The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 14

  Danya’s voice was soft with apology. “I bet Zith would know if you asked him. There doesn’t seem to be much the blue-robed masters don’t know.”

  Reminded of the monk, Kath whispered the question that had plagued since the monastery gates. “Of all the monks and masters, why did the Grand Master choose to send an old man like Zith?”

  Danya hugged the wolf. “I heard the monks arguing about him as well. Some said he was chosen by the gods.” She glanced toward the sleeping monk and then dropped her voice to a whisper, “Master Rizel said that Zith had a role to play in killing the Mordant.”

  “But why him?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Kath shook her head, puzzled.

  Danya leaned forward and whispered, “Because of his son.”

  Kath stared in confusion.

  “Zith’s son is Bryce…the one the Mordant took.”

  16

  Justin

  A moonless night, a perfect time for skullduggery. Cloaked in velvety darkness, Justin slipped through the back alleys of Balor’s poor quarter. A master of sounds, he walked with a hushed, uneven rhythm, his soft doeskin boots mimicking the scuffling of a rat. A stray cat stalked him part way down the lane, proof his performance was appreciated. Melting into the shadows, he threaded his way through the city’s back ways, trying to avoid the sharp eyes of pious informers. His cloak, a deep enough blue to almost be black, covered him from head to heel. His face and his hands were darkened with lampblack, part disguise, part showmanship, and all of it part of the hiding. Beneath his cloak, he hugged his small harp tight against his side like a lover. It wasn’t his best harp, he’d left that sweet voice safe behind the stout walls of Castle Seamount, but this harp, the twenty-one string Cloyne, was almost as dear.

  Lantern light and lewd language spilled from the backdoor of the Praying Maiden. A badly weathered sign revealed the Maiden had once been the Bawdy Widow, proof that religious miracles occurred even in the poorest quarters of the Flame God’s city.

  Pulling the deep cowl of his cloak forward, Justin hid his face in shadow and climbed the stairs to the rear door of the tavern. Exposed to the kitchen lights and the cooks’ curious stares, he added to the disguise by hunching his shoulders to obscure his height and dragging his left foot like a cripple. Peering out from under the cowl of his robe, Justin greeted the scullery women, knowing most of them by name.

  Bev, the prettiest of the bunch, gave him a gap-toothed smile. “So, the Dark Harper is back to grace us with his music.” With a wink and a leer she added, “Why don’t ya ease back that cowl so we can have a peek at your face? If ya look half as bonny as ya sound, ya can warm me bed tonight!”

  The kitchen erupted in lewd offers and hasty wagers, giving Justin the perfect response. “A grand offer Bev, but if I was to go home with you I’d be breaking too many hearts, best if I just keep close to my lady the harp.”

  “Go on with ya then. Your stool is set where ya like it and I’ll be bringing ya a tankard of ale and a cut of meat off the spit for the Harper’s portion.”

  “The ale will do just fine, I’ve eaten already.”

  Justin had learned the hard way that meat on the spit in taverns like the Maiden often turned out to be dog or rat, the staples of the back alleyways. He’d stick to a tankard of ale. The brew was always worth drinking or the tavern would be out of business.

  Passing from the kitchen into the great room, he was hit with the rank smells of unwashed bodies and stale ale. The Maiden had a full house tonight; perhaps he’d find fertile ground for his songs.

  He took a seat on a high stool set in the shadows of the back corner near the door to the kitchen…it always paid to have an escape route handy. From beneath the cowl of his robe, he studied the patrons. Mostly men, mostly working poor, and mostly well into their cups, it was the usual crowd for the Maiden. Tom, the barkeeper and owner, bowed his head in Justin’s direction giving the Harper a half smile. The man was taking a risk by letting the Dark Harper play, but he also stood to gain a pretty profit. Good music made the ale flow faster. The Maiden, with its poor patrons and poorer fare, wasn’t the type of tavern frequented by minstrels. The barkeeper’s half smile told Justin that his greed still exceeded his fears, so for now, the Dark Harper was welcome.

  Justin scanned the room for informers, looking for eyes that were too bright, too confident, too keen, and much too interested. Finding nothing to arouse suspicion, he settled the small harp on his lap and let his fingers caress the strings, sending a ripple of chords through the great room.

  Surprise followed by a hushed expectation settled over the crowd as the Maiden’s patrons turned their attention towards the bard, thirsty for a song.

  Justin took his time tuning the harp, gauging the audience. An old wives’ tale said that the eyes are the windows of the soul and Justin believed it. So much pain in their eyes, if only they could see it for themselves. Most were haunted with fear, some were angry, and the rest were weary, crushed by a drudgery that was the lot of the working poor. Nothing more than tinder for the Flame God, and most of them knew it in the depths of their souls, though they did their best to hide from the knowledge. Their eyes spoke volumes, telling Justin he’d come to the right place. He was here to pull their fears out of hiding, to warn them of the dangers of doing nothing, but first he had to help them laugh and then he had to give them courage.

  Accepting the challenge, Justin launched into a playful tune with bawdy lyrics about a lonely farmer, a milkmaid, and dairy cow. The crowd roared with laughter. Feet began tapping a rhythm and tankards clanked on tabletops.

  Keeping the music light, Justin kept the crowd laughing, playing a dozen songs with ribald lyrics and lively tunes. Familiar melodies swept through the tavern, enfolding the crowd with a warm embrace. Even the reluctant and the tone-deaf gave in to the merriment of the songs.

  Having warmed the room, Justin stilled his harp strings, taking a minstrel’s break. The crowd shouted for more music, but they also shouted for ale. Serving girls moved among the tables, carrying frothing tankards and trenchers of roast meat. The ale flowed and so did the coins. The profit was a measure of safety for Justin, the owner collected silvers and the Dark Harper kept his welcome, a fair enough bargain.

  Quietly sipping his ale, Justin waited for the tables to be served but not long enough for the crowd to lose interest. Judging the time to be right, he set his fingers to the strings releasing a burst of melody. Eager faces turned his way; the audience was his once more.

  Changing the tempo of the night, Justin ripped into a fury of chords and loosed his tenor voice in a rousing ballad that told of the battle of Raven Pass. Spinning visions with words set to melodies, the music brought the battle to life. His fingers flew across the strings creating a vision of the Mordant’s hordes swarming up the narrow pass where a few dared to hold off many. Harp strings screamed with discordant notes and the desperate battle was joined. The tempo became frantic as the heroes struggled against the odds. The lyrics soared up an octave as the vanguard of knights arrived to push the hordes back, saving the southern kingdoms. A single stirring note soared to the rafters, drawing the tale to a close. Stilling the strings, the Harper sat back to watch.

  A ragged cheer rose from the patrons, as if they’d fought the battle themselves. Fists pounded on tables, demanding more. Bowing his head to the audience, the Dark Harper set his hand to the strings and gave them songs of war. He flooded the great room with tales of heroes from history and legends. One after another, he sang songs where victory and justice triumphed over near impossible odds. Fingers blistering across the strings, he kept the tone bold, the rhythm strong, and the cadence fearless. He played till the men’s eyes burned, kindled with the light of courage…and then he stopped.

  Released from the music’s spell, the men reeled backwards, temporarily lost. It seemed as if the entire tavern took a deep breath…and all the while the Harper watched. The magic of the music held. Their eyes stayed bright
and a roar woke from the throats of men who had moments before been mere mice. Bold shouts called for more ale and more songs. Buoyed by the music, they became men of large appetites, demanding more from life.

  The Dark Harper gave the serving girls time to pass the ale before he started on the last round of songs. This time he kept the harp quiet, using muted tones and hushed words. Having caught his audience, the Dark Harper made them strain to listen; he made them work to hear. This time he gave them something that was hard to listen to…this time he gave them the truth.

  Haunting melodies and penetrating words warned of the dangers of the Flame God. Loved ones burnt in the flames, women and children, not just men. Laden with truth, the ballads clawed at the heart while the words worked on the mind, exposing the lies of Coronth’s religion. The slightest offense sent peasants to the flames while those who served the priests prospered. Blending lyrics with melody, the songs told how the religion of the Flame God was a matter of obedience rather than faith, a matter of golds rather than grace. The words cut close to the bone and the mood in the tavern darkened. Many hardened their gaze and looked away, refusing to listen, but a few heard the truth, their eyes smoldering in silent rage.

  The Dark Harper watched closely, gauging the impact of the songs, wanting to make the men think but not wanting to push them too far. Warned by the darkening mood, Justin began to draw the last song to a close.

  A loud crash came from the back of the tavern.

  A bench overturned and a mountain of a man stood to glare at the Harper. Bulging with the muscles of a blacksmith, his voice boomed through the tavern. “Your songs are blasphemy, Harper! If we listen to you, we’ll end up dancing in the Flames while you stay safe, hiding your face within that dark cape. Show your face, heretic, or still your blaspheming tongue!”

  Dark mutterings filled the room.

  Justin stilled the harp strings and surveyed the crowd. Shame filled a few faces, but most hung in the balance, timid sheep, waiting to see which way the wind would blow. Turning his full attention to the blacksmith, Justin answered, “Not just words, Sir, but the truth.” Using his bard’s voice he reached for the crowd, “Each of you dances with death at every Test of Faith. Since you don’t have the coin to bribe the priests, you’re only a dice roll away from walking the Flames.” He pointed to those who wavered. “You could be next, or you.” He dropped his voice to a hush. “The Flames wait for all of you, hungry for more death. You can go to the Flames as sheep, or you can rise against it. The choice is yours.”

  He’d set the spark to the kindling. The tavern erupted in argument.

  The blacksmith gave up on words and started hammering with his fists. The argument became a brawl, an angry whirlpool of violence.

  In the midst of the chaos, an urchin-boy burst through the outer doors, a wild look on his face. Justin recognized the dark-haired lad; the one that he’d paid to act as a lookout.

  Seeking to avoid whatever danger followed, Justin tucked the small harp under his arm and scuttled back into the kitchen. Remembering to drag his left foot, he lurched around the scullery women and past the bread ovens to peer out the backdoor. Finding the alleyway empty of soldiers, he made his escape. Perhaps another night the men of the taverns would be ready to hear his words, but not tonight…tonight the Dark Harper would run and hide and hope to harp another day.

  Shouts rang out from the far end of the alley.

  Hunted, the Harper fled into the darkness. Forsaking his limp, he raced through the back alleyways, his dark cape flaring behind. Pressing for speed, he held to his escape route, two lefts and three rights, then squeezing through a narrow opening between a boarding house and an abandoned stable. The stench of the back alleys intensified, rotting garbage and puddles of urine, but Justin welcomed the reek, knowing the awful stench was one of the best defenses of the alleyways. Running flat out, he rounded the corner without hearing any sounds of pursuit, perhaps he’d lost them.

  Nearing his bolt hole, he skittered to an abrupt stop. Three silhouettes stood at the far end. Justin hesitated, anyone lurking in the back alleyways at this hour was either a soldier or a thief…and he preferred to avoid both. Shrinking into the shadows, he retreated back around the corner. Mentally recalling the map of the city, he set off at a hard run, choosing a different route.

  His feet slipped out from under him. Skidding on something greasy, he fell, twisting at the last moment to shield the harp. He landed hard on his back, cushioning the harp from the impact, but knocking the wind out of him. A loud clatter echoed down the alleyway. Cursing his luck, Justin froze, listening to the night.

  The silhouettes rounded the corner; only this time there were five of them. They surrounded Justin like a pack of alley dogs hounding prey.

  “Ho lads, looks like we caught a lone pigeon in the night!”

  Justin caught the glint of steel, but they carried daggers not swords. A measure of relief washed through him, he faced the lesser threat of thieves not soldiers.

  “Since you dare to walk these alleyways at night, you can pay our price, pigeon. Hand over your purse or we’ll take our payment in blood.”

  The words were tough but the voice was young, they were a gang of lads posing as hardened men. Relieved, Justin reached for his purse. “You can have my purse. I want no trouble with you.”

  The tallest one snatched the purse from his hand but it was the smallest who said the words that chilled Justin. “And whatever you’re hide’n bundled beneath your cloak, we’ll be taking that too.”

  Justin’s left arm tightened protectively around the Cloyne, while his right hand stole to the dirk on his hip. He would forfeit the coin without a fight but not the harp. “It’s only a harp. You have my purse without a fight, settle for that. You won’t have the harp.”

  The tallest one leaned forward, menacing his dagger in Justin’s face. “There are five of us, pigeon. We’ll bloody well take what we want. Hand over the harp.”

  He did not want to fight but he could not give up the harp. Before Justin could slide the dirk from its sheath, the smallest one said, “Wait Red, I know this one. You’re that Dark Harper ain’t you? You’re the one that sings them songs against the Flame God?”

  Surprised to be recognized, Justin saw no point in denying the truth. Tightening his grip his dirk, he said, “Yes, I am the one they call the Dark Harper.”

  One of the lads let out a long, low whistle.

  An awkward silence filled the alleyway.

  Justin tensed, preparing to fight or flee but hoping to do neither.

  Finally the small one said, “The Dark Harper is a hero in the back alleys.” Dropping his voice to a hush, the lad added, “Me Da died in the Flames. Me Mam used to say that the soldiers took him ‘cause it’s a sin to be poor in the Flame God’s city.”

  A different voice said, “They burnt me Dad as well. Me Mam and sister were hauled off in chains to the slave blocks but me and me brother escaped to the back alleys. Been hide’n from the soldiers ever since.”

  The tallest lad, the one who seemed the leader, offered an open hand to Justin. “If you’re truly the Dark Harper, then you’re welcome in the back alleyways. Most of us have good reason to hate the priests and the soldiers.” In an undertone the leader added, “You can keep the harp, but we need the coin to get by, food in the city is dear.”

  Accepting the lad’s hand, Justin got to his feet. In the darkness, he stared at the ragged street urchins who knew the music of his harp.

  The smallest one said in a quiet voice, “We could help you, Harper.”

  Surprised by the unexpected offer, Justin waited, listening to the emotions behind the words.

  “No one knows the back alleyways better than we do. We could help keep you safe, Harper.”

  Justin stared at the lad, stunned by the sincerity of the boy’s offer. He’d been harping in the Flame God’s city for nearly a full moon-turn and the first real offer of help came from a rag-tag band of urchin boys forced to thieve to
survive. Touched, Justin said, “Helping the Dark Harper means helping a heretic.”

  Five pairs of eyes stared at him, faces eager.

  He studied each of them, rag-tag clothes and skinny frames marking them as orphans of the alleyways. They all needed more meat on their bones and a better purpose than thieving the alleys. The bold bravery of their faces won him over. “You know you’re right, the Dark Harper could use the help of quick lads who know the alleyways like the back of their hands.”

  Pride crept across the lads’ faces, confirming Justin’s decision.

  “I could use lookouts posted at the taverns and guides to show me the best hiding places. Like you, I mean to avoid the soldiers and the priests. I doubt the Dark Harper could find better eyes and ears than yours.” Pausing he added, “In return for your help, I’ll hand over my Harper’s wages for each night that you work, a purse of mostly coppers with a few silvers, but steady pay nonetheless.” Focusing on the tall leader, Justin said, “What do you say, will you join forces with the Dark Harper?”

  The leader studied him and then said, “Eyes and ears, we could be that…and steady coin would help.” Holding out his hand the tall lad said, “Me name is Red and you’ve just bought yourself the finest pack of petty thieves in the back alleyways.”

  A muffled cheer rose from the lads.

  Accepting Red’s hand, Justin smiled. In the back alleys of Balor, he’d found unexpected allies. A rag-tag band of street urchins would fight against the Flame God while adults cringed and cowered, fooling themselves to the danger. Truly the Lords of Light moved in strange ways.

  17

  Liandra

  “Seal the doors!” The Master Archivist shielded the queen with his body, but she’d already seen the bloodshed.

  The dungeon doors clanged shut.

  A startling silence prevailed, as if the rest of the world ceased to exist…but there was no denying the truth. The Red Horns have risen! The traitor’s name comes too late! The queen watched the men around her, watched the heavy timber slide into place to bar the dungeon doors, but she said nothing, her mind grappling with strategies and plots.