The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (53 page)

Kath watched, surprised by the steward’s reaction. She’d never seen such fear at Castlegard.

Sir Tyrone persisted. “What do you mean, the prince grew tired of defense?”

“He wanted a share of the glory.” Trask’s voice bristled with anger. “There’s never any glory in defense. So he took a squad north, looking for a fight.” He stared at the black knight, his voice a low growl. “Satisfied?”

Duncan
leaned close to Kath’s ear, his voice a whisper, “He lies.”

Kath fought to keep her face still.
Duncan
’s words sent a shiver down her back. Everything about Cragnoth seemed wrong, from the sloven stables, to the steward’s fear, to Trask being left in command. It was like finding rust on a fresh-forged blade. Kath took a long drink of tea, studying Trask. The knight was freakish-large, like one of the giants of legend…or a
Taal
. She choked on her tea; the knight looked half-Taal.

Duncan
thumped her back. “Are you well?”

Kath nodded, burying the thought. Trask was a bully, a braggart, and a brute but he was a sworn knight. Her gaze roamed the great hall. All the men of Cragnoth Keep were all sworn knights…but then why all the lies?

Duncan
nudged her beneath the table.

She found Trask staring at her. “I’m sorry, I must have missed the question.”

He gave her a shrewd stare. “I asked why you’ve come to Cragnoth Keep.”

She reached for an answer. “My…father finally gave in.”

“Gave in?” He shook his head.

“I’ve begged for years for a chance to see the Domain, to visit all the walls and towers, to see for myself where the legends were born.” She shrugged. “Father finally relented.”

His stare narrowed. “And this is your retinue?”

“These are my friends.”

He glanced at her companions, disdain on his face. “Seems a weak guard for a king’s daughter.”

“Castlegard is at peace and we visit only strongholds held by the knights.” She skewered him with her stare. “What’s to fear?”

He gave her a surly smile. “I’d be pleased to give you a tour of the keep. The view from the tower top is impressive.”

Kath repressed a shudder. “Perhaps on the morrow.” She smiled. “It’s been a long cold ride.”

He raked her with his stare. “I’m sorry, but I can’t offer you the prince’s quarters without his permission…and we have no other quarters fit for royalty.”

She shrugged. “Knights’ quarters will do…but we’d like to stay together.”

Trask scowled. “Penross, show the princess and her retinue to the third floor. There should be plenty of empty cells for them to choose from.”

Sir Penross pushed back from the table and stood waiting.

Kath finished her tea and nodded to Trask. “Thank you for the hospitality of your table. I look forward to the tour on the morrow.”

He gave her a leering grin.

Kath felt the weight of stares in the room, too much tension, too many lies. She swallowed a retort and turned her back on Trask.

The companions left the table and followed Sir Penross down the spiral staircase to the third floor. Torchlight danced against the curved stone hallway, distorting their shadows. The knight stopped at a narrow wooden door, one of many in the hall. “This one should be empty.” He opened the door to a small cell and gestured to Kath, “Your Highness.”

She ignored his surly attitude and glanced in the chamber. “This will do.” She stood in the doorway, watching as her companions were settled.
Duncan
took the room next to hers. Danya, Sir Tyrone, and Zith were settled in rooms on the opposite side of the hall.

Sir Penross nodded to her. “Anything else?”

“What time is breakfast?”

“The first meal is served a turn of the hourglass after first light.” He gave her a wry smile. “Sleep well, princess.”

She watched the knight saunter down the hallway, a sense of unease shivering in her mind. Turning back to the room, she found a half-melted candle on the small nightstand and lit it before closing the door. The cell was small and spare, a narrow cot, a chamber pot, and hooks on the wall for weapons and clothes. Too restless for sleep, she paced the length of the chamber, mulling over the riddles of the evening. She couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness…or
Duncan
’s warning of lies. But why would the knights lie? What did they have to hide?

Kath shivered against the chill. The small chamber was cold, especially after the heat of the great hall. Kath tugged the wool blanket from the bed…and found the stains. Old bloodstains on the mattress…and a deep cut from a sword thrust.
Murder in the night!
Kath shivered as the puzzle fell into place. Danya had given the first warning; the eagles had come for the dead. A cold certainty gripped Kath; her brother lay dead on the mountainside, his body flung from the tower after being murdered in the night. And those who murdered once would murder again. Kath did not know whom Trask served, but it was not the Octagon.

A thousand times the queen thought to order him not to come, but each time the ache within grew stronger, a bonfire consuming common sense. Daylight faded to darkness and still she could not decide. Her indecision bled to her wardrobe, unable to choose a nightgown. The green sheer of Urian silk was too revealing, the dark red temptation of spider-fine lace too bold. Liandra finally settled on an elegant sheath of ivory silk, a perfect contrast to her long dark hair, an enticing shimmer of curves in the candlelight.

She ordered a platter of fruit and cheese and a bottle of her best merlot, not knowing if he’d like something to eat beforehand…or maybe afterward. Liandra shook her head, bemused by her own indecision. She was the Spider Queen, the White Rose of Lanverness. Tempting and teasing the men of her court, she twisted them to her will…but she never let them touch, never let them in. Only her husband, a marriage of pure politics, and that had ended with a hunting accident eighteen long years ago. A long time to last without a single kiss, a single caress, Liandra shivered with longing, eager for his touch.

Doubts assailed her. Surely this was a folly, a weakness of the mind, a road to madness. Liandra paced the length of her solar, raging a silent debate. She understood men all too well. They worshiped from afar, but once the prize was claimed, the goddess became a mere possession, something to be owned and jealously guarded, subject to the whims of the conquering lord. She’d never again suffer the yoke of a wedding ring, never again submit to the whims of a man. She was the queen, married to her people, wedded to her kingdom. The weight of the crown could never be removed…not even for a single night. She had to stop this madness before it began.

Crossing her solar, she reached for the hand bell to summon a servant…but the secret door swung open. Tall and dark, her shadowmaster stepped into the room.

She felt the rake of his stare, felt the way his eyes lingered at her curves, felt a blush rise to claim her face.

He stood by the hidden door, statue-still, his plain robe dark black, his voice deep and hoarse. “You summoned me, my queen.”

His words rippled down her spine. She met his stare. Even now, he waited for her permission…as if he understood her concern. She held to her resolve, a thin shield of words. “We must always be the queen.”

He nodded, his voice rough. “Always.”

“The crown can never be removed.”

“Never.” His stare raked across her, lingering.

Her resolve weakened. She gave him an order, a test. “You cannot stay past first light.”

He nodded. “As you command.” His smile softened. “As you wish.” He made the words a kiss…but still he waited, as if held captive by respect for her crown…or perhaps respect for her.

His respect melted her resolve. She reached out to him, unable to speak the words.

He crossed the room in three determined strides. He knelt and kissed her ring. “Always the queen.” He turned her hand and kissed the hollow of her palm, a long slow kiss. “But also the woman.”

She shivered with longing, her voice a throaty whisper. “One night for Robert and Liandra.”

He made her name a prayer. “Liandra.”

She shivered to hear it, to be just the woman.

He rose and cupped her face, a burning intensity to his touch. His thumbs traced her eyebrows, her nose, her lips, as if his hands memorized her face. He bent down, a soft kiss that became hard…a moment that stretched to infinity. She leaned against him, soaking up his strength…but he stepped away. She stared up at him, confused.

His hands hovered at the silken straps of her gown. He stared deep into her eyes, silently asking. She nodded, blushing with understanding. He eased the silken straps off her shoulders, a fall of silk, leaving her dressed in nothing but golden candlelight. He gasped, “My queen!”

She loosened his dark robe, leaving the black wool a puddle at his feet. The scars surprised her, too many to count, but otherwise he was lean and muscled, strong and hard despite his iron-gray hair.

He swept her into his arms and carried her to the four-posted bed, the massive gold-encrusted bed where she’d spent so many nights alone…but not this night. They started gentle and tender, discovering, exploring…but then the passion long denied came in waves. They rode the ecstasy together…and then the need gave way to pure pleasure. Deft and sure, he knew just how to please. The candles melted to darkness and still they touched and talked. She fell asleep in his arms, sated and safe, cocooned from every care, a bliss of dreams.

She slept late, sunshine pouring through the casement window, a deep smile on her face. Content and happy, she reached for him but found him gone, and then she remembered her command. He’d kept his word, leaving at first light. The bed seemed a lonely place. The emptiness crushed her. Liandra regretted the command…but it proved he understood, that he knew she must always wear the crown. Memories of the night brought a rush of heat, a thrum of longing. Perhaps she’d found the rock she needed…a man to stand with her against the coming dark. Liandra wondered if she could be both the queen and the woman.

Bribery, blackmail, and begging, Justin tried them all. He plied the off-duty prison guards with liquor and tempted them with purses of gold. Befriending the soldiers of the fortress, he tried gaining access to the dungeons. He even dared to corrupt a confessor, offering the rum-soaked priest a wealth of golds if he would free the old lady, but fear of the Flames prevailed.

He found plenty of takers for his golds, winning small favors, gaining Grandmother Magda the comfort of a blanket and extra rations of soup. One guard agreed to smuggle an apple into the dungeon and another carried a small scrap of parchment scribbled with a few words of hope. His greatest victory was getting her name removed from the list slated for torture. The golds of Lanverness saved her from that horror, but despite all his efforts, the silver-haired grandmother languished in the deep cells, waiting her turn to walk the Flames.

The last of his golds went to the daily bribes, keeping her name from the top of the death list. Every morning he made the trip to the fortress, counting each day delayed as a victory, a race against time and his dwindling golds.

The Fortress of the Flame stood on the north side of the city, a brooding jumble of dark gray towers squatting like a malignant beast, waiting to swallow innocent victims. A monument to pain, the commoner’s named it Hell’s Parlor, a grim taste of hell on earth. Justin stared up at the dark walls, knowing the great stone beast rarely gave up its prey…but he had to try.

Walking with a limp, he kept his spine bent, a wad of wool beneath a dirty brown cape giving him the appearance of a deformed hunchback. The deformity drew stares away from his face, making him seem a harmless cripple, a welcome form of invisibility. Limping to the gate, he slipped the guard a silver. A familiar petitioner, the hunchback gained entrance to the fortress. Passing beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis, he entered the belly of the beast.

Justin kept to his disguise, limping across the cobblestone yard to the line of citizens waiting to purchase mercy for their loved ones. Bribery had become a thriving industry for the guards. He stood eighth in line, watching as the sun climbed above the walls, trying to ignore the nightmare of screams and muffled moans that filtered up from the dungeon.

Grim-faced soldiers patrolled the battlements and priests came and went through the dungeon door, intent on their grisly tasks. The line of petitioners stayed meek and silent, mice trying to hide from a fortress of hungry cats. Justin tried counting the number of red tabards but he lost track. The army had marched south but they’d left far too many soldiers behind, bribery seemed the old woman’s best hope.

The pock-faced sergeant appeared at the dungeon doorway and pointed at Justin, a silent summons.

The others stared as he limped past, but there was no protest; the mice didn’t dare complain. He followed the sergeant through the grim doorway to a small, spare room with bleak stone walls. Chilly like a root cellar, the room was empty except for a table cluttered with parchments and a single chair. A pair of iron manacles hung on the wall, a reminder that the small cell had other uses.

Justin stood in front of the table, keeping his back bent and his head bowed. Huddled beneath his brown cape, he was just another petitioner begging a favor.

Sergeant Jexel closed the door and sprawled in the chair. “Yer a stubborn one, hunchback, but yer golds are good.” He tapped a scroll against his palm, a crooked smile on his pockmarked face. “Kept her name off the death list for another day.”

Justin completed the ritual, pushing a small purse of coins across the table.

The sergeant spilled the coins into his hand, counting to be sure. “The old lady must really mean somethin’ to ya to keep payin’.” Satisfied, he tumbled the coins back into the purse. “Pity I won’t be helpin’ you after today.” The purse disappeared into the sergeant’s belt, a broad grin on his face.

A cold hand gripped Justin’s heart. “What’d ya mean?”

“Can’t risk jiggin’ the death list anymore.”

“But what if I pay more? Double the price?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Wish I could. But Clavin, a senior priest, has taken over. They’ll be no more jiggin of the names.”

“Can’t Claven be…reasoned with?”

The sergeant scowled. “Claven’s one of those holy types. Prances around like he’s got a hot poker up his ass.” He shook his head. “Not enough golds in all of Coronth to risk approachin’ a priest like that.”

Justin’s thoughts raced like a cornered mouse, frantic to save her. “But what if I pay ya to smuggle in a sleepin drought and claim the old woman died in the night? I’d pay ya a heavy purse of golds when I collect the body. A lot of golds for one frail old woman.”

“Won’t work.” The sergeant shook his head. “No one in the dungeon escapes the Flames. There’s never any bodies, never any graves. The dead are burnt, the priests see to it. Sinners all burn one way or another, only difference is, the live ones scream before they die.”

Justin stood stunned, crushed by the raw cruelty of the Flame.

“Give it up, hunchback, there ain’t nothing ya can do.” The sergeant gave him a twisted smile full of bad teeth. “Now run along.” His grin deepened to an ugly sneer. “There’s others waitin’ for their chance to pay.”

Justin turned and shuffled toward the door, pole-axed by the turn of events.

“By the way, hunchback. Since ya been good with the golds I’ll give ya this one for free.”

He turned to meet the sergeant’s pitiless stare.

“The old lady’s due to walk the Flames in three days.”

A cold fist gripped Justin’s heart. He had to find a way to save her…but it would take a miracle to get the old woman out of the dungeons. Justin limped from the fortress, his mind frantic with worry. He needed a miracle…and he had less than three days to find one.