The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 16

  “We thank you for sharing the sanctuary of the kitchen, but now we must command you to silence. The rebels must never learn that your queen was here on this night. We charge you to keep our secret safe.”

  A murmur of assent swelled from the kitchen staff, pride and wonder on their faces.

  Her shadowmaster stepped forward, grim in his dark robes, blood on his sword. “A group of rebels wearing the tabards of Lanverness has risen against the Rose Throne. Loyal soldiers are holding the rebels at bay but the fighting is fierce. Remain in the safety of the kitchen until the rebellion is put down.” Deliberately sheathing his sword, the master added, “And now Master Carl, we need your services. The queen wishes to inspect the storage rooms below the great kitchen.”

  Caught off guard, the baker stuttered, “The s-storage rooms?”

  “Yes and there is no time to waste. Bring a torch and lead the way.”

  Befuddled, the baker reached for one of the torches lining the walls. Gesturing toward the rear of the kitchen he said, “This way m’Lord.”

  The master crossed the room to follow the baker but the queen lingered by the doors. Noting the confusion on the faces of the kitchen folk, the queen realized they needed reassurance…and hope. “We thank you for your loyalty and your silence. We go now to put an end to this rebellion. It is our royal wish that you keep to the safety of the kitchen, Lanverness needs all of her people.”

  Cooks and serving wenches melted to the floor, kneeling before their queen. “The Lords of Light save her majesty the queen.” The murmur spread through the kitchen.

  Tears crowded Liandra’s eyes. The loyalty of her people was the perfect balm to the bloodshed of the courtyard. Picking up her skirts as if they were made of silk instead of homespun, she followed the baker and her shadowmaster to the rear of the great kitchen.

  Stone stairs descended into shadows. Torchlight glimmered on the walls as the master baker led the way. The steep stairs emerged onto a wide hallway with three stout wooden doors. Warmth laced with the scent of fresh baked bread permeated the cellars. The baker stopped by the first door, a ring of keys in his hand. “There are three storerooms, which would you see?”

  The queen hesitated, recalling memories of her father’s voice. A secret rhyme from childhood hummed through her mind. She hoped her memory and the rhyme both held true. “The third one.”

  Obeying, the baker led them to the end of the hallway and opened the third door. Cooler air and the tangy scent of aging cheese cloaked the storeroom. Lighting torches bracketed along the stone walls, the baker revealed a long narrow room filled with grain sacks, stacked casks, and heads of cheese hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Bobbing his head, the baker said, “This is the cheese room, we also use it to store grains and sometimes sides of smoked beef or ham.”

  It was not the contents of the room that interested the queen, but rather the architecture. The stonework was exceptionally fine, especially for a mere storeroom. Beveled vaults ran along the north wall sheltering recessed alcoves cloaked in shadow. Stone columns crowned by carved shields separated each alcove. The stonework of the shields was clearly the work of a master mason. The queen smiled; so far the rhyme of her childhood proved true.

  Turning to the master baker, the queen said, “Master Carl, we thank you for your assistance. Surrender your torch to one of the guards and then return to the kitchen. Forget that you ever saw us here. Go with our thanks.” The queen offered her ringed hand.

  Clearly confused, the baker handed the torch to the captain. Bowing low, he kissed the great emerald of her office and left the storage room with a dazed look on his face.

  Nothing more was said until the door was closed. “Captain Durnheart, we ask you and the two guardsmen to wait outside the door. We have matters to discuss with the Master Archivist.”

  The captain bowed and said, “As you wish, your majesty.”

  With the others gone, the master turned to the queen and said, “So now that we are alone among the cheeses, how do we find this hidden passage of yours?”

  “With a rhyme from childhood.” She walked the length of the storeroom, reciting from memory,

  “Kings are served from kitchen stores,

  Beneath the ovens take the third door,

  Emblazoned heraldry is the key,

  First stag then stallion and finally bee.”

  “And the King’s Tower was renamed at your coronation.”

  “Exactly.”

  The queen read aloud the heraldic devices etched on the stone shields, “A boar, a stag, a bee, a bear, and finally a stallion. Depress the stone shields in the order of the rhyme and we believe the hidden door will open.”

  “You believe or you know?”

  “We saw it once as a child, but only once. The rhyme was a secret between ourself and the king. The hidden passageways are meant to be used only in the most dire of times.”

  “The times are certainly dire, so let us see if the passageway is myth or fact.” Going first to the stag, the master set the heel of his hand against the stone shield and pushed. For a moment nothing happened, then the shield slowly depressed two finger-widths into the wall. “Which one is next?”

  “The stallion and then the bee.”

  The shield of the stallion behaved in the same fashion as the stag. Depressing the bee, a low grinding noise rumbled from the rear wall of the alcove. Stone scrapped against stone and a narrow doorway eased open at the back of the alcove, exhaling a long-held breath of stale air.

  “It seems we have found your passage.”

  “The very stones of Castle Tandroth will fight against the rebels. Bring a torch and summon the others, it is past time we put a stop to this rebellion. We will not have our kingdom sundered by bloodshed.”

  “I will not be going with you.”

  The queen stared at her shadowmaster, ambushed by his decision. The notion of going without him left her feeling strangely bereft. “We would have you by our side.”

  “I can best serve Lanverness from the outside. I will rally the loyal troops and even raise the people if needs be. With your majesty working from within, we will crush the rebel forces between us.”

  Reluctant to be parted from the one man she trusted, Liandra hesitated. “Your plan has merit…but we need you to stay safe. We would not lose our ablest advisor. We cannot…” Her voice choked on emotions, revealing far more than she intended.

  Bowing his head, her shadowmaster whispered, “And I would not lose my queen.”

  He came forward and knelt, taking her ringed hand.

  The intensity of his touch rippled through her, something long understood but never acknowledged. She gently pulled away, it could not be, but he held her hand captive, turning it over and kissing the hollow of her palm. The perfect blend of tenderness and ardor. Liandra shivered with emotions long denied, but the weight of the crown sat heavy on her brow. She was always the queen. Reluctant to move, she withdrew her hand, “This cannot be…”

  He rose and nodded, his face a stone mask. His voice turned brusque, nothing but duty. “Take Captain Durnheart and Collins with you, they are both good men. They will see you safely to the tower or die trying.” He stared at her as if memorizing her face. His voice softened, “Keep safe, my queen.” He saluted and turned, leaving her alone in the storage room.

  “And you…” But he’d already gone. She froze her face, froze the tears in the corner of her eyes and tried to remember to breathe. Short, sharp breaths that pierced her to the core. She had a kingdom to care for; a crown to save…but there was always a price, always. Resolute, the queen turned to face the darkness of the hidden passage.

  18

  Duncan

  A ring-necked pheasant broke from the brush, rising in a rush of feathers. Duncan raised his bow. An arrow fletched with black swan feathers took the pheasant before it breached the forest ceiling. He angled his mount toward the kill but the mountain wolf beat him to it. Nosing the bird, the wolf gave the archer a satisfied gri
n and then loped back into the summer-green of the forest. Duncan had to smile; the wolf was turning out to be a valuable hunting partner. Flushing game during the day and keeping watch at night, the wolf proved his worth as a welcome companion, but Duncan had his doubts about the other two.

  Dressing the bird, he stuffed the pheasant into the game bag, leaving the offal for the wolf. Urging his horse to a gallop, he returned to the main trail. His companions made enough noise that he had no trouble finding them. Horse and rider emerged from the dense brush, startling the others. Hands slid to scabbards and then fell away. Raising his bow in greeting, he cantered to the front, resuming the lead.

  Duncan felt a hunter’s stare on his back. Heat crept up his neck. He did not have to turn to know it was Kath. Gripping his bow, he fought the urge to meet her leaf-green eyes. The girl was like iron to a loadstone…but if truth be told, the pull went both ways. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the task at hand.

  Glancing behind, he checked on each of his companions. He could count on Kath and the two knights in a fight, but the two from the monastery were a worry. The wolf-girl, Danya, claimed a rare magic but she had no fighting skills and refused to carry a weapon. Beyond bringing the wolf, Duncan couldn’t see how the girl would help against the Mordant. At least she had a way with horses and was proving to be a competent traveler.

  The monk, on the other hand, remained a riddle. Keeping to the rear, the old man rode hunched in the saddle, hiding beneath his midnight blue robes. Whatever his secrets, the monk held them close. The man’s sullen silence gnawed at Duncan like an aching tooth. He didn’t trust the monks; they hadn’t kept Jordan safe, and now this one played possum, hiding behind a stony face. Duncan understood the need for secrets but not if those secrets got others killed. He kept a close watch on the monk, intent on flushing the man out of hiding.

  With supper in the bag, Duncan urged his gelding to a canter. They rode till twilight, hoping to gain ground on an enemy they could not even track. As darkness fell, he chose a spot near a brook for their camp. Sir Tyrone used his skills with spices to prepare the pheasant and a brace of quails while Danya and Sir Blaine settled the horses. Blaine had developed a sudden interest in tending the horses, helping Danya rub the mounts down with handfuls of grass, picking their hooves, and seeing to the watering. The two worked well together but the brown-haired girl seemed oblivious to the spell that she’d cast on the lanky knight. Duncan chuckled; amused that the two young people couldn’t see what was right in front of them.

  Filling the kettle with creek water, Duncan turned to find Kath standing behind him. The girl always seemed to be underfoot, but this time she had a distracted, worried look on her face. In a low voice he said, “Looking for something?”

  “Do you think we made the right choice?”

  “What choice?”

  She gestured to the west. “Back at the fork in the trail, the decision to avoid the Isle of Souls and ride for Tubor instead?”

  “Will the Mordant hide amongst people or trees?

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Just so. The best trackers know their prey. Since we don’t know the beast, we can’t anticipate its path.” Duncan shrugged, “Time and the spring thaw have erased any signs of the Mordant’s passage. With no trail to follow and no way to predict his actions, one-way is as good as another. All we can do is hold the horses to a trot and keep them pointed north.”

  She stared at him as if she were trying to peer into his soul. He knew what she wanted…he felt it too, but it could not be.

  In a quiet voice Kath asked, “Do you believe in the prophecies?”

  “I came, didn’t I?”

  Hurt danced in her eyes.

  He regretted his hasty retort. Cynicism had gotten the better of him since the attack on Jordan. Kath deserved better. “Sit with me.” He straddled a fallen tree while she settled on a moss-sheathed stone. Considering his words, he tried to explain, “It’s a matter of coincidence.”

  She stared at him, listening.

  He struggled to explain. “Finding the crystal dagger, the return of the Mordant, the attack on Jordan, the red comet tearing across the heavens, too many things have happened for it all to be coincidence. And despite the monks’ tight-lipped reticence, they don’t lie.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her, “I believe there’s a truth buried in the prophecies, but I wonder if we’re wise enough to understand the meaning.”

  “Do we have a chance against the Mordant?”

  He held her gaze. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

  She nodded. “In the monastery, it all made more sense. The monks know so much but their explanations are so…”

  “…convoluted.”

  She flashed him a knowing grin but her green eyes remained serious, deepening to a rich moss color. “Every answer leads to another question…and so much is left unsaid.”

  The girl had a habit of echoing his own thoughts. “The monks are a secretive lot. Makes a man wonder if he’s being helped or used.” He watched her face, but she did not take the bait.

  “Do you believe in free will or a fore-ordained destiny?”

  She stared at him, her gaze full of questions and challenges. She had a way of making him look past the surface. “I believe in balance. When evil rises, the balance must be restored. We all hope the gods will lean down from the heavens to fix the world, but the gods are a fickle bunch, rarely bothering to lift a finger. It always comes down to ordinary men making the choice to step forward and set the balance right.” Duncan shrugged and said, “I guess this time, we’re the ones chosen to the task.”

  Kath sat cloaked in stillness.

  Sensing she needed more, Duncan added, “I’ll tell you this, if the fate of the southern kingdoms rests with the crystal dagger, then I’d rather be counted among those trying to set the balance right than leave it to others. At least this way we have a hand in steering our own fate.”

  Kath whispered, “I guess I feel the same.” A warm smile filled her face.

  Before more could be said, the black knight yelled for the kettle.

  Sharing a laugh at the irony of the mundane, Duncan and Kath returned to camp.

  Smells of roasted pheasant swirled around the fire. The black knight knew how to ply his store of spices. The companions circled the fire. Sitting on bedrolls, they savored the crispy skin and juicy slices of spit-roasted pheasant. Stories were traded and laughter shared but there was one who always sat apart. The monk hid behind his midnight-blue robes like a shield wall, impervious to friendship.

  Duncan respected the monk’s right to privacy, but if Zith had a reason for joining the group, they all needed to hear it. Tired of waiting for the monk to pick his moment, he stared at Zith and said, “Is it true?”

  To Duncan’s right, Kath gasped, knowing what was asked.

  Duncan kept his gaze focused on the monk.

  An awkward tension swirled around the campfire.

  The wolf whined, disturbed by the mood.

  Zith kept his head bent, staring into the fire.

  Duncan asked again, “Is it true that the Mordant took your son?”

  Zith shrugged. The cowl of his midnight blue robe fell backwards. Long silver-blond hair framed a face etched with sorrow. Hazel eyes, heavy with sadness met Duncan’s gaze. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Murmurs of condolences circled the fire.

  Duncan said, “So, you joined us for revenge?

  The monk’s eyes widened in surprise, “Revenge? No. I’ve come for something far more dear than revenge. I’ve come to free my son.”

  Sir Tyrone gaped, “Is that possible?”

  Anguish washed across the monk’s face. “It’s not what you think. Only the crystal dagger can free my son. Slay the Mordant with the dagger and his soul will be cast back into the pit of hell, never to be reborn. The dagger will also take my son’s life…but any soul who has not willingly joined with Darkness will be
freed to go into the Light.” Dropping his voice, the monk added, “My son was trained by the Kiralynn Order, I know he will hold true.” A hint of steel leached into his voice, “I’ve come to see that my son’s soul is set free, to return him to the Light.”

  Duncan respected the monk’s loss, but he couldn’t let the old man retreat to his walls of silence. “So how can you help in the fight against the Mordant?”

  The monk’s hazel eyes flashed in the firelight. For a moment, the heavy cloak of sorrow dropped away, revealing a hidden determination. Stretching out his right hand, the monk exposed his open palm. A Seeing Eye tattooed in dark blue stared at them. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge.” Closing his hand into a fist, the monk said, “For those who have the wisdom to use it, knowledge is a great power.”

  The monk slumped back against his bedroll, resuming his mantle of sorrow, but Duncan refused to let him hide. “What knowledge do you carry?”

  “What knowledge do you need?”

  The sharp retort parried further questions, but Kath dared to break the silence. Pulling the crystal dagger from the sheath at her belt, she held the milk-white blade up to the firelight. The blade caught and held the light, almost as if it glowed from within. “Master Rizel explained the purpose of the crystal dagger, but for whose hand was it forged?”

  The monk stirred. “Carved from the heart of a Dahlmar crystal and imbued with the powers of the Light, the daggers were created for the Star Knights.”

  The Star Knights. The words whispered in Duncan’s mind, achingly familiar yet somehow unknown.

  Kath asked the question that hovered on Duncan’s lips. “And who were the Star Knights?”

  The monk nodded as if he expected the question. “The Grand Master told you of the Orb of Seeing. Long ago, the scholars of the Orb foresaw a great war that would destroy the civilizations of Erdhe, a ruin that would push the race of man back into barbarism. The Kiralynn Order sought to oppose this threat, to change the thread of time, but the way forward was not clear. The Grand Master called a conclave of the wise, but the masters could not agree. The majority argued that the role of the Order was to preserve knowledge, to keep the lamp of civilization lit against the Darkness. Others argued that the Order needed to take up the sword, to openly oppose the threat. The argument sundered the Order, causing the Great Schism. Most of the monks retreated deep into the seclusion of the Southern Mountains, building the monastery and preserving the knowledge of the world. But a smaller group of mages, beastmasters, and warriors raised a battle standard against the forces of Darkness. That battle standard bore the eight-pointed star.”