The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (5 page)

Kath whispered, “Beware the Ancient Evil that wakes behind the safest walls.”

Master Rizel gave her a keen look.

Kath bit her lip, shocked by the sudden memory. “The gods gave warning but I did not understand.” Seeing the look of puzzlement on the master’s face, she tried to explain. “On the Isle of Souls, the god, Valin, spoke to me through a fortune teller. Valin told me to beware the Ancient Evil that wakes behind the safest walls.” She shook her head, drenched in guilt. “The gods gave warning, but I did not listen!”

Sir Tyrone put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The message was too cryptic. We both heard the god but neither of us understood enough to heed the warning.”

Master Rizel studied her with an eagle’s keen gaze. “I am not surprised the god spoke to you. It proves there is more at work here than just Darkness.”

Kath’s eyes widened. “Then why don’t the gods just say so?”

“To give you a choice.” His eyes crinkled in wry amusement. “There is always a choice, for it is the very vanguard of the Light.”

Duncan
growled, “What choice did
Jordan
have?”

The master answered, “That remains to be seen. I suspect her life was spared for a reason. A reason none here can yet foresee.”

Kath swayed on her feet, suddenly felled by a great weariness. The master must have noticed for he offered her a compassionate smile. “You should get to bed. It has been a long and trying day, full of blood and death, warnings and hope.”

“Hope?”
Duncan
shook his head. “I do not see much hope.”

“We are forewarned. We know the Mordant’s new face. And wherever a few dare to stand in the Light, there is always hope.” The monk and the archer traded stares. Kath was surprised when the archer was the first to look away.

Sir Tyrone said, “
Come
,
Jordan
lives and there is naught more be done but fall asleep on our feet.”

Kath started to turn, but
Duncan
said, “Wait.” He locked stares with the master. “Our sleeping cells are scattered throughout the monastery. From now on, we stay together.”

“You don’t trust us?”

Duncan
replied, “For good reason.”

The master gave a terse nod. “Understandable. Adjacent quarters will be found.” His crystal-blue stare turned to Kath. “Sleep well, for tomorrow we begin.”

Kath met the master’s stare, but instead of clarity, she found only endless layers of riddles. “Begin?”

“To defeat the Dark.”

Kath’s breath caught, feeling the call of destiny.

The sand grains fell, marking time, prisoners of the hourglass. The queen paced her solar, caged by time and circumstance, searching for another way. Outside her casement window, the moon set on the edge of night, the last darkness before dawn. The time for options had run out. The queen stopped pacing, resolved to the bitter truth. In this most obscure of hours, when honest folk still slept, it was a time for risks and reckonings on a royal scale.

A polite knock heralded the entrance of her ladies-in-waiting. Six women rudely roused from sleep, curtsied to their queen, their faces full of questions.

Bristling with hard edges, the queen set her women to work. “We’ll have the dark green velvet gown, the one worked with seed pearls.”

Mouths dropped open and sleep-filled eyes stared in alarm.

Impatient, the queen clapped her hands. “There is no time to dawdle! Attend us!”

Her women scattered like mice, each to their appointed tasks.

The queen sat on the stool before the massive mirror, stern and unmoving. Her ladies-in-waiting circled like bees attending the hive-queen. Each had their appointed duties; tighten the corset, arrange the hair, anoint with perfume, apply the powders, prepare the gown. The women worked at familiar tasks but worried glances darted between them, filling the chamber with anxiety. Questions hung in the air but none were foolish enough to broach them, she’d chosen her women well.

The queen sat stiff and erect, examining every detail of her own reflection. The unforgiving glass showed a face leached by strain, eyes etched deep with shadows, and skin pale and wan, the color of death. Her own face betrayed her. Liandra narrowed her eyes in anger. Pale was a telltale sign of fear. Pale spoke of shock or loss. Pale would never do for a monarch, especially a sovereign queen. Liandra gestured to the mirror. “More rouge.” Ever critical, she watched to be sure the color was applied feather-light so as to appear natural instead of painted. Even at this dire hour, the queen would not give up the image she had worked so hard to create. Making the guards wait, Liandra resolutely sat before the mirror until the reflection equaled her ideal of a sovereign queen.

Powders and paints covered much, but the queen could still see the strain beneath the facade. Never-the-less her women had done their best. Her royal regalia would have to do the rest. Liandra gestured toward the ironbound casket. “Lady Sarah, our jewels.”

Her senior lady-in-waiting sputtered, “B-but your majesty!” Shock rippled across the faces of her women; the crown and scepter were only used for state occasions, not the dead of night.

The queen brooked no argument. “Lady Sarah, our jewels.”

Pale and trembling, Lady Sarah unlocked the ironbound chest. Freed from swathes of velvet, the circlet of gold roses encrusted with emeralds glittered in the candlelight. The heavy crown was settled on Liandra’s head, the royal scepter placed in the crook of her arm. Sword-straight, she carried the weight of her kingdom, the hope of her people. The weight had never seemed so heavy. Bejeweled and crowned, the preparations were complete. Armored with the full regalia of her office, Liandra was ready to face the traitorous Red Horns.

Rising from her place before the mirror, the queen addressed her women. “You have done your work well, now it is time that we do ours.” Her women knelt before her, their faces reflecting a mixture of confusion and fear. Taking pity on them, Liandra summoned a reassuring voice, “Keep quiet and remain within the royal bedchamber. Whatever the events of the night, remain here.”

Amy, the youngest of her women, broke under the tension, weeping over the queen’s hand.

In a controlled but kindly voice, the queen said, “Do as you are bid and no harm will come to you.”

Fixing her mind on the task ahead, the queen left the sanctuary of her bedchamber. A knot of grim-faced guards waited outside. The captain barked an order and the soldiers drew their swords, surrounding the queen with a ring of naked steel. She kept her face impassive and held her head high, walking with measured steps through the torch-lit corridors. The hallways were empty, devoid of life. In the small hours of the morning, the castle slept, leaving the hallways as still as a grave, a fitting setting for the grim tableau.

Her escort took the back passageways, walking unhindered from the Queen’s Tower to the Throne Room. Approaching the antechamber she saw the first bodies. Lying haphazard and twisted, soldiers littered the approach to the Throne Room, bloody swords scattered across the marble floor…and all the fallen wore the green and white of Lanverness.
Her men, her people,
the queen studied the fallen but said nothing.

One of her guards rushed ahead to open the Throne Room doors…but there were no heralds or grand announcements for this bitter entrance. Surrounded by guards, the queen crossed the threshold. Flaming sconces lined the long walls casting pools of light into the cavernous room, but the torches waged a losing battle. Shadows claimed the chamber, the vaulted ceiling lost to darkness, pressing down with an ominous weight. Diamond paned windows acted as mirrors, eerily twisting the reflected torchlight. It was a room meant for sunshine, but the distortions of the dark seemed fitting for the deed ahead.

Soldiers in the green and white of Lanverness lined the walls, the only witnesses. The queen played her part, advancing across the black and white checkerboard floor to the raised dais. The throne stood empty. Liandra climbed the steps, feeling the stares of the guards shadowing her every move. Slow and deliberate, she surrendered the royal scepter to the cushioned seat. Reaching up, she removed the heavy, gold crown, gently laying it on the velvet. Scepter and crown, the gold and emeralds glittered in the torchlight. Liandra gazed down at the royal regalia, counting her losses. She’d sacrificed much for the crown but her stewardship had served her people well…yet the challenges and sacrifices never seemed to end. Gazing at the golden circlet, the queen hardened her resolve. The crown of roses was not without its thorns. She knew better than anyone how deep those thorns could bite, how bitter their price, yet she would not willingly give up her reign. The Rose Throne was her prerogative, her destiny.

Tightening her hands into fists, Liandra was reminded of the rings on her hands, the Great Emerald on her right and the golden Seal of State on her left. She’d gained the rings on her coronation, and in all the years of her reign, the two had never left her hands. She would not remove them now. Only death would part her from the royal rings and all that they implied. Clenching her fists, Liandra banished the dark thoughts. She needed to keep her wits for the task at hand. The bitter act needed to be done, and done well, with everything accomplished before the dawn.

Wearing poise like a cloak, Liandra submitted to the guards.

Soldiers encircled her, swords sliding free from scabbards, and all the points faced inward, towards the Spider Queen.

The swords met with a clang, echoing in the practice yard of the monastery. Kath disengaged and tried a different line of attack. She feinted to the left and then lunged for the opening in
Blaine
’s guard. He whipped his shield around, catching her blade and deflecting the blow.

He growled a warning, “Your sword feinted left but your eyes gave you away! Never let your eyes betray you!”

Kath stepped back and wiped the sweat from her brow, weary from the long hours of training…but there was always more. Sir Blaine and Sir Tyrone kept at her, insisting on weapons practice whenever she wasn’t studying with Master Rizel. Her mornings were spent with the monks, her afternoons with the knights, and her evenings with Master Rizel. She understood the urgency but the constant training wore thin. Kath couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten enough sleep.

Blaine
gestured with his sword. “Try again, only this time, keep me guessing.” He took a defensive stance, his silver surcoat glinting in the afternoon sun, the maroon octagon a perfect target.

She gripped her sword and danced left, baiting him with her shield, searching for an opening. Sweat burned her eyes.

Across the practice yard, an arrow thunked into a target.

Blaine
rolled left, his shield dipping down. Kath lunged forward. Her sword snaked in but
Blaine
beat it away at the last instant. He barked his displeasure, “Too slow! Speed is your greatest advantage. You’re better than this.”

She glared at him, so tired she could barely stand…but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Perhaps you’re bored with the sword. Let’s try the battleaxe next. You must be proficient against every weapon.”

Kath struggled to suppress a groan.

Thunk! Another arrow struck the target.

Blaine
exchanged his short sword for a battleaxe, a half-moon blade etched with runes. They’d discovered a cache of weapons in the monastery. Some bore ancient designs and strange embellishments, their edges blunted by time. But a solid blow could still break bones, more than sufficient for practice sessions.

Thunk! Another arrow struck the target.

Blaine
advanced, swinging of the axe, cleaving circles of threat. Kath adjusted her stance, dancing away from the half-moon blade. The battleaxe was a fearsome weapon. She dare not try a direct parry, better to step away and attack in the lee of the swing. Footwork, speed, and patience were the keys to defeating a battleaxe, but the menace of the axe made patience difficult.

Thunk! Another arrow struck the target.

Kath flicked a glance toward the leather-clad archer on the far side of the yard. Questions gnawed at her mind.

The battleaxe cut the air with a keening whistle.

Hearing the warning, she jerked sideways, her heart pounding.

The axe whistled past, a narrow miss.

Blaine
slowed the axe and glared. “You’re not concentrating! If your mind wanders in battle you’re dead!”

Thunk!

Kath shook her head, feeling harried from all sides. “I know.” Her voice sounded weary. She studied the knight’s face, a young man with too many scars but his eyes were always honest, her first weapons master. Grateful that he cared so much, she softened her voice, “You’re right, but I need a rest.”

“You’ll get no breaks in battle.”

Kath just stared, a bead of sweat escaping from beneath her helm.

Blaine
gave her a reluctant nod. “Enough for this afternoon. We’ll practice your throwing axes after dinner.” His voice held an edge of urgency, “You need to prepare. There’s no telling what we’ll face once we leave the monastery.”

Always the reminder that time slipped away, as if the bloody comet was not warning enough. Her shoulder’s tightened into a fierce knot; her sword arm ached.

Thunk!

She sighed. “After dinner then.”

Blaine
nodded, a smile transforming his face.
 
He stowed the practice weapons and slung the harness of his great sword across his back. “Are you coming?”

“In a moment.”

She watched him walk away, the hilt of the sapphire blue sword riding above his right shoulder. Somehow
Blaine
wasn’t complete without his great blue sword.

Thunk! Another arrow struck the target.

Kath sheathed her sword and set her shield next to the bench. She removed her half-helm and shook out her long blond hair, the mountain air cool against her face. Aching in every part of her body, she longed for a soak in the monastery’s
hot springs
.

Thunk!

Her gaze was drawn to the archer. Black leather stretched across a broad back, muscles rippling with the pull of the longbow, his black hair tied at the nape of his neck, clasped by silver. She watched him move with a feral grace, setting the arrow to the string and drawing the bow to a kiss, all in one smooth, powerful motion.

Thunk! The arrow found the target’s heart, a heart crowded with arrows fletched in black swan feathers.

She needed an answer; her time in the monastery was growing short. The two knights would come, their blades sworn to her service, but the archer remained a mystery, a tantalizing mystery. She needed to know what
Duncan
would do. He’d grown taciturn since the attack on
Jordan
. She missed his company, his wry smile and his surprising insights. Kath crossed the practice yard, her gaze fixed on the archer, iron drawn toward a lodestone.

Thunk!

A riddle wrapped in black leathers,
Duncan
filled her mind and tugged at her heart, spurring memories of another time. She wanted this man beside her, wanted a chance to find out what he meant, what he could mean. Approaching on his right, she
 
avoided his blind side. Need warred with anxiety, making her heart thunder. She wondered that he did not hear the wild drumbeat.

Thunk!

She waited but he seemed lost in the art of the bow. Draw and release, he never missed the target’s heart.

Thunk!

“
Duncan
!” She cringed, too much heart in her voice.

He lowered his longbow and turned to face her. Rugged and tanned, his face gave little away. His right eye was the deep blue of a mountain lake, a lake with no bottom, a lake to drown in. His left was covered by a leather patch, dark and mysterious, adding to his allure.

“Yes?” The word was polite but nothing more.

She stared, hoping he would understand, hoping to break the frosty wall that had sprung between them. The moment stretched thin. Her question came in a tumbled rush, “Will you come?” Chiding herself for blurting it out, she waited on his answer.

“To the north?”

She nodded.

His face hardened into bitter lines. “I am the companion of
Jordan
’s Wayfaring, yet I failed her.” His voice cut like a knife. “The best way to protect her now is to recover the stolen amulet and kill the Mordant.” He fingered the fletching of an arrow. “Yes, I’ll come…and see the quest to its finish.”

Kath remembered to breath.

“We’ll need to leave soon. We’ve already waited too long. There’ll be no trail to follow.”

Anxiety tightened across her shoulders. “I know. The monks say I’m almost ready.”

He nodded. “When you’re ready, and not before.” He chose an arrow from the quiver belted at his waist.

Kath yearned for more, but
Duncan
had already set another arrow to the notch. Turning to the target, he pulled the string to his lips, his muscles corded beneath black leather, the massive longbow bent to his will. Feeling dismissed, Kath turned to go, but at the last moment, she looked back to watch the arrow’s flight.

Thunk! Another heart.