The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) by Karen Azinger Read Free Book Online

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 gods 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?”
    The Mordant swept his hand toward
the campfires glittering like stars against the night. “Surrounded by
followers, I am constantly plagued with petitions and requests, why should I
not hear yours?” He raised the goblet in salute. “Especially given your
princely gift.”
    The young priest swallowed, his
hands fumbling with the amber flask. “I long to leave the border priests, to
serve in the marbled halls of the Citadel.”
    “An ambition as small as the man.”
    The priest retreated a step, his
face suddenly fearful. “W-what do you mean, Lord?”
    The Mordant called the Darkness,
summoning the weight of his years. Darkness rushed to fill his gaze. He stared
at the priest, drilling into his mind. Like a flock of starving vultures the Darkness
struck, shredding the man’s soul. The priest screamed. He fell to his knees,
but he could not look away. The Mordant made it rape, taking what he wanted and
then flooding the man’s mind with visions of torture, the brutal death of a
traitor. The priest whimpered a strangled sound, the smell of hot urine
flooding the pavilion. Satisfied, the Mordant withdrew, burying the Darkness
beneath a mask of youth.
    Released, the priest crumpled to
the ground, a puppet without strings. Drenched in sweat, the young man groveled
at the Mordant’s feet. “ Forgive me, Lord! I did not know!”  
    Guards rushed to surround the priest,
their swords drawn.
    The Mordant raised his hand,
forestalling bloodshed. “There is no danger, only a lesson. Sheath your swords
and watch.”
    The guards obeyed; steel sliding
into scabbards.
    Making his voice soft and soothing,
he nudged the priest