The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (50 page)

The tramp of boots stopped. The soldiers stood in long ranks of burnished steel and red tabards, a threat waiting for an order. A grim hush settled over the square.

The Lord Raven’s voice rang against the stillness. “The boy is here, Harper. Come and claim him…if you dare!”

The dark-cloaked lord pivoted, staring in all directions…but he never looked up. Hope rushed through Samson; they weren’t expecting him to use the rooftops. Perhaps his plan would still work. Pulling the cowl of his cloak up to hide his face in the deep shadows, Samson stood, a dark sentinel staring down from the edge of the roof.

A boy crouching under a wagon was the first to spy him on the rooftops. “
The Harper!”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the people as others looked upward.

Samson waited for the Lord Raven’s stare. He took a deep breath, hoping his voice would pass for the bard’s. “The deal was for the boy and the old woman.”

The Lord Raven laughed, confident and mocking. “There was never a deal…only an offer.” He held the folded parchment aloft as if in proof.

“I want the old woman released.”

“The old woman killed a soldier. She’ll pay for her crimes. But the boy,” the Lord Raven shrugged, “the boy I’ll trade for the Dark Harper.”

At least his disguise was working. “Let the boy go.”

“Come and get him.”

“Where can I go? I’m a bard not a bird.” Samson stood still, waiting, hoping.

“So be it, bard, we’ll play your game of cat and bird.” The Lord Raven issued orders. Soldiers rushed to obey, surrounding Samson’s building with a ring of steel.

The trap narrowed but he still had a chance to escape over the rooftops…but only if they released Jack. “Let the boy go.”

The Lord Raven bowed, a flourish of black and crimson. “By all means. Children are beloved of the Flame God.” He gestured and a soldier released the boy, cutting his bonds.

Jack shrugged off the ropes. He raised his hand in a silent salute…and then he ran. Samson watched as the boy slipped between the rows of soldiers, darting into a side street, a streak of dark hair and grimy clothes. He followed Jack with his stare, hope growing with every stride, watching till he disappeared into alley. Relief spiked through him, at least the boy was safe.

“And now, bard, we have a deal to complete.” The Lord Raven’s words cracked like a whip. “The boy is released. The Lord Raven keeps his word. But what of the Dark Harper? You said you’d trade your life for his. Do you deal in lies or do you save those for your songs?” He gestured to the market square. “The people are waiting. Show us the value of the Dark Harper’s word.”

Samson realized he had an audience. A thousand eyes stared up at him, watching from crowded doorways, from open windows, from storefronts, from the shadows beneath the wagons. Young and old, rich and poor, they witnessed the contest between the raven and the bard.

“Come, Harper! Prove your worth!” Samson realized the Lord Raven played to the crowd, his words loaded with mocking. “Will you come down or must I send the soldiers up? Show us the value of a Harper’s word. Do you stand for truth or lies?”

Samson staggered backwards, realizing the trap. He could run, and try to evade the swords, but he could never evade the words. The Lord Raven set a fine trap, laced with barbs as strong as steel. The Dark Harper had to keep his word or all of Justin’s work was undone. Samson had to decide who he wanted to be. He had to decide if the masquerade was worth his life.

The Lord Raven’s voice struck like a goad. “Make your choice, Harper, before I make it for you.”

Samson felt the weight of the people’s stares, he felt their hunger for a miracle…but he had none to give. He was just a simple man in a dark cape…but perhaps he could be more. He stepped to the edge and stared down at his fate. Faces stared upwards, full of desperate expectation. The hushed silence goaded him, making Samson realize he needed something to say, some words of wisdom or a clever rhyme to prove he was the bard. He’d never been good with words but somehow the words came anyway. “The Dark Harper speaks the truth.” His strength flowed into his voice. “You can silence one voice but you can never stop the truth, you can never stop the music.”

The sun chose that moment to set, spreading a glory of red and gold across the sky. Samson smiled, choosing to be the bard for one brief moment, for one glorious sunset. “I choose to keep my word.” He took the long step. He took the long fall...and the Light reached out for him.

Steffan watched the Dark Harper take the long step into nothing, the dark cape fluttering behind like a broken wing. The harper tumbled in silence, a wet thud sounding as the body smacked face-first into the cobblestones. Blood spattered across the stones, red as a banner.

Steffan swallowed his shock.

A sigh rippled through the marketplace. A child cried and a woman sobbed. Steffan surveyed the crowd, pale faces peering from windows and shop doors. Too many witnesses, the Dark Harper had cheated, stealing victory from defeat.

The Lord Raven crossed the square and nudged the body with his boot. The face was smashed to a bloody ruin, no way to distinguish the man behind the gory mess. “And so it ends. You sang the wrong songs, Harper.”

He looked for the nearest officer. The man snapped to attention.

“Erect a stake in the temple square. I want the body impaled upright. Make sure the dark cape is secured to the corpse, so there’s no mistaking it’s the Dark Harper. The body’s to stand on display till it drops from rot.” He raised his voice so the crowd could hear. “Let the people see what happens to rebels who dare oppose the Pontifax.”

The officer saluted and two soldiers moved to obey.

Steffan turned, a swirl of black and crimson. He strode from the square, anger in his stride. Soldiers and citizens scrambled to get out of his way. Dismissing his guards, he walked alone through the city streets, weaving his way back to his mansion.

The mute giant, Olaff, snapped to attention, before rushing to open the door.

Steffan paused. “No visitors tonight.”

The giant nodded, his bushy black beard contrasting with his shaved head.

Steffan passed through the door, his boots ringing on the marble floor.

Pip appeared from the depths of the mansion. “Take your cloak, lord?”

He let the lad remove his cloak. “Have Olaff bring the copper tub up to my bedchamber. I want a bath, Pip, and make it hot. And brandy. I’ll have a bottle of the best brandy.”

“And something to eat, lord?”

“No, just brandy.” He entered his solar and poured a glass of Urian brandy. The amber liquor was smooth and strong, leaving a trail of warmth down the back of his throat. He drained the glass and poured another. A pile of scrolls from today’s confessions waited on his desk but they could not hold his interest. He rose and stood by the window, watching the sunset sky. Streaks of red and gold fanned out from the west, a glorious display. The sky held the colors of the Pontifax, the colors of the Flame God. Steffan shook his head. The sky lied; the Dark Harper had won the day.

A knock sounded on the door. “Your bath is ready, lord.”

He followed Pip up the marble staircase to his bedchamber. The copper tub stood in front of the double doors leading out to the balcony. Steam rose in lazy curls, the scent of lemongrass filling the chamber.

Steffan sat on silken sheets as the lad knelt to pull off his leather boots. He let the lad do all the work, nimble fingers easing bindings. Stripped of his clothes, Steffan stepped into the tub, the heat of the water easing his muscles. “Open the doors to the balcony. I want to watch the night fall.”

The lad obeyed. A cool breeze blew in, carrying a hint of autumn.

“Now pour me a glass of brandy and you can go.”

Pip moved a small round table next to the tub. He poured a glass of brandy and set a full decanter within easy reach. The lad served the brandy and then bowed, closing the doors to the bedchamber.

Steffan sank back into the heat, sipping the amber liquor. He watched the sky, waiting for the victory of night, the victory of Darkness. The day had not gone as he’d planned. He’d hoped to humiliate the Harper in front of the crowds. He’d expected the bard to run, trusting his soldiers to catch him in the end. Once caught, he’d planned to break the Harper in the dungeons, extracting the name of every rebel. He never thought the damned fool would jump. Draining his glass, he refilled it, the liquor taking a bite out of his thoughts. At least he’d broken the heart of the rebellion, spattered to a bloody pulp across the cobblestones.

He must have dozed, succumbing to the heat and the liquor. A scent roused him. Crushed violets and the musk of sandalwood, the scent teased his mind…evoking memories of the Dark Lord’s Isle…memories of passion and pleasure.

The water had turned tepid, the sky darkened to a deep shade of purple. A gentle breeze blew in from the balcony, renewing the scent of violets. A figure stepped through the open doors. Tall and statuesque, she stood silhouetted against the twilight sky…an image from his dreams.

“Is it you?” His voice was deep and husky.

She stepped through the doorway, a soft whisper of silk. Her thin diaphanous sheath accentuated every curve.

“Is it really you?” He needed to hear her voice, to be sure he didn’t dream.

She reached for a towel and stepped to the side of the copper tub. “Let me dry you.”

Her throaty voice rippled across his skin, across his need. He rose, rampant, water falling like drops of rain. He tried to think past the wanting. “How did you get in?”

Her laughter rippled down his spine. “Your guard is a mute not a eunuch.”

The touch of the towel was a tease, cool and gentle…when he wanted hot and hard. He stood statue-still, holding back, not trusting the temptress. “Why have you come?”

“To bring you a message from the Dark Lord,” her voice deepened to a silken purr, “and to offer you an alliance.”

“A message?” He tried to think past her touch.

“The Lord Raven has done well. But to earn the rebirth of a harlequin, you must do more than twist a single kingdom. The Dark Lord rewards those whose reach is long.

The Priestess licked a drop of water from his chest, a cat tasting cream.

He suppressed a groan. “My army stands poised to march.”

“Then let them march. The time is right. Lanverness stands weak with chaos.”

She abandoned the towel, using hands and lips and tongue. The Priestess did not play fair. His body railed against his will, but he remained statue-still, stiff as stone. “And the alliance?”

“The Mordant has crossed the Dragon Spines. We compete against a thousand years of evil. But working together, combining our strengths, we can conquer the heart of Erdhe before he can raise his armies.”

She moved lower, doing something with her tongue, something that racked him with shivers, straining his control.

When he could speak again, his voice was hoarse. “What do you bring to this alliance?”

Her fingers trailed a line up his chest. Leaning close, her breath hot, she whispered the answer in his ear.

His eyes widened at her audacity.

She stepped away from him, standing within reach but not touching, a subtle torture. Her voice dropped to a deep husk, a verbal temptation. “Yours to decide. Shall I stay…or shall I go?”

Steffan knew he shouldn’t trust her…but her plan had merit…and the ache of his manhood had grown unbearable. Desire dissolved doubt. He gave in and reached for her. Stepping from the tub, he carried her to the silken sheets. Her raven hair spilled across the pillow, her ivory skin bathed in moonlight. He drank her in, the softness of her skin, her lush curves, her scent, her deft touch. Everything about her was intoxicating, as if she wove a spell of desire...driving him beyond reason, beyond the edge of passion. He quenched his need in her, rough and hard…but she pressed him for more. Every touch was insistent, teasing, demanding, insatiable. His passion came in waves, better than any dream. Pain and pleasure melded into one, a maddening tidal wave of need. They spent the night sealing their alliance, straining every limit…all to the glory of the Dark Lord.

The queen took comfort in numbers. Sifting through the ledgers and scrolls, she counted silvers spent and golds collected, taking the measure of her kingdom. The revenue of the Royal Ruby mines had soared, owing to the popularity of the dark stones. The farming yields were up, a bountiful autumn harvest filling the granaries to the brim. Her investment in saffron had paid off handsomely and so had the import of Urian brandy. Her treasury was flush with golds, her kingdom prosperous beyond the telling. Such a pity the profits of peace had to be turned to swords. But all the signs pointed to war, a future she could not see any way to avoid.

A knock sounded.

The queen gestured and the page admitted her handsome son. Prince Stewart wore fighting leathers, his dark hair pulled back, exposing his chiseled features…and the scar marring the left side of his face. The signs of war were everywhere.

The prince bowed. “You asked to see me, majesty?”

She gestured to a chair across from her desk. “Yes, we have important matters to discuss.”

He settled in the chair, his long legs stretching across the carpet. Without preamble, he launched into a report on the army. “The recruits continue to pour in and the training goes well. We push the men hard but they understand the need. Given enough time, we’ll have a strong army to defend Lanverness.”

“Time is one luxury we do not have.” She fingered the strand of pearls at her throat. “But we called you here for another matter. One as equally pressing.”

He stared at her, waiting.

“The Tandroth line is thin, a single strand easily broken. We have but one heir, and that heir is the general of our armies. We will not let our line fail. War is coming. You must marry and produce heirs. The sooner you take your bride to bed the better.”

His face paled, coughing as if he’d swallowed a fly. “B-but Mother…”

She forestalled his argument with a raised hand, knowing all too well that young men were eager to bed but slow to wed. “We have found the perfect bride for you, the perfect daughter-in-law. She is of royal blood and comes from an extremely fecund family. She is brilliant as well as beautiful, with a penchant for finances, never one of your strengths. The two of you will make the perfect royal pair. You can manage the army while she manages the royal finances.”

“But Mother…”

“We plan to write to King Ivor and begin negotiations for the royal wedding. The sooner you are wedded and bedded the better.”

“King Ivor?” The prince looked like he’d been struck with a war hammer.

“Yes, King Ivor of
Navarre
. We thought to talk to you before starting negotiations.

“Your want me to wed Princess Jemma?”

Her royal son seemed particularly slow today. “Yes, of course. The princess proved her courage and loyalty during the rebellion. And she is a rare beauty. The entire court is captivated by her. Beauty is a valuable weapon for a queen, not to mention her skill with finances. She will make you a formidable wife.”

“But I am in love with another.”

“In love?” She stared at her son, always ambushed by his lack of maturity. “Love has nothing to do with choosing a future queen. Royalty marries for duty, for gain, and for progeny. We are not afforded the luxury of love.” She shook her head. “Whoever this other woman is, you best forget her. Put her aside and do your duty to Lanverness.”

“We are hand fasted, promised to each other at Midwinter.”

“Hand fasting is for peasants! You are the crown prince of Lanverness. No one will ever hold you to some silly Midwinter tryst. You will do your duty to the crown and the kingdom, and that duty is to wed Princess Jemma.”

His face pulsed with anger. “You have not even asked her name!”

“Her name is of no consequence. Princess Jemma has all the attributes we seek in a queen. We shall write to King Ivor and begin negotiations for the marriage.”

The prince glared at the queen. “Yes, Mother, write to King Ivor…but ask instead for the hand of Princess Jordan, for she is the woman I love.”

The queen sat back in her chair, shocked by the revelation. “The swordish one!”

“Yes.”

“But she was attacked in the monastery and may not survive her wounds.”

Grief and worry washed in waves across the prince’s face. “She
has
to live.” He shook his head, the scar pulsing along the side of his face. “
Jordan
will come back to me.” He stood and began to pace the room, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

The queen had never seen her son so consumed with worry…yet reason must prevail. “Even if she survives, such a severe wound to the abdomen may mean she will never bear children.”

The prince whirled, his face ghost-white. “How do you know this?” He stepped toward her but then stopped, his voice bitter. “Yes, of course, your famed shadowmen.”

“Not everything comes to us through whispers. We share Princess Jemma’s concern for her sister.” She stared at her son, willing him to understand. “You must put aside your feelings and serve the kingdom. It is your duty.” She tried to soften her voice. “Princess Jemma is the perfect match for you.”

“Perfect except for love, Mother.” His voice cut like a sword. “Duty makes for a cold bed. Clearly the vaunted Spider Queen does not need love, but I will have more than duty in my marriage bed.”

His words struck like a slap. The woman buried beneath the crown erupted with long-held rage. “Do you think we do not know what it is to burn for love? To hunger for the tides of passion?” She reined her voice back to a cold anger. “You have no idea what we give up for the crown, what we endure for the throne, always putting the kingdom first. Even you, our heir, our first-born son, do not appreciate our sacrifices.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Mother, I do not wish to fight. Lanverness has never had a better ruler, never seen such prosperity, and all because of the brilliance of the queen. But in this one thing, I must have my way.”

“One does not use the word ‘must’ with queens.”

A knock sounded.

The queen glared at her son. “As the crown prince, it is your duty to serve Lanverness.”

“Duty!” He shook with anger. “Duty keeps me here when my heart bids me to ride into the mountains to be by her side.” His voice turned bitter. “But instead, I stay and I serve, for I have always been the dutiful son.”

“Then set aside your feelings for Princess Jordan and marry the woman who should be the next queen.”

“No. I will not gainsay my heart.”

The knock came again, louder.

The queen’s voice snapped with anger, “Who dares to disturb us?”

The door opened and the Master Archivist braved her wrath. “Excuse the interruption, your majesty, but the monk has returned.”

The look in her shadowmaster’s eyes broke through the queen’s anger. “From Coronth?”

The Master Archivist nodded, his face grim.

The prince shook his head. “That’s not possible! Even if the roads were open, the monk could not have ridden there and back in so little time!”

“Possible or not, the monk has returned and he begs an urgent audience with the
   
queen.” The master stood at the door, waiting for her approval.

The queen gestured. “Show him in.”
 
It seemed her day was to be crowded with arguments and ill tidings.

The master bowed. A short time later, he ushered the monk into her solar.

Her shadowmaster took a position by the side of her desk, a pillar of black. The monk crossed the room and bowed low, a mystery wrapped in robes of midnight blue.

The queen studied the monk, wondering at his secrets. “So you have returned to our court, Master Aeroth.”

The monk’s hazel eyes gave little away. “Yes, I bring news from Coronth.”

“What did you find in the Flame God’s city?”

The monk grimaced. “The so-called religion of the Flame is an abomination. Only the Dark Lord would countenance human sacrifice.”

He told her nothing she did not already know. “And what of the rebellion?”

“I met with Prince Justin and his small band of rebels. They make a valiant effort but songs and a few lives saved will never be enough. They must discredit the Pontifax in order to topple this foul religion.”

“And is there any hope that they will succeed.”

“A thin hope.” His face turned thoughtful. “From what I’ve seen and heard, the source of the Pontifax’s power is magic.”

“
Magic!
” The prince made the word a curse.

The monk nodded. “Magic itself is neither good nor bad. But the Pontifax…” the monk shook his head, “the Pontifax is a perversion. The man makes the foulest use of his magic, using it to deceive, to pretend to be ordained by the gods, to claim to work miracles. May the Lords of Light strike him down for committing such a blasphemy.”

The queen was surprised to see so much anger in the normally stoic monk. “Yes, but what hope do the rebels have against this magic?”

“The type of magic displayed by the Pontifax is almost always associated with a small magical artifact left over from the War of Wizards. If the artifact is lost or stolen, then the Pontifax will lose his magic.”

The queen smiled. “And the crowds will not tolerate the loss of their miracle.”

“Just so.”

“It seems an eloquent and just solution.” The queen fingered the pearls of her necklace. “Why do you give the rebels such slim odds?”

“Because the artifact cannot be discerned by sight. And even if they discover the item, sleight of hand will not work. The Pontifax is magically linked to the artifact. He will know the instant anyone else so much as touches it.”

She saw the nature of the challenge. “Prince Justin is quite resourceful. We will hope that he finds a way to succeed.” She stared at the monk. “But we doubt this news is the reason for your swift return.”

“I returned with all speed to bring you a warning.”

The monks were ever the harbingers of ill tidings. The queen gestured for the monk to continue.

“The Pontifax has amassed a huge army. Judging from the number of tents, I’d venture to say that the army of the Flame exceeds thirty thousand swords.”

“
Thirty thousand!
” The prince gasped, his face ghost-pale.

The queen shook her head in denial; the number was a death knell for her kingdom. “Too many swords. We cannot face that number alone.” She stared at the monk. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, his face grim.

She looked to her son. “How many?”

“Not enough.” The prince shook his head. “Including the constable force, Lanverness has seven thousand trained swords. We have another three thousand recruits in training, but even if the training was finished tomorrow, we cannot stand against an army of thirty thousand.”

The queen returned her stare to the monk. “You warned that the Dark Lord wants our throne. How can your Order help against this threat?”

He raised his hands as if to ward off her stare. “The Kiralynn Order brings warning, we provide knowledge long forgotten, we advise…that is the nature of our aid.”

“So you’ll watch, and warn, but you won’t get your hands dirty?”

The monk stood statue still.

She needed the monks as allies, but given the numbers against her, she needed more than just warnings. She considered the pieces on the chessboard and took a chance. “Your Order seems to know much about magic.”

The monk’s eyes narrowed but he remained silent.

“We venture to guess that your Order does more than collect knowledge,” the queen studied her opponent, “that it also collects magic.”

The monk was a good player. He kept his face still as stone but his eyes gave him away. The slightest widening told the queen that her guess was true. She sat back in her chair, her voice a sword. “Perhaps the Kiralynn Order can provide some magic to even the odds against the Flame God’s army?”

He raised his hands in protest. “Magic should only be used for peaceful purposes.”

Her patience snapped. “But we don’t have the luxury of peace, do we?” She pressed her argument. “And the enemy will not fight fair.” She stood, piercing him with her stare. “Your Order claims to serve the Light. So how will you help Lanverness defeat this threat from the Dark Lord?”

He bowed his head. “The queen of Lanverness is indeed formidable.”

“We need help, not platitudes.”

“I will pass your request on to the Grand Master.”

It was a start. The queen nodded. “We welcome the help of our allies.”

The monk gave her a wary smile. “By your leave, I will see to the message at once.”

She made her voice gracious. “You have our thanks, both for the warning and for the message.” Liandra waited for the monk to leave and then went to stand in the casement window, needing to feel the sun’s light through the dappled panes. She spoke with her back to her two advisors. “Thirty thousand is too many.”

Neither man offered any suggestions.