Read The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) for Free Online Page B

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 petitions without giving a single promise. His
silence never deterred the flood of ambition…or his steady progress into the
north. Crossing the grasslands 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 petitioners 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 amusement, 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 damned 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