The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (35 page)

The stones of the castle gave up their bloodstains easier than the souls of men. The corpses were removed in cartloads, the loyalists sent to heroes’ graves and the traitors to a mass pyre. The pyre burned for days, creating a grim pall that hung over the city, a stain against the summer sky, a stain against honor and duty, a stain that marred the soul of Lanverness.

An army of servants labored to restore the great castle, scrubbing floors, repairing the tower doors, re-hanging the tapestries. Gold and hard work restored the luster of the
Rose Court
, but the castle was the least of Liandra’s worries. The Spider Queen had debts of loyalty and treason to settle, debts she intended to pay in full measure.

A knock sounded on the door to her solar. The queen waved her hand and a page leaped to answer. Her two most loyal advisors entered, the Master Archivist in his severe robes of black, and her royal son, Crown Prince Stewart, in the emerald tabard of an officer, a short sword belted to his side.

The queen’s breath caught at the sight of her son’s face, still startled by the brutal change. An angry, red scar sliced from his hairline to his jaw, just missing his left eye…a grim reminder of how close she’d come to losing her firstborn son…her only heir.

The queen welcomed her two loyal men and then dismissed the servants, gaining a prudent privacy. “Be seated, we have much to discuss.”

The prince sat in a chair on the far side of the chess table, his long legs sprawled across the carpet, while the Master Archivist stood rigid in front of the cold fireplace, his arms behind his back.

The rebellion had changed them both. She supposed it had changed them all. Her royal son had become a man, marked by the scars of war, a blooded warrior. The queen mourned the ruin of his handsome face but she’d also seen the way the veteran soldiers revered her royal son, praising his prowess in battle. Liandra supposed the soldiers saw the scar as a mark of valor…a valuable asset for a future king…especially since men so often rule by the sword.

The Master Archivist, on the other hand, stood as a pillar of shadow in the sun drenched room. Always lean, the rebellion had stripped the veneer from the man, revealing the steel beneath the intellect. His hawkish face seemed more chiseled, his dark gaze more penetrating, his presence more virile. Before the rebellion, her master of shadows had been a cloaked dagger, poised to strike from the shadows, but now he was a sword unsheathed, a naked threat…but still loyal to her hand. She studied his face, wondering at the thoughts beneath. So much had changed, so many debts to be paid.

The queen fingered the strand of Royal Rubies at her neck, the cold stones dark like drops of frozen blood. “The castle has been set to order. It is time to do the same with the traitors.” She turned toward her son. “But first we would hear a report on the status of the army.” She narrowed her gaze. “If nothing else, we have learned the value of a strong sword.”

The prince nodded. “The rebellion has cost us dear. Nearly a thousand men died in the uprising, roughly a third of the soldiers quartered in Pellanor, the pride of the army. And the problem is not just the loss of numbers. The officers have been decimated, most of them knifed as they slept, murdered by traitors who acted as assassins.” The prince shook his head, his face grim. “The lower hallways of the Queen’s Tower were choked with blood and severed limbs, bodies stacked like cord wood along the walls, a royal charnel house.”

The prince’s words evoked vivid memories of the bloody gore. The queen had insisted on inspecting the site of each battle before the servants began their work, needing to know the true price of her crown. The images stayed with her. She carried the weight of so much death, so much senseless slaughter. “The dead will be remembered, but now we need a strong sword to protect the living. We asked for a report on the status of the army.”

The prince straightened in his chair. “We have two thousand swords fit and trained here in Pellanor, and another three thousand spread across the kingdom with the largest contingent barracked at Kardiff.” He nodded toward the queen, his face solemn. “We wouldn’t have half that many if you had not pardoned the lower ranking soldiers. That was well done, Mother.”

She’d kept her royal word; holding the ceremony in the great yard of the castle, accepting oaths of fealty from each soldier before the blood could dry…knowing every sword would be needed for the trials ahead. But even with the pardon, the numbers were grim. “Not enough, not nearly enough.”

“Especially with the threat from the north.” The master’s words held the weight of doom. “The refugees from Coronth have ground to a trickle, but Prince Justin still manages to get a few messages out. The Pontifax prepares for war. A tent city of soldiers has sprung up beyond the walls of Balor. The messages warn of more than twenty thousand swords.”

“
Twenty thousand!”
The prince paled. “There hasn’t been an army of that size since Igor the Cruel!” The prince looked to the master. “Does Justin know the intended prey?”

The queen rose from her chair and crossed the chamber to stand by the casement window. “Where else but Lanverness?” Her voice sounded weary. “The richest prize in the southern kingdoms.” She looked toward the west, the black pillar of smoke from the funeral pyres still scarring the sky. “We’ve lit the beacon ourselves. The smell of carrion will attract predators from every quarter. It is only a matter of time.” She turned from the window, her voice velvet steel. “We must rebuild the army. We must gain the swords required to protect our kingdom.” She stared at her royal son. “We look to you, our heir, our warrior-son, to do this task.”

If the prince was surprised, his face did not show it. The queen approved. Her son was learning. “General Helfner is too old for this challenge. We shall retire him with honors to a manse in the country. Henceforth, the crown prince shall lead the army of Lanverness. We shall make the proclamation at the victory feast.”

The prince paled. “Your majesty, I have but one victory to my credit…”

“Two victories,” the queen was quick to correct her son, “the ambush in the woods and the retaking of the Queen’s Tower.” Her voice became pedantic. “You must learn the value of image. The soldiers hail you as a natural born leader with a sixth sense for battle. You must embrace this image and use it to strengthen your men. Confidence in leadership is critical to victory…on the battlefield or the audience chamber.”

The prince gave her a look of wry amazement.

The queen gave her son a calculated laugh. “Never a soldier, yet we’ve waged many a battle. The strategies are often the same, whether one fights with wits, or gold…or swords.”

“I look forward to learning from a master.”

She detected no irony in his voice. Her eldest child had always been a stalwart supporter.

His face sobered. “But you’ve set me a daunting task. Twenty thousand swords!”

“Start with the constable force.”

“They’re not soldiers.”

“Then make them soldiers.” Her unrelenting stare drilled into her son. “Over three thousand men, trained to the sword and loyal to the crown. They serve as individuals instead of a unit, using wits before steel. They know the countryside and the people.” Her voice deepened. “Take them and make them your own. Mix them with veterans and form them into a fighting unit.”

“Yes, it could be done.”

“And we’ll offer a signing bonus to new recruits, enough to draw young men from farms and shops.” The queen began to pace, her thoughts racing. “We’ll use the bards to rouse the country folk to arms, commissioning songs about the prince who won the battle for the Queen’s Tower.” Her son flushed bright red but the queen persisted. “The very soul of Lanverness has been damaged by the rebellion, a bloody stain against honor and duty. The stain must be expunged. Heroism offers the best tonic.” She stared at her son, her voice a command. “We will use every advantage available to us.”

The prince gave a grim nod but a storm of argument lay behind his eyes.

The queen claimed the victory and pressed on. “We must have new tabards for the men…and bright battle banners steeped in pride. Our soldiers must look and think like an army greater than the sum of their numbers.”

The prince’s voice held caution. “It will cost money and take time.”

“Gold we have, time we have not.”

“What about allies? Or are we left to our own resources?”

“A good question.” She gave him a smile of approval. “King Ivor of
Navarre
is a staunch ally but his army numbers no more than two thousand, most of them archers.”

“And
Navarre
shares a border with Coronth.”

The queen nodded. “Just so.
Navarre
is a trusted ally but they may not have soldiers to spare.”

“There is another option.” The master’s voice cut through the discussion.

The queen stopped her pacing and studied her shadowmaster.

“The mercenaries of Radagar.”

“No!” The prince bolted from his chair, his hand on his sword. “It was mercenaries we faced in the woods on that moonless night. Garbed in red, they were thinly disguised as soldiers of the Flame…but they bore the curved swords of the mercenary kingdom. They broke and ran once the victory became apparent.” Anger flashed across his face. “Swords bought by gold can never be trusted.”

The master’s voice carried a thread of calm. “I seldom advise trust, my prince, but bought swords can have their uses. They might provide the quickest way to even the numbers.”

The prince looked to the queen. “Majesty, as the general of your army I must advise against it. Let loyal swords defend Lanverness, not bought dogs.”

She liked the way her son assumed the mantle of command, but she waited, sensing the argument was not done. The Master Archivist did not disappoint. “Majesty, there is another consideration.”

She gestured for him to continue.

“Radagar boasts ten thousand trained swords…if Lanverness does not hire them, who else might?”

The prince countered. “Who else but the
Rose Court
can afford to hire the ten thousand?”

The master’s voice held an edge. “Not all contracts are paid in gold. Mercenaries often fight for a share of the spoils…and Lanverness is rich with plunder.”

The queen’s voice turned grim. “And so our prosperity becomes our undoing.” Both men stared at her waiting for a decision. She resumed her seat, fingering the strand of rubies at her throat. “You have given us much to think about. Let us first see how many swords we can raise within Lanverness before we look to mercenaries. We will consider your arguments…but for now, other decisions must be made.”

Neither man looked satisfied but they both nodded, waiting on their monarch.

The queen steered the discussion to the next problem. “The army is the first priority…dealing with the traitors is the second. The dungeons burst with officers, lordlings, and noblemen, traitors all. A public example must be made. The price for treason must be visible and it must be high…but the question is how?”

The Master Archivist shrugged. “The penalty for treason has long been established. Traitors are drawn and quartered in public view, the worst of deaths. Hung by the neck until nearly dead, the body is then stretched on the rack before being dismembered. The beating heart is the last to leave the body, followed by beheading. The remains are then burnt, so that nothing is left to contaminate the soil of Lanverness.”

The queen shuddered. “A barbaric death.”

The master inclined his head. “A death by torture. Reserved for traitors, it is deliberately designed to deter further acts of treason.” The master fingered his thin gray mustache. “And since there has been no treason in over three generations of Tandroths, one might argue the effectiveness of the deterrent.” The master stared at the queen, suspicion on his face. “Surely, the Lord Turner merits a traitor’s end?”

“Merits it, yes, of that there is no doubt…but one wonders how such an execution will reflect on Lanverness? What type of stain will it leave on the kingdom?” The queen looked at her two advisors. “We have built our reign on the justice of reason and the prosperity of gold, eschewing the might of swords.
 
We have sought to be civilized in a world that is often brutal and cruel. If we choose this form of execution, do we not then begin the slide towards barbarism?” Her voice rang with conviction. “We guide this kingdom, and we would never willing steer Lanverness toward cruelty and barbarism.”

The prince protested. “But majesty, the loyal soldiers who fought for you expect to see justice. They expect the traitors to be punished.”

The queen nodded. “Justice they shall have, in full measure. The punishment will fit the crime…but let us not descend to such depths.” She looked to the master. “What other forms of death are proscribed for traitors?”

“The chronicles tell of two other forms of execution which predate the practice of drawing and quartering. The most common of these is burning at the stake, said to be an excruciating way to die.”

The queen frowned. “Lanverness shall never emulate the horrors of Coronth. We would hear the other method.”

“The other is more rare, originally designed to execute priests and royals so that no drop of blood is shed. In this method, the traitor is boiled alive.”