The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (26 page)

The Priestess Chapter 40

Haunted by the need to know, the
Priestess climbed the tower to her scrying chamber. For nigh on three
moonturns, the Mordant had remained hidden from her sight, a dire malevolence
cloaked in impenetrable murkiness. Never before had she been so denied. Night
after night, the Mordant thwarted her will, defying the power of the Eye. Like
a subtle poison, the not-knowing festered in her soul, gnawing at her like an
intolerable threat…but no longer. Fresh from sex, the Priestess thrummed with
power, determined to unmask the Mordant’s secret.

Dark of the moon,
a perfect
night for scrying. The Priestess shivered in anticipation, the night’s silky
darkness magnifying her power. Shuttering the windows against the faint
starlight, she knelt, settling the great moonstone into the scrying bowl. The
water hissed and bubbled, but the power of the Eye prevailed, turning the water
to an inky blackness. The scrying bowl presented a mirrored surface…perfect for
reflecting Dark deeds.

The Priestess cast her will upon
the dark waters. “Show me the Mordant, the oldest of the harlequins.” She held
her breath, waiting, watching the mirrored surface. For the longest time, she
saw nothing. Anxiety clawed at her, surely she would not be denied. The
Mordant’s absence proved both infuriating and worrisome. Such a Dark power
should never be left to roam unobserved, like welcoming an assassin to your
bedchamber. Goaded by pride as much as need, she gripped the sides of the
scrying bowl, hurling her will upon the Eye. “
Show me the Mordant, the
oldest of the harlequins!
” The air sizzled with her command. Like a tether
to her soul, power flowed out of her, pouring into the great moonstone.

The moonstone quickened. Images danced
across the scrying waters, faint and indistinct, too blurry for detail.
Frustrated, she focused her will, demanding clarity. The image sharpened,
showing a familiar face.
The Mordant
, so close his bearded face filled
the scrying bowl...as if he stared at her! Fierce with power, his gaze pierced
hers! Startled, she flinched away, losing her focus.

Water ripples disturbed the bowl,
destroying the image.

“By the nine Hells!”
The
Priestess swore, taking a settling breath, chiding herself for such a foolish
reaction. The Eye served
her
, and no one else. 

Regaining her composure, she
gripped the scrying bowl, willing the water to settle. The ripples died and the
mirrored surface returned, dark as sin. The Priestess breathed upon the water.
“Show me the Mordant, the oldest of the harlequins.”

Power surged through her. Images
danced upon the mirrored surface, settling on the face of the Mordant.
Eyes
stared from the scrying bowl, but this time she was prepared. So close, she saw
the fierceness of his gaze, and nothing else. The Priestess manipulated the
view. Like a hummingbird hovering overhead, she sculled backwards, gaining a
wider perspective. Clad in purple robes, the Mordant stood in a farmer’s field,
the dark earth striped with fresh-plowed furrows. Inscribed across the
fresh-turned earth was a huge pentacle, etched deep in the soil, as if drawn by
a sword. A pinioned hawk and a bound man writhed within the Dark Lord’s symbol.
The man fought his bonds, his face contorted in fear.
A sacrifice
…
or a
summoning
...either way it implied a great working. Intrigued, the Priestess
crouched over the scrying bowl, mesmerized by the dark possibilities.

The Mordant raised his arms to the
night sky. His lips moved, murmuring incantations, but the Priestess heard them
not, for the Eye conveyed only images. A swirl of dark clouds obscured the
stars, a potent storm brewing overhead. The Mordant stabbed a finger skyward. A
pillar of green lightning answered. Forked lightning spiked down, striking the
Mordant, bathing him in power. A nimbus of sickly green light cast an
otherworldly glow around the Mordant, yet he stood unbowed, crackling with
menace. So much raw power, the Priestess cringed at the strength of it. How
could he survive it? How could he channel it? How would he wield it? She stared
in awe as he harnessed the power. Green lightning spiked from his fingertips
while Darkness swirled around him like a cloak, as if he channeled the power of
the gods. The Mordant’s mouth moved, shouting an incantation. The storm whipped
his blond hair around his head like a writhing crown. Power encircled the
Mordant like a maelstrom.

The backwash hit the scrying bowl.

Power surged through the silver
bowl, a spark of green lightning scorching her fingertips. The Priestess
flinched, her hands pinpricked with a thousand stinging nettles, yet she held
to the bowl. Fear shuddered through her; she’d never experienced anything like
this. A part of her wanted to pull away, to heed the warning, yet she refused
to release the bowl. Caught by an insatiable need to know, she crouched low,
peering into the scrying waters, determined to learn the Mordant’s secrets

The view changed…
of its own
accord!

Like a fish caught on a line, the
view was drawn closer, tightening on the Mordant.

Startled, the Priestess struggled
to resist. Pouring her own power into the moonstone, she sought to wrest
control of the Eye, yet the view drew ever closer to the Mordant, like
driftwood being sucked into a whirlpool.

His face filled the scrying bowl,
malevolent and cruel.

The Mordant peered through the
waters! He
saw
her! Reversing the power of the Eye,
he stared back at
her!
Terror spiked through her. She tried to pull away, but it was as if
his gaze seared her soul.

*I see you, Whore of Darkness!*

Her mind froze, teetering on the
edge of terror. Such a thing was impossible…yet his voice boomed through her
mind.

*
Behold my power!*
Green
lightning crackled around the Mordant’s face like a spiked crown. *
I am the
eldest, the Lord of Darkness, the Master of Erdhe. How dare you scry against
me!*

Frantic, the Priestess fought to
blank the image. She spent her power, yet the Mordant’s stare filled the
scrying bowl, mockery in his gaze.

*
I see you, Whore of Darkness.
You live to serve!*
His voice thundered through her mind.
*The Great
Dark Dance has begun. Come to Pellanor and serve your master!*

She fought to block him out, to
push him away, to wrest control of the moonstone.

And then he laughed.
He laughed!
A terrible mocking sound rolled through the scrying bowl, beating against
her.

Power flared through the Eye,
burning her hands. A scream ripped out of her. She struggled to pull away, but
her hands were locked to the bowl, shackled by magic. Steam billowed upward
like a breath hissed from hell. The Priestess flinched away. In less than a
heartbeat, the water disappeared revealing the great moonstone lying fallow in
the scrying bowl…but the Eye no longer glowed. Pale and sickly, the great
moonstone looked dead, devoid of power…but then it began to shuddered and
quaked.

It moved like an egg about to give
birth.

Unable to flee, unable to look
away, the Priestess stared the moonstone, trapped by fear and trepidation.

The Eye of the Oracle shuddered and
shook…and then it
cracked
. The great moonstone sundered into three pieces.
A moaning sigh swept through the tower chamber like the release of a
long-imprisoned soul.

Horrified, the Priestess stared in
shock. A scream rent through her. “
Nooooo!”
She lunged for the gemstone.
Cradling the largest piece against her breast, she willed her strength into it.
Clutching it close, she strained to sense a glimmer of magic, but the great gem
remained dull and lifeless, devoid of power. A terrible keening burst from her.
He’d broken the Eye. He’d stolen the best of her powers. She railed against
him, cursing his name. Her horror annealed to hatred…but then the gemstone
flared with one last flicker of magic…and it tasted of the Mordant. Green
lightning bit her hands. Power hammered against her, strong as a battering ram.
Punching her in the chest, it hurled her across the room. She hit hard,
cracking her head against the stone wall. Stunned and heart sore, the Priestess
slumped to the floor, consumed by darkness.

41

Steffan

Steffan woke with a start, a scream ringing in his ears.
Slick with sweat, he pushed the nightmare away. Seeking succor, he reached for
the Priestess…but the far side of the bed was empty, the covers twisted in
torment.
Gone
…
again
, anger warred with frustration. The
dark-damned woman was always slipping away in the dead of the night, always
climbing to her chamber in the tower, but she never let him come, and she never
answered his questions. His gaze flicked to the window, confirming night still
ruled a moonless sky. Leaping from bed, he reached for his pants, deciding to
plumb her secretive tower. Steffan was done with riddles.

Barefoot, he padded up the stairs,
determined to end this mute stalemate that hung between them. Nearing the top, he
heard a woman’s wail. Hastening his stride, he reached the door but it was closed.
“Cereus!” He pounded on the door, but it was locked. “
Cereus!”
 

Nothing but silence for a reply.

He threw his weight against the
door, battering it with his shoulder. The stout oak shook against its frame,
proving it was latched not locked. Once, twice, three times he rammed the door
until it burst open like a startled mouth.

Torchlight poured in from the open
door. He found her crumpled against the far wall. So pale…she looked broken.
“No!”
the cry keened out of him. Scooping her into his arms, he cradled her
close. So cold, she felt like death. Fear spiked through him. He felt at her
neck, desperate for a pulse.
Nothing!
But he refused to believe. Frantic
fingers searched finding a faint pulse…so faint, yet she lived. He held her
close, ambushed by his own relief. “Don’t leave me,” he breathed the words into
her raven-dark hair, a prayer and a command. So pale, so cold, she lay still as
death, her vibrancy snuffed like a candle. He ached to see her this way.
Gathering her close, Steffan carried her down the long winding stairs to the
rear of the keep. Cultured marble turned to rough cut stone beneath his bare
feet. He strode through the corridors with grim purpose, the Priestess clutched
in his arms.

Startled guards rushed to open the
bronze door, admitting a breath of chill night air. He carried her out into the
faint starlight, steam billowing from the hot springs like a dragon’s breath.
Striding to the shallow end, he walked straight into the bubbling cauldron.

Hot water constricted his leather pants,
binding him tight, but he cared only for her. Slowly, so slowly, he eased her
cold body into the frothing heat. She made no sound, made no response. His
heartbeat quickened, beseeching the gods. Cradling her head, he kept her face
clear of the water. Steam rose around her, carrying the scent of brimstone. Her
long dark hair floated like a nimbus around her pale white face. So beautiful
yet she remained so still. “
Live! Breathe!”
He kissed her, forcing his
breath into her mouth. Willing her to live, he held her for an eternity.

Her eyes flickered opened.

Relief coursed through him. “Don’t
leave me.” He held her close, feeling the warmth return to her limbs, a touch
of pink blooming in her cheeks…but her face remained gaunt, as if she’d been
drained of life.

Gasping for breath, she gave him a
wanton stare. Her hands clutched at him. “Need you…need you
now!”
Hungry
fingers plucked at the binding of his pants. Her mouth closed on his, a
desperately deep kiss, as if she meant suck the very essence from his soul.

Her insatiable hunger enflamed his
ardor. Steffan shed his leathers like a snake shedding useless skin. Naked, he
stood rampant and eager. Standing waist-deep in the frothing water, he pulled
her close, the smell of brimstone billowing around them. She straddled him, her
long legs wrapping around his waist. Drinking his gaze, she impaled herself
upon him. And then he was deep in her, like a sword finding a moist sheath. He
groaned in pleasure, grinding deep, wanting more.

She bucked against him, relentless
with need. He answered, matching her rhythm. Her back arched, her dark hair
flung wild around her face, her eyes closed, her perfect lips puckered in
passion. Fingernails raked across his back, urging him on. Her whole body
clenched his manhood, sucking him deeper into her womb, like nothing he’d ever
felt. An unbearable ecstasy ripped through him. Twice he came, and still she
rode him, making him last, keeping him stiff as steel. So powerful, so hard, he
felt like a god mounting a goddess. Bellowing his pleasure, he spewed the last
of his strength, collapsing backwards into the frothing water.

They separated, floating side by
side.

Bubbles frothed around them,
releasing the scent of brimstone, the heady scent of Hell.

Drained yet drunk on pleasure,
Steffan floated on the water, staring at her, still smitten by the ecstasy.
Vitality bloomed in her face, as if she’d come back from the grave, younger and
more beautiful, yet her gaze was cold and forbidding. He struggled to
understand. “What…was that?”

“Need…and the backwash of magic.”

Magic,
he mulled her words,
magic
not love
. “I heard you scream. I feared you dead.”

Something kindled in her gaze. “The
Mordant found me.”

Steffan sucked a sharp breath.
“Here?”

“In the scrying bowl.”

Scrying,
so that was the
source of her power. The woman was a riddle…a dangerous, ravishing riddle.
“And?”

“The Mordant summoned me…”

Like a lackey,
he read the
words in the hatred blazing from her face. “And me?”

Her dark gaze considered him,
caressed him, owned him. “Come with me.”

Her gaze alone sizzled his soul.
His manhood stirred. Having nearly lost her, he’d never let her go. “Yes.” He’d
chase her to Hell and back if needs be…but whether it was for lust, or love…or
power, he did not know. “Where?”

“To Pellanor.”

The name stung like a curse.
Steffan snarled. “Why?”

“The Mordant is the oldest among
us, the most powerful harlequin.”

“So?” Steffan felt danger gathering
around them, yet the gambler in him could not resist. “We serve only the Dark
Lord.”

 “True, yet the oldest harlequin
must be reckoned with. Favored by the Dark Lord, the Mordant is steeped in
power.” She gave him a sly smile. “Perhaps he grows too powerful. Our god is a
jealous god. There is but one power in Hell…and that power does not share.”

Steffan looked thoughtful. “So he
baits the gods?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why go?”

Her smile deepened, dangerous and
deadly. “For vengeance.”

Her words quickened in his soul,
summoning him to a quest…or laying a geas upon him…either way, vengeance was
something he understood. He pulled her close, kissing her long and hard. “For
vengeance”…
and for power
, though the second remained unspoken.

Her fingernails raked across his
chest, her kisses trailing down his neck igniting a line of fire. A primal need
roared through him, lust mixed with love. Steffan wanted this woman…but he also
wanted power. In the depths of his soul, he wondered if he could have both.