The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (18 page)

25

Megan

Queen Megan craved sleep, yet she dared not close her eyes
lest the nightmares claim her. She’d tried strong wine, drinking herself into a
stupor, yet the witch was waiting for her, lurking in her wine-besotted dreams,
whispering foul commands. Sleep was no longer safe. A terrible weariness dogged
the queen. She needed something stronger, something to block the witch and give
her peace.

A knock sounded on the door to her
solar.

“Come.”

“Majesty, your horse is saddled and
waiting.” Sir Leon nodded towards her, his silver mustache drooping past his
stubbled chin, his face as sad and lined as a hound dog’s, belying his sunny
nature. She gave the old dear a smile. His sword arm was no longer steady or
sure, but he still served, a knight and a loyal friend, her favorite escort on
market day.

Swirling a plain brown shawl around
her shoulders, she followed him down the spiral stairs and out into the
courtyard. Saddled and bridled, Buttercup was waiting, straining to munch on an
errant weed. The queen stroked the pony’s silky muzzle, offering her a winter
apple, surprised by the gray hairs sprouting among the silver. “Never mind,
dear, we both have gray in our hair.” Megan had never been much of a rider, but
she made an exception for the silver mare. A gift from the king, Buttercup had
a sweet disposition and an easy fluid gait that took the terror out of riding.

Sir Leon gave her a leg up and then
swung onto his eighteen-hand warhorse.

The queen felt like a child riding
beside the knight. She gave her pony a reassuring pat. “Size isn’t everything.”

Guards opened the castle gates and
the salty breath of sea air blew into the courtyard. Like magic, the causeway
was exposed, stretching from the castle gates to the shore. The queen clucked
Buttercup to a trot, although there was no need. The little pony knew the
routine, following the warhorse down the ramp and across the causeway.

The weekday market was held in the
tournament field overlooking the harbor. Merchants sold everything from
fresh-caught fish, steamed mussels and abalone, herbs and vegetables, to exotic
silks and curious trinkets. Seaside’s market was famous for exotic goods
brought from distant ports, but the merchant fleet had been absent for nigh on
four moonturns. Anything exotic was long since sold, but the people searched
anyway, enthralled by the thrill of the hunt.

Sir Leon secured their mounts and
then followed her through the market, a wicker basket on his arm. “It’s good to
see you out and about again, majesty.”

In her younger days, the queen had
enjoyed the market, hunting for unexpected treasures, gifts to give her
children and her husband…but those days seemed a lifetime ago. “Yes, it is good
to be out.” She turned her face away, lest her eyes betray the lie.

The queen meandered the market,
looking but not seeing. She tasted some buttery mussels swimming in a garlic
sauce and then made her way to a weaver’s stall, stopping to finger half a
dozen wools before deciding on thick blanket dyed a brilliant sea-blue. “Yes,
I’ll have this one.”

Sir Leon paid the price, carefully
folding the bright wool into the basket.

The queen laid a hand on his arm.
“Would you be a dear, and wait by the horses?” Leaning close, she whispered, “I
need to see a wise woman about a female remedy.”

The knight blazed bright red. “Of
course, my lady.”

It always amazed her how big brave
men wilted at the mere mention of ‘female remedies’. He gave her a firm nod and
then marched stoically towards the horses. Quit of the knight, the queen pulled
her shawl up around her head to better hide her face, and then made her way to
the back of the market. Beyond the market, a honeycomb of narrow cobble streets
climbed the hillside. It had been a long time, but her feet knew the way. She
found the door painted a bright red, incised with subtle runes, and rang the
dangling bell cord, praying Matilda was home.

The old crone answered the door,
wisps of silver hair escaping a tightly bound bun. Amidst a wrinkled face
creased with nearly a century of laugh lines, the old woman’s blue eyes
twinkled bright and keen. “Majesty! Come in! It’s been such a long time.”

The queen entered the small shop
that also served as the wise woman’s home. Bundles of herbs hung in one corner,
releasing comforting scents of basil, marjoram and thyme. Shelves filled with
ceramic jars and exotic bottles lined the far wall. In the center of the room,
a small round table draped with a fringed shawl sat beneath a star-shaped
lantern. 

The old woman ushered her to a seat
at the round table and began lighting candles. “You look troubled, my lady, how
can I help?”

She’d known Matilda for nearly all
her life. A wise woman, an herbalist, a midwife, and a fortuneteller, the old
woman was ever perceptive…and discrete. Staring at her friend’s wise eyes, the
queen longed to unburden her troubles, to explain about the nightmares, to
confess her oath and the witch’s evil commands…but the words died on her
tongue. Frustrated, she blurted, “I can’t sleep.”

“Chamomile tea will calm the nerves
and soothe the stomach, but then again valerian is even better, gives a deeper
sleep, although the taste is quite bitter, best taken with a dollop of honey.” 

“I need more than tea! Last night I
emptied my husband’s best brandy and still the nightmares came!”

Matilda peered at her, as if
reading the lines on her face. “It’s all those funerals, isn’t it? So many
deaths at the castle, little wonder you’re plagued by nightmares.”

“It’s worse than that.”

Matilda gave her a squinty-eyed
look. “The Curse of the Vowels?”

The queen could only nod.

“Such a dreadful curse…with such
long tentacles, but there’s no lore I know that can break it.”

“I know.” The queen’s voice sounded
small in her ears. “Yet I need help. I need answers…and sleep.”

“Then you’ve come to cast the
runes.”

It was a statement, not a question,
yet the queen answered. “Yes.”

“Then together we’ll invoke the
higher powers.” It was midday outside, bright with sunlight, yet Matilda
circled the chamber lighting candles and lanterns as if to dispel every shadow.
Opening a cedar chest, she removed a red velvet drawstring bag and a folded
linen cloth. Returning to the table, the wise woman spread the linen cloth
across the tabletop, revealing a twenty-pointed star painted in gold. Her
wrinkled hands smoothed the white linen, following each point of the painted
star to the table’s edge, as if invoking the gods’ blessings from every
direction. Folding her hands across the star’s heart, Matilda used the words of
ritual. “Now the petitioner invokes the blessings of her god.”

Most Navarrens worshiped the sea
god, but Megan was from Harvesthold. Closing her eyes, the queen beseeched
Magery the Mother, Queen of the Harvest, benevolent protector of mothers and
children.
Help me, Mother, help me defeat the witch.
Opening her eyes,
she found the wise woman staring at her.

Matilda held the velvet bag high
above the painted star. “The petitioner extracts seven runes.”

Without looking, the queen delved
her hand into the velvet bag. She swirled the rune markers, cool against her
fingertips. Selecting seven, she removed her fist from the bag.

“Now the petitioner asks the
question, casting the runes upon the many-pointed star.”

“Show me the way.” Silently posing
her question, the queen cast the runes upon the star. Small tiles of colored
glass, worn smooth by time and many hands, scattered across the tabletop. Runes
painted in bright gold shown from four of the tiles. Three others landed
face-down, hiding their runes and inverting their meaning. Red, green, amethyst
and gold, the glass tiles glinted colorful in the candlelight. The queen
glanced at the runic pattern but it made little sense. Instead, she fixed her
gaze on the wise woman, startled by the fear etched on the crone’s face.

“This cannot be.” Matilda reached
for the runes, as if to gather them up, but the queen stayed her hand, her
voice laden with sepulchral tones. “Tell me.”

The crone’s voice quavered.
“Sometimes the runes respond to a higher question, a force or a predicament
that overshadows the petitioner.” Her wrinkled hand gestured to the spread of
runes. “This pattern must refer to the Curse of the Vowels.”

The queen’s mouth turned desert
dry, yet she needed to know. “Why?”

“I see Wunjo, the rune of happiness
lying face down, happiness turned to sorrow, and this is Thurisaz, the demon
rune lying in a position of strong influence, and here, Naudiz, the rune of
need lying close to the heart. But the worst is this rune.” With a shaking
hand, the crone reached for the rune marker lying at the star’s very center.
Face-down, the glass was dark purple, so dark it was nearly black. The crone
turned the rune, revealing the bright gold symbol. “This is Kauno, the Torch,
rune of light and life inverted to darkness…”

“…and death.”

The crone gave a grim nod.

“
No,
death cannot be the
answer!” Fear laced the queen’s voice.

“Majesty, remember what I said. Oft
times the runes describe the influence,
not
the answer. This spread
surely refers to the Curse of the Vowels, to the death and sorrow visited upon Navarre’s royal house.” She gazed at the queen, her voice full of entreaty. “Cast the runes
again and seek a fresh answer.”

The queen shivered, feeling the
gods’ hands at work. “No. I want no more foretellings.” She smothered the
quaver in her voice. “I need help of a more practical sort, a bottle of your
best sleeping draught. I seek a dreamless sleep, not to wake till sunrise.”

“Then you’ll be wanting Valerian
tea…”

The queen leaned across the table,
gripping the old woman’s hands, the wrinkled skin as dry as parchment.
“Matilda, if ever you loved me, like the daughter you never had, then you’ll
give me your strongest sleeping draught, for none else will serve.”

Foreboding flickered in the old
woman’s eyes. “Given the rune pattern, I fear it.”

“Why?”

“Because the best sleeping draughts
are also deadly poisons. The difference is in the dosage. Sometimes that
difference is slender.”

Poison, the weapon of the witch,
a shiver raced down the queen’s spine, yet she refused to be defeated.
Perhaps with the crone’s help, she’d turn the witch’s best weapon against her.
“Show me.”

Matilda went to the shelves,
returning with a small stoppered bottle, dark blue in color. Clutching the
bottle close, the crone gave the queen a hesitant look. “Tincture of
Belladonna, the queen of all sleeping draughts, best taken with wine. Two drops
brings a feeling of euphoria followed by dreamless sleep. But take care with
the dosage lest you sleep forever. Two drops for sleep…four drops to kill, a
slender difference between slumber and death.”

“Two drops for sleep…four for
death, I’ll remember.” The queen slid a small purse of gold coins onto the
table and then extended her hand.

“Are you sure, Majesty?”

“Yes.”

The crone set the bottle in her
hand. The queen held it tight, the answer to her most dire need. “Blessings of
the Mother be upon you,” she took her leave of the crone. Clutching the bottle
in her deepest pocket, the queen returned to the bustling market.
Sleep, a
dreamless sleep,
tonight she’d foil the witch, beating Iris at her own
game.

26

The Mordant
Chapter

Silent and forbidding, the dark hull sliced through
night-darkened waters, ghosting into the harbor. With three tiers of oars and a
bronze ram fashioned like a toothy snout, the coastal raider loomed over the
fishing vessels like a shark among minnows yet there was no hue and cry. Smooth
as a sheathing sword, the MerChanter ship slipped into a berth near the harbor
mouth. The Mordant watched from the prow. Wrapped in dark robes, he shivered with
sickness, leaning on a pair of assassins posing as servants. Sagging against
their strength, he studied the town, comparing memories to the present. So much
had changed. In a past life this same harbor had been nothing more than a cove
for smugglers. Now a formidable castle brooded above a burgeoning town, a
martial warning mixed with a merchant’s welcome, the perfect place to begin.

Lines were slung from the ship with
nary a command. An eerie silence smothered the trireme, the top deck empty save
for the captain and a pair of mates, but the Mordant felt the others. Cowering
below, the crew hid, swathed in terror. Fear clouded the ship like a fine
perfume, teasing a smile to the Mordant’s face. How little they knew what they
carried.

The boarding plank thunked against
the dock with a sharp finality. The two assassins eased the Mordant toward the
ramp. He passed the captain without speaking; the man’s haunted eyes saying
more than enough.

Wracked by seasickness, the Mordant
leaned heavy on his servants. How he hated the sea, a bitter enemy leeching at
his powers, yet he’d dared the voyage to leap ahead of his army. Once again,
his will prevailed, all part of a master plan.

A fat harbormaster scuttled towards
them. His servants intercepted the man. A thick purse changed hands and nothing
more was said. The Mordant hid his smile. Of all the southern kingdoms, Radagar
was ever the whore, and whores he knew very well.

They reached the end of the dock
and the Mordant hissed a command. “Wait.” His servants froze, holding him
erect. The Mordant stepped from the dock, planting his boots on firm land. For
a moment, the sea held sway, a terrible dizziness rocking him, but then he felt
it. Darkness rushed to fill him, a surging power rising from his boots. Like a
banished curse, the torpor of the sea-god fled. His powers returned, yet his
hands still shook with a pitiful palsy, his body weak from the long sea
passage. Disgusted, he hid his hands within his robe. There was always a price,
but this time the goal was more than worth the temporary indignity. “Get me to
an inn.”

Men in dark cloaks glided from an
alleyway. Swords in hand, they circled the Mordant like an honor guard. Their
leader, a swarthy man with a thick beard sketched a deep bow. “My Lord, we’ve
awaited your coming. All is in order.”

The Mordant nodded. “Lead the way.”

His escort led him through dim-lit
alleys to the back steps of an inn. The Mordant soon found himself ensconced in
a sumptuous chamber, a four-poster bed draped in gold velvet, a fire crackling
in the hearth, all the luxuries of a palace suite. Satisfied with the
accommodations, he sat before the hearth soaking up the fire’s warmth, yet the
smell of the sea still lingered. His clothes repulsed him, stinking of salt and
sickness. “Undress me.” His assassins disrobed him and then washed him in
rose-scented water. Finally cleansed, he sank into the feather bed, a welcome
haven from the sway of the sea.

For three days he nested in the
inn. While his body recovered, his mind craved news of the southern kingdoms,
fodder for his plots. He summoned Bishop Borgan while supping on garlic roast
lamb and the inn’s best wines. The portly prelate had been sent ahead to
prepare the way.

Clad in merchant’s robes of
sumptuous silk, the bishop bowed low before the Mordant. “Everything has been
prepared, just as you ordered.”

“Good.” The Mordant sat before the
blazing hearth, sipping a fine brandy. “What news of the south?”

“Much has happened while you sailed
south. The Cobra crown has changed hands. Cyrus is dead, killed by poison.
Razzur has claimed the crown.

“And what of this Razzur?”

“They say he wants to return
Radagar to the old ways, to restore pride and honor to the desert-descendants.”

“
Honor
,” the Mordant spat
the word with contempt. “What do mercenaries know of honor?” Such a change did
not favor his plans. “Honor is a rank stupidity that reeks of the Light. I like
it not. Dispatch an assassin to Salmythra. Holdor has the skills. One assassin
of the ninth rank should be sufficient for the Cobra crown to change hands once
more.”

“Will you favor another contender?”

“I favor chaos. Let the princes
fight for the crown.”

Borgan bowed. “As you command.”

“And tell our brokers in Radagar
they may begin selling Vetra.”

The bishop paled, “But my lord,
Radagar as ever been a secret ally to the north!”

The Mordant flashed a chilling
smile. “Erdhe is changing. Those who think of themselves as allies will soon
learn they are mere vassals. They live to serve. Pass the word that Vetra is to
be sold in the marketplaces, but only in Radagar. The MerChanters will bring a
steady supply to the usual smuggling ports.” The Mordant smile deepened to a
predatory grin. “Let the rot begin.”

The bishop bowed low. “As you
command.”

“Now tell me of the other kingdoms,
especially Lanverness.” The Mordant sipped brandy while he listened. The news
did not disappoint. Neither did his youthful body, for he soon regained his
vigor. Standing before the blazing hearth, the Mordant flexed his muscles. The
resiliency of youth was such a potent gift, yet so fleeting, even for an
immortal. Smiling, he reveled in his stolen youth. Summoning his servants, he
dressed in dark leathers, practical and nondescript, perfect for traveling. 

In the dead of the night, the
Mordant slipped from Radagar’s coastal city. He led his men east, putting the
sea’s salty stink at his back. Sixty mounted men formed his guard, mostly
assassins and magic-sniffing duegar, a hand-picked cadre of killers sent south
from the Dark Citadel. Laden with weapons, they dressed in dark leathers and
carried no banners, their cloaks empty of emblems. Save for four leather chests
strapped to a string of packhorses, they traveled lean, just a shadowy band of
menace slipping through Radagar’s countryside.

The Mordant set a blistering pace,
carving a serpentine path across the mercenary kingdom. Riding at night, they
avoided cities and stayed in towns only long enough to resupply. Anyone that
stood in their way was quickly cut down. Horses died under the lash, ridden to
death, a casualty of speed. When a duegar was thrown from his horse and his leg
badly mangled from the fall, the Mordant had him put down like a dog. He drove
his men hard and the horses harder, brooking no delay. The great game was in
motion, the pieces moving across the board towards a great Dark Destiny. Time
was of the essence.