Part 3 (1/2)
His eyes widened. ”But I thought?”
”We're north of the Dragon Spines.”
He held her stare.
Kath struggled to explain. ”Everything's changed. I've lost my home, forced to escape Castlegard, forced to flee from my own father. I've slain knights of the Octagon, traitors to be sure, but I never thought to slay a knight. Sir Tyrone is dead and my brother murdered. And now we follow the path of death, chasing the Mordant into the north.” She struggled to find the right words. ”We've crossed the Dragon Spines, pa.s.sing into nightmares. Whatever happens, whatever lies ahead...I can't lose you too.”
His fingers caressed her face, his voice full of rea.s.surance. ”You'll never lose me.”
”It's more than that. In Cragnoth Keep I faced death without ever having tasted love.” She met his mismatched stare, willing him to believe. ”I need you...all of you.”
His breath caught. ”As my wife?”
She felt his heartbeat racing beneath his leathers, and knew her own raced at the same breakneck pace. Kath dared to follow her heart. ”Yes.”
He lifted her into his arms, kissing her with the ardent promise of more.
Horses clattered into the glade, the sound of voices emerging from the trees.
They pulled apart, a quick distance that was suddenly painful.
Duncan sent her a fervent whisper, ”Tonight, beneath the trees, while the others sleep.”
Nodding, Kath felt her face flame red, her loins liquid with need. She turned away, busying herself with her horse's tack, hoping the others did not notice. Her hands shook as she worked the buckles. A part of her could not believe her own audacity...but another part, her heart, soared at the thought of finally knowing Duncan. She clung to his words, repeating them like a prayer. Tonight...beneath the trees...while the others sleep. Kath stared at the sky, willing the moon to rise.
3.
The Mordant The Darkflamme flew overhead, snaking against a steel-gray sky, twelve feet of black silk ending in two silken tails of bright red flecked with gold. The forked banner snapped like a serpent's tongue, creating the illusion of darkness on fire, a threat of terror to the Mordant's foes, a promise of victory to his legions. Unfurled above the gathering host, the battle banner announced his return, the na-Mordant, the ruler of the Dark Citadel, the claimant to the Ebony Throne.
Like the useless skin of a molting snake, the Mordant shed the maroon cloak and silver surcoat of the enemy. Clad in his true colors, black adorned with gold, he chose the trappings of a soldier over the robes of a priest, sending a message to his followers. Black gauntlets, a black cuira.s.s emblazoned with a gold pentacle, black leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, and a sweeping cape of the finest black wool, but he kept his head bare, awaiting a crown.
Riding at the head of the gathering host, he held the dusky stallion to slow trot, turning the journey north into a stately progress, a monarch surveying his domain. Word of his return raced ahead, spread by mounted couriers, carrier pigeons, and rampant rumors. With every pa.s.sing league, the Mordant's entourage grew. Officers, soldiers, and priests, dispatched from every unit and outpost of his army, they flocked to his standard. Some came to bear witness; others came to enjoy the spectacle, but most came to curry favor, to gain a place in the new court of a dictator-king.
He welcomed them all with an open smile, keeping the weight of his years hidden, his glorious darkness buried deep beneath the facade of a young monk's face. His youthful countenance served him well. Cloaked in the illusion of inexperience, his appearance emboldened his entourage, inviting advice, and boasts, and whispered secrets. Only the graybeards remembered, hanging back, wary with their words, a glint of fear in their eyes. The Mordant listened and watched, hiding his amus.e.m.e.nt, studying his subjects.
The bold and the ambitious competed for his time, jostling to ride next to him. The Mordant spent his days in the saddle, listening to schemes and pet.i.tions without giving a single promise. His silence never deterred the flood of ambition...or his steady progress into the north. Crossing the gra.s.slands at a trot, they eventually reached the sprawling farmlands of his inner domain, the black soil lying fallow for winter. A song of praise erupted from the host at his back, now swelling to the size of a small army.
Each night, he held court in his pavilion, a sumptuous tent lavish with wine and sweetmeats. Beneath the billowing silk, they came before him, some to bow allegiance, others to stand stiff-kneed, reserving fealty till the Trials were complete. He accepted them all, the stubborn and the compliant, plumbing their souls, weighing their worth.
He plied his dark powers with subtlety, putting a name to each face and a value to each soul. Nearly a quarter of those who flocked to his banner were closed to him, honest men who lacked sufficient darkness in their souls. He probed the honest ones with words instead of magic, but he judged them all, each according to their worth. Most served with their swords, fodder for the coming war, but a few had value beyond the killing fields. Memorizing their names, he kept a secret tally, noting some for promotion to his personal guards, others for positions in the Citadel. But not all of the pet.i.tioners were faithful. Some harbored the seeds of treachery in their souls, mostly among the priests. Those he marked for death. Their treachery did not surprise him. After all, the Ebony Throne had sat vacant for more than thirty-two years, long enough for men to forget their fear, for treason to breed and plots to hatch. But even the traitors would serve, providing an example to others.
Growing bored with the fawning prattle, he waved them all away. A handful of priests lingered. He made his wish a command, a touch of darkness lurking in his voice. ”Leave me.” Finally alone, he settled into a camp chair, the charcoal braziers dispelling the night chill. Sipping a fine merlot, he studied the campfires spread across the fallow fields, knowing it was but a fraction of those who served the Ebony Throne.
Seeking amus.e.m.e.nt, he reached for the one soul who knew the truth of his Darkness. *Come, monk, attend me. I appoint you my court jester, a foil for my royal thoughts.*
But the monk did not reply, a brooding prisoner locked in the Mordant's mind.
He could have forced the monk to his will but a taste of freedom long denied often proved the cruelest torture. *Come, I give you leave to see through my eyes, to feel the brazier's warmth, to smell the soil's rich loam, to taste a full-bodied wine. Come and remember what it means to be alive.*
He felt the monk rise to the temptation, looking through his eyes, swooning over the wine's lingering taste. The d.a.m.ned were so predictable. Chuckling, he prodded the captured soul. *I've felt you brooding, monk, ever since the Gargoyle Gate. Have you finally decided to renounce your useless Lords of Light?*
*Never!*
He laughed. *A pity I cannot dress you in motley and have you caper before me, the perfect court jester.* His laughter turned to a chuckle. *But let me guess at your discomfort. You thought I would be served by rabid monsters, not mere men, and certainly not by men free of the taint of Darkness.*
A brooding silence was the only reply.
*Answer me, monk, or the taste of life will be revoked.*
*You deceive them.*
*No, they wallow in their own delusions. If there is one thing the centuries have taught me, it is that mortals are masters of self-deception, even disbelieving their own mortality. Thousands of men have died by my own hand and all of them had one thing in common. Shock always filled their faces as the dagger pierced their hearts.*
*That proves nothing.*
*Then look at the faces of those who serve me. Raised under the Pentacle, they believe their cause is just, that the Dark Citadel is the pinnacle of civilization, enduring against the threat of the barbarous south. Trapped by myths of their childhood, honest men make the most loyal soldiers.* He laughed. *Mortals are victims of their own delusions...a boon to any tyrant who has the good sense to use them.*
*No! You are the Deceiver. I won't listen. I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.*
*See, you prove my point. You stubbornly cling to your own delusions, believing in G.o.ds who ignore you, while proof of the Dark Lord's bounty surrounds you. What will it take to break your mortal delusions?*
Footsteps approached from the dark.
The Mordant suppressed the monk, letting him share his eyes, but nothing more.
A black-robed priest crept to the edge of the brazier's light. Red hair and a pudgy face splashed with freckles, Fenthane was a minor priest serving a bishop of the border guards. So this is how they would come at him, sending the young and the unsubtle to test his skills, more proof of the potency of his youthful disguise. ”Fenthane, why have you returned?”
Bowing low, the priest took mincing steps into the light. ”To offer a gift from my lord bishop,” he proffered an amber flask trimmed in silver. ”A flask of rare Urian brandy for your pleasure.”
Draining the last of the merlot, the Mordant extended his goblet. ”A thoughtful gift. It has been too long since I've tasted a fine brandy.”
The priest's hands shook as he uncorked the flask, filling the goblet with amber liquid.
”Why so nervous, Fenthane?”
”It is an honor to serve you, Lord.”
”No doubt.” The Mordant swirled the brandy and raised it to his face, inhaling the rich aroma. Autumn apples fermented to the fiery scent of alcohol, aged in oak barrels to provide a woody base, but he caught no hint of any taint. At least the poison was subtle if not the hand that delivered it. *Shall I drink, monk? It would kill this body but one of us would be reborn.*
He felt the monk tremble, hungry with hope.
Setting the cup to his lips, he watched triumph bloom in the young priest's eyes...but he did not drink. Lowering the cup, he gave the priest a charming smile. ”Tell me, Fenthane, what are your dreams, your ambitions?”
”M-my dreams, Lord?”