The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (16 page)

Her shadowmaster hissed in her ear, “Let me take you back to the dungeon where my men can protect you.”

The queen was resolute. “Fate has opened a path to the great kitchen, we must dare the crossing now.”

The master glared at her but then bowed his head in resignation, “As you wish.” To the men he said, “We’ll cross in the lee of the battle. Surround the woman and keep her safe.” He gripped her arm. “Wait, the wind is changing.”

She had not even noticed the wind.

Smoke from the fires billowed into the yard, stinging her eyes, obscuring the dead and dying. The gray pall hid everything.

“
Now!”
A sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, the master ran into the smoke. The queen followed. Holding her shawl to her face, she raced to keep the master in sight, a dark shadow flitting through the smoke. Liandra danced left, avoiding the bodies puddled in blood. The smoke thickened, laden with the smells of burning wood and singed horseflesh. The harsh tang made it hard to see, hard to breath. Liandra stifled a cough.

A sword cut toward her face.

Liandra staggered backwards, her eyes held spellbound by the blade. Time slowed, as if the sword cleaved molasses instead of air. A second sword leaped to block the first, turning death away. Her shadowmaster stepped in front of her, his dagger slicing the enemy. A bloody gash opened in her assailant’s throat…like a reaper’s grim smile. Dead, he crumpled into the swirling smoke. Time resumed with a rush.

“
Hurry!”
Her shadowmaster raced forward.

Her heart hammering, the queen scrambled to keep pace. Her long skirts threatened to trip her.

A breeze blew and the smoke began to clear. A single soldier blocked their path to the kitchen doors, a swarthy captain brandishing a bloody saber. The master hurled his sword at the soldier’s head. Steel clanged on steel. The soldier parried the thrown sword. Laughing, he raised his saber to attack. “Come on, old man,” but then his eyes began to glaze, puzzlement scrawled across his face. The master’s throwing dagger lodged in his throat. The soldier toppled forward like a felled tree.

Liandra stared; she’d never seen so much death.

Running past the fresh corpse, the master retrieved his thrown sword. “
Hurry!”
He lunged toward the kitchen, throwing his shoulder against the double doors. The stout oak shuddered but held. Captain Durnheart and the two guardsmen rushed to pitch their weight against the barrier. The queen cringed; the pounding seemed loud enough to wake the dead. Desperation won. The doors groaned, opening just wide enough for a single person. The master slipped inside. The queen followed.

Pushing past a barricade of tables, they won through to the kitchen, staggering into an island of calm. The master growled, “Secure the doors.”

The queen swayed to a stop. Aromas of fresh baked bread and spitted lamb surrounded her like a warm blanket, a stark contrast to the death of the courtyard. In the sudden normalcy of the kitchen, Liandra wasn’t sure if she wanted to weep or retch. She’d seen the underbelly of war and faced death in a whispering blade; life would never be the same. Taking a deep breath of comfort, Liandra forced her mind to the matters at hand.

Her shadowmaster growled, “Where’s Dent?”

Captain Durnheart answered, “Dead. He took a sword in the belly during the crossing.”

Liandra stared, a man had died for her and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Barricade the doors.”

While the men pushed tables and chairs against the outer doors, Liandra surveyed the great kitchen. Frightened faces peered back at her. Hiding behind overturned tables, the kitchen folk stared at the intruders.

A tremulous voice asked, “M-majesty, is it really you?”

Shocked to be recognized, Liandra realized she’d lost her shawl in the terror of the crossing. Her masquerade was broken. She stood exposed, without paints and powders, without shimmering jewels, without the trappings of royalty. The queen summoned her royal poise. Standing sword-straight, she met the stares of her people. “We seek sanctuary from the fighting.”

Rising from behind an overturned table, a stout man in a flour-stained apron doffed his cap. “When the fighting broke out, we didn’t know what to think. So we sealed the doors.”

Putting a name to his face, she recognized the master baker, a hard-working man who ruled the great kitchen with a soft hand. Infusing her voice with dignity, the queen said, “The crown sees you, Master Carl. What would you ask of us?”

The baker blanched and bent the knee, his round face as pale as pastry dough. “So it’s really you, majesty?”

She heard the doubt in his voice. Twisting the rings on her fingers, Liandra held out her hand, presenting the Great Emerald. The square-cut jewel flashed green in the candlelight. “Your queen is here.”

A sigh of amazement rippled through the kitchen. A dozen flour-dusted cooks rose from behind overturned workbenches. Many clutched knives or cast iron skillets, their faces a battleground of hope and fear.

She did not blame them for their fear, for the common people oft became fodder for wars. The queen met their gaze, projecting a sense of royal confidence. “Traitors have risen against us, but victory will be ours.”

Questions hung in the air, but hope won out. The kitchen folk relinquished their makeshift weapons, emerging to bow to their monarch. Their honest homage humbled the queen. For the sake of loyal subjects like these, she needed to end the bloody rebellion and return her kingdom to the prosperity of peace.

“We thank you for sharing the sanctuary of the kitchen, but now we must command you to silence. The rebels must never learn that your queen was here on this night. We charge you to keep our secret safe.”

A murmur of assent swelled from the kitchen staff, pride and wonder on their faces.

Her shadowmaster stepped forward, grim in his dark robes, blood on his sword. “A group of rebels wearing the tabards of Lanverness has risen against the Rose Throne. Loyal soldiers are holding the rebels at bay but the fighting is fierce. Remain in the safety of the kitchen until the rebellion is put down.” Deliberately sheathing his sword, the master added, “And now Master Carl, we need your services. The queen wishes to inspect the storage rooms below the great kitchen.”

Caught off guard, the baker stuttered, “The s-storage rooms?”

“Yes and there is no time to waste. Bring a torch and lead the way.”

Befuddled, the baker reached for one of the torches lining the walls. Gesturing toward the rear of the kitchen he said, “This way m’Lord.”

The master crossed the room to follow the baker but the queen lingered by the doors. Noting the confusion on the faces of the kitchen folk, the queen realized they needed reassurance…and hope. “We thank you for your loyalty and your silence. We go now to put an end to this rebellion. It is our royal wish that you keep to the safety of the kitchen, Lanverness needs all of her people.”

Cooks and serving wenches melted to the floor, kneeling before their queen. “The Lords of Light save her majesty the queen.” The murmur spread through the kitchen.

Tears crowded Liandra’s eyes. The loyalty of her people was the perfect balm to the bloodshed of the courtyard. Picking up her skirts as if they were made of silk instead of homespun, she followed the baker and her shadowmaster to the rear of the great kitchen.

Stone stairs descended into shadows. Torchlight glimmered on the walls as the master baker led the way. The steep stairs emerged onto a wide hallway with three stout wooden doors. Warmth laced with the scent of fresh baked bread permeated the cellars. The baker stopped by the first door, a ring of keys in his hand. “There are three storerooms, which would you see?”

The queen hesitated, recalling memories of her father’s voice. A secret rhyme from childhood hummed through her mind. She hoped her memory and the rhyme both held true. “The third one.”

Obeying, the baker led them to the end of the hallway and opened the third door. Cooler air and the tangy scent of aging cheese cloaked the storeroom. Lighting torches bracketed along the stone walls, the baker revealed a long narrow room filled with grain sacks, stacked casks, and heads of cheese hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Bobbing his head, the baker said, “This is the cheese room, we also use it to store grains and sometimes sides of smoked beef or ham.”

It was not the contents of the room that interested the queen, but rather the architecture. The stonework was exceptionally fine, especially for a mere storeroom. Beveled vaults ran along the north wall sheltering recessed alcoves cloaked in shadow. Stone columns crowned by carved shields separated each alcove. The stonework of the shields was clearly the work of a master mason. The queen smiled; so far the rhyme of her childhood proved true.

Turning to the master baker, the queen said, “Master Carl, we thank you for your assistance. Surrender your torch to one of the guards and then return to the kitchen.
 
Forget that you ever saw us here. Go with our thanks.” The queen offered her ringed hand.

Clearly confused, the baker handed the torch to the captain. Bowing low, he kissed the great emerald of her office and left the storage room with a dazed look on his face.

Nothing more was said until the door was closed. “Captain Durnheart, we ask you and the two guardsmen to wait outside the door. We have matters to discuss with the Master Archivist.”

The captain bowed and said, “As you wish, your majesty.”

With the others gone, the master turned to the queen and said, “So now that we are alone among the cheeses, how do we find this hidden passage of yours?”

“With a rhyme from childhood.” She walked the length of the storeroom, reciting from memory,

“
Kings are served from kitchen stores,

Beneath the ovens take the third door,

Emblazoned heraldry is the key,

First stag then stallion and finally bee.”

“And the King’s Tower was renamed at your coronation.”

“Exactly.”

The queen read aloud the heraldic devices etched on the stone shields, “A boar, a stag, a bee, a bear, and finally a stallion. Depress the stone shields in the order of the rhyme and we believe the hidden door will open.”

“You believe or you know?”

“We saw it once as a child, but only once. The rhyme was a secret between ourself and the king. The hidden passageways are meant to be used only in the most dire of times.”

“The times are certainly dire, so let us see if the passageway is myth or fact.” Going first to the stag, the master set the heel of his hand against the stone shield and pushed. For a moment nothing happened, then the shield slowly depressed two finger-widths into the wall. “Which one is next?”

“The stallion and then the bee.”

The shield of the stallion behaved in the same fashion as the stag. Depressing the bee, a low grinding noise rumbled from the rear wall of the alcove. Stone scrapped against stone and a narrow doorway eased open at the back of the alcove, exhaling a long-held breath of stale air.

“It seems we have found your passage.”

“The very stones of Castle Tandroth will fight against the rebels. Bring a torch and summon the others, it is past time we put a stop to this rebellion. We will not have our kingdom sundered by bloodshed.”

“I will not be going with you.”

The queen stared at her shadowmaster, ambushed by his decision. The notion of going without him left her feeling strangely bereft. “We would have you by our side.”

“I can best serve Lanverness from the outside. I will rally the loyal troops and even raise the people if needs be. With your majesty working from within, we will crush the rebel forces between us.”

Reluctant to be parted from the one man she trusted, Liandra hesitated. “Your plan has merit…but we need you to stay safe. We would not lose our ablest advisor. We cannot…” Her voice choked on emotions, revealing far more than she intended.

Bowing his head, her shadowmaster whispered, “And I would not lose my queen.”

He came forward and knelt, taking her ringed hand.

The intensity of his touch rippled through her, something long understood but never acknowledged. She gently pulled away, it could not be, but he held her hand captive, turning it over and kissing the hollow of her palm. The perfect blend of tenderness and ardor. Liandra shivered with emotions long denied, but the weight of the crown sat heavy on her brow. She was always the queen. Reluctant to move, she withdrew her hand, “This cannot be…”

He rose and nodded, his face a stone mask. His voice turned brusque, nothing but duty. “Take Captain Durnheart and Collins with you, they are both good men. They will see you safely to the tower or die trying.” He stared at her as if memorizing her face. His voice softened, “Keep safe, my queen.” He saluted and turned, leaving her alone in the storage room.

“And you…” But he’d already gone. She froze her face, froze the tears in the corner of her eyes and tried to remember to breathe. Short, sharp breaths that pierced her to the core. She had a kingdom to care for; a crown to save…but there was always a price, always. Resolute, the queen turned to face the darkness of the hidden passage.