The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (25 page)

The leader’s authority held. A handful of leather-clad archers stepped forward with lengths of rope.

Blaine
dismounted, holding Danya in his arms.

The leader stared at
Blaine
, “Can the woman walk?”

“No.”

The leader nodded, “Carry her then.” To one of his men he added, “Leave his hands untied but tether a noose around his neck.”

Blaine
snarled but Sir Tyrone intervened. “We have no choice.” The blonde knight submitted to the noose, anger broiling in his stare.

Kath lowered her hands, holding them out to be bound.

A young archer looped a coarse rope around her wrists, jerking the cord tight enough to draw blood.

Kath hissed at the harsh treatment.

The archer sneered, “It’s much less than you deserve, white-eye.”

She wondered at the hatred in his voice.

Their weapons were taken, swords, axes, and daggers. Kath flinched when they took the crystal dagger, her gaze following it to the belt of one of the archers. She felt naked without it, but at least her captors had ignored the gargoyle tucked beneath her jerkin and the amber pyramid hidden in a deep pocket.

Blaine
balked when they reached for his blue steel sword. “
No!
”

Bowstrings tightened, arrows fixed on his heart.
Blaine
submitted with a low growl. “I’ll have that back!”

A cat-eyed archer flourished the blue sword.

The bearded leader yelled, “Let’s go.”

Kath was jerked forward, almost falling. Bound and tethered, the companions followed the cat-eyed people into the depths of the forest. The green tangle parted to reveal a narrow pathway threading through the dense brush. They walked single-file beneath stands of redwood, cedar, and spruce. Kath scuffed her feet to mark the trail, hoping
Duncan
followed. She kept glancing backward, hoping for a glimpse of him.

Towering trees hid the sun, cloaking the forest in dappled shadows. Their captors forbid talking. They marched in silence, but now and then one of them imitated the call of a woodlands bird. Kath suspected the calls were signals to other watchers. She wondered at their numbers.

They crossed other footpaths, proving the forest was more tamed than it first appeared. Kath tried to memorize the twists and turns but after a while the trees all looked alike. Peering into the undergrowth, she caught fleeting glimpses of fallen columns and ruined walls choked by vines, deepening the mystery of the forest. She paused to stare at a ruined bit of statue that lay near the path, a woman’s face carved on a keystone, hauntingly beautiful. Kath wondered at the ruins, at the lost beauty carved in stone. The butt of a bow jabbed her in the back. “Keep moving!” Kath staggered forward, struggling to keep her balance.

Their captors kept at a ground-eating pace, leading them deeper into the forest. Without a view of the sun, it was hard to judge how long they walked. Kath’s hands were numb and useless by the time they time they emerged from the underbrush into a clearing of sorts. The dense brush and saplings were stripped clean, cleared away to yield a smooth needle-strewn floor, but the towering grandfather trees remained, standing like majestic columns in the grand hall of a forgotten king.

Tendrils of smoke curled up from the heart of the clearing. A village of ornate wooden cabins clustered around the base of the trees. From the number of cabins, Kath judged the village to hold a hundred or so.

The escort of archers whooped a cheer. Women straightened from cook fires and men stopped their chores to stare, all of them with the strange yellow eyes of a cat.

Welcoming smiles changed to hatred at the sight of the captives. Women gathered up their children, herding them into cabins, while men reached for weapons, watching with wary eyes. Hatred and mistrust swirled through the village. Kath hoped they would not regret the decision to yield their weapons.

The archers led the companions to the center of the village, to a white-haired man seated by a small fire. He whittled a flute from a length of wood, his hands making long sure strokes with a carving knife.

The troop leader acknowledged the white-haired man with a deep bow. “Greetings of Leaf and Bark, Cenric.”

The white-haired man looked up from his craftwork, studying the strangers with a golden stare. A deep battle scar ruined the right side of his face, belying the peaceful work of his hands. He pointed his carving knife at the captives, his voice deep with the power of command. “How dare you bring white-eyes to our village?”

The leader of the archers moved to speak, but the white-haired man forestalled him with a raised hand. Keeping his seat by the fire, the leader studied the captives while the villagers gathered around. An old woman emerged from a cabin carrying a long cape of emerald green feathers. Purple eyes shimmered and winked the length of feathers, a garment fit for a king. The woman draped the magnificent cape across the man’s shoulders. With a show of ceremony, she took a seat next to him by the fire. A hush fell over the villagers. Kath felt as if she stood on trial before a judge, but she didn’t know the crime.

The white-haired man spoke with the formality of command, “The leader of Clan Hemlock sits before the hearth fires cloaked in the power of the Green. We are ready to hear your report.”

The archer gave a half bow. “We were patrolling the green edge near the burned lands of the Cedars when we found these white-eyes hacking their way into the forest.”

“And you did not leave them to the Green Death?”

“We watched from the cloak of the forest, but the blonde-haired woman acknowledged the Deep Green, claiming to come in peace.”

The leader’s golden stare found Kath’s face. She met his strange gaze without flinching.

“Who are you and why do you come to the Deep Green?”

Kath took a half step forward. “I am Princess Katherine of Castlegard. I was invited to the Deep Green by the archer, Jorah Silvenwood. He gave me a leather token of safe passage.”

Murmurs of shock and outrage rippled through the villagers. Several made the hand sign against evil.

The leader stirred beneath his feathered cape. “You claim the welcome of the dead.”

Shock hit her like a hammer blow. “Jorah is
dead?
”

“As are many of our people. Taken by the fires set by the cursed white-eyes.”

Their hatred and hostility made sudden sense. “That fire was
set?
”

“An attack against the forest, an attack against our people, set in the dead of night.”

Kath could hardly imagine the horror of such a fire, towering flames burning everything, nothing left but blackened ashes. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Whispers swirled around the fire, some in anger, most in disbelief.

“Why does a white-eyed girl speak the name of one of our dead?”

“Jorah saved my life. I called him friend.” Kath raised her stare to the clan leader, willing the truth into her face.

The leader gave her a crooked half-smile, his grin distorted by the ugly scar. “Faces can lie. Especially those bearing white eyes. We shall see if the truth rides the winds.” He gestured and two men grabbed Kath’s arms from behind. Sir Tyrone yelled, “Leave her!” but Kath stilled him with a glance. The men walked Kath around the fire, forcing her to kneel before the leader. Despite her bound hands, she kept her back straight and defiant.

The clan leader leaned close, his face stopping a hand span from hers.

Kath forced herself to remain still, meeting the scrutiny of his golden gaze.

“Who is Jorah Silvenwood to you?” The leader’s voice was a command, his golden stare penetrating.

“He was a friend. I owe him my life.”

Murmurs circulated the fire, but Kath kept her gaze on the clan leader.

Flaring his nostrils, the leader closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if testing her scent. He sat swaying under the feathered cloak, his eyes closed, his face thoughtful. His rocking motion caused the cape’s feathered eyes to glisten and wink in the firelight, as if a thousand beasts peered from the emerald-green feathers, all of them judging her. Kath shivered, trying to dispel the illusion.

The leader exhaled, his golden eyes opening. “The wind tastes of pride…and stubbornness…and truth.”

“
No!
” A young man shouldered his way through the crowd, his face contorted in hate. “The wind is full of ashes! Dead trees and dead clansmen! The white-eyes should pay for their deeds! I claim tauth against the intruders for the death of my family!”

Anger sparked around the campfire.

The old woman, the one who’d brought the feathered cloak, replied, her voice stern with rebuke. “Ronah, we all grieve for the dead, but the winds have been tested and judgment has been passed. You dishonor yourself with this outburst.”

“Are we animals who cower or men who fight? If we hadn’t been hiding in the depths of the forest, we might have stopped the white-eyes before they lit their cursed fire.”

“
Enough!”
The old woman glared.

“No, it will never be enough.” The young man spat on the ground and turned his back on the leader, pushing his way through the crowd. A murmur of disapproval followed but none barred his way.

Ignoring the outburst, the clan leader picked up his whittling knife. With a quick slash, he cut Kath’s bonds. Pain assaulted her hands as the ropes fell away. Villagers reached out from behind to help her stand.

The clan leader stood with the lithe grace of a warrior despite his age. “The winds are choked with burning and death, but this white-eyes speaks the truth. There will be no tauth claimed against these strangers. Release their bonds.”

Kath resumed her place among her companions, trying to work some life back into her pain-pricked hands.

The white-haired leader stared at her. “The question remains, why have you come to the Deep Green?”

Kath stared at the leader, fumbling for an acceptable reason, unsure how to answer. The monk saved her. Holding his open hand up to display the dark blue tattoo, Zith said, “I am Master Zith of the Kiralynn Order. My companions and I seek an audience with the Treespeaker.”

Protests rippled around the fire. A woman’s voice hissed, “
Blasphemy!
”

The feather-cloaked leader lifted his hands, stilling his people. Peering at the monk, he said, “You speak a name not mentioned outside of the Deep Green.”

“I speak a name whispered to me by the Grand Master of my Order.”

The leader shook his head. “By Leaf and Bark the five of you pose a strange riddle. You ride out of the burnt lands speaking a name you should not know. A woman leads claiming friendship of the dead, one knight bears a sapphire-blue blade, and another has skin the color of soot. If the wind did not tell me otherwise, I would mark you as dangerous enemies. You are not of the Green yet we grant you hearth welcome, but no more than that. The Treespeaker will decide your fate.”

The monk nodded. “We accept your welcome.”

“In the meantime, you will have food and shelter and healing if you need it.”

Blaine
said, “Return our weapons.”

“As a gesture of peace, we will keep your weapons till the Treespeaker decides.”

Kath said, “You may hold our weapons of steel in safekeeping, but return the crystal dagger.”

“What is so special about this dagger?”

“It is a weapon of the Light, meant for a specific evil. I won’t be parted from it.”

He stared at her as if peering into her soul.

She met his golden gaze, shocked by the rush of green power rising behind his eyes. It was the same power that thrummed through the forest, something proud and untamed…and sentient. That power stared back at her, the golden eyes widening with recognition…and warning.

An owl hooted in the depths of the forest.

The clan leader broke his stare and nodded.

Kath staggered backwards, released from the power.

The clan leader’s voice was rich with undertones. “The forest agrees. The crystal dagger is best left in your care.” He glanced at her companions but his gaze returned to Kath. “My name is Cenric, leader of Clan Hemlock. You will be given the courtesies of the hearth until the Treespeaker decides your fate.” He gestured to the bearded ranger. “Jenks will show you to the stone house and will see to your needs.” Staring at Danya’s limp form he added, “Do you need a healer?”

Cradling Danya against his chest,
Blaine
shook is head, “Just rest and food.”

“That you shall have.” Cenric’s stare roved the crowd. “Sefforth, return the dagger.”

An archer pushed through the crowd, anger in his eyes, yet he offered the crystal dagger to Kath.

She snatched it from his hand and sheathed it at her belt, her fist locked on the hilt.

“Jenks?”

The bearded archer appeared at Cenric’s side.

“Show our guests to the stone house and provide for their needs. Put a guard on the door for our safety as well as theirs.”