The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Read online

  The Master Archivist barked commands. “Stand guard and let no one enter.” The guard saluted, but her shadowmaster did not wait. Gripping her arm, he ushered her back down the stone ramp into the gloom. Captain Durnheart followed, his sword drawn.

  The tension in her shadowmaster’s grip screamed of danger. The queen let him lead, her mind fixed on the rebellion.

  They burst into the guardroom, catching the head guard, Paulus, guzzling from a bottle, the sour odor of cheap wine sickening against the dungeon’s stench.

  Thrusting the bottle behind his back, he sputtered, “Back again? What da’ya want now?” Red wine dribbled down his double chin.

  The master’s voice snapped like a cold whip. “I need three of the guards stationed in the lower levels, the ones guarding the special prisoner. Get your keys and escort Captain Durnheart back down to the lower dungeons while I wait here.” Turning to the captain, the master said, “Inform the men of the situation and return with Collins, Barkley, and Dent. The others should keep to their post.”

  Durnheart saluted and turned to harry the reluctant jailor. The jailor grumbled, keys rattling, but he eventually got the door open, retreating back into the bowels of the dungeon.

  The door clanged shut, leaving the queen alone with her shadowmaster.

  “Wait,” the master raised a finger to his lips. Grabbing a torch, he swept the alcoves with light. Returning the torch to its bracket, his voice dropped to a harsh whispered. “The traitor’s name comes too late. The fate of the Rose Crown now rests with the sword.” His face was grim. “I had hoped to protect you in the Queen’s Tower but that plan is now foiled. I need to rally the loyalists while you remain hidden, safe within the prison. No one will think to look for the queen within her own dungeons. Captain Durnheart and the three guards will protect you until the worst of the fighting is over.”

  “No.”

  “Madam, there is no time to argue!”

  The queen stood erect, dropping the pretense of an ordinary woman. “We will not cower in the dungeons while brave men die for our throne.”

  “Madam, there is nothing you can do! The time for politics is long past. All will be lost if you are killed or captured. You must remain hidden, where my shadowmen can protect you.”

  “We have no intention of being killed or captured but we cannot cower like a rat in the dungeon, we must lead in order to rule.”

  The master’s face blazed with frustration. “Majesty, you are a brilliant queen with rare gifts for manipulating politics and multiplying golds, but for all that, you are still a woman. What can a woman hope to do against swords?”

  “We cannot and never will let our sex interfere with our duty.” She gave him a withering glare. “But this is more than mare pride or duty…it is good strategy.”

  He hesitated, a shrewd gleam returning to his gaze. “What strategy?”

  “We must find advantage where it is least expected.”

  “How?”

  “We will fight with our wits…as we always do.” Annoyance leached into her voice. “It has been our observation that whenever swords and men mix, wits vanish.”

  She watched the barb hit home.

  Taking a measured breath, the master said, “I will hear your plan.”

  The concession was a start. Moving straight to the practical, the queen said, “Tell us where the greatest concentration of loyal troops is located.”

  “The Queen’s Tower. Those with unquestionable loyalty were assigned to guard the sovereign. Some are in uniform but most are hidden in the guise of servants. Caches of weapons and supplies are also stocked in the tower. The plan was to protect the queen while using the tower as a base to lead the fight against the rebels.”

  “Then it is in the Queen’s Tower that the sovereign must be seen.”

  “This is insane! The rebel forces will have the tower completely surrounded. You will be killed or captured before you get near the doors.”

  “We do not plan to use ordinary doors.”

  “What?”

  “Castle Tandroth has secrets known only to the sovereign and the heir.”

  A shrewd look stole across his face. “So there’s truth to the legends.”

  She nodded. “Memories fade to legends, adding to the advantage. We will put those legends to good use. Your shadowmen need only get us to the great kitchen. From there, assuming the passageways have withstood the test of time, we will make our way to the Queen’s Tower.”

  “And once in the tower?”

  “Concealed in the tower is a chamber designed to serve as a royal bolt hole, a place where a monarch can hide for moon-turns if needs be. But we do not intend to merely hide; we will be a thorn in the side of the Red Horns. The tower walls are honeycombed with passages that can be used to launch ambushes or facilitate an escape. Castle Tandroth is a labyrinth for good reason, all the better to hide a royal secret.”

  “And how is it that your shadowmaster is only now learning of these hidden ways?”

  The queen smiled. “The Tandroths were ever shrewd and rarely trustful. The secret is held only by the sovereign and the heir.”

  “So Prince Danly does not know?”

  Her voice bristled with frost, “Danly was never our heir.”

  “Thank the Lords of Light for that.”

  Shouts from the prison cells intruded. Warned, the queen pulled the shawl tight around her face and dropped her stared to the floor, shrinking back into the disguise of an ordinary woman. The master turned his back to her and stood facing the inner door, his hand on a knife-hilt sheathed at his belt.

  Keys rattled in the lock. The door opened and the turnkey, Paulus, ambled into the guardroom followed by Captain Durnheart and three of the master’s guardsmen.

  Nodding toward the Master Archivist, Paulus said, “Got yer men for ya, just as ya asked.” The jailor scratched at his groin, his gaze raking the queen. “If his Lordship is not needin the woman, ya could always leave her here with us…a bit of skirt makes a nice reward for the men.”

  Liandra could feel his lewd stare crawling through her shawl. The queen struggled to still her rage, wondering how ordinary women stomached such pigs.

  The master snapped, “The woman is with me! You best keep your small mind to your own matters.” Crossing the room, the master yanked opened the doors to a weapons rack and removed a sheathed sword and a pair of daggers. Strapping the sword around his waist, he tucked the daggers in his belt and then turned to face the burly jailer. “Trouble stirs in the castle. Once we leave, I want the doors to the dungeon sealed. No one is to enter without the correct password. The password will be Darkened Sun. Do you think you can remember that?”

  Turning pale, the jailer stuttered, “W-what trouble?”

  “There’s no time for questions. Just do as you’re ordered or instead of guarding the traitor’s hole you’ll find yourself in it. Now escort us to the outer doors and be quick to seal the dungeon once we leave.” Not waiting for a reply, the master turned on his heel and strode up the ramp.

  The queen hurried to keep pace, anxious to be quit of the dungeon despite the dangers above. Captain Durnheart stayed by her side, the three guardsmen and the jailor following behind.

  At the top of the ramp, the two jailers shouldered aside the timber sealing the outer door. Cracking the door open, the master peered into the courtyard. The queen strained to hear, relieved that the sounds of fighting seemed distant.

  “It’s clear for the moment. Now is as good a time as any to leave.” Turning to the captain and the three shadowmen, the master said, “We’ll make for the great kitchen. This woman holds information vital to the crown. She must be protected even at the cost of your lives. Cut down any who stand in our way, we cannot take any risks. Am I understood?”

  The men unsheathed their swords their faces grim.

  To the jailer, the master said, “Bar the door once we leave and let no one enter without the password. Repeat the password.”

  Confused, P
aulus stuttered, “D-darkened sun.”

  The master nodded. “See that you remember.” He glanced toward the queen, a thousand warnings in his stare. Her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze, but there was no time for words. He pulled a knife from his belt and slipped through the doorway. Darkness beckoned, but the queen refused to be cowed. Lifting her skirt, she followed. Captain Durnheart and the three guards stayed close on her heels.

  Night embraced her. Cooled by the rain, the night air felt refreshing, yet the darkness was full of threat. She breathed deep, vanquishing the stench of the dungeons, staring at the debris of war. Broken bodies littered the cobblestones, every one of them in the green and white tabard of Lanverness. So much blood, so much death, the moans of the wounded sent a shiver down her spine; the traitors had much to answer for.

  A hand grabbed her arm. “Stay close.”

  Startled, the master’s words drew her back to the dangers at hand.

  Her shadowmaster led the way, prowling around the side of the tower. He moved with a fluid grace she’d never noticed before, like a shadow flowing across stone, his black robe blending with the night. It struck Liandra that her spymaster thrived in the shadows. Corded muscles hidden beneath dark robes, he was a man of strategy and action.

  The master rounded the curve of the squat tower, moving out of sight.

  Feeling clumsy in her long wool skirt, Liandra did her best to follow. She rounded the tower, hugging the side of the wall. The far side was untouched by fighting, yet the master skulked in the shadows.

  He whispered a command, “Collins.”

  One of the shadowmen moved to stand at the master’s elbow.

  Pointing to the tunneled passageway on the far side of the courtyard, the master said, “Search the passageway and signal if it is safe.”

  The guard moved like a silent wraith, crossing the courtyard and entering the dark passage without challenge. An eternity later, he stood at the entrance and waved them forward.

  The master whispered, “Swords at the ready.” He stepped out of the shadows, sword in hand, and sprinted for the entrance. The queen gathered up her skirts and ran to keep pace, her breath ragged in her ears. Captain Durnheart took her elbow, hurrying her into the tunneled passageway.

  The tunnel’s darkness fell like a cloak. Blinded, the queen groped her way along the wall.

  A hand grabbed her ankle.

  Stifling a scream, she skittered backwards.

  The hand released her. A wounded soldier moaned, “Help me. Please, help me.”

  The queen struggled to regain her composure, the cold wet touch imprinted on her ankle.

  Her shadowmaster took her arm, his grip full of urgency. “Come.”

  The queen’s voice was whisper thin, “Can’t we help him?”

  “There’s no time.” He steered her around the soldier, ushering her toward the tunnel’s gaping mouth.

  Swords clanged against swords as the sounds of fighting grew louder. Peering from the entrance, they found the main courtyard in chaos. The stables blazed, an inferno of flames licking into the night sky, casting an eerie glow across the courtyard. Soldiers in the green and white of Lanverness crossed swords in a bitter battle, brother against brother. The shouts of men mingled with the screams of horses, as if a doorway had opened onto the very halls of hell.

  A battle line snaked across the courtyard, bending and contorting like the death throws of a giant serpent. Banners fluttered overhead, brightly colored moths caught in a dance with death. The queen recognized the Black Rose, the Tangled Thorns, and the Twin Roses, wondering which were loyal and which were false.

  One of the banners faltered and fell. The battle line convulsed around the fallen standard, the strong consuming the weak. The slaughter sickened the queen, confirming her abiding hatred for war.

  Her shadowmaster gripped her arm. “This is too dangerous!”

  Odd how she did not feel the danger, only a deep need to end this awful waste and bring the traitors to justice. “We must see this.” Her command brooked no argument. The master fretted by her side, his sword held at the ready.

  A trumpet blared and reinforcements flying the battle banner of the Bloody Rose arrived from the west gate. Soldiers charged, surging into the line. With a mighty roar, they pushed the battle past the great kitchens and into the heart of the castle, toward the Queen’s Tower.

  The battle swept out of sight, the clash of swords becoming muffled. An eerie hush followed the battle’s wake. All across the courtyard, the injured struggled to retreat from the killing field while the mortally wounded lay moaning in pools of blood. Appalled by the bloody harvest, the queen swore to see the traitors to justice. Any pity she’d felt for Danly drowned in the bloodshed of the yard.

  Her shadowmaster hissed in her ear, “Let me take you back to the dungeon where my men can protect you.”

  The queen was resolute. “Fate has opened a path to the great kitchen, we must dare the crossing now.”

  The master glared at her but then bowed his head in resignation, “As you wish.” To the men he said, “We’ll cross in the lee of the battle. Surround the woman and keep her safe.” He gripped her arm. “Wait, the wind is changing.”

  She had not even noticed the wind.

  Smoke from the fires billowed into the yard, stinging her eyes, obscuring the dead and dying. The gray pall hid everything.

  “Now!” A sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, the master ran into the smoke. The queen followed. Holding her shawl to her face, she raced to keep the master in sight, a dark shadow flitting through the smoke. Liandra danced left, avoiding the bodies puddled in blood. The smoke thickened, laden with the smells of burning wood and singed horseflesh. The harsh tang made it hard to see, hard to breath. Liandra stifled a cough.

  A sword cut toward her face.

  Liandra staggered backwards, her eyes held spellbound by the blade. Time slowed, as if the sword cleaved molasses instead of air. A second sword leaped to block the first, turning death away. Her shadowmaster stepped in front of her, his dagger slicing the enemy. A bloody gash opened in her assailant’s throat…like a reaper’s grim smile. Dead, he crumpled into the swirling smoke. Time resumed with a rush.

  “Hurry!” Her shadowmaster raced forward.

  Her heart hammering, the queen scrambled to keep pace. Her long skirts threatened to trip her.

  A breeze blew and the smoke began to clear. A single soldier blocked their path to the kitchen doors, a swarthy captain brandishing a bloody saber. The master hurled his sword at the soldier’s head. Steel clanged on steel. The soldier parried the thrown sword. Laughing, he raised his saber to attack. “Come on, old man,” but then his eyes began to glaze, puzzlement scrawled across his face. The master’s throwing dagger lodged in his throat. The soldier toppled forward like a felled tree.

  Liandra stared; she’d never seen so much death.

  Running past the fresh corpse, the master retrieved his thrown sword. “Hurry!” He lunged toward the kitchen, throwing his shoulder against the double doors. The stout oak shuddered but held. Captain Durnheart and the two guardsmen rushed to pitch their weight against the barrier. The queen cringed; the pounding seemed loud enough to wake the dead. Desperation won. The doors groaned, opening just wide enough for a single person. The master slipped inside. The queen followed.

  Pushing past a barricade of tables, they won through to the kitchen, staggering into an island of calm. The master growled, “Secure the doors.”

  The queen swayed to a stop. Aromas of fresh baked bread and spitted lamb surrounded her like a warm blanket, a stark contrast to the death of the courtyard. In the sudden normalcy of the kitchen, Liandra wasn’t sure if she wanted to weep or retch. She’d seen the underbelly of war and faced death in a whispering blade; life would never be the same. Taking a deep breath of comfort, Liandra forced her mind to the matters at hand.

  Her shadowmaster growled, “Where’s Dent?”

  Captain Durnheart answered, �
�Dead. He took a sword in the belly during the crossing.”

  Liandra stared, a man had died for her and she hadn’t even noticed.

  “Barricade the doors.”

  While the men pushed tables and chairs against the outer doors, Liandra surveyed the great kitchen. Frightened faces peered back at her. Hiding behind overturned tables, the kitchen folk stared at the intruders.

  A tremulous voice asked, “M-majesty, is it really you?”

  Shocked to be recognized, Liandra realized she’d lost her shawl in the terror of the crossing. Her masquerade was broken. She stood exposed, without paints and powders, without shimmering jewels, without the trappings of royalty. The queen summoned her royal poise. Standing sword-straight, she met the stares of her people. “We seek sanctuary from the fighting.”

  Rising from behind an overturned table, a stout man in a flour-stained apron doffed his cap. “When the fighting broke out, we didn’t know what to think. So we sealed the doors.”

  Putting a name to his face, she recognized the master baker, a hard-working man who ruled the great kitchen with a soft hand. Infusing her voice with dignity, the queen said, “The crown sees you, Master Carl. What would you ask of us?”

  The baker blanched and bent the knee, his round face as pale as pastry dough. “So it’s really you, majesty?”

  She heard the doubt in his voice. Twisting the rings on her fingers, Liandra held out her hand, presenting the Great Emerald. The square-cut jewel flashed green in the candlelight. “Your queen is here.”

  A sigh of amazement rippled through the kitchen. A dozen flour-dusted cooks rose from behind overturned workbenches. Many clutched knives or cast iron skillets, their faces a battleground of hope and fear.

  She did not blame them for their fear, for the common people oft became fodder for wars. The queen met their gaze, projecting a sense of royal confidence. “Traitors have risen against us, but victory will be ours.”

  Questions hung in the air, but hope won out. The kitchen folk relinquished their makeshift weapons, emerging to bow to their monarch. Their honest homage humbled the queen. For the sake of loyal subjects like these, she needed to end the bloody rebellion and return her kingdom to the prosperity of peace.