The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (41 page)

She studied the monk with hooded eyes. “We welcome your offer of aid, but first and foremost we need answers. What was this thing that took two deaths to kill?”

“The beheading was unnecessary. The harlequin was already dead.”

The queen tired of riddles. “Explain.”

“The Dark Lord tempts his servants with promises of more lifetimes. At their death, the Dark Lord’s greatest servants are reborn into new bodies with full memories of their past lives. In this way, the reborn may gain two lifetimes…or a hundred. These demons that walk in the guise of men are called harlequins. A harlequin’s body is subject to death like any other mortal, but at death, their true nature is revealed, the red light of hell shining from their eyes. We believe the Dark Lord judges each harlequin at its death. If the harlequin has served well, he is reborn into a new body to live another lifetime. If he fails, the soul is condemned to eternal hell. The traitor failed to take Lanverness. The Dark Lord is never lenient. The traitor’s soul is most likely consigned to hell for all eternity, never to be reborn.” The monk stared up at the queen, his face grim. “To find a harlequin in the
Rose Court
proves that the Dark Lord wants your throne.”

The monk’s words echoed in the throne room like a death knell.

Having reached the same conclusion, the queen found cold comfort in the warning. “If the Dark Lord wants the Rose Throne so badly, why are
we
not one of these harlequins?”

The monk made a half-bow. “An astute question. The Order has no certain answer, but there are two possibilities.”

The queen nodded, waiting.

“It is thought that some souls are steeped in the Light. The Dark Lord can seek to twist, tempt, or corrupt these souls but he cannot usurp them, he cannot crush them beneath the soul of a harlequin.”

“And the other reason?”

He gave her a half-smile. “Women rarely gain or keep power in Erdhe, hence they are of little or no use to the Dark Lord.”

She gave him an ironic smile. “Saved by prejudice. Even the gods are infected by it.” Her voice held a bitter edge. “There are advantages to being underestimated…but sometimes we grow weary of it.” She studied the monk, her voice velvet steel. “What aid can the Kiralynn Order offer to the Rose Throne?”

“We offer knowledge long forgotten.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and withdrew a shard of milk-white quartz. “With this crystal, I offer a means to detect an awakened harlequin…to learn if another lurks within your court.”

Liandra leaned forward, hope in her gaze. “How does it work?”

“In the hands of a harlequin, this crystal will glow bright red.”

The queen met the Master Archivist’s knowing stare and nodded. “There is one other traitor locked in our dungeon. We would have this test preformed on him.”

“As you wish. It is one of the reasons I have come to your court.”

“
One
of the reasons?” The queen arched an eyebrow.”

“Yes.” The monk sighed. “I bring the condolences of the Grand Master. Your emissary, Sir Cardemir was slain by the Mordant Reborn, the first casualty of this dark war.”

“
Slain?
In your monastery?” The queen struggled to understand.

“Sir Cardemir was buried with all honors. His sword, his armor, and his lute are being conveyed to Lanverness.”

“But how?”

“There were no witnesses. He was found impaled on a sword, the Princess Jordan by his side.”

Prince Stewart made a strangled sound but the queen ignored him. “And the princess?”

“Nearly disemboweled, she was saved by our master healer. The princess remains locked in a healing sleep. The details of the attack will remain unknown until she awakes.”

“But she lives? You’re sure?” The prince stared at the monk, his face ashen.

The monk nodded. “I assure you, she lives. Our master healer uses more than just lore.”

The queen eased back in her throne, shocked by the revelations. “Her sister fosters at our court.”

“Then I owe her word of her sister’s fate.”

“Princess Jemma is dear to us. We will break the news ourselves.”

“As you wish.”

The queen stared at the monk. Talking to him was like peeling back the pages of a thick tome. She wondered what other nightmares lurked beneath his words. “So you’ve come to us with grim tidings and a crystal?”

The monk nodded. “I bring you a chance to detect other harlequins before they can fulfill the will of their god.”

The Master Archivist asked the question the queen had been avoiding. “If the traitor in our dungeons proves to be one of these harlequins, what should be done with it? Is one death enough?”

“One death is enough for the body, but the soul is another matter. To ensure the soul is never reborn, the harlequin must be killed with a weapon of the Light, a dagger made of Dahlmar crystal. If another harlequin is found, it should be gagged and locked away in your deepest dungeon, to await death by a crystal dagger.”

Prince Stewart interrupted. “What about blue steel? Will a blue steel blade put an end to these demons?”

The monk shook his head. “Blue steel will kill the body but it will not stop the rebirth of the soul.”

The queen studied the monk. “And do you have one of these weapons of the Light, one of these crystal daggers?”

“There is one, yes, but it is not mine to wield.”

A cryptic answer, but she let it pass. “Have other harlequins been found?”

“None so far.”

The monk was sparing with his secrets. The queen probed in a different direction. “So you’ve come to warn of a dark war?”

He raised his right hand, revealing the Seeing Eye. “I am the herald of forgotten knowledge. I have come to bring warning that the Dark Lord is rising. If the Mordant crosses the
Dragon
Spine
Mountains
, war will come from the north. But the Order believes the war for the southern kingdoms has already started…in Coronth and here with the rebellion against the Rose Throne.”

It was just as she’d feared; her true opponent was the Dark Lord. “We have long been concerned with the twisted theocracy on our northern border. We have seeded rebels into Coronth in an attempt to topple this false religion.”

The monk’s eyes lit with interest. “Perhaps the Order can be of help with this endeavor?”

His response told her that the monks did not know everything. Perhaps the alliance she sought would not be so one-sided. She nodded. “It seems we have much to share.” Liandra needed the knowledge of the monks, but she also needed a measure of control. “But we must insist on maintaining two secrets.”

The monk waited, his face neutral.

“The people of Pellanor witnessed the double death of the traitor. They saw the animated corpse rise up in the boiling cauldron, its eyes glowing red. It is imperative that the people continue to believe that the crown prince killed the demon with his blue sword. The people need a hero and they need to believe that Darkness can be defeated.”

The monk nodded. “There is merit in your argument. You have my word not to say otherwise.”

She glanced at her royal son’s face and saw a storm brewing. She would speak to him later; her heir was prickly with his honor.

“And the second?”

“If our prisoner proves to be one of these harlequins, you must swear to keep this secret, known only to ourself and our two closest advisors.”

The monk shook his head. “Any harlequin must be reported to the Grand Master. But if the demon remains secure in your dungeon, then no one else besides the bearer of the crystal dagger need ever know.”

The answer was not satisfactory; this secret could put her throne at risk. “We are owed for the life of our emissary.”

He gave her a half-bow. “You shall have our aid against this common enemy, but if a harlequin is found, the Grand Master must be informed.” He spread his hands wide in supplication. “The Order has kept secrets for thousands of years. You can rely on our discretion.”

“Yes, you’ve been very secretive…with your own secrets.” His answer did not reassure her, but the truth was already on the table. She needed the monk’s knowledge yet she had little to offer in return. “Then we must rely on your discretion.” She gave him a gracious smile. “An alliance then, between the Rose Throne and the Seeing Eye?”

He nodded. “The Kiralynn Order serves the Light. We will do what we can to help.”

The monk was as slippery with his words as a greased weasel, offering aid but not an alliance. The queen studied the monk, wondering how much she could trust the mysterious Order. Perhaps beggars could not be choosers. If the Dark Lord truly sought her throne, she would need all the help she could get.

Religion proved a powerful tool but Steffan needed to ensure the faithful did not stray from the Dark Lord’s plan. Of late, he’d sensed a change in the tension of the crowds, something more than the daily struggle for food, or the paranoid fear of the confessors. Perhaps the rebels stirred discontent, or it could be something else. Steffan needed to keep a careful watch, for religions had a way of running amok.

Sifting through the back alley whispers, he found one that snared his attention. Rumors told of a preacher, a holy man, come to spread the word of the Flame God. No one knew where the preacher came from. He just appeared one day, preaching in the back alleyways, ministering to the beggars, whores, and thieves. At first, the preacher was little more than a curiosity, a sideshow in the back alleys, but if rumors were to be believed, this so-called holy man had gained a following in the city’s shadows. Fanaticism was good, but only if it conformed to Steffan’s plans.

Steffan needed to see this preacher for himself and determine if the man was a threat. He followed Pip to the back of the mansion, to the servants’ quarters, where a trunk of castoff clothing was kept. The redheaded lad opened the trunk, rummaging through the odd assortment. “What will you be, m’lord? A peddler, a drunk, a tanner, a priest, a…”

“…beggar.” Steffan settled on a straight-backed chair and began to strip down to his breeches. “A beggar will blend in best. After all, we go to see a beggar-priest.”

The lad smirked, his blue eyes full of mischief. “Yes, m’lord.” The boy delved through the trunk, choosing a baggy tunic the color of mud, a filthy patch-worked cloak and a leather bag stuffed full of rags.

Pip knelt to ease off Steffan’s knee-high boots. Steffan watched as the lad did his work. He’d fished the orphan-boy off the streets of Balor, buying his services for a fist full of silvers. A sometimes thief and a frequent beggar, Pip had proved quick of hand and mind and grateful for a better life. The lad served as a valet, a messenger, a collector of rumors, and a spy; a useful servant well worth the silvers. “What rumors chase the back alleyways?”

“Much the same, m’lord. Grumbles ‘gainst the cruelty of the Keeper and fears ‘bout the confessors and worries ‘bout the rising price of bread. You already know ‘bout the preacher. Most think he’s a holy man sent by the Flame God to purge us of our sins.” The boy began wrapping Steffan’s bare feet in a collection of rags, creating beggar’s boots. The lad wrinkled his nose. “Phew! These stink to the clouds. Are you sure I can’t be getting’ you cleaner rags, lord?”

The rags reeked of sweat and dung and piss, the perfume of the back alleys. Steffan shook his head. “The smell is a potent part of the disguise. The stench alone will turn away the gaze of the wealthy or divert the interest of thieves and soldiers alike. A healthy reek is nearly as good as invisibility.”

The boy nodded, wrapping a length of twine around the rags, creating a diamond pattern to hold them in place. “I’m hearin’ more and more whispers about that Dark Harper. They say he appears and disappears at a blink of an eye, playin’ his harp in the taverns late at night, always harpin’ against the Flame God and the Pontifax. Singin’ songs ‘bout heroes who steal sinners from the Flames.”

Steffan had heard reports from the confessors about a bard who sang songs of sedition, stirring the people to rebellion. The confessors didn’t have enough specifics to act…but it was only a matter of time till one of the wretches in the dungeon sang a different tune. “Do they say who this harper is, or where he hides?”

Pip wound the rags to the middle of Steffan’s thigh, high enough to hide the breeches beneath. “Nobody seems to know, lord. Some say the harper’s a phantom, disapperin’ like smoke in the night. Other’s say he has a thousand bolt-holes, places the soldiers never look.” Pip quirked a smile. “And some say he sleeps with a different woman every night. Them bards are lucky that way.” The lad finished with the rags and stood.
 
“What color for your hair, lord?”

“Make it gray, and be sure to hide the white streak in front.” He tilted his head back and let the boy work the alchemist’s potion into his hair, adding streaks of gray to his dark locks. “I’m interested in this harper, Pip. Bring me his name and a purse of golds is yours. If you can’t find the name, then bring me a list of the taverns where he plays. I’ve a burning interest to hear his music.”

The lad grinned. “I’ll find him for you, lord.” The boy finished adding the color, wiping his hands on a rag.

Steffan stood and pulled on the mud colored tunic and the patchwork cloak, completing the disguise. The coarse wool scratched against his skin. He hoped the itching was only the wool, he couldn’t abide lice. “Bring me the dirt.”

The boy brought him a basin of dirt. Steffan plunged his patrician hands into the soil, working the dark loam under his fingernails and smearing some on the side of his face. “That should do.” The boy took the basin away and Steffan melted into his role. His back curved and his shoulders hunched. He hung his head down, gritty gray hair falling across the side of his face. Holding out his palm, he made his voice a weak quaver. “Alms for the poor?”

Pip laughed. “With that stink, you’re likely to get a kick instead of a coin.”

“Is there no charity in the Flame God’s city?” Steffan tucked a second dagger into his belt and pointed toward the door, his voice sobering. “Lead the way. I want to see this back alley preacher for myself.”

They slipped out the back door into the afternoon sun. Pip led the way, familiar with the tangled maze of narrow alleyways. Steffan followed at a discrete distance, walking with a limp, his head hung low, nothing more than a beggar of the back ways.

They found the preacher in the alley behind the vegetable market, the stink of rotting green hanging heavy in the air. The lane was crowded with people, mostly the poor, but he saw a few tradesmen in leather aprons, and even a soldier in the red tabard of the Flame.

Steffan threaded his way into the crowd, the stench of his clothes opening a space around him. He wormed his way into the knot of people until he had a view of the preacher. The old man stood on a crate, a skinny scarecrow in a soiled sackcloth, using a branch for a staff. Painfully thin, with a bald head and a long gray beard that fell in tangle to his knees, the old man looked one step away from the grave. Frail and old, the man looked inconsequential till Steffan heard his voice. The preacher had an orator’s voice, deep and compelling, the kind of voice that could sway a crowd.

“Children of the Flame, you must repent! A dark time is coming, death and chaos and suffering. Only the love of the true god can save you from the torments of eternal damnation!”

Steffan watched the crowd. They seemed entranced by the mad man’s ravings.

The preacher pointed to the soldier standing in the rear of the crowd. “You there, a soldier of the Flame! You wear the holy symbol of the Flame God! Your first duty must be to protect the faithful! Only sinners must burn, never the innocent. Can you tell a sinner from a saint?
 
Beware, lest those you love burn in the Flames.”

The soldier blanched pale, but others crowded forward. “Choose me! Tell me what you see!”

The preacher’s hand roamed back and forth above the heads of the crowd, like a divining rod searching for water in a desert. The hand came to a stop, the finger pointing at a peasant woman with a gaggle of children clutching her skirt. “You woman, the Flame God sees you! Stand by your husband or your children will go hungry! The trials ahead will test us all, but if we believe, if we follow the truth, then faithful will survive!”

Steffan hid a smile, the old man put on quite a show, part preacher part fortuneteller, a perfect mummer’s farce.

The preacher’s hand resumed roaming, only this time, the hand pointed directly at Steffan. For the first time, Steffan got a good look at the preacher’s eyes. Pale milky-white eyes, clogged by a film of blindness…yet the man stared straight at Steffan. The blind man
looked
at him. “You, beggar! You are not what you seem!”

A shiver raced down Steffan’s spine, as if some meddling god of Light sought to unmask him.

“You wear the rags of the alleyways but you are more than you seem!”

Steffan reached for the dagger hidden beneath his tunic.

“The god’s hand lies heavy upon you, yet those who lie are often themselves deceived. A crossroad is coming. Follow the light and your life will be spared! Fall to evil and you risk eternal damnation! Darkness is coming! Darkness to smother the Flames!”

The milky gaze passed Steffan by, looking for another victim.

Steffan released his dagger, angry at his own reaction. The old fool was nothing more than a charlatan. Determined to unmask the showman’s secrets, he shuffled to the front, seeking a better view. As he suspected, the truth was in the details. An urchin-lad sat huddled at the preacher’s feet, his fist holding tight to the man’s sackcloth tunic. Clearly the boy was acting as the old man’s eyes. It was all an elaborate con. Little wonder the peasants thought him a holy man.

Steffan listened long enough to be sure the preacher was not a threat. Having seen enough, he eased his way out of the crowd and signaled to Pip. The lad peeled away from the crowd and led the way back through the maze of alleys.

Steffan kept to his disguise, shuffling at a beggar’s gait, mulling the words of the preacher in his mind. Easy enough to have the old man rounded up and consigned to the Flames, but the charlatan seemed harmless, no need to deprive the people of the show. Still, for a moment he’d felt something, as if the Lords of Light meddled. Steffan shook his head at the absurd thought. Everything was going according to the Dark Lord’s plans. If there was any impediment, it was the rebels and their elusive bard. Steffan wasted his time chasing back alley rumors when he should be chasing songs. He’d find this dark harper and feed him to the Flames. Then they’d be nothing to stop him, nothing to impede the Dark Lord’s plans. Steffan smiled; may the Dark Lord’s pleasure reign…over all the lands of Erdhe.