The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 35

  The queen descended the dais and swept the length of the chamber. Prince Stewart followed a step behind on her right, Sir Durnheart on her left. The people bowed low as she passed and then joined in the procession.

  She led them through the castle, down the tower stairs and out into the afternoon sunshine. Knowing justice was best served in the light of day, she’d ordered the spectacle to be held in the castle’s western courtyard. Guards snapped to attention and banners fluttered overhead.

  The courtyard had been transformed. Wooden stands lined the east side, providing tournament seating for the lords and ladies. A central stand, higher than the others, stood caparisoned in royal colors, providing shade from the sun. Across from the stands, a long row of scaffolds lined the western wall, nooses hanging empty and ominous, black hooded executioners waiting to do their duty. In the center of the yard, a bonfire burned beneath a great black cauldron, steam rising from the top. A platform stood to one side of the cauldron, built level with the lip of the great black pot. The stage was set for justice, needing only the victims and the witnesses to see the play to its bitter end.

  The queen proceeded to the royal box, taking a seat on a throne-like chair. Sir Durnheart stood behind the throne, a deterrent against any threat. The Master Archivist appeared at the queen’s side, signaling that all was prepared. Her counselors and other nobles jostled for seats in the royal box. Nervous voices whispered through the stands, for none had ever seen a royal punishment on such a scale.

  Drums beat a rousing rhythm as royal soldiers marched into the great yard, a flourish of emerald tabards and burnished steel. Every soldier barracked in the capital was required to witness the fate of the traitors. Liandra intended the grim lesson to take firm root.

  Orders echoed through the courtyard as the soldiers formed into disciplined ranks. They stood at attention in long lines beneath the viewing stands, each soldier facing towards the cauldron and the scaffolds. Prince Stewart rode among the ranks, his hand on the hilt of his sapphire-blue sword, a general inspecting his men.

  Spectators began to pour into the yard, commoners in butternut brown mixed with minor nobles in bright colors. Summoned by the town criers, they came from the city, merchants and artisans, masters and apprentices, men and women, young and old. They filled the spaces between the stands, jostling for position, a sea of humanity come to witness the queen’s justice.

  They did not have long to wait. The steady pounding of the drums announced the arrival of the traitors. A troop of mounted soldiers entered from the western gate. Behind them came the drummers, beating out a slow, ominous march, marking the steps to death. Behind the drummers came the condemned, one hundred and forty-eight officers, lordlings, politicians, and soldiers…traitors all, a grim harvest for the executioners.

  The clank of chains could be heard clear across the courtyard. The prisoners shuffled into view, their hands and feet shackled. Stripped to nothing but loin clothes, they walked with their heads bowed, their skin blistered by the sun, their feet bloody from the long march through the city streets. Some bore the stains of rotten fruit and hurled dung, gifts from the citizens of Pellanor, marks of shame and dishonor.

  Last in the long line of misery was the leader of the Red Horns, the chief architect of the rebellion. The Lord Turner bore a heavy yoke across his shoulders, his hands shackled to the wooden beam. Stripped to a loincloth, his lily-white skin blazed with sunburn, the marks of a whip crisscrossing his back. He shuffled to the beat of the drums, but unlike the other prisoners, he raised his head as he passed below the royal stands, glaring hatred at the queen.

  Her nobles gasped at the traitor’s brazen arrogance, but the queen remained statue-still. She watched through hooded eyes as the prisoners were paraded around the yard and then brought to a halt in front of the royal pavilion.

  The drums came to a stop and a stillness settled over the yard.

  The queen signaled and a herald rose to read the royal decree. “Having foresworn your oaths of allegiance and rebelled against your sovereign queen, you are hereby stripped of all lands and titles, all rights and privileges. Having faced the wrath of the people, you are condemned to die a traitor’s death, to hang by the neck until dead. Once dead, your bodies will be burnt in a pyre lest they poison the soil of Lanverness. May the Lords of Light have mercies on your souls.”

  The drummers beat a loud tattoo.

  With the exception of the Lord Turner, the prisoners were prodded toward the scaffolds. Some marched with stoic resignation, others fell to their knees, weeping and pleading to be spared. All were forced to their fate, herded toward the scaffolds.

  The crowd watched in silence, many gaping in shock, unaccustomed to the spectacle of so much death.

  The black-hooded executions worked with grim efficiency, setting the noose and then dropping the trap. The legs kicked and twitched but all soon came to a halt, stilled by death. The ropes were freed of their dread burdens and the next traitors shuffled into place. The sun sank to the horizon. Orange light streaked across the sky by the time the work of the scaffolds was finished. Only a single traitor remained standing.

  The attention of the crowd turned toward the Lord Turner. He stood shackled but unbowed, standing in front of the boiling cauldron, seemingly indifferent to his fate.

  The queen gestured and the herald read the final decree. “Lyndon Turner, once known as the Knight Protector, once known as the captain of the queen’s guards, once known as a lord of Lanverness and a member of the queen’s counsel, you have betrayed your oaths to queen and kingdom. Foresworn, you instigated treason against your sovereign monarch. More than a thousand deaths are charged against your soul. What say you to these charges?”

  The prisoner began to laugh. Not the insane laughter of the condemned, but the laughter of a man who will have the final jest.

  Unease rippled through the crowd.

  A guard jabbed the prisoner with his spear.

  The laughter came to an abrupt halt. The traitor bent forward, blood seeping from the fresh wound at his side, but then he straightened and glared at the queen. “You have no idea what you face!” His voice was loud and defiant. “You think you’ve won, but this is only the beginning of your fall. No woman shall be allowed to rule from a throne, not when he comes. You will be pulled from the throne and Darkness set in your place.”

  Gasps of anger rippled through the crowd.

  The queen gestured and two soldiers muzzled the prisoner, ending his rant.

  The herald finished reading the royal decree. “Lyndon Turner, as the architect of treason and the leader of the Red Horns, you are condemned to be boiled alive. Once dead, your body will be burnt, your ashes spread to the wind. May the Lords of Light have mercy on your soul.”

  Soldiers forced the prisoner up the steps. The traitor walked with dignity until he reached the top. The sight of the boiling cauldron must have melted his resolve. He began to back away, squirming against the soldiers’ grip. One of the soldiers removed his gag while the others removed the yoke. They forced the prisoner toward the steaming pot. The traitor struggled to hold his position, but he did not have the strength. Pushed from behind, he toppled into the boiling cauldron.

  A hideous scream split the air. The traitor splashed in the frothing boil, as if attempting to walk on water. His skin glowed bright red, his face contorted in a howl of agony. Waves lapped over the side of the cauldron, only his head and upper arms free of the boil. Screams shrieked from the cauldron, the traitor’s arms flailing the water. The boiling water frothed pink with blood. The screams subsided. The flailing arms stilled, falling back into the frothing water. The death struggles came to an end.

  Bloated and blistered, the corpse floated in the center of the cauldron.

  A soldier prodded the body with his spear. Blood spurted but the corpse remained still.

  A sigh of relief swept through the crowd.

  The queen sat back, releasing her fierce grip on the arms of the throne.


  The corpse sat up in the water. A baleful red light streamed from its eyes. The mouth began to laugh, mocking and hateful…but then the sound twisted to a strangled wail. “No Lord, you can’t! Don’t do this to me!” Parboiled hands clawed at the air, as if seeking purchase on something no one could see.

  Screams of terror rent the courtyard.

  Prince Stewart raced up the stairs, his blue sword gleaming in his hand. He swung the sword toward the corpse, striking the head from the body with a single cut. The strength of the blow sent the head flying, bouncing to the foot of the cauldron. The body of the corpse sank back into the boil, a froth of blood in the water.

  A soldier spiked the head on a spear and lifted it into the air. The baleful red light was gone, leaving nothing but a bloated, parboiled head.

  The prince held his blue sword aloft, shouting to be heard over the panic of the courtyard. “Do not be afraid! Death has taken the traitor!”

  Casting off the black cloak of vengeance, the queen rose from the throne, revealing a figure of golden authority.

  The crowd wavered on the edge of mindless flight.

  The prince brandished his sword, a flash of blue steel against the twilight sky. “The Light will always conquer the Dark! Look to your Queen to lead you.”

  Liandra reached for the voice of command. “We have defeated the rebellion!” She pointed toward the prince. “Blue steel has defeated Darkness!” She raised her arms in entreaty. “The people of Lanverness must remain steadfast in the Light! With courage and loyalty we shall ever be victorious!”

  Someone shouted, “Long live the Queen!”

  The chant began to ripple through the crowd.

  The queen stood statue-still, a source of strength for her people. Order triumphed over panic, but in the queen’s mind, she shuddered at the image of the animated corpse, demon eyes staring from a traitor’s head. Darkness had reached into the heart of her kingdom. Darkness had threatened her throne.

  39

  Steffan

  Steffan stayed out of view, leaning against the wall, the man behind the silk curtains. Hidden by folds of fabric, he listened as the wealthy of Coronth made their confessions to the Keeper of the Flame.

  Steffan made it his habit to eavesdrop on the Keeper, sifting through sins, searching for clues to the identity of the rebels. The rebels had proven a crafty foe, evading traps and setting some of their own. The last incident had cost the lives of more than forty soldiers, some trapped in a flaming building, while others lay wounded by caltrops, a foul trick. The pesky rebellion was becoming annoying. It was past time to put an end to the rebels.

  Peering between the curtains, Steffan observed the ritual of confession. The red-robed Keeper sat ensconced on a gilded throne, a smug look on his face, clearly smitten with his own importance. A young acolyte sat at the Keeper’s feet, a feathered nib scratching across a roll of parchment, scribing every sin. The penitent, a wealthy merchant, knelt on a velvet pillow at the base of the dais, recounting a litany of sins, all of them committed by others.

  The horse-faced merchant had a contrite voice but his eyes glowed with avarice. “Lord Keeper, it grieves me to confess this sin, but Merchant Rasint, the pudgy wine seller on Cobb Street, the owner of a shop called the Holy Grape, is hoarding casks of wine. He has a secret space beneath his cellar steps where he hides his best casks, evading the temple’s tithe collectors.” He took on a look of false contrition. “Merchant Rasint cheats the temple. He does not give the Flame God his due.”

  The Keeper roused himself, scratching his baldhead. “Yes, a grievous sin, you do well to report it. The temple has need of every coin…for all the good works we do.” He made a languid gesture with his hand. “You may continue.”

  The merchant bowed his head. “Holiness, I do not often visit houses of prostitution, but sometimes a man has needs…”

  The Keeper smiled. “We all have needs. Visiting women of the night is not a sin.”

  “Thank you, Holiness, but the last time I felt the need, I overheard the madam of the house speaking against the Keeper of the Flame.”

  The Keeper sat up, his voice suddenly sharp. “Speaking against me?”

  “Yes, Holiness. I am loath to repeat what she said, it was so…foul.”

  “You must confess. It is your duty!”

  The merchant bowed. “As you command.” He ran his hands down the front of his velvet doublet, a nervous gesture. “The madam talked about the death of her brother. He died cleansed in the Flames but the madam claimed he was innocent. She claimed,” the merchant’s voice dropped to a hush, “that her brother was falsely accused by the Keeper so that…so that your Holiness could claim his beautiful wife for a body slave…”

  The Keeper sat forward, his voice a low growl. “What’s the name of this slut?”

  The merchant’s head bobbed. “M-madam Lillian, the owner of the Devout Virgin.”

  The Keeper’s face flamed dark crimson, putting truth to the tale. Steffan shook his head, the Keeper had too many weaknesses, too many liabilities…but for now, he served.

  Steffan let the curtain fall back into place, obscuring the view. Angry at the waste, he scowled at the Keeper’s stupidity. The burly priest heard confessions day after day, lapping up sins like a fat cat with cream on his whiskers, yet he never bothered to bestir himself unless he heard of a personal slight, never realizing the opportunities that trickled through his fat fingers. Tired of listening to trivial offenses, Steffan decided it was time to inject a higher purpose into the holy ritual of confession.

  He stepped from behind the curtains, a dark shadow behind the gilded throne.

  The merchant’s voice stuttered to a stop. He stared at Steffan with wide-eyed fear.

  The Keeper turned, following the merchant’s stare, an indignant expression blooming on his face. His eyes widened when he saw Steffan, his face scowling with angry suspicion.

  The Keeper knew that Steffan often listened to the confessions, but he’d always remained hidden behind the curtains, never infringing on the big man’s show. Steffan knew his sudden appearance would plunge the Keeper into a fit of jealous rage. Keen to mollify the Keeper, he bowed low towards the burly priest. “Pardon me, holy one, but I could not bear to hear this sinner waste your precious time.”

  Confusion washed across the Keeper’s face, forestalling the burst of anger.

  Steffan grasped the moment. Turning his glare to the kneeling merchant, he filled his voice with righteous indignation. “Merchant Gilden, you have the privilege of confessing to the second highest priest in the service of the Flame God…yet you squander this holy opportunity.”

  The merchant gasped like a fish out of water. Steffan pressed the advantage. “You’re a smart man, Merchant Gilden, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “N-no.” The man’s gaze bounced from the Lord Raven to the Keeper and back again, traces of panic filling his voice. “I’ve done my duty, I’ve confessed the sins of those around me…I don’t know what you mean.”

  Steffan plucked the scroll from the acolyte’s hands, reading the list of confessed sins. “Hidden wine casks and the gossip of a whore? Is this the best you can do? It’s true all sins must be confessed…but these sins are petty.” He glared down at the man. “Sins like these should be told to ordinary confessors. Surely you don’t mean to waste the Lord Keeper’s time with trivial sins?”

  “No!” The man’s voice took on a pleading wail. “I didn’t know! Tell me what you want me to confess!”

  The merchant was a quick study. Steffan smiled and made his voice as smooth as warm honey. “The Lord Keeper’s time is most precious. He waits to hear the most grievous of sins, sins against the Pontifax and the faith…sins of rebellion.”

  The merchant began to tremble, his eyes wide in fear.

  “We know that a man of your stature, an important merchant, a staunch contributor to the temple, would never be involved in something so heinous as rebellion.”

  The man nodded, a fa
ithful dog begging for a bone.

  “But the Flame God expects his devoted followers to be vigilant to sin. He expects them to report heretics who plot against the temple. To confess the names of those who rebel against the Pontifax.” He pointed toward the Keeper, his voice full of righteous anger. “The Keeper waits to hear the sins of rebellion! If you dare to come before his Holiness in confession, then bring sins worthy of his exulted station!” He gave the cringing merchant a withering glare and then tossed the scroll to the acolyte.

  Steffan bowed low toward the Keeper. “Pardon me for the interruption, Holiness, but I could not bear to see this man waste your time.”

  The Keeper sat on the throne like a stunned ox, his squinty gaze darting between Steffan and the merchant, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he’d just been flattered or insulted.

  Steffan did not give the Keeper time to decide. He turned, a swirl of black, and strode across the audience hall to the far doors, his cloak flaring behind him. Reaching the doors, he flung them open with all of his strength. The heavy doors crashed against the marble walls like a clap of thunder, a fitting exit for a vengeful raven.

  A long line of wealthy citizens waited beyond the doors. They stared at him like startled deer, unsure whether to flee or hide.

  Steffan made his face dark with disapproval…and then he pointed back toward the gaping doorway. “Think before you pass through these doors. The Keeper waits to hear serious sins. He waits to hear sins of rebellion. Think first, before you waste his time with trivial confessions.”

  He strode through the waiting crowd, leaving the sinners trembling in the hallway.