magic knew far better
than most the awesome power of their dread lord. Tokar shuddered just thinking
of it. The Mordant wore magic like a raiment. Being in the dread lord's
presence was nearly overwhelming, evoking a strange mixture of heady ecstasy
and slavering fear. Their lord trailed a magical scent that was irresistible,
forbidden, indomitable. To Tokar, the Mordant smelled like a god.

No, if his
brother was missing, he was dead.

And the dread
lord knew it.

The Mordant gave
orders to scour the city, to find the monk or the knight who had slain one of
his snargons. For Tokar, the order was more than mere duty, it was personal. He
swore by all that was Dark that he'd find his brother's killer.

He knew Sorkon
had been patrolling the southwest quarter of the queen's city, so that's where
he started. Clad in a hodge-podge of ill-fitting clothes, he made his way to
the market, searching for the lingering scent of magic.

People jostled
against him, hardly noticing him.

He hated this
city, so undisciplined, so unordered. In the Dark Citadel he had standing and
privilege, a respected snargon of the Mordant's guard, but here, in this soft
southern land, he was nothing more than a runtish, deformed man, someone to be
overlooked, stepped upon, and ignored. Tokar stood no taller than most men's
belt buckles, yet these southerners overlooked him at their peril, for he
served a dread lord. When the Mordant revealed his true power, the southerners
would tremble, learning their place in the new order. Tokar smiled a hungry
grin, flashing his pointy teeth to scare a southern child. The girl ran
screaming, a small satisfaction.

Breathing deep,
he patrolled the market, seeking the scent of magic. The city was full of
smells, the unwashed next to the flower-scented nobles, fresh-farmed greens sold
near rotting refuse. Tokar caught the scents of baking breads mingling with
soured ale, of flowering vines and reeking chamber pots, yet none of the
scents, neither the repugnant nor the delightful, could mask the potent smell
of magic. Complex and ambrosial, magic was like no other scent, teasing the
mind and waking the imagination. The best snargons could tell Light from Dark,
potent from weak, active from latent...and Tokar was one of the best.

For three days
he prowled the marketplace, yet he found no whiff of magic. Frustrated, he
widened the search, exploring the cobbled streets. Noon-time and supper crowds
afforded the best hunting hours. Tokar flowed unnoticed through the throng,
breathing deeply...and then he caught it, the unmistakable scent of magic. Just
a faint tease, yet it was enough to lead him through the crowd. Like a
fisherman reeling in a line, he followed the scent, yet he kept a wary lookout,
for he dared not be seen by the magic user. Tokar sought to avenge his brother,
not to share his fate.

The scent grew
stronger, leading him to his quarry.

Powerful
magic,
he shuddered at the smell. This quarry was dangerous, a fitting
prize for his lord the Mordant.

Tokar dodged in
and out of the supper crowd, weaving his way towards the magic. His nostrils
flared at the strength of the scent, old and powerful.
Close, too close,
yet
he needed to be sure. The scent led him towards two men. One was stocky and
muscular, a short sword belted to his side, and the other was old, a
white-haired elder in flowing robes of dark brown. The two men were locked in a
hushed conversation, walking too close together for him to discern the magic
user.

Some might
assume the older man carried the magic, but Tokar knew better. Magic was a
power coveted by all.

The older man
stopped, casting a sharp glance backward.

Tokar dodged
behind a fat woman carrying fresh-baked pies. His heart thundering, he hid in
the woman's ample shadow, praying he wasn't seen. When no one came hunting, he
dared to emerge from behind the woman. The two men were further away, still
walking together, seemingly unaware they were being followed. Tokar dawdled,
drifting backwards, giving his quarry more of a leash. Magic users were dangerous
and he dared not be caught.

His quarry
seemed to walk aimlessly, but then they came to an apothecary shop, a white
unicorn carved over the lintel. Tokar ducked behind a rain barrel, keeping
watch. The two men stood for a while, talking in hushed tones, but then they
parted. The swordish one kept walking while the old man entered the apothecary,
a cheerful bell ringing as he opened the door.

Tokar waited,
crouched behind the barrel, wary of a trap. When neither man reappeared, he
stepped from behind the barrel and sauntered past the shop. The scent of magic
led to the apothecary... and went no further. Tokar flashed a crooked grin, yet
he needed to be sure. Hiding amongst the crowd, he circled around, returning to
the rain barrel. Sitting behind the barrel, he kept watch on the shop. People
wandered by, some entering the shop, mostly women, but the old man never
reappeared. The sun sank to dusk, candles and lanterns adding a warm glow to
the cobbled street, yet still he saw no sign of the magic user. Satisfied that
he'd run his quarry to ground, Tokar stood, easing a cramp from his leg.
"You'll pay for my brother," he hissed the words like a curse.
Turning his back on the apothecary, he made his way through the city to the
Mordant's manse. He'd found his brother's killer, a powerful magic user, a
fitting present for his dread lord.